Welcome to Lord Kitchener’s Kafe — I’m so glad you stopped by! The coffee here is really good. American, Italian, French, Australian, Viennese, Turkish, Moroccan— you name it, Hamza can make it, and it’s all good. I can’t speak to the quality of the tea, but by all means give it a shot if that’s your preference. Then grab a stool and let’s chat!
I’m Emma. I started writing fiction in the summer of 2022. I have a number of short stories — three of them featuring this very coffee house! — as well as a few longer works.
I dabble in different genres, although all of my stories explore transgender themes. What I’m most interested in writing about, regardless of genre, are people and relationships. Some of my stories are believable and others aren’t, but it’s both my hope and my goal that the characters in every story are believable. So, here’s my attempt to put the stories in some buckets. Don't worry if stories are in more than one bucket. Life's messy that way, sometimes!
Coming Out Stories. The experience of coming out (or being discovered) is a big moment for many in the trans community. Often, the experience is traumatic; sometimes it is uplifting. It is an important element in many of my short stories, including Wittgenstein's Illusion, its companion story, The Bridge, Virtue and Valor, Hobson's Choice, Logan's Ride, On Faith, The Doorway, Resolving Reese, and The Mulligan. It is also a recurring and important theme in my longest work, Aria. Doppler Press is publishing Aria as a series of four books; the first two — The Holly and the Ivy and Trials and Temptations — are now available on Amazon Kindle.
More-or-less real world, strong romantic elements (but sex, to the extent it comes up, advances the story without being central to it). For short stories, I would include Wittgenstein's Illusion, The Bridge, Virtue and Valor, Comfort and Joy, and Tenebrae. Full Force Gayle, which I wrote for BC’s twenty-fifth anniversary contest, fits here, as do two of my novels, Aria and Always and Forever.
Real world, with a heavier dose of steam. Two more-or-less real stories where the sex is more central to the story are William's Tell (a short solo) and the novel Duets (now available on Amazon through Doppler Press), which is the prequel to Aria. When I started writing here, I thought my stories would have a lot more sex in them. My muse, as it turns out, seldom pointed me in that direction.
Real World, focused on loving relationships that are NOT romantic. These stories explore relationships with parents, siblings, friends, and others. For short stories, Hobson's Choice, Logan's Ride, Inheritances, Resolving Reese, and The Feast of Stephen belong here. The Thanksgiving-themed novelette Parables is definitely in this category. For novellas, include the two-part series Software Update, which is a continuation of Ricky’s classic, Reprogramming Your Life. The loving relationships explored in Software are friendships among trans authors, and it is a bit of a love letter to the BigCloset community.
Slice of life Cheyenne's Mountain is a simple story of a transwoman facing her fears about appearing in public en femme. I can't think of another category for it!
Stories dealing with difficult issues. The stories in this bucket all center on darker and more difficult issues that may be hard for some readers who have had their own share of darkness to contend with. Earthen Vessels, This Honorable Court and Sundown all address anti-trans bigotry. The Doorway and The Mulligan both look at the particular emotional struggles of closeted transwomen. The Mulligan, Sundown, and For Us, the Living all involve suicide, and The Doorway discusses it. Read the cautions posted on each of these stories with care and consider them before you read.
Fantasy, Myth, and the Supernatural. I have three short solos in this category: A mythology/transformation story (Homer's Odyssey), a high fantasy story written in an epic style (The Glave of Truth), and a variation on the classic encounter with a wish-granting genie (If Wishes Were Horses). Additionally, I wrote a novelette-length ghost story for Halloween in 2023 called Nocturne. Finally, my novella Strange Manors contains a supernatural element.
Humor. My most popular work here is a 20-chapter humorous SciFi series called Maximum Warp. Strange Manors, the two-part novelette Being Beatrice, and the short story Resolving Reese are, like Maximum Warp, (mostly!) comedies. Finally, my shortest story, Supply and Demand is a bit of humorous seasonal fluff, with all the nutritional value of Peeps. Sometimes, like Larry the Cucumber, I feel the need to sing a silly song.
FanFic. The short story Which Road to Camelot is adapted from the opening sequence of John Boorman’s cult classic Excalibur, and The Glave of Truth was inspired by a scene in The Return of the King. My ten-part SciFi/Action-adventure series Decision Matrix is more of a traditional type of FanFic, being based in the universe of The Matrix movies. You don’t need to watch any of the movies, much less all of them, to follow the story. Although, you’re seriously depriving yourself if you don’t watch at least the first movie!
Hobson's Choice and Earthen Vessels
Wittgenstein's Illusion, The Bridge and Virtue and Valor
Duets, Aria, The Feast of Stephen, This Honorable Court, Sundown, and Parables.
Short stories (7,500 words or less): Supply and Demand (1111), Which Road to Camelot (1331), The Feast of Stephen (1426), Wittgenstein's Illusion (1549), Inheritances (2943), Comfort and Joy (3082), Cheyenne's Mountain (3122), The Bridge (3219), Tenebrae (3398), For Us, the Living (3618), Logan's Ride (3718), Resolving Reese (3823), The Glave of Truth (4078), Homer's Odyssey (4103), On Faith (4158), Earthen Vessels (4201), Hobson's Choice (4241), The Doorway (4462), If Wishes Were Horses (4849), Sundown (5137), The Mulligan (5571), William's Tell (6013), and Virtue and Valor (7005).
Novelettes (7,500 - 17,500 words): Being Beatrice (9402), Parables (10,128), This Honorable Court (11,752), Full Force Gayle (13,697), Nocturne (15,601).
Novellas (17,500 - 40,000 words): Software Update (21,437), Strange Manors (30,910).
Novels (over 40,000 words): Always and Forever (47,363), Decision Matrix (53,494), Duets (68,727), Maximum Warp (142,397), Aria (211,161).
Note about publications: Publishing Duets and Aria on Amazon was a difficult decision, only because I strongly believe that this site is my place, and the people here are my community. However, maintaining a website with this much content costs a lot of money, and I have donated all proceeds from sale of both stories to BCTS. If you buy the stories on Amazon, it will help support continued access to all of the other stories here. Please help if you can.
I hope that you enjoy the stories!
Emma Anne Tate
CHAPTER ONE
My lovely wife breezed into the bedroom and planted a mug of coffee on my bedside and a steamy kiss on my lips. Seven years in September, and it’s still this good!
She came up for air and straightened, looking down at me fondly. “You don’t make it easy for me to get an early start, looking like that!” Her perfectly manicured finger traced the curve of my jaw.
“Hmmmm?” I responded, sleepy but appreciative. I returned her smile with interest, captured her hand and playfully sucked on her index finger. “Sorry not sorry!” I said, letting it go.
She ruffled my morning cloud of hair and turned to go, her summery dress swirling deliciously in shades of peaches and cream. “Don’t you be forgetting to have lunch today, Kez!”
“Yes, Mom!” I laughed. “Nothing going on tonight, right?”
She leaned against the door frame, her light brown, Princess Di style hair catching the morning sunlight. “You’re hopeless! I’ll be back six-ish, but I’m doing a Zoom with Breanna tonight to plan our week away.”
I was often embarrassed by my forgetfulness, and I made sure my expression conveyed proper chagrin. “Right, right.” I waved her off. “Have fun today – and make that sale!”
She grinned. “In the bag, Dreamboat. In the bag!” She waved a last time and headed for the stairs, leaving behind a tantalizing, lingering scent that was hers, and hers alone. I fluffed up my pillows and scooted back so I could sit up and enjoy the coffee she had brought. My nightie had ridden up a bit, so I wriggled to get it back in place.
Kara had always been attracted to other women, but she had bent the point where I was concerned. I’m either non-binary or full-on trans, depending on the day and how I feel at a particular moment. On a scale of zero to ten, with zero being Barbie and ten being Ken, I can comfortably inhabit any point between a two (sort of “girl next door”) and a six (passably, but not overly, male), and my body and face are capable of mirroring my internal range, with a bit of thought and effort.
Kara had said, simply, “I’m not attracted to ‘guys,’ but I am attracted to you. We’ll figure it out.”
We’d had a very conventional wedding, and I’d carried off the tux just fine. It did make things simpler when dealing with our extended families.
But she’d had one private stipulation that I’d agreed to without hesitation. We had been sitting at a secluded table in an outdoor restaurant, a wonderful meal and half a bottle of wine inside us. Thus fortified, confident of the answer, yet nervous as any human who has ever asked, I had proposed.
She had looked overwhelmed, excited, and achingly beautiful. “Yes! Yes! Yes! . . . But, Keziah my love, there’s one thing I have to ask. That I promised I would ask, when the time came.”
I thought I knew what was coming. “Do you want me to transition?” Although I’m more comfortable with my female side than my male, I didn’t have any burning desire to do it. But if Kara had asked I would have, in a heartbeat. “I would give you my life.”
She shook her head emphatically. “I love you just the way you are! And, I’d never ask that of anyone, much less you!” She took a deep breath, then said. “It’s about Brea.”
I’d already known about Brea at that point; I’d even met her. A handful and a half of wild, crazy, passionate woman who had been Kara’s lover for two years . . . until they had moved in together.
Kara had looked down a moment, visibly gathering her courage, much as I had done moments before. Then she met my eyes again. “We could never be together, Brea and I. We barely lasted a month. But we’ve never stopped loving each other, and we’ve gotten together for one week a year to share what we can. After the first time, we promised each other that we would ask, if either of us found someone else” – her smile had flared like a nova, and she had added, “someone for forever! – if we could still have that one week each year.”
If anyone understands that human hearts are prone to the most unpredictable weather, it’s people whose experience of their own gender deviates from societal norms. So I said yes, as I reminded myself every time the green-eyed monster of my envy bared its teeth. And really, Kara’s love and affection are, if anything, even stronger when she comes back from her annual forays, probably because she appreciates how important her happiness is to me.
But, yeah . . . every year, I also find myself going the extra mile for her, whenever Brea is on her mind. I shave every bit of hair from my body – not that I have that much to begin with – and make sure that my skin looks good. That my work-chapped hands are properly moisturized and soft. My shoulder-length hair gets trimmed and I keep it glossy, clean, and full. I remember to wear something pretty to bed, even if I know nothing will be going on. Just to make sure she knows, that she gets the message loud and clear. I am yours. All yours. I want you to be happy.
But also: And, never forget, you are mine!
All of these thoughts made their stately promenade through my brain as I sipped Kara’s morning gift of coffee, made just the way I liked it, strong, but with both cream and sugar. I smiled. It’s not exactly a hardship, making myself look nice for her!
Feeling better, I roused myself from bed and dressed casually in a pair of shorts and a thin t-shirt. Grabbing a yogurt, I spent a quiet moment mapping out my day. There were a bunch of smalls – mugs, creamers, sugar bowls, tea pots – glazed and ready to load in my gas kiln. If I got that all done in the morning, I ought to be able to spend the afternoon working on larger pieces for the last train kiln firing before the weather got too hot. I had reserved 18,000 cubic inches of space and I was pretty much on top of it. So long as I didn’t slack off.
I finished breakfast, made myself another cup of coffee, then walked over to the out building where I had my studio. Kara and I are blessed to live at what had once been a farm. It might have been beyond our means, but Kara had gotten it cheap. Knowing the market inside and out has some side benefits for a real estate agent, and Kara is the best.
Time to get to work.
* * * * *
I called it quits a bit early, at 4:00, so I had time to get some bass from our friend Duke for dinner. I also wanted to shower and make myself presentable. After a day in the studio, I’m no one’s idea of attractive.
But I’ve gotten efficient about such things over the years. By the time Kara walked in the door at about quarter after six, I was clean, smooth, and sweet-smelling. I had on a bit of make-up to improve my eyes, lips and cheek-bones, though I didn’t go so far as to do my nails. I can do them when absolutely necessary, but it’s a lot of work for something I’ll ruin within 24 hours.
“Damn, gurl!” she said appreciatively when she walked in the door. Before saying anything else, she pulled me into a deep and lascivious lip-lock that left no doubt as to her feelings.
I melted into her kiss, closing my eyes to allow my other senses primacy. Loving the taste of her, her scent . . . I let my hands slide across her back and down to rest on her shapely rear end.
She laughed deep in her throat as she broke the kiss and framed my face between her hands. “Miss me?”
I smiled and completed our ritual. “Always.”
She gave my nose a playful peck. “I’d eat you up this second, but I smell something delish coming from the kitchen – you catch up with Duke?”
“He said he’d pulled this one out of the lake five minutes earlier, just for you.”
“Which he says every time,” she laughed. “Can’t always be true.”
The evening had turned just a bit too cool to eat out on the patio, and whoever had built the house back in the day – some fun-hating Puritan, I had no doubt – had not seen fit to give the dining room a view of the lake. But we were hungry, the food was hot, and the fish tasted so fresh I thought Duke might, just this once, have been saying something involving fishing that wasn’t complete BS.
Kara had brought home a nice Marlborough Sauv Blanc to go with dinner. When I saw it, I said, “So I’m guessing you sold the house?”
She wiggled her fingers. “Not quite, but almost. The buyer made a cash offer, no Hubbard, inside the range I’m sure George and Daisy’ll take, once they have a chance to talk it over. And with everything they’ve done on it this past year, I’m not worried about the inspection.”
“Excellent!” I was enthusiastic, less because of the money – not that it wouldn’t be nice – but because Kara loved her job, and was always completely juiced when she closed a sale.
When we were finished, we cleared our plates, but I waved Kara off from the clean-up. “Go do your call, Sweetie. I’ve got this.” I snagged an apron, since I was wearing a pretty top and didn’t want to get grease splatters on it.
Kara came up behind me at the sink and wrapped her arms around me, resting her head on my shoulder. “You don’t have to do all this, you know,” she said softly, almost in my ear. “Not that I don’t appreciate it – you know I do. But you have to know that I love you, even when your head is full of art, your hands are caked with clay, and your hair is covered with your silly turban. I love you when you’re tired and grumpy from working a bad craft fair, or when you can’t get the truck to start, or forget we’re supposed to have dinner with the ’rents. You are my always and my forever, Keziah Brown.”
I leaned into her embrace, my eyes getting misty. She could do that to me easy as breathing. I touched her hands lightly in gratitude, and said, “Always and forever, Kara Englehart. Now, off with you!”
She nuzzled my neck, gave me a final squeeze, and went off to her study.
I washed, dried and put away the dishes, tidied the kitchen, then fired up my laptop at the desk we have tucked in a nook in the kitchen. I spent the better part of two hours on administrative matters – buying more clay, dealing with some online orders, paying bills, and emailing back and forth with the friend who was hosting the train kiln firing. Kara still hadn’t emerged from the study at that point, but it had been a long day so I got myself ready for sleep.
I woke briefly when she came to bed. But she just spooned into my back, molded herself to my body, and murmured, “sleep, my angel.”
I slept, dreamless.
.
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER TWO
Kara woke me early in the most wonderful way possible, teasing, fondling and caressing every nerve of my body into vibrant life. Her sweetness became fierce as I rolled to face her and brought my own fingers into play. Soon she was panting and I broke the kiss to bring my lips lower. Kara’s breasts – especially her nipples – are incredibly sensitive when she is aroused. Each of her perfect pillows got its share of loving attention before I bent lower still.
She writhed, bucked and spasmed in pleasure, giving in to uninhibited cries of delight. Then she sat up, grabbed me and put me on my back. My baby doll nightie didn’t slow her down; it was the work of an instant to free me and mount. Then she scissored her legs together, forcing my own to spread wide around her.
I always feel my most feminine in the bedroom. I love our “reverse missionary” position and its rhythms come naturally to me. With her legs together, Kara can’t pump, but I bend my splayed legs, plant my heels, and provide the locomotion, while she exercises her passion with her hands, her lips and her tongue.
When she finished me off she dismounted and slipped into the bathroom, returning a moment later with a warm washcloth. As I lay spent and boneless, she tenderly cleaned me up, then sat against the pillows and pulled my head into her lap. Looking up at her from that position is one of my favorite views.
We shared a moment of quiet communion, lost in each other's loving regard. I lay passive as she played with my hair and caressed me. No longer urgent; simply sweet, attentive and appreciative.
Eventually I captured one of her roving hands and laced our fingers together. “How was your call? You were at it a long time.”
She gave my fingers a squeeze. “It was good . . . Brea thinks she found her forever – again!”
“Male or female this time?” Brea’s bi – very bi. She’s dated men and women equally. Near as I could figure, the only common element was that all of her romantic partners were ridiculously good looking. Beautiful women (maybe not quite as beautiful as Kara, of course!), and rugged, handsome men.
Kara laughed. “Male, this time. Get this – he’s a ranger with a Ph.D in forestry!”
“If you’d asked me to describe the perfect match for Brea, that combo would almost certainly have made my top three,” I said with a chuckle. “Smart and handsome, no doubt.”
“I know, right? But I expect that’s how she found him, anyhow. Those dating apps are scary.”
“How long have they been going out?”
“Long enough,” she replied. “They’re even starting to talk about getting married.”
“Whoa, that was quick! It hasn’t been that long since you guys talked, has it?”
“Close on six months, I guess. Longer than I thought. There was all the craziness at Christmas, then Mom’s health scare, then we were up in Quebec for Winter Carnival, and spring got really busy at work . . . life just goes so fast, sometimes.”
I smiled up at her. “That it does. . . . Well, what do you think? Is she going to make it stick this time?”
“Oh, you know Brea. Often in error, never in doubt. But . . . I think so? Maybe? She, ah . . . she talked to him about our week, so for sure she’s serious.” Her expression was guarded.
Seeing potential landmines, I thought carefully before asking, “Did he agree, or is it a deal-breaker?”
Her smile seemed to recognize that the topic of conversation was difficult for me. “He’s on the fence. But Brea said . . . .” She paused, thinking, then sighed. “Well, this might be our last week, if he says ‘no.’”
I couldn’t come up with a response that covered my tangle of emotions, so I just gave her hand a gentle, wordless squeeze.
“It shouldn’t matter,” Kara said softly. “I love you, and I love our life together. I have everything I need, and more. But, damn . . . there’s part of me that just hates the thought of losing her. Letting her go.”
I reached up and freed a tear that was captured in the corner of her eye. “Like my granny always said, don’t go buying trouble, young lady.”
“I know. It was just a shock, having to think about it.” She stroked my cheek with the back of her fingers. “But there’s something else, too. Brea was laid off two weeks ago. She’s pretty sure she’ll be brought back in a couple months, but she needs to be careful on expenses until that happens, so she was wondering if she couldn’t just visit here. You’ll be gone most of that week for the Pittsburg firing.”
I thought about it. The answer should have been easy, but somehow wasn’t.
“Kez – ‘no’ is a perfectly acceptable answer,” she said softly, a loving smile on her face. “If it bothers you – at all, and for any reason – we’ll come up with another solution.”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure it’s ‘no.’ But . . . .” I tried to sort my jumbled thoughts and feelings into coherence. Fortunately, Kara knows me well enough to give me time and space when words fail me. Finally, I said, “It’s this space. Here. This room. This bed. It’s . . . .” I waved, as if my hands could do my talking for me. Potter! “It's like holy ground for me. I wouldn’t want to think of you here with . . . with anyone else.” I’m afraid my voice cracked a bit, but I got it out.
She nodded, understanding both instantly and completely. “You are so right, Kez! But listen, how about this. She stays in the guest bedroom. When you’re home, I’m here, with you. When you’re in New Hampshire . . . anything that happens, happens in the guest bedroom. Would that work? Again, it’s okay to say ‘no.’ You don’t need to explain.”
I smiled up at her. “Yes, love. I can deal with that.”
Another tear escaped from her shining hazel eye. “Always and forever, Keziah.”
“Always and forever.”
Kara went to grab a shower; I put on my butterfly dressing gown and made us some breakfast. When she emerged from the bathroom, dressed, fluffed and perfectly made up for another day of saleswomanship, her eyes sparkled and she said, “all that, and bacon, too? Will you marry me?”
I laughed. “I seem to remember doing something like that. You wore . . . ah . . . help me out here! It was white, wasn’t it?” I put her coffee mug by her plate – strong, black, and bitter, like she prefers – and joined her at the table.
“Throwing day?” she asked, eyeing the tight bun in which my hair was incarcerated.
I nodded. “Mostly. I’ll need to be out in the studio this evening monitoring reduction and oxidation for the gas kiln, but otherwise I’ll be throwing the good stuff today. I’ll need to have everything for the train firing bone dry by the end of next week, so I’ve got to wrap it up.”
She reached over and covered my hand. “I’ll take care of dinner tonight, then.”
“That’d be great, thanks.”
We finished our breakfast, exchanging chit-chat about nothing in particular, then she was off. By standing agreement, Kara did not do morning dishes, lest she ruin her morning look. Appearance matters in her business. Mercifully, in mine it doesn’t!
KP took less than fifteen minutes. Knowing how messy I would get today, I wore coveralls, with only briefs and a sleeveless cotton chemise underneath. I crossed the yard, checked on the chickens, then opened the big barn door to the studio, letting the morning light fill the space.
I can work in any kind of light, and living in northern Vermont, I spend a lot of time throwing in artificial light – and heat. But I love working in the sunlight – feeling its warm, golden glow; seeing its reflected gleam in the wet clay as it spins beneath my hands.
The gas kiln was doing its thing, and the temperature was within ten degrees of where I wanted it at this point in the firing. Satisfied, I grabbed a bag of the Continental Porcelain and cut about eight pounds, then spent a few minutes at the wedging table softening it and rough shaping it. Bringing it to the wheel, I slammed it down, more or less in the center of the bat on the wheelhead. I wet the clay and began the first, most basic task.
My schedule required that I throw today, and I was happy about that. First, because it’s the part of my craft I enjoy the most. But second, because my discussion with Kara had left me unsettled. Throwing pots is, for me, an almost mystical experience. The wheel moves the clay; my hands and fingers form the molds through which it moves. I center the clay and the clay centers me.
I bent to my task, compressing the clay into a vertical cone, then pressing it down into a centered disk, holding the base of my left hand rigid to form the mold. I repeated the process to ensure that the disk was perfectly centered, then opened the form and began pulling it into a tall cylinder with thick walls.
Moments into my work, I was in the zone and at peace. The clay flowed easily through my fingers, the sponge in my right hand keeping it moist and near frictionless. The cylinder rose taller, the walls strong and even. It was muscle memory, requiring a concentration of the senses rather than of thought. A hyper awareness of the clay, of its flow, to detect and correct any wobble or unevenness. I could do it with my eyes closed and sometimes did.
In that state, my mind wandered without in any way disturbing the calm and peace that flowed in and through me. I was able to process my complicated feelings about Kara and Brea without the distress that might otherwise burden me.
There was a part of me, of course, that felt like Kara’s continued attachment to her prior lover meant that I was somehow not quite good enough. She was attracted to women, and I wasn’t enough of one. That part of me wanted to rejoice at the possibility that Brea would put a stop to their weeks together.
It’s not about you, Kez, I admonished myself, for the sixty-four thousandth time. And it wasn’t. It was about Kara and Brea – what they shared, what they couldn’t share, and how they got on living their lives, knowing that they loved each other deeply but drove each other crazy.
Still, the idea of Brea and Kara, alone in our house, left me with a feeling of disquiet. I wasn’t sure why, other than the feeling that it was our place, mine and Kara’s. But the compromise that Kara had suggested wasn’t unreasonable. And it would make her happy.
The cylinder was the right height. I grabbed a rib and began to widen the pot at the shoulder, then brought my hand down to the interior base to expand the shape in a smooth, even, slightly curved line. I felt the clay stretch, the shape becoming larger even as the walls grew thinner, lighter. Just as it should. Like a heart swelling in the first pangs of love.
I can do this for her. And I will.
The pot took shape as the clay flowed through the mold of my fingers and the rib, tall and graceful, the proportions just right. I spent some time collaring in the upper 20 percent, then perfecting the rim.
It was finished. On to the next one.
* * * * *
Things got more complicated two weeks later, just a week before Brea was supposed to arrive. Unusually, I had spent the day down in Burlington; Kara had an open house over on Grand Isle at noon, but otherwise had the day to herself.
It was about 7:00 when I pulled in, the trailer not much less full than it had been 12 hours earlier. Kara crossed the yard slowly, the late afternoon sun throwing a long shadow before her.
I slid from the cab and into her arms. “Hey, Dreamboat,” she said softly. “How was the farmers’ market?”
I sighed. “Long. Net/net, factoring in the cost of the materials, the cost of firing the bisque kiln and the gas kiln, the time I spent throwing, trimming, glazing and cleaning, plus commute time and time at the market . . . I’d hit minimum wage if I sold about twice as much.”
She opened her mouth to respond, then shut it, smiled, and shook her head. “You know what I’m about to say, and I know your response . . . and my rebuttal, and your sur-rebuttal. You look beat, so let’s just take it all as having been said.”
I chuckled, slid an arm around her toned waist, and began to guide her toward the house. “A font of wisdom you are, this evening. I desperately need to soak in a tub.”
“Funny that – you still smell sweet after a day in your studio, getting so filthy you have to strip before I let you in the house. But spend a single day in the city – just one! And not even a metropolis! We’re talking Burlington, Vermont, population forty-somethin’ thousand – and you smell like . . . .”
I cut her off. “I know – People! Ewwww!!!
“I don’t smell that way when I come home from work,” she said primly.
“Well . . . I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that . . . .”
Swift as a cobra, she moved her hand from my waist to my armpit and did an exploratory tickle. “Sure you wanna finish that sentence, lover? I do know where you sleep.”
“Uncle!” I laughed.
We went inside. “I have a bath ready, you ungrateful lout,” she teased. “And dinner’s just cold chicken and salad, so it'll be ready whenever you want it. Take your time and have a good soak.”
“Join me?” I invited. When we redid the bathroom, we’d added a monster soaking tub. The farmer who built the house way back when probably spun in his grave, knowing how much fun we had in his home.
“Love to,” Kara said. “Let me grab some wine!”
“Water for me, love,” I said. “I’m already a bit dehydrated, and I can’t afford a headache tomorrow.”
“Party-pooper!” She mock-pouted, then said, “Go on, I’ll be in in five.”
I stripped in our bedroom and padded naked to the attached bathroom. Bubble bath and lavender! I gratefully stepped in, then lowered myself down until only my head was above the froth.
Kara came in a few minutes later carrying two glasses and wearing nothing but a smile.
“Don’t get me wrong,” I said thoughtfully. “I’m eager to have you join me. . . . But, could you just stand there for a minute or two? I really like the view.”
She struck a pose, then shook her head. “The sacrifices I make!”
“So true, so true,” I said sorrowfully. Then I scooted myself up to make room, and she stepped in gracefully.
She settled in with a sigh, then saluted me with her glass and took a sip. “Any word from Red Lodge?”
“No, too soon for that. I doubt they’ve even got all of their entries in yet.” The Red Lodge Juried National Exhibition was one of the many places where I entered pieces for curated shows. My name was definitely getting out there. My gas kiln pieces were my bread-and-butter – even though they gave me plenty of days like today! – but my prestige work was all wood-fired. In galleries, people paid hundreds of dollars for some of my art; within five years, God willin’ and the creek don’t rise, I would be selling pieces for thousands of dollars.
Not that I would stop making functional ware. It wasn’t art, most of it, but I loved the fact that regular people used my pottery every day. A hand-made coffee mug that made their morning ritual something special. A vase in pale celadon, to highlight the beauty of the flowers from their own garden. A pitcher for the ice tea they served close friends on their deck on long summer days, as they watched their kids play together in the pool . . . .
Kara was watching me, a smile playing on her full and perfect lips. “Penny for your thoughts?”
“That’ll definitely improve my profit margin for the day,” I joked. “Just finishing the conversation we didn’t have, but in my head. Enough of that, though. How was your day?”
“The open house was pretty busy. Given how things have been this spring, no surprises. I think at least three of the people who came by are going to make offers.” She paused to take a sip of her wine, then took another, longer one. “Brea called. Bit of a change in plans. She and the boytoy are coming up. Apparently he wants to meet me before giving her an answer. But he’s planning to do some traveling on his own later in the week – when you're in Pittsburg, or maybe earlier. Then he’ll be back at the end of the week to pick her up.”
I fished one of her feet out of the bubbles and massaged it, eliciting a groan of pleasure. “Sounds awkward . . . for both of you.”
She shrugged, looking rueful. “Let’s face it – how Brea and I have arranged our lives is . . . unconventional.”
“Eccentric,” I offered helpfully.
She stuck out her tongue, but agreed. “Yeah, that, too. There’ve been some awkward moments over the years, and would’ve been a whole lot more if you hadn’t been so wonderful. Comes with the territory, I guess.”
I switched to her other foot. “Will you be alright?”
She nodded. “I can deal with some awkward. But how about you?
It was my turn to shrug. “If he can share a house with Breanna Quinn, I’m confident in his diplomatic skills. But I won’t have much time to play host, and I’m sorry about that. I know you’ll want to make a good impression.”
She wriggled her free foot between my legs and applied some pressure. “I understand, Kez. I know what you’re like in the run-up to a big firing.”
I tried to be reassuring. “I’ll be in good shape this time. My last bisque load is firing, and my glazing is minimal for the train kiln.”
She laughed. “You’re like Duke – you always say that. Someday it’s bound to happen – but I’m not gonna hold my breath!”
I wanted to laugh as well, but I could see that she had some anxiety over the whole situation. Which was understandable. “It’ll be fine, Kara. Your old lover and her new lover are coming over in a few days, and your spouse will be largely absent. What could possibly go wrong?”
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER THREE
After a week spent finishing my pots for the Pittsburg firing and assisting Kara’s furious efforts to make our home spotless inside, as well as beautiful and welcoming in every imaginable way, I was feeling good. The pots looked great, the house looked great, and even Kara was willing to admit that we were in as good shape for company as we could ever be.
They pulled in late, having called to say that they would get dinner on the way. That gave me time to clean up after a full day’s work. I decided to go for a more male look. Just blue jeans, sneakers and a light blue work shirt, my hair in a low ponytail. I figured Brea’s boyfriend would have enough weirdness to deal with – and enough women! – without my girling up.
We came outside as we heard the tires of their SUV crunch the gravel of the driveway. Brea bounded out of the passenger’s side almost before the car had stopped moving. “Karaaaaaa!!!” She charged over and enveloped my bride in a bone-crushing hug.
I walked over to the driver’s side just as the door opened. Brea’s boyfriend did not disappoint. Tall; brown hair and eyes, clean-shaven to display a firm jaw; athletic build. As I said, Brea’s romantic attachments, of either gender, are all exceptionally fine physical specimens.
I smiled and extended a hand in greeting. “I’m Kez. Welcome!”
Surprisingly, he enveloped my hand in both of his. “Kez – thank you so much for having us. I hope we didn’t put you to too much trouble! I’m Jacob.”
He had a nice, warm baritone and a smile that matched it, putting me at ease almost at once.
“It’s no trouble at all, Jacob. Let me help you with your bags.”
We went to the back and grabbed two bags a piece. “One for me and three for Brea!” he joked.
I laughed. “The way it should be.”
Jacob dropped the bags and let out a whistle. “Damn! Brea said it was an old farmhouse; I wasn’t expecting anything like this!”
I was absurdly pleased. “We’ve done a lot of work on it – I mean, a lot. This used to be two bedrooms. I’m guessing the farmer had lots of kids, ‘cuz the place had lots of rooms that would barely be big enough for a monastery or a prison.”
“There’s a difference?” His eyes twinkled in the soft light; I’d put dimmer switches everywhere and liked to keep the lights low.
“Yeah, good point! But anyway . . . we’ve pretty much gutted and rebuilt it over the years, room by room.”
He looked impressed. “You did it yourselves?”
“Mostly. We had help with the demo work, neither of us does plumbing, and we had to have an electrician check my work. He had to make some fixes, I can tell you.”
“Can I get the grand tour?” He sounded genuinely eager, though it was possible he was just being polite.
“Of course! But, I don’t think Brea’s seen the place since we fixed it up. Let’s see if she wants to tour it too.”
“Good idea,” he grinned. “Though you might have a tough time asking her, since she’d have to stop talking first!” Brea’s voice – high, happy, excited – had been audible from the moment she’d jumped out of the car. Currently, it sounded like they were out on the patio.
“Leave that to me,” I said with a mischievous grin. I crooked a finger and had him follow me into the kitchen. I had him grab the glasses, while I snagged a bottle of Bordeaux and a plate that was piled high with home-made cookies.
Jacob eyed the plate and laughed. “Devious, Kez! I like it!”
I opened the slider to the patio, where Breanna was saying something with great animation and emphatic hand and arm movements. But when she saw the plate she stopped. “Macaroons!!!! Oh, my nondenominational Lord and Savior!!!!” She practically pounced.
As soon as the first, wonderful bite was fully in her mouth, I said, “Jacob was interested in seeing the house. Want to come along?”
She closed her eyes, her face conveying absolute bliss. Then she swallowed and said, “You boys go on. Kara and I have some catching up to do . . . . But don’t you dare take that plate with you!!!”
I laughed and put it on the low table, poured the wine and handed out glasses. Then I led Jacob back into the house. “She’s a whirlwind, that girl of yours!”
“She is, that,” he agreed. “So . . . start here. This whole kitchen looks like a remodel.”
I nodded. “Almost completely. At least we didn’t have to enlarge it; farm kitchens were plenty big back in the day. And we kept the fireplace, obviously.” A quarter of one wall was old brick, with a deep fireplace and a built-in bread oven that we never used for baking. Cooking with wood is hard; but baking? I don’t honestly understand how anyone ever managed.
Jacob walked over to the fireplace, but his attention was drawn to the vase on the mantle. “Oh, that’s magnificent!” He looked at it carefully, then looked back at me. “May I?”
“Sure,” I said.
He picked it up carefully, feeling the weight of it, turning it around in his hands. Running his fingers across the surface to get a sense of the finish. “That’s all just wood ash on the raw clay. Extraordinary! Did you get it near here?”
I looked at him carefully, trying to judge whether I was being played. He seemed genuine, but his reaction was a bit over the top. “I did. Why?”
Without taking his eyes off the piece, he said, “My mother was a ceramic artist. When I was growing up, anyway. This brings back a lot of good memories. I thought . . . well, I’m going to have some time in the area on my own. Maybe I could go see the studio and pick something up.”
He’d peaked my curiosity. “Your Mom gave it up?”
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Yeah . . . life got pretty weird when Mom and Dad got divorced. That . . . . That was one of the things that went by the wayside.”
Finally, I said, “You do know what I do, don’t you?”
That made him look up, startled. “I, ah . . . no.” He sounded a bit sheepish. “Brea told me all about Kara. I mean, all about Kara. But I didn’t hear much about you.” Then the light dawned. “You? This is your work?”
“Oh, yes. Keziah Brown, Potter.” I smiled, then turned more serious. “And the artist would very much like you to have that piece.”
His jaw dropped. “I couldn’t possibly! Really! I was just . . . .”
“ . . . admiring it, and enjoying the flood of good memories it triggered. What could make a potter happier? It’s what I live for. Well . . . that and Kara, of course!”
“I don’t know what to say. You’ve only just met me.”
“Just say ‘yes;’ your reaction just now was all the thanks I need. Put it back for now; I’ll make sure it’s properly packed for travel before you leave. Let me finish showing you the house.”
I showed him all the special things we had done – how we had eliminated most of the attic to expose the hardwood beams in the kitchen and living room; the way we’d rebuilt the main fireplace in the living room; the rooms that had been combined to create space that was less cramped; more welcoming. The efforts we had taken to make the basement useable space. Throughout, he asked intelligent questions and seemed to have an appreciation for the craftsmanship that had gone into every detail.
“You must have saved a bundle, doing all this yourself,” he commented as we made our way back to the kitchen.
I shrugged. “Yes and no. We’d probably be a bit better off if we’d paid other people to do it. It put me back some in my pottery, and obviously the time Kara spent on it, she wasn’t selling houses. And she’s damned good at selling houses. But we learned a lot. And . . . there’s just something about living in a space that you’ve worked on yourself. It makes it your own, somehow.”
“Spoken like an artist,” he smiled.
“No; not that. I’m only an artist when it comes to clay, and even then only sometimes. Mostly, I’m just a craftsman.”
“Kez,” he said seriously, “there’s nothing ‘just’ about this – any of it. It’s amazing.”
“Thank you,” I said, pulling open the slider and stepping outside. “But believe me, I’m not putting down craftsmanship. It’s not ‘less’ than art, it’s different, so I shouldn’t have used the word ‘just.’”
Kara broke in to say, “You two look like you’re having quite the discussion.”
I gave her a kiss. “Parsing the difference between craftsmanship and art.”
“Fine,” Brea said, tapping a long fingernail on the – very empty – plate that had held the macaroons. “So long as these are counted in the ‘art’ column!” She rose from her chair and gave a long, feline stretch. “Alright, lover boy! It’s been a long day. Shall we?”
“Sounds good,” he answered. “I’m definitely starting to feel it.” He bent to grab their glasses and the plate.
“Just leave those by the sink, Jacob,” I said. “We’ll get them in the morning.” I grabbed the empty bottle and followed everyone in.
Brea gave Kara a long hug, then followed Jacob to the guest bedroom.
I put an arm around Kara. “I think I’ll turn in as well. Tomorrow will be busy.”
She turned and gave me a light kiss. “I need to decompress for a bit. I’ll be along later.”
I touched her arm and left her. Once inside the bedroom, I washed and moisturized my face, brushed my teeth, freed my hair and found some slinky sleepwear. A little sweetness for my gal.
I curled into bed and was asleep in minutes.
* * * * *
I woke early, my body responding to an erotic dream that eluded my memory. Kara was snuggled into my back, an elegantly tapered arm around my chest. There was no way to move without disturbing her sleep, so I lay still, watching the sunrise out the big, east-facing window we had cut through the bedroom’s main exterior wall. In early June north of Burlington, sunrise is just after 5:00 am, so I knew the time without looking.
Yesterday had been full of surprises. Based on what Kara had heard from Brea, I had been expecting that Jacob would want to monitor the interactions between the two of them. Certainly, Kara had worried that Jacob would be judging her – a prospect she hadn’t been any happier about than I suppose anyone would be.
But Jacob and I had largely left the women to themselves, and I certainly hadn’t felt uncomfortable or under scrutiny. Kara seemed more . . . disquieted, maybe? . . . than I was feeling myself.
The early sun was lighting the undersides of the high, swirling cirrus, spun tendrils of pink cotton candy on a field of cerulean blue. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” Kara’s voice was low, thoughtful.
I gave the sky a last look before rolling over to look at my Day Star. “Doesn’t suck,” I said with a smile. “Though the view’s even better this way. I didn’t know you were awake.”
“I’m not,” she replied. “You’re dreaming.”
I reached out and caressed her shoulder. “Then it’s a good dream. . . . You okay?”
She snuggled close, pushed me on my back and rested her head on my shoulder, her hand playing idly with my lacy decolletage. “A bit unsettled. Not sure why.”
I ran my fingers through her hair; I was always amazed at how silky it felt. “The two of you seemed to be having a good discussion.”
“A ‘discussion’ with Brea usually involves a lot more listening than talking. But . . . yeah, I’d say it was good. She’s . . . distracted, I guess. In a good way, though.”
“Jacob seems like a really nice guy,” I offered, tentatively.
She didn’t respond, so I let the silence stretch, letting my hand wander across her back. Letting her know, without words, I’m here for you. I love you.
Eventually she sighed, gave me a peck on the chest, and said, “I guess I’m not used to having competition. Whenever Brea and I have been together for our week, I’ve always had her complete focus.”
“And she’s had yours?” I made it a question, but I had no doubt of the answer. I was Kara’s “always and forever,” but when she was with Brea, she was with Brea. Kara lives fiercely in the present moment.
“Yes.” Her hand cupped where my breast would be, if I had one. “Do you think she’s feeling it, too?”
“Jealous? Yeah, you didn’t catch the look I got when I came over and gave you a kiss. A few other moments, too.”
“Oh!” She chewed on her lip. “I guess that explains why she didn’t want the house tour. That surprised me.”
“I expect I’m not her favorite person right now,” I acknowledged.
“Didn’t stop her from inhaling your cookies!”
The hint of indignation in her voice warmed my heart. “Priorities, Kara dearest. Priorities! Romance is important, but those were macaroons dipped in chocolate!” I gave her rump an affectionate pat and said, gently, “we’ll be out of your lovely hair by noon tomorrow. Maybe it’ll be better then.”
She was quiet for a long while, stroking my body idly as she looked out at the sunrise. Finally, she said, “How do you do it, Kez? Don’t you get jealous? It hurts, when I see Brea looking at Jacob. . . . Is this what you’ve felt, all these years?”
“It’s complicated.” I leaned over and kissed the top of her head, letting my hand continue to wander, speaking the universal language of love and reassurance. “But the bottom line is that I want you to be happy. Giving you that one week, each year, has always made you even more happy. Happy before you go, happy when you come back.”
“I want Brea to be happy, too,” she said, slowly. “And I’ve always wanted her to have a forever in her life, even when I knew it couldn’t be me. But . . . but it’s hard! To see it. Watch it, right in front of me. Suddenly, I feel like I’m second best. Which is just sick, right?”
I smiled. “You need to change your paradigm, girlfriend. A lot of married couples, seven years in, they lose it. You know, the dreaded ‘seven year itch?’ But I’ve never taken you for granted. Not once. And I think your week away is part of that. A little competition can keep you sharp, you know.”
She ran a practiced hand over my nightie. “Yeah, you get delightfully girly for me, this time of year!”
“Gotta bring my ‘A’ game, with Brea sniffing around. That’s some woman!”
“She is, but . . . you do know you’re safe, don’t you?” She craned her head to look at me earnestly. “You are my whole world!”
“I know.” I lied, smiling. Oh, I was pretty confident. But certain? No, not that. And maybe that lack of certainty had been good for me. Regardless, Kara didn’t need my insecurities on her conscience.
We lay in silence for a few minutes, communicating by touch only, listening to the growing chorus of birdsong, the squawking of the chickens and the rooster’s occasional trumpeting. The sky’s vivid display faded.
“Okay, woman! Get your shower, and get your game on! I’ll get some coffee going. We’re clearly not going to get more sleep.”
She propped herself up, leaned over, and kissed me properly, leaving my limbs feeling liquid. She pulled back and said, “God, I love you!” Then she rolled out of bed and padded into the bathroom.
I looked at the clock and confirmed it was just past six. So I threw on my dressing gown and went barefoot into the kitchen.
Knowing we’d have company, I’d made sure to grind the coffee in advance. I turned on the electric kettle, put the right amount of coffee in the big french press, and waited. I poured the water when it was just below boiling, then put mugs, cream and sugar onto a tray. Checking the time, and double-checking with my nose, I decided the coffee was ready and hit the plunger.
“I don’t suppose I could get some of that?” A voice asked hopefully. Jacob.
I managed not to jump. Well, not how I’d intended this to happen, but . . . oh well. “Of course,” I said warmly, turning to face him “You take cream or sugar?”
He was wearing pajama shorts and a t-shirt, showcasing arms and legs that were lean, muscular and covered with a decent, though not overwhelming, amount of hair. “A splash of milk if you’ve got it,” he said. “I get a bit of reflux if I take it straight, and cream goes right to my ass.” He took in my unconventional appearance without so much as a raised eyebrow.
I relaxed. “She told you?”
He shook his head. “No; like I said, she didn’t tell me much about you at all.”
“You don’t seem surprised.”
“Should I be? Seems to me, you should wear whatever you're comfortable in. It’s your house.”
I thought, There’s more to it than that! But there was no need for an extended discussion of my peculiarities. “I pretty much do. Though, I’m usually more circumspect if we have company. After your drive yesterday, I didn’t think we’d see either of you for hours.”
“I’m an early riser, though Brea isn’t.” He took the coffee I’d poured for him, inhaled deeply, then took a sip, smiling appreciatively. “Perfect; thank you.” He took another, set the mug down, and said, “I hope I didn’t embarrass you. Please – wear whatever you like when we’re here. You aren’t going to shock anyone.” He cocked his head and flashed a quick smile. “Besides – it suits you.”
That made me giggle. “You’re an unusual man. Let me get my bride her morning infusion. She’s got some fluffing to do, but I’ll be out in a bit. The patio’s a nice place to sit, in the morning. Though you might want a sweatshirt until the sun’s a bit higher.”
“Wilco,” he replied. “See you in a bit.”
I wandered back to the bedroom, a bemused look on my face, to find my bride toweling down in the bathroom.
“Bless you,” she said, grabbing the undoctored mug. “Did I hear you and Jacob talking?”
“Ayup. He got an eyeful.”
“And?”
“It didn’t seem to phase him. Which was a nice surprise, for sure.”
“Well,” she said, drawing the word out, “you look pretty cute like that.”
“Why, thank you very much,” I said tartly. “You leave me any hot water?”
“Maybe a drop or two,” she allowed. She blew me a kiss, then sauntered into the bedroom, closing the door behind her.
I hung dressing gown and negligee on the door hooks and stepped into the shower. As I slowly soaped up, my morning encounter replayed in my mind.
I wasn’t in the closet. My parents and my brother, Kara’s parents, her brother and sister all knew that slapping a ‘male’ label on me didn’t really work. I don’t hide who I am among friends, and people in my craft know I’m “some somethin’,” as one old guy had put it. But I don’t dress or act in an overtly feminine manner when I’m out running errands, or working craft fairs or markets. I didn’t want or need the hassles.
All things considered, though, when I’m not affirmatively presenting as male, I tend to make men more uncomfortable than women. Even guys who know me and are friendly tend to keep me at a bit of a distance, like I might be contagious. So Jacob’s nonchalance had been refreshing. He’d even thrown out a compliment, which was downright unnerving.
But I resolved I was going to follow his suggestion and just be myself. If he wasn’t going to freak out, there was no reason to affirmatively modulate my presentation.
I washed my hair, shut off the water, and stepped out. As I toweled myself dry, I chuckled. Okay, Kez, so you’re gonna be yourself? Cool. What does yourself look like today?
.
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER FOUR
I came back into the kitchen and saw that Jacob was out on the deck, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs that faced Lake Champlain. I made another pot of coffee and heated some ham and cheddar biscuits that Kara had picked up at Barrio’s, then brought it all outside on a tray.
Jacob smiled up at me. “What a view! Do you sit out here every morning?”
I set the tray down and refilled his cup. “Parts of the lake freeze, most winters, and the wind coming off it can be negative ten degrees. But . . . it never gets old, that’s for sure.” I sat in the other Adirondack and snagged a biscuit.
Jacob seemed content to sit in silence, allowing the stillness of the morning to be broken only by the sounds of nature. I appreciated his forbearance; perfection like this was worth savoring on its own terms.
The old farm sloped down from the house until it hit pastureland that was owned by a local dairy. Spring comes late to northern Vermont and gives way to summer with the greatest reluctance, so the hillside was still covered with vernal wildflowers – yellow trout lilies, bloodroot and white trillium, small blue flowers I couldn’t identify. The sun was beginning to paint them, though the house still cast a long shadow toward the lake in front of us. Grand Isle was catching the full fire of dawn, but 6:30 on a Sunday morning, there were no signs of life.
It was close to 7:00 before Jacob made a sound to break the magic of the morning. He reached over, touched my wrist lightly, and said, “Thank you for sharing this. What a treasure!”
I smiled in response. “You have the gift of silence. I’m guessing that comes in handy, with Brea.”
He chuckled. “Oh, it does! But watching Brea’s like watching this hillside. So beautiful . . . so full of life. I almost hate to break the spell by talking.”
Down in the pasture, one of my bovine neighbors took the opportunity to add to the moment with a loud, indignant “mooooo!” I laughed.
Kara opened the slider and stepped out, drawing a deep, refreshing breath of the perfect morning air. Her inhalation did interesting things to the flowing, sleeveless top of her periwinkle blue dress. Competition!
“Good morning, gorgeous!” I rose and gave her a peck on the lips. “Ready for a second cup?”
She shook her head. “I’ll wait for breakfast.” She looked at Jacob, who had risen to greet her as well. “I’m guessing our girl won’t be up for a bit, but I might have one of those biscuits to tide me over.”
He smiled. “I’ll go see if I can chivvy her along. Some hot tea might speed the process – or at least make it more . . . ah . . . harmonious!”
Kara laughed – free, easy, delighted and delightful – showing all her perfect teeth. “She still like Lapsang Souchong?”
“Can’t break her of it,” he agreed.
“I got some fresh, just for her. Give me a minute.”
With a last look at the lake, sparkling in the sunlight, he followed her into the house. I paused to draw a deep breath myself. It really doesn’t get old. Ever.
I went inside.
After Jacob disappeared down the hall bearing the steaming votive offering he hoped would propitiate his goddess, Kara and I sat at the kitchen table.
“You look lovely,” I said, a twinkle in my eye and the barest touch of mischief in my voice.
She blushed, which was delightful. I’m almost never able to make Kara blush.
I giggled, leaned in, and gave her a kiss to reassure her. Light, though – her lip gloss was delicious and moist, and I didn’t want to do anything that would diminish its perfection. “Still planning to bring them down to the Church Street Marketplace today?” Church Street is a large pedestrian district that runs through the middle of downtown – effectively, an open-air mall.
Kara nodded. “Brea sounded enthusiastic. Burlington might not be much, but it’s frickin’ New York City compared to Towanda! So, we’ll get out of here just as soon as we’ve had breakfast, and you can get your packing done.”
“Outstanding. What do you think? Shall we go with the pancakes this morning?”
That got a grin. “Are you kidding? When the strawberries came early this year? Yeah, we’re doing pancakes!”
“I’ll make up the batter now, then. I like to get a double rise before I pour.”
“I’ll cut up the berries,” she offered.
I looked at her perfect outfit and raised an eyebrow. “Not unless you wear an apron – you’ll hate me if you wreck that dress!” Kara was not fond of aprons, as I knew.
But she had worked hard on her look for the day, so she limited her objection to sticking out her tongue and saying, “Sure, fine, whatevs, gramma!” She donned a frilly apron, grabbed a colander, cutting board and knife, and got to work.
I did likewise. When I had the batter ready, I covered it with a damp paper towel and put it in the fridge. “Let me see to the chickens.”
She nodded, still slicing strawberries.
When I came back inside with half a dozen fresh eggs, I could hear the shower going down the hall. Kara was out on the patio, absorbing a bit of the peace of the morning. I got the citrus press and sliced up oranges, feeding them in by halves for some fresh-squeezed OJ. If you’re gonna do a farm breakfast, you have to do it right!
I caught sight of Brea in a bathrobe, her hair already dry, emerging from the bathroom and heading back to the guest bedroom to get dressed. Time to get this show on the road! So I got the griddle going and set the table while it was heating up.
Twenty minutes later, we were all sitting down to fluffy pancakes smothered in fresh strawberries and light, perfect, grade AAA Vermont Maple syrup, as well as this morning’s eggs, crispy bacon, fresh orange juice, coffee, and tea.
“Holy shit, girl!” Brea said, looking at Kara in wonder. “How are you not four hundred pounds?”
“Clean living? Virtue?” Kara laughed. “Seriously, though . . . this is as much a treat for us as it is for you. Breakfast is normally light to non-existent in this household, and even then I have to hit the gym three times a week.”
Brea made a face. “I know . . . me too! Remember how we used to laugh at the gym rats?”
“Yeah,” Kara sighed, her blue eyes filled with memories. “Back when I could eat anything and it never seemed to affect me. Somehow, I thought it’d always be that way.”
Jacob looked at me across the table. “How about you, Kez? Have you had to resort to the gym as well?”
I shook my head. “No; I get a surprising amount of exercise in my work. I do yoga, but that’s about flexibility and avoiding injuries. Pottery’s hard on the body.”
Brea looked incredulous. “Seriously? You’re, like, sitting on a stool!”
Kara bridled a bit, but I answered quickly so that she'd keep her powder dry. “I know, right? But that’s just it . . . when you’re throwing, you have to keep your body still, and the posture isn’t natural. Trimming isn’t much better. Then there’s all the rest of it that you don’t really think about – hauling the materials, mixing clays and glazes. A lot of older potters have issues with arthritis, compressed disks . . . stuff like that.”
“Huh!” she said. “I hadn’t really thought about it.”
And I doubt you’re going to start now, I thought to myself with an internal smile. I decided to deflect. “You look like someone who does weights,” I said to Jacob.
“I do, but what I really enjoy is running. Well . . . for exercise, anyway. Given my druthers, I’d just walk. You see more.”
“Ranger!” Brea said affectionately.
“Always,” he replied, smiling.
School your features, love! I hoped my mental message reached my bride. I didn’t think Brea or Jacob had seen it . . . but I was always hypersensitive to Kara’s internal weather.
Time to change the subject. “It’s such a shame Appalachian Spring closed their store on Market Street – it was a great place to visit if you like crafts.”
“COVID?” Brea asked.
I shook my head. “No, the founders retired a couple years ago, and they closed all their stores except one in Maryland. Too bad; it was a good platform for local artisans.”
Jacob cleared his throat. “Actually, Kez, I was wondering whether I could watch you throw . . . shopping and cities aren’t my thing so much.”
Hmmm. I guess I’m not the only one seeing storm warnings. “I’d love to, but I can’t throw today. I’ve got to pack and load all my wares for the firing.”
“I understand,” he said. “But if I helped with that, would it give you some time?”
“Don’t push now, lovebug,” Brea said, giving him a playful swat.
Down, Kara! “Not at all; I’m flattered.” I said. I could see that he really didn’t want to be part of a threesome with Brea and Kara, and honestly, I couldn’t blame him. “Sure. That’ll work. You’ve got to be super careful with the bisqueware, though.”
He chuckled, “I remember.” Raising his voice to a falsetto, he said, “‘Jacob Vincent, I will skin you alive if even one of those pieces breaks!’ Mom was a tyrant about her pottery.”
“Your momma’s a tyrant, period!” Brea said. It was clearly a joke . . . mostly.
“You just say that ’cuz she doesn’t agree with you all the time.” Jacob’s voice betrayed no chastisement; only affection.
“Yeah . . . Maybe,” Brea allowed. “Well, if we can’t talk you into coming with, the two of us will just have to find some trouble to get into on our own!”
“I’m certain you’ll find it, if you apply yourselves,” I said dryly. “Now, scoot! We’ll take care of clean-up.”
Kara got up, stretched, then bent to give me a kiss. “We’ll be back by five or six. I’ll keep you posted.”
Brea leaned over, gave Jacob something to think about and Kara something to deal with – hopefully gracefully – then went to get her purse. “Ta ta, you two!” And off they went.
Jacob stood, went into the kitchen and poured himself a bit more coffee. Coming back to the table, he gave my shoulder a squeeze. “Thanks, Kez. I owe you one.” He sat back down.
“Those two need to talk,” I observed.
He leaned back and closed his eyes. “Yeah – or find a motel that charges by the hour.” He started to massage his temples then stopped, lowered his hand and reopened his eyes. “I’m sorry. That was thoughtless of me.”
I smiled. “Don’t worry about it. You didn’t say anything I wasn’t thinking.” I drank down the last of my coffee and started gathering dishes. “Listen – I was happy to back your play, but don’t feel obligated to do the pottery thing today. There’s some great hiking near here. Might be just what you need.”
“If you’d rather work alone, I certainly understand,” he responded, “but it wasn’t an excuse – leastwise, it wasn’t just an excuse. I really would like to see you throw. And – well, I could do with something that gets me out of my head.”
I felt for him. He was a nice guy, and he’d fallen for a great girl, and all of a sudden his life was full of complications he’d never bargained for. If kicking around a pottery studio would help him clear his mind, I was happy to help. So I said, “Then you are more than welcome. Come on, let’s take care of this mess before we go make another one.”
He washed; I dried and put away. Fifteen minutes later, we were headed across the yard. It had grown substantially warmer, and I knew the studio would be warmer still. I had my fleece off before I even pulled the door open. Anticipating a warm day of packing and stacking, I’d opted for a low-cut, ribbed tank top, shorts and sneakers with ankle socks.
Jacob’s hoodie joined my fleece on the hook by the door. “Wow – What great space!” he enthused. “Show me around?”
So I showed off all of it. The wheel was located right in front of the big doors, and I had installed strategically placed windows and a skylight to maximize natural light. The kilns, and the materials storage, and the pug-mill where I recycle my scrap clay, are all in the rear. The hand-building area under the windows on the side of the building, along with my wedging tables. We finished with the area where I was storing wares – both my finished wares and the bisque ware that I was going to take to Pittsburg.
“I know a million people must have told you this, but your work is amazing . . . just amazing. I love your glaze work, but . . . the wood-fired pieces are beyond good.”
It’s the rare artist or craftsman that doesn’t like praise for their efforts – especially when it comes from someone who seems to have some idea of what they’re talking about. “Thank you. That’s very kind. I’m getting there – but it’s a journey.” Leading him back over to the center of the studio, I asked, “so, what would you like me to do?”
“I’d love to see you do a pitcher – one of your tall, slender ones. Mom was more into short forms.”
“Done, then!” I grabbed an apron – my work aprons are thin, utilitarian, and easy to wash, and went over to get some clay. “Porcelain? Stoneware?”
“Do you have a preference?”
I shrugged. “There are pluses and minuses to each. But I tend to prefer porcelain for the train kiln – I get incredible color from the clay body when it reacts to all of the wood ash.”
“Like the piece on your mantle?” he asked.
“Right – that was done in Continental Porcelain.”
“How about that, then?”
“You got it,” I said. I cut some clay, softened and shaped it briefly, attached a throwing bat to the wheelhead and threw the clay in the center. Wet the sponge . . . wet the clay . . . cone up . . . compress . . . again . . . open . . . pull . . . . Before long, I was lost in my work, the clay singing through my fingers, the cylinder rising through quick, steady pulls, higher and higher . . . returning to the base, where the clay was, pulling it up into the walls . . . extending my senses, acutely aware of the world between my fingers . . . I detected the clay coming off center and paused, working with rigid rib and sponge to slowly bring it back.
Almost without thought, I ribbed out the shoulder, collared in the top, and made certain that the rim was level and sturdy before stopping the wheel and forming the spout by hand. I started the wheel again at a slow speed, bent down, and viewed the piece from another angle. It looked right.
I brought the wheel to a stop, and the world came flooding back. I looked up to see that Jacob was sitting on a stool in a patch of sunlight a couple feet away, his handsome features fixed in an expression of deep longing.
“I apologize,” I said. “I kind of zoned there.”
“I know . . . I did ask a question, a while back, but you were pretty much dead to the world.”
I blushed. “I’m so sorry. What was the question?”
“I don’t remember. Wasn’t important. I wish . . . . I wish I could be wherever you were, just now. You looked . . . .” He stopped, embarrassed.
My blush deepened. I couldn’t think of anything to say. A million quips, but none seemed appropriate, somehow. The morning sun caught every dust particle in the air, filling the light that surrounded him with golden glitter.
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER FIVE
The silence stretched, stretched some more. Grew awkward. Finally, Jacob said, “I haven’t tried throwing since I was a kid. Watching you just now, I thought maybe I should have kept at it.”
I stood, happy that the tension had been broken. “Try it; see what you remember.”
“It’s been fifteen, sixteen years, easy.” He shook his head. “I don’t remember the first thing about it.”
I grabbed him an apron and cut a chunk of clay, maybe two pounds. I softened it, shaped it, and handed it to him. “Worst thing that happens, I have to run this through the pug mill with the rest of my scrap. Go ahead!”
He took the clay, looking dubious, as I pulled my pitcher and its bat off the wheel. Taking a seat on the stool in front of the wheel, he carefully placed the clay on the wheelhead, trying to get it as close to the center as he could.
I squatted on the other side of the wheel. “It’s more important that the clay adhere properly. Try picking it back up, and slam it down as close to the center as you can manage.”
He looked at me, nodded, and did what I’d suggested. Without prompting, he went around the edge of the clay with his thumb, tightening the seal. Then he got the clay wet, got the wheel going, and put his hands on either side of the clay. He did a good job coning up, then used his right hand to push the cone from the top into the mold formed by his left hand.
“Really anchor that left elbow so you don’t get any wobble or movement,” I instructed. “And press the base of your left hand firmly on the wheelhead. How does it feel?”
He watched the clay spin, feeling it move through his hands. “Not . . . not centered yet.”
“Right. Cone up and compress again.”
He did that, then looked at me.
“Don’t look at me,” I admonished. “In fact, don’t look at anything. Close your eyes. Feel the clay. Trust what your body tells you. Is it centered?”
He closed his eyes, extending his other senses to compensate. He was still for a minute, maybe two, and the tension in his features eased. He looked . . . younger, somehow. “It’s centered,” he said, opening his eyes again.
I smiled. “Excellent. Do you remember how to open the form?”
He shook his head. “I don’t.”
“No worries. Bring both hands to the top, letting your palms and fingers curl over the sides, with the thumbs right above the middle. Okay?”
My instructions had been a bit hard to follow; instinctively, I came behind him, reached around and helped place his hands in the correct position. “Like that.”
“Yup – got it.”
“Okay, bring even pressure with both thumbs – drive down the center of the clay, until you’re close to the bottom, but not all the way through. Then, pull your thumbs horizontally, opening the space, while your hands keep the exterior of the disk on center.”
I walked him through, step-by-step, until he had a short cylinder, maybe four inches tall. Then I had him rib it out into a shallow bowl and fix his rim.
“Feels like a bit too much clay at the base,” he said, feeling it.
I gave his shoulders a light squeeze. “There is, and you would fix that at the trim stage if you finished the piece. But your clay’s getting soft, and if you keep going now, you’ll wreck what you’ve done. And believe me: what you’ve done is pretty remarkable, given how long it’s been since you touched clay.”
He straightened his back. “Ouch! I see why you do yoga!”
“Want to do another, to lock it in?” I asked.
“No need.” He stood. “I didn’t really appreciate it when I was a kid – wasn’t much for sitting still! But I’m a different person, these days. I’d love to take lessons again.”
“Bound to be places near you,” I said.
“Oh, yeah. Really more a matter of time than place. I’ve got a lot more going on than I did a year ago.”
“I hear ya,” I said. “Kara said you work for the Park Service?”
“Forest Service, actually. It’s a good gig, for me – Pennsylvania’s portion of the Appalachian Trail is literally my duty station. It’s a full-time job and I love it. But Brea’s kind of a full-time job too. Well, not job. But you know what I mean.”
“I do, I do! Kara’s my full-time job as well – and I wouldn’t have it any other way.” I wired his piece off the wheel, put it on a ware board, and moved both pieces to my drying area, where I covered them loosely with plastic. “Though . . . when I’m working, I kind of forget everything else. As you just saw.”
He grabbed a sponge and started cleaning the wheel. “I tend to lose track of time in the woods, as well . . . though I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever been as much in the moment as you were when you were throwing.”
“If there’s ever a fire in here, I’ll probably be the last to know,” I said, echoing Kara.
“Will you do a handle for the pitcher?” he asked.
“Maybe an hour before I’m ready to trim, when the pot’s leather hard. If I left it uncovered, it’d be ready to trim tomorrow, but with the plastic on it’ll wait ’til I’m back from Pittsburg.”
He chuckled. “‘Pot.’ That sure brings me back. Mugs, cups, casserole dishes – they were all ‘pots’ to mom.”
“Well, she’s a ‘potter.’ Potters make ‘pots.’ It’s what we do.”
“Was, in her case. But yeah, that’s pretty much what she told me, too.” He finished his cleaning, rinsed his hands and dried them on a towel. “Okay, boss. Let’s get your loading done.”
We went to the back of the studio and got my bins and packing materials, then started carefully wrapping the bisqueware and putting it into bins, making use of paper mache “peanuts” and newspaper to further protect each piece.
After we’d been at it a while, I pulled the trailer around and we started loading up the bins as they were filled, the better to clear space. We worked in companionable silence. I’m not used to company while I work, and silence seemed to flow from Jacob naturally.
I was at least sufficiently aware that I was not alone that I kept track of the time and made sure we broke for lunch around 1:00. Back in the kitchen, I cut up some chicken, apple, and walnuts and mixed them into a salad with lettuce and blue cheese.
As we sat down, Jacob said, “Kez . . . can I ask you a personal question?”
“Go for it – though I don’t promise I’ll answer!”
“When I saw you this morning, I thought you maybe just liked wearing womens’ things. But I’ve spent more time with you, and I’m thinking, maybe you’re trans . . . It doesn’t bother me, one way or another, but I don’t want to inadvertently say something that would offend you.”
“I’m not all that easy to offend,” I answered. “And I don’t have a good answer to your question. Which is weird itself, right? Sometimes I feel very feminine; sometimes not so much. I don’t feel especially masculine ever, though I can still pass for male. What does all that make me? People are coming up with new labels all the time, trying to capture variations. Transwoman; transfeminine, demigirl, non-binary. I’m not sure which is the best fit for who I am. Maybe ‘gender fluid.’”
He looked at me sympathetically. “Do you use ‘he,’ ‘she,’ ‘they’? Something else?”
I shrugged. “Any and all of them, at one time or another. I know it’s a matter of respect for a lot of people in my position, and I get that. I do. But I’ll be honest with you – it’s not something I get worked up about, personally. I think of myself as ‘Kez,’ and I answer to just about anything, long as the speaker’s being polite. Or trying to be, anyways.”
“Unusual name, ‘Keziah.’ Sounds kind of Old Testament?”
I laughed. “Oh, it is – not that my parents knew that when they picked it. I think Mom heard it somewhere and liked how it sounded, and Dad probably thought it was righteous or some such. Neither of ’em ever gave a single thought to religion in their lives, far as I know – which no doubt made my life a lot easier. Anyhow – ironically enough, given how I turned out – ‘Keziah’ was a girl’s name. One of the daughters of Job – the ones he got after God iced his first family. It means, ‘restored to the heart of God.’”
He smiled. “Well, it’s a good name for you. When you were lost in your throwing, I could easily imagine you being in the heart of God.”
I felt my blush coming back. “Ummm . . . wow! I mean, I know I space out. But I’ve honestly got no idea what I look like when I’m throwing. Apart from muddy. For all I know, I drool.”
Jacob caught my discomfort and went with my change in tone. “Not that I noticed, anyway, but I certainly might have missed it.”
We finished our lunch, cleaned up, and went back to work.
It was probably 3:30 when my cell phone rang and I paused to take the call. “Janey! Everything looking good?”
Janey’s voice – raspy after four decades of smoking a pack a day, until a cancer scare made her stop – was unmistakable. “More’r less, as usual. The kiln’s good to go, the weather looks nice – though we’re going to need to factor in a high pressure system. But Darla, Shep and Charlie had to cancel. Shep caught COVID, Darla’s taking care of him, and Charlie’s taking care of her. You know how it is.”
I did. Our household had gone through our own bout of COVID – mercifully, after we’d both been vaccinated. It had not been a terribly productive ten days. “Ouch – how much were they in for?”
“About as much as you, between the three of them,” she responded.
My mind raced through the possibilities. “No way someone can pick up their stuff?”
“I got no one I can send to Mississauga on short notice. Jem went and broke his leg two days ago, when he was bringing in new shelves.”
“Shite,” I said. “Look, Janey, you know we’re going to need some more wares. Nothing will come out right if we’ve got that much dead space.”
She cackled. “Teach your granny to suck eggs, why dontcha? I know all that! I talked to Debbie down at NHTI. She’s got some students who’ve got pieces ready to go. They weren’t planning to wood fire ’em, but they’re all cone 11 clays so they’ll do in a pinch. At least the kiln won’t be empty. You got any extras you can bring?”
I laughed. “Well, there’s the monster, of course. But other than that, I’m already bringing everything that’s appropriate for the train.”
“Hell, yes, bring the monster! Its time might finally have come!”
“Okay, I’ll load it up. But . . . Janey, we’re going to be down four experienced workers, too. Are the students going to stay to fire?”
“Two of ’em will, and that’ll help, though they’ve got zippo experience. But yeah, we’ll have to completely change the schedule. I’m gonna need to lean on you even more’n usual.”
“Hundred percent, far as that goes. I’ll be there by 3:30 or 4:00, okay?”
“Perfect. See ya then, Kez!”
I hung up.
“That didn’t sound like good news,” Jacob commented.
“It’s always something. No matter how much you plan, something happens. Janey’s always able to roll with it. But I do have to figure out how to transport that monster.” I pointed to a corner of the pot storage area, where a large and somewhat dusty piece of bisqueware was propped against both walls.
“What is that?” he asked.
“An exercise in vanity,” I laughed. “It’s a replica of an amphora – what the Phonecians and Greeks used to ship things like wine and olive oil – don’t ask me why. I did it just to see if I could. Had to throw it in three pieces and put them all together. It’d be awesome if I could fire it in the front of a train kiln, or maybe in an anagama, so that it could get a good coating of wood ash. With the clay body I used, it’d look like something Ballard pulled up from the bottom of the Black Sea.”
I looked at it wistfully, seeing the finished product in my mind’s eye, as I had so many times before. Then I shook my head. “But, it’d take up a huge amount of prime space. Back when I made it, I wasn’t thinking about things like that.”
In the end, we wrapped the entire thing in multiple layers of bubble wrap, then placed it in a plastic trash bin that was filled with the paper mache popcorn. Then we put the trash bin in a corner of the trailer and lashed it firmly in place.
In his quiet and unobtrusive way, Jacob was a lot of help in the packing and loading process. Between the two of us, we were done by 4:00.
I pulled the hair that had escaped my ponytail out of my sweaty face. “Miller time, Jacob!”
He laughed. “Tell me you’ve got something better than that!”
“We do – though I’ll confess, I’ve got the Miller, too, and I’ll have one. It’s almost completely water, and right now, that’s just what my body needs.”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” he conceded. “Though, I think I’ll have the water by itself, and save my alcohol ration for something worth drinking!”
“Suit yourself,” I said. We walked back toward the house. “I’ll want to shower before the girls get home.”
“Me too.” He took a few more steps, then said, a bit shyly, “Any thoughts on how to keep the two of them from going crazy before we leave them to their own devices?”
I shook my head. “I honestly don’t have much experience with this. Before now, they’d always gone away somewhere. So I didn’t have to deal with Brea feeling jealous about me and Kara. Or Kara feeling jealous about Brea and someone else.”
“Maybe I could just have a headache tonight. Chalk it up to a hard day’s work.” He sounded half serious.
“I get where you’re coming from . . . but honestly, I wouldn’t. If Brea’s the girl for you, don’t back down, and don’t let my lovely wife’s occasional dagger looks worry you. She knows she’s misbehaving. And honestly, I think she’s trying. I think they’re both trying.”
“So . . . what’s your plan for the evening?” he asked.
“Me? Look, I’ll never match Brea in the looks department. Never! She’s – well, you know. She’s a fine looking woman! But that doesn’t mean I have to go all male. I think – if it won’t bother you, that is – I’ll go for being a perfect hostess. How’s that?”
He laughed. “You must make life interesting for Kara!”
“Oh, I do! And I think she likes that – the unpredictability.”
“Then – if you don’t mind! – I think I’ll look suitably dashing and play the man card to the hilt.” He grinned.
“That’s the spirit, Jacob,” I giggled. “Give your girl something to think about!”
.
.
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CHAPTER SIX
Kara called a bit before six, clearly from her car phone. “Hey, Kez! We’re on our way back. If you guys are beat, we can pick something up on the way home.”
“No worries, Kara. Jacob was a big help, we got done early, and I’ve got everything under control. The wine is decanting, the pork chops are marinating, and the potatoes are ready to go in. Everything should be done about ten minutes after you get here.”
“You’re amazing!”
“Ain’t I though?” I answered, letting her hear my smile. “See you in a few.”
“Please tell me there’s something I can do to help, here,” Jacob said.
He had changed into some jeans that fit him snugly in the rear end, a pair of well-worn Tecovas and a tailored dress shirt designed to be worn untucked. His sleeves were rolled up to just below his elbows, and he’d left the top two buttons unbuttoned, showing off just a hint of a curly chest hair. It was a good look for him, and should definitely draw Brea’s attention!
I grinned. “Please tell me that a manly man like yourself knows his way around the grill!”
He picked up my mood and ran it down the field like a football. “I’ll have you know, young lady, that I’m the Baron of the Barbeque, King of the Grill, and Emperor of all charred and meaty things!”
“Well, then, kick the tires and light the fires! The girls’ll be here in about half and hour, and I figured you could throw the chops on when their tires hit the gravel.”
He threw me an ironic salute and went out to the patio to do guy things with the Webber.
I buzzed around the kitchen, a lacy apron over my pastel yellow cocktail-length dress. Its halter-style top actually looked surprisingly good despite my flat chest, so I didn’t bother with padding. The view from the other side was – if I do say so myself – very satisfactory. I have a narrow waist and a nice back, and the dress provided an unobstructed view of my relatively slender shoulders and fine bones. Being an ectomorph was definitely a plus when I wanted to present as female.
One of the advantages of being a potter is that we eat on some pretty nice stuff. I pulled out dishes I had fired in a salt-soda reduction kiln and set the outdoor table, taking advantage of the beautiful weather. The wine was decanting in one of my pitchers; another held ice water with slices of cucumber. The drinking vessels – cups for the wine; larger pieces for the water – were all unique, but clearly the same clay, same touch of glaze, same kiln and same firing. It made for a table setting like no other.
I put all the lights – indoor and out – on a low-ish setting and put lantern-style candles on the table and the patio wall.
Jacob, fussing with his coals, looked up and smiled. “You look lovely, Kez. The hostess with the mostest!”
I was in full girly mode, so I blew him a kiss and buzzed back inside. As I did, I heard the crunch of gravel. I poked my head back through the slider and said, “Showtime, Jacob!”
I hung up my apron, checked my lipstick, and went to the door with cups of wine already poured.
Brea came in first and did a double take. “Kez! Jesus!”
I leaned in, bussed her cheek, and handed her a cup. “Welcome back, honey! You can drop your bag here. Your guy’s out on the patio seeing to the chops.”
“I . . . uh . . .” She shot Kara a bewildered look, and took a sip of wine while she got her bearings. “Thanks, sweetie. I’ll go see how he’s doing.” She went into the kitchen.
Kara was giving me a knowing look. She giggled. “Honey? Oh, you are a devil, Keziah Brown!”
I batted my eyes – eyes made luminous by various and sundry expensive cosmetic products – and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Miss Kara!”
She took the wine cup, set it firmly on the table by the door, and gave me the kind of kiss I could feel to my painted toenails (which were nicely displayed by my strappy white sandals). “Miss me?” she growled, once she had finished power-washing my tonsils.
“Always,” I responded. Softly. Gently.
Sincerely.
She reached up and rested her palm against my cheek. “You okay?”
“Never better.”
She looked into my eyes as if she were searching my soul for any sign of hurt. Finally she sighed. “I love you so very much.”
“I know.” I smiled. “Now grab your wine, and let’s go be social. And try not to throw darts at Jacob, okay? This isn’t any easier on him than it is on you.”
“Yes, dear,” she said meekly. “I’ll be good – really.”
Out on the patio, Brea was half-perched on the sitting wall, chatting with Jacob in an animated fashion, apparently describing the wonders of Burlington. Don’t get me wrong, it’s my home city and I’m proud of it. But I also don’t have illusions.
Dinner was wonderful. Jacob had not oversold his prowess at the grill, and – while there were plenty of micro-tensions that wove through the conversation – it was clear to me that everyone was on their best behavior. As a sign of which, I noticed that there was no need to open a second bottle of wine. Apparently, no one wanted to test what might be said with a bit of alcoholic lubrication.
“What’s the plan for tomorrow?” Jacob asked.
Kara looked at me, so I said, “I need to leave just after lunch. Everything’s packed, so I just turn the key and go. I’ve got no plans for the morning. Though, there’s a nice, short hike if people are interested.”
Jacob said, “I might be game. I just plan to buzz around and see the area some, so I can leave whenever.”
“Didn’t you make hotel reservations?” Kara asked.
He smiled. “I’m a ranger, remember? Tent and sleeping bag are in the car.”
She shook her head. “I can see the appeal . . . the freedom. But, ah . . . I like my morning showers!”
“Not to mention, a bed that doesn’t include rocks!” Brea shivered in horror.
“I do try not to put the tent down on rocks,” Jacob said solemnly. But his eyes were laughing.
Kara looked around the group and said, “Why don’t we just play it by ear in the morning, then. See what we feel like.”
“Sounds like a plan, lov . . . .” Brea stopped herself. She blushed, and finished, a bit more brightly than called for, “See you all in the morning!”
Jacob was saying something to Kara, so I followed Brea inside and closed the slider. “Hey Brea?”
She looked back at me, wary.
“I just wanted to thank you for trying so hard to make this work. I know it hasn’t been easy for you. Either of you.”
She was clearly surprised. Her expression eased, and she touched my shoulder. “Thanks, Kez. I’m sure it’s been hard on you, too. And thanks for a great evening.”
I smiled, warm and sincere. Truth is, she’s very hard not to like, and I’d always admired her. “Good night, Brea.”
Her eyes regained their usual twinkle, and she gave my appearance a last look. “Good night – Sweetie!”
We giggled – a rare moment of harmony – and she went off to bed.
I put my apron back on and went back out to clear the table.
Jacob moved to help, but I stopped him. “You gave me a full day’s work, Mister. Don’t worry about this.” He opened his mouth to say something, but I gave him a look, and moved my head and my eyes to indicate that he ought to follow Brea.
The light dawned, and he changed what he was going to say to, “If you’re sure?”
Smart man! “Absolutely. Go on!”
He went inside.
Kara was watching me, a sardonic smile on her face. “Got them all settled, do you?”
I walked over slowly – the patio’s pavers were, I learned, a bit of a navigation hazard with the heels of my sandals – and put my lower arms around her torso loosely, elbows at my sides. I dropped my head to her shoulder and closed my eyes. “Go easy on me, love. I’m doing the best I can.”
Her arms wrapped around me in bands of steel. “I know you are,” she whispered fiercely. “And I love you for it. Please don’t think I was criticizing.”
I found myself feeling strangely emotional; the events of the day just seemed to catch me all at once. The tensions . . . and the moments of quiet. I had a sudden vision of Jacob’s face, limned by a cloud of golden light . . . . I clutched Kara more closely.
“Hey! Hey! Are you okay, Dreamboat? It’s okay, babe.” Her voice was gentle. Insistent.
“Just . . . just a long day, that’s all.”
“And it’s enough, too! Listen: I want you to go and take a bath – a nice, calming bubble bath – and leave the clean-up to me. I’ll be there in a few to check up on you, okay?”
I was batting back tears, and I didn’t even know why. Normally, I’d insist on helping, but the idea of just collapsing was too seductive to resist. “Okay, love. Sorry.”
“Don’t you be sorry! Besides; you cooked. I’ve got this.”
I went back to our bedroom, feeling uncharacteristically wobbly on my heels. What is the matter with me? When I got inside, I got the bath started, then sat on the toilet with the seat down, just staring at the tub as the water rose and the bubbles formed.
It was a great day. A great evening, too. What’s come over me? I couldn’t reason my way to it. But when Kara had seemed to fault me for sending Jacob off to be with Brea, some sort of damn had broken inside. It’s not about you, Kez, I told myself.
But this time, a voice in my head talked back. Oh yeah? Why ISN’T it about me?
I had no answer to that, and no energy to find one. I slipped out of my nice dress and just let it fall to the tile. Panties and shoes followed. I put my hair, which I’d worn loose, into a cap, and stepped into the tub.
I woke sometime later to find Kara dressed for bed, perched on the side of the tub, holding a towel. I shook my head to clear it. “I must have dozed off . . . .”
She smiled softly. “I know. You looked so peaceful in there, I didn’t want to bother you. But it’s time for sleep. Preferably someplace where you won’t drown.”
“How long . . . ?”
She shook her head. “Doesn’t matter. The dishes are done, the kitchen’s clean, your pretty dress and shoes and back in the closet, and I want you in my bed. Clear?”
“Well, if you put it that way . . . .”
“I do.” She transferred the towel to an arm and held out a hand. “Come on, let me help you out.”
I did feel a bit unsteady, so I was happy for the help. I set the tub to drain and stepped out onto the bath mat, taking the towel Kara had offered. She disappeared back into the bedroom, returning when I was dry with a clean cotton full-length nightgown in snowy white.
“Thanks . . . I really don’t know what hit me.” I pulled the nightgown over my head and pushed my arms through the three-quarter length sleeves.
She kissed my forehead gently. “Kez, honey . . . it’s a lot. For all of us. You’ve just been doing your usual thing, and worrying about everyone but yourself. There’s a price tag for that, and it looks like payment just came due.”
“I’ve got to be functional tomorrow,” I said, suddenly worried. “I can’t be, like, spaced out or something!”
“You’ll be fine, Honey. Honest. You just need some good rest, and I’m going to make sure you get it. Now, take off your makeup, moisturize, and brush your teeth.”
“Yes, Mom,” I said, ruefully.
“Long as you do what I say, I’ll take it,” she growled.
I did, and when I was finished I went into the bedroom to find Kara waiting for me. She had me sit on the ottoman at the foot of the bed, then she started brushing out my hair. Her strokes were long and even, soothing. She took her time about it, getting the undersides as well.
Finally she put down the brush, put her hands on my shoulders, and kissed me on the side of my neck. “I love you, Keziah Brown. You are my sunrise and my sunset. My always and forever. Now, come and get a snuggle.”
So I did. “Always and forever, Kara.”
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER SEVEN
Kara managed to slip out the next morning without waking me, and I slept until she brought me coffee. “Feeling better?”
I worked the sleep from my eyes and sat up. “Ask me when I wake up.”
She smiled and handed me the coffee. Strong and sweet.
Like my woman.
After a long pull, I set the mug down. Brown stoneware. Feldspar Glaze. Franconia Noborigama firing, spring, 2018. “Much better. Thanks.” I looked out the window at the streaming sunlight. “After 8:00?”
“8:30,” she said. “I’ve got breakfast just about ready. Bagels and fruit.”
I closed my eyes, gathering my thoughts. “Boy, I guess I needed the sleep. Everything okay out there?”
“No one’s been killed in your absence.” She perched on the edge of the bed. “Relax, already. Brea’s just getting a shower now. Jacob and I had a nice chat out on the patio, and I managed not to get blood anywhere.”
I opened my eyes and smiled. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to sound like a mother hen. Give me five minutes and I’ll be good to go.”
She didn’t seem to be in any hurry to leave. “Jacob told me about your call with Janey.”
I waved the problem away. “Shit always happens. We’ll make it work.”
She chewed on her lower lip, looking uncharacteristically indecisive.
I had some more coffee. Sooner or later, Kara would tell me what she was thinking. She is constitutionally incapable of holding back.
“Jacob really enjoyed the pottery yesterday,” she said, apparently resolving her internal conflict.
“Seemed to,” I agreed.
“I get the sense – nothing he said directly – that he’d much rather go off to the firing than whatever bumming around he was planning to do for the rest of the week. And you’ll be short-handed, right?”
I sighed. “We will be, probably. Mostly short of experience, and Jacob can’t help there. But . . . we’re going to be short on warm bodies, too. The schedule was already pretty tight.” I took another swallow of coffee, thinking.
Kara knows when to stay silent too.
“You think I should ask him?”
She nodded, slowly. “If you think he’d be helpful, then, yes, absolutely. I’m almost positive he’d welcome the offer. But if it would just be more work for you, that’s a different matter.”
I shook my head. “No, he’s a good worker. Focused. Has a good feel for handling delicate material, and not everyone does. Also . . . he’s good about not talking all the time.”
She giggled. “Introvert!”
“It’s not a dirty word, you know!”
“Did I say it was?” She put on an innocent look, though I’m not sure who would be deceived by it. “Would I ever imply such a thing?”
I snorted. “All right, woman! I’m recovered – thank you for the sleep and its antidote! – and I’ll think about it. Now, give me five minutes and I’ll be ready for whatever.”
She patted my knee and rose gracefully. “Sure thing, Dreamboat!” Her stride to the door might best be described as an insouciant saunter. She excelled at many things, but sauntering in all its forms was an area of particular expertise.
I rolled out of bed, did my business, then hung my nightgown on a hook. Today I was dialing up to a solid five – just the unisex outfit of mid-length shorts, a nondescript t-shirt from a national park we’d visited years ago, and sneakers. For now, my hair went back into a ponytail. I washed my face, but otherwise left it alone.
Kara had the breakfast set up by the time I got out, and everyone was up and ready to eat – even Breanna, who looked – as usual – fresh, alive, and exuberant in a pair of white capris and a silky sleeveless top in a lovely shade of coral.
We dug in. Toasted bagels, cream cheese, Nova lox, capers, as well as grapes, more of our fresh and excellent strawberries, and slices of pear. More coffee. Tea for Brea. Everyone was hungry, as the conversation didn’t get going for a good five minutes after we’d sat down.
“Kez, how long was that hike you mentioned?” Jacob asked.
“There’s an easy loop that takes about an hour or so, and a longer one that I certainly won’t have time for today, though it’s a really pretty hike.”
“What’s on the loop trail?” Brea asked.
“Trees,” Kara said. “There’s about a half a mile where you get up high enough to see the lake, though, and it’s a pretty view.”
Jacob’s expression was priceless.
I couldn’t help but laugh. “‘ Trees,’ Kara? Seriously?” Turning to Jacob, I augmented her description. “A fair bit of the red oak, hemlock, plenty of ash, sugar maple, some swamp maple, a few impressive, mature stands of birch. Not a lot of pine, but there’s some. The undergrowth is mostly ferns. Well – and saplings, of course.”
He smiled in response. “Better, thanks! If you’ve got time for a little hike, I’d love to see it.”
To my surprise, Brea wanted to see it as well, and I think Kara decided to come along because she didn’t feel like being left behind. Kara and Brea both changed into t-shirts, I grabbed my ready bag and we piled in the car.
The trail starts on the flat for about a quarter mile before a series of switchbacks brings you higher onto the hillside. Brea and Kara were chatting about something up ahead (well, Brea was chatting, and Kara was interjecting, sometimes explosively), but I hung back and watched Jacob in his natural habitat, so to speak. He seemed very aware of his surroundings, his eyes sweeping back and forth and up and down. He had a purposeful stride, but would pause to examine more closely anything he found interesting.
He was also silent. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t talking; he even moved quietly.
He stopped, a look of delight on his face, and wordlessly pointed to a nest high in a stately sugar maple, where a red-tailed hawk followed our movements with fierce concentration. A few dozen yards later, he bent to examine mushrooms growing at the base of a hemlock tree, then moved on, saying nothing. The girls would start to open up some distance as he paused to examine something, but once on the move he quickly and quietly closed the distance.
We hit the first switchback and Kara stopped to retie her shoe, causing Brea to stop as well. Brea smiled at Jacob as he glided up. “So, what do you think?”
“Lovely.” He smiled back. “You keep talking, girl – it’ll keep the bears away.”
She swatted him. “Nice!”
He chuckled, but said, “I’m serious, Brea. Clear tracks by the stream we crossed back there. Momma and two cubs. They’re shy creatures, mostly. Let ’em know you’re coming, and they won’t be there when you show up.”
Brea looked impressed despite herself. “What kind of bear?”
Kara leaned in close and stage whispered, “The hungry kind!”
Everyone laughed.
“Black bear around here, I imagine,” Jacob said, looking to me for confirmation. I think he’d kind of written off Kara’s relevant expertise when she’d said “trees.” Not that he was wrong.
“Yeah, black bear almost certainly,” I confirmed. “We see them near the farm, too, now’n then.”
“Well, I assume it’s safe anyway,” Brea said. “But if you spot any lions and tigers, you sing out, okay?”
“I always do, don’t I?” Jacob asked, deadpan.
“You never have,” she countered.
“Only because I’ve never seen them. That just proves that I’m very discriminating.”
Brea hopped over, gave him a quick peck, and said, “I’ll go back to talking then!”
“Good plan,” he said gravely.
We continued along the same way, with Kara and Brea ahead, Jacob ranging behind. I followed Jacob, trying to see the forest through his eyes. We were getting close to the break in the trees that provides the outstanding views of Lake Champlain when he stopped, did a double take, and walked ten yards or so off the trail. A tall ash tree stood alone, and Jacob examined it closely, checking both the leaves and the bark.
He looked my way and said, “do you have anything in your bag I could use to mark this tree? I want to call it in when we get back.”
“Uhh, sure. I think? I’ve got a bandana . . . ah . . . I’ve got a couple red straps, too.”
“Straps? Those’ll work, if you can spare them.”
I fished them out. “Yeah, so long as no one needs a splint or something.”
He gave me an approving look. “I like how you think.” Using both straps, he tied a loop around the trunk of the tree. He grabbed his phone, took a picture, and also checked how far he had traveled.
“What’s the problem?”
He brought me in closer. “See these little D-shaped holes in the bark? You can see them in some of the branches too. It’s a marker for the Emerald Ash Borer. Invasive species from Asia; it’ll probably wipe out all of the North American Ash variants within a generation.”
“Is it significant that it’s here?”
He put a hand on my back and started guiding us back to the trail; I could barely still hear Brea. “Might be; I don’t know,” he replied. “They’ve devastated the local ash in Michigan and Ontario, and they’ve definitely been spreading. We absolutely keep tabs on it.”
We picked up the pace and came to the clearing. Kara and Brea were a ways ahead, at the best lookout point, arms around each other’s waists. Kara turned to look our way, and I waved reassurance that we were coming. “Jacob, while I’ve got you . . . Kara suggested I should ask if you’d like to join me for the wood firing. I don’t know what you’ve got planned, so don’t hesitate to say ‘no.’ But you’d certainly be welcome, and there is – God knows – plenty of work to do.”
He shifted his gaze from the girls to give me a careful look. “I’d be very interested. But it’s your community and I don’t want to intrude. Do you want me there?”
His question made me realize that I’d elided that point – maybe intentionally – in how I’d worded the offer. Why did I do that?
I couldn’t think of a reason. “Yes. I would enjoy your company.”
He smiled. “Then I’m your man! I don’t need any special gear, do I?”
I looked at his footwear. “Your hiking boots are more than fine, and Janey’ll supply the welding gloves. You’ve already got a tent and sleeping bag packed. You’re all set.”
“Great! I’ll be honest, I really wasn’t sure what I was going to do with myself, and I’d much rather keep busy.” He moved purposefully to where the women were waiting.
“You brought some water didn’t you?” Kara asked when we reached them.
I shook my head sorrowfully. “How many hikes have we been on?”
“Heaps! Always in trees!” She made a face and stuck her tongue out at me.
“Have I ever failed to bring a canteen?”
“Well, no. But it seemed rude to just assume.”
I pulled the water from my backpack and handed it to her. “Anything for you, girl.”
She drank and handed it off to Brea.
“Damn – it’s even cold!” Brea enthused. She passed the water to Jacob, who drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and passed it back to me.
I took a swallow and preserved what was left. You never knew.
We stood a while taking in the truly glorious prospect before us. We have a good view of the lake from our patio, but Champlain is truly enormous, and you need some elevation to really appreciate its size. It might not be a “great” lake, but it’s a pretty damned good one!
We stayed closer together on the way down, and Jacob was more willing to break his silence for Brea’s sake, pointing out an unusual species of fern, an isolated Poplar, or evidence of where a family of deer had nestled down for the night. His knowledge of the woods was deep, but his love of them was deeper still.
As we hit the flats, the girls lagged behind and the stillness seeped back into him. It was something we had in common, he and I, like a language we shared.
As we recrossed the stream where he had seen the bear tracks, I asked, “Did you learn silence from the woods? Or is your natural silence what draws you to them?”
He looked at me sideways. “Interesting question.”
We kept walking, the quiet between us a peaceful thing, without tension. It wasn’t until we’d come through the trees and the car was in sight that he responded, just as if the fifteen minutes that had passed were unimportant to the conversation. Or, maybe, were an essential part of it.
“Do you shape the clay, or does it shape you?”
.
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Once we were all back under the same roof, the tensions inherent in our circumstance returned and chafed. There was a growing electricity in Kara and Brea’s interactions, a powerful frisson that was impossible to ignore. You could hear it when they spoke to each other, see it in their looks . . . their touches. They were clearly anxious for “their” time, and, while they didn’t exactly kick me and Jacob out, it was apparent that our prompt departure would not distress them. We left just as soon as lunch was finished.
Kara walked me out to the truck. She leaned in through the window when I was behind the wheel, nibbled on my ear, and whispered, “I love you, Kez. I don’t know why you put up with me.” She hopped down off the step bar, smiled and raised her voice to its normal volume. “Have fun – and good luck!”
Brea and Jacob said their goodbyes indoors. I don’t know what truths were spoken, or which were left unsaid. Maybe the things that were said were not true at all. But Jacob looked unsettled – a rare expression on his usually calm face – and I left him to his thoughts.
We drove into Georgia Center to pick up the 105 and headed north. We were almost in Enosberg Falls before either of us said a word.
Jacob was looking out the window as the small town came and went outside the window. Blink, and you might miss it, just like a million other small towns on the backroads of America. “You love her?” he asked.
I gave the question time to percolate, knowing that he was wrestling with demons and needed more than a quick and easy answer. We’d eaten a few miles before I said, “Yes. With all my heart and soul.”
We hit Richford – more 19th Century brick buildings, clustered by the same river that fed Enosberg Falls – passing the turn-off that leads to the border with Quebec, just a mile and a half away. Dense woods quickly blotted the town from view.
“Doesn’t it eat you alive? Knowing what they’re doing, right now? While we’re just . . . just driving away?” His words were seasoned with anguish, but his delivery was curiously detached. Like he was trying to see from a distance.
I drove, the road continuing to flirt with the easy-flowing Missisquoi, negotiating the border between the New England highlands and the broad Canadian plateau to the north.
“It hurts,” I acknowledged. “I wonder, sometimes, why I’m not enough.” I drove on.
He continued surveying the world we traversed. Silent. Knowing, somehow, that I had more to say. Content to wait until I was ready to say it.
“I wonder, sometimes, if she wants me to fight . . . if she thinks less of me, because I don’t.” The road slowly curved, beginning to turn south, and I watched the Missisquoi disappear, dwindling to a distant, silver ribbon in the rear-view mirror.
We approached Carleton Mountain, with Burnt Mountain and North Jay Peak visible to the south. As we passed the parking lot for the Long Trail, Jacob’s face betrayed a longing that echoed what I’d seen in my studio the day before. “Good hiking ’round here, I bet.” Barely a whisper.
“Yeah.”
“Moose?”
“Sometimes.”
The road took more turns, as it picked its way through the Green Mountains like a billy goat finding stepping stones to cross a creek.
“If you fought, would she stop? End . . . things . . . with Brea?” His question was quiet as his eyes sought to penetrate the woods around us.
I thought about it. Weighed my deepest fears in the balance with the certainties on which I had built my life. Afternoon sun caused water on my right to dazzle as the road flirted with another stream. “I wouldn’t have to fight,” I said, finally, knowing it was true. “I just have to say the word.”
We passed through Jay and took a sharp left near the Jay Branch Gorge. Heading north again.
“But you won’t. You won’t say the word.” He made it a statement, not a question.
I answered anyway. I owed him that. “No.”
It was the strangest conversation I’d ever had, shaped as much by the silences between words as it was by the words themselves. Like we were suspended in a bubble, a cosmos with its own rules that the two of us knew instinctively. We alone.
We drove another twenty minutes in silence, until we reached Newport and Lake Memphremagog stretched away to the north, crossing the international border. He looked at the water, sparkling in the mid-afternoon sunlight.
Then he finally looked at me. "If looks could kill, I’d be dead, you’d be dead . . . and, I’ll be honest, Kara would be dead, too. From the looks I’m giving, in her case. But . . . not Brea.”
I kept my eyes on the road, maneuvering around a repair crew complete with yellow vests and signs that warned me to yield. “No. I like Brea. I’ve always liked her.”
“But . . . .” He stopped himself, and returned to silence.
When we were out of town and back in the countryside, I said, “I can’t blame Brea for loving Kara. How could I? Personally, I think it’s impossible not to love Kara.”
He thought about that for a bit as we rumbled on. We crossed Interstate 91. Passed from Vermont into New Hampshire.
“Kez, I’m sorry.” He sounded lost. Bewildered. “I just don’t understand. It’s a wound that won’t heal. Seven years, and you’re still hurting. How can you not say the word?”
“Because she would do it. She wouldn’t argue, or fight, or plead. She would do it because I asked, and it would be like cutting her heart in half with a rusty meat cleaver.”
We were on Route 111 now, headed south. A Vermont highway that happened to be in New Hampshire. Orphaned and out of place.
As we skirted Seymour Lake, he asked, “Is her pain more important than yours?”
“Yes.” That came out without thought, without hesitation.
Behind us, a car flashed its headlights. Once. Twice.
He stared at me, his expression unreadable.
The headlights flashed again, impatient.
Finally he whispered, “Why?”
There was a wide shoulder ahead, and I pulled off to let two cars pass. People in a hurry, with places to go. I took the opportunity to look Jacob in the eye, to be present to his pain. Pain that I could end, maybe, by saying the word I refused say.
“Because I love her. More than art. More than life. I won’t do that to her.”
A tear escaped from his eye, but he didn’t seem to feel it. His left hand clenched his knee in a vice-like grip.
I reached over and touched his hand gently, saw his grip loosen as he became aware of it. Softly, I said, “Jacob? . . . . I’m sorry. Very sorry.”
And I was. Sorry for him, for Kara and Brea, sorry for all of us, caught in a tangle of love and longing. But I knew the location of the Day Star in the firmament of my life, and I would hold true to that.
I don’t know how long we sat there, kindred souls in wordless communication. More cars passed us, rattling the truck as it idled. I understood his pain, felt it in the core of my being. A good man, quiet and grounded, knocked wildly off his bearings by the force of his feelings, like clay on the wheel, thrown off center by a careless hand.
But over time, his expression softened and he looked away, out his window. “I want to learn to love like you do, Kez. I don’t know if my heart is that big.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to that. While I wrestled with it, I got us back on the road and resumed our progress. We crossed the Pherrins River and made a hairpin turn onto Route 114, heading north again. Farms. Streams. Ponds. At Norton the road darted left, as if it had bounced off the invisible border with Quebec. Due east now, we traveled in silence through the borderland.
We came to Canaan. The Promised Land. Milk and honey. Just take it from the people who are living there. Your right, your need, is greater than theirs. Isn’t it?
Isn’t it always?
I turned onto Route 3, which would take us to our destination, leaving Canaan behind. “Jacob . . . I don’t know that my answer is right. I only know it’s right for me.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he said, smiling as a flock of birds rose, startled, from a field on our right. “I don’t know what I’ll say to Brea. And maybe, whatever it is, she won’t accept it.” He wasn’t finished with his thought, but he paused, considering.
I kept us heading north.
“Whether I’m with Brea, or someone else,” he finished, as we pulled off onto the long dirt road that led to Janey’s place, “That’s how I want to live my life. Loving like you do.”
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER NINE
After the quiet intensity of the drive, Janey’s place was a shock to the system. Dogs bounded up and frolicked around the car, leaving me so petrified I’d run one over that I had to come to a full stop and hit my horn.
On the third long honk, Janey could be heard coming down the lane. “Quincy!!!” – she pronounced it, naturally, “KWIN-zy” – “Maddy! Jackson! Here!!! Here, now!!!” The dogs – lab, shepherd, and some type of long-legged mutt – broke off and bounded her direction.
I looked at Jacob. “Tell me that was all of them. Only three, right?”
“Pretty sure,” he said. “Hard to tell, with how they were jumping around.”
“Can you hop out and check? It’s hard to be certain with the trailer. There were at least four, last time I was here. Might’ve been five.”
He flashed me a smile and hopped out, walking toward the rear of the truck.
The sound alerted the watchers, because the shepherd was loping back, ears at full attention.
“Jackson!! Jackson!! Dagnabbit!” Janey emerged from around the bend in the tracks, the other two dogs at her heels.
Jackson streaked past my door and caught Jacob as he came into view in the side mirror. But when the dog reached him, it stopped, looking uncertain.
Jacob was still, but not frozen, holding himself in a loose, ready stance. Rather than make eye contact with the dog, he glanced forward and to the right, unconcerned, as if the dog posed no challenge.
The dog whimpered, unsure of what to make of the human who was not providing the expected fear signals.
“Now, Jackson!” Janey hollered. Sticking two fingers in her mouth, she let out a piercing whistle.
The dog turned, tucked its tail down, and trotted back.
“Crap, I’m sorry about that!” Janey was striding forward, her dirty gray hair as always a riotous bird’s nest, her pale eyes full of fire and her spare frame fence-rail thin.
I hopped down from the cab and gave her a hug. “Damn, woman! Aren’t witches supposed to have cats?”
“Whaddya mean?” She pushed me back to arms’ length. “You sayin’ they aren’t cats? Well, fuck me dead!” She looked over to where Jacob stood, waiting calmly. “C’mon over, son. Once I pass you, you’ll be jake.”
“Janey, this is Jacob Harmon, a . . . well, the connection’s otherwise complicated. He’s my friend. Jacob – Janey Townsend. She might be annoyed if you call her Calamity Jane, but everyone does.”
“Usually once.” Her pale eyes twinkled. “Don’t recall anyone was ever dumb ’nuff to say it twice.”
Jacob smiled. “I’d offer you a hand, but I think you’d better make those other introductions first.”
“Too right,” she said approvingly. “Maddy. Quincy. Jackson.” She snapped her fingers. All three dogs were sitting at attention, looking at her. She reached over and gripped Jacob’s shoulder. “Friend. Friend.”
Six eyes watched. Three tails wagged approval.
She released his arm and snapped her fingers again. “Good dogs!” She pulled some treats from a well-worn pouch on her belt and made appropriate distributions.
When they’d gotten their treats, they circled back to Jacob and gave his legs a thorough sniff.
He ignored them and reached out a hand in greeting. “Good to meet you, Janey – and your Praetorian Guard!”
“Likewise,” she said, her raspy voice still warm. She looked over at me. “Didn’t know you were bringing someone, Kez. The rooms’r all spoken for.”
“Not an issue,” I assured her. “It was a last-minute thing, but Jacob’s going to pitch a tent by me. I thought we could use the extra help, and he knows his way around bisqueware.”
She smiled broadly. “Fantastic! You a potter?”
“No ma’am,” he said. “But my mom was, back when, and I learned some things.”
“Wait . . . your name’s Harmon?” Her eyes narrowed. “Trixie’s boy?”
Jacob looked uncharacteristically confused. “Ah . . . no. My Mom’s . . . .”
She cut him off. “Patricia Butler. I know. I can see her in you, now I know to look. Harmon, when she was married.”
“Yes. I, ah . . . I didn’t know she had a nickname.” He smiled, a bit warily. Janey can be a bit of a stormwind.
Janey positively cackled. “Christ on a cross! Trixie was one of her more socially acceptable nicknames! We met in art school.”
“Small world,” he said.
Janey’s face shifted out of antic mode, seeing something in Jacob’s posture, or maybe catching something in his voice, that alerted her to the potential for shoals. She reached up and gave his arm a squeeze. “Well, you’re welcome three times over – once for Kez here, once for my old buddy, and a final time just for yourself. I know things got tough for your ma. I’d love to hear about her sometime . . . but I understand if you’d rather not.”
Jacob visibly relaxed and laid a hand over hers. “I’d like that . . . . And I’d like to hear some of your stories too, if you’re comfortable ratting her out! But maybe later?”
“Sure thing, Hon.” She turned back to me and said, “I’ll keep this lot back. Go ahead and drive out to the kiln; we’ve got tables under the tent for the wares. I’ll be along in a bit.”
“Sounds good.” I hopped back in the cab and Jacob joined me. Fifty yards down, the road split, with the left fork going to Janey’s home and studio. We went right and down slightly, emerging onto a meadow which held Janey’s primary kilns – an older-style gas kiln and her big train kiln. The area to the left of the train kiln currently housed a large open tent with lots of eight-by-two folding tables, some of which already held an impressive amount of bisqueware. On the other side of the tents were massive, carefully stacked bins of split wood. Our fuel supply.
Jacob helped me unload the trailer, working to put my wares in with the rest, segregated by area of the kiln, and within that, by size. Jacob was even better in his handling than he had been the prior day, and the work went quickly. He was helping me unwrap my monstrous amphorae when Janey rejoined us.
She marveled at it. “Well . . . damn, Kez! I mean, I get it! I do! But . . . what on earth you gonna do with it?”
I pulled myself to my full – and not very impressive – height. “Do with it? Madam, it’s Art! It doesn’t do! It simply is! In all its . . . ah . . . ya know . . . artistic splendor!” I held my pose for maybe three seconds, my face a mask of faux hauteur. I couldn’t make it to four before I cracked up.
Janey laughed uproariously. “Oh, Kez! I really want to see what our dragon here’s gonna do to that thang!”
“Me, too! Been waiting five years! But . . . We’ll see. I know you’re running light, but it’s still a bear’n cubs, and there’s only one place for it.”
She patted my shoulder. “You’re the boss on the load, Kez. I trust you more’n anyone. More’n me, even.”
I smiled my thanks and looked at the tables. “I see lots of Tatiana’s work, yours and Jem’s, Bill Frost’s usual acres of mugs . . . Sug’s sculptural pieces . . . and look at Gary’s covered pots! Wow, he’s improved! The underglaze pieces must be from Janice, and the pitchers are Mike’s. I don’t recognize that series of tall cylinders. Interesting work.”
“Paul Sylvester – that studio in Boston I’ve been trying to lure up here.” She sounded a little wary.
“Huh,” I said. I expected I’d get the story later. “Who’s stuff’s still out?”
“The NHTI kids Debbie’s sending; they should be here by 7:00. Kelly’s in for six k; I expect her any time. I leaned on Travis Morton, and he said he could scrape up three k or so, but he can’t be here ’til the morning. He told me to tell you not to worry, it’s all middle-middle so it’ll load last anyway.”
I nodded, playing a game of high-value Tetris in my mind. “How much from NHTI?”
“Deb wasn’t able to give me hard numbers. Could be three; could be eight.”
I shrugged. “We’ll just have to see. Who’s helping the load?”
“You on the inside; me, Jacob here, Sug, Janice, and Sylvester.”
That sounded good. “And everyone’ll be there for the pow-wow tomorrow night?”
“Yep. All confirmed. Now if you’ll excuse me, I want to finalize the schedule. Tatiana and Sug are both staying up at the house, and they’re working on some food. Should be ready in an hour or so.”
“Perfect. I’ll move the trailer and we’ll get our tents up.”
She waved and walked briskly back toward the house.
Jacob and I pitched our tents in the meadow, about thirty yards from the kiln. I’d had lots of practice, but Jacob’s was up in half the time. It was light-weight, low, and unobtrusive. Mine was taller – ironically, given our relative heights – and I was embarrassed to fill it with a battery-pumped air mattress.
“I’m such a wuss!” I said, as the air pump whirred away.
Jacob had just thrown a small, thin, self-inflating cushion on the floor of his tent. “I’m a ranger, Kez. This is, like, my day job. You have enough trouble keeping limber, doing what you do.”
“Thanks . . . I think!”
While we were setting up, I heard dogs barking again, and Kelly Clifford’s big SUV trundled toward us. She parked by the tent and started to unload her wares.
I waved.
We wrapped up our work, then walked up to the house, pausing to ask Kelly if she was coming up.
She bussed my cheek. “Hey Kez! Nope, I’m staying in town with the lunk this time. I’ll be back tomorrow night for the Pow-Wow, and I think Janey’s gonna want me on door building first shift.”
Up at the house, Tatiana and Sug had made a wonderful fish stew of some sort, and there was fresh bread, and plenty of spring water. We were still eating when the two college students arrived – late – having already eaten on the road. Brice and Tawney (who, name notwithstanding, had dark brown hair). Janey took them down to the unloading area, since she had to get both of them straight with the dogs anyway.
It was a pretty subdued gathering; everyone had worked hard to get things ready and were ready for some sleep. Jacob and I, as the late arrivals, sent the rest off to their beds, washed and dried the dishes, cleaned the kitchen, and headed down.
“Long day,” I said.
Jacob appeared to chew on this pedestrian comment as we strolled down the dirt road. “It’s an interesting life you have.”
I made a noise somewhere between a grunt and a snort.
“Do you like it?”
The moon was up, and the meadow opened up before us. My decadent air mattress beckoned. I shrugged. “Keziah Brown, Potter. It’s who I am. I wouldn’t even begin to know how to be anyone else.”
“But Kara comes before even that?”
I smiled. “Always.”
He touched my shoulder lightly. “Good night, Kez.”
“Good night. And . . . Jacob?”
He turned back to face me.
“Thanks for coming. I’m glad you’re here.”
He smiled and ducked into his tent.
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CHAPTER TEN
I began the day with a personal ritual. I wear my hair fairly long, and that’s not a good thing for working around fire. The sensible thing to do, then, is to put it up somehow. Girls do all sorts of things, from simple braids to up-dos.
However, one of the more experienced potters at my second or third wood firing was a Sikh. On a lark, I asked him to show me how to put my hair in a front knot and wrap a turban over it. It was fun, and the firing had produced some of my first truly professional wood-fired art. So it became something of a good luck totem for me. It had the added advantage of hiding how truly grimy and awful my hair was by the time a firing was finished.
So I stood outside my tent in the morning air, my hair in a coiled braid above my forehead covered by a thin patka, wrapping a gauzy cloth around my head, one end in my mouth.
Jacob was already up and wandering about, but naturally he chose that moment to return. His dark eyebrows went sky high, but he waited until I was done, the cloth no longer in my mouth, to say, “please tell me that’s not a required part of the uniform!”
“Well of course it is,” I said earnestly. “I mean, you wouldn’t want to bring shame upon the craft, or draw the wrath of the kiln gremlins!”
He chuckled, and it bubbled over into a long laugh. “Are all potters crazy?”
“No.” I shook my head emphatically. “I wouldn’t put the percentage any higher than 92. But I wouldn’t guess it’s much lower, either.”
We started the loading at 9:00 sharp. I’d fired with all of them except Paul Sylvester, a spare, intense man with thinning hair and pronounced opinions. Janice Ramsey, in contrast, was pleasantly plump, with apple cheeks, merry eyes and an easy disposition. Her underglazes tended to pop in the firing, producing colors that were unusual for wood-fired work. Sug Sealy was an old friend. We’d taken workshops and classes together years ago and discussed life, art and pottery deep into a lot of nights. Ethereal and willow-thin, she made abstract sculptures and achieved dramatically different results in different parts of the kiln.
“Okay, alla ya,” Janey said with a clap of her hands. “Welcome, in your case,” she smiled at Paul, then Jacob, “and welcome back, everyone else. Here’s how this is gonna work. We’ll load the front first, then the back, then the middle. Same as usual. Like the last two firings, I’m putting Kez on the inside. And let me be clear what that means. Once the pot crosses the kiln wall, I don’t want anyone’s hands on it, other’n Kez. We got space for one person in there, and Kez is the best. Clear?”
Everyone nodded. Nothing unusual, really.
“My pieces and Jem’s are already wadded; the rest’ll have to be done as we go. For now, I want Paul to help me get the pieces to Kez in the right order, and glue the wads on them. Sug and Janice, if you could roll more wads that’d be the biggest help for now. Jacob, let’s put that strong back of yours to work. Kez will need posts” – she pointed to an area of wooden shelving with different sized fire bricks – “and shelves” – here, she pointed to stacks of heavy silicon carbide sheets – “as we go along. Everyone good?”
More nods. “Okay! Let’s get cracking!”
It all sounded terribly efficient, but reality bit almost immediately. I was inside the kiln, doing some measurements. Janey leaned over the kiln wall – the top was off, suspended overhead by a heavy chain raised on a crank – and said, “What are you thinking, Kez? How much height do you need under the first shelf, if you put the monster up front?”
I re-checked my measurements. “Only way to fire it is on its side, and even there, it’s eighteen inches at the widest part. We’d have to start the other tall pieces further back.”
She whistled through her teeth. “Oooh . . . Ouch. It tapers a lot, though . . . Couldn’t we orient a shelf front to back, so we can get a few more talls up front?”
I scratched my head, thinking about it.
“Excuse me.” Paul Sylvester joined Janey. “I couldn’t help overhearing. Look, my tall pieces really need to be front-front. It’s what they were designed for . . . Why I came here.”
Janey said, “Now hold on! We got to be fair to everyone!”
“Well, if I understand right, if this piece goes in, we’ll have limited space right by the firebox. How’s that fair?” His intense eyes were troubled.
“Now c’mon, Kez’s been waiting for years for the chance to fire that thing . . . and, besides. If we don’t put it in, the whole kiln’s gonna be short!”
Paul looked stubborn. “Like I said . . . .”
I cut in, “Paul, sorry for interrupting. I think you’ve raised an important point, and I’ve got an idea.”
He looked at me hopefully.
Janey, on the other hand, looked suspicious. She knew me too well.
I popped out the side, which would get bricked up when we were done loading. “Paul, why don’t you get your pieces wadded.” I looked back at where they were in the tent and added, “The two tallest ones’ll need to be fired on their sides. I’ll be back in just a couple. Janey?”
She followed me, still looking suspicious. When we were out of earshot, she said, “Dammit, Kez!”
I put a hand on her shoulder. “It’s fine. Really. It was only a ‘if possible.’ And Paul’s right about his pieces; you know it. He’s looking for the same gnarly, heavy look I am.”
“Why him’n not you?”
I laughed. “’Cuz I’ll be back, regardless, and he’ll only be back if he gets what he’s looking for. You want that studio’s work, Janey. C’mon now. It’s a business, like it or not. I get that.”
She growled, sounding suspiciously like her dogs. “If you fire it further back, you won’t get the effect you want. And if you don’t fire it at all, there’ll be too much space between pots. We need that volume!”
“I’d agree with you,” I said, smiling, “If I didn’t know you were holding out on us. You’ve got eight big refires on the shelves off your kitchen; I saw them last night. If we need more pots, you can put some of them in.”
“Refires!”
“They’ll do great. Looks like most of ’em just were underfired a bit. This time, we’ll make sure that doesn’t happen.”
She threw up her hands. “Fine. Damn, Kez! I really wanted to see that piece!”
“Me, too. Someday. But I’m thinking I’ll have more luck with an anagama firing.”
We went back, the problem solved. The work proceeded pretty efficiently. Paul and Janey were keeping me with a steady supply of pieces, each on little wadding “stilts” so that they didn’t rest on – and get fused to – the shelves. As each space filled, Jacob brought me another shelf, and we decided the size of the posts to use for the next area. I set each pot, each post, and each shelf, with an eye to ensuring airflow from the front of the kiln to the back.
It took a couple hours to load the front, then we took a short break. I was chatting off to the side with Jacob, explaining a bit more how placement worked, when Paul came over. “Look, I’m sorry I was such a prick. It’s just . . . .”
I smiled. “You're an artist, you know what you’re looking for, and you came a long way. Don’t worry about it. I’ll get that beast of mine fired someday, but there’s no rush. The chance that anyone will ever want to buy it is remote.”
“Well . . . thanks, anyway. I really appreciate it – and your loading looks awesome!”
He wandered off.
Jacob gave me a look, and I smiled, shrugged, and rolled my eyes. “All in a day’s work!”
After the break, I placed the pieces on the floor of the back of the kiln by the sutema – relatively tall pieces. So I used nine-inch posts to hold the first set of shelves. Jacob was handing one of the first slabs to me when Travis Morton arrived and started unloading his pieces on the tables reserved for the middle section of the kiln.
We had a good rhythm down, and the rear section went faster than the front. We broke for lunch at one, and everyone was glad for the break.
Jacob sat across from me at one of the picnic tables, after having acquired big glasses of ice water for both of us. “Damn – that’s some thirsty work!”
I guzzled a full third of the glass, smiling my appreciation. “It is! But it’s easier when it’s cooler out. Janey won’t fire the train over the summer because it’s just too hot.”
“Seems pretty well insulated,” he said. “Heavy-duty firebricks and all.”
“It is, absolutely. But we crank it up to 2300, 2400 degrees, and you have to open it up every few minutes to stoke it. You can get through a shift feeling plenty warm when there’s snow on the ground. Well . . . not your feet, but everything else.”
“I plain hate those shifts!” Janey plopped down beside me, a paper plate with a sandwich and chips in her hands. “Getting too old, and too ornery, to walk into the house with toes gone numb with the cold, while I’m near dyin’ of heat stroke.”
“It’s not that bad, Janey,” I laughed.
“Try it when you're sixty, punk!”
“That’s the plan,” I said affectionately, giving her a one-armed hug. Janey’s a character, but she’s a mentor as well as a friend. And I knew it meant something to her, that I was just as committed to this enterprise, and this art form, as she was.
We got back to work, now filling in pots in the area where I had stood while we’d loaded the front and back of the kiln. The middle took longer, as we had more, and smaller, pieces. Mugs and small cups, tiles and some plate stacks, as well as some of Sug’s smaller sculptures. We finished up around 4:30.
Everyone was there at 6:00 sharp, up by the house. Janey had, with mock reluctance, given Tatiana her secret recipe for North Carolina barbecue. Might not be world famous, exactly, but sure’s hell, it was well known in the small world of ceramic artists! Amidst the pulled pork and the chicken, there was a tangy coleslaw, buttery cornbread, and everything you could drink.
Every kind of water, straight from Janey’s artesian well.
After a day of physical labor on a late spring day, everything tasted as perfect as sunrise on a beach in Maine. Janey finished with some pecan pie, on the theory that some flavors just go together. While we were all sampling that, she stood and clapped her hands.
“All right, I’ll keep this part short. Most of you know the rules, but some o’ ya are new here – and others could damn well use a refresher!” She glowered at all and sundry.
“So, first thing. I’m in charge from 8:00 am to 8:00 pm. You got a question, concern, whatever, you get me. If I’m not down at the kiln, you call me – took a while, but we finally got some cell service up here.
“8:00 pm to 8:00 am, Kez is in charge. Same deal. You got questions, you ask Kez. Tent’s not far from the kiln. And when I say ‘Kez is in charge,’ I mean it. I’m old and mean and I need my frickin’ beauty rest, especially after a day of dealin’ with you lot. So do not – DO NOT! – make me come down there! Clear?”
She waited until she’d seen a nod from everyone there.
Or, in my case, a broad smile.
“All right. Next. No alcohol, no drugs, no exceptions. And get the rest you need when you aren’t on. I mean it. You need to be sharp and alert. Worst accident I’ve had was some idiot who scorched both eyebrows putting his head too close to a peephole. Stank to high heaven. But I run a safe firing, and it stays that way.
“Oh – reminds me. Closed-toed shoes. Wear ’em. I know it’s warm and sandals feel more comfortable, but some of the wood we’re throwin’ in there’s pretty heavy. Break a toe easy, you drop it. And there’s alway spilled embers when we rake the coals.”
Again, she looked around and got visible affirmations. “Alright, that’s the big stuff. You’ve got your shift assignments, so if you’ve got questions, ask ’em this evening or tomorrow while we’re bricking up the door. And Kez or I’ll go over things with you at the start of your shifts.”
She looked around. “Any general questions? Stuff everyone might be interested in finding out?”
Bill Frost, the King of Ugly Mugs™, looked up thoughtfully. “Janey, I’s wondering if you might be able to tell us whether there’s life after death. Been thinkin’ it over some, and I figured, you’re the boss.”
Amidst the laughter, Janey said, “Can’t say I’ve looked into Bill, but if you're that curious, you kin go straight to hell and send us an email about what you find there!”
He laughed along with the rest of us.
“If there aren’t any relevant questions” – Janey gave Bill a look as she stressed the modifier – “I’ve got a bit of a treat lined up. I leaned on ol’ Travis here to come join us, mostly because we needed the pots. But, he also brought his fiddle. And as you know, he’s even better with the bow than he is with the wheel.”
There was much clapping and laughing, and amid sounds of general approval, Travis got up and played. Back country, mostly, high and fast. Some of it was suited for dancing, and most everyone was up and spinning, clapping with the rhythm and having a good time.
To my surprise, Jacob joined in with gusto; I expected a man with such reserves of quiet to hang back, to seek the shadows at the edges of the gathering. But there he was, stomping and clapping, twirling the gals and me, and to all appearances enjoying himself immensely. He looked particularly good with Sug, who was a surprisingly good dancer and looked sweet in a lavender sundress.
The sun set – late, as it does in June, this far north – and Travis began to slow his tempo, choosing quieter pieces. Before long, we were all seated at the picnic table or on the grass, listening. I found myself a tree to lean against, my legs out straight on the short grass.
Jacob wandered over, once again bearing glasses of water.
I gazed up at him. “You born in early February, maybe?”
He smiled. “September. That tree trunk big enough for two?”
I took the cup he offered. “Dunno. Pretty broad back you got. Give it a whirl.”
He bent and sat, surprisingly graceful for someone so large. Leaning against the tree, 6:00 to my 3:00, he took a long drink of water and sighed. “Sooooo good.”
The silence enveloped us again, easy and companionable. Travis paused, looked around, and said, “all right folks, last one, and I’m for bed.”
“Here it comes,” I said quietly, so only Jacob could hear. “I’ll cry, but don’t mind me. I always do.”
Travis paused, gathering the silence himself, then he began, and the haunting strains of the Ashokan Farewell, slow and stately, filled the night air.
I stared at the moon, transported. Travis always played this piece last, and it always pierced my heart, filled me with longing. For what, I never knew.
The music held us transfixed. I was acutely aware of Jacob’s presence at my side, sharing the moment of such otherworldly beauty.
I wept. I always weep.
The party broke up, and Jacob and I walked alone, down the road to the pasture. The night insects were loud as the sounds from the house faded behind us. With the sun down, the temperature dropped and it was delightfully cool.
I could hear my boots as they connected with bits of gravel and old leaves. Jacob, as before, seemed to move in silence.
“You surprised me, with the dancing. Thought you were an introvert.” My tone was light, and I let my voice rise at the end, making it a question. Inviting a response.
He walked a bit, thinking. I was used to that now. Even appreciated it. Words are better . . . truer, maybe . . . when silence surrounds them. I found myself wondering, irrelevantly, whether Brea appreciated that silence, or even noticed it. So full of life, of buoyant, passionate energy. Was there a silence, anywhere, that Brea couldn’t fill?
Finally he replied. “I am, sure. And I expect I’ll need some deep sleep to recover. I like people. Really. They just . . . tire me out, you know?”
“Amen, brother!” I said, fervently. “Though this group’s easier for me. I know them, they know me. My peeps. But . . . I most definitely need downtime, when firings are done.”
We reached our tents and I touched his arm lightly. “Good night, Jacob.”
“Good night, Kez. Quiet dreams.”
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CHAPTER ELEVEN
Janey had assigned herself the task of supervising the bricking up the door and lowering the top of the kiln into place. “You two got the day off tomorrow Kez,” she’d told me at dinner. “I’ll do the chimney pre-heat this afternoon, and you can start the kiln pre-heat when you come on at 8:00. Make sure you rest up.”
But I was already up and dressed when she wandered down with Tatiana; Kelly was parking and joined them directly.
“Morning, Kez,” Tatiana called out. “You recovered from all that fun last night?”
I laughed. “Give me a day. All those people, you know!”
Janey snorted. An extravert and damned proud of it, she has to deal with a lot of my kind in our business. “Your friend’s been up and about a while. Not sure where’s he got to, but I ‘spect he’ll turn up.”
“He knows where to find me.” I smiled. “Besides . . . I’ve got the keys to the truck.”
I watched Janey for a bit as she got her door crew going. I didn’t hear Jacob come up behind me, and I jumped a bit at his good morning. “Damn, how do you do that?” But I smiled a greeting nonetheless. “Sleep okay?”
“Always do,” he said easily. “But I’m used to it. How’s that decadent air mattress doing for you?”
“Superfine, thank you very much!”
Janey glanced our way. “Only idjit kids like you could imagine an air mattress being some kind of fine. Give me a real bed any day!”
“Well, Janey,” I said judiciously, “We can’t very well fight you for it, since you own the joint.”
“Gotta love the golden rule,” she agreed. “There’s coffee up at the house, and a loaf of somethin’. Couldn’t tell you what.”
That got a smile from Tatiana. “Zucchini Bread,” she told me. “Janey’s not into it, but most people like it – especially given the alternative.”
“Which is?” I asked, for curiosity’s sake. Tatiana really has a touch in the kitchen.
“Go hungry,” Janey said cheerfully. “Well . . . there’s always kibble, I s’pose. Though even the dogs don’t exactly turn cartwheels at it.”
We laughed, and Jacob and I walked up to get a nibble. Unsurprisingly, the bread was excellent. When we were done, I said, “We aren’t needed here until the preheat starts tonight. I’ll want to bank a bit more sleep this afternoon, but we’ve got some time. Want to go see the sights?”
“Seems like we’re pretty damned close to the middle of nowhere,” Jacob replied. “So, yeah – count me in. Those are most definitely my kind of places.”
We left the trailer and took the truck into . . . and through . . . town. Pittsburg is in the very heart of the Great North Woods, on the border between New Hampshire and Quebec. Staying on Route 3, we went past Lake Francis, then followed the road past the series of Connecticut Lakes. It’s beautiful country – evergreens, New England’s signature hardwoods, and lots of pure, cold northern lakes.
Jacob, characteristically, soaked it all in quietly. We had the windows down, the better to enjoy the fresh, clean scent of the forests around us. “Are the lakes the source of the Connecticut River?” he asked.
I nodded. “Technically, I’m pretty sure the Fourth Connecticut Lake is the ultimate source, but they’re all connected, one kind of flowing into another.”
We drove a bit more, and Jacob fished out a map. I tend to keep one of the big Rand McNallys in the car, since I’m as likely to be driving in the back of beyond as anywhere with cell towers. After a few minutes’ study, he said, “Looks like there’s a short trail to that fourth lake. What do you think?”
“We’ve got plenty of time. I figured we could see whatever struck our fancy, then catch lunch back in town. Not that there’s a lot of options that way.”
He gave me directions, and we ended up at a trail head that was only fifty feet or so from the station marking the international border, where the Maple Leaf of Canada and the Stars and Stripes fluttered side-by-side in a light morning breeze.
Soon we were back in his element, and silence seemed to flow from him as we walked. The trail wound its way up a wooded hill, and it did not take us long to reach our destination, though Jacob made frequent stops to take in some unusual sight that had piqued his interest.
Unlike the lower lakes, the Fourth Connecticut Lake was just a small glacial tarn, a couple acres total. The Connecticut River, flowing out from the lake’s edge, was barely more than a brook. Jacob took a knee, cupped his hands and splashed water from the brook across his face, a smile of pure delight lighting his features. “The Mighty Connecticut!” He laughed.
I smiled in return. “Yeah, doesn’t look like much up here, does it?” Seeing a likely stone, flat and round, I bent, ran a thoughtful finger over it, and sent it skipping across the tarn. “Five!”
Jacob chuckled. “You’re not going to count that little dribble at the end, are you?” He shook his head ruefully. “Three, Kez. I’ll give you that. But five?”
“Ha! You try!”
He eyed his options and selected a missile. Rising, he bent his knees, and with a fluid twist of his body and a whipping wrist motion, sent the wafer of granite bouncing. Five . . . six . . . and . . . dribble. “Six!” He looked at me in challenge, a grin on his face.
I nodded. “Six.” I found another, and tried to match him. It was better than my last cast, and the stone was superior. I managed a tie . . . generously construed.
We tossed a few more, then lapsed again into stillness, just enjoying the quiet and peace of this remote and secret place.
I touched Jacob’s arm, light as a feather.
He looked at me, a question in his eyes.
Careful to move slowly, I pointed across the tarn where, fifty yards away, an enormous bull moose stepped lightly from the surrounding woods. It paused, looking right and left, raising its nose up to sniff the morning air.
We stood still as the trees around us, barely breathing.
The moose resumed its motion. How can such a massive creature move without sound? It continued its walk until the fetlocks of its front legs were fully in the waters of the lake. Again it paused and tested the air before slowly and gracefully lowering its head to drink.
The moose must have been thirsty. It took its time drinking before raising its head and scanning the area again. Then, without warning or sound, it flowed back into the surrounding woods.
It was easily a minute before either of us moved. I became aware that my fingers were still resting on Jacob’s arm. Suddenly self-conscious, I lowered my hand and said in a low voice, “that was amazing!”
He turned to look at me, the magic of the moment lingering, a look of wonder and delight on his face. “That right there? That was worth the whole trip, regardless of what else might happen.”
“Never saw one before?”
He shook his head. “Never. Didn’t think I’d ever get that lucky, either.”
We headed back down, silent once again. When we got back to the car he touched my shoulder gently and said, “that was very special. Thank you.”
On the way back, we stopped at the Buck Rub Pub for some lunch. There are, like, four places to eat in the whole town, and two of them aren’t open for lunch. So it wasn’t all that surprising that we ran into Gary Severs and Bill Frost, who were just leaving as we arrived.
Bill stopped and smiled. “Kez! And . . . Jake, right?”
Jacob returned his smile easily. “Jacob, but don’t worry about it. Given how much everyone was drinking last night, it’s a wonder we all remember our own names.”
He played it so completely straight that Bill and Gary both looked bewildered, until suddenly Gary chuckled, then guffawed. “Damn, you had me going, and I was there!”
Bill joined in on the joke. “Hell, yeah, that’s some potent water Janey’s been brewing!”
“Artesians. Gotta watch out for ’em, or they’ll getcha every time." I nodded at the restaurant at their backs. "I don’t ’spose they changed the menu?”
“Why ever would they up and do something like that?” Gary asked, rhetorically. “That’s just crazy talk.”
“Yeah,” Bill agreed. “It’s like that pope – you know, the one who only liked one type of architecture? – told the guy he hired to preserve all the churches in Rome.” He looked at us expectantly.
Knowing his penchant for really bad jokes, I said, in my most resigned voice, “All right, Bill. Go ahead and hit us with it . . . you will anyway.”
Bill pretended to take offense, but before he could deliver his punch-line, Jacob beat him to it. “If it ain’t Baroque, don’t fix it?”
Bill laughed out loud, slapping his thigh in delight. “Got it in one!”
Gary, who’d known Bill forever, just rolled his eyes.
I gave him a sympathetic look and said darkly, “art humor. Don’t let it happen to you.”
Everyone had a bit of a laugh, then Gary said, “We’re gonna catch a bit of a nap this afternoon. See you at midnight?” They had the second shift together.
I nodded. “Yep, see you then.”
I had the door open to enter, when Bill looked back at Jacob. “Hey, you're from down south, right?”
I shot him a bemused look. “Northern Pennsylvania’s not exactly Dixie, Bill.”
“Spoken like someone who hasn’t lived there,” Jacob corrected me. “Trust me, there’s a big ol’ stripe of ’Bama that splits the state right up the middle.”
“Well anyways,” Bill said, “long as you're up here, you oughta try the poutine.”
Jacob assured Bill that he’d give it a go, then followed me inside. “What did I just agree to try?” he asked me. “Isn’t that some kind of rotgut moonshine?”
I shook my head. “No such luck.” He raised an eyebrow, and I shivered. “It’s a Canadian thing. Don’t ask.”
Despite my warning, Jacob ordered the poutine, which mercifully came as an appetizer. After the waitress walked away, he gave the concoction a careful look. “Well . . . I, ahh . . . I mean, I do like french fries. In moderation. So, there’s that.”
“Uh huh.” I was determined not to help.
He tried again. “And . . . nothing wrong with brown sauce.”
I shrugged. “Kinda on my ‘take it or leave it’ list, but, you do you.”
He looked at the dish again. Opened his mouth, then closed it again. Then he sighed and shook his head. “Okay, yeah. Even I can’t find something nice to say about cheese curds.”
I snaked out a hand to snag a fry that had somehow retained its purity, untainted by sauce or curd, like a virgin in a debauched seraglio. Performing my extraction with the precision of a surgeon, I said, “I think this poor puppy should be permitted to die chaste, like one of those female martyrs.” I popped it in my mouth.
“What female martyrs?” He sounded disbelieving.
I waved a hand airily. “How should I know? I didn’t exactly major in religion.”
Sidetracked, he asked, “What did you major in?”
“I didn’t.” I grinned. “Look, I know you have a Ph.D. I respect that. But this is what I do, you know? Pottery. All a four year degree woulda given me – that I don’t already have – is a shitload of debt. I’ve taken plenty of classes. Ceramics, mostly, but honestly, anything that grabs my attention. Wine making. History. Statistics. Haiku. There’s a lot you can find online – good stuff, not just the crap – at a decent price.”
“Haiku? Seriously?”
“Why not?” I replied. I closed my eyes and thought for a moment.
“Vision of stillness,
power and grace. Delicate.
King of the North Woods.”
I opened my eyes to see him looking at me strangely. “What?”
He shook his head. “Nothing. And everything. You just did that, right?”
“Sure, though I’ll be the first to admit it’s not art. Still . . . I was inspired, just now.”
“It’s what I noticed most as well,” he said, sounding distant. He stared away, his eyes unfocussed. “It was huge – way bigger than I’d imagined. Not that I’ve spent all that much time thinking about moose, but . . . you know what I mean. Anyhow, I was just floored by how quiet it was. And the movement – you’re exactly right. It was delicate – even dainty.”
We were silent, sharing the memory.
Then I shook my head and broke the mood. “Brea’ll never believe it, you know. ‘Pics, or it didn’t happen!’”
His expression was hard to read. Speaking slowly, like he was teasing out a mystery, he said, “What we saw today . . . that’s not something I think Brea could really appreciate, pics or no pics. She’s . . . I mean, I love her to death. I do! But, quiet? Stillness? It’s just not her.”
I weighed my words carefully, hesitant to intrude. But he had probed my feelings about Kara and Brea pretty deeply, and I felt a rare closeness to him. “Jacob – it’s not Brea, I mean, like, at all. You’re obviously right about that. But . . . it’s the heart of who you are. How do you make that work?”
He thought about that briefly, then shrugged. “The way people usually do, I expect.” He looked at me, and the smile touched his warm brown eyes. “Magic, you know?”
“Magic?” My smile matched his. “Okay, yeah. I’ll buy that!”
“You gonna finish that?” The waitress stood over us, looking at the “appetizer.”
We gazed at the congealing mass between us.
“I actually don’t think we’re going to start it,” Jacob replied, sounding like he was giving the matter deep and considerable thought. “We might ruin the aesthetic.”
Or our entire digestive tracts, I thought.
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was probably close to ten at night before Jacob asked why on earth Janey had assigned us both to work the preheating shift. “Barely enough work for one person, much less two.”
I carefully slipped a chuck of wood through the left-hand opening, closed the door, and repeated the process on the right. “You should ask her,” I said. “My guess, she likes having back-up. Once this gets underway, you need to keep it going smooth.”
“So it’s not just that I’m a complete nube-child?” he asked. “I was kind of wondering.”
I sat back on the wooden bench. “Nah. Bill and Gary’ll be doing the same thing during their shift – slow, steady ramp-up, about 100 degrees each hour, and build up some coals. Each of them’s been doing this longer than I have.”
After a bit, he stirred and said, “Don’t think I’m complaining. It’s kind of peaceful. I’m just surprised . . . and I guess I was worried that Janey felt she had to come up with some make-work for me.”
I watched the numbers on the pyrometer creeping up as the wood I had added hit its peak combustion and began to release its stored energy. 193 . . . 194 . . . 195. It hovered at 195 for a long while before finally ticking over to 196. “Your turn,” I said.
Jacob rose and fed a single piece of wood through each of the openings, being careful to drop them as vertically as possible. There was no barrier inside the kiln between the firebox and the area where the shelves of pots were placed. You could clearly see Paul’s big pieces in the light of the glowing coals. Jacob called them the “Paul Potts,” but I’m afraid he had to explain the joke.
193 . . . 192 . . . 191 . . . . The drop was expected. Opening the doors allowed the cooler night air in, and the new wood had to consume some heat energy before it released its own.
“Should I get more wood?” he asked.
I looked at the wheel barrow and smiled. “It’ll take us half an hour to go through what’s there. Relax.”
“That I can do,” he replied.
We sat, and watched the gauge, and fed the flames, bit by careful bit raising the temperature, preparing the pots within for the ordeal to come, when they would be bathed in searing flame and transformed, becoming hard, strong, and impermeable. When their clay bodies and any glazes would interact with the gathering wood ash, flashing into startling colors and patterns. Some of the pots, of course, would not survive. The heat and flame would find every weakness, every imperfection, and when the kiln was opened the artists would find some pots, transcendently beautiful, yet cracked, broken, and beyond saving.
“You’re younger than almost everyone here,” Jacob observed during one of our periods of waiting, of watching the pyrometer. “But you’re clearly Janey’s number two. How does that work?”
“A lot of potters aren’t that interested in the technical side of things.” I got up and added some more wood before rejoining him on the bench. “Some of them love throwing, or hand-building. Some really enjoy decorating their pieces, although there’s less of that in a wood kiln. But . . . this part, I guess, feels more like science than art. There’s a schedule, and a method, and we all need to be on the same page.”
Jacob chewed that over while he had some water. “I would have pegged you as the artistic type, too,” he said after a while.
“Oh, I am! I get lost in throwing – I mean, you saw me. So you know. But, like I told you before, I’m an artisan first. A craftsman. I want to know about my materials – where they came from, how they were processed . . . everything. I want to know why porcelain throws one way, and stoneware throws another. The origin of the techniques that we use. So, yeah . . . I want to understand the kilns where I fire. Who invented them? How did they evolve? Which kilns best suit particular pieces, and why. How to fire them properly.”
He nodded. “I can see that.”
I chuckled. “Put it this way – no one fought me for the ‘honor’ of supervising. They’re more’n happy to let me and Janey fuss with all of this. They’ll do their shifts – it’s the only way it all works – but they’ll leave it at that.”
It was Jacob’s turn to feed the beast. When he resumed his seat, he said, “Mom was the artist type too, I think. I don’t think she was into the technical stuff.”
I studied his profile carefully. Whenever his mother came up, he seemed to withdraw into himself, and his handsome features seemed more guarded. “What happened, Jacob?” I asked softly. “Why do those memories hurt so much?”
He was silent for so long that I would have thought he wasn’t going to answer, if he had been anyone else. His eyes, ostensibly looking at the pyrometer, were unfocused, lost in memory.
“It was . . . bad. When Dad left.” He didn’t turn to look at me. “One day, we were just living life, you know? Like we always had, just assuming that’s how it would always be. And then, suddenly, everything changed. I guess he’d fallen out of love with Mom and in love with someone else. Within a couple months, he and Mary Pat moved down to Jacksonville to start a new life together . . . .”
“Leaving the rest of you to try to figure out the old life?” I kept my voice gentle.
“Pretty much,” he said. “Mom . . . like I said, she was an artist. She made beautiful things. But . . . when he left, it’s like she couldn’t find the beauty any more. She’d sit at her wheel, and start to throw, and . . . it just wouldn’t come. And she’d rip the wet clay off the wheel, all flopped over, and she’d be so frustrated . . . so hurt. You know? It’s like, the things that made her life worth living, that defined her, were just gone.”
My blood ran cold, listening to his description.
He continued. “Anyway . . . I heard her screaming one day, and I ran into her studio. She was crying, shrieking, smashing things with a stick. I . . . I had to grab her tight. I was as big as she was, by then, and stronger. I held her until she stopped. Tried to tell her it would be alright.”
Lost in the memory, he lapsed into silence.
I touched his shoulder in quiet sympathy, then added more wood to the kiln before resuming my seat.
He sighed and straightened up. “I was an ass. It wasn’t ever alright for Mom. Not really. The next morning, she got up early and cleaned the mess. She made some calls, and sold all of her stuff. Wheel, tools, glazes . . . everything. Deirdre tried to talk her out of it – my sister’s a sweetheart – but Mom told her art was a game. A luxury we couldn’t afford anymore. And that was that.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“Got a job at a restaurant, waiting tables. Worked her ass off, and came back exhausted every night. After maybe two years of that, she met Kevin and they started dating. He had money – way more than we ever had, even when Dad was with us. So, I thought, maybe she could afford her ‘luxury’ again. But . . . I think . . . she was too afraid. Afraid she’d lose Kevin too. So his interests are her interests, and art’s not on that list.”
I had nothing to say to that, nothing that seemed remotely adequate. Finally I reached over and squeezed his hand as it rested on his knee. “Jacob, I’m so very sorry.”
We sat staring at the pyrometer, silent, until Jacob asked, “Did you two ever consider having kids?”
“We wanted to, at first. Had some fun trying.” I smiled at the memory, briefly. “Turns out, I can’t, and Kara wasn’t interested in adopting. She’d known some folks who’d had really bad experiences. And . . . a lot of adoption agencies wouldn’t accept me.”
He watched the kiln a bit longer. “You’d be good at it.”
I shrugged. Maybe yes, maybe no. A road not taken.
We sat there for a few minutes, silent once more, until we saw the flash of headlights coming up the access road, followed by the muffled sound of car doors shutting, and male voices in low conversation.
I rose. Bill and Gary were coming down from where the cars were parked, a flashlight guiding their steps. “Evening boys,” I said with a smile of greeting.
“Hey, Kez,” Gary replied. “How’s the beast?”
“Everything’s right on schedule,” I told him. “Pretty routine.”
“Not like last time,” Bill said. “Now that was a storm!” The last firing had been challenging, with crazy winds that shifted direction every few minutes, and rain that varied from “moderate” to “torrential.”
“Yeah,” I said, “but you’ll be telling the story of that firing for years, Bill!”
Gary grinned. “Oh, yeah! And each time he tells it, the wind gets rougher and the rain gets colder. Couple years, and you’ll think Bill had survived the great flood!”
We laughed.
I went over our stoking pattern with Bill and Gary and gave them notes on the settings for the primary air and the dampers. Then Jacob and I left them to it.
We walked out into the field in the direction of our tents, a pale, gibbous moon providing enough light. Fifteen yards out, and with our backs to the low lights around the kiln, the night sky opened up. It had been a clear day, with relatively low humidity, and the stars of the far northern sky flared in jewel tones, imminent and awe inspiring. Spica close to where the moon hung . . . Vega and Deneb . . . the stars of the Great Bear, the dipper, pointing to the Pole Star, dim only by comparison . . . .
I felt a hand on my elbow, and heard Jacob’s voice, low and amused. “Kez? You still in there?”
I shook my head. “I . . . yeah. I guess.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you, but after five minutes or so I wasn’t sure you’d make it back to earth on your own.”
In the moon’s faint light I couldn’t see his smile, but I could hear it in his voice. “It takes my breath,” I confessed. “Every time.”
He put an arm around my waist and guided me forward. When we got to our tents, he reached up and gently brushed away the tears that I had shed, lost in the magic and wonder of space and time, of planets, stars and galaxies. “Good night, Kez,” he said softly.
“Good night, Jacob,” I replied.
* * * * *
My phone buzzed me awake at ten minutes to four. I slipped cargo pants over my boy shorts, a fleece over my tank top, and boots onto my bare feet. The moon had set, and the night sky was even more spectacular, if that were possible.
But I was on task, and so managed to restrain my desire to gawk and gaze. Using a small flashlight, I made my way across the field to the kiln. I stepped into the pool of light that surrounded the workspace, and spoke quietly. “Hey guys – how goes?”
I heard the rumble of wheel over uneven ground, and Gary joined me in the light, a full load overflowing the sides of the wheelbarrow. From the other side of the kiln, Bill’s head popped up. “No issues, Kez. It’s all burning well, and the coal bed’s looking good.”
I checked the readings on the three pyrometers, confirming what Bill had said. “No change for the intake or the damper?”
Gary shook his head. “Nope. No need to; everything just chugged along.”
We were all keeping our voices low. While it’s possible we were thinking about Jacob, sleeping a relatively short distance away, I’ve noticed the same thing at every firing. There is something about the hush and stillness of the predawn hours that seems to compel a response, command a measure of restraint and respect, from people who find themselves awake.
Bill stomped his feet, restoring some circulation to his extremities. “C’mon, guys,” he muttered. It was 4:00, and their relief should have arrived.
“Go on, you two,” I said. “I’ve got to go over the drill with them when they show up anyway, and you’ve left me plenty of wood.”
“You sure?” Gary asked.
“Positive. I’m sure they’ll be here in a minute or two.”
“Well . . . okay, then,” Bill said, relief overcoming his reluctance. “Thanks, Kez!”
I waved them off. “Good night guys . . . sweet dreams!”
They chuckled and departed, and soon I lost the sound of Gary’s truck making its way to the main road.
I was a bit surprised that Mike Swyderski and Paul Sylvester hadn’t already arrived, but I wasn’t worried about it. I was awake and alert, and I was enjoying the rare moment of solitude in the midst of the firing.
My conversation with Jacob last night had left me wrestling with an undertow of deep sadness. How could a father just abandon his children and their mother? Even if, for whatever reason, the love he had felt for his wife had faded?
No wonder, I thought, that Jacob found solace in the silence and stillness of nature, the movements of the animals and birds, the mysteries of the things that grow in the wild. It was his nature too, of course. But I imagined that the call of the silence, of the simplicity of creation itself, would have been irresistible in the face of a human world that had lost its center.
But his story unsettled me on even deeper levels than that.
I shivered, though the night wasn’t really cold. What would it take, to crush my very desire to engage in my craft, to rise to the challenge of my art? I had said that I would give it all up for Kara, but . . . would I ever have given my heart into her care, if she had been the kind of person to ask me to do that? And, could she have loved me in the first place, if she hadn’t cared for that part of me? Pottery isn’t just a hobby, or even a job. It’s who I am. Keziah Brown, Potter.
At the thought of Kara, my eyes misted over. The love we shared was the bedrock of my existence. Could I continue to live, if one day I looked into her lapis lazuli eyes and saw, not the warmth and love that had always been there, but a tepid indifference?
And could my own heart ever turn, as Jacob’s father’s heart had turned? I shook my head, unable to imagine such a thing. Without my love for Kara, I wouldn’t know myself. Wouldn’t want to know myself.
I was reminded of a podcast I’d listened to once while I was cleaning my studio. A woman was talking about her favorite piece from her favorite opera. She’d sung it – amazing voice! – and even without understanding the words, it had captured me. I stood stock still in the middle of my studio, work forgotten, crying my soul out. The woman said the title of the piece translated as, “I lived for art; I lived for love.”
That's me, sure enough.
My phone buzzed, and I saw it was Gary. “What’s up?” I asked.
“Hey Kez – we just passed Paul and Mike on the road; they’re in a dead spot for coverage and couldn’t call. Mike had to swerve to avoid a deer, and he popped a tire. They should have the spare on soon; they’ve already got the truck up on the jack. So I expect you’ll see them in five or ten.”
“No worries. If you guys have the juice left, could you just make sure they’re good to go before you head back to town?”
“Don’t worry, Kez! We’re on it. See you soon.”
“Thanks for the heads up, man.”
I went back to my silent contemplation. On the eastern horizon, the faintest hint of approaching dawn began to dim the brilliance of the stars. My art . . . but first, always first, my love.
“You are my Day Star and my Pole Star,” I said softly, Kara’s lovely smile vivid in my mind’s eye. “My wellspring and my heart’s desire.”
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CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I was back at the kiln at ten of eight to do the hand-off from night shift to day shift. Janey was down as well, and everything seemed to be going pretty well. Jacob and Janice were doing the 8-12 shift with Janey supervising; I was going to try to catch some sleep. We saw Mike and Paul off and the new crew got to work.
When I woke again, I could hear Janey’s voice, and occasionally Jacob’s, coming from the direction of the kiln. I couldn’t make out the words, but the overall tone sounded relaxed. Janey was probably saying five words for every one that came from Jacob. Knowing them both, that wasn’t at all surprising.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, rolled over and rummaged through my bag for a change of clothes. Panties, shorts, tank top, unbuttoned work shirt, sneakers. Then I stepped out of the tent and redid my turban before heading across the field.
“How’s it looking, Chief?” I asked Janey.
“Right on schedule – hittin’ close to 1600 degrees.” She took a drink from her water jug, then added, “We’re going through the wood a bit faster than usual, though.”
I looked at the wood piles, which were in fact a bit lower than I would have expected. “Do we have enough?”
She waggled her fingers. “Prob’ly. But I’d be happier if we had another cord ready. Any chance I can draft you to do some splitting this afternoon?”
“Of course,” I assured her. “Just as soon as I get a bite.”
“I can give you a hand as well,” Jacob offered.
I gave him a grateful look. “That’d be a real help – the wood splitter’s a lot easier to manage with two people.”
“There’s some sandwiches and such up at the house. Tatiana again – coddlin’ alla you like a momma hen!” Janey grinned to take the sting out of her words. She wasn’t much for food herself – I often thought she’d killed her taste buds with cigarettes – but she understood that the firing could be expedited if there was some ready sustenance on hand.
“I’ll go up and see what she’s got.” My phone said it was a bit before noon, so I said to Jacob, “Come join me once your relief shows up.”
He waved an acknowledgment, and I wandered up to the house.
“Shri Keziah!” Tatiana gave me a grin to go with the Sikh honorific she had dredged up to honor my turban. “Ready for some food?”
I smiled in return. “I’m famished. Jacob’s coming in a couple as well, and I expect Janice too. What miracles have you achieved today?”
“Nothing special. Some chicken salad for sandwiches. Some nice olives I brought along. Pickles. Local hothouse tomatoes. Janey’s contribution was a really nice cheddar. And, of course, lots and lots of fresh water.”
Tatiana’s idea of “just” chicken salad was pretty amazing, involving freshly cooked and shredded chicken breast, quartered red grapes, walnuts, and a hint of dill. I got to work slicing the sourdough bread and getting place settings ready.
Sug came down while we were getting ready. “I like your friend,” she said, conversationally. “Seems nice.”
“He’s been a real help, too,” I agreed. “It was good of him to come.”
“How do you two know each other?” Tatiana asked.
“Kara and his girlfriend go way back,” I said. “The two of them are having a ‘girl’s week,’ and Jacob drove Brea up.” All of which is true, I thought, if ever so slightly incomplete!
Tatiana looked surprised. “You mean you two just met? Damn! I’d have sworn you’d known each other forever!”
That’s an interesting observation. “I think we kind of operate on a similar frequency,” I said after a moment.
Sug said, “I’d always thought of you as a ‘water’ person. Jacob’s all ‘earth.’”
Tatiana’s eyes rolled. “She’ll be talking about chakras next!”
“Oh, I’m sure their chakras match perfectly,” Sug replied with a grin. “Which is so cool. You know I’m all in on New Age spirituality!”
I laughed and threw a dish towel at her.
She caught it deftly, folded it, and put it back where it belonged.
Jacob and Janice came in just as we had everything set out, and Janice gave Tatiana a big smile. “Janey’d get a lot more volunteers if you were here for every firing!”
Everyone was hungry and we dug in with enthusiasm. No one said much until we were left to nibble on olives and cheese, the truly excellent chicken salad completely gone.
“I hope Janey didn’t push you too hard on your mom,” I said to Jacob. “She can be a bit of a bulldog when she gets going.”
He shook his head. “No, it was fine. Mostly, she did the talking. She knew mom back in her early twenties. Sounds like she was lit, back in the day.”
Janice giggled. “I’ll say! And I thought Janey was the wild one!” But then she subsided and looked at Jacob more thoughtfully. “It must be strange, seeing your mom through a contemporary’s eyes. They would have been younger than you are now.”
Jacob nodded silently, selected an olive with undue care and popped it in his mouth. Finally, he said, “I suppose. But . . . I couldn’t see my mom in Janey’s stories. At all. She might as well have been describing a complete stranger.”
Janice reached over and touched his hand lightly, her kind eyes crinkling with concern. She rose and started stacking plates, and we all moved to help.
Jacob and I spent the next few hours with the big log splitter and a pile of ash, precut in 30-inch segments of trunk and branch. The splitter was a noisy bastard, making speech difficult. But neither of us found silence oppressive, so we worked quietly and efficiently. After three hours, we had a sizeable pile of wood that could be used late in the firing if it was needed, so I decided to declare victory and shut it down.
The transition from a loud, chugging gas engine to complete silence was startling. I shook my head to clear it, then wiped my brow with the bandana from my back pocket. “That was hot work!”
Jacob wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his workshirt, a smile of accomplishment on his face. “I don’t know about you, but I could drink a gallon of water right now.”
“Me too. Look, we’ll need to get all this down to the kiln, but that job’ll wait until tomorrow. Right now, we need to get some water, grab a bite and rest a bit before our shift.”
“Sounds good to me,” he responded, his smile growing broader.
As we walked toward the house, I said, “That seemed to get you all kinds of happy.”
“I’m a simple soul,” he replied. “Good honest work, and you can see the results right away. What’s not to like?”
“I don’t know. Sunburn? Heat stroke? Early onset hearing loss?”
He laughed. “Didn’t happen. All that happened was, a pile of wood we couldn’t use is gone, and a pile of wood we can use is there. Instant gratification. Sometimes I wish my whole life could be that kind of simple.”
“Might get kinda dull?” I suggested.
“Oh, it might,” he agreed, easily. “Still, every now’n then, I’d like to give it a shot. Just to see.”
“And then you go and fall in love,” I teased.
That got a laugh. “Yep! And all thoughts of the simple life go ‘poof!’”
We went inside and got some water.
* * * * *
As expected, the contrast between our prior night’s 8-4 firing shift and this evening’s could scarcely have been more dramatic. As we arrived, Janey was overseeing Mike and Kelly as they completed an hour of intense, low-oxygen firing at 2000 degrees. The oxygen reduction caused the smoke billowing from the chimney to be inky black – completely opaque. And wood was going in through a side stoke hole as well as the two back doors. More importantly, large chunks of wood were being heaved into the upper firebox, which was separated from the wares by a heavy metal grate. Activity was brisk.
“How’s your girl?” I called to Janey.
“Screamin’ hot!” Janey looked excited, as only a pyromaniac with her own fire-breathing dragon might. “Damn, I love this part!!!”
We took a turn around the kiln, and she showed me where the dampers and intakes were set. “You been in reduction for the full hour?” I asked.
She nodded. “Will be, by eight. You can give it more oxygen then. Just bring her up to 2100 and let it soak there a piece.”
“Got it.”
Mike and Kelly, a bit winded from their exertions, were happy to turn it over to me and Jacob, and soon we were almost as busy as they had been.
The upper firebox was a particular challenge, since the person doing the loading had to have a face-shield and helmet on, and needed to heave hefty chunks of wood through big doors that were more than five feet off the ground. After watching me a few times, Jacob said, “Look, I don’t want you thinking that I doubt your ability . . . you obviously can do it. But, my frame is a bit more optimized for this particular task.”
I closed the big door, dropped the latch, and pulled the helmet and face-shield off. “Delicately put, kind sir!” I grinned. “But I’ve always enjoyed the challenge of loading the top chamber.”
“I do recall your saying something about older potters having a variety of joint and muscle problems . . . .” He returned my grin with interest.
I clapped his shoulder. “I’ll let you get the next few, anyhow. But I can’t let myself get too soft.”
Through a goofy grin, he said, “If you say so.”
We settled into a good rhythm where we would first feed the back of the kiln, then the small side stoke hole, then the upper firebox, before waiting for a few minutes to begin the cycle again. Every fifth or sixth cycle one of us would go to the woodpile to fill up the wheelbarrow. Once we had the pattern down, it was just lather, rinse and repeat.
Probably half way through our shift, Jacob returned to our earlier conversation. “Kez . . . shouldn’t love be simple, too?”
I took off the welding gloves long enough to scratch my nose and unscrew the cap on my water bottle. “Why?”
“Because it’s so basic . . . so fundamental. Like breathing.” His eyes stayed glued on the pyrometer, judging when we would need to begin the next cycle.
I thought about his question carefully. After a minute of watching the slowing movement of digital numbers, I said, “I think love is simple. Relationships are complicated, because they involve other people who have their own needs. Love is what allows us to navigate the complications.”
He took a swig of water and looked at me. “Time?”
“Time,” I agreed, rising. We put our welding gloves back on. Jacob moved to the back of the kiln and I moved to the side. “Go ahead,” I said.
I heard the sound of first one door, then the other, opening and closing and Jacob fed in more wood.
“Clear,” he said, as he closed the second door.
I removed the blocking brick from the kiln wall and set it down on a metal plate, hot-side down. Then I carefully fed a couple narrow sticks straight into the hole and replaced the brick. By the time I was done, Jacob had the helmet and face-shield on. “Ready?” I asked.
He hoisted his first log and said, “ready!”
I unlatched the big top door and pulled it open, staying behind the door as a gout of flame shot out. Jacob tossed in the log, then reached down, grabbed two more, and tossed them in. “Done!” he said.
I slammed the door shut and dropped the latch, and we sat back down.
“So,” he said, picking up where we had left off, “your relationship with Kara is complicated because she has her own needs and desires – Brea being just one example – but love makes it simple?”
“Yes. Love tells me what I need to do – gives me a nice, clear answer.”
“An answer that – forgive me – causes you a whole lot of pain?” He gave me a searching look.
I shrugged. “I said it was simple, Jacob. I didn’t say it was easy.”
The rest of our shift passed in silence, the quiet efficiency of our synchronized movements requiring no conversation. And we had, each of us, plenty to think about.
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CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The two kids from NHTI, Brice and Tawney, showed up a couple minutes after midnight. Late, but not worth making a big deal about. Jacob and I had just finished a cycle, so I took a few minutes to orient them.
“Good evening! Welcome to the inferno!” That got a tentative smile from Tawney, though Brice’s face was hard to read.
“Grab yourself some gloves.” When they had fitted themselves out from Janey’s bin, I continued. “This’ll be a busy shift – you’ll be hopping! – but it’s also pretty straightforward. We’ll walk you through the drill, I’ll watch you go through it once or twice, then you just keep doing it until 4:00. Cool?”
So I explained our cycle, then watched the pyrometer until it was time to start. This time, I was with Jacob when he fed the back firebox. “Notice how he’s making sure the wood drops straight onto the coal bed. Don’t toss it in, or you’ll hit those pots.” I pointed to Paul’s tall forms, which were now glowing a deep, luminous red and showing lots of gorgeous ash build-up.
I walked them over to the side-stoke hole and showed them how to feed the wood in without touching the pots on either side of the opening. “Line your head up with the hole, or you’re likely to misjudge the angle.”
Finally, we demonstrated loading the top chamber. Tawney gave an “eeek!” of surprise and involuntarily jumped back as the flame shot out from the open door, but she was calm enough once we had everything closed up again. “It’s safe,” I assured them, “but you need to do it just like Jacob and I did: the person who’s got the door stays behind it when opening, and the loader has the helmet and face-shield. Sometimes there’s no fireball, but you can’t count on that, okay?”
I clapped Jacob on the shoulder. “Grab some sleep; I’ll just hang for a couple and make sure they’re set.”
“We got it,” Brice assured me.
“Janey pays me to worry.” I smiled. “My air mattress is calling, so I won’t be long.”
Brice shrugged – a bit ungraciously, I thought – then sat down, eyes on the pyrometer. Tawney wandered over and sat close beside him. Ah. A couple.
Jacob sketched me an ironic salute and went off into the darkness, heading toward the tents.
I watched Brice and Tawney go through a stoking round. Brice seemed a bit overconfident; Tawney was a bit skittish.
They did alright.
I gave a couple pointers, stayed to watch another round, then said goodnight. They didn’t seem sorry for me to leave.
Back at my tent, I went through my usual routine. I took off my turban and let my hair loose, stripped completely, then put on some fresh underwear – briefs and a thin tank top. The night was warm and I didn’t want anything else. Shirt, shorts and boots were laid out where I could grab them in a hurry if needed. I set my alarm for 3:45 and fell asleep to the sounds of the night, punctuated by the regular sounds of metal doors opening and closing as the firing continued.
* * * * *
I woke suddenly with a feeling that something was wrong.
What?
I could hear the kids talking, though I couldn’t make out the words. Brice’s voice – low, urgent – followed by Tawney’s higher register, sounding . . . annoyed? Petulant? I couldn’t tell. Not my business, probably. But I wasn’t sure when I had last heard the sounds of the fire being stoked. Probably what woke me up. The dog that didn’t bark.
I listened for a minute or two longer, then finally cursed and sat up. I pulled up my shorts, slipped into my boots, and got my work shirt on without bothering to button it up. Halfway to the kiln, the smell hit me. Shit!
“Brice, I don’t want to,” Tawney whined. “Can’t we just chill?”
“Fuck,” he said, frustrated. “Why . . . .” As I stepped into the light around the kiln, he whirled to face me, hair wild, shirtless. He glared. “Get lost!”
I ignored him. The pyrometer was showing about a hundred degrees lower than it should, and was dropping fast. I grabbed gloves and immediately began to feed the kiln. Two pieces on the back left . . . two pieces on the back right . . . .”
Brice was staring at me. “We got it, okay? Jesus!”
Over to the side stoke hole. Remove the brick. Check. Coal bed definitely a bit low here. Slip in one stick . . . another. Three. Four. Close it up.
“Fucking fairy! This is our shift!”
I grabbed the helmet and face shield and put my hands on the latch of the upper chamber. I paused to look at Brice, his face a mix of emotions, with anger – rage, even – dominant. This close, I could smell the alcohol. “Step back.”
No fireball this time – the wood inside had burned down too far for that. Two . . . three . . . four chunks of heavy wood, heaved into the chamber. That should hold it for a few. I closed the door with a ‘clank,’ dropped the latch, then walked over to Tawney, for the moment ignoring Brice.
Squatting down next to where she was sitting, I pulled off my helmet and mask to see her more clearly. Brown eyes unfocussed. Pupils dilated. “Tawney . . . you okay, hon?”
“I’m . . . sure . . . I’m good,” she said, vaguely. “No worries.”
“Janey was real clear, though. No drugs.”
“It’s not drugs – just weed. Isn’t it legal now?” Her whine was back.
“Leave her alone!” Brice was behind me, still sounding angry.
“Tawney,” I said gently, “the kiln’s a dangerous piece of equipment. You can’t operate . . . . ackkk!” I flew backward and landed on my ass, my shirt ripping as Brice pulled me back by the collar.
“I said, leave her alone,” he snarled. “Now fuck off!”
Dealing with angry drunks was not something I had a lot of experience with. I scrambled to my feet and said, “Brice. You can’t operate the kiln like this. Period.”
Tawney was crying. “Brice, c’mon, we’re gonna get in trouble!”
Brice was putting welding gloves back on. “I got this,” he snapped at Tawney. He took two steps to the back of the kiln, opened a door, and grabbed a piece of wood. Based on his angry, jerky motions and how he was angling it to the opening, he was about to throw it in, hard. Straight into all of Paul Sylvester’s pots.
“No!!!” I shouted, launching myself. I hit him at an angle and he spun, dropping the wood on his foot.
“Agggh!!!” Brice hopped on his uninjured foot, swearing. The idiot had taken his shoes off.
I took the opportunity to close and latch the door so we didn’t lose more heat, but turning my back on a now-enraged drunk was a mistake. He grabbed my left arm with both of his hands, jerked me off balance, then spun me in a wide arc before letting go. I tumbled painfully, struggling to keep control of my flailing arms and legs.
“Let’s play ‘fairy-go-’round!’” he sang out as he stalked over to where I had fallen, just outside the pool of the kiln’s lights.
“Let’s not.” Jacob’s voice was calm as he took a step forward into the light and buried a rock-like fist in Brice’s solar plexus. Brice doubled over, gagging, and Jacob put a hand on the back of his neck, holding him down. He looked at me. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Can either of them drive?”
I sat up. “Not Tawney, for sure. Don’t know about this one.”
Brice was sputtering, trying to say something, but he hadn’t gotten his wind back. He vomited, weakly.
Jacob was still looking at me, assessing my condition. “Can you manage here while I run them into town? Or should we call Janey?”
Brice started to shake, but Jacob just tightened his grip and pushed the boy’s head down further.
“I can manage,” I said.
I got back on my feet and went to where Tawney was crying. Sitting next to her, I put an arm around her shoulder. “Honey, are you two staying in town?”
“Ye . . .es” she stammered. “But . . . I don’t want to go with him. He’s . . . he’s . . . .” She couldn’t finish.
“We need to get him into town. But you can sleep in my tent while I do the shift. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said, her voice small and frightened.
“I can drive,” Brice finally managed to say.
I stayed next to Tawney and let Jacob deal with him. Handling drunks, it turns out, is something Forest Rangers need to know how to do.
“Prove it,” Jacob said. “If I let go, will you stand up, stand still, and do what I say?”
Mumble, mumble.
“I can’t hear you,” Jacob said, keeping his grip intact.
“I said ‘yes!’’”
“Yes, what?” Jacob asked.
“‘Yes,’ faggot!” Brice sneered.
“Not helpful,” Jacob explained patiently. “I need to know that you can control yourself before I let go, or I’ll have to hurt you some more. So . . . what will you do if I let go?”
“I’ll stand up and stand still.”
Jacob just waited, his hand heavy on the young man’s neck.
I looked at the pyrometer. Still rising, but clearly slowing.
“I’ll do what you say,” Brice ground out, finally. Jacob removed his hand and the boy came more-or-less upright, still somewhat hunched from the body blow. “Happy?”
Jacob examined his eyes closely. “I need to give you a field sobriety test,” he said.
“Why? You’re not a cop!” Brice argued.
Jacob cut him off. “I’m not, but I’ll call them, if I’m not reasonably certain you can drive back to town safely.”
Brice glared at him, but Jacob remained impassive.
“Fine!” Brice said, with less heat and more disgust.
“Jacob,” I broke in, “Can you do that up by the cars? I’ve got to stoke again.”
He nodded. “Let’s go,” he said to Brice.
“C’mon Tawn, we’re outta here,” Brice said, looking over to where she was sitting. Clearly he had not heard our earlier conversation. When he saw me with her, he said, “Stay away from her, freak!”
Jacob warned, “One move that direction, and I’ll drop you like a dead tree. Understand?”
Brice whirled back to face him, but something in Jacob’s expression and stance caused him to change whatever he had been planning. He looked back at Tawney, but wisely didn’t move his feet. “I said come on, Tawn!”
She shook her head, not looking at him.
“Bitch!!! Fucking bitch! Fine! Stay with Tinkerbell!” He stomped off toward the cars, Jacob following carefully behind.
I gave Tawney’s shoulder a squeeze. “Give me a minute, okay?” I rose, donned the gloves, helmet and face shield, and stoked the kiln, back, side and top, adding extra wood at each step. She was crying softly when I came back.
“I’m in trouble, aren’t I?” she said, through her tears.
I gave her a hand to get back on her feet. “You made a mistake tonight, Tawney. Bad things could have happened. Mostly, they didn’t. Don’t fret about the consequences right now. Just get some sleep, okay?”
She nodded. I put my arm around her and led her back into the dark, keeping her stumbles from turning into outright falls. When we got to my tent, I said, “sorry for the mess. But the sleep will help, I promise.”
“Okay,” she whispered. She climbed in, kicked off her shoes, and flopped down on my mattress, looking like a lost kitten.
I gave her a last look. “You’ll be okay?”
“Yeah . . . I guess.”
“Okay, hon. I’ll see you in the morning.” I walked back into the night, towards the kiln. I heard an engine come to life, then saw headlights cruising along the entrance road. Praise the Lord, he’s gone.
My feet were dragging as the adrenaline of the encounter faded. I felt all of the scrapes and bruises, and my eyes felt rubbery with lack of sleep. But I put one foot in front of the other, got to the kiln and checked the pyrometer. Just about back where it should be, and still climbing strongly. Crisis averted.
Jacob stepped into the light, moving silently as always. He took one look at my face and closed the distance between us. In an instant, I found myself wrapped in a powerful embrace, my head against his chest. Bless the man, he didn’t feel the need to say anything.
We stood like that for what seemed like a long while, though it wasn’t. I could feel every beat of his heart, firm and steady, and there weren’t that many of them. “Thank you,” I said.
He didn’t let go. “I’m sorry. I should have seen to you first.”
“No; that’s why I’m thanking you. For behaving like an adult, and for treating me like one. You kept your head, the firing isn’t ruined, and the kids are dealt with.”
He chuckled, the sound magnified by my ear against his chest. “You’re a strange woman, Keziah.”
Ummm. Assuming I’m a woman at all? Which is a questionable proposition. Isn’t it? But sometimes? And . . . maybe . . . just at the moment? I kept quiet. Honestly, it felt good to be held, and my own heart rate slowed as the danger receded. He felt warm and solid.
It dawned on me, probably more slowly than it should have, that Jacob was hard as a fire brick. Given the disparity in our heights, I could feel his erection from a bit south of my belly button to quite a bit north of it.
I stilled my instinct to jump back. I would need time to process what was going on – and how I felt about what was going on – but I was not going to freak out about it. Jacob didn’t deserve that. Instead, I remained still, listening to the whirl of my thoughts and the strong, steady beat of his heart.
I sighed, pulled back, and glanced at the pyrometer. Turning my eyes back to Jacob, I said, “We need to stoke the fire.”
His eyes were warm, and a smile played at the edges of his lips, equal parts merry, knowing, and rueful. “If you say so.”
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
We had an hour and a half to fire before Tatiana and Sug came down to relieve us. Tatiana took one look at us as we finished stoking the upper firefox and said, “Where’r Brice and Tawney?”
I took off the helmet and faceshield and wiped sweat and grime off my forehead with the back of my wrist. “I had to pull them. Brice is sleeping it off in town; Tawney’s conked out in my tent. Coming down off a bit of a high.”
“Janey’s gonna shit a brick.” Tatiana gave me a sharp look. “You look like hell.”
“I’ve had better nights,” I admitted.
Sug spoke up, her voice gentle. “Go up to the house and crash, Kez. You need it. I'm using the first bedroom at the top of the stairs.”
I was grateful for the offer. I wasn’t looking forward to telling Janey what happened, and doing it without any sleep was even less appealing. I nodded.
“Kez?” Jacob asked softly.
I looked over at him.
“Will you be okay?”
I smiled. I expect it looked gruesome, and I’m sure it was tired and threadbare, but it was still a smile. “Yes. Thank you.”
Tatiana was watching us both. “Go on, you two. Get some sleep. Jacob, feel free to use the bed I’ve been in; it’s better than whatever you’ve been sleeping on.”
Jacob gave her a smile that no doubt looked better than mine and said, “Thanks, Tatiana. But I’m good. I’ll see you in a few, Kez.”
“Well . . . I’d say good night to you all, but it’s just after 4:00 am, so that sounds stupid.” I took off my gloves and threw them in the bin. “I’ll be down later.”
“Kez, honey,” Sug urged, “sleep right on through. I’m not going back to bed after the shift. Well . . . not right after, anyway.”
“Believe me, I’d love to. But I’m going to need to talk to Janey when she gets up.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I guess you will. Well . . . the offer’s still open. If you get the chance.”
I waved an acknowledgement, gave Jacob a parting smile of thanks, and walked up the road to the house. Before I went upstairs I spent some time in the kitchen rinsing the grime off of my hands, arms, face, neck . . . Tatiana was right. I did look like hell.
I quirked a smile when I saw the state of Sug’s room at the top of the stairs. Her clothes were scattered here and there, and the table was covered with sketch pads showing various abstract drawings in colored pencil. Inspirations for some of her sculptural forms.
I pulled off my boots, dropped my shorts, and got what was left of my work shirt off my back. It was badly torn and gave every evidence of having been rolled in the dirt while I was still in it. Complete loss, I thought tiredly. I finally crawled into bed, closed my eyes, and expected to be out in seconds.
I wasn’t.
Freed from the pressures of the moment, my brain decided it was a fine time to process my strange interaction with Jacob at the kiln. He had held me in strong arms, called me a woman (okay, a strange woman, but still). There was no denying the fact that he’d had one hell of an erection.
What was I, to Jacob? A “friend?” Could I even say that, when we’d only met each other days earlier? But there’s no denying that our shared predicament had brought us close together. We’d talked about things that I normally didn’t share, at all.
It’s more than that, I thought. That much is undeniable.
I forced myself to go back through each of our interactions. At the house . . . the morning on the patio . . . my studio . . . the dinner party . . . the walk in the woods . . . the drive . . . the tarn . . . the dancing . . . . Tatiana thought we’d known each other forever, and it felt like we had. Somehow, we understood each other. Clearly a connection.
No. An attraction.
No! For God’s sake! He was in love with Brea! No way he would be attracted to me!
Yeah, that explains the boner.
I told myself it was just adrenaline. The excitement of the moment. But . . . it hadn’t felt that way.
Okay, Kez. Stop avoiding the tough issue. What is Jacob, to you?
I had never been attracted to guys. But . . . no guy had ever been attracted to me, either. Finding myself in the arms of a decent, seriously good-looking guy who seemed to be attracted to me hadn’t actually felt unpleasant.
Not “unpleasant?” Really? You don’t say?
Alright, fine! It felt . . . good. On my usual “Barbie equals zero, Ken equals ten” scale, I might have hit a “one” for the first time ever. I’d enjoyed that, thoroughly. And from that place of deep, profound femininity, Jacob had been very attractive. Very attractive. I couldn’t deny it.
But so what? I am happily married. I have Kara, Kara is my world, and that’s all that needs to be said.
But the worm in my head forced one last thought into my brain before I managed to get myself to sleep.
Kara’s happily married, too. She also has Brea.
* * * * *
My alarm pulled me from a deep but troubled sleep less than three hours later. I hit “snooze,” but then snarled at myself, rolled out of bed, and changed the command to “off.” No stalling.
I could hear Janey downstairs, so I put my shorts and boots back on. The work shirt was a rag; there was no point in trying to put it on again. My tank top would have to do.
“Good morning, Janey,” I said as I stepped into the kitchen.
She looked up from her coffee. “Uh huh. Why do I think you’re gonna be wrong about that?”
“Because you were born with a suspicious mind. Beside, you’re probably still undercaffeinated.”
“My third cup, so that ain’t it.” She set the cup down and looked at me more closely. “How ‘bout ‘cuz you’re here, and ‘cuz I’m not blind. What happened?”
“I’m sorry, Janey. I had to pull the kids off last night. Brice was drinking and Tawney was high. Jacob and I finished their shift.”
She said nothing for a full minute before saying, “What aren’t you telling me?”
“Everything’s good. We caught it before there was any damage to the firing, and everything’s still right on schedule.”
“Okay. Good.” She took another pull of her coffee. “So now we’ve established what you aren’t not telling me. S’pose you save me some trouble and tell me what you are.”
I felt like a school kid, standing there, so I walked over and sat across the table from her. “Brice got violent. Jacob had to get physical in order to get him to leave. Tawney . . . ah . . . she didn’t want to go with him. With Brice.”
She got up, refilled her cup from a Mr. Coffee, then poured me one and sat back down. “Kez. I appreciate that you kept the firing on track. But I need to know exactly what happened. It’s my kiln and my property, so I’m responsible. You can just tell me, or I can pry it out of you like I’m some damned detective. What’s it gonna be?”
I sighed, then took a sip of the coffee. Execrable, but it would do in a pinch. For medicinal purposes, as it were. “We turned over the shift at midnight and I stayed to watch them through a couple rounds of stoking. They looked okay, so I went to bed. I woke up, probably 2:30 or so, and I didn’t hear the kiln doors opening and closing like I should, so I went over to check it out. I smelled weed half way there. The kiln was about 100 degrees lower than it should have been and dropping, so I stoked it. Brice kept telling me it was fine. Then I went over to Tawney and confirmed that her eyes were dilated, she’d been smoking pot and was out of it.
“Then. . . ah . . . Brice threw me to the ground and tried to load more wood in the back of the kiln. He was going to heave it in, right into the pots. So I rushed him, and he dropped the wood. On his foot.”
“He was barefoot?” Janey sounded disgusted.
“At that point, yeah. Not when he showed up!”
“Idiot,” she muttered. “Okay. Go on.”
“Well, he was hopping around, so I closed the kiln door. He grabbed my arm, spun me around and kind of tossed me to the ground. That’s when Jacob showed up and gave him a gut punch. After that he was pretty much finished. He agreed to leave and Jacob agreed to let him, long as he took a field sobriety test. Tawney didn’t want to go with him, so I left her sleeping in my tent.”
She thought about it a minute more. “Okay. First things first. Are you hurt?”
“A few scrapes. Nothing.”
She continued to give me very careful scrutiny. “You’re sure?”
“Sure.”
“Did he break his foot?”
I shrugged. “No idea. I mean, it clearly hurt when it happened, but it didn’t seem to slow him down when he came after me.”
She reached over and patted my hand. “Okay. Look, you did good. You should have called me – you know that’s the kind of emergency I should deal with – but you handled it well. I’m gonna need to give Debbie a full report, and she can decide what happens to them in terms of their class. Their education, for that matter. She’ll need to send someone else next week to pick up their wares when we open the kiln. The question I’ve got for you is . . . .”
She broke off. We heard the sound of her dogs sounding off, loud and strong. She gave me a puzzled look, set down her cup, and charged outside, shouting. “Quincy! Maddy! Jackson! Come!!!!”
I got up and followed, feeling generally sore all over. Outside, I heard the dogs continuing to bark – it sounded like it was coming from the parking area – and I followed Janey to see what was going on.
The dogs were circling a car that had pulled in, and Janey successfully managed to get them back.
It was a police car.
Once the dogs were clear, two officers stepped out. Both were men. The driver was in his mid-forties and stocky; the passenger was younger, sandy-haired, and on the tall side. They looked at the dogs warrily.
The older officer took the lead. “Hey, Janey.”
“Fred.”
“Uh – we got a complaint this morning. Kid claims he was assaulted while he was working on your kiln last night.”
I stayed silent. This was Janey’s domain, and she knew the players.
“Okay. So you’ve got a complaint. We might have one, too. You planning on making some arrests or something?”
“Not yet, Janey. But we got to investigate. Check it out. If we can talk to the people who were there, we might be able to avoid making any arrests.”
She chewed on that. “But everything they say can be used against them in court, right?”
He shrugged. “You know how it is, Janey.”
I decided to speak up. “I was there, and I’m willing to answer your questions.”
Janey shot me a look. “You don’t have to, Kez. You know that.”
“It’s okay.” I told her.
Janey’s face had a sour look. “Your call.” She turned her attention back to the police, “Fred, this is my night shift supervisor, Keziah Brown. Kez, this is Officer Fred Prescott.”
“Sergeant,” he said, with a half smile.
“Sergeant?” Janey looked pleased despite herself. “Well, good for you! And past time, for whatever my opinion’s worth.”
“Thanks, Janey,” he said. “There’s a ‘Kez’ on the list of people I wanted to talk to.”
She shrugged. “Look, Fred, I got a firing to run. You want to talk to Kez, I’m happy to let you use the kitchen up at the house.”
“That’s fine,” he told her. “But we’d also like to speak with” – he checked his notes – “Tawney Mason and someone named ‘Jacob.’ I don’t have a last name.”
“I’ll find out if they’re here – and if they’re willing to talk to you,” Janey said.
“Janey . . . if they run off, we’re gonna need to grab ’em.” He sounded apologetic.
“I’ll bear it in mind,” she growled, then pointed at the house. “Kitchen. Now!”
They brought me up to the house and we sat in the kitchen. I went through my story with them – again – then answered their questions.
After several questions, the Sergeant looked at me and said, “Just so I’m clear, you confirm that Jacob Harmon hit Mr. Carson somewhere in the stomach, then held him down by his neck?”
“Yes. But I want to be very clear: he did so to prevent Mr. Carson from continuing to attack me.”
He looked up from his notes, and his eyes were not unfriendly. “I understand, Miss. We got that part, honest.”
I was tempted to let it go, but decided I’d better not. “Ummm . . . I hate to have to say this, but it’s not ‘Miss.’ Technically, I’m a ‘Mister.’” Mighta looked more believable if I’d had time to get my turban.
His eyes popped. “Oh! I’m terribly sorry!”
I waved it off. “Don’t be. I don’t get worked up about it, but I thought your report had better be accurate.”
“I . . . ah . . . I see,” he stammered. More strongly, he said, “Mr. Carson indicates that he was robbed. Can you comment on that?”
I must have looked baffled; for sure, I felt baffled. “No idea what he’s talking about. He may have left stuff behind when he drove off, but no one took it from him.”
“Okay,” he said. “I think we’re done with our questions. Based on what you’ve told me, do you want to press charges against Mr. Carson?”
“I’m sorry, I’m not operating on a lot of sleep. Charges for what?”
“Assault and battery. Maybe disturbing the peace.”
“Oh . . . ah. No. I mean, if he intends to press any charges, against anyone, I’ll absolutely press charges. He broke Janey’s rules – practically all of them – he attacked first, and Jacob was just trying to keep him from hurting me or anyone else. Including himself. But . . . long as he clears out and doesn’t try to make any trouble, I’m willing to let it lie. He was stupid to drink while trying to fire a kiln at twenty-two hundred degrees, and even stupider, if that’s a word, once he was drunk. But I don’t think ‘stupid’ is a crime.”
“Okay,” the sergeant said. “If you're sure?”
“I’m sure.”
He looked a bit relieved. Less paperwork, I imagine. “Before you go . . . . I see you’ve got scrapes on your legs and arms. Can I take a closer look?”
I shrugged. “Sure. Okay.”
After he was done, he said, “Thanks. If you can find Mr. Harmon, we’d appreciate it. Uhh . . . you should probably put something on those scrapes. And clean them out, thoroughly.”
I nodded and went outside. I wasn’t surprised to see Janey, Jacob and Tawney all in the yard, each effectively in their own corners.
“I figured they wouldn’t want anyone coordinating stories,” Janey explained.
Jacob looked calm, rested and unconcerned. “Are you willing to talk to them?” I asked.
He gave me a smile. “Of course.”
“You’re up, then.”
He went in.
“Tawney?” I asked.
“Yeah?” she responded.
“You okay?
She nodded, a bit jerky. “I’m . . . I’m sorry about last night. I just . . . .”
I cut her off. “It’s okay. We can talk later. I just want to make sure you’re alright.”
She nodded again, stronger this time. “I’m okay. Really.”
I sat down across from Janey at one of the picnic tables. “Is everything okay down at the kiln?”
“Yep. The gals are sitting around chatting ’til we’re done up here, and Bill and Gary are on shift. We’re at 2200 and everything looks good.”
“I can cover a shift this afternoon if you need it.”
She grunted. “We’ll see.”
The sun felt good on my shoulders. I closed my eyes and put my head down on the table. God I felt tired. At some point I must have fallen asleep.
.
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I woke to the sound of voices talking in hushed tones nearby.
“You should nail his ass!” Janey. “He filed a false report. He attacked Kez. And add what he said? Dammit Fred, it sounds like a hate crime!”
Ah, shit. So Jacob and Tawney must have gotten into that part. I kept my head down.
“His report wasn’t false, exactly. He said Harmon hit him; everyone agrees that happened. He didn’t say he’d started it, but he didn’t say he hadn’t, either. . . . And . . . based on what everyone said, he wasn’t going at your supervisor because of the transexual thing. It’s more like he just threw that stuff out in the heat of the moment.”
“How do you know? Jesus, Fred, I’m so mad about this I can’t see straight! Besides, it’s transgender. Where you been, the past twenty years?”
I decided I had better intervene. “Janey?” I raised my head.
She looked back at me, and man, she wasn’t kidding. You could break rocks with her expression.
“Janey, thanks. Really. But I didn’t mention what Brice said, ’cuz I agree with Sergeant Prescott. He tossed me around because I caught him breaking your rules and called him on it. The words . . . yeah, they were meant to sting. But it’s not why he did it.”
The sergeant came over and sat across from me. “You still should have told us, Mr. Brown.”
“Keziah. Please. So much easier, that way,” I said.
He nodded his acquiescence. “Keziah, then. I thought your friend was making it up, ’till Miss Mason confirmed what he said.”
Oops. “Okay. Sorry about that, and I should have thought of it. I just . . . damn. I just really didn’t want to deal with the whole gender thing. It’s not important.”
He gave me a shrewd look. “Or, maybe it is important, but you’d still rather not have to deal with it?”
I acknowledged the hit with half a smile. “Maybe.”
“You can still press charges on the assault and battery claim.”
I shook my head. “What I said before still stands.”
“Okay,” he said. “It’s your call. If Carson’s got any brains at all – if – he’ll stop trying to make trouble and he’ll get out of town in a hurry. No one here has any time for that sort of . . . ah . . . behavior.”
“Thanks.” It occurred to me to ask, “Is Tawney alright?” Neither she nor Jacob were in evidence.
“She . . . ah . . . neither confirmed nor denied possessing or using marijuana. It would only be a citation even if we had evidence – no different than a traffic ticket. So . . . we don’t intend to pursue it. Her testimony with respect to Mr. Carson was very helpful.”
I shook my head. “Good to know, but that wasn’t really what I meant. She . . . she wasn’t hurt, was she?”
His eyes crinkled in understanding. “No. She wasn’t completely positive that would have been the case, though, if you hadn’t showed up when you did.”
“Ah.” I thought that’s what I had been seeing.
Just then Jacob made an appearance, moving so silently that he gave no warning he was coming. “Sergeant Prescott,” he said, approaching the older man. “Looks like some of Mr. Carson’s stuff is down by the kiln. No one’s touched it.”
“Ah – that’s helpful.” Turning to Janey, he said, “I got no warrant, Janey, and it’s your place.”
“Go on,” she said. “If he’s got stuff there, you can take it and give it back to him, far as I’m concerned. Might want to take pictures before you do, though.”
“I’d be happier if you came with us,” he replied. “I don’t want to pick up any of your stuff by accident.”
“Alright,” she said. “Time I checked in on Bill’n Gary, anyhow. And I’ll tell the gals the house is available as well.” She got up and accompanied the officers down the hill.
Jacob came and joined me. “You feel as bad as you look?”
“Haven’t seen a mirror this morning. Do you feel as goddam chipper as you look?”
He chuckled. “Yeah. Sorry about that. Truth is, I am starting to feel a bit tired.”
“Can’t imagine why. Though, I’m glad it’s not just me. . . . I hope the police weren’t any trouble?”
“None.” He snorted. “Brice is an idiot. Maybe he thought Tawney would back up his story, though I have no idea how he thought she would figure out what it was. I can’t imagine she did, anyhow. Didn’t hurt that I carry a tin.”
“Tin?” I asked.
“A badge.” He opened his wallet, and there it was, in all its enameled glory. “U.S. Forest Service, but a tin’s a tin. If I’m caught in a lie they’d crucify me – and rightly so – but they’re not going to bust me on the say-so of some snotty hung-over college kid.”
“Doesn’t seem very fair,” I observed.
“It’s not,” he said. “And God knows, it gets abused. But I was on the side of truth, justice and the American Way today, so I’m not going to sweat it.”
My expression was a bit sour. “A fair number of upstanding citizens don’t think I’m part of the ‘American Way.’”
“A fair number of ‘upstanding’ citizens have a problem with the Declaration of Independence. It’s still the American Way.”
“Believe me, Superman, I’m not arguing!” I smiled.
He smiled back. It was a nice smile. “I told them I thought you should be the one pressing charges. Will you?”
“No. Not unless he wants to press charges against you or Janey. Or me, I suppose.”
He gave me a long look. “Why not?”
I shrugged, uncomfortable. “He was a drunk jerk. If we locked up every drunk jerk, the prisons would be overflowing.”
“It’s not something you get jail time for,” he said absently, before adding, “Please don’t tell me it’s not a big deal. That attack was bad, and it was about to get worse.”
I couldn’t think of anything to say to that.
His expression softened, and he reached out and covered my hand with one of his. “It’s because of the transgender angle, isn’t it?”
I looked away. “Yes. Partly.”
“You don’t think that’s even more of a reason to press charges?”
I looked back at him. So solid. Grounded. How to explain this? How can a Boy Scout understand my world? I sighed. “Look, I don’t think it’s why he attacked me. But if I press charges, that’s suddenly what this will be all about, won’t it? I don’t want to get dragged into some goddamned culture war, just ’cuz a stupid kid got drunk and disorderly.”
“Only one way to deal with bullies,” he countered.
I snorted. “I know. Really. And maybe I ought to take up the banner, and strike a blow against hatred and bigotry and all the rest. But . . . Jacob, I just want to live my life. If people think of me, I want them to think of my pottery. I want them, maybe, to think I’m an artist. Not a ‘trans artist,’ or a ‘gender-fluid artist.’ Just . . . Keziah Brown, Potter.”
He gave my hand a gentle squeeze. “I understand. I think I do, anyway. But . . . it’s got to eat at you.” His voice was soft. Concerned.
“It’s better now. I can go weeks – months, even – without having anyone throw it in my face. Back in middle school and high school . . . then, it was rough.” An image from gym class suddenly and vividly pulsed painfully in my memory. “Probably any boy who looked like me – much less felt and acted like me – has heard all the insults. And worse. I learned to cope. Mom and Dad helped me, that way. And I had friends. That helped, too.”
He shook his head. “Until today, I didn’t even see the scars. You seemed so . . . I don’t know? Comfortable in your skin?”
I looked into his frank brown eyes and smiled, a bit sadly. “Some of that’s my folks’ influence; most of it’s Kara’s. But I can’t say it doesn’t hurt. People who claim to love and respect women think less of me because I have a strong feminine streak. I don’t get it and I never have. But that’s the world, and nothing little ol’ me does is gonna fix it.”
“Hopefully having friends still helps.”
I felt a prick of tears and suppressed it. Putting my free hand on top of his, I said, “I couldn’t make it without them, Jacob. And . . . thanks. I hate admitting that it still bothers me, even now.”
We heard the sound of voices on the path, so we extracted ourselves from the picnic table.
Before I could say anything, Sug spoke up. “Hey Kez – did you manage to get some sleep?”
I nodded. “I did, thanks!
Tatiana said, “Janey told us, in no uncertain terms, to take care of your scrapes.”
I nodded. “No worries; I’ve got a first aid kit in the truck. I’ll take care of it.”
Tatiana just shook her head. “What part of ‘no uncertain terms’ did you miss? Sit down; Janey’s kit’s in the kitchen. I’ll be right out.”
“Honest, guys, it’s . . . .”
Tatiana cut me off. “It’s Janey’s world, kid. We just live here.”
Laughing, I sat down and decided to bow to the inevitable with whatever grace I could muster.
Tatiana was soon fussing over me with a wash cloth, then spraying an antibacterial formula on the affected areas. “Lots of scrapes, but nothing that really needs a bandage. I’d tell you to keep it clean, but it’s a firing. You can’t. So . . . just wash and re-apply when you’re off shift.”
I stood. “Thanks, Tatiana.” Sug had hovered nearby, but first aid is a bit too practical for her skill set. “Let me go talk to Janey about the schedule.”
“Feel free,” Tatiana said, “But I’ll tell you now it’s up in the air with Brice out of the picture. And . . . I think I dinged my shoulder stoking the upper chamber. Sug here can’t do a whole four hours of that, so she’s gonna have to break us up, too.”
“She’s going to let Tawney back on shift?” I was surprised. Janey takes a dim view of rule violations.
Sug snorted. “Let her? Are you kidding? The kid’s going to be doing double duty if Janey has her way!”
“Which,” Tatiana added needlessly, “She almost always does.”
“I’m glad,” I said. And I was. Tawney didn’t strike me as a particularly strong personality, and she could learn a lot from being around this lot. Especially without her greasy boyfriend to get her going off the rails.
Jacob and I started down the path, but Tatiana called me. “Ah . . . Kez?”
I looked back, a question on my face.
“I hate to break it to you, but the seam on your shorts is split, and it looks like it’s spreading.”
I shook my head in disgust. “Of course it is. Damn! Well, thanks for the heads up. I need to go change, anyways.”
The police were leaving as we got to the parking area. “Find everything you were looking for?” I asked.
Sergeant Prescott nodded, a smile on his face. “Everything on Carson’s list. Shirt, shoes, wallet. The item he forgot to mention was his backpack, which is where his wallet was. Along with a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. About two thirds full.”
I shook my head. “Idiot.”
“Our tax dollars at work, educating that one,” Prescott said, disgusted. They drove off.
When we got to the kiln, Janey was going over the schedule on her phone. She looked up when she heard us . . . well, heard me, since Jacob doesn’t make noise when he walks. “Can I break you two up? Jacob, I’d like to pair you up with Sug on a shift; I don’t want Tatiana doing any more lifting this firing. And Kez, I’d like to have you on with Tawney.”
We looked at each other. Jacob smiled and shrugged. “I’m here to help.”
“Hundred percent, Janey,” I said. “But we both need a bit of rest first.”
“Can one of you do a noon shift?” she asked.
Before Jacob could answer, I said, “I’m in. You probably don’t want Sug on again that soon.”
Janey nodded. “Okay. Rack out. The rest of the schedule’s gonna be a bitch now. Sorry.”
* * * * *
Janey was right – the rest of the firing was hard. We were short-handed before we lost Brice and had to take Tatiana off duty, and most of the other participants had front-loaded their scheduled shifts so they could leave early.
The ambient temperature hit the high eighties, which definitely didn’t help, and of course it was much hotter around the kiln, which hit its full-throated burn at 2400 degrees. Worse still, I had to do it all in long pants since my shorts were a lost cause.
Probably just as well I was a bit more protected though, since I slipped on a ladder while I was putting out a bit of a fire on the beams of the roof that covered the kiln enclosure. Fire coming from the air intakes for the upper firebox had caused the overhead beams to smolder in the late afternoon sun. I was more clumsy than usual and I banged my tailbone when I landed, but I’d have torn my leg on a loose nailhead but for the cargo pants, which tore in place of my flesh. A bargain for sure.
Tawney was my partner on two shifts, and I had some good conversations with her. She was terribly embarrassed by what had happened the prior evening, and eager as a puppy to get in my good graces. Clearly she was worried about what would happen with college. But eventually she calmed down enough to have a reasonable discussion.
“I thought we were in love,” she’d told me. “I sure thought I was in love. But . . . I didn’t really know him. I was such an idiot! Thinking it would be cool and romantic, you know? The two of us, a starry night, working a kiln together?”
I’d given her shoulder a squeeze. “Love takes practice. But . . . when it’s right, you’ll know. I promise.”
“How long have you and Jacob been together?”
I’d looked at her like she had two heads. “Me and Jacob? Whatever gave you that idea? I’m married to a stunning, perfect, beautiful woman.”
She shook her head, embarrassed. “Oh, I’m so sorry! We just assumed . . . .” Her voice trailed off in confusion.
I was exasperated. “You know what they say about assuming!” But, seeing her deer-in-the-headlights look, I relented and said, as gently as I could, “Tawney . . . gender can be complicated. So can sexual orientation. But love is simple . . . even if it comes in forms people don’t expect.”
She was with me when active firing finally finished at midnight. I walked her through the process of closing up the intakes with paste, so as to lengthen the cool-down time. When we’d sealed up the last crack, Jacob gave her a ride into town. Brice had cleared out, but she still had the room in the motel where they had been staying. Tatiana lived down near NHTI, and she was going to give her a ride home the next day.
I stayed awake until Jacob got back. We were both tired at that point, and I was worried. But when he came down the hill, we headed across the field to our tents. It was still warm, and I thought sleep was going to be tough to sustain. “Jacob – thanks so much for being here. We’d have been in a real pickle if you weren’t.”
He smiled. “It’s my pleasure, Kez. Really.”
I looked at him again. Solid. Decent. “I hope . . . .” I stopped, embarrassed.
He studied me for a moment. “You hope?”
I touched his shoulder lightly. “I just hope Breanna appreciates you properly. You’re a gem.”
“Like Kara appreciates you?” His question was soft.
I felt the color rise in my cheeks.
* * * * *
Sleep came easily, but a dream, steamy and embarrassing, had me awake and fretting in the predawn hours. In my dream, I had been all woman . . . and I had been sharing a bed with Jacob. It had felt so real . . . every muted color in the darkened room, where a shaft of moonlight illuminated Jacob’s handsome features; the smell of musk and sweat and sex; the taste of salt as I nuzzled his neck, my moist lips eager. He was deep inside me and my legs wrapped around him possessively. As his hand closed around my full breast, I gasped with pleasure . . . .
Dammit, I thought, as, waking, I stripped off what had been my last clean undershirt and underwear. Dammit!!! What is WRONG with me?
To be continued . . . .
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Jacob and I were up at 8:30, breaking down our tents, when a raucous canine chorus heralded Janey’s arrival. “Hey, Maddy!” I gave the mutt a treat and he bounded away, happy. I had a soft spot for that one. Soon the lab and the shepherd were circling us as well.
Janey picked her way across the field. “Mornin’ Kez. Jacob.”
We said our good mornings, and she said, “Listen. This firing woulda been a complete bust if you hadn’t been here. Both of you,” she stressed, giving Jacob an approving look. “We’d of lost thousands of dollars worth of pots, and god knows how many hours of work. You don’t get nothin’ for all that but thanks, but . . . I do want you to know how much I appreciate it.”
Janey’s not much of a hugger, but I hugged her anyway. “All for one, and one for all, woman!”
She hugged me back, briefly, then stepped back and looked at Jacob. “Trixie – the Trixie I knew, anyways – would be proud of you. Very proud.”
“Thank you.” Jacob’s voice was a bit husky.
Janey cleared her throat, a bit out of her crusty comfort zone. “Alright, then. The gals are all up and dressed. Why don’t each of you go up and grab a shower before you hit the road? There’s coffee, and Tatiana made some muffins.”
I looked at Jacob.
He smiled. “Thanks, Janey. That would be very welcome.”
“Take the first shower,” I told him. “You’re way ahead of me on breaking stuff down.”
Jacob grabbed a change of clothes and headed up to the house. Janey and the dogs kept me company while I packed up. She told me that she’d agreed to go easy on Tawney when she talked to the instructor at NHTI, but she was going to leave nothing out in her report on Brice. Apparently Sergeant Prescott had called her in the afternoon to say that Brice had withdrawn his complaint and left town with his tail between his legs.
Jacob reappeared after about half an hour, looking ridiculously fresh and clean. “All yours,” he told me.
Janey stayed to speak with him and I made my way to the house. As a result of Brice’s antics and my own accidents, waking and sleeping, I was out of fresh clothes. At least we’d be home soon. I snagged a coffee from the kitchen and went upstairs.
Sug was cleaning her room out, and gave me a smile. “How you feeling, Hon?”
“Better, thanks. But I’m looking forward to my own bed!”
“I hear you! Janey’s place is nice – I won’t do tents! – but there’s no place like home.” She gave me a closer appraisal and noticed my hands were empty. “No change of clothes?”
I shrugged, ruefully. “It was a tough couple of days for my wardrobe.”
“You’re coming back next weekend for the kiln opening, right?” When I nodded, she said, “Borrow my sundress. I only wore it that one evening.”
“Thank you,” I said warmly. It was a sweet offer, and the thought of wearing something that wasn’t sooty and grimy – or worse – was sorely tempting. “I would, gladly, but I don’t have anything clean to wear under it. I wouldn’t want to mess it up – it’s so pretty.”
“Don’t you worry about that,” she admonished. “I always have extra underwear.” She pulled a clean white bra and panty set from a drawer and put them on the bed.
I was very touched. “Sug, I couldn’t possibly!”
She gave me a look, then came over and put a hand on my cheek. “You can, and you will. You’re my friend, and you and Jacob saved the whole firing. It’s the least I can do. Besides . . . . I haven’t seen you looking properly cute since that kiln opening party in Franconia. Must have been four years ago.”
I smiled at the memory. It had been a great firing, and a couple of us had organized an impromptu party to celebrate. I’d decided to let my freak flag fly, as it were – they had all been friends, like Sug – and I’d glammed up nicely, if I do say so myself. “Fun times,” I said.
“Good!” she replied, as if my response cleared any objections. “Now get cleaned up. My bathrobe’s on the hook behind the door, so put that on when you’re done and get changed back here. It’s too steamy in the bathroom!”
I did as I was told. I took a bit of time in the shower, scouring the scrapes on my knees and forearms, and washing my grimy hair several times. The bathroom had a good hairdryer and I made use of it, leaving my hair in a dark, wavy cloud around my face. When I was done, I put my filthy clothes into a tight bundle, slipped into Sug’s short robe, and padded back to the bedroom at the top of the stairs.
Sug’s face lit up. “You look a thousand times better! Now . . . underwear, dress, and some flip-flops. How’s that?”
I folded her into a hug. She was about my height, and if anything, thinner than I am. “Bless you! I was really dreading coming out of the shower and getting back into dirty clothes!”
She gave my cheek a peck. “I’ll be downstairs.”
She left me to my business, and I didn’t waste time. The underwear was plain and functional, though the bra, I saw with a grin, was designed to give a girl the illusion of a bit more up top. Sug didn’t have much going that way either, and I was glad for a boost. The sundress definitely looked better with the help.
It was a thin-weave cotton, very light, with a loose tie in the back that hung just above my butt and gave a little definition to my waist. Capped sleeves left the scrapes on my forearms visible – no hope for that – but the calf-length skirt at least covered the abrasions on my legs. And the soft lavender color looked very spring-like.
The dress buoyed my spirits immensely. Sug’s flip-flops were decorative and girly, but sturdy enough that I wasn’t worried about breaking them.
“Into a nearby phone-booth!” Sug said approvingly as I re-entered the kitchen.
“No, silly,” Tatiana argued. “Jacob’s obviously Superman. Kez must be Lois.”
I frowned a bit at that, though it’s hard to be mad at the woman who’d made apple walnut muffins. Especially since I hadn’t snagged one yet. “Married, remember?” I held up my left hand and wiggled my fingers, prominently displaying my wedding band.
Tatiana shook her head. “Sorry, Kez! But in my defense, I’m married too, and I still say he’s pretty damned dreamy!” She handed me a muffin.
I laughed and took a bite. “For one of these, I’ll cut you all the slack in the world!”
The three of us chatted a bit while I finished my muffin and the rest of my coffee, then I got up to go.
“Hold tight,” Tatiana said, rising. “Give me a pucker.” She applied a little color to my lips, then tucked the tube into my roll of clothes. “Better!”
I thanked her. Even though I’m very hard to clock, it’s always smart to look as believable as possible when dressed in public. I gave them both hugs goodbye, then made my way down the hill.
Jacob, Janey and the dogs were in the parking area. Jacob smiled. “I was starting to wonder what was taking you so long, but it all becomes clear now!”
Janey laughed. “Kez, you kill me!”
I found myself blushing. “Sug’s a sweetheart. She saw that I didn’t have anything clean and gave me a loaner.”
“I’ve got everything loaded up,” Jacob told me. “Ready to go when you are.”
I tossed my remaining dirty clothes into the back of the trailer after extracting my keys and my wallet. “Okay, then. Let’s hit the road.”
“Want me to drive for a bit?” Jacob asked.
“I can drive a truck in a dress,” I scolded. Then I gave him a smile. “But sure – if you’re feeling fresh, I won’t object.” I tossed him the keys.
“I’ll see you in a week,” Janey said to me. Turning to Jacob, she said, “I don’t think your Ma’s gonna want to hear from me. But . . . give her a hug’n a squeeze for me, would you? I miss that girl.”
“I’ll do that.” Unexpectedly, he gave Janey a warm embrace. Looking down at the crown of her head, he said softly, “Think of this as a hug from the person she used to be.”
She hugged him back hard then let him go. Her eyes might have been a bit misty, so her parting was gruff. “Go on now, both of you!”
I hopped in the passenger’s side of the cab. Within minutes of our hitting Route 3 I had fallen asleep.
* * * * *
“Hey, Kez.”
Jacob’s soft voice brought me back to consciousness. I noticed we weren’t moving. “Hmmm?”
“I guess I was a bit more tired than I thought,” he allowed. “ I was feeling a bit sleepy, so I pulled off. We’re in Newport.”
I blinked my eyes, feeling a bit disoriented. We were in a parking lot, and Lake Memphremagog stretched before us, clear and blue and full of morning sparkle. “Oh! No trouble,” I assured him, still blinking. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll be good to go.”
“I thought it might make sense to stop here and have a bite,” Jacob replied. “Brea and Kara aren’t expecting us for lunch . . . and I’m not sure they’ll be all that eager to have us back early.”
I thought about it and sighed. “There, you have me. You were thinking here?” According to a sign prominently displayed on our right, the parking lot belonged to the Eastside Restaurant and Pub.
“Can’t beat the location, though I obviously can’t vouch for the food.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said. We hopped out. I didn’t have a purse, but my wallet is just a fabric pouch, so I carried it.
It was a bit after eleven – a bit late for breakfast; a bit early for lunch. As a result, we had no trouble getting a seat outside, right by the water. It was a beautiful day, with enough big white clouds to give the sky some drama, without it being overcast or gloomy. Being this far north, they did indeed have poutine on the menu, but this time Jacob was wise enough to avoid it. It gave us something to laugh about.
I went with a cod dish that had lemon and capers, while Jacob braved their Cajun chicken and pasta. Our conversation was, as usual, slow and easy, with pauses that should have felt long but didn’t.
“Thank God for good coffee!” I said. “I love my friend Janey, but I don’t know how her stomach survives what she puts in it.”
He smiled. “She’s quite a character . . . I’m glad I got to meet her.”
I gave him a long look while savoring a bit more decent coffee. “Is she right, do you think? That your mom wouldn’t want her to reach out?”
He nodded; I was sad but not surprised to see his smile fade as well. “Yeah, I think so. She – Mom, that is – doesn’t want any reminders of her old life.”
“I hope that doesn’t extend to you!”
He shrugged. “Not that she’d say so. But . . . yeah. It does. To me and Dierdre both. If we don’t make a point of reaching out, we don’t hear from her. Since we were old enough to be out of the house, she’s never even invited us back for holidays. She was barely civil to Brea when I brought her around. Kevin is Mom’s whole world now, and I think she’s terrified to consider anything beyond that.”
“So you lost both your parents,” I said. “Even though both of them are alive. Jacob, I’m so sorry. I just can’t understand what would bring people to do that.”
He sat looking out at the lake, sipping his coffee. Finally, he said, “Love is a powerful thing, isn’t it? I avoided it for years, afraid of what had happened to my parents. There were opportunities . . . but I stayed away. I told myself I didn’t need it. Peace . . . serenity . . . that was all I needed. You know?” He looked at me.
I nodded.
He went back to looking at the water. “And then, Brea came along, and my world got turned upside down. I wanted to be with her, every minute. I was giddy when she called. Joyful when we were together. I started thinking about . . . .” He waved his hands, indicating a vastness of things. “A house and a dog, a white picket fence. Two point three children. Romantic walks in the woods with . . . .” His voice cracked, and he stopped.
I put a hand on his wrist in sympathy, but said nothing. He was fighting to regain control of his emotions.
“It won’t be like that, will it, Kez?” His voice was low, strained.
I thought about that. It didn’t sound like Brea to me, but . . . I only really knew her through Kara’s eyes. “I don’t know. Love does things to people. And . . . people do change.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “Not mostly. It’s – it’s this thing. With Brea and Kara . . . I couldn’t have made it through this week without you, knowing what’s happening. I’d have gone crazy. Maybe even postal.”
I shook my head. “Not postal. That’s not you.”
He thought about it, staring at a boat making its way north toward the border. “No,” he whispered. “But honestly, I don’t know how I can deal with it.” The pain in his voice wrenched my heart, and his handsome face was seared by longing, anguish, and fear.
“Come on, let’s walk,” I urged him. I took some money from my wallet and settled the tab, then led him out of the restaurant. Away from people. There was a lawn area surrounded by trees that faced the lake, and I pulled him after me. When we were far enough away, I said, “You okay?”
He took a deep breath and held it, then let it out slowly. “Yeah . . . sorry. I just . . . .”
I gave his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve never been in love before?”
“No.”
I kept my hand on his shoulder, and we stared out at the lake as if it had all of life’s answers. Who knows? Maybe it does.
“What makes it worse,” he said after five minutes or so, “is that I seem to have fallen in love twice.”
I looked at him, startled. He can’t mean . . . ?
“Jacob?” My voice sounded shaky.
He turned to face me, and his deep brown eyes seemed to bore into me.
I started to tremble. It’s like a dream . . . like MY dream.
Seeing my distress, he reached out with both hands and drew me to him, unresisting. “I was drowning, and you were there. So calm and kind. Such a beautiful, loving heart, so full of understanding. Like a kindred spirit,” he whispered.
I lowered my head against his chest, avoiding his eyes. Again I felt the beating of his heart . . . and his rising excitement.
This time, I felt my own excitement as well.
His hands began to move over my back, lightly, rough skin playing against the soft fabric of my borrowed sundress, making it whisper and rustle as it slid across the bra’s satin firmness. I was grateful for Sug's generosity; I had never felt so feminine. It felt right to be in his arms, in a pretty dress and lingerie, my hair framing my face. I was, for once, all woman. Just like my dream. I couldn’t stop trembling.
My hands snaked up, almost of their own will, to rest on the strong muscles of his mid-back.
“I can live with it,” he said, his head bent above mine. “I think I can, anyway. If you’re with me. If it’s our week, and not just theirs.”
My arms tightened, and again his erection pressed hot and urgent against my belly. His breath, as he bent in close, was sweet and inviting.
God, I want this!!! I pulled back . . . just a bit.
Just enough.
His lips brushed mine, firm and hungry. They pressed harder, and I found my lips melting . . . parting. My heart was bursting . . . my breath quickening . . . . my fingers dug into his powerful back.
My mind whirled as my senses reeled. Was it possible? Could it be the solution to this impossible situation all of us are in? No need for Kara and Brea to feel guilty any more . . . no need for Jacob to feel rejection . . . and for me . . . . Oh, my God! For me!
I brought my hands up to cup his face, then managed, somehow, to pull back enough to look into the depths of his marvelous, beautiful, expressive eyes. Eyes full of the same desire I felt myself. It can work! It can!
“No, Jacob.”
The words came from a place beyond thought, beyond feeling or desire. From the very core of my being.
His arms loosened and he pulled back too, resting his hands on my shoulders, fingers curling over the capped sleeves of Sug’s sweet dress. “Don’t tell me you don’t want it, too.”
I shook my head, my hands still framing his handsome face. “No. I won’t lie to you. I want it. I want you. I’ve never wanted a man before, and suddenly . . . .”
Echoing my own thoughts, he said, “Kez. Kara is faithful to you fifty-one weeks out of the year. You don’t think less of her for the one week she isn’t, do you?”
“No. Never.”
“Then why . . . .”
I placed a gentle finger on his lips and he stopped talking, letting the silence swallow his question, continuing to hold me lightly. Waiting for me to explain, and trusting that I would.
It hurt to look at him, so strong and patient even in his anguish. To look at him, and still say “no.” I said it was simple, I had told him two nights before. I didn’t say it was easy. Finally, I said, “What Kara does? I can’t do that. I just can’t. I can’t split my heart; it would kill me. I’ve only got room enough for one love. Kara is my beginning and my end.”
His gaze never left my face, and the love in his eyes did not waver. “How can you say that, looking at me the way you are right now?”
“Love isn’t just a feeling, Jacob. It’s a decision. One I made, when Kara and I got married.”
“Does she deserve your devotion? Does she deserve you?”
“Yes. But even if I didn’t think so – know so – it wouldn’t matter. What matters is that I love her. She is my one . . . and my only.”
He thought about that for a good long while, as we stood on the lawn, eyes locked, inches and worlds apart.
I let my hands drop, until they rested lightly on his chest. Giving him time.
A smile touched the corners of his mouth, full of rue and understanding. “That’s what it means, isn’t it? To love like you do.”
I smiled back, and tried to keep my regrets from showing. “Yes. That’s what it means.”
He gave my shoulders a final squeeze and released them, and I brought my hands to my sides.
He closed his eyes, took a breath, and opened them again. His gaze was clear now, and his smile was almost normal. “You are a remarkable person. A beautiful person. I needed to meet you, and I’m very glad I did.”
“Likewise,” I told him. “Though the experience has been more than a little unsettling!”
“Well . . . I can’t hog all the instability. Wouldn’t be fair.”
We smiled at each other, and this time the smiles barely seemed forced at all. “We should go,” I said.
“So we should.”
We walked back to the truck and got back on the road. This time, I drove.
We were close to home when his voice broke in on my thoughts. “I can’t do it,” he said softly.
I kept my eyes on the road. Even without people around, you have to watch for animals. Mostly deer, though hitting a moose ruins everyone’s day. “I know,” I replied.
“I love Brea so much; it makes me want to give her anything. The sun, the moon, the stars! But . . . I can’t even give her a week. I can’t commit to an unequal relationship. It’s got to be all, or . . . or nothing.” His voice cracked again on that last word, as he contemplated losing the woman who had finally brought love into his life.
He might not, of course. Kara certainly thought Brea would likely choose him, if she were forced to choose. It seemed likely to me as well. Even putting aside Jacob’s many fine qualities, would Brea give up the chance to finally have a life partner, just so she could preserve her annual tryst? True, she’d never had trouble finding new – and gorgeous! – partners, and I couldn’t imagine that would change. Brea was Brea. But still, none of us were getting any younger.
None of which would be any comfort to Jacob. He was the one who had to run the risk of a rejection that would tear him apart. Through the corner of my eye, I saw him shake his head. “I wish I had your heart, Kez,” he whispered.
I looked over long enough to give him a warm smile. “The heart you have is pure and perfect. You should learn to trust it.”
“You’re an angel,” he said.
“I’m a potter,” I corrected.
.
.
.
.
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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
When we drove up, Kara and Brea were standing side-by-side by the chicken coop, shapely arms encircling slender waists. Two damned good looking women. They turned, loosening their holds, until only their hands were touching . . . then their fingertips. Finally they let go, as Kara came to my side of the truck and Brea went to Jacob.
Jacob jumped out, grabbed Brea by the waist and effortlessly raised her up, squealing, to plant a kiss on her lips.
“Look at you!” Kara said, approvingly, as I opened the door. Seeing my sundress, she helped me down from the high cab and gave me a hug and a kiss. “Miss me?” she whispered.
I leaned forward, my forehead touching hers, and closed my eyes. “Always.”
I heard Brea’s voice fading as she and Jacob moved toward the house.
But Kara and I stayed still for a moment, forehead to forehead. With my eyes closed, I extended my other senses. Kara’s back was warm from the sunshine, her sleeveless white cotton top stiff under my fingers. Her scent . . . I could never pin it down. I knew what she wore, of course, but on her, it always smelled different. Unique.
Kara was the smell of life and of love. The smell of sunshine, of waterfalls, and rainbows over the lake after a summer storm.
Kara was the smell of home.
“I like the dress,” she murmured. “But there’s no shopping between here and Pittsburg. Got to be a story.”
I opened my eyes, raised my head and smiled. “Lots. Let’s go share them.”
“Sounds good,” she replied. “I approve, anyhow. Normally I can’t let you into the house after a firing without having you strip!”
We walked back to the house, following Brea and Jacob. “Might have been a bit awkward, with company and all,” I said.
“You’re no fun,” she admonished, though it didn’t feel like her heart was in it. “You know that, right?”
“I do, indeed.”
We went inside and joined Brea and Jacob in the kitchen. “Kara and I were thinking drinks and nibblies out on the patio,” Brea said. “Unless you two are too beat?”
Jacob and I looked at each other. “I’m game,” I said, across the invisible gulf that had opened between us as soon as we had paired off with our partners.
“Absolutely,” he responded with a smile. But his eyes, meeting mine, acknowledged the chasm.
We sat down outside, and a breeze from the lake cooled the afternoon heat. Kara had made a pitcher of margaritas, and there were a couple of cheeses, a sliced baguette, olives, almonds, cherry tomatoes and more fresh strawberries.
Jacob and I told our stories, suitably edited. Of moose and poutine, and dogs and dancing to the music of a backcountry fiddle. Of bad coffee and hard beds and Tatiana’s culinary surprises, of the depth of a star field over a long-abandoned pasture, and the fierce and primal roar of a wood kiln, pulsing with 2,400 degrees of flame and raw power. I told the story of Brice, Tawney and the police, leaving out the insults.
Jacob, understanding, let me get away with the omission.
I described how I came up short in the clothing department, between Brice’s rough handling and my fall from the ladder, and how my friend Sug had bailed me out. I left out how I’d come up short on underwear.
They asked questions, laughed at the appropriate places and were suitably indignant about Brice’s nonsense. But there were undercurrents; I could feel them. I couldn’t pin down what I was sensing. Was the indignation too sharp? Was the laughter too bright? It was like things were subtly off-key. Or else in harmony with music I couldn’t hear, something just beyond the range of my perception.
And, I found myself watching Brea and Jacob. Were they sitting close? Did their hands brush, and would they linger? Weighing what was said . . . and what wasn’t. Measuring the meanings in their glances. Brea seemed . . . distracted.
Would she accept Jacob’s decision?
What am I missing?
Our story wound down. I poured another round of margaritas from the pitcher. Continental Porcelain, the barest touch of turquoise glaze providing some crackle and pop . . . one of the success stories from that wild train kiln firing that Bill will be talking about forever . . . . The work of my hands, transformed by ice and fire. “Okay, so that was our week. Tell us about yours.”
“We chilled,” Kara said. “Though we took a sailing cruise on the lake on Wednesday, and that was great.” There was that something in her voice again, even as she mentioned an apparently pleasant excursion. As if it were tuned to a minor key, or set to music played andante . . . . Maybe only I caught it.
Why are you distressed, love?
Brea leaned forward, the late afternoon sun causing her pale blue top to shimmer like a mirage in an arid desert. “We talked, mostly.” Her eyes met Kara’s, and a look, full of meaning and mystery, passed between them.
Kara nodded, almost imperceptibly, her eyes shadowed.
Brea continued, her usually exuberant voice muted and strained. “We talked a lot. What we’ve had, all these years . . . how it’s never enough, or always too much. . . . Honestly, all of us need to talk. All of us. Right now.”
In her voice I heard it now, knew it, the music beneath their words.
The Ashokan Farewell.
I looked at Kara, but she was looking at her glass, avoiding my eyes, her expression unreadable. Kara!!!
“We can’t do this anymore,” Brea said, her voice stronger, but with no lessening of the strain. “I never really thought about how hard this was, until we were all together last weekend. All four of us.”
I could feel each beat of my heart. Slow. Labored. Keeping time, now, with the fiddle’s high and lonely lament.
Brea looked at me, her eyes pleading. “Kez . . . I’m so sorry. I . . . I just wouldn’t let you be real, all these years. I wouldn’t let myself think about how you must feel, letting Kara go every year. But when I saw the two of you together . . . when I actually let myself see how perfect you were together, I felt so awful!”
Wait . . . what?
“That isn’t even the worst of it. It’s not!” Her distress was palpable. “I felt so jealous! I’d wanted Kara so much, all this time . . . wanted to be the one closest to her heart. And there were times last weekend that I wanted to just scratch your eyes out. Not because you were bad to her, but because you weren’t. Because you were perfect! That’s not how I want to live. That’s not how I want any of us to live!”
Kara broke in before Jacob or I could respond, though her eyes remained fixed on the glass in her hand. “Me too, Dreamboat. There I was, getting jealous of Jacob, who was a perfectly wonderful guy and just what Brea has always needed. Someone who can ground her a bit.”
Despite herself, Brea quirked a smile at that description.
“Me, getting jealous. When I have everything!” Kara was fighting her tears and losing. “You are my whole life, Kez, but that wasn’t enough. And . . . I wouldn’t let myself see how much I was hurting you. But I knew . . . I knew, when I was trying to deal with my own jealousy, that I’d just been lying to myself, the whole time. I was just trying to have it all.”
Brea’s words, and Kara’s, stilled the sudden, paralyzing fear that had almost overwhelmed me, but I couldn’t endure Kara’s distress. “It’s not like that!”
Her tears were bright as she finally turned her haunted eyes on me. “Yes it is, Kez. I am selfish, and I have hurt you, and it stops. Now. Yesterday. It stops.”
She turned to Jacob and said, “I’m sorry. I had no right to feel the way I did about you. It’s no excuse, but please . . . try to understand. When Brea met me, I was . . . angry. I mean, all the time. Enraged. I pushed people away, so I didn’t have to put up with their bullshit. So I didn’t have to put up with all the rejections. All the judgments. I was just a mousy girl who’d always been attracted to other girls.”
Jacob, motionless at Brea’s side, watched Kara with compassionate eyes, but made no move to speak. He understood the importance of silence, and he knew she wasn’t finished.
She wasn’t. Looking at Brea, she said, “And then, you came along. The hottest chick in town, the one that every guy was just dying over . . . and you wanted me. You wouldn’t let me push you away. Wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. You didn’t see me the way I saw me . . . .” Kara’s tears coursed down her cheeks.
Brea was crying too. “Sweetie, I saw who you really were. You were the one who was blind.”
“You see?” Kara said to Jacob. “She believed in me. She made me believe in me. If Breanna Quinn said I was beautiful, then, maybe, just maybe, I was beautiful. Or at least, I could try to be. If she said I was desirable, then maybe I’d been wrong.”
Kara looked at me again. “If you had met me before Brea, you wouldn’t have given me the time of day . . . and you’d have been right.”
I reached out and wrapped my hand around her wrist.
She gave me a ghost of a smile, then turned back to Jacob. “That’s why it hurt so bad, when Brea and I couldn’t make it work. We moved in together, and suddenly everything was a fight. I mean, everything. Money. Housework. Cooking. What we would eat, and when. Where we’d spend time off. Shit, even who got which side of the bed!”
“Left side’s mine,” Brea said, smiling through her tears. “Always.”
“I felt the old me coming back,” Kara said. “The angry me. And I didn’t want that; I’d fought so hard to put all that behind me. We couldn’t live together, but . . . I just couldn’t let her go!”
Brea’s smile was brittle as bisqueware. “We were just two alpha bitches who’d never learned to back down. Never learned to compromise. So young! I’d like to think we’d have done better, later.”
“Maybe,” Kara said. “Maybe. But if I’m better now, I owe it all to Kez. All of it. Kez showed me . . . .” She let out a sob, then choked out, “I’m so sorry. I love you both so much. But all I was doing was hurting you. Both of you!”
“You never hurt me, Kara!” Brea insisted. “Not . . . not since the day you left.”
Kara took a ragged breath to get control of her voice. “Brea, honey, it shouldn’t have taken you eight years to find the right person. I was holding you back. Me. Being selfish. But . . . at least . . . I think you hit a home run.”
Brea clutched Jacob’s hand. “If you’ll still have me,” she whispered.
Finally, Jacob broke his silence. Tears were running down his cheeks too, but they were, at last, tears of unalloyed joy. “Have you? Damn, woman! You’ll never get rid of me!”
There were tears all around, and hugs and forgiveness and assurances . . . it was beautiful and wonderful and frankly exhausting. The music still played, beneath the words and the tears, but now I was attuned to it as well. It wasn’t the farewell I had feared, but it was still farewell – the necessary ending, that allows space for new beginnings.
By mutual agreement, we called it an early night. Kara and I made love, long and sweet and perfect. I have no doubt that the activities in the guest bedroom were no less powerful, no less filled with healing. We had survived the firing and emerged transformed.
And in all my heart, there was no shadow. I could sing for the joy of it.
* * * * *
I woke before sunrise, Kara soft and warm and wonderful at my back, her breathing even and untroubled. I watched the last stars fade and the sky turn light in the east.
After the emotional storms and tumult of the past week, I felt surprisingly rested. I’m a potter, I’d said to Jacob, and it was true. A potter’s wheel can have only one center, and Kara was mine – the fixed point around which everything else moves. My art; even my life.
She murmured something in her sleep, and I smiled. I was home again, where I belonged. At peace.
Centered.
Alert and refreshed, I slipped from under the covers and threw on underwear, leggings and a T-shirt. I tucked the blanket under Kara’s chin, pausing to give her silken hair a feather-light caress. Trying to move as quietly as Jacob, I closed the door behind me and went to feed the chickens.
He found me in the studio twenty minutes later, as I was maneuvering my monster amphorae back into its perpetual waiting place. Masterwork or ruin, I might never know.
As usual, he appeared without a sound. “I think I’ll always remember you in this space. The way you looked when you were lost in your art. ‘Restored to the heart of God.’”
He was little more than a shadow in the doorframe, the morning light a halo around his solid form. “I’ll remember you in the woods,” I said in reply. “In the stillness at the tarn when we saw the moose.”
He watched me put a tie around the piece for stability, his expression lost in the darkness by the door.
“It’s goodbye, isn’t it?”
“I expect so,” I said gently. “Our girls are going to need a long time. They might need forever.”
He nodded, understanding, and we let silence, comfortable and pregnant with meaning, say the rest of what had to be said.
Breakfast was subdued, an anticlimax, and before long Brea and Jacob were packed, loaded, and ready to go. “Let’s get you home,” Jacob said to her.
“You are my home,” she replied, her voice for once devoid of mischief, but rich in love and full of promise.
Kara and I stood together by the chicken coop, arms around slender waists, waving farewell as Jacob maneuvered them back down our road. When the dust of their passage had settled, she whispered, “Can you forgive me?”
My arm tightened on her waist. “There is nothing to forgive, love. You didn’t take your time with Brea away from me . . . I gave it to you, freely. A gift.”
“I don’t deserve you. I never have.”
I shook my head. “You are my sunrise, my sunset, and my Day Star. My always and forever. I will love you, and only you, until the end of my days.”
Tears streamed down her soft cheeks, and her voice was choked with emotion. “Always and forever, Keziah Brown. Always and forever!”
The end.
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.
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Author’s note: I tried a lot of different things in this story. Some of them worked, some didn’t. I am thankful to all of you who stuck it through to the end; I hope you found your patience rewarded. An extra thanks if you left kudos; it’s very useful feedback. To everyone who left comments – Rachel Moore, Catherd, Erisian, Dee Sylvan, Ron Houston, Wendy Jean, DorothyColleen, JoanneBarbarella, AlisonP, Dallas Eden, KayD, Wendy K, Dave (“Outsider”), Ricky, Patricia Marie Allen, Gillian Cairns, Source, Jill Rasch, Gwen Brown, Guest Reader, and Jengrl – know that I love you all to pieces. Your support and encouragement mean so much to me. And finally, I want to give an extra scoop of ice cream to my friend Erisian, the Seraph of Cliffhangers,™ for inspiring the title of this story.
So now Keziah, Kara, Jacob and Breanna join all the other characters who’ve taken up room in my head for a season – Jessica and Janet; Cami and her crew – figments of my imagination who nonetheless felt very real to me when I was writing about them. Another necessary farewell. If you have never heard it, I encourage you to listen to what is, effectively, the soundtrack for Chapter Eighteen, the Ashokan Farewell. An excellent version is available for free on YouTube:
https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=2kZASM8OX7s&pp=ygUQYXNob2thbiB...
With that, let me say once more, good night, and joy be with you all!
Emma Anne Tate, June 5, 2023
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Cam and Liz's whirlwind romance may be over, but Cami's adventure is only just beginning.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
The name on my driver’s license, and every form of identification I have ever possessed in the twenty-seven years since a St. Louis physician attested to my live birth, is Cameron Ross Savin. I suppose that is my name still. But in a very real sense, I truly was born yesterday. I am a woman, and I would like my friends to call me Cami.
John-Paul Sartre said “We only become what we are by the radical and deep-seated refusal of that which others have made us.” I read that years ago, but only came to appreciate it yesterday when I discovered who I am, independent of who others want or need me to be. How that came about is a story all by itself, and though I must allude to it from time to time I won’t retell it here. If you are interested, that story is called “Duets.”
Discovering who I am, knowing who I am meant to be, was an ending of sorts; you can’t be reborn without some death of your old self. But it also represents the chance for a new beginning, and that is the story I want to tell now.
“Io rinascer mi sento”
– Verdi, La Traviata, Lunge da lei (Aria)
College Park, Maryland, December 1
I returned to my garage apartment after my Thanksgiving weekend travels around 1:00. The very first thing I did, just as soon as I closed my door, was to shake my long hair loose from the masculine ponytail I had worn for the benefit of the Transportation Safety Administration and the good folks at United Airlines. Then I stripped naked, slid a nude-colored, lightly padded panty gaff in place and hooked myself into a clean bra, followed by a pair of warm leggings and a comfy sweater. I opened my suitcase and fished out a pair of silicone breast forms and added them to the cups of my bra.
Finally, I could breathe properly. I can dress like a man and pass for one. That’s unsurprising, since my body is, and for twenty-seven years has been, biologically male. It’s also convenient, since Mr. Cameron Savin has a good job with the white-shoe D.C. law firm of Cavandish, Edwards & Gunn, and Ms. Cami Savin doesn’t have a job at all. It’s a problem – one of many – but I didn’t need to solve it immediately.
The only people I had to talk to today were my landlords Al and Javier, a couple who owned a beauty salon and lived in an apartment above their shop, and I was not worried about them. They are warm and generous souls who had taught the secrets of haircare, skin care, and makeup to a confused young waif who called herself Candi. I carry Candi’s memories, just like I carry Mr. Cameron Savin’s — the good, the bad, and the shameful. I will treasure many of those memories and honor them. But it’s time for me to make new ones that are wholly my own.
I called their apartment and Javier answered. After inquiring about their Thanksgiving, I asked if they were tired of leftovers and interested in some sushi. Good call there.
Javi suggested that I just get some take-out and bring it back to their place, which struck me as a great idea. By 5:30 I was knocking on their door with a heap of sushi and a bottle of sake.
Al opened the door and gave me a big smile and a hug.
Javier waved from the table, where he was setting out place-settings. Soon our chopsticks were fencing for booty and we were all feeling much better about life.
Al asked about my Thanksgiving trip, which gave me the opening I had been waiting for. “It was horrible, and hard, and fantastic, and scary. So . . . It’s complicated.”
“You were only gone four days!” Javier exclaimed.
Al shushed him. “Some days count more than others.” Looking at me, he asked, “I had a sense there’s something you’ve been wanting to tell us since you called. What happened?”
I started by explaining how my flight hadn’t gotten into St. Louis until midnight and how my father had kicked my brother Iain out because Iain baited him by claiming to be gay (he isn’t, but lots of his friends are and he was tired of Dad ragging on them). How Dad told me not to come back if I accompanied Iain to the bus terminal. How I found my suitcase outside the door when I returned from doing just that.
“You spent Thanksgiving at the airport hotel?” Javi was both offended and incredulous.
But that was just the prelude, and the rest was harder. “So, you know that I was going to Pittsburgh to visit with Liz, the woman who has been . . . helping me explore my feminine side. What I haven’t mentioned was that we were having an intimate relationship as well. I guess you could say we were each exploring our sexuality a bit. She was the one who helped me become Candi, even gave me the name.”
They were listening carefully and quietly, letting me feel my way through uncomfortable terrain.
“You remember when I first met, and I told you I didn’t know if I was trans?”
Al nodded.
Javi said, “I remember.”
I continued, “That was true. I didn’t know. It’s not like I’ve always had the feeling that I was a woman in the wrong body. So, in the beginning, Candi was kind of for play, but the ‘real me’ was Cameron Savin.” While Al and Javier had interacted almost exclusively with Candi, the rent payment came from Cameron Savin’s account, so they were acquainted with both ways I had presented myself.
“But increasingly, it started to feel like Candi was at least as real, if not more real, than Cameron. And they weren’t living all that peacefully in the same body. Like, Candi wanted this to be her sanctuary, and wanted you to be her friends, not Cam’s."
I took a breath, then continued. “Anyhow, that created a lot of strain, and then I needed to work more hours, and then Thanksgiving went completely off the rails. And it felt like, once Cam got to Liz’s place in Pittsburgh, he just gave up the fight. I couldn’t channel that part of my personality anymore. And the next day, I found I couldn’t be Candi anymore either – not the Candi Liz had known, anyway. It was confusing in a lot of ways, but also clarifying. I’m not Cam, and I’m not Candi. I’m both, and neither. But at least I’m a complete person, not two people fighting for control of one life."
I looked at them and smiled ruefully. "I’m sure this all sounds crazy.”
Al shook his head slightly, the ghost of a smile on his face. When Javi moved to speak, Al motioned him to wait a moment. Then Al repeated, in almost exactly the same tone, the question he had asked when I first walked into his shop: “What name would you like us to call you?”
Have I mentioned that I love my landlords? I tell them a story that might lead any sober person to wonder if he had rented his garage to a schizophrenic, and they just roll with it. “I’m sorry if it seems like I’m constantly rearranging myself. I’m not crazy. At least I don’t think I am. But, to return to our first real conversation, I am convinced that, whatever I may have thought in the past, I am a transwoman. And I would really love it if you would call me Cami.”
“Of course we will,” Javi said enthusiastically. “We’ll probably forget sometimes, though. At first.”
Al smiled and nodded. “Cami, don’t worry about how you think it sounds. Gay men, lesbian women – we have experience trying to create identities that are authentic in a world that’s built on very different expectations. I don’t think we would describe it in the same way – I know I never did – but we can certainly empathize with what you’ve gone through.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Thank you both. I am so glad that I got up the courage to walk into your salon six weeks ago – you’ve been lifesavers. Really.”
Al waved this off, looking embarrassed but also pleased.
Javier said, “What will you do about work? That’s one area where you’re likely to have a harder time than we did, I think.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I haven’t figured that out yet. For the short term, I’ve got to keep acting like Cameron at work. It’s not like I’ve lost the ability. The only difference, I guess, is that now it’s an act. It won’t be me.”
“Are you sure you can’t just tell them,” Javi asked. “They could surprise you.”
I shook my head. “I’m not saying they won’t, Javi. They’re good people, I like them, and they seem to be pretty open-minded. But I’m part of a team that’s prepping for a trial that’s going to start in four months. There’s just no way they – we – can deal with the distraction right now. Everyone's putting in really long hours, we are all working well together and that has to continue if we’re going to be effective. If I suddenly announce that I’ve discovered that I’m female, all of those relationships will get scrambled, at very least for a while. That wouldn’t be fair, not to my colleagues, and not to the client.”
Al looked skeptical.
Javi gave me a thoughtful look. “Well, we aren’t lawyers, so we don’t have any way to judge any of that. You’ve got a pretty good head on your shoulders. But once this trial is over, won’t you just be on another trial team?”
It was a good question. “Probably,” I answered. “And I agree; it’s not like there’s ever going to be a good time. It’s never going to be easy. But I’m certain that this would be a particularly bad time. I’m just going to have to suck it up for a while.”
Al said, “You have to do what you think is right, Cami, and it sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought. But take it from a guy who spent a lot of years in the closet pretending to be someone I wasn’t: It’s going to take a toll."
I nodded. I could already sense that.
Al continued, "I really recommend that you talk to Sarah. She’s got a lot more experience than we do on the particular challenges that members of the trans community have to deal with, as well as contacts who may be able to provide you with support.”
I agreed. Sarah ran a boutique for trans people about ten miles from Al and Javi’s salon. But while she was near the top of my list of people to call, my sister Fiona placed even higher, for family reasons. That call was going to be much harder, and I wasn’t sure . . . well, I wasn’t sure about a lot of things. Mostly, whether to tell her I was trans.
So, when I got back to my apartment, I stalled. Did a little cleaning. Sent a text to Liz, thanking her for the wonderful weekend. It was 9:00, and I had just about convinced myself that it was too late to call. Then my phone rang.
“Beat me to it, Fi,” I said as I accepted her call.
“Hey, kid,” she answered. “Based on what I’ve heard from Mom, I’m guessing you had a pretty shitty Thanksgiving. You okay?”
Well, at least I don’t need to fill her in on Thursday’s family fireworks display. “I’m fine,” I reassured her. “I’m curious how Mom described what happened, though.”
Fiona reported Mom’s description, which was more or less accurate once you stripped off the editorializing about how Iain had committed abominations before God. Mom naturally was wholly in agreement with Dad’s decision to disown Iain and toss my suitcase outside.
I said, “So all things considered, it’s a good thing you decided to spend Thanksgiving with Henry’s folks, or he might be running for the hills.”
“Not funny, Cam,” she said. “Not for me. I’ve gotten to know Henry’s family since they’re right here in Boston, but Henry’s never even met Mom and Dad. I was counting on having him meet everyone in St. Louis for Christmas. We haven’t set a date only because I wanted Mom and Dad to meet him before we do. Now what’ll I do?”
I asked her what she was thinking and she said, “How can I go there for Christmas after what they did? I don’t give a shit who Iain is sleeping with, he’s my brother. What Dad did was evil, and wrong, and as un-Christlike as anything I’ve ever heard of!”
She was steamed. Not too surprising. She and Iain weren’t especially close, but both of them had Dad’s temper and a tendency to make snap judgments. Not that I disagreed with her on this one. I thought about telling her that Iain wasn’t actually gay, but he had specifically told me not to tell people, and it was his secret to keep or to tell.
I wasn’t sure that Fiona had thought through the implications of what she had said. When she paused her tirade, I asked quietly, “What about the wedding, Fi?”
“What about it?” she responded.
“I know you well enough to suppose you are planning the traditional ceremony. Are you going to disinvite your parents? Who will you want to walk you down the aisle?”
“I know,” she said, sounding miserable. “I know. I just can’t imagine not having them come, but I will invite Iain, too. If they can’t live with that, they won’t come anyway.”
I noticed she wasn’t mentioning me in all this, which made me more curious than upset. “Fi,” I said gently, “I know how angry you are at them right now. I’m with you on this. But if you want them at your wedding, I think all the reasons why you were planning to go out at Christmas still apply. Henry should meet them, and I would be surprised if they weren’t on their best behavior while he’s there. They’re going to want to be at your wedding too.”
Her hurt shaded into exasperation. “God dammit, why couldn’t you all have gotten along, just this once!”
She was crying and upset, so I decided not to take umbrage. “I’m sorry, Fi. You know this has been building for years between Dad and Iain. Based on what Iain told me, Dad was at him from the moment he walked in the door. There’s fault all around, but they’ve always been like a couple stags in rutting season.”
“I know.” Now she sounded defeated. “I guess I’ll have to bite the bullet and go out. This once. But I’m going to have to lay down my marker with them in advance. They are not going to discuss this crap while I’m there, or I’m out the door.” Then she said, “You’ll be there too, right?”
“Fi, did you miss the part of the story where they kicked me out as well, just for going with Iain to the bus station?”
“Oh, that,” she said. “You’re reading too much into it. Mom was clear that was just for Thanksgiving. You were being spanked, not disowned.”
“And now I’m supposed to just pretend that’s okay?” I was starting to get annoyed myself.
“Cam,” she said earnestly, “Please. Not for them; for me. I wanted us all there. Bad enough Iain won’t be. Don’t get stubborn, too. Please. Of all of us, you’ve tried hardest to keep the peace.”
I was quiet for a long minute. This was a fork in the road, and I knew it. I thought back to my earlier conversation with Al and Javier. How long could I go on, pretending to be the person they thought they knew, just to preserve harmony? Through Christmas? Through Fi’s wedding, whenever that might be? Didn’t I owe her that?
Finally I said, “I’m sorry. I can’t. It’s not a matter of pride, or being stubborn.”
“Bullshit,” she retorted. “You want me to act like what they did to Iain is okay, but you’re not going to get your hands dirty?”
I cut her off before she went further off the rails. “No. That’s not it. I can’t go back because it wouldn’t be fair to any of you. Wouldn’t be honest.”
“What are you talking about!”
“I’ll tell you, if you’ll be quiet long enough to let me. Please. This is hard. Can you let me explain?”
That seemed to get her attention. “You’re not gay, too?” she asked, sounding incredulous.
I processed that for a second. “No, Fi, I’m trans. Though I expect the distinction will be lost on Mom and Dad.”
Dead silence.
Then she exploded, “You’re trans? You mean you are going to show up to my wedding in a DRESS? What the fuck!!”
I knew Fi was upset and tried to make allowances, but this was too much. And now that I had let the cat out of the bag, there was no putting it back. I might have tried to swear Fiona to secrecy before I said anything, but it had felt pointless. If she decided to tell Mom and Dad, they would certainly disown me, but unless I was willing to hide forever that would happen sooner or later anyway. I doubt it would matter to Iain, but that’s mostly because I don’t really matter to Iain.
No, Fiona had been my only hope . . . and that hope had failed. I suddenly felt overwhelmed by sorrow, tired, and defeated.
“Good-bye, Fi,” I said softly, then shut off the phone.
I sat there staring at the blank screen until tears blurred my vision. I remembered the tea parties she had shared with her stuffed animals and me, in her outgrown party dresses, when I was four or five. How good I had felt; like she was sharing her secret world. Like I belonged. She had been maybe eleven, and I thought she was the coolest, most wonderful person in the world. She’d grown more distant of course, as she grew up and moved out, but apparently some of my old hero worship had survived the years. Making her rejection the one that mattered, the one that cut through bone to pierce the soul itself.
I felt very alone.
Washington, D.C. and College Park, Maryland, December 2-6
I got up the next morning and had to put on Cam’s clothes – my “Cam-o-flage” – and get myself to work.
The wild emotions of the long weekend left me tired, but also determined. My self-knowledge might have a very high price tag: family, probably old friends, my past. But, for the first time in my life, I knew who I was and where I was going. I wasn’t just going with the flow and taking whatever life would bring. I sat quietly on the Metro car, eyes open but focused inward, gathering myself for a new day.
My sense of new identity remained with me at work, even though I was wearing Cam’s clothes, interacting with Cam’s colleagues and engaged in Cam’s work. Regardless of what I was doing or who I was with, I was acutely aware that I was Cami — a transwoman, but a woman nonetheless. My sense of myself as Cameron Savin appeared to be irretrievably gone.
The shift in my identity gave me a few moments where I felt like an imposter, but I powered through it. Once I was engaged in the work, my mind shifted quickly to the task and I found that I had not lost my focus or ability. I put my problems aside and buried myself in reviewing the briefs and motions that opposing counsel had drafted, and which we had exchanged at the end of the weekend.
My personal interactions were pretty limited. We had a team meeting first thing in the morning to parcel out the work of going through the new filings, and everyone asked how everyone else’s Thanksgiving had been.
Naturally, I just said it had been great and made a light-hearted comment about the difficulties of travel over the Thanksgiving weekend. No one else said much more than that either. Our briefs replying to the other side’s latest submissions were due a week from Friday, and the team was very focused on that.
The days that followed were mostly the same: in work by 7:30; back home around 10:00. No time to do anything except feed my inner girl by slipping into one of my sexy nighties and collapsing into bed.
In the weeks before Thanksgiving, I had gotten up very early to put together and perfect a cheerleading routine for Liz’s viewing. I had found the routines to be both fun and great exercise, so I determined that I would keep them up. Liz had faulted both my flexibility and my physical stamina, and I wanted to improve both.
I did manage to arrange a time to meet with Sarah for dinner on Friday, so I left at 5:30, promising myself I would make it up Saturday. I went home first and dumped Cam’s clothes, cleaned up and shifted into my feminine presentation.
I gave my hair, makeup, clothing, and accessories even more thought than usual. Sarah worked with lots of trans women and had advised me, as a matter of personal security, to learn how to blend in. She was very aware of how well – or how poorly – transwomen were able to look, move and act like biological women when they wanted to. So I thought about who I was meeting, and where, and at what time, and the fact that it was early December.
I selected dark tights, a full skirt that fell below the knee in a rich red, a white blouse in a soft fabric with a camisole underneath and a short black jacket. I finished my look with a simple gold chain and my drop earrings.
Sarah and I met at Cedars of Lebanon, a Mediterranean restaurant that I had never tried before.
She got there first and was already seated, so she was able to watch me closely as I made my way to where she was sitting. She didn’t get up when I arrived at the table, but waved me to the seat opposite hers.
I sat, careful to smooth my skirt behind me on the way down.
After the hostess left, she said, “You get pretty high marks, Candi. Clothing and makeup are good. Your walk’s not bad; you might consider being less free with the swing of your arms from shoulder to elbow, and more free from elbow to hand. But that’s a minor thing. You definitely pass.”
I smiled at Sarah’s bluntness. She gets down to business and tells you what she thinks. I decided to spare the preliminaries as well. “Thanks, Sarah. That’s very helpful. So you know, I’ve decided on ‘Cami’ rather than ‘Candi.’ But that doesn’t matter so much. I really want to get your advice.”
“I’m assuming you aren’t looking for stock market tips,” she quipped. “So, what can I help you with?”
“I currently have to dress and act male for my job. I’m hoping I'll be able to have a discussion about my gender with my employer in a few months, though I don’t know how I’ll go about it. But what comes next?”
She looked at me quizzically for a few seconds. “What do you want to come next? Do you want someone to waive a magic wand and turn you into a real girl, marry Prince Charming, and live happily ever after?”
I blushed. “I guess that was a bit open-ended.”
“Ya think?” she retorted. Then she softened. “Listen, Cami, what comes next really does depend on you, on what you want. If you just want to be able to pass as a woman, I think you have sufficient skill already. You weren’t bad when I saw you a month or so ago and you’re a lot better now.”
I started to say something, but she waved a hand to stop me. “I assume that’s not what you want, or you wouldn’t need advice. If you want your body to start looking and feeling more feminine, there are medications that can help with that. How much of a difference the medications make depends on how your body reacts to them. Some girls do that, and nothing else.”
She paused to gauge my reaction, then continued. “Some girls aren’t satisfied with the effects that medication achieves, so they have additional surgery. The degree of surgery goes all the way from the purely cosmetic to complete sex realignment. Again, some girls don’t do any, some do a little, some do a lot. The further you go, the more it costs — and the harder it is to reverse.”
"I guess that all makes sense," I said. "But . . . I don't know where to begin."
She looked at me critically. "I'd say you've already begun, woman. But the next thing you’ll almost certainly need to do is discuss it all with your doctor. If you can’t trust your current doc or aren't comfortable with him or her, find another one. The last thing you need to deal with is some neanderthal who doesn’t believe transgender people exist. You need someone who has experience with gender dysphoria and other gender-related issues.”
The waiter came to the table and put down glasses of water. “Good evening, ladies. Can I get you something to drink while you look at your menus?”
We were ready with our full orders, so we gave him that info and he went off.
I watched his retreating back an instant too long.
Sarah was giving me a bit of a smirk when I turned my attention back to her. “Interested?” she asked. “He’s kind of cute.”
I blushed again. “I think I just like it when someone refers to me as a lady.” In truth, I felt decidedly strange about it. He was cute, and I had noticed. Had my identity shift gone so far that I was becoming attracted to men? That was a difficult thought to process.
Sarah looked at me speculatively, as if she understood my current turmoil. “Cami, you may find your sexual preferences are different, or broader, than they were as a cisgender male. It doesn’t always happen, but I’d say it happens more than you might think. It’s something you may need to face. Some transwomen get a bit weirded out by it; others don’t.”
I squirmed a bit as she continued watching my reactions closely. Finally, I said, “Okay; I can see that. I have been noticing guys more since the last time I saw you, but I’ve kind of suppressed it. I can’t imagine it’s something I’ll need to deal with anytime soon, and I’ve had a lot going on.”
“Don’t count on that,” she said earnestly.
It was my turn to look skeptical.
She was a bit sharp in response. “I’m serious. Don’t. Look, you may not believe it, but you are a good-looking young woman. Maybe even beautiful, on a good day and when you put your mind to it. You look pleased at that and I’m not saying you shouldn’t be. But men will be attracted to you, and they will hit on you. You need to be prepared for that in all sorts of ways. Know how to get away as gracefully as possible, if it’s not what you want, or you’re not ready, or you don’t feel safe.”
I nodded, trying to wrap my head around the idea that men might be attracted to me. Really?
“But even more,” Sarah continued, “what do you do if it is what you want? An intimate encounter with a man can be very dangerous for a transwoman. Men sometimes react very badly, even violently.”
That got through to me. I thought about it for a minute, then said, “I can see that. And . . . you’re right, I’m going to need to think about that some more. I’ve been avoiding it, I guess. Because the idea of being intimate with a guy seems . . . I don’t know. Weird? Taboo? But I also can’t imagine a guy wanting to be intimate with me.”
“It does happen, Cami,” she responded, surprisingly gently. “Don’t think intimacy isn’t possible for trans girls. It’s harder. Most guys aren’t open to it, and some are dangerously hostile. So, you do need to be careful. But there are special people in the world, male and female, who can see and love the person you are inside. Being trans doesn’t have to mean being alone.”
I tried to smile, though I don’t know how convincing it was. “Well, I’ll definitely think about it. And I take your point. This is something I need to be ready to deal with sooner rather than later.”
She nodded firmly in agreement, as our decidedly cute waiter swung by to deliver our drinks. This time I was more circumspect about checking him out.
Returning to the earlier part of our discussion, I said, “I do think I want to develop a more female body. I don’t know about surgery, but . . . I’ll be walking around, I’ll see other women, and just find myself wishing that I had their beautiful curves, their smooth skin. . . . I want . . . .”
I stopped, unable to continue articulating my thought. I wanted breasts that I could feel as well as see, and cleavage I could display without worrying that seams would show. I wanted an ass that popped without padding. I wanted more defined hips. I wanted a decent waist. It felt ridiculous when I tried putting it to words. Shallow.
Sarah leaned forward to finish my thought. “You want to look in the mirror and see the woman you know that you are.”
“Yes!” I said. “That. I want that.”
“Well, I know you aren’t a child, and you seem to have your head screwed on straight. But I still recommend you start with a good counselor. It’s important to talk all of this through. Before you do anything else. And for God’s sake, don’t try any mail-order or shady shit. You can really get messed up that way.”
I agreed, but would have anyway. As a rule, most lawyers don’t take unnecessary risks.
Our food arrived and we turned to lighter subjects while we ate. I got some possible professional contacts from her.
She offered to introduce me to other transwomen if I thought it would be helpful. I found myself strangely reluctant to commit to that, though I wasn’t sure why. Maybe I was worried about exposure until I was ready to come out at work; maybe I just wanted to think of myself as a woman, rather than thinking about myself as a transwoman.
In either event, Sarah didn’t seem surprised by my reaction and she didn’t push.
As we were getting ready to leave, she said, “Stay in touch, Cami. Being trans can be lonely. It can be hard. Some trans people can’t survive the pressure, but everyone feels it. It’s important to have a community, to have friends, who will support you. If you need anything, whether it’s advice or just someone to talk to, I’m here for you. And I want to know how you are doing.”
I was deeply touched, and thanked her for her offer. This was only the second time I had met Sarah, but she accepted me immediately and offered her support without hesitation. The contrast with my family was stark. But I couldn’t let my past life dictate my future.
I caught an Uber and headed home. As I was checking my emails on the drive, I got a call from Fiona. I stared at the phone for a moment, then decided to hit ignore. I had no desire to deal with more of her drama. I didn’t need the kind of “family” I had grown up with.
I got to bed at what was, for me, a reasonable hour.
In the wee hours of the morning I woke from a vivid, almost erotic dream. I was running along a jetty over deep, still water, mountains of white clouds piling in an intensely blue sky. Barefoot, wearing nothing but a lime-green, one-piece swimsuit with high-cut legs and a halter top, my long hair floating loose around my face. My body was soft and feminine and perfect, my breasts strained at the thin fabric of the suit as they bounced in time with my easy, joyful jog, and the muscles of my ripe, round ass were only highlighted by the green of the suit’s bottom.
The vision looked back at me over her white shoulder, soft, moist lips upturned in a smile of welcome as one slender hand rose to beckon me forward, onward, toward the end of the jetty.
College Park, Maryland, December 7
I woke up Saturday morning feeling surprisingly well-rested. Determined to reinforce my good new habits, I drank a big glass of water, put on my yoga pants and sports bra, used a scrunchie to put my hair into a high ponytail, and got to work on my stretches and exercises.
I was managing about ten minutes of stretches, ten to fifteen minutes of vigorous aerobic exercises from cheerleading routines, and another ten minutes of stretches in the cool-off period. Liz put me through more, but I was working my way up to it. So I spun, jumped, kicked and danced to some up-tempo electronic music, my ponytail dancing along with me. It was a fun and self-affirming way to get the exercise I needed.
Finished, I hit the shower, happy and sweaty. After removing my breast forms, I washed thoroughly, shaved everywhere, and used baby shampoo on my hair. I patted myself dry, blow-dried my hair and left it loose, simply pulling it back from my temples and gathering that portion in the back with a barrette. It still had a fair bit of yesterday’s curl and looked pretty good.
Next came re-attaching my breast forms, putting on my panty gaff and choosing a matching bra and panty set in cream. I used light makeup and rose lipstick, then pulled my shirtdress over my head and belted it. Checking the whole effect in the mirror, I was pleased with what I saw.
I wasn’t going anywhere today; I was going to work from home instead. Cam had never worked from this apartment, which had been Candi’s refuge. But those artificial divisions had outlived their usefulness.
I am only one person, no matter what I am wearing, and I don’t need a refuge from the person I am at work. There was no reason that I couldn’t work from home on the weekends, like most other lawyers, nor was there any reason to dress like a male just because I would be doing legal work.
Admittedly, most real women (okay; that stung. Most “biological” women) would probably relish the opportunity to dress in sweats and forgo makeup. But I was home, I didn’t need to please anyone else and I didn’t need to fit in. So, I dressed for myself only, in clothes that were not only consistent with being a woman, but affirmatively celebrated my femininity.
I had a light breakfast, made a pot of coffee, threw a load of laundry in the wash, and got down to work. Before long I was deep in the weeds of the Federal Rules of Evidence, oblivious to the world around me.
Somewhere around 12:30 my concentration was broken by my phone ringing. I fetched it from across the room and saw that it was Fiona again. I let it ring longer this time. Maybe there was an emergency? While I dithered, the ringing stopped and she didn’t leave a voicemail. Presumably she would have if there had been an emergency of some sort. And the fact that she considered something to be urgent enough to call again didn’t mean I would agree with her.
Since I had been interrupted, I decided to take a few minutes and have some lunch. A little tomato basil soup, a couple slices of sourdough bread, and a wedge of cheese seemed perfect. That done, I sat myself back at my desk and got back to work.
I finished my drafts of two sections of our reply brief and sent them to Eileen O’Donnell, the firm’s chief trial lawyer who was running the trial team for the case I was working on, and David Parr, the junior partner who was the number two. Then I started researching the next section I had been assigned.
I got a mark-up on my first two sections from David around 4:00, followed immediately by an email from Eileen saying that she would review it after I had incorporated David’s changes. Clearly everyone was on their computers, working hard.
I put aside my third section and reviewed David’s comments and suggestions. He was a good editor, and there were a couple comments that required further research.
I probably had half an hour’s additional work left to do before I could flip the revised sections to Eileen when I received an email. It was from Fiona, asking me to please call.
Again, I ignored her. I was not going to keep Eileen waiting while I dealt with my damned family.
I was able to get the first two sections back to Eileen just after six o’clock. Later than I had hoped, but I had found some good cases as a result of the research David had suggested, so I thought the extra time had been well spent.
I was trying to decide whether to have a bit of dinner before returning to my third section, when Skype lit up on my computer. I had a moment of panic, thinking it might be Eileen or David, but the firm did not typically Skype for internal calls.
It was Fiona.
I was home. I was at a logical breaking point in my work. If there was some drama to deal with, this was as good a time as any. So I disabled the camera and answered. After a moment, Fi’s face appeared on the screen, looking distraught.
Just great.
I had never really noticed it before, but Fiona and I look a lot alike. Our faces, anyway. She has strawberry blonde hair and mine is dark, but the oval face, the nose, the chin, the hairline were all very similar. Her eyes are gray, while mine are blue. Except right now, her eyes looked red.
I decided to cut to the chase. “I’ve got a lot going on, Fi. Is this urgent?” My tone wasn’t exactly hostile, but it wasn’t friendly, either.
“Cam, will you please turn your camera on? So we can talk?”
As an opener, it left something to be desired. “We don’t need visuals to talk,” I responded. “And I think we exhausted our family chit-chat last week. Look, if there’s an emergency let me know. But I really am up to my eyeballs in work.”
She slumped in her seat. “Okay. I guess I had that coming. I mostly just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for last week. It’s no excuse – there is no excuse – but you caught me completely by surprise and at a really bad time. Can you forgive me?”
Fiona is pretty hard to resist – a force of nature and a genuinely good person, albeit one with a quick temper. There was no doubt in my mind that she was completely sincere.
But part of me did not want to relent or engage, regardless. It was a measure of just how shattered I had been by her rejection. I didn’t want to make myself vulnerable again.
Finally, I said, “I want to, Fi. And I’ll try, I promise. But I can’t begin to tell you how much you hurt me last week. I know Mom and Dad will never accept me, and I know Iain will never care. I was really hoping . . . .”
But I couldn’t continue; my throat constricted to the point where speech was almost impossible. I couldn’t tell her what I had hoped for. The thought just left my mind, replaced by a different feeling altogether — an overpowering sense of grief and remorse. All I could do was whisper, “I’m sorry.”
I wasn’t even sure what I was sorry about. But I was.
Fi was weeping as well. “Oh, Cam! I didn't reject you. I wouldn’t. You have to know I love you!”
I had no answer to that. Because in truth, I didn’t know it. It had only been a hope, and one I had given up on.
My brain finally caught up with my churning emotions and I realized why I was apologizing to Fi, and why I thought I ought to. I pulled myself together enough to articulate it.
“Fi, I was wrong last week. You wanted to bring Henry home, show him your family, make him feel as welcome as his family has made you. It wasn’t much to ask. But we couldn’t even manage that. We’re nothing but a rolling catastrophe, and all you have ever wanted was a solid place to stand, so that you could reach for the stars. We’ve never been that, we never will be. You deserve better.”
She tried to cut me off.
But for once I over-rode her — and Skype, as I happened to know from professional experience, kind of kills the less dominant voice when there is crosstalk.
“Don’t go home for Christmas. It’ll only break your heart. Don’t invite us – any of us – to your wedding. Have a mentor walk you down the aisle. Be happy. Henry has the good family, the decent, normal, caring family, that you deserve. You don’t owe us a damned thing, so get out while you can and don’t look back. Don’t ever look back.”
She looked completely stricken. “Is that really what you think? How can you imagine I would do that . . . would even want that?”
I gently responded, “You would never even allow yourself to think it. You are too good, too responsible, for the thought to form. But you’ve always wanted peace, and a normal, decent life. When you left for college all those years ago, you minimized your interactions with all of us. You were there when you absolutely had to be. But I think you knew you could never find what you need in our family.”
She lowered her head, so I was no longer able to see her face clearly.
I had said enough and decided to give her space to process it.
She was motionless for probably two whole minutes before she looked up. Her face was tear stained, but her voice was clear. “Maybe. Maybe I did run. I did need space. But I never stopped loving you. And I wouldn’t be good, or decent, or responsible, like you say I am, if I turned my back on you now.”
She raised her chin. “I let you down a week ago. I’m not going to do it again. I’m not. Now, would you please turn your damned camera on? Or, do I have to beg?”
I really didn’t want to do it, afraid that she wouldn’t be able to control her reaction and I would feel her rejection all over again. But I would not, absolutely would not, make Fiona Campbell Savin beg.
I took a deep breath, tried to control my expression, and enabled the camera. At least I had taken care with my appearance this morning.
Fi’s eyes widened and her hand crept up to her mouth, which formed in a silent “o.” She just stared at me, wordless, until I felt compelled to fill the silence.
“This is who I am, Fi. This is me. Are you really sure you can accept all of that?”
She shook her head slightly, like she was trying to clear her thoughts. Finally, she whispered, “You’re beautiful! I couldn’t even imagine you as a woman. I never saw it . . . now I don’t know how I could have seen anything else.”
I broke the mood a bit with a giggle. “Thank you for that. Though you might be surprised to know that I was just thinking how much we look alike.”
She certainly looked surprised.
“What?” I asked. “You never thought you were beautiful?”
That finally jolted her out of her reverie. “No! I didn’t, and I don’t,” she said, before adding an affectionate, “Jerk! But I also never saw the resemblance. Not like this, anyway.”
“Me neither,” I confessed. “Not until now. But with the help of some makeup and a more feminine hairstyle, it’s hard to miss, don’t you think?”
“Yeah,” she agreed, still looking dumbstruck.
Then she started to smile, tentative and tremulous at first, but real and genuine. “I have a little sister!” she said, with wonder in her voice.
“And I have my big sister back,” I responded. We just stared at each other, sharing a moment.
I was the one to break it. “I’m sorry I dodged your calls. I should have trusted you more. But I wasn’t lying about being buried in work, and I do need to get back to it because there’s something I have to send off tonight. I didn’t ask you to keep my news quiet, so I don’t know if you did. But I haven’t told anyone at work, and won’t be able to for a while. If you could keep it quiet I’d appreciate it.”
“I didn’t tell anyone except Henry. We don’t keep secrets from each other, but we do keep each other’s secrets. I hope that’s okay?”
“Absolutely. Though I am curious about how he responded – if you feel comfortable telling me.”
“Oh, he was as upset as I’ve ever seen him,” she said. “At me. For the way I had treated you. You don’t need to have any worries about Henry.”
I was relieved, and said so.
She suggested that we talk again soon, and I happily agreed. We ended the call on a good note.
I needed a bit of time to process that conversation, so I made myself a quick dinner before settling back in front of my computer with a mug of hot tea. I finished my third section around 10:30, checked it for errors, and sent it off to Eileen and David around 11:00.
Then I changed into clean panties and a nightie, fell into bed, and immediately dropped into a deep and untroubled sleep.
College Park, Maryland, December 8
I started my Sunday much as I had the day before, though I decided to add five more minutes to my workout this week. After my workout and shower I dressed casually in stretchy jeans and a blouse – what I thought of as my shopping outfit.
I was just finishing up my makeup when I got a call from Javier. We often get together for breakfast on Sunday, which is their day off. After a pleasant hour in their upstairs apartment, I returned to my own and checked my emails. Nothing yet from David or Eileen.
However, I did have a text from Liz suggesting that I should check Candi’s email account. This was an account Liz had set up for our private communications. Mostly, Liz had used it to send Candi feminizing assignments – part of our exploration of some mutual sexual fantasies.
That aspect of our relationship, which had been a source of great pleasure for us both, concluded amicably last week. I found that I could not be Liz’s Candi any more than I could be Cameron Savin. So I was very curious that Liz had sent another communication through that channel.
I went to my web browser, enabled private searches, and logged in to Candi’s account using the login and password Liz had selected. I found an email, several photo files, and a few larger video files. I opened Liz’s email first. She was characteristically brief, but her message was warm:
“Hey Cami — I hope you’ve had a good week, though I imagine it’s been challenging. If anyone can survive all the craziness, it’s you.”
“I’ve been missing you all week. More than I missed either Cam or Candi, which seems kind of strange. Anyhow, I decided to do something about it yesterday and spent a chunk of the day playing with the raw images from your photoshoot to create a set of more polished images. I had a blast, and I hope that you like the results.
“I’ve also included copies of the live feed from the GoPro. One is your cheerleading try-out, one is your photoshoot, and the last is from your ‘prom date.’ You may or may not want to see them – I know that Candi is done. But I promised you’d get copies of any photos and video, so I included them.”
“Love ya, girl! Liz.”
I wasn’t going to watch the videos today, that was certain. But I eagerly started reviewing the photos, and damn, they were good! She had made liberal use of greenscreening, so the shots were now reimagined in interesting locations.
There I was in my favorite A-line dress, walking on a broad path in a park. Or, sitting on the steps of a New York brownstone. In another shot, I was wearing my slinky red slip dress, hip thrust out, staring straight at the camera, while the blurred background intimated the motion of an active dance floor. Or, wearing my full-length halter-top dress, leaning slightly against a tree, playing with my hair and giving the photographer a come-hither look.
Then there was the classic SI pose: me kneeling on a beach, surf behind me, hands behind my head. I looked amazingly sexy – practically sex-crazed. Liz had eliminated any hint of my padded panty gaff, which was longer than the bottom of the swimsuit, so I looked naturally curvy. My skin glowed with moisture, my hair was blowing in the (artificial) wind, my eyes were narrowed, my lips parted, back arched, breasts and pelvis thrust forward. Wow.
The final shot was me in low light, reclining on a couch in nothing but skimpy pink panties and a diaphanous peignoir, parted in a very suggestive way. Again, the raw sexuality of the image was palpable.
There were two additional poses. In the first, I was dressed in a white corset and crinoline petticoat, my hair in an elaborate up-do, stretching down to roll a lacey stocking up one leg. Liz had recolorized it in sepia tones and made it appear to be set in an opulent dressing room.
In the final shot, which was not one of the rehearsed poses, I was in my halter dress, standing in a garden, looking adoringly into the eyes of a good-looking man in a linen shirt, my right hand resting lightly on his chest.
My breath caught. I was impressed at how she had combined images – no one was at our photoshoot other than Liz and me – but the photo really hit me. It connected forcefully with my conversation with Sarah. Was this really what I wanted? I didn’t know, but the photo roiled my emotional moorings.
Liz was a wizard. I had known that she had done amateur photography for years, and I should have guessed that she would have worked hard to master it. Liz is nothing if not a perfectionist. In her photos, I looked exotic, beautiful, sensual. Sometimes cool. In others, sizzling hot. But in every single shot, from the most innocent to the completely wanton, I looked thoroughly, stunningly, utterly feminine.
I remembered Sarah’s words: I want to be able to look in the mirror and see the woman I know myself to be. Liz’s photos were like that mirror, and I spent an embarrassingly long time admiring them.
I immediately sent Liz a reply email, telling her how thrilled and amazed I was by what she’d accomplished. At the end I added, “I miss you too, Liz. Tremendously. Any chance we can do a Facetime tonight, just to talk? All my love, Cami.”
Still no work emails, so I decided I would get my shopping done. Al had offered to let me borrow his car for a couple of hours, which gave me a bit of flexibility. There was a Nordstroms Rack just a couple miles away in Lanham, so that was my first stop. There were some things that I wanted to pick up to make it easier to dress as a woman whenever I wasn’t at work.
I cheerfully selected a couple more bra and panty sets, some hosiery, some tights, another pretty nightie (I have a weakness for pretty sleepwear!), another full skirt, two comfy sweaters and a cute peasant-style blouse with full sleeves. A couple of splurges were a pair of black leather form-fitting boots with a two-inch heel that fully covered my calves and a long wool winter coat in a bright, cheerful shade of red.
Still no emails from work by the time I was finished at Nordstrom’s, so I had time to drive over to Bethesda to stop at a Lululemon. I only had one workout outfit, and I was working out every day. Two more sports bras, two sets of yoga pants, another racerback top and a loose, thin hoodie joined my purchases.
While I was at the cash register I noticed two women from work – a paralegal and an attorney just a year or two older than me – walk in the door. I’m not prepared for this!!!
However much I wanted to come out at work, there’s an appropriate time, place and manner to do it. Getting clocked at an athleisure store while buying sports bras checked every single box on how to do it wrong.
I sat on my rising panic hard, putting on the poker face I had mastered as Cameron Savin while I tried to figure out an escape plan. But it was immediately clear that there was nothing to do but brazen it out and hope for the best.
So I finished paying, thanked the cashier in a soft voice, put my wallet back in my purse, and walked calmly to the exit, paying no attention to the two women, but doing nothing to avoid them either.
They were checking out a sale, chatting happily, oblivious to my presence or my terror.
I made it to the car, put my purchases in the trunk with apparent calm and drove away. After just a few blocks, I pulled into a strip mall and parked so that I could get my breathing and heart rate under control and still the tremors that had hit me. It was the first time I had been afraid of discovery since I bought my padded panty gaff from Sarah and started going out into the world dressed as a woman.
I wanted to go straight home, but I had to stop at a grocery store to get supplies for the week. Highly motivated, I finished quickly and was safely in my own space by 1:30. After putting away the groceries and making myself a cup of tea, I started cutting the tags off my new purchases and putting them away. I was going to need more hangers.
Although I like lots of music, I turn to classical when I want calm and peace. Beethoven’s Pastoral Symphony was playing on my bluetooth speaker when I returned to my laptop. There was a message from Liz through Candi’s email, enthusiastically accepting my suggestion that we Facetime today and proposing 7:00.
I shot her a reply saying I would call her then.
I also had an email from Eileen, which copied David: “Nice work, both of you. I had a couple of nits, which you’ll see on the attached redlines. Cam, please incorporate. I’ll wait until David has finished his review of your last section before I go through it.”
Nothing would calm my jangled nerves like diving into work, so that’s what I did. I opened the first document and was able to go through her proposed changes in twenty minutes.
The second one took a bit longer. I was just finishing it when I got David’s email with his mark-up on my third section. He had suggested some significant re-arranging, but nothing in his mark-up required additional research.
I made revisions in line with David’s general suggestions and sent all three revised documents to him and Eileen around 4:30. With that done, I logged in to the firm’s billing software and entered my time.
I was about to get up when a Skype call came through. Surprisingly, it was Fiona. I clicked “accept,” happy to be able to do so without worry.
She looked better – much better – than she had when she contacted me the night before. The tension and strain were gone. “Hi sis!” she said, with a big smile.
I couldn’t help but grin back. “Hi, Fi! I didn’t expect to hear from you so soon. What’s up?”
“I thought a lot about what you said yesterday and talked to Henry. I’ve been letting childhood dreams about what a wedding should be like interfere with more important things. Like you and Iain, just for starters.
“So I called Mom and Dad this morning and told them that Henry and I would not be coming out for Christmas, and while I would love it if they came to our wedding, they weren’t invited unless they apologized to you both and stopped behaving like Pharisees in the Temple.”
My eyes bugged out and my mouth hung open. “Holy shit! I’m guessing that didn’t go over well!”
She chuckled ruefully. “Nope. I got disowned too, and called every ugly name you can imagine, starting with ‘ingrate.’ But the more Dad bellowed, the more Mom shrieked, the more certain I felt. They don’t want me in their family? Well, fine! Because I don’t want them in my family either!”
Wow. This did not sound like Fiona, who had always been the Golden Child. I just shook my head in wonder. “Are you sure, Fi?”
“Yeah, Cam, I’m sure. It wasn't easy, but . . . .” She checked herself and asked, “It’s still Cam, isn’t it?”
“Officially, sure, and YOU can call me whatever you want, including ‘Jerk,’ so long as you still call me. But . . . .” I paused.
“But unofficially,” she prompted.
“Unofficially, I’m using ‘Cami,’” I said shyly.
Her broad smile never wavered. “Well, Cami, yes, I’m certain. Mom and Dad taught us values. They think we haven’t lived up to them. I think they haven’t. We can’t reconcile with that between us. Either they accept us – all of us – for the people we are, or we somehow repent of what they see as our wickedness. I can’t see you or Iain doing that, and I’m damned if I will.”
She shook her head, then added, “Wickedness my ass. You, me, Iain – we’re what God made us, and I don’t think God makes trash.”
I stared at her for a long minute, then said, slowly, deliberately, and warmly, “I love you, Fiona. I spent my entire childhood wishing I could be like you. Smart. Curious. Fearless. I’ve grown up in awe of your integrity. I am so proud of you. So glad that you are my sister!”
I’d clearly left her speechless. She just stared at me, and it was her turn to leave her mouth open like a fish.
Finally, she said, “If it weren’t for your tone, I’d think you were teasing me. I’m no hero, Cam – Cami” she corrected herself, “I’m hot-tempered and pig-headed. But . . . thanks. Apart from my Henry, I don’t think anyone’s said anything so sweet to me in my whole life.”
She paused a second, considering something. “I don’t think Cam would ever have said that to me. Always so reserved, so quiet. You’re a new person, Cami. And I’m really looking forward to getting to know you better. It was hard to separate Cam from my memories of him as a child, to think of him as an adult. I don’t think I’ll have that problem with you.”
I smiled at that; talking to one of my siblings as an adult and an equal had a lot of appeal. “Thanks, Fi. I’d like that. A fresh start, as adults. But you’ll always be my hero, whether you feel like one or not.”
She returned my smile. “So, what does your schedule look like? Got any plans for Christmas? I seem to be surprisingly free that week. Would you join us?”
I had made no plans for Christmas, which unfortunately fell on a Wednesday. But I wasn’t going to pass up this generous opening. “I’d love to join you. But is Henry okay with it? And won’t you be spending it with his family, if you aren’t going to St. Louis?”
“I told you – you don’t need to worry about Henry; he couldn’t have been more enthusiastic about inviting you. We’ll work things out with his family. My priority right now – our priority – is making sure you have a family too. Please come.”
Well, that got me crying. I accepted gratefully, thanked Fi, and asked her to pass my thanks to Henry as well. He seemed like a remarkable guy (which Fi certainly deserved), and I was looking forward to meeting him. We agreed to work out the logistics later, since I wasn’t sure how much I would need to be at work that week, and signed off.
College Park, Maryland, December 8, immediately following
I didn’t have the time to cook properly most nights, so it was a bit of a treat to cut fresh vegetables and a chicken cutlet and make myself a stir-fry. I even had a glass of dry white wine and let the calm begin to seep into my bones. When I was finished I washed and dried the dishes, then confirmed that I had no new emails.
That left me forty-five minutes before my call with Liz, and I wanted to spend some time freshening up.
Part of me wanted to wear my sexy new nightgown for her – royal blue, gathered at the bust and waist, deep v-neck with delicate lace trim. This was the part of me that still thought of Liz as my lover.
Indulging myself that way, however, was not fair to either of us. Liz was heterosexual; she had not feminized me because she was attracted to women, but because she was sexually excited by dominance, and I was excited by her being dominant.
We had explored our sexual fantasies together. But the play had turned serious for me, unlocking a deep-seated, unshakable desire to simply express myself as a woman. Nor was my female self necessarily submissive; I simply enjoyed being dominated in bed. Tonight’s call was not pillow talk.
Liz and I – Liz and Cami – were still feeling our way into a new relationship. We’d had a long talk at the end of my Thanksgiving weekend visit. I’d told her a bit about my odyssey toward womanhood, the connections I had made with Al, Javier, and Sarah, my family’s Thanksgiving explosion, and more.
Unusually, Liz had opened up as well. She told me more about the end of her marriage and her efforts to rebuild her life. This included her penchant for one-night stands to satisfy her body’s needs while protecting herself emotionally, including a guy she had deliberately picked up in a hotel bar a few weeks ago and had, uncharacteristically, seen several times since.
Derek was adventurous in his lovemaking and enjoyed trying new things, and Liz had decided that she was open to experiment after having pretty standard sex most of her adult life.
She had shared much more with Cami than she had ever shared with Cam. I felt like we were moving toward a relationship of confidants, of very close girlfriends. I had mixed feelings about that, since I was also still in love with her. And our lovemaking was powerful for me, even without the overt exploration of fantasies. But Liz had other needs and I would respect them.
Moreover, I was wrestling with the possibility that, as Cami, I might have other desires as well. Or at least, additional desires. Sarah had warned me that life for transwomen tended to be complicated, and that certainly tracked my experience so far.
So I went into the bathroom, took off my top, removed my makeup completely, shaved my face again, moisturized, then put on fresh makeup that would look better in subdued light and over a video connection. I triple-checked the makeup covering the seams of my prosthetic breasts, then slipped on a camisole and a soft, light v-necked red merino wool sweater.
I brushed out my hair, parted it a bit to the left of center, brought some over my forehead, left to right, holding it in place with a barrette. Then I brought the rest of my hair around to tumble over my right shoulder. I checked the look and decided to add a bit more mascara. Better.
It was ten of seven when I was done. I made myself a cup of tea, sat at my desk and switched to the macOS partition. At 7:00 on the nose, I called her over Facetime. Her image appeared, sitting in her living room next to a warm fire in her fireplace. She was using an iPad, but she must have put it on a stand.
I noted that she, too, had taken some care with her appearance, wearing a gorgeous green silk blouse in the same shade as her eyes, her dark red hair burnished and shimmering in the firelight, her lipstick and makeup subtle and perfect. A ruby pendant pulsed at the base of her throat. As always, a well-put-together woman!
Her smile was warm. “Cami! Damn, girl, you look good!”
“You too, Liz,” I said quietly.
My emotions were jumping all over the place, so I decided to get the conversation rolling while I still could. “I can’t believe what you did with the photos, Liz! You made me look like a model! I knew you were good, but honestly, I had no idea how good. They’re incredible. Not just professional. Real art.”
I was gushing, partly to still my nerves, but mostly because the photos had genuinely bowled me over.
Liz looked very pleased. “I’m so glad you like them. I wanted to give you something special, something personal. But I also wanted to make sure that you had some good memories of Candi. Just like you gave me back my good memories of my marriage.”
“Thank you! Don’t worry; I can’t be Candi anymore, just like you can’t be BethAnn. But I couldn’t have found myself without Candi; without you. I’ll always treasure those memories.” I tried to lighten the mood with a joke. “Also, the sex was great!”
Liz let loose a slow, predatory grin and drawled, “Indeed.”
We talked about safer subjects for a bit. Her work week, like mine, had been busy. She caught me up on the doings of some of her friends, whom I had met as Cam when we were dating.
She was surprised when I told her that I had broken the news to Fiona. “Really!” she said. “You came out to your family? Wow!”
“Well, not to my family generally,” I responded. “Just to Fi. But my parents would never accept me and Iain wouldn’t care, so Fiona is the one that matters.”
“How did it go?”
“Really badly at first. She was focused on her wedding and couldn’t see past how much it might mess things up if I showed up en femme. But she got back to me this weekend, apologized very sincerely, and couldn’t have been better about it. Apparently Henry, her fiancé, kind of shook her into taking another look at what was important to her.”
“So, you’re good now?”
“Better than good. Better than ever, really. She’s even invited me up for Christmas. I think we’ll have a better relationship than she had with Cam.”
“I’m so glad,” she said. “My family means a lot to me, even though we don’t get together very often. They were there for me when I needed them most. I can’t imagine how I’d feel if they rejected me.”
We talked about other things. I asked if she had gotten together with Derek.
She smiled and shook her head. “Not this week.” She joked, “How about you? Any hot dates this week?”
I shook my head in a "no." But I blushed, and decided I would broach my most difficult issue with her. Liz might understand, if anyone would. “But . . .” I started, then stopped, trying to think how to say this.
“But . . . ?” she prompted after a moment.
“. . . but I’m kind of struggling with this part of my identity, Liz.”
She leaned forward and said gently, “Tell me.”
“The more my feminine side has come out, the more I’ve started to notice guys. Think of them as attractive. I was at a restaurant on Friday with Sarah, the woman who owns the boutique for trans people. She caught me noticing the waiter – I guess I need to get more discreet.
“Anyhow, she said it wasn’t uncommon for transwomen to find themselves attracted to men, even if they had never been attracted to them before. She also warned me to get ready, to figure out how to deal with it when men tried to . . . you know . . . .”
“. . . hit on you?” she finished.
“Yeah,” I said. “Exactly.”
“Good advice, Cami. It will happen.”
I nodded. “I get that. Intellectually, at least. In my heart, I have trouble believing it. But that’s not the biggest issue. I’m just, I guess, weirded out by it.
“I feel like I’m a woman, all woman, deep down where it matters. And being with a man feels right in a way. That picture you sent – the one where you made it appear that I was being romantic with a good-looking guy – it was just overwhelmingly powerful. I could see it. Imagine it. Feel it. And it felt good, and right. But at the same time, weird.”
“Some of Cam still in you?”
“That’s certainly a part of it. I mean, all of my sexual experiences, as either Cam or Candi, were with women. I’m still attracted to women.”
I paused. This is difficult territory. I want to be honest. “Well . . . I’m still very attracted to you. Very. And . . . well . . . this is going to sound stupid, but I feel like I’m cheating on you, or at least, on what we shared, if I start looking at guys.” My eyes were bright, but I managed to get it all out without crying.
“Oh, Cami! I wish I could be your everything. You are so beautiful, inside and out. But I can’t. And I wish I could stop hurting you!”
I dabbed my eyes. “I do understand. Really. And I’m not trying to change your mind or lay some kind of guilt trip on you. Yes, it hurts that I can’t be your lover as well as your friend. But I can live with it. It’s part of being human. Please, don’t feel that you need to pull away. Please? I wouldn’t have mentioned it, except that I want to try to communicate how confused my emotions are about the issue of sexual orientation.”
“I won’t,” she replied. “And, not just for your sake. You’re very important to me. I feel like you’re closer to me than anyone. I trust you to get closer than I allow anyone to get.”
She paused, thinking, then added, “As far as sexual orientation goes, maybe you don’t need to decide right away? Some people are bisexual, after all. If you’re feeling attracted to men, don’t beat yourself up over it. You don’t have to do anything about it right now, and Lord knows you have enough going on without that.
“But your friend Sarah is right: you will need to learn how to deal with guys hitting on you. I can coach you on that. And if you decide that you want to get intimate with someone, you have to be careful.”
I decided I would take her up on the coaching, but not tonight.
She said, “I’ll confess, I created the photo of you with the handsome guy to see if it would provoke a reaction, one way or the other. You told me that your reactions to sexual stimuli were different in your female persona and I wondered how far that went. Or if you knew. Anyhow, I’m glad you told me. I’ll give you any help I can. Even if it’s just a shoulder to cry on. Don’t you pull away either, okay?”
“That’s a promise,” I said.
We talked a bit longer before we said good night. I checked my emails one last time, then decided I would get to bed early and bank some sleep. Another busy week was waiting.
But as I lay in bed, caressed by the silky smoothness of my new nightie, I thought about what an extraordinary week I had just finished. And how incredibly lucky I was. The only rejection I had suffered, hard though it had been, had been quickly reversed.
I had been given love and comfort – from Fiona, from Al and Javi, from Sarah, and finally, from Liz. If the key to survival – for anyone, but for a transwoman especially – is a community that can give love and support, I’m in good shape.
I had not prayed in a long while. I could find no solace in my parent’s version of Christianity, but I believed in my bones what Fi had said: we are what God made us. Before sleep overwhelmed me, I sent my distant creator a prayer of thanksgiving for all of the wonderful people in my little world.
And a prayer for courage, to face whatever would come next.
The remaining chapters of “The Holly and the Ivy” have been published by Doppler Press and are now available on Amazon Kindle.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“Pour mon âme, quel design!”
– Donizetti, La Fille du Régiment, Pour mon âme, quel design! (Aria)
New York, December 31
My brother Iain was not looking happy. I couldn’t actually remember the last time I had seen him look happy, so that wasn’t unusual. It was strange to see him neither angry or mulish, though, and while that change was largely welcome his sudden lack of fire was worrisome as well.
We were standing uncomfortably close together; his room at the Otterburg Clinic – an in-patient rehab facility in the Bronx – was not spacious. Normally Iain loomed over me; he was four inches taller, he had the substantially heavier Savin build (Fi and I favored the Ross side of the family), and considerably more muscle mass. We had both lost weight, but Iain seemed to have somehow shrunk, become less than himself.
“You okay?” I asked him quietly.
“It’ll do.” He sounded resigned.
“Anything you need?”
He shook his head.
It was time for me to go, but I felt like I still hadn’t reached him. “Iain . . . Can you tell me what’s wrong? What happened?”
He sighed. “Drugs, Spam. If you don’t know, you don’t know. That’s why I agreed to come here. I’m not getting high anymore. I’m just keeping myself from falling through the floor.”
I wanted to give him a hug, but I knew better. Iain would never accept comfort from his little brother. I couldn’t do much more than say, “I’m so glad you were willing to give this a try.”
He shrugged, looking uncomfortable. “Thanks. For . . . setting this up. And everything.”
I got ready to leave, but he stopped me. “Fi said she gave the folks an ultimatum about bringing me back in the fold. Tell me you didn’t do that, too. I don’t want their money, or their piety, or their hypocrisy. But that’s my fight, not yours. Understand?”
I was happy to see some signs of life back in him, even if it felt like he was only really alive when he was angry about something. I gave it two second’s thought and decided it was time. “I’ve got my own issues with the ‘rents, Iain, so I’m not just walking away from them over you.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Spam,” he said. “You were always the peacemaker. Drove me nuts, too.”
I looked at him, exasperated. “Yeah, I’d probably still be trying to get you all to be singing Kumbaya if it were an option, but it’s not. Dad and Mom would never accept that one of their children was trans.”
He did a double take. “You?!” He sounded both incredulous and amused.
I nodded.
He just started laughing, and it wasn’t a nice laugh. “Dude, when you try that joke, it’s gotta be plausible. Dad had no trouble imagining that I’d sleep with a guy. But you? Trans? Keep it real, Spammy.”
I could feel my face turning red. Through clenched teeth, I said, “Being trans has nothing to do with whether you can look the part convincingly, you idiot!”
He just laughed harder. “Who said anything about looks? You probably could pass, with your small hands and all that hair.”
“Then what makes you so God-damned certain I’m not trans?”
He stopped laughing, and looked completely serious. It wasn’t an improvement. “Spam, in that sheltered, normie bubble you live in, you don’t even know transwomen. I do. And I’ll tell you this, little brother. It takes more guts to be trans than you’ll ever have!”
There were a million things I wanted to say, but I suddenly realized that I didn’t have the energy. I was past caring what he thought of me. “Sixty days, big brother. Try not to fuck it up.”
I turned and walked out, the sound of his derisive laughter following me down the linoleum-floored hallway.
College Park, Maryland, December 31, eight hours later
I was finally home in my cozy garage apartment. I closed the door behind me, dropped my bags, and just stood for a moment, taking in the familiarity of it – the safety and security.
I had only been gone eleven days, but I had been on quite the roller-coaster, dealing with one challenge after another. Meeting my brother-in-law to be. Handling my sister’s grief over her alienation from our parents. Getting assaulted at a Christmas Party. Cleaning up the legal mess from the assault. Dealing with my brother’s arrest. Having an old friend find out I was trans and turn his back.
There had been many, many high points too. Christmas with Fi and Henry. My madcap New York adventure with the incredible Nicole. Making my first argument in court. But on the whole, I thought, what I need right now is some peace and quiet. Time to sit still, to process, to put the pieces of my life back into some sort of recognizable order.
It was New Year’s Eve; there would be parties and dancing, toasting in the New Year. I was content to be right where I was.
But not as I was. Because I had to deal with New York officialdom, I had been dressed and acting as Cameron Savin for the past five days, with the time spent with Nicole as my sole escape. Tomorrow was a holiday, and I could put away all of that for a day and two nights. What a blessing!
All of the Cameron clothes I had taken with me would need to be washed or dry cleaned; I had only brought enough male attire for two days, thinking I would just need it for New Haven. I had stretched everything out to last longer, and it showed. So rather than carefully hanging it all, I dropped it on the back of the couch for later bagging. Socks, underwear and shirts into the hamper.
I went naked into the bathroom and did not emerge for forty-five minutes, by which time I was washed, shaved, shampooed, conditioned, and properly padded. I could be Cami once again.
I could be me.
I slipped into the only nightie I had not taken with me on my travels – a pale blush charmeuse nightgown Liz had given me in Philadelphia. It felt wonderful to the touch and silky on my freshly-showered body. I stepped into a clean pair of panties, pulled them into place, made myself a cup of tea and sat in my comfortable chair, legs tucked up, a fleece throw wrapped around my shoulders.
On a whim, I ran a search on my streaming service and found a performance of Tosca. I hit play and closed my eyes, letting my mind wander.
I hadn’t even been dating Liz a year ago. We were working together on her employer’s case, but everything was still very professional. I imagined what it would be like, if I could go back in time twelve months and talk to my only slightly younger self. To tell that assured young man what was in store for him. Would he have been able to handle it?
He might guess the cost of the incredible transformation I had undergone this past year – the loss of friendships, the rejection by parents.
But could he possibly understand or appreciate what I had gained? The experiences that I had shared with Liz? The amazing closeness of my new relationship with Fiona? My friendships – Al and Javi, Sarah, Nicole – that would never have occurred in the ordered, regulated world Cameron Savin had occupied?
Not a chance.
Cameron had been insufficient for the world that had opened before me over the past year. As Cami, I had managed. Hopefully, I would continue to. The one thing I was sure of, as I sat and drank my tea and listened with dawning interest to the world of opera, was that 2020 would be filled with even more challenges.
Ready or not, here they come.
College Park Maryland, New Year’s Day
I was still having terror dreams. I had only had one night – the night of my frolic with Nicole – that I had managed an uninterrupted night’s sleep. When I woke up at 4:30, I decided it was close enough to my usual wake-up time that I should just get on with it.
If they continued, I was going to have to talk to someone about these dreams, residue from the assault a week ago. I would normally wait; I optimistically hoped that they would start to fade given some time. But I was scheduled to see a psychiatrist on Saturday morning anyway.
Per Sarah’s and Fiona’s suggestions, I had gotten in touch with specialists in transgender health to assist me in transitioning to my new life as a woman. Fi’s contacts had gotten me straight through to a clinical psychiatrist who would be be able to coordinate and oversee fairly comprehensive care. I thought I might as well raise the dreams then, too.
A new year should begin with good habits. My resolution to be better about sleep had not survived a day, but there was still a chance for my exercise-related resolution. So I got out of bed, changed into yoga pants and a sports bra, had a big glass of water and got busy.
Ten minutes of stretches. Twenty-five minutes of intense aerobic cheerleading routines. Ten more minutes of stretches. I pushed myself hard and by the end of the session I was hot, sweaty, and seriously virtuous. Back to the shower!
By 7:00 am, I was doing laundry, and had a lot to do. I was wearing a simple dress with capped sleeves and a pretty bra and panty set; my hair was set in the over-the-shoulder loose braid I had adopted for daily wear, and I was wearing light makeup and a dash of perfume.
This despite the fact that I was not, not, not going to leave the apartment today. I was going to do laundry, and listen to music, and do some reading. And make some calls. But I was staying home, even if that meant that I would be eating something from the freezer.
Which it did.
No, I was nicely dressed because I like dressing nicely. I feel better, more connected. Like the song says, I enjoy being a girl. Sometimes it’s no more complicated than that.
By noon my laundry was mostly done and I had caught up on both news and opinions concerning the world and the nation. The House of Representatives would be sending articles of impeachment to the Senate at some point in the next two weeks, and there was a great deal of discussion about that. The facts were mostly all known, though, so most of the chatter was just rehashing the same things people had been writing for weeks.
I had some work that I could do in advance of tomorrow. I had worked out of Curt’s apartment on Monday and Tuesday when I wasn’t dealing with Iain’s issues, but inflow had kept up with the outflow. Still, I was in pretty good shape. I decided to wait on that and make some calls first.
My first call was to Fiona. She tended to use Skype from her home computer, so I tried that first.
I got a pick-up after four rings, but it was Henry whose image showed up on my screen. “Hey Cami! A very happy New Year! How are you?” Henry, who would be a charming prince if America had royalty and if New England had charm, was looking very cheerful.
“I’m doing great, Henry. How about the two of you?”
He said, “We’re good. Things settled down very quickly after Christmas, given the way you managed things concerning Jonathan. Fi . . . well, she took a while to calm down, but she’s mostly there.”
He gave my image a close look. “You look dazzling as always, Cami, but if I may presume on our almost in-law status, you also look tired. Are you sure everything’s okay?”
Like I say, “charming.” Also, he cooks. Really, really well.
I sighed. “There’s been trouble with Iain. I dealt with it, but I need to bring Fi up to speed.”
“Oh! I’d get her right away, but she got called into work. Is it an emergency?”
I was surprised. Fiona’s a doctor and works at MassGeneral, but she’s in the infectious disease division, not the ER. “On New Year’s Day?” I queried.
“Yeah. They’ve got information on an outbreak of something in China that they called her in for; I gather it’s an ‘all hands’ kind of thing.”
“Seems pretty far afield for an emergency.”
“I hear ya,” Henry replied, “but it’s not all that unusual. Fi’s always telling me that in her line of work, it really is a ‘small world after all.’”
“Well, my call’s not urgent. Like I said, I think I’ve got things under control. But if you could ask her to give me a jingle when she gets in, I’d appreciate it.”
My next call was to Liz. She’s an iOS kind of person, so I shot her a text and asked if she had time to do a FaceTime so I could wish her a happy New Year. Rather than responding, she just used FT to video call me.
I had clearly caught her at the end of an exercise session of her own; her skin was gleaming, her face and chest were flushed, her sweat-dampened hair was in a headband and she was wearing a tightfitting rayon top. All of which is to say, she looked healthy, happy, and generally wonderful.
“Happy New Year, Cami!” She was still breathing hard but grinning like the joyful predator she is. “Don’t you look cool and pampered!”
I laughed. “Way ahead of you, sleepyhead. I finished my exercise six hours ago.”
She shook her head in disgust. “Only one type of exercise I’d even consider at that hour of the morning.” She stopped. “I don’t suppose . . . .”
I laughed and told her not to be silly.
We caught up. I told her about Christmas, but decided for some reason not to tell her about the assault. Maybe I had gotten that out of my system talking to Nicole. However, I did tell her about meeting Nicole and about our wild adventure in New York, which made her laugh hard.
“I can just see you dancing on table tops, mooning the Met . . . . Oh, my God! But seriously, Cami . . . Opera?”
I told her about what had happened with Iain. And about our last encounter.
“Are you shitting me?” she said. “He thinks you don’t have the guts? Does he know you at all?”
I shook my head. “Not really. He left home right after high school and disappeared into the New York art scene; I was, what? Fourteen, maybe fifteen when he left? I’ve . . . .”
I paused, trying to find the right words. “Even before this last year, I had changed a lot. Grew up a lot. I pretty much remade myself in Law School because I didn’t like the person I had always been. But Iain and I never saw each other often enough, or for long enough, for him to get any of that. In his mind, I’m still the snotty younger brother he was happy to leave behind.”
“You know, Cami, I try . . . I really do. But I will never understand your family. How did you turn out so good?”
I asked her about her own Christmas, and she was glowing. Lots of family, all of them getting along. Dinner with her best friends from work on Friday.
She said, “I did what you suggested. I let them know that you were coming out as transgendered, though not yet at work. And I asked them about getting together on MLK weekend.”
“And?” I asked, thinking about Curt.
“I told you, I know these guys. They were all completely okay with it. Janet was a bit startled, I think, but she just wanted to see pictures. Then Tish did, then the guys did too. They couldn’t believe it, but they’re all really eager to see you.”
“Liiiiiz!” I drew her name out like a threat. “Which pictures?”
She grinned at me evilly, but very quickly said, “The G-Rated ones. Only those. You know you can trust me.”
I did, and said so. And every time someone who knew me as Cam was willing to accept me as Cami, I felt a surge of . . . what? Relief, of course, but more than that. Rightness? Joy? Something special, anyway.
I asked about her weekend.
She hesitated and gave me a sideways look.
“Derek?”
She nodded, still looking uncertain. This was dangerous ground for us.
I thought to myself, Cami girl, it’s past time. Do the right thing.
So I looked straight at the camera and gently said, “Liz. It’s okay. I’m okay. Really. And I want, want, want you to be happy. Derek is making you happy. Or at least,” I said with a sly look, “satisfied.”
That got a smile.
I continued, “So let me put down a marker. We’re girlfriends now, alright? And you don’t hold back on your girlfriends. Dish!!!”
It still hurt, some. Maybe more than some; my attraction to Liz was powerful.
But we hadn’t been a “couple” since last August, and our decision to continue a form of sex play had been contingent on neither of us getting involved in a serious relationship. Although that hadn’t been the triggering event, it was clear to me at Thanksgiving that our intimate relationship would need to come to an end, for both of our sakes.
For myself, I had gradually awakened to the realization that, while I was more comfortable in a supporting role in sex, I didn’t want to be a passive participant. I might want Fred Astair as my dance partner, but I wanted to be Ginger Rogers, not the hat rack.
For Liz, though, our sex play had been potentially more destructive. She recreated, in exaggerated form, the warped power dynamic that had brought her so much pain during her ten-year marriage, just with her in the role of her dominant ex-husband and me in the position of the perfectly submissive plaything. She could never break free of the trauma of her failed marriage while reenacting it.
She needed to move on. Because we were so emotionally close, she knew I still had romantic feelings for her and wanted to shield me from the pain of watching her do it. But that would only serve, over time, to create a wider gulf between us.
I had to convince her that I was alright – indeed, that I was cheering for her. Fake it ’til you make it, Cami. And I would.
She was quiet for almost a full minute, staring at my image on her screen, as if she could see into my heart. Maybe she could; Cami would never even have been born but for Liz. She had a very direct gaze, her stunning green eyes almost unblinking.
I stared back projecting calm, sincerity, and honest curiosity. When I need it to, my face shows exactly what I choose to show. I may not be Cameron anymore, but I still know his tricks.
I won, I guess.
She finally said, “Okay, girl, I’ll dish. But only ’cuz you made me.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely, an echo of Candi in my voice.
She stuck out her tongue. “Derek and I had a great time Saturday afternoon. He, umm, had a couple of new ideas, you know?”
One of the things Liz really liked about Derek was that he was eager to try new things in bed. Like me, Liz had a fairly conventional background and had, throughout her marriage and her sexual experiences both before and after it, a fairly conventional sex life. We had disrupted that pattern, and she discovered that she liked exploration. She just liked doing it with a guy. A real guy.
I smiled. “What new? Hanging from the chandeliers?”
Her smile had a distracted quality. “No. Well, but . . . .” And then she got quiet and, if anything, even more tentative than she had been before. “The important thing is, he spent the night.”
“And . . . . ?”
“Cami, all of those one-night stands I’ve had, I’ve never had them here. When Derek became a – ah – repeat player, I had him over here a couple of times. But, we would have sex, it would be great, we might do it again, then out he goes. Or, we would meet somewhere else. We would have sex. And off we’d both go.”
“Cameron slept over.” I made it a simple observation.
“I know, but that was different. Or, I hoped it would be.” She gave me a sad-sweet smile. “I was trying for something real, something long-term. Like – well, better than – what I’d had when I was married.”
I’d known that, of course, but hearing her say it still made my throat tighten. So I just nodded, as if to say, “Go on.”
“So, waking up and finding Derek in my bed, I realized . . . . maybe this is something real, too. Maybe we aren’t just playing around. Maybe I need to take this seriously.”
I leaned forward and used a tone I had never used with her before. “Liz, honey . . . . can you tell me why that’s a bad thing?”
She was startled; throughout our relationship – our multiple relationships, as I traveled the twisting road from Cam to Candi to Cami – Liz had always been in the driver’s seat, the dominant partner. But she needed something else right now, and just maybe my last incarnation could give it to her.
She nodded as if in recognition, and whispered, “Because I’m scared.”
Liz had somehow emerged from the breakdown of her marriage a strong, exceptionally good-looking woman who was always perfectly put together. Confident, competent, and unapologetically strong-willed, she knows her own mind and likes it. That Liz would be scared was hard enough to imagine; that she would admit it to me, six years her junior and a novice at the whole being a girl thing, told me that this was really serious.
But I had seen Liz weep over her marriage, three years after she had ended it. In fact, I’d kind of been the precipitating cause of her weeping over it, which might be why she was opening up to me and not to one of her other, older and more experienced, friends. She carried a lot of baggage, and a lot of scars, from ten years of trying to be the perfect little wifey that she thought she was supposed to be.
If Derek was getting close – especially if it happened without Liz having meticulously planned for it in detail and in advance, leaving herself prepared fall-back positions and clear and unobstructed lines of retreat – I could definitely see that it might cause her to freak out.
“It’s Jack, isn’t it?” I asked quietly.
She nodded once, looking miserable, then shook her head almost angrily. “It’s Jack, but it’s more me than Jack. We tried so hard. And it wasn’t enough. I know we had something. We were so certain on our wedding day. And it all just trickled away, until one day I woke up and found I was sharing a bed with a complete stranger. But he hadn’t changed. Jack was always the same guy.
“It was me. I changed. God, I can’t go through that again!”
I wished so badly that I could just hold her, and found myself thinking, irrelevantly, that Cami’s first instinct when someone was in pain was to rely on touch, where Cam’s never had been. That tool was unavailable in this circumstance. Dammit.
I also knew that Liz hated to cry and was trying very hard not to. I flashed back to how Nicole had managed me in a similar state, just a couple days before. I put all of my love, all of my compassion and concern, into my eyes, the set of my mouth, the entire expression of my face.
But I kept my voice light, conversational, just touching the outer boundary of levity. “Liz, have you considered the possibility that you didn’t have any idea who you really were at eighteen? Or, the likelihood that, at thirty-three, you’ve overcome that handicap? Most people do, you know.”
The cat-green eyes blinked, then narrowed. A ghost of a smile – the one that says, “I know what your game is, girl!” – danced around her lips. But her anguished look eased and she took a long breath. “Yes, I have actually considered those things, oh Great Swami!”
“And . . . you’re right, obviously. I know it up here,” she tapped her head. “It’s my gut that gives me trouble. I had a pretty visceral reaction when I woke up Sunday morning, I can tell you. And enough of my freak-out bled through that I felt I had to offer to join him for dinner to make up for it.” Her voice sounded much more normal.
I kept my tone easy, unthreatening. “Was it a good dinner? Did you feel like you had a connection, even outside the bedroom?”
The question surprised her and she had to think about it. “It was a nice dinner,” she concluded after a moment. “Really nice. We had a good time. He’s actually pretty funny, in an easygoing way . . . . as you know, my own sense of humor tends to have a bit of a bite. But yeah, I’d say we connected.”
“Okay, Liz,” I said. “Why don’t you just take it a step at a time? You don’t need to decide if it’s serious, or if he’s Mr. Right. You just need to see whether there are other parts of your lives where you seem to fit. You kind of came into this relationship backward, starting with the sex. So you know the engine works, you just don’t know much about the rest of the car.”
She looked thoughtful.
I smiled. “I know it’s hard to believe after the two of you spent a couple of months trying out half the beds in Pittsburgh, but you kind of just had your first date with the guy. Try a few more.”
This time she laughed easily. “God, I love you, Cami!” Then she sobered and said, quietly and sincerely, “Thank you.”
We ended our call a bit later, after chatting idly about this and that and making plans for MLK weekend. I had to sit for a few minutes afterward and recover. And tell myself I was doing the right thing.
I worked for a couple hours, expecting to hear from Fi. Along about 4:00 I wrapped up and logged my time. I decided I needed to do something completely frivolous and hunted down a movie based on a line Sarah had deliberately misquoted the last time I’d seen her.
I had never seen The Princess Bride, but I discovered that some of the lines were so iconic they had filtered into the broader culture. I spent a wonderful couple of hours in the company of Westley and Buttercup, Inigo Montoya and Miracle Max, and ended up feeling “mostly” better.
I was cooking a stir-fry from chicken and vegetables I had pulled from the freezer when I got a text from Fi. “Heard you need to talk. I’ll be home by 7:30. That okay?”
I confirmed.
I punched up her Skype account at the scheduled time, a cup of tea at my side. Fi looked a bit distracted, but otherwise good.
“Hey kid,” she said, “Happy New Year!”
I smiled warmly. “To you too, Fi. Miss you guys!”
She got right to business. “So . . . trouble with Iain?”
I explained.
Her reaction was fairly clinical. “I agree he’s never been physically violent before, far as I know. But the temper’s always been there — I should know, since I have it too.” She flashed a smile, but it disappeared quickly. ''Of course, depending on what he’s gotten into, drugs can wear away your inhibitions.”
She sighed. “Iain and I were never close. Not like you and I were when you were little and I was looking after you. He was always so . . . .” she searched for the right word and couldn’t find it.
I decided to be helpful. “Angry? Oppositional? Surly?”
My litany made her laugh. “Yeah, all that. And moody, and dramatic . . . . I never figured him out. Mom and Dad never figured him out. No wonder they buried themselves in church; it was cheaper than booze.”
But he had also, always, been the big, strong brother, the natural athlete, the guy who could and would go toe-to-toe with Dad.
As a child, I had learned to navigate the dangerous waters that divided my parents and my brother, and occasionally found words to calm the tempests between them.
Useful skills, though they had earned me Iain’s contempt. Useful for an attorney, and, I was finding, useful for a woman, too. Maybe even natural for a woman.
“So it sounds like you managed to bail him out of jail, sweet-talk the DA, buy off his roommates and get him into a rehab facility. For which, I’m sure, you received no thanks at all from Iain.” Fi gave me a look. “But I’m grateful, even if he isn’t. I don’t know how long it would have taken me to get all of that worked out, or even if I could. At least, let me pay for it.”
She saw my gathering protest and stopped me. “Don’t be silly, Cami. You know what my situation is here. I’m not hurting for money, and that would be true even if I wasn’t engaged to Croesus.”
“Fi, this isn’t Hutchinson family business, it’s Savin family business. Besides, you and Henry haven’t even set a date.”
She smiled smugly. “Ummm . . . well, about that . . . .”
All thoughts of money and idiot brothers momentarily vanished and I practically squealed, “You DID?!!!”
She nodded happily.
“I am so happy for you! You are perfect for each other!”
She smiled at me fondly. “January 16, 2021, little sister. Got anything on your calendar?”
I teased, “I think I can free up the date. But you’ll owe me.”
She replied, grinning wickedly, “Oh, I’ll repay you, ’cuz I get to choose your Maid of Honor dress!”
I laughed so hard my eyes watered, but when I got myself under control I said, very firmly, “Fi, you told me that Cassie Johnson was going to be your Matron of Honor. She should be.”
She looked exasperated. “She was, but that’s before I even knew I had a little sister.” She paused and added softly, “who I happen to love very much.”
That made me tear up. “Thank you. It means so much to me that you would offer. I can’t tell you how much. But Cassie’s been there for you all through med school, through thick and thin. You were her Maid of Honor, and she should be yours. . . . I’d really like to be a bridesmaid though, if you’ll have me.”
She glowered. “Where did all of this stubborn come from?”
I looked innocent.
“All right,” she conceded. “You win. But only if you let me pay for Iain’s nonsense.”
That set off another round of arguments, wherein I was beaten back from my starting position of “You don’t have to pay anything” to “Fifty-fifty, and no more arguments,” to my covering the cost of restitution to the roommates and Fi covering the far costlier rehab. I was also out the bail money, but I would get that back after Iain completed rehab and the charges were dropped.
In the end, she had persuaded me by pointing out that our parents had helped her with the cost of med school and she’d been paying down her loans longer, while I had to cover law school myself and my outstanding debt was higher.
“Besides,” she said, “you are going to have some new expenses yourself. I don’t know what your insurance situation is, but it’s a fair bet that at least some of the gender affirmation treatment you will want isn’t going to be covered.”
That, I expected, was only too true. I conceded – I hope with good grace.
As I got myself ready for an early bed an hour or so later, I decided it had been a very good day. I had needed to just recharge my batteries a little. I smiled sleepily and thought I should do it more often.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 4
“Cameron Savin? Please come this way.” The receptionist led me out of the waiting room, which looked like every waiting room in every medical services building in every city I had ever lived in. We walked down a carpeted hallway – at least they had avoided the institutional white linoleum – and stopped at a door that bore the name plaque “Kiara Chun, M.D.”
Fiona had talked to colleagues and gotten several recommendations for me, and I had researched each of them, read their biographies and reviews on sites that aggregate them.
I had chosen Dr. Chun mostly because her life story spoke to me: raised in Thailand, educated in the United States, she was the daughter of a Hindu woman and a Korean man – neither society being known for being especially tolerant of mixed-race children. If anyone could understand this new and strange world I was in, it would be the woman who survived such an amazing journey.
I had positively agonized about what to wear for this appointment. It was unseasonably warm and foggy, so I didn’t need to dress for winter. Should I wear a dress? Would that be too obvious? Skirt and blouse? Jacket? How should I do my hair?
Ugggh!!! I wanted to look confident in my femininity, but confidence eschews exaggeration. I wanted to be taken seriously. I wanted to be relatable. Above all, I wanted to be believed.
I wanted too damned many things!
In the end, I went with a simple sky-blue A-Line dress with a U-neck coupled with a navy-blue jacket I had just purchased. The combination would be suitable to wear at work. Someday. I wore nude pantyhose and my black pumps, kept the makeup morning light and discrete, and stuck with my tried-and-true over-the shoulder loose braid.
Hopefully, the package would say, “I’m a professional woman who has a medical issue to raise with her doctor,” rather than, “I’m a guy who desperately wants to be accepted as a woman.”
Damn, I thought. This is going to be hard.
The receptionist knocked on Dr. Chun’s door and opened it. A woman got up from behind the desk to walk to the door and greeted me with a warm smile.
She was petite – scarcely surprising given her heritage. Her features seemed very Korean, but her skin was darker, with reddish undertones. It was an unusual combination. I would never have been able to guess her age, but as it happened, I didn’t need to. I had found in my search that she was thirty-seven. A decade older than me.
“Please come in,” she said in a pleasant contralto. I crossed the threshold . . . a big step . . . and the receptionist closed the door behind me.
Rather than shaking my hand, she took me by the elbow and guided me to a pair of arm-chairs.
No couches, thank God.
“I’m Dr. Chun. Please have a seat.”
“I’m Cameron Savin, but informally I’m using Cami.”
“Would you like me to call you Cami?”
I was actually conflicted. Cami is a bit informal, while Cameron can be a girl’s name as well as a boy’s, it’s just less common. Still, I’d put the name out there, so I had better use it. “That would be fine.”
“Okay, Cami. You made an appointment to see me about Gender Affirmation Services. But why don’t you start by telling me in your own words why you’re here and what you are looking to accomplish.”
This is it.
“I’ve come to realize that I am a woman. Here,” I said, touching my chest, “where it counts. Although I’m currently dressing as a male for work, that’s temporary, and the rest of the time I am dressing and interacting with others as a woman. What I want . . . .”
I paused, trying to remember how Sarah had put it. “What I want is to look in the mirror and see the woman that I know myself to be. I don’t want to wear padding, I want to be padded. I want to hear my voice and know that it’s a woman talking. I want people who interact with me to simply think of me as a woman, not a trans woman.
“I don’t know what I will need to do, to make all of that a reality. Whether I need hormone therapy, or surgery, or what. But that’s the goal.”
This was Dr. Chun’s specialty; she had heard lots of wishes, hopes and dreams, so she didn’t look surprised at anything I had said.
“We can absolutely help you with all of that. We have relationships with otolaryngologists for voice therapy. With endocrinologists for hormone therapy and dermatologists for hair removal. Finally, we have relationships with surgeons who perform cosmetic surgery, breast augmentation surgery, and vaginoplasties if you decide to go that route, though there are some constraints that mostly relate to what can happen when, and in what sequence.”
She paused, making sure I was following her, then added, “But you don’t need to make any of those decisions today. Instead, I’d like to engage in a process that will help you decide which, if any, of those services makes sense for you.”
“If any?” I asked, a bit surprised.
“That’s right. You must know that you already present well as a woman – and I’d like to talk to you more about that later. If your primary goal was simply to be able to pass as a woman when dressed, you’re already well on your way. Which is not to say you can’t make refinements. If that doesn’t meet your goals, you can decide to use additional services. But every part of it, each step, is your decision. Okay?”
“Perfect.”
Next up was my life story, or at least those elements that had a bearing on my feelings about gender and gender identity. It wasn’t easy for me to open up about any of it. It was – is – deeply personal, and much of it is as embarrassing as hell.
But Dr. Chun is really, really good at her job. By asking questions in an easy, nonjudgmental and routine way, she got me to discuss difficult subjects like dressing up in party dresses when I was young, or learning to masturbate while wearing my sister’s outgrown swimsuit. She made me realize that these are background questions she commonly asks clients seeking gender affirmation care, and my responses weren’t necessarily out of the norm for that population.
Some of her questions kind of surprised me. Like, “How do you feel about having a penis?”
“It’s an appendage. I don’t love or hate it, but that’s like saying I don’t love or hate my big toe. Why would I?”
“Some transwomen report feelings of disgust concerning their penis; it’s not unusual. But we’re just trying to get the lay of the land here.”
“Well . . . I guess my penis is small relative to other adult males. So, I suppose that means it might not be optimally designed for one of its two functions. For my own purposes, it also gets in the way when I’m wearing clothes designed for women, and that can be annoying. But it doesn’t bother me. I really don’t give it much thought.”
She wanted to know about my experience of puberty. I said there wasn’t much to tell, since not that much happened. My voice dropped, but not that much. Shoulders, feet, penis, all got bigger . . . but not by much. Minimal face and body hair growth. No issues with acne. I do recall thinking for a period that I kind of smelled bad. But on the whole, it had been a non-event.
“How did that make you feel? Were you . . . disappointed? Relieved? Did you experience feelings of inadequacy?”
I had to really think about those questions. “I suppose I was disappointed. My older brother ended up tall – about 6’2” – as well as strong and athletic. I guess maybe I assumed I would look like him, and when puberty sort of passed me by I realized I’d always be the runt.”
She asked me if I had been dressing since high school, and I shook my head.
“No; that was a pretty brief thing, really wrapped up with exploring masturbation – though I didn’t even know that’s what it was called at the time, if you can believe it.”
"When did you start dressing again, and why?”
And that, of course, was where the rubber met the road. Explaining my relationship with Liz was hard. But it had to be done. I decided I would try to be as clinical, as detached and impersonal, as possible.
“A woman I was dating broke up with me because I wasn’t satisfying her sexually. I was very invested in the relationship and pushed to continue it in some form. We discovered that we were both erotically stimulated by sex play that involved her in a variety of dominant roles and me in submissive ones.
“The primary tool she employed was to feminize me, at first by giving me specific things to wear. But later, she had me select, purchase, and model outfits for specific hypothetical occasions, like a dinner with friends or a beach party. To do it well, I had to really try to think about how I presented myself, in ways that women do and guys just don’t.
“And . . . I loved it. I had an increasing sense that the ‘real me’ was actually expressed when I was thinking, acting and dressing as a woman. I realized that it wasn’t a game for me, and that I’m transgendered. That’s when Liz and I ended our role-playing. With the temporary exception of work, I’ve been living as a woman since then.”
I expected at least a look of surprise – the story sounded crazy even to me, and I had lived it. I expect my face was flaming.
But she looked unperturbed, just taking a few notes. as she had throughout. “Can you give me a timeline on these events? How long ago did all of this happen?”
“The first time she had me wear panties was, I think, August of last year. We continued our sex play through Thanksgiving, which is when I concluded for certain that I’m transgendered, though I probably began to suspect it in early October.”
That, oddly enough, was the first thing to surprise her. The delicate brow over her right eye might have inched upward half an inch. “Then this must all be very new to you. A great deal to handle all at once. Yet, I get the sense that you are deeply certain. Can you tell me about that?”
Her voice was warm and understanding, but she touched one of the fears I agonized about when I made my appointment: that she might think, because of how quickly this change had come over me, that it was a passing idea, almost like a fad or something. I had already given my answer a lot of thought.
“I know I haven’t always felt I should have been a girl,” I said, probably a bit defensively. “And I know a lot of trans girls and women have had that experience. But every step I’ve taken on this journey, I’ve just been overwhelmed by a sense of rightness. That I’ve suddenly discovered what I was meant to be.”
Searching for an analogy, I said, “It’s like that movie scene when Dorothy lands in Oz and discovers what color looks like. She wouldn’t have ever noticed that her world was colorless before, because all she ever knew was black and white.”
She cocked her head. “But Dorothy spends the rest of the movie trying to get back to her black and white world. You don’t think that might happen to you. Why not?”
It was interesting that she hadn’t asked whether I thought it might.
Reassuring, too. “Dorothy was a child, and she missed her home. Her Aunty Em. I left home when I was twenty-one, and I don’t think I’ll even return for a visit now. It’s certainly not home anymore. And I’ll be honest: I’ve always thought Dorothy was an idiot for going back.”
She cocked an eyebrow in question.
“Have you been to Kansas?”
Dr. Chun, I discovered, had a very musical laugh. Nicole would love it.
“Seriously, though,” I said, “I can’t imagine accepting a black-and white existence after discovering color is an alternative, or a world without sound when you were given the gift of hearing. It’s like that for me.
“When I dress as Cami, interact with people as Cami, I feel like I have access to a whole range of experiences that were closed to me. And most important, my relationships with people – men and women – are just so much deeper, more meaningful, more fulfilling. I feel like I’m completely alive for the first time. I’ll never go back.”
She asked me to expand on that, and I talked about the relationships I had formed, or had renewed. With Liz, but also with Al and Javi, with Sarah.
I talked about my connecting with Nicole on the train, and how that never would have happened to Cam. I talked about our dinner and our midnight adventure, singing and dancing our way through New York.
She wanted to know who else I had told, and who I hadn’t and why.
I told her those stories too – about my parents, and Fi, and Curt. I told her about Iain’s reaction.
“So you will prove him wrong?” she asked.
“I suppose so, but that’s just a byproduct. I don’t have anything to prove to Iain.”
We discussed the things that I had done to try to present myself more credibly as a woman, from the obvious – my prosthetic breasts and my padded panty gaff – to the purely cosmetic (hair, nails, makeup) to my careful observation and study of how women communicate with both men and other women, including both verbal and non-verbal forms. I also mentioned getting detailed feedback from Liz through the initial part of my transition.
We discussed issues concerning sexual orientation, and I explained that, as Cami, I had found myself to be sexually attracted to men, although I was still attracted to at least one woman. She asked whether I had any romantic or sexual encounters with men. I explained about my kiss with Steve.
And then I stopped.
She waited.
I took a deep breath. “There is another event, and I was meaning to talk to you about it as well, for other reasons. I was assaulted at a Christmas Party by a man who had discovered that I was trans, and who wanted me to” – here I thought of Cornelius’ dry prose – “perform fellatio on him. Which I didn’t.”
She put her pen down and asked me whether I had reported the assault to the police.
“No,” I responded. “He was related to my sister’s fiancé, so I felt compelled to come up with a resolution that didn’t involve criminal charges and prison. It’s hard to explain, but he was a threat to my sister – to the family that she is going to be joining. And, I wake up at night, almost every night, having terror dreams about danger to Fiona.”
“Not danger to you?”
I shook my head. “No. From the moment the attack started, I was just overwhelmed by fear for Fiona. I’d say it was irrational, but it wasn’t – the danger to Fi was real. But, it’s certainly irrational to still be afraid. It’s like feeling aftershocks from an earthquake.”
She took some more notes, asked some more questions. At the end of our session, she said, “I think we’ve made a good start today. I’m really amazed at the progress you’ve made already in presenting as a woman. You have had many teachers, but you must also be a very good – and very motivated – student.
“There are a couple things I would like to suggest as next steps. I have some materials I want you to review that describe treatment options. What they might accomplish, what their benefits and limitations are. When we have our next session I’d like to discuss some of them with you in more detail.
“I also think it would be helpful to get some bloodwork, to get a baseline of your existing hormone balance. Finally, I’m going to give you a prescription for your terror dreams. But, I don’t want you to start taking it until you get the blood drawn for the lab work.”
That all made sense to me, so we set it up.
I left the office feeling emotionally drained by the two-hour session, but very hopeful. I was starting to take real steps toward my future, and I felt very good about that.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 4, immediately following
It was only late morning, and I needed some quiet time to think. Normally I get that at home, but I decided to take advantage of the weather and have a look around the Inner Harbor.
I saw that there was a walking tour that might take an hour or so. I was sorry that it did not include the famous Fort McHenry (“O Say, Can You See?”), but otherwise it sounded perfect.
So I strolled along, seeing the sights. A Civil War era sloop; a WWII era submarine. The morning fog had lifted and the waves sparkled in the harbor.
My mind, turned inward, still took it in and spun it back to me – the story of a city, once a front-line in defense of an infant nation, once one of the young country’s most important ports and commercial centers, now remaking itself. Sometimes growing, sometimes shrinking. Always adapting, evolving. So much history here, in such a small space of time.
The cries of seagulls took me back to the quiet of my own room, listening to recorded sounds of the seashore . . . the smell of chamomile . . . the finality of a text. “I’m sorry Cami, I can’t go there . . . .” A lot of history there, too, in a small space of time.
My history.
Was my desire to express myself as a woman simply a result of external stimuli? A desire to please Liz, in some way to keep her, that just got out of hand? I forced myself to consider the question objectively, as Dr. Chun must have been doing during our interview.
It didn’t ring true to me. Almost as soon as I began the process of self-feminization, the sex play with Liz had become a secondary thing. Wonderful in its own way, and . . . well. The sex had been mind-blowing for me. But still, secondary. As I had told Dr. Chun, each step I had taken had felt more right, more liberating.
The harder question, the one I had avoided thinking about, and that Dr. Chun hadn’t asked, was whether I desired to become a woman because I was simply inadequate as a man.
I was standing on the harbor walk, gazing at the majestic masts and spars of the Constellation, but my brain was no longer processing external stimuli. Was I a failure as a man?
I thought about my physical make up, reversing the objective scrutiny I had given myself when Liz first challenged me to think of my body as female.
I was neither tall nor short; my face was neither strong nor pretty; I had no feature that stood out as being particularly masculine or feminine, save maybe my hands (which, as Iain had remarked, were on the small side – at least the palms; my fingers were longer and tapered). I had body hair (when I didn’t shave), but not much of it.
It had been relatively easy to make myself look like a woman, though women have more tools at their disposal than men. Could I have made myself look more like a man? Would I have wanted to?
“Excuse me, love. Are you okay? You’re looking a bit lost.”
I turned at the sound of a kind voice, saw an older woman standing a couple of feet from me. Pleasant face. Silver hair. Like me, enjoying the unusually warm weather. Unlike me, I thought, she probably isn’t questioning the foundation of her existence.
I smiled warmly. “I’ve just got a lot to think about, that’s all. But it was kind of you to stop. Thank you.”
She returned the smile and gave my arm a pat. “I’ll let you get back to your thinking then. Take care.”
As I watched her walk away I thought how, as Cam, I would never have walked up to a young woman, lost in thought on a Baltimore dockside, and asked her if she was okay. I would have been concerned that I would be perceived as a threat, simply because of my maleness. And, there is an excellent chance that the young woman would at very least have seen such an approach as an unwelcome imposition or a pick-up attempt.
Cam would have held back. Stayed back. Not engaged. But I didn’t want to live like that, and Cami wouldn’t need to.
I hadn’t been a failure as a man. I did okay at it. You don’t have to look like Chris Hemsworth to be a man. But in our society, males do have to think, act, communicate, and relate in ways that I find deeply unsatisfying.
A man is expected to be strong, but in a forceful, dominant way that has no appeal to me. I’m not weak, but my strength simply flows in ways that are not recognized as masculine. I’m a shield, a bulwark, a home port. I have no will to dominate, no desire to control. No urge for aggression.
I can act hard and tough, and when necessary I had done so. But for me it’s an act. Like an introvert who can be the life of a party, I know how to do it. It just drains me. Being a loving and supportive sister, being a caring and compassionate friend . . . these things are the fullest, truest, most life-affirming expressions of my deepest self.
If there’s a secret to men’s relationships I had never gotten the memo, and in that sense maybe I had simply failed as a man. But I didn’t think it was all on me. There are limits to how far men want to open themselves up, and be open to others. At least in my society, in the Year of Our Lord 2020.
I had male friends, especially in law school. Like Curt. We had been close – or what I had thought of as close. But I could never, ever, have had as meaningful a conversation with Curt as I had had with Nicole, whom I had only known for a few hours.
And I wanted that. I wanted all of it.
And I love all the rest, too, though I realized now it was less important to me. I love the pure sensuality of womanhood. The feel of silk against my smooth skin; the moist touch of creamy gloss on my lips; the movement of air against bare legs. The smell of flowers, of perfume. The quiet swish that nylons make when I’m walking in a skirt . . . I revel in it.
Maybe I have gender dysphoria, maybe I don’t. I suppose Dr. Chun will tell me her view about that when the time comes. But I wasn’t running from a life I couldn’t endure. I was running toward one that I could see unfolding before me, as beautiful as a morning glory that opens to greet the dawn.
When it comes to being a woman, I have gender euphoria. That is the pole star that was guiding my steps.
I finally stopped looking blindly at the old sloop and really saw her. She had been designed as a weapon of war, but for those who sailed her she had been hope in the storm, a place of companionship and shared endeavor, a shield against those who would harm them. And in the end, she had brought them safely home. Ships really are women, I thought.
And so am I.
To be continued . . . .
IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE: Dr. Chun is a fictional character, and the description of her session with Cami is not necessarily indicative of what would happen at such a session at any particular institution and for any individual patient. As they say in car commercials, actual mileage may vary. What they mean is, it always does. -- Emma T.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Beltsville Maryland, January 4
The clerk behind the desk had a studiously neutral expression on his face. “Just step over to station three and they’ll take your photo.” He had reviewed all of my papers, including the certified copy of my birth certificate. Everything was in order, naturally.
But the birth certificate indicated that Cameron Ross Savin was born male and the person in front of the clerk did not look especially male. My application for a Maryland Driver’s License allowed me not to identify a gender, and I had chosen not to do so.
Maybe the clerk didn’t approve; certainly he seemed stiff and formal. But, I told myself, he also works for the DMV. Warm and fuzzy isn’t in their mission statement.
I walked over to station three, my pumps click-click-clicking on the drab linoleum. Following my doctor’s appointment in the morning, I had gone home and changed before running this particular errand. Javier and Al, my landlords, had left me their car to use while they went visiting Javi’s family in Colombia.
My favorite red skirt and a white dress shirt made a statement, but one that wouldn’t show in the official photo. A portrait shot would capture the collar and just the beginning of the shoulders, but wouldn’t reach either my (prosthetic) breasts or the bra straps that could be seen through the light fabric of the shirt.
I wore only the very lightest makeup – foundation, nearly invisible blush, a touch of lip gloss roughly the same color as my natural lips – and my hair was in a ponytail that was gathered mid-way between the low and tight setting I used when dressed as Cam and the high point where I would wear it to affect a pert, “girl next door” vibe.
The photo needed to be ambiguous, because I wanted to be able to use it whether I was dressed naturally or was wearing my Cam-o-flage.
I longed to be able to proudly list my gender as “F” and take a picture that reflected what I knew inside. Part of me felt that what I was doing was an act of betrayal. But I was where I was in my life, caught between being my old self at work, and my new self outside of it. Like most half-measures, it was unsatisfactory.
The woman taking the photos showed me my image. I looked calm and cool and completely sexless. I hated it.
Perfect.
The bells over the door jingled as I entered the boutique, and Sarah looked up from her reading. “Well, look what the cat dragged in,” she said, giving me her usual once-over. As I walked up to her stool behind the check-out counter, she said, “Cami, either you’re up to something nefarious or you’ve lost your touch. You looked better the first time I saw you. What gives?”
“Let me guess,” I said, “they didn’t teach diplomacy in nun school, either.”
She grinned. “I skipped that class.”
I grinned back. “Really? Well, I knew you’d chew me out for looking like this, but I had to get a Maryland driver’s license since I moved out of the District, and I decided I needed one that I could use regardless of how I’m dressed. I’ll fix my hair and my face before I go. Honest!”
Sarah wasn’t giving me a hard time for aesthetic reasons. She preached the importance of safety for trans people, and especially for transwomen. And in her view, nothing provided more safety than blending in. If people would only see a woman when they looked at me, they wouldn’t give me trouble for being trans.
It was good advice and I had taken it very much to heart. Blending in is easier for me, since I have a build and features that are not overtly masculine. But it still required constant mindfulness and significant effort; Sarah was entirely correct that my current look fell short of my capabilities.
She nodded. “Huh. Let me see the photo.”
I showed her the new ID.
“Yeah, okay. I guess that’s mission accomplished. Definitely ugly enough for a driver’s license.” She handed the photo back. “How long are you going to keep it up? All this jumping back and forth has got to be wearing on you.”
“I’m hoping I only have to make it through the very beginning of April. Three months.”
She made a noncommittal noise, but she followed it with a mischievous smile. “I’ve got a present for you, then. Well, a treat, anyway. Seeing as how you’re a lawyer and all, you can pay for it.”
She walked me down an aisle, stopped, and pulled a garment off a rack. It appeared to be a smallish white tank top with wide shoulder straps and a high U neck, but it was designed as a body suit, with the bottom looking like a leotard. The front had what was clearly recognizable as a men’s fly.
I gave her a sideways look. “Okaaaay . . .”
She laughed. “You don’t get it, do you? It looks small because it’s a Rayon-spandex blend. Stretchy. Under a dress shirt, it’ll look just like a men’s undershirt. But it’ll feel like you’re still a girly girl. How’s that for clever?”
I busted a gut. “Okay, you got me. Gotta have it. Make it two. I don’t know which is more funny – that you thought of me when you saw this, or that a nun shops for kinky underwear!”
She grinned. “I can get you a good bargain on vibrators while you’re here, too. After Christmas special, just for you!”
I giggled. A lot. “You kill me!”
We went back to the counter and she rang up my new underwear. When she was finished, she said, “So what brings you here today? Since you didn’t come to take advantage of my latest sales.”
“Mostly just to see you. I had my first appointment with Dr. Chun this morning. It went well. I’ve got stuff to read, and they need to take some blood work and such. But I’m making a start.”
“Good!”
We chatted about transitioning for a bit. What she had seen, what she thought I might expect.
I managed to get her to talk a bit about how she was doing as well. I’d been in the shop for half an hour and there weren’t any other customers.
“It’s a niche market. I sell enough to keep the doors open and pay a few bills of my own, and I don’t need more than that. Most of my sales are online these days. I get by.”
She asked me about Christmas, and I told her about how I had prevailed upon my sister and brother-in-law to come with me to a midnight service at Boston's Episcopal Cathedral. “I don’t know if it’s the right place for me, but it was sure right that night. I really needed it. I do miss belonging to a faith community.”
“I assume you’ve belonged to one before?” When I nodded, she said, “Let me guess . . . . Evangelical; some variation of Reformed. Right?”
“Yes . . . what, is it tattooed on my forehead, or something?”
“Or something,” she said dryly. “Cami, I’m a professional, or I was. You’d be amazed at the tells everyone has with respect to their religious background. But anyway, you said you miss it. Why not go back?”
“Well, they aren’t wild about LGBTQ+ folks, so there’s that. But I left a long time ago.” I thought for a minute. “I know you were – are? Catholic. So maybe you haven’t been taught that God elects a few for salvation, and the rest are destined for damnation from before they were even born?”
She rattled off the catch-phrases. “Double predestination; unconditional election and reprobation. You’re right. Not in our catechism, but comparative theology was covered in nun school. Amazingly enough.” But then she just looked at me, not giving me any help.
“Well, that is what I was taught,” I explained. “But once I was old enough to really understand the idea . . . I just couldn’t accept it. I can’t. It’s like God is this mad potter who makes a million plates that he fully intends to smash, except for ten that he’ll pull out completely at random.”
I paused and added, quietly, “Except it’s worse than that. Because we’re not talking about ceramics. We’re talking about people. Billions and billions of people. Each made in God's own image. What kind of God would do that?”
Sarah cocked her head. “I do believe I have witnessed a miracle. Somebody left a church because they don’t agree with its theology? I was starting to wonder if anybody took theology seriously anymore.” She was being funny, in a Sarah sort of way, but it was clear she wasn’t making fun of what I had said.
I asked, a bit uncertainly, “You think I shouldn’t?”
“I didn’t say that. I just said almost no one does. Not here, anyway. They choose their church based on whether it’s close to their home, or if they have friends there, or if they like the preacher. Or maybe the choir. Maybe if they have good parking, for all I know.
“And it’s not just Protestants, so don’t think I’m finding fault. If you want to see real ignorance, ask Catholics what the feast of the Immaculate Conception celebrates. Virtually none of them know. Or care.”
“You take it seriously.”
“Sure. But again, I’m a professional. You probably take pleadings and writs and all that seriously; doesn’t mean plain Jane Sarah needs to. But look, if theology matters to you, it matters. If you want a faith community that agrees with your personal theology up and down the line, though, you might have a long hunt.”
I thought about that for a minute. “No, I don’t think I need that. But, I don’t want a faith community that’s built around an idea of God, or of people, that just seems wrong to me.” I was speaking slowly, feeling my way.
Sarah just waited, watching me.
I tried to bring some order to the thoughts swirling in my head. “When I was younger, I was sure I had all the answers. And I wanted everyone to know it, too. But when I got older, I decided I wanted to be the type of person who was quicker to ask questions. More willing to listen. Less likely to force my views on others.”
I smiled ruefully. “Some days I manage better than others, but I do work at it. I guess I’d like to find a community that’s more like that. Less like the way I used to be. Does that make any sense?”
She looked skeptical. “Sounds like a debating society, not a church. Though, there are denominations that exist to have rip-roaring debates about the nature of God, if that’s your jam.”
I shook my head. “Not debating, no. I don’t need more of that. Just . . .” I paused, thought, and came up dry, ending with a sound of disgust. “Gaaaaah! I don’t know.”
Sarah gave me a long, measuring look. “How about a community that gathers to pray together, for each other and for this broken world. Where they share their stories and their struggles, put each other back together and lift each other up. Would that be what you’re looking for?”
“YES!!! Where do I sign up?”
“Don’t be so quick, Cami,” she warned. “I’m talking about a group of transwomen who gather for prayer every month. When I suggested you should talk with other women like you, you didn’t exactly leap on the idea. I didn’t press it. Not my place. I know you want to be seen as just another woman, without any modifier. I get that a hundred percent. Maybe they aren’t your people.”
I’ll confess that I was conflicted, and for exactly the reason Sarah had identified. But I knew that these were Sarah’s people. The flock she poured her heart and soul and vocation out for, every day. Sarah had said she went where the wounded and broken people were, and that few people were as hard-pressed today as the trangendered community.
I knew myself to be privileged in many, many ways. And, I didn’t like to think of myself as “broken.” I’m strong. I’m independent.
I’m arrogant.
I thought of my night terrors. Of my feelings of inadequacy. Of how much it hurt when I was rejected by old friends. By family.
And I’m not broken? I don’t need prayers, and healing? I don’t need the support, the wisdom, of women – of transwomen, dammit! -- who had walked this crazy path before me?
Who do I think I am?
My throat was tight when I tried to give an answer. I managed to husk out, “I would love to join them, Sarah. If they’d have me.”
Sarah dropped her pose of ironic detachment and said softly, “Good. Good. Because no one else can really understand what you’re going through, Cami, even if they’re in your corner. Not family, not friends. Not me. And you can understand what they are going through like no one else. You have a unique ability to lift each other up. Don’t waste it.”
I got myself back under control and thanked her. We talked some more, and I pressed her on details so that I would have some idea what to expect. There were seven transwomen in the group, all with faith backgrounds that were different flavors of Christianity.
Each no longer felt welcome in their “home” church, for a variety of reasons (Though none, according to Sarah, had done anything so bizarre as to leave over a theological dispute!). But, like Sarah herself, their faith had survived the loss of their religious affiliation. They met in a private home belonging to one of the older members.
I asked lots of questions and got answers to some.
Finally, Sarah stopped me. “Christ, Cami, you think too much! Just come and meet them. Be yourself. You’ll figure it out.”
A customer wandered in, and I left so that Sarah could get back to her secular work.
There are few better places to people watch than an airport. Almost everyone is there because they are either going somewhere, coming from somewhere, or dropping off or meeting one of the above. There is a feeling of movement, of purpose.
There are eager people, tired people, bewildered people. There are people making hard good-byes. There are joyous reunions. Brisk men and women of affairs, striding confidently. Wide-eyed children, watching jets take off and land. Overworked flight crews. Every size, race, ethnicity, and style of dress.
The flight from Bogotá had landed minutes ago, and I was in a throng of people waiting for the newly arrived passengers. A college-age girl I had chatted with briefly was standing nearby, waiting for her boyfriend to arrive. Nice girl; very pleasant.
Suddenly she looked radiant, and so did the dark young man who was pushing his way toward her. I felt a lump in my throat as they reunited, joyous, tender, passionate, all rolled together.
“That,” said a humorous voice near my ear, “is why you need to find a Colombian man!”
I spun around, having been distracted from my task. “Javi!!!” I gave him a big hug then gave Al one too. “Welcome back, you two!” I cheerfully took each man by an arm, and, steering toward baggage claim, peppered them with questions about their holiday.
When we got to the car I said, “Let me chauffeur; you’ve been traveling all day. Besides, I’m all legal now.” I told them about my new license, and my meeting with Doctor Chun.
They asked about my own holiday, and I said it had been eventful. We arrived back at the homestead. “I got some staples for your fridge for the morning. Now go get some sleep!”
They laughed, and Al said, “I don’t remember when we had such a nice homecoming. It’s good to see you!”
Washington, D.C., January 6-10
“Good morning,” Eileen said warmly as she walked into the conference room. Unusually, she was the last person to arrive, though she was still right on time.
David, Daviana, Greg, and I were already sitting, the sensible among us (me, Daviana) with a cup of coffee. We all said our good mornings and Eileen got down to business.
“Okay,” she said. “We’ve got just over ten weeks before jury selection. So, we’re going to need folders for each witness – ours and theirs – with outlines of questions, the documents that we’re planning to get in through that witness and the other documents that we want to ask them about. For direct, I’m going to take Jacoby. Dave, can you take Dr. Silverman?”
David Parr nodded; Sam Jacoby was the principal witness for the company and Dr. Richard Silverman was our liability expert.
Eileen continued, “Daviana, I’d like you to handle our damages witnesses, Marcuccio and Wilensky.”
Daviana looked enthusiastic, nodding with a smile.
“Cam, ready to take a witness?” Eileen asked with a grin.
“Absolutely!” I said, matching Daviana’s enthusiasm.
“Great,” she responded. “Thune and Sanchez for you.”
I nodded. These were fairly minor fact witnesses whose testimony was limited – perfect assignments for a second-year associate. I was thrilled.
Eileen divided up the five people on Defendant’s witness list as well so that we could start preparing for cross examination. “I’ve prepared an annotated outline of what I anticipate the closing argument will look like. You’ll see the documents and witnesses I’m using to make the case. Use this as your road-map when you’re preparing your outlines and your folders. If you see something that should be in the outline but isn’t, or is in the outline but lacks support, flag it.”
She next explained that we were using a jury consultant to do a mock trial exercise in mid-February, where we would present summaries of our case to a “panel” of regular people, paid to act as mock jurors for the day. It was an opportunity to shop arguments and see what worked and what didn’t.
It was also a very expensive exercise; the client had to pay for the lawyers’ time, including travel, the consultant’s time, the mock jurors’ time, not to mention all the preparation. But when a case involves a lot of money, clients with the resources understand that there aren’t too many better ways to prepare for trial.
Eileen made the assignments. “David and Cam, I want you to present our case in the exercise; Daviana and I will be the ‘red team.’ We’ll get more details when we meet with the consultant on Thursday.” The team breakdown made sense; David and Daviana had been working on the case from the beginning; Eileen and I were the trial reserves.
The meeting went on in this vein for some time. I watched Eileen with keen interest. She’s like a master craftsman, I thought.
She exuded the sense that she knew her business and took real joy in it. Our questions, comments, and concerns didn't distract her. Rather, she viewed them as teaching opportunities (here’s why we need to do this thing, or do it this way rather than that), and also as opportunities for her to look at issues with a different perspective. She made each of us feel valued and all of us feel like a team.
It was one of our longer meetings. As I walked back to my office, I reflected, bemused, on how I had just stumbled into this job. I went to a big firm because I had a pile of debt and I didn’t want to be paying it off forever. But it had been such a great fit for me. I was learning so much, and had such great people to work with.
I felt a shiver of apprehension. Would it be such a perfect fit, I wondered, when they find out I’m Cami? Will I still feel welcome here? Or will I feel, instead, grudging acceptance? Will I see stiffness and formality, I thought, remembering the face of the DMV clerk, rather than Daviana’s warm cheerfulness, or Eileen’s approval?
I didn’t think so, but then, I had also thought better of Curt, who had been both a good friend and something of an intellectual sparring-partner when we were in law school.
Sitting down at my desk, my pinpoint Oxford shirt slid over the rayon and spandex of Sarah’s hysterical present, and the bottom stretched and tugged against my crotch. I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, I decided.
In heels.
Each day, I was getting a little bit closer to a challenge that I had set for myself: I wanted to be able to do splits. I worked on this during the stretching phases of my exercises, and generally got closer after the aerobic portion than before. I could get my pelvis as close as three inches from the floor, but I hadn’t achieved my goal . . . yet.
I was at work by 7:30 and often stayed until 9:00 or 10:00. But I didn’t have an instant when I thought I was wasting time or engaged in make-work, which made each day pass very quickly.
I had a call during the week on my “Cami App,” and I took it behind closed doors.
“Good morning, Cami,” an unfamiliar female voice said. “I’m Jill Lavery from Dr. Chun’s office. The doctor asked me to give you a call to let you know that the results of your bloodwork came in. After looking them over, she’d like you to get a physical examination as well. If you have a GP you prefer that’s fine, or we can get you an appointment with one of our affiliates.”
I was a bit surprised and asked if anything was wrong.
“No,” she quickly reassured me. “The doctor just wants a more complete baseline picture. She told me you really preferred Saturdays when possible, and we do have an affiliate who is open and has a cancellation this Saturday – Doctor Sheppard up here in Baltimore. Will that work?”
“I hate to ask this, Jill. But . . . is Dr. Sheppard a man or a woman?”
“It’s Doctor Theresa Sheppard.”
I exhaled, thinking that I really don’t want to have a man examine me anymore. If anyone has to see me in my current, in-between state, let it be a woman. “Okay,” I agreed, and we set it up.
I sat for a moment, thought about what I had going on, and sent a text to my friend Nicole, a very New York City girl who was living in exile in the Baltimore area. “Hey crazy girl. I’ve got a doctors’ appointment in Baltimore Saturday AM. Want to get together after?”
A minute later I got back an enthusiastic “Hell Yeah!”
I was working on a response when I got another text.
“Do U know how to ice skate?”
I had to send back a regretful “No,” but what I got back was “Ha!!! Mags doesn’t either! You girls are getting a lesson!!!”
I could only laugh. Nicole is such a fireball. “Sounds great,” I wrote. “Call you later to coordinate?”
She responded, “I’m home. Call whenev. Love ya!”
I sent her a text hug in return and went back to work, feeling much better.
Another morning, another doctor’s office. This one came with linoleum. More paperwork. More signatures. “C.R. Savin,” equivocal.
A nurse taking my blood pressure (110 over 75) and pulse (52); numbers meaningless to me. Height (still 5’10,” just), weight (only 136 pounds – yikes!). An examination room. “Please remove all your clothes and put on this gown, opening to the back. Dr. Sheppard will be in in just a few minutes.”
I removed my sweater, skirt, shoes, panties, and tights. My camisole. Each item came off more slowly as my reluctance increased. I stood for a moment in my bra and panty gaff, then finally sighed and got on with it. I had simply placed my prosthetic breasts into the cups of my bra without attaching them, and as I unhooked myself I felt strangely naked. Finally, I pulled off my panty gaff and freed my penis.
I folded my clothes like they were treasures and carefully set them on a chair. Within sight. Within reach. Here I am, I thought. No disguise, no defense. Except a stupid hospital gown that tied in the back.
It would have to do.
Dr. Sheppard was a willowy woman, about my height, with medium-brown shoulder-length permed hair, hazel eyes, and a clipboard. I thanked her for fitting me in on a Saturday.
She smiled and explained that shifting to a Tuesday-Saturday schedule had allowed her to expand her practice, while giving her staff a weekday off when more things were open.
She went through the usual examination. I hadn’t had all that many; growing up, you went to the doctor when you were sick, not when you were well. But I knew the drill. Tapping the chest, the back. Looking into eyes and down the throat. Reflex tests. The usual.
When she was done with those, she said, “Doctor Chun asked for a set of baseline measurements, so let me do that.” Out came a tape measure. The good doctor was very thorough. My skull, my neck; shoulders, arms, chest, waist, hips, legs, hands, feet. Testicles. Penis. I felt like a prize heifer.
As she was doing her tests and measurements, she kept up a stream of questions covering my medical history, some family history. She asked me about my siblings and my parents. Asked me, as had Dr. Chun, about puberty. She asked about my diet and exercise. How much sleep I was getting. Medications and allergies. Alcohol and drugs. Was I sexually active? What were my work habits?
Answering questions kept me occupied while I was being poked, prodded, and measured.
She wrapped up. “Great. Well, Cami, you seem to be in very good shape from a general health perspective. You need to be better about eating and sleeping. I know, I know. You are super busy. And I get that. I really do; doctors don’t tend to be good at practicing what they preach, especially when it comes to sleep habits.”
She talked a bit about my bloodwork – various markers were low or on the low end of normal – again, the numbers meant nothing to me. She wanted me to start taking a multivitamin every day.
“And,” she said, looking at me sternly, “I know you want to appear more feminine, too. But you can’t starve yourself into the right shape.”
At that, I looked a bit guilty.
“I’m serious, Cami. I’m not saying you need to gain weight, though it wouldn’t hurt you. But I don’t want to see any more weight loss. And I would be interested in knowing what amount of variability you are seeing, so get a scale and track your results daily.”
I asked her whether anything in what she had seen might be an impediment to hormone therapy.
She shook her head. “No, from a general health perspective you’re in good shape. I don’t see any issues that would cause me concerns that way.” Then she was off.
I let out a deep breath. Dr. Sheppard had been very pleasant, very professional and very thorough. But I felt an intense desire to be somewhere else.
I pulled off the hospital gown and, before I proceeded further, pulled the necessary vials from my purse and re-attached my prosthetic breasts, sighing as their familiar weight once again pulled at the skin of my chest and caused me to arch my back slightly, adjusting my posture to compensate for the additional weight. I applied makeup to the seams and hooked myself into my bra, nesting each breast in its lacy bed.
Feeling much more presentable, I tucked, slipped into my panty gaff, and then got dressed again.
Praise be!
Baltimore, Maryland, January 11, afternoon
“Cami!! Over here!”
I had just entered a restaurant that was one of the surviving bastions of Baltimore’s old Greektown, and immediately saw Nicole enthusiastically waving to me from further inside. She was sitting next to another woman who I assumed was her roommate Maggie.
I returned Nicole’s wave with equal enthusiasm, a huge smile breaking across my face just at the sight of her, and quickly worked my way back to her table.
She jumped up and gave me a quick hug. “Cami, this is Maggie; Maggie, Cami.”
Maggie was blonde and blue, average height, and had a warm smile. “Just want you to know I’m officially jealous about your New York adventures, Cami – I’m so bummed I wasn’t there!”
I laughed as we all sat down. “It was a riot, that’s for sure. I don’t think I’ve ever had that much fun! But wait – isn’t it like that every night at your place?”
Maggie pulled a face. “Not hardly; it’s work, work, work at ‘Opera House.’”
Nicole giggled and explained. “That’s what we call the row house we live in, because it’s where we do our vocal exercises and our practices, study scores, learn our parts. Give voice lessons. We sleep there, too, but it’s kind of secondary, you know?”
I shook my head. “No place to get away from work?”
They were both wearing the same goofy smile, but Maggie was the one that answered, “Crazy, right? But . . . it’s hard to describe. Nicole said you’re a lawyer?”
I nodded.
She flashed a smile. “Awesome! But . . . is law what you do, or is it what you live for?”
I had to think about that a moment before responding. “I really love what I do, but . . . I guess I’d still say it’s what I do. It’s my craft. It’s not who I am.”
Nicole broke in. “Yeah, that’s a good way to put it. Mags and I talk about this. We really do live for music, for singing. Doesn’t mean I don’t like to go out and have fun.” She shot me a smile full of shared memory. “But I’d just be lost without music.”
Maggie nodded in firm agreement and added, “Yeah. So I bitch and moan about the hours and all – but I have to do it. Can’t stop myself.”
She looked at me shyly. “Nickie told me about that song you sang in Rockefeller Center. ‘How Can I Keep from Singing?’ I know I can’t. I know she can’t. It’s how we both feel – who we are. So it’s work, work, work at ‘Opera House,’ but we’re a happy workforce.”
“Hi ho, hi ho!” Nicole sang, smiling like Happy.
We talked about where they had met and how they came to be roommates, what they thought of Baltimore (“It ain’t New York,” was Nicole’s short take), where they were singing next. Maggie made me feel very comfortable by asking how I was dealing with my transition, in a way that made it completely clear that it was a non-issue for her.
I decided to treat it with the same nonchalance, mentioning that I was now working with a team of medical professionals and hoped to begin hormone treatment in a couple of months.
“Are you excited? Or, is it scary?” she asked, curious.
“Excited. Thrilled. I’m really looking forward to it.”
“You know,” Nicole said, “our voice coach might be able to help you. A lot of what we do in our exercises has to do with learning better vocal control, working to expand our range – that’s pitch control – and learning how to properly support the voice and keep from straining it. If you had a broader vocal range, you could work to reset the pitch where you center your speaking voice.”
I asked who their voice coach was, and chuckled when they told me. “She’s one of the people my medical group uses; I was going over materials they wanted me to study just yesterday. I suppose it’s not surprising since they’re based in Baltimore. You’d recommend her, then?”
They both did, with their signature enthusiasm.
It was a great lunch. So refreshing to be treated as “just folks.” But Nicole, bless her, nixed dessert. “Okay, you two. No more stalling. Let’s find some ice!!!”
So we piled into Nicole’s car and she drove us to a rink. “Mags said she’s done some in-line skating,” Nicole said. “You?”
I had done some rollerblading, though it had been some years. Like, fourteen. Gulp!
“No problem, then!” she said. “It’s the same thing, mostly. It’ll be a blast.”
I was sure that Nicole’s boundless enthusiasm was papering over an entire host of potentially lethal problems, but I was very pleased to discover that she was actually right on the money.
I was still pretty shaky at first, and Maggie was a bit more so.
But Nicole patiently worked us through our initial wobbliness. The main difference is how you stop, and again, Nicole’s instructions were clear and simple, she gave easy to understand demos and displayed no impatience. Within a half an hour we were skating comfortably and having fun, though we were keeping it very simple.
I skated over to Nicole. “Woman, you have a real gift for teaching!”
She grinned. “I’d better; it’s part of how we make a living!”
She said they give voice lessons. Evidently teaching skills are pretty transferable.
Around ten minutes later, the rink’s sound system had a hiccup and cut out. A voice came over the intercom. “Sorry folks. Technical issue. We’ve made a call but it’ll be silent skate for a bit.”
Nicole got her crazy grin on. “Oh, no it won’t!!”
Maggie skated to the other side of Nicole and looked across her. “Right, Cami. Nickie says you’ve got a nice voice. Pick a song – a show tune – and lead us off with the melody. We’ll improvise!”
If I wasn’t skating, I might have been paralyzed. I’m supposed to sing with THESE two! But I had sung with Nicole, and it had been perfect. And the chance that I knew a piece of music these two didn’t was essentially nil.
On a sudden inspiration, a show tune from my youth jumped to the front of my mind, and I sang, “Meet me in St. Louie, Louie, meet me at the fair!”
Nicole linked arms with me on her left and Maggie on her right, and began improvising a high harmony on “Don’t tell me the lights are shining, anywhere but there.”
Maggie figured out where Nicole was going and joined another harmony for, “We will dance the Hoochee Koochee, I will be your tootsie wootsie; Meet me in St. Louie, I’ll be waiting there!” Maggie’s voice was lower than Nicole’s, but I didn’t have the background to know if she was a second soprano or an alto, or possibly something else I hadn’t heard of. But, like Nicole, she was superb.
People were applauding and shouting, “More, more!!!”
We laughed, and Nicole said, “Pick another one,” and we sang, and we skated, and other skaters clapped along, laughing and smiling. As we finished our third, we glided off the ice, faces cherry-red from the chill of the ice, the exertion, and the sheer fun of it. The girls laughed and took a bow to acknowledge the cheers, and we clumped off to grab a seat and catch our breath.
A middle-aged guy came over and gave each of us a cup of hot cider. “Thanks, ladies. That was awesome! I think we’ll have the music back in a couple minutes, but that was really special. Like a flash mob or something. Anyhow, thanks!” Clearly he worked there.
Some younger guys who had been on the ice came over to say how much they enjoyed it. We were seated, so they seemed to loom over us, but I was pretty sure they were big guys, anyway.
We chatted for a couple minutes, but were interrupted by the sound of our benefactor’s voice over the intercom announcing that their sound system was fixed and apologizing for the issue. The music resumed, and one of the guys invited us to couples’ skate.
Nicole looked at me and Maggie and said, “Nothing to it – no different than what we were just doing together.” So we agreed.
I found myself partnered with a guy who must have been 6’4” and outweighed me by a hundred pounds – I felt tiny beside him, which was actually kind of nice. I said, “Hi, I’m Cami. I haven’t ice skated before, so I’m afraid I’ll have to keep it pretty basic.”
He smiled. “I’m Tom. Don’t worry, Cami. I’ve been skating since I was six – Bruce, Trey, and I used to have hockey practice right here when we were kids. I won’t let anything happen to you. And, I’ll walk you through it as we go, okay?”
“Sounds good,” I said, working hard to keep any hint of nervousness out of my voice.
He took us out onto the ice smoothly, first just holding my right hand in his left. “So, here’s what we’re going to do. I want you to match my leg movements, okay? So our right legs move together then our left legs move together. Ready?”
I nodded and focused on the slow, powerful thrusts of his legs, then matched my own to them.
Once we had completed a circuit that way, he said, “Okay, now, we’re going to keep doing exactly the same thing, but I’m going to shift your hand from my left to my right hand, and put my left hand behind you. On three – one, two three.”
He effortlessly made the exchange, and I found that we were now skating much closer together, more like a pair, and his left palm rested lightly below my shoulder blades, just over the clasp of my bra.
“That feel okay?” he asked.
In fact, it felt wonderful, but he was asking if I was feeling wobbly. I shot him a grin. “Let’s go!”
We skated like that for a while. He would say, “Okay, on three, let’s do six hard kicks, then just glide for a bit. One, two, three,” and I would follow his lead. He used his hand on my back to provide a bit of guidance.
It was really an amazing feeling, sailing over the ice, blades of my skates in a perfect line, feeling completely secure in Tom’s very competent hands. With his help I was going much faster, and much more smoothly, than I had gone before.
The music wasn’t so loud that we couldn’t hear each other, so we were able to talk in between his giving directions. Apparently the three guys had known each other for almost twenty years. They had all played hockey together through high school and Bruce – the one who was skating with Nicole – had even played in college on a scholarship until he had gotten injured one too many times.
“Now,” Tom said, “we just come down here from time to time to play around on the ice.” He added, with a cheerful grin, “And, check out the pretty girls, of course!”
I laughed.
Given that I hadn’t skated in almost fifteen years and I’d never skated on ice, I thought I did very well. We didn’t do anything complicated – nothing like the intricate maneuvers that Nicole and Bruce were executing – and I only got wobbly once, when one of my skates caught a bit.
But Tom just got a little lower and brought his left hand down to my hip to pull me back in and steady me. We skated through three songs, then headed for the sidelines.
I saw that Maggie and . . . “Trey,” was it? . . . were already off the ice as well. We joined them and watched Bruce and Nicole do one more song. There were only a couple of people on the ice, and they used the freedom to really cut loose.
They made an impressive pair. Nicole is, in any setting, absolutely drop-dead gorgeous. On the ice, she looked fluid and graceful – practically serene. While Bruce lacked her natural grace and . . . presence, for lack of a better word . . . like Tom, he was a strong, powerful skater and his impressive hockey player’s physique was striking.
They both looked like they were enjoying the chance to skate with someone who really knew what they were doing. On their last pass, Bruce provided extra locomotion while Nicole balanced on one skate, her left leg high behind her, her back arched and her arms extended.
They were still on the ice when Tom said, “Guys, I’m sorry to be a party pooper, but I’ve got a shift tonight. It’s been a lot of fun!”
Maggie and I told him how much we had enjoyed ourselves, and said our farewells. So it was just Trey, Maggie, and me waiting when Nicole and Bruce glided off the ice. Maggie and I gave them hearty applause as they came up to us.
“You guys looked fabulous!” I enthused.
“Wow,” Maggie said, “You said you knew how to skate, Nicole, but I had no idea you were that good!”
Nicole laughed. “Mom had Olympic fantasies for me when I was little. Before I got better ideas!”
We were all skated out, so we got back into street footwear and Maggie and I returned our rented skates. Bruce suggested that we all go out to dinner.
The rest of the crew were enthusiastic, but I begged off. “I’ve got an early day tomorrow, too,” I said with regret. “You guys have fun. Nicole, this was a great idea! And Maggie, it was so good to meet you!”
Nicole said, “Oh, do you have to?” and Maggie pulled a face. When I said I really did, Nicole said, “You’re taking the MARC train back, right? Let us drop you off at the station, at least.” Since the station was close to where they were going for dinner, I accepted with thanks.
Maggie and I piled into Nicole’s car and got underway; Bruce and Trey had come in separate cars and were going to the restaurant to get a table.
When we were underway, Nicole said, “Is everything okay, Cami? I didn’t know you had to get back?” She’s a sensitive soul.
“I’m fine,” I assured her. “I had a great time. That was incredible – I had no idea what I was missing.”
I quizzed Maggie, who thought it was much better than she had expected, but was not as enthusiastic as I was. We got to the MARC station and I hopped out, stopping by the driver's window to stoop down and give Nicole a kiss on the cheek. “You have the best ideas, girlfriend!” To both of them, I said, “Have fun!!!”
Soon I was on the platform waiting for the train that would take me back to College Park. It really had been a wonderful time, though I could not hide from the touch of sadness I had felt when Tom departed. I had seen the brief look of surprise on Trey’s face when Tom said he had to work, and I was fairly certain Tom was just giving an excuse.
I was likewise pretty sure I knew the reason for it. If I had felt Tom’s steadying hand on my hip when I wobbled, then Tom had certainly felt the padding there that gave me some shape. It looked convincing under a skirt, but it didn’t feel like a woman’s hip.
He had, I thought, handled it very well. No fuss, no accusations, no sudden coldness. We had even continued to skate for another song. Had we been maybe a touch less close? Had he talked a bit less? Maybe. But also, maybe not. Any pulling away, any distancing, had been so subtle that I might well have been imagining things.
My gut, however, told me that I wasn’t.
Certainly, he had not asked for my number, or shown any interest in getting together again. I expected that would not happen with Maggie and Nicole. Of course, I thought with a smile, if Bruce didn’t try to get Nicole’s number he was either blind or insane.
But that’s different. Any girl, trans or cis, who wanted to hang out with Nicole would have to be able to deal with being overshadowed. It would be annoying, if Nicole weren’t such an amazingly decent person.
College Park, Maryland, January 12
Following my morning exercises – still not quite there on the splits! – and my shower, I got dressed and went to join Al and Javier for breakfast in their apartment above the salon.
Their work was picking back up; the holiday rush to look perfect giving way to the post-holiday lull, followed by a return to normality. Al said, “We actually did a brisk business in Bogotá – would have made a pile, too, if they weren’t all family!”
Javi laughed. “My nieces all wanted to look perfect for Three Kings’ Day. We left on the fourth, so I couldn’t do their makeup for them. But Al here was a popular man with the scissors!”
We talked about Javi’s family a bit. He was one of seven and had seventeen nieces and nephews – so far. I asked, cautiously, about how accepting his family had been when he came out. We have the kind of relationship where we can ask each other those questions, thankfully.
“It was hard. Colombia is not a bad place to be gay. Same-sex couples have had legal protections longer than they have here, and Bogotá has a great gay community. But that doesn’t mean coming out is easy. You lose some friends. Sometimes even family.
“My father was the kindest, gentlest man. He never said a bad word about my decision, but I knew – I could tell – he was hurt. Momma rules the roost back home, and so none of the family ever gave me grief. I’m closer to some of them than I was before. I think Al had more trouble than I did, coming from Michigan.”
Al related his experience, which sounded closer to mine. Uncompromising parents, better luck with siblings. Friendships that survived. Others that didn’t. He agreed with Javi that Bogotá had probably been more welcoming than Roseville.
“I met Javi in Bogotá,” he said. “I wanted to get away, far away, from where I grew up. Everything that was hemming me in. I knew I was gay, and I wanted to explore that far from the eyes of my family.”
“Everyone back home thought I was nuts, thinking I was going down to some third-world slum where I’d get killed by drug lords.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Almost like they’d never even been to Detroit. But I loved it. And,” he looked fondly at Javier, “it worked out well for us.”
I always love talking to my landlords, and we kept going well after we had finished eating. But I had work to do, so I finally got up, stretched, and got ready to face the day.
Al stopped me. “Cami, I almost forgot. We got a letter in the mail for you; looks like it was forwarded from your place in DC. Let me go get it.”
It was a card-sized envelope, addressed by a familiar hand that I generally saw only twice a year, at Christmas and my birthday. The sender was identified in the upper left corner as “CC Campbell.”
“Gammy Campbell!” I said. “My mom’s mother. This must be her annual Christmas card. I’m glad they forwarded it. Gammy was always my favorite. And seeing her on Christmas Eve was part of what made the season complete!”
Javi asked, “Does she know about your transition?”
I shook my head. “No, I’ve only told Fi and Iain. Fi wouldn’t tell anyone. Neither would Iain, since he doesn’t talk to anyone. And he didn’t believe me, anyway.”
I took the letter back to my apartment and opened it. The front of the card was a stylized image of the Magi bearing gifts, and the inside had the usual Christmas greetings.
But on the facing side, Gammy wrote, “Dear Cameron – I hope you are well and keeping out of trouble. Especially given where you live. Anyhow, your mother told me she is no longer speaking to any of you and doesn’t intend to ever, ever. I’d like to blame her pig-headedness on her Ross blood, but God knows the Campbells have their share.
“Anyhow, my daughter, who drives me crazy even if I love her, won’t tell me what all of this is about. I was hoping you might. Maybe – who knows? – I can help. She’s miserable, so I’d like to. Even if it is her own fault.” It was simply signed “Gammy.”
Oh my, I thought. Where to even begin? I can tell her the proximate cause of Mom’s outburst, but that wouldn’t really be honest. The real reason that reconciliation isn’t possible isn’t Iain, as probably even my parents believed. It’s me. Should I tell Gammy?
I made myself a cup of tea and put on some think music – in this case, a collection of Chopin’s piano etudes. I sat at my desk, staring at my blank screen. What should I say? Anything? Yes, I owe Gammy that. The truth? Do I owe her that? Or, is she happier not knowing?
I thought about my grandmother. What did I know about her – /em>really know? I smiled, recalling my exhortation to a young man shopping for a Christmas present. Stop thinking of her as the nice old lady who helped make Christmases special. Think of her as a person, as a woman. What would Catriona Cameron Campbell want?
I decided I didn’t really know her all that well – at least, I didn’t know her nearly as well as I’d always assumed I did. She had grown up in Morgantown, West Virginia during the great depression and World War II, the youngest of three daughters.
Her father, the Campbell, was from Scotland, but even her mother was of solid Scots-American stock. Her Cameron ancestors were among the flood of refugees who had come to Appalachia during the Highland clearings that followed the Stewart’s defeat at Culloden.
She had divorced Grandpa Ross before I was born, I wasn’t sure when, and had lived in an apartment in St. Louis so that she could still be part of her daughter’s life. She had done a lot of babysitting for Mom when Fi and Iain were young; less when I was (after all, I did have older siblings to look after me).
When I was in high school, she moved back to Morgantown to be near her sister (who was ill), as well as her mother’s family. Some years ago, she had moved into an assisted living facility there, firmly declining Mom’s offer to move back to St. Louis where her daughter could look after her properly.
So, what did I know, really? She was stubborn, for certain (as her letter acknowledged). She had grown up in tough times, knew the reality of a hardscrabble existence. She had lived for decades with Grampa Ross, who I recalled as being pretty grim.
Would she have any frame of reference for understanding who I was and what I was doing? Would she see me as simply a frivolous child of privilege, acting out on a whim?
I just didn’t know.
But in my memory, she had been a kind woman. I didn’t recall a single instance when she had given me anything but love and acceptance. She had been warm and generous, and her apartment at Christmas had always been filled with music (“Mister Bing Croooooosby . . . !”) and the enticing smells of baked cinnamon. I owed her a response, at the least.
No, I decided. I owed her the truth. And a woman who had grown up West Virginia poor during the great depression would be able to handle it, if anyone could. Even if she didn’t understand.
Then another thought occurred to me. Morgantown isn’t all that far from Pittsburgh, where I was going next weekend. Rather than sending a letter, I could actually talk to her. Try to get her to see me as I am, accept me for what I had become.
She could be no help with Mom; she would know that. But our relationship wasn’t entirely derivative. Perhaps it would survive, even though my relationship with her daughter was beyond repair.
I would need to think about it some more. But I decided I’d get some work done while that idea percolated in the back of my mind.
“Hey Nicole!” I said, happy for the interruption. “How was dinner?”
“It was fantastic!” she gushed. “We had such a good time; I just wish you could have been there with us!”
With very little prompting, she launched into a discussion of all things Bruce. His virtues apparently extended well beyond being handsome and knowing how to ice skate, and Nicole was positively bubbly. It was, in all honesty, adorable.
When she was done extolling the wonders of Bruce, she said, “He asked if we all wanted to get together Friday night for a movie. Maggie dragged her feet a bit, but I’ve talked her into it. Can you come? I’m . . . . Well. It’s . . . .”
She stopped, then tried again. “I think it might be a bit soon for a one-on-one, you know? I think he’s trying to keep this from being too much like a ‘first date,’ and I kind of think that’s right. Will you come?”
“Of course I will, silly. But . . . you should let them know I’m trans.”
“Why?” She sounded surprised. “We’re not hauling them back to our lair to jump their bones!”
I laughed. “I get that. But I think Tom already knows, or suspects. Best to get it out of the way. If it’s an issue, I won’t go, that’s all.”
Nicole was indignant. “If it’s an issue, I've got a problem! What did Tom do?”
“He didn’t do anything, and he couldn’t have been nicer. But he kept me from falling at one point, and in the process touched some padding. He didn’t say anything or give a hint that anything was wrong, but he left quickly after we got off the ice, and I suspect he was uncomfortable with the situation.”
“That’s so stupid!” she said, still indignant. “You were just skating!”
“Not really, Nicole. I mean, yes, we were just skating. But guys don’t skate together like that. Girls, maybe. Guys, no. And . . . you know what it felt like, out there on the ice, skating in sync with a strong, good-looking guy?”
“Yeah,” she said, drawing out the word.
“Well, I felt that too – that sexual frisson that made it more than just skating. And I suspect Tom did too. When he discovered that the woman he was skating with might not be what she seemed, I think it disturbed him. And that’s perfectly normal. Something I have to deal with.”
She tried one more time. “Cami, I swear! You’re as much a woman as I am!”
“Sweetie, no one is as much a woman as you are! But thank you. It means a lot to me. . . . Still, much as I don’t like to admit it, physically, I’m missing some parts that cis women have, and those parts tend to be very interesting to men. That’s just part of my reality. I can’t blame guys who aren’t attracted to me for how they feel – or don’t feel. Attraction doesn’t work that way.”
Nicole was quiet for a minute, then she sighed. “You’re being a lot more mature about it than I would be.”
And that was likely true. Unlike me, Nicole had probably never faced rejection. “Just talk to Bruce, tell him that you would love for me to come, but that I asked you to raise this issue to make sure it wasn’t going to freak anyone out. Okay?”
“Okay,” she said quietly. “I’ll do it. But I still think it sucks. Big time.”
I got her on to happier topics, and by the time we ended our call, ten or fifteen minutes later, she was her usual bubbly self.
Suburban Maryland, Later that Day
“Here we are,” Sarah said, as she parked her 2004 Corolla in front of a nondescript ranch house on a quiet street. I got out, keeping my head down and my coat loose. Sarah joined me and we walked to the front door.
“Nervous?” she asked.
“Scared,” I admitted.
“Huh. I think you’ll manage. Never seen them bite.”
But I was scared. My nervousness had manifested in third- or fourth-order issues, like what I should wear. Did the women try to look their best? Or, would that be rude? Formal? Not formal? The only thing Sarah had said that might even theoretically be useful was, “Be yourself.”
But what, for me, did that even mean? Was I the woman I aspired to be? Or, was I something else, something unformed, unfinished?
“Fake it ’til you make it” was practically my mantra. Feeling like I might not be good enough at work? Fake it. Assume it’ll come. Recovering from a break-up? Don’t let ‘em see you cry.
I had been pursuing my gender identity the same way. I knew I was a woman where it mattered, and as far as my nonconforming body was concerned, I would just fake it. Use padding and prosthetics and cosmetics as a bridge, hoping that someday my body would look feminine without such assistance.
And I had been pleased with how well I had managed. How good I was at looking and acting like the woman I knew myself to be. Liz, Al, Javier, Sarah, Fiona, even Dr. Chun – everyone told me so. I had patted myself on the back about it. I could just be a woman.
But Tom had demonstrated that it wasn’t that simple.
And I knew what Dr. Sheppard saw, when I had to set aside my prosthetics and my padding. When she got out a tape and took my measurements, piece by piece.
A pale, thin, male body.
And however much I might wish it were otherwise, that, too, was a part of who I am. I could fool the outside world, usually – the eye is easily fooled; the ear, the sense of touch, less so. But it was past time that I was honest with myself, at least.
And, I decided, I should also be honest with Sarah’s flock. If I couldn’t show them who I am, warts and all, could I show anyone? Would I need to keep the world at a distance until I “made it,” whatever that might mean?
What if I never did?
Sarah had said nothing about my outfit when she picked me up, but she was sharp enough to understand. I was wearing a skirt and blouse over a plain white bra and panty set, but for once I had left my prosthetic breasts and my padded panty gaff at home. I wore no jewelry. No makeup. It was just me, naked and vulnerable once more.
Sarah rang the bell and an older woman opened it. Probably mid-fifties to mid-sixties. She was around six feet tall and possessed strong features and a calm expression. She was wearing a plain, but nice, calf-length dress with a crew neck and long sleeves; she showed a full figure, but no one who saw her would think she was born female. If that still bothered her, she hid it well.
She greeted me with a warm smile. “I’m so glad to meet you, Cami. Any friend of Sarah’s is always welcome here.”
To my surprise, Sarah said, “Jacqui, you’ll introduce her?”
Our hostess smiled. “Of course.”
“Then I’ll go get to work.” Sarah turned to walk away.
I was a bit panicked at the thought of navigating the evening without anyone I knew, and blurted out, “You're not staying?”
Sarah turned back. “I told you, this community is run by transwomen, for transwomen. I’ll be around afterwards for fellowship, but I have to make the potstickers.”
I hid my dismay with a quip – “Saints in heaven preserve us, you’ve become the frying nun!” – then waved Sally Field off.
I don’t know how much of my inner turmoil was evident to Jacqui as I watched Sarah walk away. But she touched my shoulder lightly in sympathy. “It’s okay. Everyone here has walked in that door with the same stomach full of butterflies. But I can promise, this is a safe place for you. For all of us. Let me introduce you to the others.”
She gently drew me in and took me into the living room, where a grouping of chairs was arranged in a broken circle. I must have been the last to arrive, since there were already seven women in the room.
Jacqui was clearly the oldest, but three were my age or younger, and the remaining three looked like they were in their mid-thirties to their late forties. Some would easily pass as cis-gendered women, others would not.
Interestingly, I was not the only one there who wore no makeup. Everyone else had feminine curves, but I had no way of knowing how far each had gone in the transition process.
After spending a few minutes introducing me to the other women (oldest to youngest, Jacqui, Angela, Jenny, Sam, Traci, Steph, and Marta), we all sat. Jacqui lit a single candle, then offered her hands to the women on her right and left.
As we all held hands, Jacqui said, “Sisters, will you pray with me?”
I bowed my head and thought, “Hello, God. I’ve missed you!”
To be continued. . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Washington DC, January 13
“Hey David – got a minute?” I was standing at the door to David Parr’s office, and it was another Monday in the trenches. Suit, dress shirt, tie, hair in a club – I had my work mask firmly in place.
David looked up from his screen and waved me in. “Sure Cam, what’s up?”
“I spent some time this weekend trying to find a few clips from Dr. Silverman’s deposition testimony to use in our presentation to the mock jury. Just some highlights. I had only read the transcript before. Listening to him . . . I just don’t think he’s going to come across well. Their expert sounds better.”
At that last comment, David’s eyebrows shot up. “Trotter is a complete idiot! He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” Richard Siverman was our expert witness on liability; Caleb Trotter was the Defendant’s opposing expert.
“I agree. But . . . I’ve read their reports, I’ve read the sources they site . . . . the jury won’t have. And Trotter just sounds credible. Silverman . . . he mostly seems pompous.”
David had defended Silverman’s depo and had taken Trotter’s. But it had been over a year ago, and he had never watched the video. “Pompous, huh? Ouch. I’d better go back and watch the tape. We can definitely work on style issues when we prepare him for his trial testimony, and that’s what really matters.”
I went back to my office, one worry less on my plate, a whole lot more waiting for me. Getting a case ready for trial is just an incredibly intensive endeavor. It was lots of long days, and detail work, and meetings. With clients, witnesses, experts, and technicians. And, of course, with the other attorneys. The work rolled on and never stopped.
College Park, Maryland and Baltimore Maryland, January 17
For the first time in a long while I had actually rented a car – a Rav4 – for the weekend. I had cut out early from work (far from the only one doing so the day before a three-day weekend), and I did not need to be in Baltimore until 7:00. But I had spent the long week looking like Cameron Savin, and Cami needed a bit of fluffing before she faced the world.
Nair. Shower. Shampoo. Conditioner. Mousse. Curlers. Turban. Moisturizer. Reattach prosthetic breasts and nail extensions. Polish.
This was always my favorite moment in my transition back. While my hair and especially nails were setting I couldn’t really do anything. So I would often just sit in my comfy chair, wearing my silky bottle-green dressing gown, absorbing the sensual feel of the fabric against my skin, the peculiarly feminine smells of moisturizer and nail polish, and whatever music I chose. I was invariably calmer when the interlude ended; more ready to face whatever followed.
The day was clear and cold, with the temperature just above freezing. I was meeting Nicole, Maggie, Nicole’s maybe boyfriend and Maggie’s . . . double date, perhaps? . . . to go to a movie, so the right play was tight jeans tucked into my high boots. I wore a more-conservative-than-usual, heavier than usual wool sweater over a camisole. I wanted to look good, but I didn’t want anyone to think I might be trawling.
The evening might well be awkward. Nicole reported that she had spoken to Bruce about my being trans and everyone was chill. But who knows?
For the same reason I was very careful with my makeup, and I did my hair in my go-to casual style (loose braid tumbling over one shoulder). Feminine, but simple. Just a girl hanging out with friends on a Friday night. I added plain stud earrings and the lovely watch that Liz had given me for Christmas, wrapped a patterned wool scarf around my neck, shrugged into my winter coat, and then headed out.
We had agreed to meet at the theater since everyone was coming from different places and several were coming from work. Nicole, Maggie and Bruce were already there when I arrived. I gave hugs to the girls and said a cheerful, “Hi Bruce!”
His response was equally easygoing. We were chatting for just a couple minutes when Trey came around the corner. I was surprised to see Tom with him. Any potential awkwardness was avoided with generic “Hey guys!” greetings from Nicole, Maggie and me.
The price the guys had to pay for fair company was that Nicole and Maggie were anxious to see Coda, a movie about a musician, played by Patrick Stewart, who tries a late-in-life return to giving live performances, only to suffer from stage fright and instability. The guys were good sports about it.
We went into the theater to sit down. Tom picked a row and was followed immediately by Bruce, then Nicole. That, I decided, was my cue. I followed Nicole and was followed by Maggie, then Trey. So I was neatly bracketed by my girlfriends. No awkwardness there.
Except that the whole “Let’s avoid any awkwardness” thing was pretty awkward. I kept my sigh silent.
The theater was a new design which served food during the movie; there was a long, bar-style table in front of each row of seats. While we were waiting for the show a server walked down the aisle in front of us and took our order. Generally I wouldn’t be a fan, but I was pretty hungry and I hadn’t had a chance to eat. Our food even came before the previews were over, so someone in the kitchen was hustling.
Then the feature started and I let myself get lost in the movie. It was a tight story – the movie only went an hour-and-a-half – and I enjoyed it. Like the main character, I have found solace and peace in Beethoven’s sonatas.
Nicole and Maggie were more deeply touched, unsurprisingly. They both had such boundless joy in their music that the idea that debilitating performance anxiety can occur later in a career was a scary one.
The guys didn’t have a lot to say about it.
Trey suggested we should all grab a drink at The Tornado, a bar the guys knew that was not too far away. It was only a bit after 9:00 so everyone was game. We decided to condense to two cars since The Tornado didn’t have a big parking lot, and I drove Nicole and Maggie in my rental. They were still talking animatedly about the movie.
I was getting quiet as I noticed that we were driving to an area that looked darker, grittier, and possibly less safe.
We pulled into a poorly-lit parking lot and I found a spot to park near the dumpsters in the back. At my suggestion we left our coats in the car since it might be tight quarters indoors.
Inside, The Tornado was pretty full, with a mix of people at the bar and at high tops. I pulled Nicole and Maggie back to a table near the kitchen, the guys following in our wake.
Trey said, “I’ll get us a pitcher.” He waded into the crowd near the bar. Bruce and Tom were saying something, but I couldn’t make out much through the noise. Nicole and Maggie were looking a little lost.
Trey came back juggling a pitcher of beer and six glasses. I begged off on the grounds that I had to do more driving. That was true as far as it went, but I would have passed on the drink even if I wasn’t driving. I didn’t feel comfortable.
Everyone was talking loudly, struggling to be heard. The Bucs/Saints playoff game was blaring on the TVs over the bar, drawing an enthusiastic crowd. The sharp “crack” of cue balls breaking filled the area on the other side of the bar.
The beer flowed. The noise got louder. Wilder. I didn’t need to look at my watch – my beautiful, delicate, lady’s watch, so very out of place in this place, to know the time. It’s time to get out of here.
Suddenly there were other faces pressing toward us. Hungry faces. “Hey babe – come home with me. I’ll show you a good time!” This was, naturally, directed at Nicole.
More faces behind that one. Angry faces. Drunken faces. Bruce was rearing up, furious. Trey and Tom surged to his support. There was shoving. Voices getting angrier. Someone threw a punch. The sound of glass breaking. Red, furious faces. Uncontrolled. I saw someone start to approach us – Maggie, Nicole, and me – from the side, while our “gallant” gentlemen were otherwise engaged.
Time to pull the ripcord.
“C’mon!” I shouted. I grabbed Maggie’s hand – she was closest to the new threat – and pulled her forward, put my other hand on Nicole’s shoulder, leaned in and barked, “Follow me!”
Then I plunged through the swinging door into the kitchen, pulling my friends with me and dashing to the back. Red tile. Stainless steel. Sounds and smells of cooking, frying. Bar food. Cooks and dishwashers. Surprised faces.
“You’re not allowed in here,” a large Black woman said as we barreled through.
“Just leaving!” I said, and opened the door that led to the dumpsters in the back – as well as the parking lot. The freezing, cleansing air hit us like a slap, filling our lungs.
My car was close. Nicole and Maggie were now racing behind me. I had the keys jammed in my fist with one protruding through my fingers – a tip I’d heard in a self-defense class ages ago that I’d never thought I’d have to use.
It also meant I wasn’t fumbling for the car keys, so we were inside in a flash. I was out of the parking lot and turning up the street just as people began spilling out the front door, the fight still very much in progress.
“What the fuck!!!” Maggie exploded.
Nicole was shaking.
I just drove. Out. Away. Somewhere that looked safe. When we hit an area that was quiet and well-lit, I slowly pulled over to the curb.
Nicole was in the passenger’s seat, crying quietly.
Maggie was still sputtering.
I put a hand on Nicole’s shoulder and said softly, “Nicole, honey, it’ll be okay. It’s alright. We’re safe. Let me take you home; we can get your car tomorrow.”
She nodded but couldn’t speak. I looked in the back seat.
“Maggie? Maggie?” I managed to get her attention. “Could you tell me your address?”
She gave it to me, I fed it into my phone, and got us moving.
Their row house was maybe fifteen minute’s drive. By the time we got there everyone had calmed down some, but they were clearly shaken. Nicole – always graceful Nicole – fumbled with her keys and dropped them.
I swooped down, picked them up, and unlocked the door. Got them both inside. Locked the door behind us.
They stood like they weren’t sure what to do.
There was a small, inhumanly tidy living room to the left of the entryway; I pulled them in. “Sit a minute.” I got them off their feet. Then I went back to the hallway and followed it past the staircase to where I assumed – correctly – the kitchen would be.
Nicole and Maggie were musicians and neatniks, so they had what I was looking for and it took no time at all to find it. In short order, I was going back to the living room with three steaming mugs of green tea.
They were talking, thank God; the shock was wearing off. Nicole was saying, “How could he do that? He just charged into a fight and forgot all about us!”
I handed her one of the cups, gave the other to Maggie, and then sat down. “He’s a hockey player, Nicole. His go-to response is to drop his gloves and throw punches.”
Maggie said, “God, I felt so unsafe. What were we even doing there?”
It was a good question. It had been clear to me walking in that we were out of place. Given how each of us were dressed, how our hair and makeup were done, we blended in perfectly at the nice theater and would have looked right at home in a trendy bistro or wine bar.
The Tornado, however, was just a working-class bar in a working-class neighborhood. It would be perfectly safe for locals. It probably would have been safe enough, but rough, if we had dressed to go there. The guys, being guys, hadn’t thought anything of it, but the three of us had stood out like suits in a biker bar.
I thought of Sarah’s advice, so critical for transwomen: You are safest if you blend in. It was good advice for cis women too.
They talked for a bit. Really just venting more than talking.
When they wound down, I asked, “Will you be okay?”
Maggie sighed and said, “Yeah. I’m . . . upset, but mostly I’m mad. I’ll be okay.” She looked at Nicole.
So did I.
Nicole looked down, as if she could pull an answer from the dregs in her tea cup. Her eyes were bright with tears she refused to shed.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” she said, though her voice still shook. “Mags will tell you, I have a bad habit of getting all enthusiastic about guys before I really know them. And then something like this happens. Well. Not like this exactly. But something. I’ll get over it. Him. I always do.”
I said, “He made a mistake Nicole. Well, two. Are you sure you want to write him off so quickly?”
She shook her head. “He didn’t just put me at risk, Cami. He put my friends at risk, too. And then took it as some challenge to his ego when . . . when . . . .”
She stopped and took a deep breath. “I’m not some damned battle prize. He acted like someone was challenging his manhood, not like someone was threatening me. If you hadn’t been there, I don’t know what would have happened to us. Either of us.”
“Too right,” Maggie fumed. “I was so mad I was about to start scratching and clawing at people. And that wouldn’t have ended well.”
We sat for a minute, lost in our own thoughts.
Nicole looked at me. “I know you’ve got places to be tomorrow, but I can’t imagine you want to drive right now. Will you stay the night? We’ve got a couch in the spare room upstairs. I think we could all use some rest. And . . . I’d feel better with you here.”
“We both would,” Maggie agreed.
Nicole was right. Now that the emergency was over, the adrenaline had dissipated and reaction set in. I wasn’t tired, I was exhausted. I accepted gratefully.
She loaned me a flannel nightdress and brought me into the spare room upstairs that they used as a TV room. She came in after I had changed with a big poofy comforter, which she insisted on tucking around me. “Thank you for what you did tonight. I couldn’t even think straight. When everything started to happen, I just froze. It was like a bad dream.”
I held her right hand in both of mine. “You’re safe now, Nicole. Safe. Okay?”
She nodded, but her eyes looked less certain.
Nicole was kneeling next to me, worry lining her angel’s face. “Cami? Cami?”
I grabbed her hand, tried to anchor myself back in the present. To remember that I was here, that I was safe. I was not on my knees. There was no monster above me. Just me, and my friend, who was distressed.
Breathe. Ragged. Try again. Breathe.
Nicole was saying something. What? Listen! Breathe.
“Cami, I couldn’t sleep, then I heard you calling out. Calling for Fiona. Are you okay? CAMI!?”
Fiona! Fiona in danger!!! Breathe, dammit! Think!
I finally pulled myself out of the nightmare. Got my lungs to start working. Felt the fear, the terror, begin to recede.
I squeezed Nicole’s hand. “I’m sorry. Bad dream. From . . . from Christmas.” I remembered that I had told Nicole about the attack. About Jonathan.
She understood immediately. “Does this happen every night?”
I shook my head. “At first. Not now. I did get some medication. But . . . . oh, Jesus, that was bad.”
She just held my hand in both of hers while my pulse and breathing slowed. After a few minutes, she said, “Cami, you’ve got your nightmares and tonight I’ve got mine. Why don’t you join me in my bed, and maybe we can both sleep?”
And that is how I woke up, spooning with the Most Beautiful Woman I Had Ever Personally Met, who was my very dear friend. I had slept the rest of the night peacefully, dreamlessly, and so, to all appearances, had she. Her heart-shaped face looked calm, peaceful, untroubled.
I gently extracted myself, tucked the comforter close against her back, and tiptoed downstairs.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 18
I got a much later start than I had hoped.
While Nicole and Maggie slept, I found that the house contained only tea (sadness!), though at least some of it was black. There were eggs, onions, mushrooms, and gruyere cheese. No luck on tomatoes. No bread of any sort. They had a frying pan suitable for omelets. Bueno.
After chopping the onions, slicing the mushrooms, and shredding the cheese, I heated some water and made myself a cup. Still no sound from upstairs.
I decided to grab a shower. Afterward, I gave myself a careful examination and didn’t see any untoward hair growth overnight. Not surprising since my face- and body- hair is sparse and grows slowly at the best of times. I changed back into my clothes from yesterday, then used my makeup mirror to add just a touch of lipstick and eyeshadow.
Maggie emerged from her bedroom just as I was about to go back downstairs. She gave me a smile, walked over, and gave me a long hug. “Thank you for yesterday. You’re a lifesaver.”
I let go and gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Go do your business; I’ll have some breakfast ready for you in a couple of minutes.”
She raised her right hand, squeezed my left shoulder, and then disappeared into the bathroom.
Her omelet was coming off the stove just as she came downstairs, hair in order, wrapped in a long bathrobe and her feet swaddled in fuzzy slippers. I put her plate and a mug of tea on the kitchen table for her.
She blew me a kiss and sat down while I started making the next omelet.
“How did you sleep?” I asked her.
She grinned. “Great, but I always sleep great. If I have dreams, I never remember them. How about you?”
I had to confess that I’d had a bad night and Nicole had undoubtedly had a worse one. “I got the sense she’d been awake the whole time before I woke up, and I have no idea when my night terrors hit. Might have been 3:30 for all I know. So I’m glad she’s sleeping in.”
Maggie said, “I had a text exchange with Trey last night.”
I raised an inquisitorial eyebrow.
“Apparently Bruce had been frantically trying to get in touch with Nickie and she was ignoring him. Probably shut her phone off; she usually does.”
“Usually?”
“Yeah, she wasn’t kidding when she said she gets ahead of herself with guys. But impulsiveness works both ways. When she gets pissed, she doesn’t hesitate to swipe left.”
She returned to her earlier point. “Anyway, I told Trey we were fine, no thanks to them. He was still making excuses by text when I said we should all remember having a nice time skating and leave it at that. He didn’t get the hint, so I told him that he and Bruce should lose our numbers. Fortunately we never said where we live.”
I sat down to join her when my omelet was ready. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out with you and Trey.”
“Meh. I wasn't really interested. Bruce was the pick of that litter and – don’t tell Nickie I said this – I wasn’t all that sold on Bruce either.”
“Oh?”
She shrugged. “Trey was a nice enough guy. Good-looking, sure. Likes hockey, football, basketball, in that order. Likes country western music. Oh, and beer. He really likes beer. Brews it, I think. Anyhow, not a great deal of overlap. I just went along last night because Nickie wanted some cover. Like you did, I expect?”
“Yes, though . . . I really enjoyed skating with Tom. It was . . . .” I found myself blushing.
Maggie smiled at me wickedly. “Oh, was it?”
I laughed. “Yeah. But like I told Nicole, I think he guessed I wasn’t all that I seemed to be when he grabbed my hip to keep me from tumbling, and he bugged out after that. I was surprised to see him last night.”
“Do you think maybe you were imagining things?”
I shook my head. “He made sure we weren’t sitting together at the movie – and thank you, by the way, for running interference for me when it came to seating! Anyway, I wasn’t any happier about how the guys behaved last night than you or Nicole."
I paused, considered, and added, "I think you had it just right. We had a lovely time skating; it’s a great memory. But I’m not spending more time on him than that.”
She made a small, dismissive wave. “Bye, Felicia.”
“Exactly!”
We finished our omelets and rinsed off our plates, then sat down to finish our tea.
Maggie said, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re more than you seem to be. You couldn’t have gotten us out of that jam last night any quicker if you had planned it in advance.”
I shot her a surprised look and shook my head in disbelief. “Of course, I planned it in advance, Maggie.”
She wouldn’t have looked more surprised if I had said I’d been hatched by space lizards.
I leaned forward and grabbed her hands for emphasis. “I wanted to talk to you about that this morning. To both of you, but you’ll pass it on. I don’t know Baltimore, but I know enough to have been aware we left the nicer parts of town within blocks of the theater. Then we pull up and the parking lot isn’t lit properly. We walk in and we stand out like circus clowns. We. Weren’t. Safe.”
“I should have just driven on, and that’s on me,” I said, giving her hands a squeeze. “I didn’t want to rain on Nicole’s budding romance. But at least I was able to get us a table by the back exit, and make sure we left our coats in the car, so we didn’t have to go looking for them if we needed to leave in a hurry.”
She nodded and looked both thoughtful and sheepish. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. Nick and I were just merrily talking away. I guess we figured we were with three hulking hockey dudes, so no one would hassle us. We both know better. In a rough place, big guys with girls can be magnets for a brawl.”
She paused, then gave me a quizzical look. “I guess I’m surprised you know all that. I mean, I know you’re trans, but . . . you didn’t have to go through your teens and twenties thinking about personal safety the way a girl does. Did you?”
I agreed, I hadn’t. “But, as a transwoman, I really have to be even more careful, and that’s something that’s been firmly impressed on me. If a guy who is thinking about a little fun finds out I’m not built the way he expects, there’s a decent chance I end up dead. The good ones – like Tom, for example – just walk away.”
Maggie looked pale. She thought a minute, then opened her mouth to say something, only to close it again.
I gave her a fond look. “Whatever it is, I won’t be offended. Go ahead.”
She blushed and said in a rush, “Why do it? Why put yourself through all that, subject yourself to all that . . . all that hatred. All that danger. Was being a man so bad?”
“It wasn’t ‘bad.’ But I discovered it wasn't who I am. On top of which, I really, really love being a woman. I could never go back.”
She sipped the last of her tea and sat for a moment. “My little sister had a classmate who was trans and we’d talked some, back when she was transitioning. But I’d always been comfortable in my birth gender and I’ve never envied guys much. Other than thinking they don’t have to deal with periods and bad hair days and catty friends and worrying about what to wear.”
“Yeah, there’s that, I guess!” I chuckled.
“You know, I've tried, and I just can’t see you as a guy. When Nickie came back from New York, she was all bubbling over with enthusiasm – you know how she is! – about this new friend she had met on the train, and how I just had to meet you. She said you were the most thoughtful, caring woman she had ever met. ‘Cuz it was Nick, I discounted it for the enthusiasm effect. But I shouldn’t have. I’m so glad we get to be friends.”
Well, if she was trying to make me tear up, she couldn’t have come up with a better way. So when Nicole stuck her head in the kitchen and asked, “Did I hear my name being taken in vain,” she caught me with eyes full of tears. Again.
But I dabbed them dry just as Maggie said, “Yup, as usual!”
I got up and gave Nicole a hug. “Hey sleepyhead. How are you doing?”
She hugged me back. “Much, much better!” Then she gave Maggie a hug too.
“Hey!” Maggie joked, “what did I do to earn that?”
Nicole held her at arm’s-length and said, “I’m just feeling really grateful for you this morning. I’m sure I’ll get over it!”
I sat her down where I had been. “Sit still for a minute and I’ll get you breakfast.”
She laughed. “Damn, girl. Will you marry me?”
We laughed and I whipped her up an omelet, which turned out looking the best of the three, though that said less than I would have liked. Henry’s omelets, I thought, are delicious AND look good. Even the magnificent Fiona didn’t deserve him.
We talked a bit more while Nicole ate her breakfast and had her tea. Maggie had a second cup, but I was wanting my coffee. When they were finished Nicole hopped upstairs and changed into casual clothes. Maggie was going to wait for a shower. So I gave her a good-bye hug, then drove off to the theater with Nicole to get her car.
She was quiet for a bit, then said, “Thanks for joining me last night. I just couldn’t get to sleep no matter how hard I tried.”
I reached over and touched her leg – about all that was within easy reach while I was driving. “I was touched that you felt comfortable asking me.”
“Why? Because you’re trans?”
I nodded.
“Cami, I’ll say this as often as you need me to, but you’re as much of a woman as I am. More important, you’re my friend and I trust you. Most important – because I can get carried away, as Bruce demonstrated, again – Mags trusts you, too.”
I thanked her for the compliment, but added, “Don’t let the world snuff out your enthusiasm, Nicole. Much less some guy!”
We arrived at the parking lot and I circled it carefully before pulling up next to Nicole’s car – at 9:30 on a Saturday morning, the only one in the lot. It had been the one place Bruce might have found her since she had to go back for it, but there was no sign of other people.
She threw me a smile. “Thanks, girl!” She popped out, once again graceful and vibrant.
Once she was in her car and moving, I pulled out of the lot and drove back to College Park.
It was almost noon before I had left my apartment – three or four hours later than I had planned. I had no regrets about staying overnight at what Nicole and Maggie fondly referred to as “Opera House.” I felt very close to them both and whatever else it had done, yesterday’s experience brought the three of us closer together.
But I was starting to wonder whether I was trying to fit too much into a day. And, I was getting cold feet about stopping to visit Gammy Campbell. It would be after three before I could even get there. After hemming and hawing, I decided to get a second opinion and called Fiona over the car’s speakerphone.
After four rings, I got her message; when it was done, I said, “Hi Fi, it’s Cami. Hope you’re well. I got a card from Gammy Campbell asking what was up between Mom and the three of us, and I thought I might see her since I was driving to Pittsburgh, to fill her in. But I’m running late and I’m having cold feet. Any thoughts?”
While I was leaving the message I got a standard Apple text – the type you send with one click – saying “Sorry, I can’t talk right now.”
Cumberland, Maryland, 1:40 the same day
My phone gave a “ding” and I saw another text had come in. I pulled off to the shoulder to read, “Tied up but got your vmail. Talk to her, she might surprise you. Text how it goes.”
Text how it goes? I wonder what emergency had Fi so tied up on a Saturday. But, I guess I had her advice.
I got back on the road and made a second call, this time to Liz. She picked right up. “Cami! How’s travelin’?”
“Hey Liz! I’m on my way, but I’m going to be later than I’d hoped – maybe too late for dinner.”
She asked whether everything was okay, and I explained about my late start and the stop I was planning in Morgantown.
“She doesn’t know?” Liz asked.
“No. But, I’m not hiding from family, so she’ll find out eventually.”
“Given that you haven’t told your parents, I’m not sure how you figure ‘not hiding from family,’ but I’m sure you’ve got some convoluted explanation for that.”
I laughed. “Well of course I do. I’d tell my parents if we were still speaking to each other, which, after Thanksgiving, we’re not.”
“Lawyer!”
“Yup!” More seriously, I added, “She doesn’t know what’s going on, and she wants to help. Help Mom, mostly, I guess. But all of us. No one’s going to tell her anything if I don’t. Mom doesn’t know, Iain doesn’t care, and Fiona won’t because it’s my story to tell.”
She was quiet for a minute; I wondered if we had lost the connection. But then she said, “She probably won’t accept you, Cami. She’s got to be in her eighties or nineties now. They grew up in a very different world. Are you ready for it?”
It was my turn to be silent for a minute. “I hope so. I steeled myself for it, but as you know, I’m never really ready for rejection when it matters.”
“And she matters?”
“I think she does. Yes. Of my blood relations, she’s the only one other than Fi and maybe Iain who might accept me. The Savins never would; that’s where the fundamentalist strain in my family comes from. And Grandpa Ross has been gone a long time.”
“Be careful then, Cami. Will you?”
I promised I would.
“Listen,” she said, “while I’ve got you . . . I’ve got a bit of turbulence on my end, too. I was hoping we’d have tonight and tomorrow morning to catch up, but my brother – Thor, the youngest – asked if I could look after my niece overnight; he and my sister-in-law really needed a night off. I couldn’t say no, so I’m afraid I’ll have some company when you show up. But he’ll pick her up in plenty of time for us to get ready for tomorrow’s shoot.”
I laughed. “I am trying to picture you dealing with a baby, and my mind boggles.”
“Laugh it up, girlfriend,” she growled, “I’m going to volunteer you to help!”
We wrapped up the call and I promised I would let her know when I left Morgantown. I settled down and concentrated on driving, watching the thin, winter sun light the hills and woods of Western Maryland.
Morgantown, West Virginia, 3:30, later the same day
“Good afternoon, I’m here to visit Catriona Campbell.”
The pleasant-looking woman behind the desk smiled. “You’re here to see Cat? Oh good! One of my favorite people! She’s in room 203. Up the stairs, turn left, down the corridor.”
I thanked her and walked up the stairs, trying to still the butterflies in my stomach. How many times will I have to do this?
How many times will I have to face family, old friends, and put my truth before them. How many times would I feel the weight of their judgment? A line from an old movie leaped into my mind: “You have been weighed. You have been measured. And you have been found wanting.”
How many times?
Her door was closed. I stood before it, uncertain, and smoothed the skirt of my shirtdress. Tugged on the white cardigan I was wearing against the cold. Maybe she was sleeping. Maybe I shouldn’t bother her. Maybe ignorance is bliss.
Eventually I tired of my internal debate, raised my hand, and then knocked.
A surprisingly strong voice answered. “Come on in. You will anyway.”
I’m not sure what I was expecting. It had been a lot of years since I had seen her and she had been in assisted living for a while. Perhaps she was spending most of her time in bed, plugged into the TV, watching reruns of Turner Classics.
No. She was sitting in a recliner that looked comfortable. She had a book on her lap and was dressed in stretch pants and a knit top. Her eyes, blue as my own, were still sharp as she looked over her glasses at the latest intruder. Though her once iron gray hair was now wispy and ivory white and her formerly stocky frame had thinned, it was still Gammy Campbell.
“Yes?” she asked, politely enough.
I stood there, not sure what to say.
She looked at me, beginning to show some annoyance. Then her eyes narrowed and she cocked her head. “You aren’t my granddaughter, but you look like her. I’m fairly certain I haven’t forgotten someone. So suppose you tell me who you are and why you’re here.”
I closed the door behind me and stepped into the room. “I am your granddaughter, Gammy. But you’ve always known me as your grandson.”
She just stared at me, pretty much like I assume owls stare at field mice.
I thought, You have been weighed . . . .
She said, heavily, “Cameron.”
You have been measured . . . .
I just stood, feet and knees together, an errant schoolgirl before a stern principal, waiting for judgment.
Finally, she waved to a chair that looked like it had come from her old kitchen table. “Oh, sit down. I won’t eat you. Tell me what this is all about.”
I walked to the indicated chair, where young Cameron had no doubt sat numerous times, eating Gammy’s cookies and chatting like a magpie. I smoothed my dress behind me and sat down, catching Gammy’s glint at the feminine gesture.
“Gammy, I got your card. And I thought I owed you the truth. This is the real reason no one’s talking to each other. Although,” I added wryly, “Fi and I are the only ones who actually know that.”
Gammy shifted in her seat. “I’m not typically slow, but you’re going to spell that out for me. Your mom’s not speaking to you because you dress like a woman, except she doesn’t know it?”
So I told her how Mom and Dad had disowned Iain at Thanksgiving when he said he was gay; how they had locked me out and refused to speak to me when I went after Iain; how Fiona had canceled her plans to come home for Christmas and introduce her fiancé to the family, and had insisted they apologize to Iain and me if they wanted to attend her wedding.
How they had disowned her instead.
She listened silently until I finished. “All that sounds . . . well, it sounds like Howard and Aileen. And like Fi and Iain for that matter. Though I noticed that you didn’t actually say he was gay.” She got a gleam in her eye when she saw that she’d scored on that point. “But I’m still not seeing what it has to do with you wearing a dress and looking like a co-ed.”
“Fiona only gave them her ultimatum after I told her that I couldn’t join her for Christmas in St. Louis because I had come out as transgendered.”
Gammy thought about that. “She’d have gone otherwise, even though they’d disowned Iain?”
I looked away and said softly, “That was me, Gammy. She wasn’t going to, but I knew how much it would mean to her for Mom and Dad to be at her wedding. For Dad – for her daddy – to walk her down the aisle. I tried to talk her into going out there with Henry, but she wanted me to agree to come, too. And that’s when I told her why I couldn’t.”
Gammy was quiet a long time, lost in thought. In memories. “Well. I guess you finally found that the price tag for keeping the peace in our family was too steep even for you.”
I looked down, not sure what to say.
“Still,” she said, “you picked a strange place to make your stand. Tell me why.”
I opened my mouth to answer but she added, with a sharpness indicative of a competent woman too long surrounded by patronizing youngsters, “And kindly assume that I did not stop paying attention to what was going on in my country or my world in the 1950s.”
I nodded in acknowledgement. “I don’t actually know if it helps if you’ve read about transgendered people, or watched anything on TV. That 'what' is easy to describe, but you asked ‘why.’ That’s hard. But I’ll try."
I paused, trying to think of how to bridge the gap between her world, her experiences, and my own. I had thought about little else during the long drive from College Park, but still I struggled for the right words.
"I know in my heart, I know with every fiber of my being, that I’m a woman. This is what I was meant to be. It’s not about enjoying wearing a dress, though I do. It’s about feeling a completeness, a rightness, when I express myself as a woman, when I relate to other people as a woman.
“I can still look and dress like a man, but when I do, it feels phony. Fake. I feel as out of place as you would if you wore a man’s clothes and tried to live and interact as a man. And I don’t want to live a fake life. A half life. I won’t.”
She chewed on that for a bit before responding. “Well, you’ve got a nice way with words, so you didn’t waste money on your schooling. But I’ll be honest with you. In my life, I’ve never had much patience with people who talk about living 'authentically.' Whether it's artists or musicians or whatever. Authenticity’s a luxury most folks can’t afford.
“My pappy played a mean hornpipe; he’da loved to be a wandering musician. But there was work to do, and mouths to feed. There was a wife to care for. Bills to pay. He was a good man. The best. If he’d followed his dreams, I wouldn’t be alive. Nor would you.”
You have been found wanting.
“You say that your decision to be transgendered is why you and Fiona can’t reconcile with my daughter. The reason the woman who gave you life will go through her life, go to her grave, without the children who should be there for her. Without seeing her grandchildren, if she ever has any.”
She looked at me with hard eyes. “So tell me: Is your ‘authenticity' worth that price?”
That finally got my ire up. I would be damned if I was going to bear the sins of the world, or even of my parents. I raised my head and said, in an even, clinical tone, “I don’t agree with your premise, so I can’t answer your question.”
“Explain,” she challenged.
“I’m perfectly willing to reconcile with your daughter,” I continued in the same tone. “As would Fi. I think you would agree, however, that under these circumstances,” I gave a gesture indicating my feminine look, “she would not reconcile with me?”
“I certainly agree with that,” she growled.
“Then the key to escape the fate you paint so poignantly is in her own hand, not mine, isn't it? If I am willing to accept her as she is, without conditions, is it unreasonable of me to ask that she do the same?”
She glowered at me. She had a daunting glower. “If you decide your happiness requires you to be an ax murderer, is it your mom’s fault if she stops talking to you?”
My eyes got as hard as her own. “Her decision, certainly. But if you think that’s an analogous case, we don’t have anything else to say to each other.”
She glowered another moment, but then she chuckled. It was a spare, dry laugh and not very merry. “Give that school of yours some money. You finally learned how to fight.”
She leaned forward. “All right. I don’t like it. It’s unnatural, and it’s self-indulgent. But that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. It’s your life and I’m not about to stop speaking to my kin just because they make choices I don’t approve of. Or, I would have stopped talking to your mom a long time ago.”
I looked at her warily, reluctant to lower my guard. This time her chuckle sounded more natural. “Not the sweet Gammy Campbell you remember?”
I gave Cam’s half smile and shook my head. “No.”
“Well, remember what I said about ‘authenticity’ being a luxury. When you were a child I gave you what you seemed to need. And Fi and that rascal Iain. And Aileen for that matter. But you’re all grown up now, and I’m eighty-six and have the luxury of being myself.”
“Which,” she added, “doesn’t mean I don’t still love all of you, even if Fi’s the only one who seems to have the sense she was born with. I’d be tickled if you were all happy, and over the moon delighted if you were even remotely capable of getting along. But if even you gave up on peacemaking, Cameron, what good can I do?”
“Me?” I said, stupidly.
“You,” she responded. “Always trying to get along. Trying to keep Howard and Iain from killing each other. Trying to keep Fiona and Aileen from sniping. I thought it was admirable. Futile, of course. But admirable.”
Whatever I had expected from Gammy Campbell, it wasn’t this. Fiona had said she might surprise me. I wondered if Fi had a clue.
Finally, I braved her fierce glower. “Can you tell me why, Gammy? Why was it futile? Why is my family so . . . .”
“So broken?” she finished.
I nodded.
She sat back, sunk in thought. “You look like a co-ed, but you reason like an adult. I guess you ought to know some of it. Some parts aren’t mine to tell."
I nodded in understanding.
"You know that your parents had a child between you and Iain?”
“They WHAT?”
“Huh,” she said. “I guess they didn’t mention that? And Fi would have been three. So she might not have remembered. Anyhow, yes. A little girl. Heather. I held her in my own hand. But she was premature, underdeveloped. She would have lived today, probably. But she didn’t make it; died after two days.”
I must have looked horrified. Sweet Gammy Campbell gave me another hard look. “It happens, Cameron. I buried two of my own, to have just one survive. It happens.” Her tone softened and she added, “Less now than when I was young, praise be. But it happens.”
“Anyhow,” she continued, “Heather’s death really cut them both. Howard was bad, Aileen was worse. I was looking after Fiona and Iain for a while so they could pull themselves together. I couldn’t do anything else. Eventually they found a way. Howard went back to his father’s church. Aileen went with him. It was pretty . . . well. . . . "
She seemed reluctant to continue, but eventually she brought herself to. "Look. I grew up Scots Presbyterian and we were God-fearing, full-Bible Christians. But mostly I grew up poor. Survival was our first religion. Howard and Aileen . . . it was different. They became very devout. Very committed to their church, their pastor. I couldn’t complain. They got back on their feet. They brought the kids home. Cared for them. But . . . .”
It was my turn to finish her sentence. “ . . . but they just kept getting crazier?”
She nodded reluctantly. “It was like a drug, I guess. Helped a lot at first, but then it just started to take and take. It was all rules and ‘thou shalts’ and ‘shalt nots’ and who’s in God’s good graces and who’s on the outs. All fear and fire. There was no joy, no life in it. Just pie-in-the-sky when you die. And then there was politics, and guns, and what all that seemed to come from the same dark place."
She spent a moment lost in memories; the bleak look on her face attesting that they were not good ones. "I did what I could for you kids, to show you a different way. But I wasn’t your momma. Then Fiona moved away, and Iain moved away, and you were getting almost old enough to move away, too. So when Jill needed me back here in Morgantown, I leaped at the chance.
“I just couldn’t deal with it anymore. I keep in touch, and God knows, I love her. He knows that I do. But I can’t save her, and I can’t keep watching her eat herself alive.”
I couldn’t believe it, but tears were streaming down her weathered cheeks. I found myself kneeling by her chair, her hands in my own. I didn’t say anything; I didn’t have anything to say. I could no more fix what ailed our family than she could.
I could only join her in weeping for it. For Gammy’s bitter, broken heart. For my parent’s guilt. For Fiona and all the love she had felt, and had lost. Even for Iain, reacting in spasms of anger to a world turned dark.
I don’t know how long we stayed like that. But Gammy disengaged a hand and laid it against my wet cheek, half benediction, half acknowledgment of our shared grief.
“Ye make a convincing enough lass, Cameron,” she said wryly, a bit of her father’s western highlands lilt creeping into her voice. “But ye see why I was over you so hard. I’ve never been able to get your mother to bend. If you’re committed to this – and you’ve convinced me you are – there’s nothing I can do. Aileen will have to deal with being alone. At least she has Howard.”
She said the last sentence as an afterthought, with an obvious tinge of distaste. My expression must have asked a question; she said, “Never you mind. He was a good man, once. A hard man, now. Not my favorite person, but I wasn’t married to him.”
I got to my feet, slowly. She looked up at me. “You’ll have to tell them yourself; I’ll not be sparing you that.”
I nodded.
She added, tartly, “Assuming, of course, that you all get to the point where you’re speaking to each other for just long enough to explain why you really shouldn’t be.”
“I’m sure the day will come. And, I will tell them.”
“You know about hell, I suppose?”
I thought of my upbringing. “It’s been mentioned.”
“I expect they’ll give you a refresher course.”
I could only nod. “Thank you . . . for trying, all those years. You made Christmas so special. And thank you for hearing me out, at least.”
She looked at me, eyes dry and clear once more. “And thank you, Cameron. For having the guts to tell me in person. Keep in touch.”
I bent, gave her a kiss goodbye, and then left her.
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, later the same day
I arrived at Liz's house around 6:30, which was better than I had feared earlier in the day. She was uncharacteristically flustered, but I wasn’t surprised. Liz had oodles of nieces and nephews and I had none. But she was just not a baby person. Never would be.
I kissed her cheek, dropped my stuff in the guest bedroom, and took baby Ingrid out of her hands. Ingrid, I thought, was adorable.
So Liz got some food together, which – while not her favorite thing – was well within her comfort zone.
I bounced Ingrid gently while we talked and I told Liz about my strange encounter with my grandmother. She managed to serve something that I could eat one-handed, which meant that I didn’t have to put Ingrid down. I didn’t want to.
By 9:00, Ingrid needed more in her stomach. I sat in the comfortable chair by the fire, held Ingrid against my body, and gave her a bottle. I found myself wishing I could give her my breast instead, that I could feel this beautiful infant taking nourishment from me.
I became aware, peripherally, that Liz was taking pictures. I might like copies of those.
I was, as usual, up early. Ingrid had gotten up twice during the night and I’d handled it both times, having finally convinced Liz to leave the Pack ‘n Play crib in my room. Ingrid and I got along well. And, I had gotten to bed early, so my total sleep quotient was still okay. Well, no worse than usual, anyhow.
By the time Liz’s brother Thor (honestly, that’s his name) came to pick up Ingrid at 8:00 that morning, she was cleaned, fed, and in a fresh onesie. I had handed her back to Liz, who handed her to Thor.
Thor was a big man, though he looked enough like Liz to make their relationship plausible, if not obvious. He was effusive in his gratitude.
Liz said, “Thor, really. Any time. That is, any time Cami’s here!”
We all laughed.
He got his daughter and all of the paraphernalia that traveled with her loaded into his car, then he drove off, waving.
I looked at Liz.
She looked at me.
I said, “So . . . got time for a little workout before we have to do the primping stuff?”
“Is that a challenge?”
I laughed. “Maybe . . . . Give me a minute.”
I popped into the guest bedroom and re-emerged, minutes later, dressed in a crop-top red sweater with capped sleeves, a ridiculously short white skirt, and sneakers. ‘I’ve got my uniform; where’s yours?”
This time she laughed even louder. “It is a challenge!” She disappeared into her own bedroom. When she came out, she was dressed in her old cheerleading outfit – the one I had worn when I pretended to “try out” for her squad.
We went downstairs to her exercise area and she put on some up-beat electronic music. Then we challenged each other.
She would do a series of cheer exercises. I would try to duplicate them, then I would do a set and she would try. Unlike our last session, where she was playing the coach, we were just two women bouncing around, challenging each other to kick higher, to jump higher, to move better.
She finally threw in a split and I just managed it.
Success!!!
After thirty minutes we were hot, sweaty, and cheerful. I was nowhere near as good as Liz, the former queen bee of her high school cheerleading squad, and never would be, but we both had fun.
I said, “So, did I make the team?”
“Keep tryin’, kid!”
We went upstairs and took showers. I took a blow-dryer to my hair right away to get it dry. Since Liz wanted these pictures for her website, I had decided my picture should look a bit less recognizable. So the folks at the salon were going to attach a wig and do something dramatic and different for my makeup.
Liz emerged a bit later, dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a crisp white shirt. As usual, she looked perfect, since she very much looked like a photographer.
Liz drove to her salon, which had been told the same story about a photoshoot as last time, but this time it was even true. They finished my nails and makeup in about forty-five minutes, then came out with the wig. My own hair was pulled back and put in a tight bun against the back of my head and they fussed with a wig for a few minutes before letting me see it.
“Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you,” Liz said.
Since my mother doesn’t even know that I’m a woman, I thought Liz was probably correct.
Nevertheless, I was flabbergasted. My makeup was dramatic, with peach undertones I don’t usually have, and false eyelashes that actually looked good (normally, I don’t like how they look on anyone).
The hair was an effusion of honey-gold that flowed half-way down my back as well as over my shoulders and down my chest. It was abundant, and very, very girly. I could pass for eighteen. Well, twenty, anyhow. Maybe Dolly Parton had been onto something all those years with her wigs!
We thanked the ladies at the salon, then went off to the next destination. Liz had worked a deal with a local bridal shop where they gave her a discount on rentals for the day in exchange for advertising and credit on her website. She picked up a wedding dress, two bridesmaids’ dresses, three tuxes, and the necessary accessories. We loaded them into her car and brought them back to the house.
It was about 12:30; the rest of her crew wasn’t showing up until 3:00. We had a quick bite to eat – some premade soup and toast – then got to work. I helped her set up her greenscreen and re-do the bridal trellis she had put together last time, decorating it with artificial flowers. Once it was up, a couple of people could move it around without too much trouble. Then we set up Liz’s camera gear and lights.
I went back into the guest bedroom and stripped down to my padded panty gaff and my prosthetic breasts. Liz, who had seen it all before, came in with me and started handing me items, one by one. First, a white, boned corset, which she proceeded to tighten mercilessly after I put it in place. Then a pair of snow white panties with a gorgeous lace pattern. Then, once again, she gave me a petticoat in crinoline.
She stopped to admire her handiwork. “I like you better with your own hair, but the blonde is certainly dramatic!”
We went into the main room and I sat in front of the green screen and was once again photographed rolling my stockings up my legs. Liz gave me artistic direction throughout. “A little more bend in your right elbow. No! Too much! Keep it a nice, curved line. Curve your back a bit more as you bend down. Point your toe . . . .” All the while, she was snapping photos like a madwoman.
Eventually she finished that series of photos. “Okay, Sweetie. It’s time. Are you ready?”
I nodded, and she brought out the dress. Surprisingly, Liz had gone with a dress that was both sleeveless and strapless.
She unzipped it, arranged it, and had me step into the middle of it. Then she brought it up until it was in the right place, carefully zipped it back up, then fussed with the satiny fabric until it lay shimmering atop my crinolines.
“Wow,” she said.
“Let me see!” I didn’t even know how the bodice was held up, except that it was remarkably stiff. Probably it stayed up because it didn’t want to disappoint Liz.
We went into her bedroom and I looked in her full-length mirror. She brought one of her cameras and took pictures of me admiring myself in the dress. I was captivated by the image, able to imagine myself as a bride – lovely, fresh, and perfect as any girl on any wedding day. I would have wept, but I couldn’t ruin all of the makeup.
We added shoes, and a thin gold necklace with a striking pendant. She put a ring on the long tapered fingers of my left hand, and then she gave me a bouquet of artificial flowers.
We went back to the area where the green screen was set up, and she started taking lots of bride shots. The bride standing. Sitting. Smelling her flowers. Looking dreamy . . . . You’ve seen the poses in any number of wedding albums. She used them all.
The last time I was here, I had not gotten into a wedding dress, but I had worn the corset, the stockings, and the crinolines. And she had laid me gently on my back, raised my legs high, and slowly, inexorably, fulfilled my wish by popping my cherry with the aid of a strap-on.
I realized I hadn’t had any sex since that day. Hadn’t even masturbated. And here I was again, this time fully a bride. And Liz was close.
So very close.
The bride closed her eyes, unbidden, and bent her nose to delicately sniff the non-existent aroma of the artificial flowers. Liz kept taking photos; it was a pose, after all, even if she hadn’t called it. But I was just getting myself back under command. I had an overwhelming desire to be held, and kissed, caressed, petted, fondled, loved . . . .
I drew a long, deep breath through my nose, feeling the air fill my lungs, expand my chest, push against the corset. I thought of Nicole, getting ready to sing, and I slowly, slowly, exhaled through my slightly parted lips. Again.
“Cami? You still with me?” I suddenly realized Liz had been giving instructions, and I turned my attention back to them.
Her friends Fernando and Tish were the first to arrive. Tish was probably her closest friend, unless I was. But they were very close. She looked up at me – Tish isn’t very tall – and extended her hands, palms up.
I took them lightly in my own.
“Cami. It’s good to meet you. And, it’s good to see you again.”
It was an odd greeting, but it was an odder circumstance. They had never met Cami, but they had hiked, kayaked and rock climbed with Cameron.
Fernando just stood back and said, “Wow. Just wow. You look fantastic, Cami!”
Her friend Tim Jackson arrived next; he actually gave me a two-handed hand-shake. “So good to meet you, Cami!”
Janet Talmage was the last of the crew that I knew, though Liz had expanded her circle a bit since last August. Janet gave me a gentle hug. “You make a lovely bride.”
The two new editions, Bob and Carla, arrived together and were apparently an item. With everyone there, Liz had them get changed, disbursing them to various parts of the house for that purpose.
The bridesmaids wore pale blue satin; the guys wore classic tuxes, but the groomsmen had vests in the same material as the bridesmaid’s dresses. Tim was wearing a white brocade vest; he would be playing the groom.
Liz went into maestro mode. She organized different groupings. Under the trellis. Away from the trellis. Talking to each other. Laughing. Sitting at a table. She took shots of Fernando pretending to give a toast. Of me pretending to throw the bouquet.
She took lots of shots of me with Tim. By his side. Looking at him. Looking down demurely while he bent his head toward the crown of my hair. Laughing with each other.
It was fun and funny. Liz kept it all moving as she snapped millions of pictures. Finally, she assessed that she had enough raw footage. Everyone disbursed again to get out of their wedding attire and back into street clothes.
Liz came in with me, since she didn’t need to change and knew that I would need help. Not without regret, I stepped out of the beautiful wedding dress, which Liz hung with appropriate care. Then she was behind me, working on the laces of my corset while I took careful breaths and tried not to imagine her hands wandering, just a bit.
To here, or maybe here . . . .
Finally I was free of the corset. The rest was easy enough, and soon done. I switched into a pretty A-line dress, as the crew was going out to celebrate the successful shoot at a nearby restaurant.
I also removed the wig, placing it on the loaned wig stand, brushed out my own hair, and returned it to my preferred over-the-shoulder loose braid. The bridal makeup also had to go, replaced by a more casual look.
The dinner was lovely. Everyone was friendly and nothing seemed at all awkward. I guess it stood to reason. These were Liz’s friends, doing this as a favor for Liz. I was no threat. They had known me before, and they had been friendly, but ours had not been the type of friendship that would have survived the end of my relationship with Liz.
As the evening wore on I slipped out, needing a moment with my own thoughts. I felt a shiver as I stepped to the railing on the patio and looked into the darkness. In nice weather, they had tables on the patio, and wine, and laughter. But tonight it was clear and cold, and I was alone with the stars and my thoughts.
I felt Liz’s presence in the darkness at my back. A light, soft touch where my neck meets my shoulder. And a whispered voice saying, “I want you, Cami.”
Neither the voice, nor the presence, were Liz. It was Tim, my “groom for the day.” He stepped closer. I could feel the warmth of his body. His fingers slid down my shoulder, touched the bare skin of my upper arm, while his other hand reached up and cupped my opposite shoulder. His voice was low, urgent, at my ear.
“Please, Cami. I want you so bad.” I felt the touch of warm lips, a kiss at the base of my neck.
I said nothing.
“You know you want it too, Cami. You know you do.”
And it was true. Oh, it was so true! I wanted “it,” and I wanted it bad. I wanted it now. I wanted to be held, and loved. I wanted kisses and sweetness and power and urgency. I wanted heart racing and blood pounding. I wanted . . . . Oh, I wanted!!!
But I didn't want it like this. I barely knew Tim. He was Liz’s friend, not mine. He and Cameron had gotten along fine when Liz and Cameron were an item, but I couldn’t tell you three interesting things about him. I had never felt any spark, any sexual tension, with Tim. I wanted it alright. But not with him. Not tonight.
I raised my right hand and gently stilled his wandering fingers. Keeping my tone light, I said, “Not on the first date, Timmy! I’m not that kind of girl!”
His hands stopped moving and he was still.
My heart beat slowly in my chest. One beat. Two.
“We have tonight, Cami. Who knows what tomorrow brings?”
Three beats. Four. Five.
“We can choose what it brings,” I suggested. Six. Seven. Eight.
“Okay, Cami.”
The hands withdrew and he walked away.
I stared into the dark, the cold seeping into my bones. Wasn’t I worth a little romance? Or was that too much for a transwoman to ask? Should I be grateful that any man would want me?
I thought of Steve, the first man to kiss me. Of Tom, his strong arms around me as we skated around the rink. Both gone, vanished, as soon as they knew what I was.
The night had no answers, but I had my own. How many times had I said it, when I faced rejection? The heart goes where the heart goes. I had never had sex, as either Cameron or Cami, without being in love with my partner.
The loves had been few and, with one exception, had not lasted. But in the moment, they had been real. Liz was cheerfully willing to have sex to give release to her body’s wants and needs, but I was not Liz.
I would have love, or nothing at all.
In the meantime, I thought, I should probably break down and talk to Sarah about a vibrator.
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, January 20
Liz and I sat in the comfortable chairs by her fire, watching as snowflakes swirled around her back deck, where they settled briefly before disappearing. It was quiet and beautiful and peaceful, even if the weather would somewhat lengthen my drive home.
We finally had a bit of time to relax – the first calm moments since I had arrived Saturday evening. It had been two months since I had been here last, at Thanksgiving. Half a year since Liz had broken up with Cameron, in these very chairs. Almost a year since our first date. Such a short amount of time!
We had both been up early. Normal for me; less so for Liz. She knew I would have to leave well before noon, and wanted to squeeze in as much time as possible before I did. So we had showered and dressed, had a bite, and were settled in, warmed and cheered by her gas fire, having thirds on coffee.
I finally told her the full story behind my Christmas in Boston, including the attack that I was still reliving in nightmares. I told her about shopping with, and getting kissed by, Steve; about skating with Tom. About Nicole and Maggie, about Fiona and Henry. About Sarah and the faith community she built and nourished.
We talked about the prior evening. “Tim took a shot at you, didn’t he?” Liz asked.
I looked at her cautiously. Tim was her friend, and I didn’t want to cause any issues.
She correctly interpreted my look and waved it off. “I saw him follow you out on the patio. Was tempted to intervene, but I decided you were more than capable of handling Tim. Besides,” she said, watching me, “I didn’t know whether you might be interested.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing against Tim. But I don’t really know him. Haven’t ever felt anything for him.”
“Yeah, that’s not the sort of thing that would worry Tim,” Liz agreed. “He made a pass at me when we first met, too. But I don’t screw around at work, literally, and told him so. He backed off. I assume he did yesterday, too?”
“He did.” I fell silent.
Liz looked at me with a degree of compassion she rarely shows the world. “You’re wondering if there’s someone out there for you, someone who will treat you right?”
I looked into my coffee. “Sure, of course. I mean, I know life’s not fair that way. And I knew in my head I might have to give up on romantic relationships if I wanted to live my life as the woman I know I am. If that’s the price – even if it’s just part of the price – I’ll pay it. But it does hurt, Liz. I try not to let it, but it does.”
She was quiet in response, finally stirring to say, “I wish I could tell you it'll all work out. That just because you’re a wonderful person – and you are, Cami, the best I know – you’ll live happily ever after. But it would sound pretty stupid coming from me, since I let you go myself. Still, I hope you find what you’re looking for. Who you’re looking for. And that he turns out to be right for you.”
We talked about my work, and hers. How she was finally getting her team to work together properly, after she had to bring a couple engineers to heel. We talked about her plans for doing side gigs as a photographer.
We talked about her old friends and her new ones, so much a part of the life she had woven for herself when she came back to Pittsburgh. When we had first started dating, I really didn’t have a life of my own, living in a new city myself, fresh out of law school. I had eagerly latched on to Liz’ friends, just as I had adapted myself to her interests and hobbies.
I was building my own life, now.
We talked about Derek, and the budding romance that was slowly, carefully, adding color and texture to the vibrant sexual relationship they already enjoyed. She was finally taking him seriously, and it seemed he was treating her like a serious prospect as well.
One stone, one brick at a time, she was dismantling the moat and glacis, the bastions and batteries and hardened defenses that she had constructed since the end of her marriage to stand guard over her inmost thoughts and feelings. An open and vulnerable heart, protected by nothing more than trust in its own resilience, nurtures and husbands a different kind of strength.
We talked about our shared archive of eye-popping images and video, and decided it was time to delete all of the compromising material. We had the memories, and they would be enough.
We talked for hours. Memories, hopes, fears . . . a fitting bookend to our first magical conversation in an Ethiopian restaurant in Adams Morgan. And through it all, unspoken, I felt a shared realization that I was finally letting Liz go. We would remain friends forever, I was sure of it. But the duet we had sung together this past year was finally resolved, the last notes of the diminuendo fading into memory.
It was time to leave. I loaded up my rental car, closed the trunk and moved to give Liz a farewell hug. Instead, one last time, she pulled me in and kissed me deeply, gloss-red lips to gloss red lips, a passionate and lingering kiss suffused with love and longing, gratitude and grace.
The fingers of my right hand brushed her cheek, light as the falling snow, a wordless parting. God go with you, dear one.
As I turned at the end of her street, I saw her in my rear-view mirror, small but as vivid as my first memory of her, always and forever a cardinal in a field of dusty heather. She raised her arm in farewell and was lost to my sight.
College Park, Maryland, January 21
“Hi Henry,” I said to the image of Fiona’s husband-to-be on my computer screen. “I don’t suppose my sister is home?”
He shook his head. “Sorry Cami. I’d say your timing was unlucky, but she’s barely had a moment since you left after Christmas.”
“I saw articles in the Times this morning, about the Coronavirus case in Washington state, and what that Chinese doctor was saying about person-to-person transmission. That’s what she’s been working on, isn’t it?” Fiona worked at the infectious disease division of MassGeneral.
Henry nodded. “Yeah, pretty much non-stop, around her normal clinical duties. Conference calls to discuss logistics, preparing protocols. Trying to make sure they have supplies where they need them. Just in case.”
“So it's bad?”
Henry waggled his fingers. “Probably too soon to tell. Could be like SARS; lots of localized problems, but nothing that gets out of control. But it also could be worse. A lot worse. Right now, there’s too many unknowns to make good predictions.”
“That must make your job hell, too.”
“It hasn’t yet. But I think it will. We’ve been quietly taking profits for the past week, ten days, just to reduce exposure. And making some hedges in the pharma sector, naturally; Robbo’s been busy. It’s a delicate balancing act. No one wants to spook the markets, but no one wants to be left holding the bag if this breaks the wrong way, either.”
I thought, this is one of the few times when I’m happy that I have no assets to invest. One less thing to worry about.
I told him to let Fi know that I had visited our maternal grandmother and had what I described as a “full and frank exchange of views,” but that we parted on good terms. I said I had also learned a few things about my family that I hadn’t known, and that I would talk with Fi about them sometime when she wasn’t saving the planet. It could all wait.
He promised to pass on my message and we signed off.
“Hey Cam, did you hear this?”
I was in Daviana Narvaez’ office, going over some inconsistencies in the exhibit labels for the documents we planned to introduce at trial. The senior associate on our trial team, she could teach a nuclear engineer a thing or two about being detail oriented.
A news alert had just popped up on her screen. “China just placed all of Wuhan under quarantine. That’s . . . .” she paused a moment to run a quick search, then looked ill. “Dios. That’s like twelve million people!”
Daviana and I finished what we were working on, but attempting to concentrate on something as trivial as exhibit labels was difficult.
I thought, What does this mean? Who even knows?
Baltimore, Maryland, January 24
“Please come in, Cami. I’d like to introduce you to Dr. Karpedian, our endocrinologist.” Dr. Chun, my clinical psychiatrist, walked me into her office where a middle-aged man with a high forehead, intelligent eyes, and silver at his temples rose to greet me.
“Good afternoon,” he said. “May I call you ‘Cami?’”
“Please do, Doctor. I’m glad to meet you.”
We sat in comfortable chairs around a small, round coffee table.
Dr. Chun started the conversation. “We’ve gone through the results of your bloodwork and the report from Dr. Sheppard.” Dr. Theresa Sheppard was the GP who had poked, prodded, and measured every conceivable appendage of mine a couple of weeks ago. “We wanted to discuss the results with you and let you know what we’re seeing.”
What they were seeing, apparently, was a condition called “hypogonadism.”
Dr. Karpedian said, “You don’t meet every criterion, but you meet enough of them. Your testosterone level is abnormally low for a man. And, based on the experience of puberty that you described to Doctor Chun and Doctor Sheppard, coupled with the measurements that Dr. Sheppard took, it appears likely that you had the condition at least as early as your teens.
“It would explain why your secondary sex characteristics – things like upper body muscle mass, face and body hair, the depth of your voice, and your Adam’s apple – are less pronounced then in most adult males. And, as you reported to Doctor Chun, and Doctor Sheppard confirmed, your testes and penis are also smaller than we would expect to see in a post-pubescent male.”
They waited while I took that in.
“So, my physical appearance was pretty significantly affected by this condition?”
“That’s what the evidence points toward, yes,” Dr. Karpedian answered.
“I just assumed I was small.”
“Do you know if you had any testing done when you were going through puberty?” he asked. “It would provide us with a lot of useful information.”
I shook my head. “I’m positive I didn’t. We really only went to the doctors’ office if we were seriously ill. We didn’t do wellness visits. And I was pretty healthy.”
“I see.” He sounded both disappointed and disapproving.
While I could definitely see his point, I pulled the conversation back to the present. “I suppose it’s nice to know how I got the way I am. And I’ll need to process that a bit, I expect. But what does this mean for me now, today?”
“A lot of that’s up to you,” Dr. Chun said. “But we’ll tell you what we think the options are, at least.”
Doctor Karpedian took the lead. “In the ordinary course, once we developed a better understanding of the type of hypogonadism you have, we would recommend testosterone replacement treatment. If you’d received this treatment in your teens it might have kick-started puberty and you might have developed in a way that is more consistent with the male average.
“But even today, testosterone replacement therapy can help you develop more typically male secondary sex characteristics. That wouldn’t be the only reason we would recommend it, though. Hypogonadism can result in additional negative symptoms if it isn’t treated. Put another way, the treatment would fall under the category of ‘medically necessary,’ rather than merely elective or cosmetic. Which typically matters for insurance purposes.”
“You said ‘in the ordinary course?’” I asked.
Dr. Chun answered, “Right. Because that may not be what you want, if you want to pursue treatments to assist in gender affirmation.”
"I see,” I said. “Will this diagnosis preclude the estrogen treatments that we discussed in our last session?”
“I don’t think so,” Dr. Karpedian replied. “Not if that’s what you want to do. But I’d like to run a couple of additional tests to determine the nature and source of the underproduction of testosterone before clearing you for any hormone treatment – whether estrogen or testosterone.”
“Would the hypogonadism have an effect on my body’s response to estrogen therapy?”
Dr. Karpedian made a noncommittal gesture. “Possibly. You might see a more pronounced effect from the treatment. Not as much as someone who has never experienced male puberty. But possibly more. Hard to say for sure.”
Dr. Chun added, “What I recommend right now is that you do the additional tests that Dr. Karpedian mentioned, just so we have a better sense of what’s going on. Assuming the tests come back clear, you will need to make a choice. Do you want hormone therapy that will make you appear more masculine . . . or more feminine?”
I opened my mouth to respond, but Dr. Chun held up her hand. “You absolutely don’t have to decide today, and even if you’re positive I would recommend that you take some time to think it over. It’ll take a week for the additional test results to come in. We can talk about it then, and you can decide what you want to do.”
Reluctantly, I nodded.
She continued, “You don’t need a diagnosis of gender dysphoria to begin hormone treatments, but the diagnosis is usually required if the treatment is going to be considered ‘medically necessary’ for insurance purposes. You meet all six of the recognized characteristics to one degree or another, and only two are required for me to make the diagnosis.”
“However,” she said, “the symptoms must have persisted for at least six months. Based on what you’ve told me I’m only comfortable saying two months, though I could stretch the point to three.”
“So hormone treatment to make me more male would be considered ‘medically necessary,’ but treatment to make me appear more female would be ‘elective?’”
“That’s about the size of it,” Dr. Chun confirmed, “although obviously that changes if your dysphoria continues.”
My heart ached for all the transwomen who lacked my financial options. The quirkiness of our healthcare delivery system bordered on institutionalized cruelty in this circumstance – and so many others besides.
I took the tests.
My condition was a blessing. I was able to pass as a woman much more easily precisely because my “secondary sex characteristics” were “underdeveloped.” I knew it, and I truly was grateful for it. There were transwomen in my faith community who would have thanked God for my condition.
I also had no doubts about my choice. The absolute last thing I wanted was to have testosterone coursing through my blood, coarsening my skin, making me hairy, bulky. Deepening my voice.
No! I wanted just the opposite. I was not even tempted by the chance to be a “normal” guy. Like Tom, Steve, Tim, or Curt. Or Iain. Or my father. I didn’t even want to be a wonderful guy like Henry. Not anymore.
And yet, part of me was grieving for the boy I had been, for everything he had endured. All the pain, the anguish. The bullying. So many memories.
I remembered myself in middle school, watching Iain working out, wondering if I would be as strong as he was when I got my growth. The growth that never happened. I remembered the taunts of the jocks in high school.
I remembered Liz, sitting on her back deck in the morning sunshine, trying to explain, in a way that didn’t tear me apart, that I wasn’t able to satisfy her during sex, and wondered whether my underdeveloped penis played a role in that. All because my body had failed to produce sufficient quantities of a hormone.
Blessings notwithstanding, the force of my memories left me with an overwhelming desire to weep. And a wish – stupid, selfish – for a shoulder to weep on.
I shook my head, angrily. Gammy Campbell was right; I am self-indulgent. I needed to stop my wallowing. Maybe I would have had an easier time in life if I’d developed more in puberty. But maybe having an easier time would have made me less patient, less able to feel empathy for friends who were hurting. More callous.
Those bad years had left scars, and they were smarting right at the moment. But they had also driven internal growth, made me who I am. Everything happens for a reason.
Do I really want to be someone else? Seriously?
I put my phone back in my purse, surprised to find it in my hand. I won’t mourn for Cameron Savin, but if I do, I’ll do it alone.
College Park, Maryland, January 25
I took special pleasure in my exercises, making a point of doing my cheer routines – something I did because it was both fun and a great aerobic workout – wearing the cheerleader outfit I had bought for my challenge with Liz the prior weekend. I should, I thought fiercely, get myself some pom poms.
No, I’m not going to take testosterone!
I Naired and treated myself to a long and sensual shower, sliding the creamy moisturizing soap down the long, smooth length of my legs, feeling the hot water sluice over my skin, massaging sweet-smelling conditioner into my scalp.
Emerging refreshed, I reapplied my prosthetic breasts, tucked and slipped into a clean panty gaff, and went about making myself pretty, for no one but myself and no reason but whimsy. I had to work today, but it was a Saturday and Cami was going to work from home.
I made myself a light breakfast and opened my iPad to catch up on the headlines. In the normal course, the upcoming Iowa caucuses would be the focus of all news coverage, but the impeachment trial in the Senate, now underway, had pushed it to the second rank.
More ominously, the Coronavirus was all over the news. A second case in Washington State. Spooked investors were starting to exit the market, causing broad declines. More bad news out of China.
I felt a chill deep in my bones that had nothing to do with the winter outside. How bad would it get? Nobody knew. And there wasn’t anything I, or almost anyone, could do about it, other than to get on with life, and hope for the best.
And, there was a lot of work in my in box.
It was the end of a long week, but once again I had to leave work early for a medical appointment.
Eileen had asked, casually, “Is everything all right?”
I told her that some issues had come up during my physical; I had to do some follow-up tests but it wasn’t anything serious. Which was truthful enough after a fashion, if incomplete. And the issues, while very serious to me personally, would not interfere with my work on the fast-approaching trial.
I was back in Dr. Chun’s waiting room, reading about the declaration of a world health emergency by the WHO, when her assistant brought me back to her office. Dr. Karpedian was not with her; he had sent us both copies of the test results, his analysis, and a green light to begin hormone therapy late yesterday. Either testosterone replacement therapy or estrogen therapy.
My choice.
Dr. Chun smiled as she came to the door. “Cami, given the care you have taken with your appearance, I assume you have made your decision?”
I laughed. It was a fair point. I had bought myself a jewel-toned red dress with a crew neck, three quarter sleeves, a tight bodice and a full, flaring skirt that fell to just below my knees in a heavy material that looked like velvet but wasn’t.
It was dramatic – not something a woman would wear to either the office or a doctor’s appointment – and I had done both my hair and makeup to match. Oh, yes, I was making a statement, from the flowing curls on my head to the tips of my three-inch heels!
“I’m dressed up because I’m meeting some friends for dinner. But yeah, it’s also my answer. This is who I am. Who I’m meant to be.”
She gave my arm a squeeze and led me to her chairs. “Tell me about it.”
So I did.
When I was done relating my thought processes and how I had reached my decision, she talked to me about her treatment recommendations, what to expect at each stage and an idea of the timeline.
Although I was cleared for the hormone treatment and eager to begin it, I would need to hold off on it until the trial was done. While changes in appearance would be gradual, they might be noticeable by the two-month mark. Moreover, the possibility that hormonal changes would lead to mood swings at the beginning of treatment meant that they would be a bad fit for a time of high stress when I would need to be functioning at my absolute best.
Nonetheless, I asked if she would write the prescription now.
She raised an eyebrow. “Why, Cami?”
“I can’t take them yet, but I want to have them. It’s like, one step closer. Something I can touch. A token, or a promise.”
She smiled again. “Okay. But I want you to let me know before you start taking them. We’ll need to monitor your progress.”
We discussed laser hair removal, but decided to hold off on that until the hormone therapy was well underway. I didn’t have all that much face and body hair, and the estrogen therapy might make it even less of an issue.
What I would be able to start immediately was the voice therapy. “Especially at the beginning,” Dr. Chun explained, “the therapy is really about expanding your vocal range, giving you access to a more convincing high register and more control over your pitch. No reason to delay any of that.”
I was excited by the prospect of taking concrete action, and happy to have an opportunity to work with the voice coach who trained both Nicole and Maggie. Whether I would take steps beyond these was something I could, and should, decide later.
Dr. Chun recommended taking things slowly, waiting until we saw the results of the hormone treatments before deciding about additional steps.
I left her office on cloud nine, overjoyed to be moving forward. I was going to take an Uber to the restaurant where I would be meeting Nicole and Maggie, but first I got a ride to a CVS.
I had a prescription to fill.
Baltimore, Maryland, January 31, later that evening
The Uber dropped me off at Tio Pepe’s in downtown Baltimore. I had reserved a nice table, both because I wanted to splurge on a celebration and because I wanted to give my friends a bit of a treat.
They lived pretty frugally. Like me, they had student loans to pay off, but the arts don’t pay as well as BigLaw, especially when you’re starting out.
Tio Pepe’s is a Spanish restaurant with low ceilings and painted brick walls, providing a warm and cozy space in the middle of a Baltimore winter. I was a couple minutes early, so I ordered a pitcher of their apparently famous and authentic sangria and a couple of apps. The drinks and starters arrived just as Nicole and Maggie swept in from the cold.
Maggie’s dress was a medium blue that highlighted her blonde hair and blue eyes, a flowing design with trumpet sleeves, an asymmetrical hem and a plunging neckline. Nicole, of course, was stunning in a long-sleeved bodycon dress in hunter green, her waist-length hair cascading down the back. They drew every eye in the restaurant as they entered.
Opera singers know how to make an entrance!
I gave them both big hugs and we sat, deep in conversation before I had even poured the sangria.
“So,” Nicole said, “dish, girl! What’s going on?”
I had told them I was celebrating, but I said I’d tell them why when I saw them. Instead, I pulled the prescription bottle from my purse and rattled it enticingly. “I got it! I was cleared!”
They knew immediately what I was talking about, and why it was so important to me. They were beaming.
The conversation flowed, burbled; it eddied when the waiter came by to take orders and again when he delivered our seafood paella, but found its flow again immediately. I told them about the photoshoot and I shared a couple of the images Liz had finished working on and had sent off to me to look at.
“Oh my God!” Maggie said. “That’s you?” It was a picture of me in bridal splendor, laughing with Liz’s friend Tish, who was dressed as a bridesmaid.
“Yes, but it doesn't look that way by design.” The dramatic makeup and long, curly blonde hair definitely changed my appearance radically. “I don’t really want pictures of me looking like this while I’m not out at work. And, I guess I want to earn a picture in a wedding dress.”
I also shared another shot Liz had sent, a picture of me in her comfy chair, head bent over her niece, a perfect and adorable infant, as I held her close and gave her a bottle.
“Your bridal shot looks very professional,” Nicole said, “but I like this one better. That is just so you.”
It was, in obvious ways: I wasn’t wearing a wig, my hair was in my usual loose over-the-shoulder braid, and I was wearing my standard makeup. But it was more like me in deeper ways too.
I had felt an immediate connection to that little girl, so tiny, so vulnerable. I had wanted to hold her and shower her with love, and felt incredible peace when she snuggled in to me and drew warmth from my body. I had never felt anything like it, and my joy and wonder shone through in the photo Liz had taken.
We talked, of course, about opera; Nicole and Maggie live and breathe it. Nicole’s favorite opera, as I knew, was Tosca; Maggie really liked Carmen, which was appropriate to our current setting.
“Carmen is a great mezzo soprano part,” she said. “And, she’s fierce and mercurial, very much her own person. ‘Libre elle est née et libre elle mourra’ – she was born free and will die free. Of course, she does die. It’s opera. But she has a good run! And, I like singing French.”
“You sing Carmen!!!” An older man with the sharp and distinguished features of a hidalgo had overheard her remark, just as he was coming up to the table. “Excuse me, ladies. I was just coming to ask if everything was perfect for you this evening. I couldn’t help but overhear your remark.
“I was privileged to hear Doña Teresa Berganza sing the role at the Teatro de la Maestranza in Seville, almost thirty years ago. She was older then, but still . . . the voice! The passion!!!”
Maggie put both hands to her mouth. “You did! Oh my God!! When Carreras played Don Jose?!!”
“Yes!!! Such an evening! Such magic!! I will remember it always!”
They geeked out a bit more, and Maggie had to explain that she was not presently scheduled to be part of any performance of Carmen, though she would love to one day.
When he left, I said, “You know, I just go places and have dinner. Regular gal. Simple, quiet. But when I’m with you two, anything can happen. People just connect with you, with what you do. It’s amazing!”
After dinner, we took an Uber back to “Opera House,” the row house where they lived. I had a small overnight bag with me because we had arranged in advance that I would sleep over.
They had taken an Uber to the restaurant because they wanted to feel free to drink; I had taken one mostly because I didn’t have a car. I was beginning to think it might be useful to get one.
Back at their house, we changed out of our finery and into something more comfortable. I had actually bought something for this purpose as well. On my own, I loved the sensual feeling of a sexy nightie under my dark green silk dressing gown, but that wasn’t appropriate for hanging out with Nicole and Maggie. So I had purchased a flannel nightgown and a heavy fleece bathrobe in a warm red color.
We made ourselves some green tea and trooped into the living room, where Maggie and Nicole gave me, with great enthusiasm, an introduction to opera. They would play a favorite piece – Maggie insisted on including Carmen, of course – maybe two or three renditions, pointing out the differences in interpretation.
We discussed how the artists were using their voices. Nicole and Maggie debated their favorite composers and librettists.
It sounds dull and technical, but it wasn’t at all. These two women might be young, but they had studied the subject for years with passion and intensity. They were sharing the thing they knew best and loved most in the whole world, the spark that gave their lives meaning. That allowed them to stand up in a crowd of complete strangers and sing.
I was captivated.
We turned in late and I slept deeply and dreamlessly.
I woke early as usual, despite the late night. I’m sure Dr. Sheppard would scold me for my bad sleep habits, but I love the early morning. It was quiet and I was seldom interrupted by the demands of the outside world. Besides, while I had been in bed a shorter amount of time than normal, I had definitely slept better.
I put my fuzzy new robe over my nightgown, added some slippers, and padded downstairs from the spare bedroom where I had spent the night. Maggie had explained that the house was part of her parents’ retirement plan. They had bought three separate properties in Baltimore over the years, fixed them up and rented them out, using the rent to pay off the mortgages.
Opera House had been their first purchase and was already paid off. When Maggie and Nicole were ready to move on, it would become a rental once more. Her parents were both still working, so they were willing to let Maggie live there rent-free for now.
The living room was not suited for my morning exercise routine, which in any event tended to be a bit noisy. But there was space enough for me to do my stretches, so I concentrated on that. I went for fifteen minutes, took a short break to make some tea, then went for fifteen minutes more.
I was getting locked in on my splits now, able to do them consistently and without quite so much obvious strain. Though I felt a bit silly doing them in my nightgown, which had to be hitched over my hips to complete the maneuver.
When the girls wandered down, forty-five minutes or so later, I had tea ready and had cut up some fruits and berries and added them to vanilla yogurt for our breakfast.
“You’re up early,” Nicole said through a smile of greeting. “What’re you up to?”
“Just reading a piece about the impeachment proceedings.”
“Politics,” she said with distaste. “I can’t listen to all that stuff. Drives me crazy.”
I shook my head. “It’s always fascinated me. But now, as a transwoman, ignoring ‘politics’ would be like . . . .” I grasped for an analogy, then smiled and said, “it would be like going into a bar in a bad part of town without an escape plan.”
She grimaced at the reminder. “Is it really so bad?”
“Nicole, there are states where it's illegal for me to use the ladies’ room. Wouldn’t matter what I felt inside, or how many happy hormone pills I had taken. Wouldn’t even matter if I had all my male parts surgically removed. Plenty of people in America, right now, today, think that what I am doing isn’t just unnatural, it’s immoral and evil. And, they think I’m a threat. The ‘why’ doesn’t really matter. What matters is the fear – and the hate.”
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said, shaking her head. “I know we get tunnel vision here; we’re absorbed in our art, our music. When I think about it, I know how lucky we are. But mostly we just take it for granted, I guess. I heard about the bathroom bills, even if Nickie missed that. But . . . I just dismissed it as something stupid, like bad performance art. It didn’t touch me . . . I didn’t feel it, like you do. I should have.”
Nicole looked thoughtful. “Maggie’s right. We’re so privileged. Lucky. And I don’t think about what’s going on in the real world nearly as much as I should. But still . . . politics!”
I laughed, and the moment passed. Like most Americans, they loved their country, loved freedom and democracy, but took all of it completely for granted. Their world was more fragile than they dared to admit; democracy and civil rights, freedom and the rule of law, can be swept away unless they’re defended.
But part of me was glad that, at least for now, these two women lived in a moment where they could focus on their art, could explore their great passion and give such incredible beauty to the world. Not everyone is well-suited to the barricades. Though the time might come when they are called to defend them, nonetheless, I was grateful that it was not today.
Nicole and Maggie had one more treat for me before I left. They brought me down into the basement, an open space that was as large as the footprint of the whole house.
Had I known, it had ample space for my full exercise routine. But a section of it had been turned into a sound-proofed room for making recordings. The enclosure had a large glass partition on one wall, on the other side of which was a lot of professional looking audio equipment, including a synthesizer.
Nicole demonstrated, going in the room, closing the door, going to the microphone and singing. I couldn’t hear anything.
Then Maggie handed me a set of headphones, and I heard Nicole doing vocal exercises, as clear as if she was standing in front of me. I gave a big thumbs-up and she came back out.
“We do most of our work down here,” Maggie explained. "Our voice exercises, our recordings. We make demo tapes to send out for potential gigs. Having this space really allows us to focus.”
I was impressed, and said so.
Then Nicole said, “But we didn’t bring you down here to admire the hardware. You’re here for a workout – our kind of workout!”
I looked stupid I suppose, because Nicole looked mischievous and added, “You’re going to be working with Francesca Trelli; we can get you started before you meet her.” This was their voice coach, whom I would be using as a speech-language pathologist to develop a more feminine voice.
So Maggie and Nicole had me join them in doing vocal exercises, simply singing notes, or a series of notes, without words. They practiced some very basic warm-up routines with me, after first working on posture, breathing and good abdominal support for the voice.
Each of the exercises typically began in a low register and worked up and up. I had to switch to a falsetto before either of them were barely into the heart of their range, and had to stop altogether long before they topped out. But I definitely felt stretched, and they assured me that I could learn how to expand the top end of my present range.
A bit like learning the splits, I thought.
I really felt like I did after a workout when we went back upstairs. Nicole insisted on driving me home, so I got seriously pampered. When we arrived, she said that she wanted to see my apartment.
I felt a bit shy about it, strangely enough. It’s not that it was messy; I keep it neat (if not quite to Nicole and Maggie’s high standards). But I had actually never had anyone over. Other than my landlords, Al and Javier, no one else had ever seen my little refuge.
She spun around in the middle of the floor, taking it all in. “It’s . . . it feels just like you, Cami. It’s warm and friendly; organized. Peaceful . . . .”
One of the sliders to my closets was open, revealing my purchases from over the past months; she stepped close, ran a finger down the sheer fabric of my red slip dress and added, “And, so very feminine.”
She appeared to be thinking hard. “I don’t know politics and I don’t want to. But anyone who can’t see who you are is blind. Anyone who thinks you’re evil, or some kind of threat, is nuts. And if that’s what’s going on in this country, it’s time I got my head out of my ass and started paying attention. If there’s anything I can do to help, I’m here for you.”
I cry so easily now. I never cried at all, before. Nicole, bless her, could make stones weep. “You have got to stop doing that to me,” I said through my tears. “But thank you. I am so glad I sat down next to you on that train!” I cleared my tears and walked her back out to her car.
We ran into Al, who was popping out for an errand, and I introduced them.
Al said, “Oh. My. God! That hair – that hair I would do for free!”
Nicole laughed, we said our good-byes, and she drove away.
“Such a lovely young woman. Cami, it’s good to see you with friends. Especially women your own age.”
I couldn’t agree more, though I responded, “My old, guy friends are pretty good, too!”
College Park, Maryland, February 2
It was 9:30 in the evening. I had worked hard over the past day and a half, but the number of things to be done was inexhaustible. After a break for a late supper, I had gotten myself dressed for bed in my light green nightie.
But I had covered it with my dark green dressing gown and sat back at my computer to get another hour or two in before calling it a night. My hair fell loose and full over my shoulders.
Unexpectedly, my screen lit up with an incoming Skype call. Not work; it was, finally, Fiona. I eagerly clicked on accept, looked at my sister’s exhausted face, and said, “Oh my God, Fi! It’s that bad?”
Her smile in response was tired. “I’m just gonna pretend those weren’t the first words out of your mouth, little sister!”
“I’m sorry!” I was truly contrite. “But it really looks like you haven’t slept since the last time I saw you. Are you okay?”
She waved it off. “It’s been intense. Not a lot of sleep, but I’ll be fine. I know you called a couple of times. I’m sorry I’ve been so out of touch.”
I told her not to be silly; that I knew what she was doing was incredibly important. Then I asked if she had any better sense of how bad the coronavirus outbreak was likely to be, compared to what had been in the news.
“I know more, I expect. But not about the things that really matter. We know it can spread from person to person. We don’t know how transmission is occurring, the actual mechanism. We don’t know how infectious it is, and we don’t know how deadly it is.”
“So you’re preparing for the worst case?”
She shook her head. “In my line of work, there’s no way to prepare for the worst case. The worst case is Stephen King, end of the world stuff. But we’re doing what we can to be as prepared as we can be for whatever might happen.”
We talked a bit more about the nuts and bolts of what she was doing, and talked in general terms about what Henry and Hutchinson Financial were doing. It was clearly an all-hands-on-deck time.
But after a bit she said, “Now, sister mine. Do me a favor and talk to me about something, anything, besides coronavirus.”
I gave her the family news first.
“You know,” she said after I described my conversation with Gammy Campbell, “I don’t have any memory of another sibling, or of Mom being pregnant between Iain and you. I was little, and self absorbed. Had quite the ‘Daddy’s little princess’ syndrome. But I do have a clear recollection of living with Gammy for a while. I’d never really given any thought to why that happened. I can see how that might have really hit Mom. Dad too, for that matter.”
She was less surprised at my description of Gammy herself. “I knew her better, of course; she was part of my life until I left for college. And, I think she was willing to show her steel a bit more to me – because she figured I could take it – and to Iain, because she knew he needed it. You,” she said with a note of fondness, “I think she figured you just needed some love. You got plenty of discipline.”
She thought Gammy’s acceptance of my transition was a reasonable outcome. “She disagreed with what you’re doing and told you so, but she made it clear that she respects and loves you regardless.”
It wasn’t as emotionally uplifting as Fiona’s own embrace of my choice, but I agreed that it was the best I could expect from someone of her generation and background. For sure, I’d take it.
I also described my sessions with Dr. Chun, and Dr. Karpedian’s diagnosis of hypogonadism.
She was surprised, then thoughtful. “Not really my specialty. I always assumed you weren’t big like Iain because he took after the Savins and you were more like me and Mom’s family. But thinking about it, Grandpa Ross wasn’t small. I don’t really know about the male Camerons.”
We talked a bit about the next steps in my transition. I told her how excited I was to have the estrogen pills, even if I wouldn’t be able to start them for two months.
She smiled. “You know, I already have a hard time seeing anything male when I look at you. You look downright sultry all ready for bed!”
I blushed.
As we wrapped up the call she said, “I’m probably going to be hard to get in touch with while we’re working through this coronavirus issue. I wish I could be more present for you right now, with all the changes you’re going through. If I’m still buried in a month – which hopefully I won’t be – can you look after Iain’s discharge from rehab and his criminal stuff?”
I assured her that I would.
I sat for a bit after she signed off. She had been very cautious in what she had said to stress the tight limits of what was known about the new virus. But from the sounds of it, what little we did know was all bad.
As before, however, there was nothing I could do about it. Might as well get back to work.
I had spent much of the day on logistical issues. Our whole trial team was going up to Connecticut for all of the following week to prepare our witnesses for their trial testimony.
We would be staying in Hartford, where the client’s headquarters were located, but we would go down to New Haven Tuesday morning for a court hearing (David Parr’s argument, not mine), then again on Friday for the presentations to mock jurors that our jury consultant was organizing.
I was taking a brief break to listen to Senator Romney’s speech supporting conviction of the President on the charge of abuse of power, impressed despite myself by Romney’s obvious intelligence and sincerity. He had not presented himself nearly so well the two times he ran for president, I thought. What ambition can do to even the best of people!
Just as he was concluding his remarks, my “Cami App” chirped at me, and I saw that I was getting a call from Javier. I quickly got up, closed my door and took the call. “Hey Javi, what’s up?”
He replied in a voice I could barely recognize, “Cami . . . Cami you won’t believe it! Tina’s come back! She’s come back to us!” He was clearly weeping, uncontrollably. Tears of joy, of relief.
I had never met Tina, but in many ways I felt I was in her debt. She was a young transgender girl Al and Javier had taken in at eighteen at Sarah’s request. She had run away from her family years before, living by her wits on the street. They fixed up their garage so she could live in it, cared for her while she got her feet underneath her, and treated her like the daughter they never had.
But she had disappeared a few years later, leaving them, leaving her job and the life she had created, running once again. They thought her family had caught up with her.
Because they had loved her so much, they opened their hearts to me when I came to their salon, still uncertain of who I was or what I was doing, wanting to learn how to look like a woman. Al and Javi had figured out that I was transgendered before I was willing to own it myself. And, they had rented me her old apartment, convinced she would never return to them.
All of that passed through my mind in an instant when I heard the news. My first reaction was simple joy for my friends. “Oh my God, Javi!!! That’s amazing news!! How is she??”
His voice was still choked with emotion. “She’s good; she sounded good. We haven’t seen her but we’re going to the bus station to pick her up.”
“Does she need a place to stay? I’m happy to have her over at the apartment tonight. I won’t be home until late, but she’s welcome to crash. I can pick up an air mattress, if I need one.”
“Thank-you, Cami! I don’t know what her story is, but we may take you up on that. We’ll call later, okay?”
I agreed. “Oh, Javi. I’m so happy for you. For both – for all of you!”
He signed off.
Although I wasn’t really eager to share my sanctuary, I knew it was the least I could do. Al and Javi had no place in their apartment for their friend to sleep; their couch was really just a love-seat. And, I really was happy for all of them.
It was probably 9:30 before I heard from Javi again. He sounded more subdued; cried out and drained. He said that Tina did need somewhere to stay, and if my offer was still good they would take me up on it.
I assured him it was.
He told me not to worry about an air mattress. “We got one on the way home. We’ll get it set up and get her settled. Unless you’re leaving soon, she’ll probably be sleeping when you get home. She looks beat!”
It was almost midnight before I got home, and I worked to mute the clump clump of my wing-tipped oxfords as I came through the back gate. I eased open my door and used the light on my phone so that I wouldn’t have to turn on the overhead light.
An air mattress was on the floor near my desk; someone had used it but it was now unoccupied. I looked around, wondering where my guest might be, and was surprised to find a small, mouse-haired person asleep in my own bed.
Not the best of beginnings. Still, it had been her bed, once. And dealing with it would have to wait.
I pulled together my clothes for the next day, hung my suit and tie, and put the rest of today’s Cam-o-flage in the hamper. Then I fished out my flannel nightgown and crawled into the abandoned air mattress.
College Park, Maryland, February 6
I woke in the middle of the night, badly. The fear, the cold sweats. The racing pulse and ragged breath of my night terrors. I didn’t know whether I had made any noise. I lay still, trying to bring my body back under my mind’s control. To remember where I was.
When I was a teenager, a neighbor had asked me to look after her cats while she went on vacation for a week. They were beautiful creatures with long, smokey gray fur. But they were wary — very wary. They had been born in the wild and she had tamed them and cared for them. Around anyone else, they were skittish and mistrustful.
As I tried to get comfortable, tried to quell my terrors, I felt wary eyes on me. Looking to my bed, I saw I was indeed being watched by eyes that reminded me, frighteningly, of those feral cats. When I made a move, the eyes narrowed to slits, then very deliberately closed.
It was a long and sleepless night.
In the early morning, I got up quietly, got dressed and slipped out into the cold of the February morning. My usual routine – exercise, shower, coffee – was entirely out of the question. I would need to actually meet Tina, and when I did, things might be more comfortable. But my workweek was packed, and I didn’t know when I might have the time.
Before I left, I went to my desk and picked up my estrogen prescription from the prominent place where I had put it, a talisman and promise. Feeling both small and foolish, I put it in my pocket.
To be continued . . . .
IMPORTANT AUTHOR’S NOTE: I am not a medical doctor of any sort. Hypogonadism is a real syndrome that does affect the development of both primary and secondary sex characteristics, and it is normally treated through testosterone replacement therapy. However, readers should assume that all of it is more complicated than anything described in this chapter and remember that this is a work of fiction.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
College Park, Maryland, February 8
I was tired, short on sleep, shaken by night terrors, and grumpy.
It was Saturday morning. Normally, one of my favorite times, because I could spend the day, and the next day too, being myself rather than pretending to still be Cameron Savin, a male attorney at Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn. I would still be working, more often than not, but I would be doing it from my own apartment. But with Tina ensconced there, that was going to be hard.
I still hadn’t even spoken to her, because she had been sleeping – rather pointedly, in my bed – both when I left for work and when I got home. I had crashed on the air mattress, generally trying to squeeze a full night’s sleep out of the hours between midnight and 6:00 am. Which might have worked, but I had night terrors every night since Tina had arrived.
I grabbed my phone and checked the time. 5:53 a.m. Normally I would have been finishing my morning exercises. Not possible. Hitting the shower, however, had not awakened my visitor yesterday, or if it had she had hidden that fact. So I pulled myself upright, got untangled from the sheets, and got to my feet.
Still no motion from the bed.
I went to my dresser and pulled out my breast forms, a panty gaff, and bra and panty set, my stretch jeans and a white cotton shirt. Unwilling to get dressed in front of a complete stranger, I brought everything with me into the bathroom and piled it on top of the sink. I started the shower and went into my beginning of the weekend routine.
Forty-five minutes later I was at my desk working, a cup of coffee close to hand. Tina remained, to all appearances, asleep, and I decided I was just going to ignore her until she woke up.
I had been at it for almost two hours when a voice behind me said, “Are you gonna be here all freakin’ day?”
I suppressed a quick snap-back, turned around and said, very deliberately, “Good morning. I’m Cami. I’m glad I’ve finally had a chance to meet you.”
Tina was still sprawled on the bed, a sour expression on her face.
I waited.
After she had given me her best basilisk stare for almost a minute, she said, “I don’t give a flying fuck who you are. I asked whether you’re gonna be here all day.”
I don’t always respond to direct challenges with sweetness and light; expecting it after the kind of sleep I had gotten the last three nights was asking too much. I cocked my head to one side and said in a calm tone, “I’m happy to have a conversation, Tina, but if you want to have an argument you’ll have to pay me. I don’t work for free.”
I turned back to my computer and went back to what I was doing.
After five minutes or so of silence, she started pounding the table by the bed and saying, over and over, “GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT! GET OUT!!!!”
I got up, walked over to the bed, where she was at least now sitting up, and interrupted her. “Tina, I live here. And I’ve got work to do. Can you please tell me what this is all about? We haven’t even met!”
She glared at me. “I don’t fucking want to meet you. I sure as fuck don’t want to share a room with you. This is my place! Mine!”
“No, I’ve been renting it for months. You can’t disappear for years and expect that the world won’t change.” I was keeping my voice reasonable – the tone you might take with a toddler throwing a tantrum – because she didn’t appear to be stable. My tone didn't seem to calm her.
“No, YOU'RE the one that’s wrong! This is my place,” she snarled. “They made it for ME! They bought this furniture for ME! I’m finally able to come back and they’ve turned it over to some dick who plays dress-up and has the guap to drip. Dresses. Undies. Pretty little things to wear at night. Jewelry. Falsies. You think that makes you TRANS?”
I looked at her, nonplussed. “Suppose you tell me what it takes to be trans, Tina.”
She finally stood up to face me, standing only a foot away. “When they hunt you down, and get some sick judge to say you’re cray, and they lock you up and try to force you to give up – try for YEARS!!! – and you spit in their face, because you CAN’T, you fucking CAN’T even PRETEND you’re male. Then maybe I’ll think you’re serious.
“But you? You go out every morning, wearing a suit. Look like the man to me. Probably to everyone you see. Then you prance around behind closed doors in your pretty panties and think it matters?!! You’re a sick joke!”
I took a long breath, fighting down my rising instinct to bite her head off. “I haven’t faced what you’ve had to face. But I’m not your enemy! I want to help. Why are you attacking me?”
“You’re in my way, dickhead. I need this place. No. I don’t have the guap – the scratch – like you. I can’t take out some fucking ‘lease with an option to buy.’ I got nowhere left to go. I’ve got these two guys. That’s it. And. You’re. In. My. Fucking. Way. Can you wrap your head around that, or is it too much for you?”
She threw up her hands. “You want to help? Fine. Get the fuck out of my life.”
This was . . . not going to work. And, unfortunately, I really didn’t have the time to deal with it. “We’ll talk later.” I went back to my desk, shut down my laptop, put it and my iPad in my bag, and walked out, grabbing my winter coat on the way.
She looked triumphant.
My emotions were roiling. First, I was boiling mad. I had offered her hospitality and she had rifled through my drawers and closets and then verbally assaulted me.
But . . . she had also been horribly abused. I remembered Al and Javier describing Tina as the sweetest, kindest person they knew, like a daughter to them. She had lived in this apartment for something like three years; Al and Javi had known her well. No way she had fooled them for that long.
No. Tina had come back, but she was a bitter, broken shell of the young woman they had known . . . and loved.
It was 9:30 in the morning, and I was in a bind. I was walking aimlessly around the streets of my neighborhood when I had work I had to get done. I had to be on a plane to Hartford tomorrow afternoon. There was no time to deal with this. Any of it.
I crossed Baltimore Avenue and sat on a park bench on the outskirts of the campus that gives the town its name. It was forty degrees and I couldn’t sit long, but I needed a safe, quiet space. Then I called Sarah.
“Hey, Cami,” said the familiar voice. “I thought I might be hearing from you.”
“You guessed I might be having roommate problems?”
“Yeah.” It was almost a sigh. I knew she had come to see Tina during the day while I was at work.
“Sarah, I don’t know the whole story. I know she’s been abused; sounds like they found a way to institutionalize her. But . . . she sees me as her enemy. An obstacle to resuming her old life. I don’t know what to do.”
She had me tell her the whole story, and was quiet for a minute after I had finished. “What options are you seeing, Cami?”
“Wellllll . . . ,” I said slowly, “I can try to stick it out. Make it work. Al called yesterday, asking me to do that ‘just for a while, maybe a couple months, while she gets back on her feet.’ I said yes then – what else could I say? And I want to help; I really do! For her sake; for Al and Javi’s sake. But I don’t see how I can. Not when she resents me. Thinks I’ve replaced her.
“And . . . . God, Sarah! I hate to say this, but she’s going to make my life miserable and I just don’t have the bandwidth to deal with it right now. I’m working eighteen-hour days! I can’t come home to a war zone every night!”
“Cami,” Sarah said sternly, “You are not required to solve everyone’s problems. You can only do what you can do. What’s option two?”
“I leave. Throw in the towel. It feels like quitting, running away. Letting Al and Javi down. But if I can’t make it work – and I don’t see how I can, right now – I’ve got to get out. Now, not later. But . . . I don’t have time to hunt for a new apartment. I’ve got to be on a flight tomorrow.”
I thought for a moment. “Maybe I could ask Nicole and Maggie if I could crash at their place for a few weeks . . . They are wonderful people, though I hate to impose . . . .” I ran out of steam.
“Any other options?” Sarah asked.
“I can’t see any,” I said glumly. “I suppose I could ask Al or Javi to talk to her, but that just seems like calling in parents. It only works when they're actually in the room. Once they aren't, the situation’s just worse than before.”
I’d been the youngest of three, and my older brother had been hard to deal with on occasion. I learned early not to bring our frequent disputes to our parents’ attention. Moreover, if Al and Javi were the only people she trusted, I had to make sure that I didn’t do anything that might shake her faith in them.
“You have a lease. You could tell Al and Javi that it won’t work. You could also tell them what you told me this morning.” Her tone was carefully neutral. Sarah doesn’t like to give advice.
“That’s just what I can't do. Al and Javi are my friends. This matters to them, more than anything. I can't do that to them. I just can’t.”
“They love you, too,” she said carefully. “Whether you go or she goes, it will hurt them. Like parents with daughters who can’t get along.”
“I know. But I’ve got options and Tina doesn’t. She’s being vicious, but she’s not wrong. I am in her way. So, I should be the one to go. And I would, except . . . .”
I didn’t want to finish the sentence, but Sarah wasn’t going to finish it for me. “Except . . . ?” she prodded.
“Except I worry about what she’ll do to them. She’s desperate, and she’s wounded. She is not the beautiful girl they remember. She’s going to tear them apart!”
The line was silent, then Sarah said, “I can’t tell you what to do. And wouldn’t, you know that. But for whatever it’s worth . . . . I think you’re probably right. She may be too far gone to pull her back. I know I can’t do it, not right now. I know Javi and Al hoped you might be able to help, but they had no idea how she reacted to you. Given her hostility, it’s pretty clear you can’t."
"Do you think they can?"
"I don't know. Honestly, I doubt it. But, they’re the only people who might be able to pull it off. The only people she even half trusts.”
I thought about that for a minute. “I need to talk with Al or Javi. Both, preferably, but one of them’s got the shop this morning. Will you come, too? I need them to know what I’m doing, and why, but I also need to make sure they know the risks. Maybe they won’t want to take Tina on, though I doubt it. But it should be their choice. If it’s just me, they might think I was trying to manipulate them into kicking her out.”
“Even I know you better than that,” she replied. “But yes, I’ll help. Let me call Al and see if we can’t meet some place this morning. Things are quiet here; I’ll close up for a bit.”
The better part of an hour later, Al, Sarah and I were all sitting at a table in the back of a local diner. Al was the last to arrive; he looked exhausted and his handsome face was etched with worry. And guilt. Sarah had filled him in when she called.
“Cami!!!” he said, “I’m so sorry! I had no idea it would be this bad!”
I jumped up and gave him a long, daughterly hug. Then I sat him down and stopped him before he could say anything more.
“Al, it’s okay. Really. I understand. I know how much Tina means to you both. I know you want to help her. And I want to help her too. Maybe down the road I’ll be able to. But right now, given where she’s at, the only way for me to help her is to give her space. She made that clear this morning. . . . And, I guess I need some space too, even if it’s just a room.”
Al broke in. “It’s your apartment, and this isn’t your problem . . . . we’ll . . . .” But he ran out of words because he ran out of ideas. There just wasn’t space for a third person in the apartment Al and Javi shared.
I covered his balled hands with my own. “Thank you. Really. But I’m not going to be responsible for putting Tina back on the street. I won’t do it to her, and I won’t do it to you two. Like I said to Sarah earlier, I’ve got options and she doesn’t.
“I’ll go somewhere else, but . . . I need to make sure that you actually want to have Tina in the apartment. She’s not who she was, Al. You know that. I’m worried for you both. So’s Sarah.”
Sarah didn’t say anything, but she didn’t challenge my statement.
Al stared out the window, looking tired and grim. Then he sighed. “We have to try. Even if we can’t rescue her. We couldn’t live with ourselves, if we didn’t try. We loved her so much . . . . we still do.”
I gave his hands a squeeze and then released them. “Then that’s decided.”
We talked some more, but the rest was just detail. Al filled me in on what he and Javier had learned about the years Tina had been gone. Sarah talked about strategies for dealing with Tina’s trauma and red flags Al and Javi should watch for.
We discussed the possibility that either Sarah or I could be more help down the road, if and when Tina got to the point where she felt secure in her living situation and in the primacy of her relationship with Al and Javi.
Finally, we talked about logistics. I didn’t have a lot of stuff. My computer table and chair were the only furniture I possessed; the rest was mostly clothes – Cam’s and mine. I wouldn’t be able to clear everything out until I got back from Connecticut, but I would need to take everything I needed for the week.
Al said he would get Tina away so I could take care of that, and he would let me borrow his car.
He wanted to know where I was going to go, and I told him that I was going to stay with friends in Baltimore. I hoped that was the case, but I didn’t know it. There had been no time to ask. If Nicole and Maggie couldn’t take me, I would just have to come up with something else. Fast.
We got up, said our good-byes to Sarah, and he drove me back. Alone with me in the car, he said, “I’m so very sorry. And we’re going to miss you so much!”
I assured him that he was losing a tenant, not a friend. But I also knew that, unless and until Tina stopped feeling threatened by my relationship with the two men, I would need to be conspicuous by my absence.
College Park, Maryland, February 8, ten minutes later
Al texted to tell me that Tina was over at the salon, so I slipped back into the apartment that had been my sanctuary for these incredible months of change, and suddenly, so very suddenly, wasn’t. Life was coming at me too quickly.
But I had no time for wallowing. I made a call to Nicole and got a message. I called Maggie.
“Hey, Cami! What’s shakin’?” she asked, answering her phone.
“Hi Maggie,” I said. “I’m calling to ask a huge favor. I’m losing my apartment, basically right now. Can I stay with you for a bit until I can get another place, or at least store my stuff there?”
“Oh my God, Cami, what happened? Of course you can stay here!”
“I tried calling Nicole but got a message. Do you have a way to check with her?”
“She’s at a voice lesson this morning, but don’t be silly. She would insist,” Maggie said.
I promised to fill her in when I got there; we ended the call and I quickly started to pack. What I would need for the Connecticut trip went into my large suitcase with the wrap-around garment bag. Everything from the bathroom – shampoo, conditioner, toiletries, cosmetics, hairdryer, brushes, razor – into a recyclable shopping bag. Another bag for Cam’s shoes. A third for mine. Underwear, socks, hosiery, sleepwear into a fourth bag.
The important clothes from my dresser went into my carryon bag. I grabbed my small wooden jewelry box and added it to the bag as well. Then I stopped and, again feeling small, opened it.
My watch was missing.
It was obvious, since it was the largest item I owned. It was also the only valuable piece, both intrinsically and sentimentally. Liz had given it to me at Christmas. I wanted to storm into the salon and sweat it out of that nasty piece of work, but I forced myself to think first.
Was I sure I had put it back in the box?
Yes, I was sure. I had it with me last weekend in Baltimore and had put it in its safe spot before starting the week. I hadn’t had an opportunity to dress as myself since then. So, yes. It had been stolen.
Was it possible someone else took it?
No. From what Al had told me, Tina had been in the apartment the whole time, except when she was right next door.
But that also meant that it was probably still here. She hadn’t gone anywhere; she hadn’t had a chance to fence it. Maybe she had it with her, but I thought not. She wouldn’t want to get caught like that.
I checked under the mattress. Nothing. Patted down the sheets. Nope. Checked the pillow cases. And, bingo. There it was, along with three twenty dollar bills and a baggie that held six pills. I pulled my prescription container out of my purse and opened it up. Sure enough. Same pills.
She was sneaky, but clearly not as smart as she thought. I put the pills and watch back where they belonged, put the jewelry box back in my carryon and closed it. I loaded what I had packed into the car.
Plenty of space still, and I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my skirts and dresses for Tina to paw over. It seemed like each item came with a host of memories, from the A-Line dress with the floral motif that was my very first purchase, to the red slip-dress that had shocked Liz, to the beautiful party dress Fiona had given me for Christmas . . . .
I put down a towel over the other items in the car and just lay my nicer clothes on top of it, still attached to their hangers.
That was all I needed to take. I went back into the apartment and made sure I wasn’t forgetting anything important. But I wasn’t. I had eighty percent of my clothes, all of my toiletries and all of my valuables. I would need to get the desk and chair later. The food in the cupboards and the fridge I would leave, with one important exception.
I paused a moment, grabbed a piece of paper, and wrote Tina a note. “I told you that I’m not your enemy. But if you steal from Al or Javi, or if you do them any harm, I promise you that I will be. Do you really need more enemies?”
I left the note, unsigned, in the plastic bag that had held the estrogen pills she had stolen, and put it back in the pillow case. I also put the $60 back. I didn’t recall having left money around, so it might actually be hers.
I left the apartment and went to get the car. Javi was standing beside it, looking miserable. “Let me drive you, Cami. I’ve got things I want to say. And I can’t, here.”
I remembered how happy he had looked, those few weeks ago, when I had picked them up at BWI after they spent Christmas in Colombia. I thought, “Damn Tina!” But I dismissed the thought, damning instead the world, and the people, who had chosen to break her rather than accept her as she was, as God in His infinite wisdom had chosen to create her.
I got in and gave Javi directions.
He put the car in gear and started driving, remaining silent until we got on the highway. “You have been such a light in our lives. We don’t want to lose you. But Tina needs us so much. I’ve never seen anyone so tormented. We . . . .” He stopped speaking, his voice completely choked up.
“I know, Javi. I know. And it’s alright. I know you have to try. And I want to help you. What happened to her . . . but, this is the only way I really can help. At least right now.”
Javi nodded, looking forward, still unable to speak.
“Javi, you need to be careful. Both of you. Okay? I think she still loves you, and I hope that will make a difference. But she’s desperate.” I told him about the watch, and the pills.
He looked even more bleak.
“I wouldn’t have said anything,” I told him. “I didn’t want to; I know how much that will hurt you both. But you need to be careful. Okay?”
He nodded again, and drove for a while in silence. As we got close to the city, he said, “I’m so sorry. You shouldn’t have to pay the price for our love.”
“After all you both did for me, this is nothing. And Tina’s right, I have been blessed in so many ways. Friends. My sister. A good job. Health insurance and great healthcare. I can’t begin to pay any of that back. Let me pay it forward, okay? This isn’t on you. You aren’t taking the apartment. I’m giving it.”
When we arrived at “Opera House,” Maggie came rushing down the steps and gave me a big hug. I looked at Javi, standing behind her, and said, “You see? I’m so very blessed.”
He helped me unload the car, and Maggie had me bring my stuff up to the spare bedroom.
I gave Javier a fierce hug. “Now you be careful, both of you. Do what you need to do. And God bless you both!”
Too full of emotion for words, he hugged me back, then kissed me on each cheek, and walked back to his car.
I watched him drive away, following his car with my eyes as it made its slow way past the arts and crafts houses, past the parked cars and the ornamental trees, then turned at the corner and disappeared.
Maggie stood behind me. As Javi’s car drove out of my view, she said softly, “Welcome home. Come on in and tell me what’s happened.”
I was just about to go in when Nicole pulled up, stopped smartly and jumped out. “Cami!” She ran up the stairs. “I called Mags just as I was about to come home. What happened?”
So they both pulled me in, we made some of their ubiquitous tea, and I told them about the last three days.
When I was finished, Maggie said, “Damn, Cami, you need to find your inner bitch! She’s a complete shit to you and steals from you, and she wins? That just seems so wrong!”
But Nicole looked at me and smiled fondly. “You chose love again, didn’t you? Just like with that little dick at the Christmas party.”
“I had to give Javi and Al the chance to help her. For her sake,” I said, looking at Maggie, “since nothing in that sad life looks much like a win. But,” I said, looking at Nicole, “mostly for theirs. She means so much to them.”
“I get that,” Maggie said, “but I’m not sure you did them any favors. Sounds like she’s going to make them miserable.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know. And so do they. But that needs to be their choice. I won’t block them from trying to save someone they love, not even to protect them.”
Nicole shook her head. “Some day you’re going to need to fight for yourself. But . . . . for today, what’s the plan, and how can we help?”
“Here's my problem. I’m flying to Connecticut tomorrow for work and I won’t be back until Friday night. I can’t start looking for an apartment until I’m back.
“And, honestly . . . I’ve been working really long hours. Nights and weekends too. I don’t know whether I’ll have any time to look until the trial I’m working on wraps up, which should be in six or seven weeks. Can I stay until then? I won’t be around most of the time, and I’ll make sure I don’t interfere with your work.”
“Of course you can,” Maggie said. “Stay as long as you like.”
Nicole added, “We’d love having you. I wish you could just move in with us, but I know it’s a bit of a commute for you.”
I looked back and forth from one to the other, dumbfounded by their spontaneous generosity.
My expression made Nicole laugh. “Honestly, girl, it’s no imposition. Besides the fact that we’re all friends – which settles the matter as far as Mags and I are concerned – we’re both in and out during opera season.”
Maggie nodded. “I’m leaving for Sarasota in just over a week to start rehearsals for Catalini’s La Wally. By the time that run is over, Nickie’ll be in Chicago doing Wagner. I’m guessing there won’t be too many times that we’re all here at the same time until next fall.”
I thanked them profusely, managing just this once to keep myself from bursting into tears. After some pushback, I got them to agree that I could contribute to the household expenses the same amount I had been paying Al and Javi for rent.
With that out of the way, I said, “Now, I really hate to do this, but I have some work I absolutely have to get done today, and I’ve already lost the whole morning and part of the afternoon. Let me go upstairs and get to it, and I’ll let you two get back to your own plans.”
“Sure thing.” Nicole said. “I’ve got a student coming for voice lessons at 3:00, and Mags has one at 4:00. We use this room for that. It’s not too bad upstairs during lessons, but you will hear us. If you’d be more comfortable, you can work at the table in the basement. The synthesizer only takes about half of it.”
That’s what I ended up doing. I heard the sounds of their students, but from the basement they barely registered. Around 6:30 Nicole came downstairs. “We’ve got a bit of supper ready. Will you come upstairs and join us?”
Grateful for the break, and still more grateful for the food, I followed her upstairs.
Maggie had made a wild mushroom soup and Nicole had added a simple salad. It was heavenly.
I insisted on doing the clean-up, in the process learning where everything went in the kitchen. Then I went back downstairs and was soon plunged back into my work.
A light touch on my shoulder woke me up. I had just intended to rest my eyes a moment!
Nicole said, “Cami, honey, you aren’t going to be good for anything tomorrow if you don’t get some sleep.” She was already dressed for bed, a flannel robe over her nightgown and her waist-length hair gathered into a long, thick plait.
I looked at her. “What time?”
She just smiled. “Bedtime.”
I followed her up to my new bedroom and found that my roommates had removed everything that wasn’t either mine or furniture, put away or stacked my things, and made the couch as bed-like as possible. Someone had even laid out my blue nightie on the couch for me.
This time I couldn’t hold back the tears. “What did I ever do to deserve you two?”
Nicole wrapped me into a hug. “You would do anything to help your friends, the people you love. Well . . . so would we. Now get some sleep, and don’t you dare set an alarm. You’re a wreck.” She gave my shoulder a final squeeze and went off to her own bed.
I got out of my clothes and into my nightie – how nice to be able to wear it again! – then went into the bathroom, removed my makeup, washed my face, and brushed my teeth. I went back to my new room, closed the door, and prepared myself for sleep.
It had been a long and emotionally draining day. But I had been right. I had options, and the love and care of good friends. Amazing that I had only known Nicole for six weeks, and Maggie for even less time. So if life was coming at me quickly, it was doing so in good ways, too.
I said a prayer for Tina, that tortured soul, and for Al and Javi as well. And a final prayer, one of thanksgiving, for the blessing of good friends and open hearts.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 9
I slept the entire night without interruption, and didn’t wake up until 7:30 – two and a half hours late for me. Given how much I still had to get done, I was going to have to forgo my daily exercises for the fourth straight day. Ughhh.
I got up to use the shared facilities and bumped into Maggie as she was on her way out. I hadn’t thought to put on my robe and I blushed as she gave my scantily-clad self a quick once-over.
“Damn, Gina! Look at you!” She giggled at my embarrassment, gave me a hug and said, “You look good, Cami. I couldn’t resist laying that out for you when we were putting away your things. Sometimes you’re like a commando. But other times you are just such a girly-girl!”
I laughed along. “Guilty, I’m afraid. I just . . . well. Yeah. I am,” I ended a bit lamely.
She laughed and trotted downstairs. “All yours, girly!”
Nicole was still sleeping – apparently she was not a morning person by choice, which I suppose wasn’t too surprising since she grew up in New York. I took a quick shower and got dressed in a skirt, tights, and a knit top. I didn’t do much with my hair and kept my makeup minimal.
I had hemmed and hawed. But in the end, I decided I couldn’t risk traveling without changing into male attire. Unlike my colleagues, I was flying into and out of BWI, and I was scheduled to arrive in Connecticut an hour and a half before they were.
My drivers’ license no longer listed me as a male, so it no longer qualified as a “Real ID.” But the TSA wasn’t scheduled to begin requiring Real-ID compliant ID’s until later in the year. I could try to fly dressed to conform to my real gender. However, wearing breast forms might trigger anomalies at some of the TSA checkpoints, and I simply didn’t want to have to answer questions from security personnel about the inorganic material filling out the size C cups of my bra.
Moreover, flights got delayed; luggage got misplaced. These things happened often enough that I could not count on getting to the hotel without one of my colleagues spotting me. Dressed as Cami, I looked very different than when I dressed for work. But not so different that people who saw me every day wouldn’t know me.
I wrapped up everything I needed to finish for work and asked Nicole and Maggie if they would let me buy them lunch. We walked to a local deli and got sandwiches to bring back to the house.
Over lunch, I raised a point that had been bothering me since I made my decision about the flight. “Neither of you has seen me dress up as Cameron Savin. And . . . well . . . I’d honestly prefer that you didn’t.”
“Why?” Nicole simply sounded curious.
“It’s me, mostly. I guess. I mean, this is who I am,” I said, waving generally to indicate my feminine look. “And when I get dressed as Cameron now, I feel like a fraud. I don’t want you guys to see me that way.
“But I guess it’s us, too. You’re letting me stay here, and it’s wonderful. And it’s comfortable, because we’re three women. I worry you might not be so comfortable if you think of it as having . . . well. If you think of me as male.”
Nicole and Maggie looked at each other for a second, as if communicating silently. Then Nicole said, “We know that you’re trans, and that you haven’t transitioned. We know what that means physically, and we don’t care. I’ve said it over and over. You’re as much a woman as I am. Wearing men’s clothes won’t make you a man in our eyes.”
“It’s not just today, anyway,” Maggie said, practically. “You’re going to be going to work and coming home dressed like a guy. We’re going to see you that way sooner or later. Like Nickie said, it doesn’t matter. Not to us.”
They were right and I knew it. But I was still not happy about it. A little after lunch I went upstairs, got undressed, removed my makeup and nail polish. Removed my breast forms.
This was always the hardest moment for me, when I felt most vulnerable. Clothes and hairstyle could make me look more masculine or feminine, but without anything to hide me I felt unformed and ugly, a bug caught half-way between caterpillar and butterfly.
I pulled on Cam’s travel clothes – a button down oxford shirt, khaki pants, a Navy blazer. The heavy shoes and belt. Then I pulled back my hair, tied it back in the severe Cam pony tail, and clubbed the end to hide both its length and its curl. My breast forms went in a drawer; I wouldn’t need them on this trip.
I ordered an Uber. Ahmed, driving a silver Camry. Arriving in six minutes. When he was one minute out, I picked up my suitcase and went downstairs. Nicole was reviewing music in the front room. She looked up, gave me a completely natural smile and said, “See you in a couple days, Cami. Safe trip!”
As I made my way to the car I thought, once again, that I really didn’t deserve either of them.
I was stuck in a middle seat on an American Airlines flight. To my right, an older woman, her eyes glued to a mystery novel on her lap.
The woman to my left was younger, probably mid-twenties. She had earplugs in her ears, no doubt playing music, but nothing I could hear over the roar of the engines. Her eyes were shut, but her posture and expression indicated she was very much awake. She was simply flashing a “do not disturb” sign.
I wondered whether, if I had flown as Cami, I would be having a conversation with one or both of my neighbors. I might be meeting new friends, as I had on the Amtrak to Boston that had brought Nicole – and later, Maggie – into my life. I might be learning new things, hearing about people I would never meet and places I might never visit.
But Cameron would meet a more wary reception. And, anticipating it, he would not reach out in the first place.
“Good evening folks, this is your Captain from the flightdeck. In preparation for our landing at Hartford/Springfield, please bring your seats and tray tables into the full, upright and locked position, and store any of those larger electronic devices you might have taken out . . . .”
The familiar drone of the landing instructions washed over me and I smiled. I was going to be glad to get off the plane.
I caught a cab from the airport to our hotel, located right in the middle of Hartford’s downtown, checked in, and got myself settled.
The four of us – Eileen, David, Daviana and I – met for dinner. We didn’t talk much about the case since we were ready for what we had set for the week.
Instead, the conversation was about the now completed impeachment proceedings, the messed up Iowa Caucus, the upcoming New Hampshire primary, and the Coronavirus. Over 10,000 cases had been confirmed worldwide; the President had declared a public health emergency and countries, including the U.S., were shutting down flights from China.
“I don’t really understand how shutting down travel from China is going to help,” David said. “People can travel from China to other countries, cause infections there, and there’s no restriction on those people coming here.”
I suggested that maybe the idea was simply to slow things down, give us more time to get prepared.
“Your sister works in epidemiology, doesn’t she?” Daviana asked.
“Close; she works on the clinical side on infectious diseases.”
“What are you hearing from her?”
“We haven’t talked much since the beginning of the year because she’s been working on this night and day. But last time we spoke, she said they still didn’t have answers to a lot of very important questions. So they’re just trying to be as prepared as possible for whatever comes down the pike.”
Our discussion of politics was interesting – and in many ways telling. For starters, all of us were Democrats. When all the lawyers are in one corner, it’s a fair bet that the greater number of people will be in the other. When it came to the Democrats who were running, we were all over the map.
David liked Mayor Pete. “He thinks clearly. Communicates complex ideas clearly. He’s been in the service. I like all that.”
Daviana was undecided. “No one's really made me sit up and take notice.”
I made the case for Senator Warren. “I don’t know how we got to a place in this country where people were so mad that they were willing to elect Trump. So maybe we need to do more than tinker at the margins like we’ve been doing for forty years.”
Eileen said, “Biden. Because he can win.”
Eileen and I talked about baseball. She was sold on the Nationals; they had won her over with their charmed season last year. I was, as always, big on the Cardinals, though they had come up short. We talked about the NLDS game we had seen.
I said, “If you really want to see baseball, you should catch a game at Busch Stadium.”
She looked skeptical.
“I’m serious,” I said. “The best fans – the most educated fans – in baseball. When someone hits a ball high and hard, the people don’t get out of their seats unless it’s actually going to be a homer, and they know it at the crack of the bat.”
But, I thought to myself, I doubt I’ll ever see it again. I had no desire, and no intention, to return to St. Louis. I’ll have to watch the redbirds play in other, lesser ballparks.
It was a pleasant evening, an opportunity to unwind a bit in the midst of our furious preparations. Eileen was always careful to make sure such events occurred; all part of the task of keeping a good team running well.
We said goodnight and I went upstairs and into my room. Once the door was shut and secured, I stripped, slithered into my silky green nightie, and slipped into bed.
I had my good dream once again – the one where I am running down a dock, wearing a lime-green one-piece swimsuit, beckoning someone to follow me. As always, in the dream, my hair is long and flowing and my curves are real and perfect.
But this time the sky was cloudy and the water had some distinct chop.
Hartford, Connecticut, February 10
Eileen and I met with Theo Jacoby, the corporate VP who was going to be our principal witness for the trial, while David and Daviana did some final preparations for the argument David would be presenting on Tuesday. Jacoby was a large man in all dimensions – tall, broad, heavy without being fat. His gray hair was short and tightly curled; his wire-rimmed glasses framed hazel-colored eyes.
Eileen looked small, sitting across the table from him. She also looked, and was, very much in charge.
“First,” she explained, “while the substance of your trial testimony is going to more-or-less track your deposition testimony from last year, the structure and format will be completely different. So, last time opposing counsel asked almost all the questions, and then David just asked a couple of clean-up questions to protect the pre-trial record. This time, you’re going to tell your story to the jury first.
“I’ll ask the questions, but they will be big, fat open-ended questions. What happened? Why? What did you do? Then, and only then, defendants’ lawyers will cross examine you. And, you won’t need to argue with them, because I’ll ask you re-direct questions that will allow you to expand on the answers you provided during cross.”
She continued her instructions, pausing to take his questions and stopping the explanation to give examples of what she was describing. Then she started asking him questions from her outline and working to perfect the responses.
Occasionally, Eileen would ask me to chime in on whether an answer could be improved, but this was an occasion to largely stay silent. It’s important for the witness and the attorney who will be handling the examination to coordinate very closely, without distractions. With very few exceptions, leading questions are not permitted in a direct examination, so advanced preparation is essential.
It was a very instructive session. Because he was our principal witness, preparation went all day, with only a short break for lunch. Eileen spent the last two hours going over questions that might be asked during cross examination. She also played snippets from Jacoby’s deposition testimony and we discussed which answers worked well and how others could be improved.
By the end of the prep session, he was much more relaxed, comfortable with his testimony and confident that he knew what he needed to know.
The key, I could tell, was that he ended the session secure in the knowledge that Eileen knew what she was doing and would have his back when he was on the witness stand. That would be harder for me to pull off with my own witnesses, since unlike Eileen I was not a veteran trial lawyer.
I asked Eileen about that when we were walking back to the hotel.
She grinned. “Fake it ‘till you make it, Cam. Never let them see you sweat!”
I could only laugh. Eileen was playing my song!
We were back at the clients’ offices, entering another conference room. David’s argument before the judge had gone well, although the judge reserved decision on most of the substantive issues being discussed. We had expected that.
Daviana and David were in a different conference room preparing one of the two witnesses Daviana would be handling at trial. Eileen was backing me up, but this was my show.
I looked across the table at the first of my two witnesses, Astrid Thune. Early thirties, with pale, pale hair in a thick braid and eyes the color of glacial ice — she would be a cool beauty, if she were not looking so nervous. Very likely she had never seen the inside of a courtroom.
I followed my gut instinct, walking around to her side of the table, giving her a warm smile and shaking her hand as she got to her feet. “Astrid, I’m Cam Savin. This is our lead trial lawyer, Eileen O’Donnel. How are you?” I sat at the end of the table and let Eileen sit across from Astrid.
Eileen offered a friendly “Good afternoon,” as she sat down.
Astrid looked at me, then Eileen, then back to me, before saying, “I’m good, though I don’t mind telling you I’d be better if I didn’t have to do this.”
“Never had to testify at trial before?” I asked.
She shook her head, still looking uncomfortable.
“There is nothing for you to worry about.” I kept my voice calm and light. “You did a great job at your deposition, and in some ways this will be easier. We’re going to walk you through every step, and by the time we’ve finished you’ll be ready for whatever might happen. You’ve got this. Promise.”
Finally, she started to look a little less stressed. “Well . . . good. I really like being prepared for things, and I didn’t know how to prepare for this.”
“That’s why we’re here,” I assured her. “So, first off, let me talk to you about how what happens at trial will be like your deposition testimony, and how it will be different . . . .”
I launched into my description, following more or less the same points Eileen had made in her preparation of Theo Jacoby. But both Eileen and Jacoby were older, more seasoned. Less nervous. It was clear that I needed to calm Astrid and give her some confidence. I worked hard to do that, communicating my own confidence that she knew her subjects and could communicate them clearly and effectively.
It took a while, but eventually she began to relax. And once she did, as I expected, she did fine. I started going through my outline of questions.
From time to time, I brought Eileen into the conversation, just as she had brought me in the prior day. But since this was my witness she was acting as a resource.
I didn’t want to rely on her too much, or it might lessen Astrid’s confidence in my ability to take care of her when she was on the stand. At trial, only one attorney for each party may examine the witness; since I could get no assistance then, I had to minimize the assistance I needed now.
By the time we were finished, Astrid and I had developed a good rapport, and she was no longer defensive when I suggested ways to make her answers more complete or understandable. We wrapped up, and I assured her we would have plenty of additional opportunities to go over her testimony, so she would be completely prepared when the time came for her to take the stand.
Eileen and I thanked her for her time and we started walking back to the hotel. It was only a couple of blocks, and Eileen would not let forty-degree weather deter her. That was practically balmy as far as she was concerned.
She was quiet as we started our walk. I was starting to worry that I had forgotten something when she said, “That was very well done, Cam. I don’t know if you were nervous, but you certainly didn’t show it. And, you were remarkably sensitive to her discomfort and did a nice job getting her past it.”
“I was nervous walking in. But once I saw how nervous she was I kind of forgot about it. I was surprised at how easy it was.”
Eileen thought about that for half a block or so. “Treat the jury the same way. Once the trial starts, just focus on them. Make sure you have a sense of when a witness is connecting with them. We can’t leave any jurors behind. It’s the same skill you just demonstrated, but the focus is different.”
I nodded.
As we got to the hotel, Eileen said, “We don’t hire people who aren’t smart and hard-working, but in my experience the kind of emotional maturity you demonstrated today is impossible to gauge and nearly impossible to teach. I wish we could.”
I thought about Steve, the clueless shopper, and smiled. Maybe empathy, at least, could be taught. It might not be instinctual, but in the end, it’s a habit of thought, a conscious decision to put yourself into someone else’s shoes. I suggested that to Eileen.
She chewed it over. “Maybe.”
Dinner that evening was more work-oriented, as the two teams shared how their respective witness prep sessions had gone. Then we called it a night.
Hartford, Connecticut, February 11, immediately following
Rather than heading straight for my room, I followed a whim, went to the hotel bar and got an Oban, neat.
It was a relatively slow night, and there were only a few people at the bar – a group of three and two couples. From where I sat, alone, I could see them interacting but could not hear their actual words. Observing their non-verbal communications, I challenged myself to guess what they were saying.
One couple was in their forties. She still looked good – very good – while he looked like an athlete who hadn't quite been able to adjust his diet as his body aged and his metabolism slowed. Still powerful, but heavier. His eyes lingered a bit too long on the younger women in the bar.
His companion was clearly aware, and looked both pained and annoyed.
The other couple was younger, both in age and in years together. The woman, in her early twenties, short and curvy, had hands that wandered, touched, promised. The man, a bit older, tall and well-built, was captivated. They laughed; their foreheads touched, then she came in for a light kiss. His hand rose to stroke her hair.
There was no need to hear what they were saying to know what they were thinking.
The group of three was more of a challenge. They – two women and a guy, all around my age, were talking together quietly like a group of old friends. But there was something about the way they were interacting that suggested that the guy and the girl further from me were an item, and the other was the odd gal out.
It wasn’t clear that she knew it. Something about the way they sat; about the way two sets of eyes met, and met again, while the other looked on.
The young couple left, no longer able to control the fire in their hearts.
The older man’s eye’s followed the young woman as she departed, snuggled into her boyfriend’s arm. The older woman abruptly rose, said something to her companion, and headed toward the lobby. He stayed, nursing his drink.
“Have another?” The bartender had wandered over.
I looked at my drink and smiled. “No, thanks. Slow night?”
“Mid-week in February, with no convention, this is about what we get.”
“That can’t make your life easier.”
She shrugged. “It’s a livin’, Hon. What do you do? Law, or insurance?”
I laughed. “No one else wearing suits?”
“Not in this town. Except maybe politicians, and even they don’t, mostly. If you’re not a lawyer, it’s either Travelers, Aetna, or The Hartford.” She wandered over to the forty-something wolf.
Two of the threesome – the two I thought were a couple – were getting up, and appeared to be urging the third to come with them. She waved them off, saying something humorous. They all laughed, but there was a tension to it.
The couple walked into the hotel, leaving their friend behind, looking at her almost-empty wine glass like it held some answers.
A few minutes later, the bartender handed her another glass of the same and said something to her. The woman looked at the wolf, speculatively. After a moment, she picked up her glass and made her way carefully to where he was sitting.
I thought, Oh, honey, you are SO going to regret that.
The bartender and I exchanged a look and a shrug, as if to say, what can you do?
I decided it was time to turn in, and headed upstairs. I wondered whether, a year ago, I would have bought the woman a drink, and laughed at the notion. Picking up women in bars was something that took more self-confidence than Cam ever had. She might have preferred Cam to the wolf. But who knows? Some women like the wolves.
But Cam was really just a disguise now, and one that was wearing thin. I divested myself of my Cam-o-flage, put my arms inside my green nightie and allowed it to slide teasingly down my body, thrilling, as I always did, at the sensual, transformational feel of the silky fabric.
I tucked myself into a pair of panties, slid into my cold bed, and fell into an uneasy sleep.
My dream was bizarre. I was back in the bar, but this time the bartender was giving me the wine glass, and I was the one walking over to the wolf, glass held lightly between thumb and two fingers. When I stood before him he snapped his fingers and I bent to kiss him.
Then I set my glass on the bar and began removing my tie and my suit jacket, letting them fall to the ground at my feet. He watched with dark eyes as I slowly unbuttoned my dress shirt and let it drop, exposing not the t-shirt I had worn, but a camisole and bra, daintily laced, pretty and feminine.
I reached back with both hands, displaying slender, milk-white arms, as I pulled my hair free. It billowed around my face like a smoky cloud and the wolf pulled me in, unresisting, for a deeper, more disturbing kiss.
My hands began to move without volition, echoing the caresses, the touches, of the young woman who had left the bar with her boyfriend. I felt . . . powerless. A loud siren began to wail as his tongue thrust between my welcoming lips.
I woke with a start, sweaty, tangled in my nightie. Which is when I realized that the siren was not part of a dream. It was, instead, the sound of the hotel’s fire alarm.
I froze, but only for an instant. Mercifully, through the aftershock of the dream that had left me disoriented and distressed, my normal reaction to emergencies kicked in.
I threw off the sheets and covers and rolled out of bed. One of my long lingerie straps had already slipped down; the other immediately followed and I got out of my nightie.
I had a pair of Cam’s sweats with me, since I had made some use of the hotel’s exercise equipment. They went on quickly. I stuck my feet in Cam’s sneakers, grabbed my room key and was out the door, making my way towards the stairwell with a stream of people.
My room was on the seventh floor, and progress down was slow as people on lower floors joined the exodus. But we did eventually come out in the lobby, where we were directed outdoors. It was freezing outside – literally – and people were not happy.
I looked around and didn’t see any of my crew; people were not all being directed to the same waiting areas. But I did see a face I recognized – the young woman who had decided to test the wolf. No one looked happy just at the moment, but she looked . . . truly awful. Shell-shocked. Hurt.
Unable to help myself, I was at her side without even thinking about it. I touched her arm lightly, very lightly, and asked, “Are you all right?” I kept my voice pitched so that only she would hear the question.
Her eyes came up, but she seemed to have trouble focusing on me. “Wha . . . oh. I’m . . . fine. I’m fine. Just . . . was surprised. By the alarm.”
“I don’t mean to intrude. But you look like something’s happened to you. Do you need help? Did the man from the bar last night hurt you?”
This time her eyes seemed to focus on me. “You saw . . . ?”
“I was in the bar when he bought you a drink, that’s all . . . . Did he hurt you?”
She closed her eyes for a moment and seemed to steady herself. Then she looked at me and said, “He didn’t do anything I didn’t ask for. No one’s fault but my own.” Her voice was low, and filled with self-loathing.
Just then an announcement came over the intercom inside, telling everyone that we could return to our rooms. The woman started to straighten up and I touched her arm lightly one more time. “You made a bad choice in a bad moment. That doesn’t make you a bad person. Okay?”
She looked at me again, almost puzzled, then reached up and gave my arm a squeeze. “Thank you.”
“There’s a CVS three blocks from here. If you need it.”
Her eyes widened fractionally, then she gave a quick nod, said “Thanks,” again, and walked to the stairs.
There was a large group of people waiting at the elevator banks, but I was only seven floors up. I took the stairs myself and spent the climb thinking about the poor woman. Although I had blithely assumed I would never do anything so foolish, my dream mocked my self-assurance.
How could even my subconscious be so stupid? And when I had been been startled awake, my body had been overwhelmed by sexual tension and excitement. I was only glad I didn’t have even a dream memory of going further. Saved by the bell!
On the walk to the client’s office the next morning, Eileen fell in beside me. “Quite the excitement last night. I saw you from the lobby, but you looked like you were helping someone. Everything okay?”
“Just a woman who was a bit shaken by the alarm. She’s okay.” I hoped it was true.
Eileen added, conversationally, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you with your hair down before. Almost didn’t recognize you.”
To be continued . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“fra dubbiezza e disìo tutta sospesa”
– Cilèa, Adriana Lecouvreur, Acerba voluttà (Aria)
Hartford, Connecticut, February 12
So, Eileen had seen me with my hair down. That had been so careless on my part. I had been flustered by my disturbing and erotic dream, surprised by the sudden wake-up by the hotel’s fire alarm, and so intent in changing from my nightie into male clothes that I hadn’t thought about my hair. Yikes!
However, I still had the ability to put on a poker face when I needed it. Keeping my voice unconcerned, I said, “I know! I keep meaning to get it trimmed, but I guess I’ve gotten superstitious about it. I’ve had a lot of success since I started letting it grow out in law school. I don’t want to jinx it!”
Eileen chuckled. “‘The rose goes in the front,’ right?”
I laughed, hard. “Exactly!”
Our conversation shifted easily to the schedule for the day. Both Daviana and I were prepping our second witnesses, and since David was the honcho on our damages case, he was backing up Daviana. Eileen was again my backup.
We talked about Joe Sanchez, my witness for the day. I said, “He sounded too defensive in his deposition. He’s got a great resume, based on his LinkedIn profile. I want to spend some time at the beginning of direct, building him up for the jury, making sure they know he knows what he’s talking about. Does that make sense?”
Eileen nodded. “The judge will give you some leeway on that, even though we aren’t offering him as an expert. Don’t let it go on too long, though.”
As we approached the client’s massive brick pile of an office, Eileen said, “Cam, I may be wrong, but I’ve had the sense you’ve had a lot going on these past few weeks. I don’t mean to pry and I won’t. But, as your supervisor, is there anything I need to know? And, purely as a friend, is there anything I can do to help?” Her tone was warm and her voice friendly.
I thought carefully about the nature of the dual questions she had asked. I felt certain that I could rely on her friendship. But, as she pointed out, she is also my supervisor, and a senior partner, not to mention a member of the firm’s management committee. Partners have fiduciary duties to each other as well as to clients. She would need to alert her partners if I confirmed her suspicions, if only because doing so would trigger application of the firm’s non-discrimination policies.
And she would need to be dealing with all that might entail just as we were rolling into trial.
If, on the other hand, I didn’t spill the beans, she would probably keep her suspicions to herself for the time being. And yet! I didn’t want to spurn an offer of help that I would certainly need. So I chose my words with extreme care.
“Thanks, Eileen,” I said, matching her warmth. “I really appreciate it. You’re right; I have had a couple things come up. But there’s nothing that can’t wait until after the trial, and I’m making sure that it does. I would absolutely let you know about anything that could affect my work. But, once the trial is done, I would really appreciate a chance to talk to you – as both a friend and a mentor.”
Eileen had chosen to make her offer while we were walking, so that neither of us would have to look at the other while we talked. It was a very useful tactic for delicate conversations; I decided I might use it myself sometime. Still, I glanced sideways at Eileen to see what I could gauge from her reaction. She appeared to be . . . serene?
Yes; that was a fair description. Serene.
“Well, I’ve got absolutely no complaints about your work,” she said. “And if you tell me there’s nothing I need to know about right now I’ll trust you. But my door’s open anytime. I hope you know that.”
I assured her that I did, and told her how much I appreciated it. And, with that, we went inside and went to work.
It was 8:00 pm, and I was headed back to BWI. It had been an intense, productive, and professionally satisfying week. Our mock-trial exercise had been incredibly instructive – enough to where I had no doubt that the client would consider the exercise to have been well worth the considerable expense. We would be ten times better prepared when we presented our case to the real jury in a month’s time.
Our panel of mock jurors, hired by our consultant for a one-day exercise, were drawn from the New Haven area and were representative of the people who might be selected for our jury. Three men, three women, diverse racial, ethnic, economic, and work backgrounds. Two retired; two union members; one academic, one contractor.
They had listened as David summarized our liability case, I laid out our damages case, then Eileen and Daviana laid out the opposing case for the Defendant, followed by a brief rebuttal by David and me. The “jurors” were told that their reactions to the presentations would be the basis for a subsequent mediation; they were not told that we were actually all working for the Plaintiff’s side.
Our presentations were mostly oral, but each side showed the most critical pieces of evidence for their respective cases, including excerpts of documents and video from witness depositions. As Eileen had suggested, I kept my attention focused like a laser on the “jurors.” David’s presentation, which we had both worked on, was logically tight and compelling, but David is a somewhat didactic speaker and I could tell that he was losing some of the jurors.
I tried to be more energetic in my presentation, to vary the pitch and volume of my voice more, to be physically expressive and to use analogies to explain some of the more esoteric concepts. Damages models are usually not simple things, but they have to be made simple in trial testimony.
Unfortunately, Eileen had stacked the deck by putting herself on the “Red Team.” In twenty-five brutal minutes, she calmly and methodically eviscerated our liability case, effortlessly tying together the best pieces of evidence for the Defendant’s side and casting doubt on the evidence we had presented. Daviana’s excellent presentation attacking our damages model was largely beside the point; without liability, damages are irrelevant.
David and I, having anticipated the content of the attacks (if not their potency), gave brief rebuttals. Then the moderator asked the mock jurors questions that we had worked out with him in advance.
On the whole, the responses suggested that the Plaintiff’s team had done better than I had feared. Two jurors found our claims persuasive and believed our damages expert. Eileen had wholly convinced two jurors that Defendant was not liable, and the remaining jurors were uncertain.
But plaintiffs have to convince everyone.
The moderator probed which pieces of evidence had been effective, which had failed to connect, and why. The “juror’s” responses were very enlightening.
After they left, Eileen said, “Okay, that was helpful. Don’t be too concerned that our side ‘lost’ today. We practice so that we get better, and now we know where we need to focus our work over the next month. The issues that were confusing or troubling to the jurors today can be fixed through good preparation of our trial witnesses. So I want us all to think about how we’re going to do that, and discuss it Monday morning.” She actually looked very pleased with the exercise, which certainly made me feel better about it.
I don’t like losing!
I was making notes on the topic Eileen told us to think about as the flight sped home. I was in a window seat, and able to screen my notes from other passengers. Not that it mattered; my neighbors had again ignored me. This time, I was happy about that.
I had a lot to think about. About the trial, mostly. But I was also thinking about the fact that my cover wasn’t holding as well any more. Eileen, I felt sure, knew or strongly suspected what was going on. Also, when I had gone into the gift shop in the lobby Thursday night to buy some Advil, I bumped into the woman I had seen in the bar, and later during the fire drill.
I hadn’t seen her in the back of the store, but as I was leaving I heard a hesitant voice behind me say, “It was you, wasn’t it? The other morning?”
I turned and recognized her immediately; my recognition was sufficiently obvious that she didn’t wait for a response. “I wasn’t sure, because . . . well. I mean, don’t take this wrong . . .” She was blushing furiously, having clearly gone out on a limb before her brain was engaged, but feeling compelled to finish her thought. “I, ah, thought you were a woman. I mean, that’s stupid, but . . . .”
I stopped her with a light touch, taking the opportunity to move us both out of the shop. “Don’t be embarrassed. It’s a compliment. Anyway, you were dealing with other things. Are you okay?”
She assured me that she was, and thanked me again, and that was that.
But I knew why she had mistaken me for a woman. The hair had been part of it, of course, but during the entire fire drill encounter I hadn’t even thought about presenting as male. I had acted instinctively; naturally. And my “natural” communications, both in style and substance, had strongly signaled “woman.”
I thought to myself, we start picking the jury in just over a month. I only have to hold things together a little while longer. I’ve got to manage it!
Forty-five minutes later I was on the ground and had picked up my bags. I was so preoccupied that I started to head towards the MARC station before I pulled myself out of autopilot and remembered that I no longer lived in College Park.
But I was very happy to be heading to “Opera House.” Maggie had a part in the Sarasota Opera’s upcoming production of La Wally, and she was flying down to begin in-person rehearsals in just two days. I wouldn’t see her until after the trial – by which time Nicole would be in Chicago rehearsing for a production of Wagner’s Götterdämmerung. During the brief time I had spent with my roommates the prior weekend, I had come to appreciate what their lives were like during the season.
I got an Uber and then texted the girls to let them know I was on my way. When I came through the door, Maggie popped out of the kitchen. She gave me a smile and steered me to the stairs.
“Go dump your bag. We got a bath ready for you, so soak as long as you like, then come down and we’ll have some soup. Nicole’s just finishing some rehearsing in the sound room.”
“You two are amazing.” I gently pressed her steering hand on my arm, gave her a grateful smile, and headed upstairs.
I dropped my bag in my bedroom, found a few essentials, as well as my flannel nightgown, fleece robe and fuzzy slippers, and headed to the bathroom. A bubble bath! Oh, Maggie deserves a place in heaven! I pulled my hair loose from its bands and sank down to bring the water all the way up the back of my head. The stress of the week began to melt away as I closed my eyes and simply relaxed.
Eventually I sat up and shampooed my mop, then massaged conditioner into my scalp and down the growing length of my mane. I pulled the lot forward to rest on my chest, then sank back down and began shaving my legs. There’s not all that much to shave – undoubtedly a function of the hypogonadism that had muted the development of all of my masculine sexual characteristics during puberty – but I like my skin to be completely smooth.
I particularly enjoy the sensual exercise of shaving my legs – the tingle of the foam, the caress of the sharp blade over sensitive skin, the visual image of the razor’s tracks effortlessly skimming the soap away in long, straight lines.
When I had finished, I pulled the plug, then patted myself dry and took a blowdryer to my hair. I would normally have put in some mousse and curlers, but I didn’t want to keep Maggie and Nicole waiting. I simply left it loose, only pulling back the hair from my temples and securing it behind the crown of my head. After attaching my breast forms and applying the concealing makeup to the seams, I slipped on a padded panty gaff and then got into my nightgown and robe.
Finally, I shaved my face (mostly a prophylactic exercise), used cleanser and moisturizer, and put on some lipstick and just a hint of blush and eyeshadow. Maggie and – God knows! – Nicole needed no makeup to present as female; I preferred to have a little help!
I padded downstairs in my fuzzy slippers, finally feeling like myself again, and bumped into Nicole at the bottom of the stairs.
She smiled hugely and gave me a big hug. “Hey girl! Welcome home!”
I gave her an equally big hug in return, overwhelmed once again at my good fortune at having found such a fabulous friend. Then we joined Maggie in the kitchen and served some tomato basil soup with fresh toasted sourdough bread.
I told them a bit about my week. They thought the mock jury exercise sounded really cool. “You never see anything like that on TV,” Nicole said.
“What people generally don’t realize is just how much planning goes into every minute of a trial,” I said. “You spend hours perfecting ten minutes of testimony. And if a juror falls asleep for five minutes, literally hours of work are wasted. It makes it pretty intense for the lawyers.”
They were most interested in my exchange with Eileen on the walk to the client’s headquarters. They both wondered whether it wouldn’t have been better just to tell her.
“I don’t think so,” I said, “though I’m really just guessing. I think it would be disruptive for me to come out just before we start the trial. I think it will make Eileen’s life easier if I wait, and her reaction to what I said makes me more confident I’m right about that. I think the jury is less likely to think anything about my gender if I’m presenting as male; I do have more experience doing that, and in a work setting I don’t have any experience presenting as a woman. But I could be wrong about all of those things.”
Nicole nodded. “I guess I can see your point,” she said. “Though I have to tell you, I really get a very female vibe from you. I’ve only seen you presenting as male once, though, and we didn’t really talk. Obviously the physical presentation helped, but I didn’t have any trouble seeing Cami through your suit. I can’t exactly say why.”
“I thought the same thing,” Maggie said. “Maybe it’s just how expressive your face is. Or how you move? But, the jury will never have seen you present as female, so maybe they won’t see it like we do.”
“Let’s hope so, anyway,” I said. “I think I present differently as a male. Although it feels more natural to me now, I really worked hard to develop more feminine ways of appearing, moving, interacting . . . now I seem to apply those lessons in reverse. I consciously use my older mannerisms when I’m presenting as male. I mean, it’s funny that you mention my face being expressive; as Cameron, people joked about my having a permanent poker face."
"Seriously?" asked Maggie.
"Yeah, really!" I said. "Anyway, other than Eileen, who probably wouldn’t have thought about it if she hadn’t caught me with my hair down, I don’t have a sense that anyone at work is seeing anything odd in my behavior, and they’ve only known me as male. So I should be able to pull it off for a jury for two weeks.”
We called it a night a bit later. As I prepared for bed, I thought some more about our conversation. And about how the woman in the hotel had thought I was female even though I didn’t have my artificial curves, or the benefit of makeup or female clothing. I hope that my confidence in my ability to stay balanced on the tightrope isn’t misplaced.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 15
For the first time in over ten days, I was able to get up and do my full early morning routine. I rolled out of “bed” – a couch, but comfortable – got dressed in a sports bra and yoga pants, put my hair in a high ponytail, and slipped down to the basement for a full aerobic workout: Fifteen minutes of stretches, thirty minutes of vigorous cheer routines, and ten more minutes of stretches. I had at least been able to do some of my stretches in the hotel room in Hartford, and I had gotten down to the hotel gym twice and used exercycles, so I hadn’t lost too much. Still, I felt quite winded when I was done.
I trotted upstairs, hot and sweaty, and was in and out of the shower before 6:15. This time, I did apply mousse and curlers in my hair, then I put nail polish on my fingernails and went back to my bedroom to let it set. By 7:00 am I was downstairs again.
Having observed Nicole and Maggie last weekend, I decided I needed a few more casual clothes, if I was going to fit in properly. For the moment, I went with black tights and an oversized hoodie that had – for some reason – been part of my male wardrobe. It looked better on me as Cami, covering just enough at the bottom to be acceptable and accentuating my (unfortunately artificial) breasts. The thing must have fit my male self better when I weighed fifteen to twenty pounds more. At my current weight, it made me look practically petite. I wore a pair of flats and put my hair in my almost-signature over-the-shoulder loose braid.
I was looking around the kitchen for something I could make for everyone to eat for breakfast when Maggie popped into the kitchen wearing a knee-length flannel nightgown in a Royal Stewart plaid with a wide neckline that emphasized her bird-like collar bones. Her blonde hair, about the same length as mine, was still mussed from sleep, but her sky-blue eyes were wide awake.
“Good morning, Cami!” she said warmly. “I’m used to being the early bird around here. Do you always get up in the middle of the night?”
I gave her a spontaneous hug. “5:00, when I can manage it. I hope I didn’t wake you!”
She smiled and stretched like a cat. “No, I’m up early ‘cuz I’m excited about tomorrow, I guess. But then I heard you downstairs and thought I’d investigate.”
I asked her what she would like for breakfast, convinced her that it was okay to let me make her something, and shortly afterward served her an egg over easy, sliced tomato, and a piece of yesterday’s sourdough bread, toasted and buttered. She got green tea and I made myself coffee – the only thing I had brought from my kitchen last weekend.
Once she had done her morning vocal exercises, she planned to spend most of the day packing, though she had two students coming in that afternoon for lessons. She told me I should feel free to sleep in her room while she was gone, since her bed was undoubtedly more comfortable than the couch.
I told her that I had some calls to make, but would spend most of the day working. However, I had my first meeting with my voice coach, Dr. Trelli, at 1:00.
Maggie was excited. “You’ll love her – she is absolutely the best voice coach. She’s half the reason Nickie was willing to come live with me in Baltimore. . . . You’re welcome to join our morning voice exercises once Nick’s awake; it’ll definitely help wake up your voice.”
Before we got up to get started on our respective tasks, I said, a bit shyly, “I’d really like to do something nice for you as a send off. Do you have a favorite dinner? A favorite place to eat? Even a favorite dessert?”
She grinned at me. “Damn, I could get used to this! This time of year, I mostly eat soups of one sort or another. If you have a good soup recipe I’m game!”
“Deal!” I didn’t actually have a good soup recipe, but I would by-God get one!
We got to work. I went downstairs and opened up my laptop while Maggie went upstairs to get her shower and pull together her laundry.
Around 9:30 Maggie and Nicole both came down to the basement; by this point even Nicole was showered, dressed. and ready for voice exercises. These followed the same sets of patterns we had used the previous week. After thirty minutes or so we stopped, and I had to agree that my voice felt much more “awake.” It struck me as a strange description, but accurate. I felt like I could go to any point in my normal pitch range without feeling any strain – no sensation of “forcing” the higher notes of my register.
After our exercises, Maggie went upstairs again. Nicole was going to use the sound enclosure to work on Götterdämmerung. Before she went in, I told Nicole about my idea of making a nice dinner for Maggie.
She clapped her hands gleefully – I’d never actually seen someone do that. “That’s perfect! What were you thinking of making?”
I explained that Maggie had expressed a preference for soup, and I didn’t have a particular soup in mind.
“Oh!” she replied, “I have a fabulous fish soup recipe I’ve been dying to try – Mags would love it. Hows about I do the shopping this afternoon while you’re doing your lesson, then we can cook dinner together?”
That sounded perfect and I said so.
She flashed me a big smile. “Great idea, Cami!” then went into the sound booth. When I looked up from my computer screen I could see her at the microphone, headphones on and a look of intense concentration on her face as she sang.
At a bit before noon I shut down my laptop. Before I went back upstairs, I picked up the headphones to listen to Nicole. I could hear her voice blending with a recording that she played through the synthesizer. I closed my eyes for a moment and just listened.
Whatever piece she was singing, it did not have the beauty, the pathos of the aria she had sung from Tosca during our romp through Rockefeller Center, or the sheer sensuality of Maggie’s favorite aria from Carmen. But it had incredible power – an overwhelming sense of strength, of force. From a technical standpoint, it demonstrated Nicole’s virtuosity. I didn’t love the music, but . . . I found I could respect it.
After a few minutes of listening intently, I opened my eyes and saw that Nicole was watching me, a look of amusement and mischief in her eyes even as her voice rose higher and increased in power. I smiled back, waved, then removed the headphones and went upstairs.
Maggie was in the kitchen when I emerged onto the main floor. “Want some chicken salad?” she asked.
“Sounds perfect.”
She spilt the container between the two of us. “Nicole eats breakfast so late she generally skips lunch, or just has an apple or something in the early afternoon. So this is all ours!”
I finished and was cleaning the dishes when Nicole came up from the basement.
She said, “Why don’t I drop you off at Dottoressa Trelli’s studio and I’ll go to the grocery store from there?”
So, I hopped into Nicole’s car and we sped off. The studio was only five or so minutes away by car; I could easily have walked, but this saved time. Nicole dropped me off and I walked up the steps of another private residence which, like “Opera House,” was also being used as a studio. Unusually, the house had a stucco exterior, brightly painted trim, and colorful tiles on the risers of the stairs leading to an ornate front door.
I rang the bell, which generated a seven-note scale. This left me smiling just as the door opened, revealing a very large woman – at least my height, and substantially larger in all other dimensions – with blue-black hair and eyes so dark they might as well have been black too. She was wearing slacks and a loose-fitting top, and looked like she was in her early- to mid- forties. Her face was feathered with smile lines, and she used them to good effect.
“You must be Cami! Come in, come in!” She had me sit down. “Now. I’ve heard about you from Dr. Chun. And I’ve heard about you from those fine young women you are living with. But before we start, I’d like to hear about you from you. Tell me about yourself. Tell me what brings you to my studio.”
So, I gave her an edited version: the biographical details, education, work. Then I talked about my growing realization last fall that I was misgendered as a male, and my resolution to do something about it. The fact that, outside of work, I was now spending all of my time as a woman. My desire to make my presentation match my internal understanding of my gender.
Her intense eyes never left my face, but I felt like she was somehow in constant motion. She was nodding, or smiling. Her hands were moving. Clearly and visibly, she was completely engaged in what I was saying.
When I was finished she said, “Buono. With this, I can help. I am already getting a sense of your voice, your manner of speaking, of communicating. But, I have some exercises that will help more.” She handed me a sheet of paper.
I giggled as I saw it was a print of the Lewis Carroll poem, Jabberwocky.
“You know this poem? That is good,” she said. “Ecco. Here is what I want you to do. First, I want you to read this poem to me as if you were sitting at a conference table in your office, dressed for work, and I were one of your co-workers. In other words, use your ‘male’ voice.’ Then, I’ll have you repeat it in your ‘female’ voice. Please begin.”
This was unexpected. I closed my eyes for a moment and conjured the scene she had described. Cameron Ross Savin, Esq. Suit and tie. Wingtips. Hair strictly tied back and clubbed. Conference room. Reading. My eyes opened, and I read, “‘Twas brillig, and the slithy toves . . . .’” The poem’s familiar cadences, in my male high tenor, inflection carefully cabined; stress indicated through changes in volume and pacing. Facial expression controlled; body and hands, still.
I finished the poem.
The Dottoressa again said, “Buono. Now, let me hear you, Cami.”
I smiled and began again. My voice was higher, lighter. Softer. I modulated my pitch more than my volume to provide emphasis, and allowed both my face and my body more range of expression.
As I read the father’s lines – “Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” my eyes shone with pride, my smile echoed my rising voice and my arms swept out, as if to embrace the conquering hero son. I finished the reprise of the first stanza more softly, on a lower pitch.
Dottoressa Trelli was smiling and nodding. “Yes! You have been paying attention, haven’t you? You are a good student of the best school – the observation of people. But!!! But!!! There is much room to improve, and that is what we shall do!” She was, as Lewis Carroll might have said, beamish.
In a quieter voice, she said, “In what you just showed me, I would say you have made a good beginning in a couple of critical areas. Intonation – the rise and fall of pitch in your speech – is noticeably more fluid in your female voice. Similarly, your volume is lower and more consistent. I would say your greatest strength, where you show the most difference between your ‘voices,’ is in nonverbal communication. Your face is very expressive as Cami, you make good eye contact, and your body is loose and free to speak along with your voice. This is all good.” She beamed again.
“Where I think you need the most help, and where we will focus most of our attention to begin with, is pitch and resonance. You are largely using your ‘head’ voice when you talk as a woman. That allows you to somewhat hide the depth of your voice and cuts out the deeper resonances that come from the larger sound chambers of a man’s throat and mouth. It’s a decent short-cut, and I see why you use it. Given the relatively high pitch of your natural male voice, it’s also reasonably convincing.
“It is not, however, desirable or sustainable. You need to be able to increase the effective range of your voice – the range that you can access using your full voice, your properly supported chest voice. This will be vastly more convincing – no one speaks in their head voice most of the time, and if you want to continue in your current profession you will especially wish to avoid doing so. A head voice is too soft to convey authority. And an unsupported throat voice that is pushed to a higher register sounds inauthentic. That will also damage your vocal cords over time.”
She nodded her head emphatically, to stress the point. “No! What you need to do is to increase your effective range. There are exercises for that, and you will do them every day, without fail. Yes?”
“Yes, Dottoressa,” I said obediently. I added, “Nicole and Maggie have had me join their morning warm-up exercises on a couple of occasions. Will that help?”
She was back to beaming. “Intelligent young women! Inspired! You are greatly blessed to work with them! Yes, it will help tremendously. They will be able to keep you doing the exercises correctly, without strain to the voice, but also push you where and how you need to be pushed – just as they push each other. There are some additional exercises that I will assign you as well; these have more to do with enunciation and articulation. In general, women tend to articulate more clearly, with crisper consonants. Yet, nonetheless, they tend to speak more quickly.”
With that, she sat down at her piano and walked me through a set of exercises. The first were, recognizably, the same ones I had practiced earlier in the day. She wanted to hear how I did with them, and what the current limits of my range were – the point at which I would go into falsetto. She stopped me periodically, giving me tips on posture and breathing to ensure that the notes were properly supported.
After that, she had me go through a different set of exercises than the ones I had done with Nicole and Maggie, aimed at articulation and speed. These were fun – almost tongue-twisters. Each time I went through them, she increased the tempo on her metronome. By the end, I was completely tongue-tied, but grinning like a springer spaniel.
She stopped me, and the metronome, and returned my grin. “Buono. Buono! You, I will enjoy training!”
She gave me several worksheets with the exercises on them, stressing once again that I was to do my exercises every day and without fail. I was very much afraid that I would have to at least curtail my normal physical workout if I was going to have time, but this was a priority. We set a time to meet the following weekend.
As I got ready to go, she said, “Dottoressa McGregor is leaving tomorrow, yes?”
“You mean Maggie? I didn’t know she had a doctorate!”
She responded, “We Italians are not so stingy with honorifics as you Anglo-Americans. She has a Master of Music degree from a prestigious school; it is enough, and more than enough! If you can prevail upon her to do so, ask the Dottoressa if she would do a recording of the second set of exercises for you before she goes. She is quite familiar with them. Her articulation at high speeds is exemplary, and her pitch, while substantially higher than yours, is still closer to it than Dottoressa Fontaine’s. Record your own sessions and compare your articulation to hers. You will see immediately what I am getting at. Your goal is to emulate her admirable clarity. Yes?”
With that, she shooed me out and I found to my surprise that it was already 3:30. The time with THE Dottoressa – I now understood why Maggie and Nicole both seemed to use verbal capital letters when they referred to her – had passed incredibly quickly.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 15, immediately following
The day was warm enough (I had changed into sturdier shoes and donned my winter coat), so I decided to walk back to Opera House. It took me about twenty-five minutes, walking through neighborhoods of modest houses, most dating from the early Twentieth Century, when Baltimore was more prosperous and fine craftsmanship could be had for less.
The smell of woodsmoke carried in the cool, dry winter air, and the sounds of a city – voices, traffic, equipment – combined in an intricate harmony. I thrilled to the cool touch of the wind as it swirled old leaves at my feet, bringing a feather of cold up legs sheathed only in tights.
A car approached and, as it drew level, I briefly saw a man’s face, grinning, followed by the sound of a high, appreciative whistle as he continued on his way.
I laughed. Oh, it could have been a problem, and in some circumstances it would have been. But he hadn’t paused or hassled me otherwise, and I was more than inclined to simply stick the compliment in my purse and enjoy it. It is, I thought, very good to be alive.
I was back at Opera House at almost 4:00. Maggie was working with a student in the front room, so I went around and came up the back stairs to the kitchen. There was no sign of Nicole, but I saw a covered bowl on the counter and, peaking, discovered that it held rising dough. I went in search of Nicole and found her downstairs, once again rehearsing in the sound enclosure.
I let her know I had arrived and sat at the table. Procrastinating a bit, I sent a text to Al and Javier asking how they were doing and whether I could come by tomorrow to get the rest of my stuff. After that, I sent a text to Liz just to let her know I was thinking about her, and a final text to Fiona. “Hey Fi – keeping you in my thoughts and prayers. Hope all is well. Are you getting answers?” Then I opened my laptop and got to work.
After a few minutes I got a call from Javier. He sounded better than he had a week before. “Hey, Cami! How was your trip?”
I said it had gone well, and asked how he, Al and Tina were doing.
“I think we’re making progress. It’s slow, but we’ll take it. We, uh . . . well. After what you told me about your watch, I went and gathered up the rest of your stuff when I got back from Baltimore last week. It’s in a bin in our apartment. The table and chair are still in the garage, but that won’t be any trouble.” He paused for a moment. “Would it be okay if I just drove it all out to where you are staying tomorrow?”
That spoke volumes; Al and Javi clearly thought it would be counterproductive to have me either encounter Tina again, or enter what was once again her apartment.
While on one level I was sorry to hear it, I didn’t have any great desire to run into Tina either – at least not in her current condition. In any event, there was only one answer. “Of course, Javi. How’s 1:00 sound?”
He agreed, clearly grateful I had accepted his offer, and we ended the call.
I had a short and cheerful text back from Liz, but nothing from Fiona. Another Saturday at work for her, I thought. I got back to it myself.
Nicole emerged from her session around 4:45. “Ready when you are!”
I shut down my computer and we went back to the kitchen. Maggie had apparently finished with her students and had gone back upstairs. I asked Nicole to give me a minute, then went up to Maggie’s room, where she was carefully folding freshly-washed clothes.
“Hey, Dottoressa McGregor!" I said with a big smile. “What’s shakin’?”
That got a laugh from her. “Don’t you start! She’s earned the title; I certainly haven’t!”
“Maybe not, but THE Dottoressa said I should ask you, and very specifically you, if you would do a recording of the exercises she just gave me, so that your humble acolyte could learn the secrets of your ‘exemplary articulation at high speed!’”
She laughed again. “Articulation exercises? Sure! I know exactly the ones she gave you. Let me just finish folding these and I’ll record it right now.”
“Better still, let me help you with the laundry. Least I can do.” We finished the folding in four minutes, and I was back down in the kitchen.
Nicole had started pulling ingredients out of the refrigerator. She had put on a floral apron, already powdered with some flour, and she handed me a matching one. “So, here’s the recipe!” she said, excited, as she handed me an iPad.
I looked it over and grinned. “Oh, you like challenges!” Nicole wasn’t just proposing we make “fish soup;” she wanted to make a genuine Marseille Bouillabaisse!
She grinned back. “Game on, girlfriend!”
While Nicole pummeled her bread dough, I started chopping onions, garlic and leeks and zesting some orange peel. I sauteed it all together with sprigs of fresh thyme and fennel seeds, then added tomato paste and a fresh tomato, diced fine.
Meantime, Nicole was preparing the “waste fish” that we would add to the broth – truly awful looking stuff like fish heads and bones, together with another fish she described as red mullet, singing a little ditty in French as she worked. The tune was a real earworm; it stuck in my head for weeks. She had me sing the chorus with her, a task somewhat complicated by the fact that I don’t speak French.
I got it eventually, but caused her some real chuckles before I did.
“I think you just said you like to eat Germans!” she giggled.
“Who doesn’t?”
Nicole layered her ugly waste fish into my pretty broth, then deglazed with some white wine and a splash of Ouzo. With a twinkle of mischief in her eye, she took a swig from the wine bottle then handed it to me.
“Merci,” I said – even I know that much French! – and followed suit. I quick-boiled some water in their electric kettle and added it to the pot, covering the fish, then we took the mixture to a full boil for several minutes before lowering the temperature to a simmer.
“Now,” Nicole said, “if you take care of the rouille, I’ll get this bread ready to bake.”
Even the rouille was complicated – very complicated, in comparison to my usual meals – but cooking with Nicole was fun. She was beating up on her bread dough, scolding it in a mixture of what sounded like Italian and German, while I put an egg yolk, garlic, leftover bread, red pepper, and a touch of saffron into the blender. Once everything was mixed together, I drizzled in some olive oil and a bit of the hot broth from the pot. I looked up to see Nicole rolling her dough into long ropes.
“Can you give me some more rolls this thickness?” she asked.
I moved to her side to lend a hand.
Once she had three ropes of her desired length, she started braiding them together. We made three loaves – “More than we need, but it’s as easy to make three loaves as it is to make one,” she said. “I’ll give the extras to our neighbors.”
The broth was still simmering away as we slipped the braided loaves onto a broad pizza stone and put it in the oven. Nicole sniffed the broth. “Let’s give that a couple of minutes. I need to powder my nose.”
I laughed. “But you already have!” She must have scratched her nose when her hands were dusted with flour, since there was a noticeable spray of powder on the upturned tip of her celestial nose.
She stuck out her tongue at me and then headed upstairs.
I used the time to clean up the growing mess of cutting boards, blender, knives, spoons, and miscellaneous implements.
When Nicole returned, she checked the bread, then came back to the simmering broth. Satisfied, she said, “Alright, time to grind it up.”
We ran a batch of the broth into the blender, fish bones and all, then put the resulting mixture through a fine mesh strainer and into a second large pot. It took three pours before all the broth was mixed and strained, at which point we put the fresh pot on low heat and stirred everything together.
While Nicole pulled her loaves from the oven, I poached the “good” fish – filets of red snapper, sea bass, monkfish and sole – in the broth, removing them as they were done. Finally, I added steamers to the mix and pulled them out just as they were opening.
The smells in the kitchen at this point were heavenly, and Maggie could no longer resist. “What are you two doing in here,” she said as she came through the doors. “It smells incredible!”
“Ah, ah, ah, ma petite cherie!” Nicole teased, “no spoiling our surprise! Be off with you! But,” she relented, as she gave Maggie a cup of the rich white burgundy, “Take zees to zee living room and relax yourself until we are ready for you!”
Maggie laughed, took the cup, and retreated.
We were just about ready. Nicole had me set the table while she cut one of the braided loaves into fine slices, then cut the slices in half and toasted them on a baking sheet.
I put out bowls and silverware, glasses of water for everyone and wine cups for Nicole and me. Candles were next, then cloth napkins fetched from where Nicole said they could be found (normally, we used paper towels!). Then I helped Nicole spread the rouille onto the toasted bread and brought it, the broth and the poached fish and steamers out to the table.
I was about to get Maggie when Nicole hooked my apron string with her finger. “Not for the table, Cami!” We laughed, removed our protective gear, checked each other’s appearance, then went and got the guest of honor.
Too often, these two women had brought me to tears with their generosity and kindness. Now it was Maggie’s turn. Her blue eyes glittered in the candlelight as she threw both arms wide. “I’m in heaven. I live in heaven!”
“That may be the very first time anyone — anyone ever — has said that about Baltimore,” Nicole quipped.
Nicole and I gave Maggie a communal hug, then we sat to eat. In each bowl, we ladeled broth, added some of the toasted bread, and then put in the poached fish and steamers.
I raised my cup. “Safe travels, Maggie – and good luck!” We clinked cups and Nicole and I drank.
Maggie toasted the best roommates ever, and we all drank to that.
Amazingly, the bouillabaisse tasted as good as it smelled. The broth was rich and complex, and both the fish and the shellfish were perfect.
Maggie said, “That is not the first time you’ve made that!”
“Don’t look at me!” I said.
“When I was a girl,” Nicole explained, “we sometimes visited Grandmère in Aix-en-Provence. She made bouillabaisse, but I never learned how she did it. I wish I had asked her to show me.”
“Is she still alive?” I asked.
She shook her head, ruefully. “No, we lost her, oh, ten years ago or so. She was not so old. But my Grandpère, he was much older. And after he died, she just seemed to die with him. It took a bit longer, but not too much.”
I touched her arm in sympathy; the memory clearly still pained her. “I am so sorry. You must miss her.”
“Yes. She was a wonderful woman. Full of life. Loved cooking, and music, and flowers . . . . I wanted to grow up to be just like her.”
“I think she would be very proud of you, Nick,” Maggie said.
Lightening the mood, Nicole responded, “Well, I think she would have liked this bouillabaisse, certainly. I’m pretty sure this is close – very close – to what she used to make!”
I asked, “Did she teach your mom her recipes?”
“Ah, no. They were Dad’s parents, not Mom’s.” Nicole smiled. “I swear Dad couldn’t cook a hot dog.”
Maggie said, “All Irish and – don’t say anything – English in my family, so no great cooking traditions. What about you, Cami?”
I shook my head. “Mom’s family are all Scots – her Dad was Highland Scots, her Mom was – is – Appalachian Scots. So they know how to cook to survive, and how to make sure you don’t enjoy doing it. My Dad’s family – well, no one knows. Family legend is that they were Huguenots who fled to the New World after the fall of La Rochelle, but I’ve never seen any proof. Far as I know it’s just a story. For sure, no good recipes ever got handed down!”
We talked, and had seconds, and opened another bottle. We talked some more. Eventually, I asked Maggie if she was all ready to go for tomorrow.
“Yep,” she replied. “All packed and ready to roll. I’ve got to be at BWI by 9:00, but I can just shower and go at this point.”
I gave her a big hug. “Go get some sleep. I’ve got the mess.”
But neither she nor Nicole would let me do that, so we traipsed into the kitchen, slightly tipsy, somewhat giggly, and started washing, drying, and getting everything back to Opera House immaculate. We were bumping into each other and tittering like teenagers, but we got the job done without breaking anything.
At Maggie’s insistence we all had ten ounces of water before turning in – “No hangovers tomorrow!” Then we went upstairs and off to our respective rooms.
I was beat. It had been a busy, but wonderful, day, and I was more than ready for sleep. I brushed my teeth, removed my makeup, moisturized, and got into my flannel nightgown. Back in my room, I grabbed my phone to charge it overnight. It was then that I noticed that Fiona had finally responded to my text.
Her text sobered me immediately. “I’ll call tomorrow. It’s a pandemic.”
Sleep was long in coming, and my night terrors returned. The specifics of the incident that triggered my terrors – the attack by that jackass at the Christmas party – no longer resurfaced. All that remained was the feeling the attack had engendered: the terrible, overwhelming sense that my sister was in danger. My mind screamed in silent, frantic fear.
Fiona!!! Be safe!!!
Baltimore, Maryland, February 16
5:00 a.m., and my phone alarm was softly buzzing. Normally I leaped up; this morning I suppressed a groan and the urge to hit the snooze button. Or, to just turn the damned thing off. But I threw off the covers, rubbed the sleep from my eyes, changed, and went downstairs.
The morning exercise session required a fair bit of grim determination at the beginning. I pushed myself harder than usual on all of the stretches. If I was going to go through this, I was, by God, going to get some bang for the buck. Then I went into the cheer routines. As usual, I repeated the same routine, which I had worked up to seven minutes, four times.
Through the first and second routines, I pushed, determined to kick higher, prance more brightly, manage the split with greater ease. But by the third round, the exercise began to have its normal salutary effect on my mental, emotional, and even spiritual, state. I began to smile as I continued to push, and push some more.
By the final round I was nearly “beamish.” Whatever the future might bring, I was healthy today and would celebrate it.
I finished with the final element, dropping down to do the splits, raising my arms in a “Ta da!” maneuver, arching my back and raising my head high. I held the pose for a moment, then reached down, breathing hard, to turn off the music on my phone.
“You do that every day!?” Maggie was at the bottom of the stairs, an incredulous look on her face. I could only nod, chest heaving, as I got my breath back.
“When did you learn to be a cheerleader? I can’t believe you did that in school.”
I grinned. “Long story,” I said, thinking to myself, “and one I ABSOLUTELY don’t intend to share!”
Maggie shook her head. “You just keep amazing me, Cami. I think I know you, and then!”
I laughed. “But really, I haven’t known either of you very long. It just feels like we’ve been friends forever.”
She smiled at that. “Yeah, it does. And I’m really, really glad about that. . . . You want the first shower?”
I shook my head. “You go ahead. I’ve still got to stretch for ten minutes.”
She smiled, shook her head again and headed upstairs.
We were all showered, dressed and ready for the day by 7:45 – barbarically early as far as Nicole was concerned. But she looked more rested than I felt. Or perhaps I was extrapolating from the fact that she looked fabulous. That didn’t really signify, though. Nicole always looks fabulous.
I made omelets for everyone, using some of the extra chopped onions and spices from the prior night’s dinner and toasting some of Nicole’s braided bread to go with them. As we finished and settled back with our hot drinks of choice – coffee for me, tea for my roomies – I told them about Fiona’s message.
“What does it mean?” Nicole asked. “I mean, I understand that a pandemic is a world-wide epidemic, but, how will that affect our lives?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. They shut down all of Wuhan – put it in lockdown. It’s bigger – way bigger – than New York City. They quarantined that cruise ship – the Diamond Princess – and wouldn’t let people off. But I don’t know whether we’ll be talking about local flare-ups here and there, or something else. Fiona might know, but she probably won’t. Hopefully I’ll be able to talk to her today.”
We sat silently for a few minutes, sipping our drinks, lost in our own thoughts. None of which were very cheerful, judging by appearances. But Maggie finally sighed, stretched, and got up.
“Well, whatever’s going to happen, the show must go on. So I’d better get going.”
We all got to our feet and helped her carry her three bags down to the car. It would be a tight fit for the three of us, but neither Nicole nor I would stay behind. When we got to the airport, we all jumped out.
I pulled the bags from the back while Nicole gave Maggie a big hug, kissed her on the forehead, and said something softly that I didn’t catch. Then she got back into the car to circle while I helped Maggie get her bags to baggage check.
Once we had dropped her two large bags, now tagged, with airport security for screening, I gave her my own hug and a squeeze and, thinking of Fi, said fiercely, “Be safe, Maggie!! Be safe!!”
“You too. And take care of Nickie for me, will you?”
She let me go, and went to catch her flight. I went back outside and hopped into the passenger’s seat as Nicole came around the loop.
“You look blue, Cami.”
My smile was a bit lopsided. “Crazy, right? But Opera House certainly won’t feel the same without her there.”
“That’s our life, though,” she said. “The chance to do what Maggie is off to do right now – that’s what we spend hours training for every day. It’s a crazy-assed way to live, I guess, from any normal person’s perspective. But we wouldn’t have it any other way.”
I chewed on that while we made our way back home.
When we got back, Nicole said, “Okay, now I promised Mags I would make sure that you did all of your voice exercises. Let’s start with the warm-ups since we both need to do them. You can do your articulation exercises later – Maggie left you the recording – but you must do them. Or I’ll be in trouble with The Dottoressa, not just you!”
So we went downstairs and did our vocal stretches, after which Nicole disappeared into the sound enclosure to work on her opera and I opened my laptop to work on the trial.
I got a ping from my computer’s Skype app around 11:30 and was delighted to see that it was from Fiona. It had been two weeks since I spoke with her last and she still looked exhausted.
I decided I wasn’t going to comment on that. “Hey, big sister! I wish I could give you a hug; you look like you could use one.”
Her smile was tired, but genuine. “Hey, Cami. How are you? For that matter, where are you? I don’t recognize the space. Did I catch you at a bad time?”
I responded, “I’m fine, and I’m home – my current home, anyway. Long story, but I’m staying with friends until my trial’s finished. Now, tell me how you are doing. And what. Your message last night was pretty bad.”
“I’m okay, just . . . working. Too long. Too hard. And, nothing’s enough. It’s going to be bad, Cami, we just don’t know how bad. The evidence from the Diamond Princess is that this coronavirus spreads pretty easily, and infected people can spread it even before they show any symptoms. That makes it really, really hard to stop the spread.
“The death toll in China is already higher than it was during SARS. So, the disease – COVID-19 – can cause severe illness and death, the virus spreads from person to person, including through asymptomatic people. And, it’s starting to show up in different countries around the world.”
“Okay,” I said. “I mean . . . not okay, obviously. But . . . is there anything that we should be doing to prepare? Anything we should be doing differently? I assume closing the borders to flights – assuming we could even do it – would just slow things down?”
Fiona nodded. “Right. Buying time, which I hope to God we use. But now hospitals are scrambling for scarce resources and it’s a zero sum game. And until we see where it’s going to hit first, it’s impossible to know where the most resources should be directed.”
Pragmatically, I asked, “Is there anything that the public should be doing to prepare? Anything I should tell my roommates, or work colleagues?”
She shook her head. “Good hygiene, generally. Wash your hands regularly – REALLY wash them, with hot water and soap. Cover your sneezes – and don’t sneeze into your hand! Don’t, for God’s sake, go into work or go out if you are feeling sick. That sort of thing. Beyond that . . . . It’s harder to say. It’s not clear whether it's spreading through the air – aerosol transmission – and if so, how far.”
“I’ve seen some buzz about maybe wearing face masks?”
She shrugged. “Wearing masks may be helpful. Probably helpful, I’d guess. But there aren’t enough of them. Hospitals are fighting each other to get proper supplies of N95s and surgical masks right now. And, there’s no evidence yet that general mask wearing would be useful or effective even if everyone was doing it, which they can’t because we don’t have them.”
“I see why you look so tired,” I said. “This sounds really frustrating.”
Surprisingly, Fi shook her head. “It’s scary, and it’s frustrating, but this is what we trained for. I’m where I’m supposed to be, Cami. All of us here wouldn’t be anywhere else, doing anything else. It will be bad. But I promise you this, little sister. We’ll get through it.”
I smiled a bit wistfully, thousands of childhood memories of my heroic sister coming into my head all at once. “Reach for the stars, Fi.”
With quiet warmth, she finished the line: “And when I catch them, I’ll bring ‘em home just for you.”
After a moment, she sat a bit straighter. “I don’t have anything else on that particular subject, but there was one more thing I wanted to talk about, before I get back to work.”
I raised an eyebrow in question; she was definitely in “Dr. Savin” mode.
“Did you talk to your medical team about whether you wanted to preserve any of your sperm before you started hormone treatment?”
“Yes, Dr. Chun raised it with me. She said the effects of the hormone treatment would make it very unlikely I could have children later if I didn’t.”
“And, you decided . . . ?”
“Not to do it. No offense to you, Fi, but I’m not so enamored of my gene pool. If I want to raise a child at some point, there are lots of children who need good homes.” Trying to make light of it, I said, “Besides, you’re there to preserve whatever good genes we’ve got, and strong, virile Iain can always sow some oats if the world really needs more Savins.”
She bit her lip, not falling for my attempt at light-heartedness. “It’s your decision, of course. You do what you think makes sense. But . . . you probably shouldn’t count on me. I’ll be thirty-six before I’m even married, you know. It doesn’t get any easier. Tick-tock.”
She paused for a moment, but she was clearly searching for a way to say something else, so I didn’t interrupt. Finally, she said, “Cami . . . I don’t know what your thought process is. But I want you to know, for whatever it’s worth, that I think your genes are worth preserving. I think you’re wonderful. The world may or may not need any more Savins, but it could sure use more people like you.”
She was fighting tears.
“Thank you for that,” I said gently. “You know I love you too. But if you’re worried that I don’t want to reproduce because I think there’s something wrong with me, that’s not it. I’m fine. Really. But I can’t see spending thousands of dollars to preserve my DNA when there are so many babies out there without a good home. It just seems wrong.”
Fi nodded, still looking sad. “Okay. You’re a big girl, so I’ll butt out. But I wanted to make sure you’ve thought it through.”
We talked about a couple more things, inconsequential mostly, then Fiona had to get back to work.
And so did I. I said, “Thanks so much for calling. I know you’re incredibly busy, and I suspect you’re going to stay incredibly busy. Just know that you are in my thoughts, every day. I’ll keep you in my prayers too. And if there’s anything I can do to help . . . anything at all . . . just let me know, okay?”
“I’ll do that. Love you, girl.”
“I love you too,” I responded.
I signed off, and sat still for a moment, processing.
Nicole stuck her head out of the sound booth. “That looked intense. You okay?”
“Yes . . . It was Fiona. She didn’t have a lot of practical advice, but the news on the COVID-19 front is all pretty bad. And, she’s starting to worry about our mortality, I think.” I told her about Fi’s sudden concern with preserving my sperm.
Nicole looked thoughtful. “I’m with her, I think you’re pretty special. But I have no opinion on whether that’s genetic. Anyhow, you think she’s worried about it because she’s concerned about this pandemic?”
I shrugged. “Don’t know. But she never raised it before, and she seemed pretty serious about it.”
We talked a bit more, but once again, there wasn’t really anything we could do about the pandemic, other than continue on with our lives and see how things panned out. So Nicole went back to work and, after a moment, so did I.
I went upstairs at about 12:45 and made sandwiches for Nicole, Javier, and myself. Javi was a couple minutes late, but not much. I popped out to meet him as soon as he arrived, gave him a hug and helped him get first the bin, then the dis-assembled desk and the chair, into the house. The bin went up to my room and the furniture went into the basement for storage.
Once we had that stored against the far wall, I caught Nicole’s attention through the glass window of the sound enclosure and made a motion indicating eating.
She nodded, held up a hand indicating four minutes, and continued singing.
I brought Javier upstairs.
Nicole joined us just about when I got glasses of water poured and the sandwiches set out on plates. I introduced the two of them.
Nicole said, “Cami has told us so much about you and Al. All of it good!”
“Likewise,” Javi responded. “I’m so glad you were able to take Cami in on such short notice; we feel terrible about it.”
“Eh,” Nicole said, then, indicating her sandwich, she added, “She manages to be useful from time to time.”
We all laughed at that.
Javier said that Tina was settling in. She was still staying tight inside the apartment and only getting out to go over to the salon or to Al and Javi’s upstairs apartment. But their conversations seemed to be easier and she appeared to be less hostile, less prickly, than she had been when she first arrived. “No real breakthroughs yet,” he concluded, “but no breakdowns either. So, we keep at it.”
It was a good lunch, though Javier was more subdued than his usual cheerful self.
Nicole went out of her way to be charming, and that helped tremendously.
By the time he left, Javier appeared to be feeling less guilty about my abrupt departure a week before. He knew I was in good hands.
“Sisters, will you pray with me?”
I was back in Jacqui’s house, meeting for the second time with the small faith community of transwomen that Sarah had brought together. Unlike last time, I was wearing all of my padding as well as light makeup.
Sarah had picked me up at the College Park metro station rather than my new home, and I knew better than to appear in public places dressed like a woman but not trying my absolute best to look and act like one. Like the other transwomen present, I bent my head and concentrated on Jacqui’s prayer of invocation.
Later in the service, when it was my turn, I said, “Sisters, will you pray with me? I have so many things to pray for tonight. So many! I would like to pray for Tina, a transwoman, my age, who was badly hurt and terrorized by her family. Join me in praying for healing for her, for her mind, her heart, her soul. I would like to pray for my sister Fiona, who is working hard to combat this new disease, and for all of those, all over the world, who are dealing with COVID-19. Join me in praying for courage, for strength, for healing.”
I took a breath. “Finally, I would like to offer a prayer of thanks. For each of you. For my wonderful roommates. For my friends, my colleagues. For the doctors and specialists who are helping me. I am so very, very fortunate. So blessed. Please pray with me, sisters.”
And my sisters joined my heartfelt prayers.
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Baltimore, Maryland, February 21
It had been a long week, but Nicole and I had settled into a routine. I had to be out before she was awake, so I did my voice warm-up exercises alone after I did my (slightly shorter) physical exercises and stretches. It took me longer to get into work, too, but I was usually there by 8:00 thanks to the MARC train.
I worked until around 9:00 pm and did my articulation exercises when I got home. Dottoressa Trelli was certainly correct about Maggie’s very clear and crisp consonants, regardless of how fast she spoke. I was making slow progress in my efforts to emulate her.
Nicole was a night-owl by nature, so I did see her in the evening and she popped down a couple of times to hear my exercises and give me some tips. Her explanations were very clear and precise – she knew a tremendous amount about the production of sound, and it showed.
I was sleeping in Maggie’s room as she had suggested – and as Nicole insisted. “No sense sleeping on a couch when there’s a perfectly good bed that’s not being used!”
So I was sitting at Maggie’s vanity, just checking a few last emails, when my cell phone began to buzz.
It was Iain.
I hadn’t spoken to my brother since I dropped him off at the drug rehabilitation center at the beginning of the year. We hadn’t parted on the best of terms, which wasn’t all that unusual. So I was pretty apprehensive when I saw his name on my caller ID at 10:30 on a Friday night.
“Iain?” I said, perhaps more warily than I intended.
“Hey, Cam,” responded the familiar gruff voice. “Still makin’ the world safe for plutocracy?”
I sighed internally. “You bet. What’s up?”
The line was silent for long enough that I thought the call might have been dropped. Then he said, “I’m sorry, Cam. I called to apologize for being a prick all the time, and I start out by being a prick. It’s like I can’t help myself.”
I wasn’t sure what to make of that, so I probed carefully. “Well . . . umm. Apology accepted, I guess. But what brought this on? Are you feeling your mortality or something?”
“No. Just clear-headed. It’s been a while. I’ve been in some dark places, kid. Messed me up. I’ve just been angry so long . . . nothing went right and I guess I wanted to blame someone else. Everyone else. You. Fi. Everyone who got a break when I didn’t, or got ahead when I didn’t. Anyone I could think of. Anyone but me.”
He stopped talking, and I really didn’t know what to say. This didn’t sound like my brother. More accurately, I thought, it didn’t sound like the person I always thought my brother was.
“Iain,” I said, “I’ve known you all my life, but I realize listening to you right now that I don’t really know you at all. What were you looking for, all those years ago, when you left? What was your dream? And why do you think you failed?”
“It’s not that hard to understand, is it? Dad and I . . . we were always butting heads. He wanted me to be like him. Wanted it bad. Wanted me to be into sports, wanted me to be smart, to go to college. Come back, go into insurance. Take over his business someday, I guess.”
I could almost hear his shrug over the phone. “I don’t like being pushed, so I pushed back. I did sports, but my sports. I did drama. That pissed him off. Otherwise I blew off school. Blew off church. Left home as soon as I could. I thought I’d come to New York, and I’d wow everyone with my acting, and show everyone – show Dad – that I didn’t need his bougie respectability.
“I’m okay. I got bit parts. Was part of the scene, you know? But nothing more. Not enough to survive. I got restaurant jobs to pay the bills, like everyone else, waiting for the ‘big break.’ I told myself I’d get out if I hadn’t gotten a big part by the time I was twenty-eight, when I’d been hustling for ten years. But I didn’t. I love this place, you know? And, I didn’t have any better ideas. So I just stayed, and kept at it, and started using to take the edge off, instead just to have a good time. Until I started losing it – first with Dad, then with my roommates.”
He seemed to have finished, so I said, “Iain . . . you’re only thirty-two. It’s not too late to start over. Maybe find a new dream?”
“I’m done with dreaming, Cam. Gammy was right about that. ‘You can spend your life dreamin’, or you can spend your life workin’. Only one of them will keep a roof over your head.’”
I chuckled. That was Gammy Campbell, sure enough. “Okay, but if you don’t need a dream, you do need a plan. What are you thinking?”
“I’ve got a job lined up when I’m done here – a restaurant I’ve worked at before, up in New Rochelle. That’ll keep me for now. Come spring, construction pays better, and I’ve got some contacts. If I take some classes on the side, I may be able to apprentice to an electrician in a year or so. Pay’s better.”
“Is there anything I can do to help? Anything you need? Do you even have a place to stay?” I said, almost gingerly.
His response was gruff. “I won’t bite your head off. I know I did before. I didn’t want to admit I needed help . . . or that my kid brother was doing better than me. And I know what you and Fi did for me . . . it wasn’t hard to find out that you lied about state money for rehab, and who was really paying.”
“I’m sorry for lying. I didn’t see any other way.”
“There wasn’t one,” he agreed. “I wouldn’t have come here if I’d known. And you were right; I needed to come.”
He was quiet a minute. “I really hate to ask, but I do need some more help. I’ve got a friend – another artist who didn’t make it – who’s also looking for a place. He found something that’ll work for both of us, and we can manage the rent between us. But we need a security deposit and first and last, and we don’t have it. Swear to God – or I would, if I believed in one – I will pay you back. But I could really use some cash for that.”
Iain had never, ever, asked me for anything; I agreed immediately and we worked out the details. We talked some more – it was the first time in forever that we had a real conversation.
But I didn’t raise the issue of being trans again, and he didn’t mention it. He hadn’t believed me when I told him in January, and I wasn’t going to risk that kind of reaction again. He would get the picture next time I saw him. Literally.
Speaking of which . . . “Do I need to be there when you get discharged?”
“No,” he answered. “I just walk out. Your lawyer friend at the PD’s office says they don’t need me back in court. The DA will drop the charges on March 3, and you can get the bail money back.”
“That’s good. I’d come up if you needed me, but I’m slammed at work for the next month or so. I’m working on a case that goes to trial next month up your way, in Connecticut. Hopefully I’ll be able to see you once it’s over. You’re on the way, by train. But, busy or not, I’m always here for you.”
We talked a bit more; it was nearly midnight when we ended the call. I sat at Maggie’s vanity for a few more minutes, bemused. I don’t think I’d ever talked to Iain for so long, one-on-one. It was positively disorienting.
After a minute, I started brushing out my hair, using the soothing feel of the repetitive exercise to quiet my thoughts so I could get some sleep. As I sat at a woman’s vanity, wearing a sheer nylon nightie and my dark-green dressing gown, brushing long dark hair that now reached to the lace of my décolletage, I wondered impishly how Iain would take to having a little sister.
Baltimore, Maryland, February 22
I got up at my normal time and did a full hour of physical exercise, adding a fifth seven-minute routine into my workout. I shaved, showered, did my nails, hair and makeup, put on my jeans, my calf-length leather boots and a fun, frilly top, made some coffee and started right in on work. At this point, I was adept at making sure I had everything with me that I would need when I left the office on Friday night.
When I heard Nicole begin to stir, I made up some omelets – they were beginning to look a bit better, though nothing like Henry’s – as well as some green tea.
She came downstairs in her robe and slippers, her hair in its nighttime plait, and gave me a sleepy grin. “I love weekends.”
When we were done with breakfast, Nicole went upstairs to get washed and dressed. I did the dishes, dried them and put them away – there was no mess at Opera House! – then went back to the basement and got back to work. Nicole joined me around 9:30 and we were able to do voice exercises together.
She gently chided me for “scooping” – beginning to sing before I had the right note, then lifting up to reach the actual note that Nicole was singing. She played the tape and I caught it right away. We worked on that as we went through the exercises, and it definitely helped. She was an excellent instructor.
When we were done, Nicole spent some time working on her parts – I assume for Götterdämmerung, but I knew she was also working on other parts she would be singing later in the season.
I went back to work. We had a light lunch at noon, then Nicole got ready for an afternoon of teaching voice to college students. I gratefully accepted her offer to let me borrow her car and got out of her butt-length hair.
First, I went off and saw the Dottoressa and had a good second lesson. We spent forty-five minutes on exercises to expand the high end of my effective range and fifteen minutes on articulation exercises.
She thought I had made better progress on the former than the latter. “More time with Dottoressa McGregor’s tapes!” she demanded.
One does not argue with The Dottoressa.
After my lesson I went off to Target to pick up a few more casual things to wear around the house. My purchases to date had focused on dresses, skirts and – honestly – sexy-feeling lingerie. I knew that I was overcompensating and that cisgendered women more often wore practical clothing – pants, shorts, T-shirts; sweatshirts. It didn’t matter when I was living by myself, but I felt overdressed wandering around Opera House in dresses when Maggie and Nicole were less formal.
I was fond of my stretchy jeans, so I got two more pairs (one black; one olive), a couple pairs of heavy tights, a few women’s T-shirts with v- and scoop necks, with either capped sleeves or sleeveless, and a couple of tailored fleece tops.
On my way to the register, I saw a scrumptious surplice-neck black camisole that I had to have, and two more pairs of nylons. And a royal blue sports bra with intricately patterned back straps. I decided that my inner girl had done enough damage for one day – thank God for Target prices! – and I made it out the door without any more impulse buys.
After that I went grocery shopping and picked up some staples for the week – a few things that would be quick and easy since we would both be pretty busy. It was after 4:00 when I got home, and Nicole was just finishing with her last student in the front room. I went around and came through the back door to the kitchen.
As I was making my third trip with grocery bags, a young Black girl, maybe twenty, came out the front door, smiling and chatting with Nicole, who waved me over. “Cami, this is Shana, Shana, this is my roommate, Cami.”
Shana flashed a thousand-watt smile. “Hey!”
I returned the smile. “She working you hard?”
She shook her head. “Singing for Miss Nicole? Nah! She slays!” She waved good-bye with a cheery, “See ya!” and was off down the road.
I looked at my roommate. “Miss Nicole, I think I old.”
She grinned. “Start teaching kids. They’ll keep you young!”
I took the grocery bag in through the front door and brought it back to the kitchen, then went back out to get my other purchases. But Nicole had already purloined the bags and was bringing them upstairs.
“Ooooh!,” she teased, “somebody’s been shoppppping!”
I pretended to grab for the bags, she pretended to pull them away, and we giggled.
“C’mon,” she said. “Show me!”
So I showed her the pants, tights, t-shirts, and fleeces. She gave me half a smile. “Your friend Sarah again, right? Fitting in?”
I nodded, a bit sheepish. “Yeah, I thought I was kinda overdressed.”
Nicole put her hands on my shoulders. “In this house, you wear what makes you feel good, okay? Not what you think will make us feel good. You don’t have to blend in here. You. Are. Safe. Got it?”
To keep from tearing up, I leaned in, gave her a peck on the very tip of her nose. “Yes, Mom!”
Then I pulled back and said, more seriously, “I love dressing like a woman – I love the look and feel of different fabrics, the way they feel in different combinations. But liking women’s clothes is like a bonus; it’s not what makes me trans. When I’m able to be full-time as a woman, I expect I won’t feel as much need for my clothing to give me comfort and reassurance. Then I’ll probably lounge around in more practical clothes.”
“Should I get you some sweatpants then?,” Nicole asked (knowing that I loathed them).
I shivered in mock horror. “No! Not that!”
“Well, okay then,” she said. “But I think you’re holding out on me, girlfriend. That last bag doesn’t look empty to me!”
That led to a chase around the room, until, cornered, I showed her the pretty sports bra, the nylons, and the silky black camisole.
She held that last garment up against my torso. “Oh, yes, very practical, Cami!” She laughed and returned my peck on the nose. We went into the kitchen and put away the groceries.
I had picked up a rotisserie chicken and some salad for dinner, so we ate that and a bit of sauvignon blanc. We cleaned up, I put away my new purchases, and we each got a bit more work done. About 7:30 we had arranged to Facetime with Maggie, so we went upstairs for better WiFi.
Maggie looked great. “Hey!” she said, excited. She filled us in on how rehearsals were going and how she was settling in. She was sharing what sounded a lot like a dorm room with another singer. “It’s tight quarters, but we’re really only there to sleep,” she said. It was apparent that the rehearsing was intense and went on all day.
We didn’t have much exciting news for her, though I did mention that I had a really good call with Iain.
“Really?” she said. “That’s fantastic!”
I gave her – really, gave them both, since I hadn’t said much about it to Nicole – all the details.
At the end of the call Maggie yawned like a panther. “Early bed for me tonight. Listen, I miss you guys!”
“Miss you, too!” I said.
Nicole smiled and blew her a kiss, and we signed off.
After 8:00 I excused myself to watch some results from the Iowa caucuses. The TV was still in my room, which had been kind of their TV lounge before I showed up. None of us watched TV much, so it hadn’t been a problem.
After half an hour or so Nicole knocked, came in, and sat down on the couch with me. “Okay, Cami. I want you to tell me what I’m watching. And why I care.”
So I did.
We sat for a while, watching the talking heads describe what was happening. It became increasingly apparent that Senator Sanders was going to win handily. He had already won the New Hampshire primary and had the most votes in the Iowa caucuses. He was starting to look unstoppable.
And I guess I was starting to look worried. “You don’t like Bernie?” Nicole asked, with nothing more than pure curiosity in her tone.
I waved my hand. “I don’t have a problem with him, though he’s not my favorite. But . . . I’m really worried that he can’t win the general election. And that’s the one I care about.”
Nicole was quiet for a bit, then got up and stretched, lacing her fingers together, inverting her hands and reaching for the ceiling. “You’ve convinced me . . . . But it seems like a stupid way to pick a president.”
With that, I couldn’t disagree.
We were meeting in the conference room we had set aside for trial prep. Neatly stacked boxes full of neatly labeled binders, containing all of the potential trial exhibits for both sides, lined one wall.
I was the last to arrive; I had been delayed by the news flash that had popped up on my phone. I apologized and said, “Dr. Messonnier from the CDC is warning that we may be facing school closings, workplace shutdowns, cancelling large events. Cases keep popping up on the West Coast, and now Italy is some kind of hot spot.”
Daviana asked the question that was on all of our minds: “Are we going to be able to do this trial?”
But none of us had answers. We called our local counsel in New Haven, but he hadn’t heard anything either.
Finally, Eileen said, “We’ve got no choice. It’s full speed ahead unless the court says otherwise. We need to assume we’ll be picking a jury in three weeks. So let’s stay focused, shall we?”
“Biden in a landslide,” I said, as Nicole poked her head into my room and quirked an inquisitive eyebrow at me. I was watching the returns from the South Carolina primary.
She said, “Is that good news, or bad news?”
“Depends on your pony in the race, I guess. But . . . Warren, Buttigieg, Klobuchar and Bloomberg got almost no support from the Black community. If that carries over to Super Tuesday, their campaigns are dead in the water.”
She looked intrigued. “The Black vote is that important?”
“For any national race, it’s critical for Democrats.”
“Huh,” she said. “I wonder what Shana would say to that.”
We watched for a bit longer, but it just devolved into talking heads discussing James Clyburn’s clout. Nonetheless, Biden’s campaign had come roaring back after a near-death experience. Come-back stories are always interesting.
For all the work that we had done on the trial, there was still more to do, and we continued to be very busy. I had been working with my witnesses by phone, and I was helping David in his efforts to get our primary liability expert to sound like a real person instead of an overeducated toaster. This was proving to be quite a challenge for both of us. Part of the problem was that David and I were also too educated for our own good.
Eileen said, “Think of someone you know who’s smart, but hasn’t been to college.”
David, bless him, looked blank.
I immediately thought of Gammy.
“Now,” Eileen said, “imagine having Dr. Silverman explain his report to her.”
Eileen had been working on her opening statement for the jury. It followed the outlines she had prepared earlier, but she was working on specific language to figure out what would land well. We had several sessions where she tried new language and all of us provided feedback. And, work with the documents never stopped.
Just as it was getting easier and more natural for me to present as a woman, it was growing increasingly difficult not to. I could still do it, and do it convincingly. But it took concentration, mindful attention, and with all of the work involved in preparing for the trial, the strain of that constant concentration was wearing me down.
I took to wearing the underwear that Sarah had selected, partly as a gag. At least when I wore it at work, I would feel the touch of something feminine against my skin, even though I was presenting a masculine appearance. Anything to stay sane.
But March 3 was a big day for reasons unrelated to work. I made calls to make sure that Iain was all set. The drug rehab facility provided the necessary paperwork and the DA’s office, as promised, dropped the charges against him.
I spoke with Iain briefly. His friend had made their housing arrangements, and Iain was heading up to see the new place. He said he was starting work the next day, and at my request gave me his new address and the name of the restaurant where he would be working.
I had mental images of showing up there in my LBD and stilettos once the trial was done!
Later that night, as I headed back home on the MARC train, I read on my pad that there had been a COVID outbreak in New Rochelle involving a Bat Mitzvah at Temple Young Israel. Local authorities had ordered attendees at the event to self-quarantine. I sent a link to Iain by text and a warning to be careful, and received a thumbs up in response.
I thought about it some more. Was there anything else that Iain could do? Nothing that I could think of. But I sent Fi a text saying, “Iain now out of care and living in an apartment in New Rochelle. I saw there’s an outbreak there. Is there anything he should know? Can you call, or text him?”
I got back, “Will.”
Nicole was asleep when I got in. I found some cold chicken in the fridge and had a bite while I checked on the results pouring in from the Super Tuesday primaries.
Senator Klobuchar and Mayor Buttigieg had already dropped out and endorsed Vice President Biden, and it was clear he would be the presumptive nominee by the time the night was over. Quite the comeback! I just hoped that Eileen was right in her conviction that Biden could win in November.
A whole lot was riding on it.
I got myself ready for bed, snuggling into my charmeuse nightie – no sense being modest if my housemate is asleep when I go to bed and when I get up! – brushed out my hair, then buried myself under Maggie’s covers.
I woke up in the middle of the night to find Nicole standing by my bed, looking like a guardian angel. When my eyes opened, she half sat on the edge of the bed and put a hand to my cheek. “You were crying out again, Cami. Are you okay?”
“I’m so sorry. I wish I didn’t wake you up with these things. Just . . . just bad dreams.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
“There isn’t much to talk about,” I said, frustrated. “If the dreams contain images, I can’t remember them. All I remember is the fear . . . the terror.”
Her face filled with compassion, she bent down and kissed my forehead gently. “Scoot over.”
I did as she requested, and she took off her robe and slipped into bed beside me, wearing a long, cream-colored négligée. She turned me gently away from her and spooned into my back, sliding one arm under my neck and gracefully draping the other over my chest.
“Sleep,” she commanded. “No more dreaming.” She kissed the crown of my head.
I did as I was told.
I woke up again, my body clock telling me it was close to time for me to get up. Nicole was a warm, soft presence at my back; I could feel the slow, deep rhythm of her breathing. I was acutely aware of every line of her perfect body next to mine, separated only by two layers of the sheerest fabric.
I thought, Careful, Cami!
I didn’t want my alarm to wake her, so I slowly slid from under her draped arm and slipped from the bed. She murmured something and slid her now-free hand under her cheek. She was so very beautiful. So perfect.
I reached over and gently tucked the comforter under her chin.
She smiled in her sleep and snuggled in more deeply.
I picked up my phone and tiptoed out the door and popped into the bathroom. It was time for my morning exercises, both physical and vocal. But I had the strong urge to go straight to the shower, to feel the hot water pound on my skin. To move soapy hands all over my body . . . .
I stopped, breathing hard. I hadn’t had any sexual activity, of any sort, for months. I was hot, bothered . . . horny as hell. My male member, currently not confined in a gaff, was making its unimpressive presence felt against the nylon of my panties. Nicole’s physical intimacy, wonderful and well-intentioned, had left my body aching.
I slipped out of my nightie and pulled down my panties. Forced myself to look in the mirror. I was not yet a woman, no longer a man. Caught in between, for a while longer. I closed my eyes and stood upright, as if I were going to practice for Dottoressa Trelli, then worked to slow my breathing, willed my blood to flow easily, dispelling the hot flush on my cheeks and throat. Finally I opened my eyes, in command of myself again.
I nodded at the ambiguous figure in the mirror, then got dressed for exercises.
An hour and a half later, having exercised voice and body, I showered – without incident – put on my Cam-o-flage, and quietly went out into the still air of the early morning.
Nicole slept, to all appearance, dreamless.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 6
Another Friday night. I was home early – 7:00 – so I was able to get out of my male clothes, shower, and then get dressed properly. Nicole had marinated some kabobs at lunch time and cooked them while I was changing over. We had a quiet dinner and talked about the latest disquieting news on the COVID front.
Another cruise ship was having problems, this time off the California coast. After the death of a passenger from COVID, the California Air National Guard dropped some test kits on the ship at sea, and 21 of the 46 people tested had tested positive. There were 3,500 people aboard, and the ship wasn’t being allowed to dock, so that the positive cases wouldn’t be “counted” in our national total. It was scary, and crazy.
And again . . . . we were helpless. All we could do was wait and watch.
Nicole said, “It’s like one of those bad dreams, where you can see a train go off the rails, or a car careening into a group of people, and you try to cry out, or move, but you can’t.”
“I know,” I said. “And it's bizarre, just going forward, getting up in the morning, getting ready for the day, like none of this is happening.”
But in the end, neither of us could think of any better way to deal with it.
We put aside our existential worries and FaceTimed Maggie to wish her luck. “All ready to go?” I asked.
“I can’t wait,” she replied. “Maestro DeRenzi is fantastic – just fantastic! And I really like Stephanie Sundine’s direction. It is going to be so good!”
Nicole had lots of technical questions, so I let the experts go at it. It was fun – how I imagined an outsider might view a conversation between Eileen and David about trial strategy for our case. Or, how an opera singer might hear a conversation between professional shortstops. The details are different, but the passion, the appreciation for those details – that was what would always come through.
At one point Nicole gave me a sideways look and flicked one of my drop earrings with a lacquered fingernail. “What are you grinning at, goof?”
I laughed. “You two, silly. I always like watching people geek out. The subject doesn’t matter.”
She growled in mock annoyance at being called a geek.
But I added, with complete sincerity, “There’s nothing more beautiful than people talking about the thing they love most. Nothing. So don’t let me slow you two down!”
That got a fond smile from both of them, and soon they were at it again.
The remainder of the weekend had been busy. I had had appointments with Dottoressa Trelli and with Dr. Chun, each of whom was reasonably pleased with my continued progress. I let them know that I would be out for the rest of the month; we were scheduled to go up to New Haven on Saturday the fourteenth.
Nicole and I were both buried in the labors of our very different lives. Every so often I had looked up from my computer to see her in the sound room, posture perfect, features radiating concentration, singing at full power. But not a peep came through the soundproofed enclosure. We had been in completely separate bubbles, mere feet, but worlds, apart.
But the regular workweek rolled around and the tempo picked up. Back in male garb, I was supervising the shipment of all of the materials in the war room to local counsel’s offices in New Haven, assisted by Greg Gilles, our paralegal, and Carrie Fox, Eileen’s secretary.
Five paper copies of every exhibit (one for the court record, one for the judge, one for opposing counsel, two for us), plus hard-drives with electronic copies of everything we might need. Manuals. Brief books. Supplies . . . .
My phone buzzed an electronic warning; I looked at it and felt my blood run cold. New York Governor Andrew Cuomo had just announced that he was deploying the National Guard to create a containment area in New Rochelle. Apparently the local self-quarantine order had failed to stop the spread of the virus; New Rochelle suddenly had over a hundred COVID cases – more than half of New York state’s total.
“I’m sorry,” I said absently. “Greg, Carrie . . . can you give me a couple minutes? There’s something I need to deal with.”
I heard them say something affirmative, then I heard the door close behind them. I called Iain and got him in one.
“Hey Cam. I kind of thought I might be hearing from you.”
“I just heard the news about the containment area.”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” he assured me. “We got the low-down. They’re shutting schools and churches and synagogues for a couple weeks, setting up a testing center, disinfecting public spaces. That sort of thing. But it’s not like we can’t come and go. The restaurant’s still open.”
“Iain, I am worried. I haven’t talked to Fi in a while, but everything she told me . . . this thing’s bad. And we’ve seen what’s happening. In China. In Italy. You’re in the middle of the biggest hotspot in America. Can you . . . can you just get out? Not just out of New Rochelle. Out of New York? I’ll put you up. Anywhere. I’ll find a place.”
Iain stopped me. “Cam. Stop. Maybe it’s worse here right now. But that won’t last. There’s no place you could put me up that'll be ‘safe.’ You know that. Even Fi admitted that when she called me. Here, I’ve got a place to stay. Work. Friends.”
“But . . . .” I began, sounding irrational even to myself.
He stopped me again, his voice more gentle than I had ever heard it. “Thank you. Really. But I’m just barely starting to get my feet back under me. People went out on a limb for me. My roommate. My boss. I can’t just walk away. Any more than you would leave your job and your home just because of a virus.”
I was silent for a moment. The conference room seemed to darken, or else my vision was clouding. “Iain,” I said, “I’m frightened for you. Scared.” My voice was almost gone.
“Me too, kid,” he said. “But Fi will get us all through it. See if she doesn’t.”
“Okay,” I said. “Be safe, will you?”
“Always am,” he responded.
We ended the call.
The room faded to black. My vision was gone completely and I was blind. Caught in a waking nightmare of darkness, of crying and screaming. The smell of fear, the heat of fever, the sound of labored breathing, of hearts straining. Terror in the streets of Bergamo, of Padua . . . all of Lombardi. Beautiful Italy, I thought irrelevantly, the land of Dottoressa Trelli. Of Puccini. Opera.
I heard . . . a voice? Yes . . . a voice in the dark. Nicole. “Like one of those bad dreams,” her voice was saying, through the weeping, the cries, “where you can see a train go off the rails, or a car careening into a group of people, and you try to cry out, or move, but you can’t.”
I shuddered, opened my mouth to scream a warning. To Iain. To Fi. To anyone. Everyone. But I detected no motion, no sound. Nothing but a deep, rhythmic pulsing, like the thrumbing of a massive heart. Or a planet-sized ventilator. Or the slow, powerful beating of dark wings . . . .
The wings of the Angel of Death.
I felt a hard grip on my arm. Another voice. Please God! A real voice! “Cam!! Cam!! What’s happened? Cam!”
I tried to move again. Tried. And finally felt my muscles obey. My left hand reached up, blindly, clutching at the hand on my arm. I could feel my own breathing, ragged. But I could feel it, and I worked to bring it back under control. Vision was starting to return. I was kneeling, I could sense. My head was bowed. My right hand was clenched.
I heard the voice again. “Cam? Can you hear me?”
It was Daviana.
I nodded jerkily and took a deep breath. “I’m okay now.” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Like hell!”
I didn’t try to speak again. Instead I focused on simple motions. Release her hand. Give it a pat. Move it to the chair, that was . . . right there. In front of me. Grip the chair. Get my left foot under me. Push up, slowly. Use my left hand for balance. Right foot forward. Turn. Get into the chair. Okay. Raise my head, find Daviana.
She was standing. Looking worried — seriously worried.
I took a couple more deep breaths and tried my voice again. Stronger. The nightmare was receding, quickly now. I felt suddenly exhausted, but I was otherwise entirely in the present.
“Thanks, Daviana. I’m sorry I gave you a scare. But I’m okay. Really.”
She sank down into the chair next to mine. “What the hell happened?”
I thought of the terror, pushed it back. I forced my voice into Cam Savin’s cool analytical pattern. Calm. “I have PTSD. From . . . from an incident. I’m seeing someone about it. It’s never hit me when I was awake; I just think of it as night terrors. But I just got some very bad news, and I guess it got triggered.”
Still looking worried, Daviana asked, “What was the news?”
“My brother is living in New Rochelle. They’ve just imposed a COVID containment area there. He won’t get out. And, just like that, my PTSD hit. It’s not rational, I know. He’s fine.”
She looked at me intently for a minute and evidently didn't care for what she saw. “Look, I’ll spell you here for a bit. Give yourself a few minutes. Go home if you need to. I’ve got this.”
I shook my head. “No, I’m fine. Really.”
“Cam, you scared the crap out of me,” she said. “You couldn’t see me, or hear me, your face was covered in tears and you looked like you were talking to ghosts. That’s not ‘fine.’ Take a half hour – at least. Or, do I need to get Eileen involved?”
That, I absolutely did not want. “Okay,” I said. “I’ll be good. I’m sorry for giving you a fright.” I got up and headed for the door. When I reached it, I turned. “Thanks, Daviana.” Then I walked out.
I found the restroom – in this case, the men’s room of course – and went in. Daviana hadn’t been kidding; my eyes were red and my cheeks were soaked. I filled my hands with cold water; held them to my face, to my burning eyes.
After a few minutes I dried them off, then went back to my office. I closed the door, sat at my desk, and closed my eyes, allowing them to cool. There were some Advil in my drawer; I pounded two dry.
I spent the next twenty minutes focused exclusively on controlling my breathing, concentrating on each inhalation, each exhalation . . . driving all other thoughts from my mind.
Breathe in life, breathe out fear.
Breathe in life. Breathe out death.
Breathe.
After exactly half an hour, I re-entered the war room, gave Daviana, Carrie, and Greg a nod of thanks, then went back to work. After a few minutes, apparently convinced that I truly was okay, Daviana went back to her office.
On my way home later in the day, I sent Fiona a text. “I tried to get Iain to leave New Rochelle. Failed.”
I was almost home when I got her reply. “Me too. Keep those prayers coming.”
I replied, “Roger that. For Iain and for you. Be safe.”
Washington. D.C., March 12
I was at my desk going through my emails. Normally something I do on the train on the way into work, but I had instead been reading about the WHO’s decision the previous day to declare that the coronavirus constituted a pandemic. Fiona had called it early, but after over 100,000 cases in more than 100 countries and over 4000 deaths, there was no longer any doubt.
Other, more pressing matters diverted me when I got to the office, so it was mid-morning before I got to it. As I was finishing up with what had arrived overnight and in the morning, a new email came in, this one from the Connecticut District Court. I opened it and read.
From: CMECF @ ctd.uscourts.gov
Sent: Thursday, March 12, 2020 10:35 AM
Subject: COURT OPERATIONS UNDER THE EXIGENT CIRCUMSTANCES CREATED BY COVID-19
This is an announcement e-mail message generated by Court action through the CM/ECF system. Please DO NOT RESPOND to this e-mail because the mail-box is unattended.
WHEREAS, the Governor of the State of Connecticut has declared a public health emergency throughout the State;
WHEREAS, the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention has advised people to take precautions in light of the COVID-19 virus (coronavirus) outbreak, and has noted that the best way to prevent illness is to avoid being exposed to the virus;
AND
WHEREAS, trial jurors often have to work in close quarters to hear the evidence and deliberate following presentation of the evidence;
THEREFORE IT IS HEREBY ORDERED, effective immediately, that all civil and criminal (grand and petit) jury selections and jury trials scheduled to commence now through April 10, 2020 before any district or magistrate judge in any courthouse in the District of Connecticut (i.e., Richard C. Lee U.S. Courthouse in New Haven; Abraham Ribicoff Federal Building in Hartford; and Brien McMahon Federal Building in Bridgeport) are CONTINUED pending further Order of the Court.
I just sat there, staring at the screen. Even when we had talked about it, we hadn’t actually thought it would happen. Life would go on. Life always went on. Tomorrow would be like yesterday.
Until, suddenly, it wouldn’t be.
Another message came in, this time from Eileen. “Let’s gather in the war room at 11:00.”
I sent back, “Got it,” and pushed back from my desk. I stood up and for some reason got my jacket from the hanger on my door and slipped it on. I picked up my coffee cup and went out to the common area. Filled up.
“Oh, my God,” Daviana said, coming up behind me. “Can you believe it?”
I tapped my forehead. “Up here, yeah. I get it. But . . . the rest of me may take a while to catch up!”
She nodded, filling up her own cup and taking a sip. “Well, let’s go see what the plan is.” We headed to the now almost empty war room.
David was already there, then Greg came in followed by Carrie.
Coming in last, Carrie said, “Eileen may be a couple minutes late; she’s on the phone.”
We talked quietly for a few minutes, the mood somber and subdued. Eileen came in and, very uncharacteristically, took the seat at the head of the table.
“I’ve just been speaking with local counsel and some of his contacts in the federal bar in Connecticut. We’re looking at a three month delay, minimum. Apparently the Chief Judge is using the April end date as a place-holder; no one thinks it will be over that soon. And even if it does, criminal matters necessarily take priority because of the Sixth Amendment. I’ve already emailed in-house counsel and Theo Jacoby to let them know. They’ll spread the word.”
She looked around the table, seeing a ring of stunned faces. She said, gently, “I know how hard all of you have worked. How hard it was to get to this peak of readiness. And we were ready, no question. But trials get delayed all the time. Not usually for reasons this dramatic, but it happens. We’ll have to roll with it. And we can.”
Her eyes went around the room again, gauging our reactions. “So, here’s the plan. We’ll need to put things in shape so that they will be relatively easy to pick back up whenever we get the green light. We’ll need ramp-up time to get back to where we are now, but we’ll absolutely have it. Like I said, once they open the courts again criminal matters will have priority, so we’ll have lots of notice. Nothing’s going to be sprung on us. Okay? Any questions?”
Naturally, everyone had some. We talked about logistics, and speculated about the schedule, and basically said everything that can be said in a situation where almost nothing is known.
Finally Eileen pulled the discussion to a close. “So we have things we’ll need to do, but there’s nothing that can’t wait a few days – other than canceling our hotel and travel arrangements. Which I’d like you to take care of this afternoon, Carrie, if you would.”
Carrie nodded.
Eileen continued. “Other than that, I’d like you to all go home. Take the rest of the week off. Unplug. We’ve been at this almost non-stop for months. Go see your families. Let’s plan to meet Monday morning.”
People were pulling back their chairs and standing. We had a plan, and that provided some confidence. People no longer looked dazed. Daviana was even regaining her almost perpetually cheerful look.
I didn’t move. I looked down at the table, thinking furiously.
When I looked back up, Eileen was also still seated. Watching me.
I said, “Can you spare a minute?”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Washington, D.C., March 12, immediately following
The door to the conference room closed behind Daviana, who – seeing me remain behind – looked concerned. Eileen and I were alone.
She gave me a lawyerly half smile. “I don’t suggest you wait to take care of personal issues until after trial now, Cam. So . . . if I remember correctly, there were some things you wanted to talk to me about?”
I nodded. “As a mentor, as a friend . . . and as my supervisor.”
Hearing the last item on my list, she looked more serious, but she just nodded in return. “Of course.”
I tried to think of a good way to explain. Lord knows, I’d had plenty of time to think of what I would say and how I would say it, but facing the reality of the moment, my erudition failed me. I knew deep down that all the smooth words, the careful words, were useless here anyway. The truth, and nothing but the truth, is usually brief.
“I’m trans, Eileen. And I’m running out of the strength, even the ability, to present as male. I could have made it through the trial. I convinced myself I needed to, that it was the right thing to do. But that’s when we were looking at three weeks. Not three months.”
“Three months, minimum,” Eileen added. “Probably more.”
She had listened to me quietly, displaying no change in her demeanor. Not surprise. Not – thank God – revulsion or even discomfort. “I’m glad you told me. I had an inkling something was troubling you, and after that morning in Hartford, I had a guess what it might be. I think I understand why you waited, but it’s going to be okay. Really.”
She leaned forward slightly. “Now. There are things I need to say as a member of the firm’s leadership team, so let me get them out of the way. We have a nondiscrimination policy. I assume you’ve read it?”
I nodded, mentally thanking my sister’s fiancé for bringing it to my attention. And, I thought, Henry can also cook!
“Good,” Eileen continued. “You know it is the policy of this firm not to discriminate against any employee on the basis of gender identification. And I will tell you – me, personally, Eileen O’Donnell – that the day we don’t live up to that policy is the day I walk out. Which they won’t want,” she said with a predatory grin, “because I’m hands down their best trial lawyer.”
In a more normal tone, she added, “But I also know this firm. I’ve done as much as anyone to create its modern incarnation. I know all of the partners to one degree or another. And I know every member of the management committee very well; I strong-armed half of them into doing a stint. I’m confident that we’ll do right by you.”
She gave me her most direct look, making sure her words had sunk in. “Better?”
“Better,” I said with a somewhat relieved smile. “Though, honestly, I wasn’t really worried about outright discrimination. This has just never struck me as that kind of place. I do worry that I’ll make people uncomfortable – and, I guess, the other way ’round. And I know that’s not something management can ‘fix.’ People are people. They have comfort zones, and trans people are outside of those zones for a whole lot of people.”
Eileen nodded. “I understand. And to be fair, I really don’t know what you’ll experience that way. This is a big place. We insist that everyone always behave professionally, and that is something we can enforce. And have. Beyond that, though, you’re right. Not much we can do. But, honestly, I don’t think you’re going to find yourself isolated or friendless. The fact that this is a big place cuts both ways. Everyone tends to find their own group. I think many, if not most, of our people are not going to be put off by your being trans.”
She was quiet for a moment, thinking. “Your bigger problem may be the world outside the firm. Life’s no cakewalk for women lawyers, much less trial lawyers. I’m in lots of meetings with all the bigwigs from some Fortune 50 company and I’m the only woman there – unless maybe the head of HR is a woman. Even now, in 2020.
“People will tell you it’s different today, but they told me the same thing forty years ago. News flash: it wasn’t then and it isn’t now. You’ll have to go through extra hoops to be taken seriously, and I can’t begin to tell you how tiresome that gets. I don’t know if that’s going to be even worse for you as a transwoman. But it sure as hell won’t be any easier.”
I protested. “Eileen, I’ve seen you completely dominate every room you’re in, no matter who’s there!”
She grinned. “There are some tricks to that, and I expect you’ll master them. But mostly it comes from building my reputation to a point where now it can do a lot of the heavy lifting for me. That takes decades.”
“I was afraid you were going to say that.”
“I know,” she replied. “I wish there were some silver bullet or magic wand that would eliminate bigotry and harmful stereotypes, but there isn’t. It’s just long, grinding work.” She added, jokingly, “Are you sure you want to be a woman?”
I returned her smile. “Yes, I am. Very. But it wouldn’t matter if I wasn’t. I am what I am. I just can’t hide it any more.”
She looked thoughtful and leaned back in her chair – a slight movement, barely changing her normal perfect posture. Simply a small signal that our conversation would now be less formal. She was taking off her supervisor hat, insofar as she ever could.
“Can you tell me about it? What’s it been like for you? How long have you known?”
“I guess I’ve always known that I didn’t quite fit. I just assumed it was me, though – just stupid insecurities everyone feels. Nothing really felt natural; I didn’t know why. Or rather, I didn’t even know it was possible for things to feel natural.
“Everything I did, how I interacted with people, how I responded to things, was calculated. I would think, ‘What is it that I’m supposed to be doing in this situation,’ or ‘What’s the correct way for me to respond to this individual.’ I would game it out in my head and make a careful decision on what to do. I assumed everyone was like that.”
I paused, searching for the right words. Eileen regarded me calmly and attentively, waiting for me to collect my thoughts. I should have this down by now, I thought to myself.
“Last year, I started to realize that people didn’t operate like that at all. Oh, maybe for big, important decisions. Sometimes. For everyday stuff, though, people were generally spontaneous – their actions simply flowed naturally from who they really are. But I had blocked those natural, instinctive reactions.
“And the reason I had was because, when I did express myself naturally, everything about my expression was female. Deep down, that’s who I am. That's when everything started to make sense. I knew what was ‘wrong’ inside me, and I suspected that I could 'fix' it by presenting as a woman.”
“So you tried it,” she said, making it a statement rather than a question.
I nodded. “I’ve been living as a woman for the past several months, except at work.”
“Given how many hours you’re here, a large exception,” she said dryly.
I chuckled. “Yeah, that part’s been hard. Because just as I was discovering how wonderful it was to just be myself, be the person I am inside, I was also making a very conscious effort to suppress all of that here.”
We talked a bit about my recent experiences. I told her about the change in my living situation, and how I was temporarily living in a house in Baltimore with two cisgendered women who were professional opera singers. And how they both accepted me as a woman.
“Twofer!” Eileen exclaimed. “You get fabulous roommates and you get to learn about one of the truly great art forms!”
I laughed, delighted. “You know opera?”
“I enjoy it. Your roommates know it. Big difference.”
I nodded. “I’ve been incredibly fortunate, but it’s really just a short-term solution. The commute is a real bear. And, I don’t know how they would feel about my being there full-time.”
We talked some more, then she said, “Well, I suppose I should put my supervisor hat back on and ask you what’s next. How do you want to go about changing your status here, and when, and what are the next steps in your transition?”
I took a deep breath. “You know, I’ve just been pushing off thinking about the nuts and bolts of this until after the trial. I want to begin hormone therapy. That will take some time to produce physical results – probably a few months before any noticeable changes occur, and the changes can take as much as two years to finish.
“I gather at the outset I might have to deal with mood swings triggered by hormones, just like a girl going through puberty – which is one of the reasons I thought I’d better wait until the trial was done. I think I can handle it. I certainly hope I can, but . . . I wasn’t so confident that I wanted to risk having a breakdown in the courtroom!”
She laughed lightly and said, “Yeah, that would have been suboptimal for sure. It’s been a while, but I do remember puberty – my own, and, much worse, my daughter’s!”
I laughed. “Yeah, not looking forward to that. But I do, at least, have resources and experience a fourteen-year-old lacks.”
Returning to the immediate issue, I said, “The treatment should allow me to present a more natural feminine appearance. But I don’t think there’s any need to delay changing over until that process is complete. I’ve worked hard at this, and as I said a fair bit seems to come naturally.
“I’m pretty confident in my ability to present convincingly as a woman here at work with the assistance of some padding. So I can start right away. I’m just not sure whether that’s the best way to go about it. I was hoping you might be able to advise me on that.”
“Hmmm,” she said. “Probably doesn’t make sense for you to go home today as you are and then just show up on Monday as a woman, no matter how convincing you are.”
She clicked a nail against her teeth, thinking. “I tell you what. Let me talk to my colleagues on the management committee. What they’re probably going to want to do is send out a firm-wide notice similar to the one we send out when new employees arrive. Though it might feel like putting an unwelcome spotlight on your situation, it would also spare you a lot of individual conversations. And, it would underscore the fact that the management committee is in your corner. Do you think that would work?”
I thought about it, thought some more, then nodded emphatically. “Yes, I think that would be best. Hopefully it’s no more than a one-day story.”
“Okay,” she said. “It may take a bit more time to get that taken care of. We’ve got a meeting scheduled for Tuesday anyway; I was going to have to miss it because of the trial, but now – Joy! – I can be there.”
From her expression, management meetings rated somewhere between orthodonture and amputation.
“Once I get their blessing on the strategy, I’ll draft some text and run it by you. In the meantime, why don’t you take next week off and get yourself sorted out. Just for example,” she said with a warm smile, “you might have to get yourself a work-appropriate wardrobe. I can probably arrange for the memo to go out by Thursday of next week.”
“But . . . we’ve got work to do next week. I don’t want to leave you short-staffed!”
She gave me a kind look. “Keeping a trial team functioning well as a team requires a lot of work and forbearance from every team member. You obviously understand that, but you’ve gone above and beyond your duty. It shouldn’t require completely suppressing your identity, which you’ve done for months. We can spare you for a week.
“Question is, do you want me to tell the team what’s going on when I meet with them on Monday? Would you rather tell them yourself? Or, have them find out when the rest of the firm does?”
“If you could tell them, that would be great. These conversations . . . really aren’t easy. You’ve been wonderful, but I’m always worried about how people will react.”
“I’ll be happy to,” she said.
We had to talk, of course, about the tail that so often seems to wag this particular dog.
“You are welcome to use the women’s restrooms throughout the office,” Eileen said. “Understand, that may make some people uncomfortable. Alternatively, it might make you uncomfortable. I don’t know, and mercifully I don’t have to care. We provide unisex restrooms on the sixth and eighth floors for people who, for whatever reason, are uncomfortable with the gender-differentiated common restrooms. Whether you use those instead of the women’s rooms is entirely your decision.”
As we were winding down our discussion, I said, “There’s one more thing I guess I’d better tell you. I promised I’d let you know if anything that was going on would adversely affect my work . . . . I have been dealing with PTSD since an incident at Christmas. I didn’t say anything because it had only affected me at night. But I had an incident in the office two days ago. Gave Daviana quite a scare. I am getting treatment, and Dr. Chun is confident it will get better. But I thought you’d better know.”
Eileen said, more formally, “Thank you for telling me. Communication on issues like this is important, so we can provide a supportive environment and make accommodations where necessary. Was there anything here you’re aware of that triggered the episode?”
I shook my head emphatically. “No; it was something else. That containment area they’ve established in New Rochelle – my brother Iain lives and works there. I talked to him; he’s not leaving. And I was just overwhelmed by fear. For Iain, for my sister – for the whole world. It’s not rational, but it suddenly just scared the bejesus out of me.”
“Or else you’re rational, and the rest of us are just whistling past the graveyard. You’re seriously worried about this virus, aren’t you?”
“I don’t know why, but it really scares me. Not so much for myself. But I feel like it’s coming on like some sort of tsunami wave, and we’re all frolicking on the beach building our sandcastles . . . . Anytime I start going down that rabbit hole, though, I ask myself what I should be doing differently – what all of us should be doing differently – and I keep coming up empty. So I just get on with life.”
Eileen nodded. “Yeah, that’s where I keep coming out too, though I don’t think I’ve had your visceral reaction to the news that’s been coming out. I also don’t have anyone in a hotspot, though obviously that can change.”
She paused a moment, shook her head, then returned to the earlier issue. “Anyhow, on the subject of your PTSD, you’re doing what you can for treatment and you’re normally fine. If there’s anything we can do, let me know. Keep me posted, but otherwise, just take care of yourself, okay?”
I agreed.
That seemed to cover everything, so I said, “Eileen, thank you so much. For everything. I’ll make it work, really I will. And I think I’ll be more of an asset here than I have been, trying to be male.”
She smiled. “You were doing just fine, and I don’t doubt you’ll continue to do fine. I’m looking forward to working with this woman you’ve been hiding from us. But . . . what should we call you? Will you use the same name?”
“You know, I should have an answer for that, and I’m sorry to say I don’t. Cameron can be a woman’s name as well as a man’s, but I’d like to make a break, somehow. On the other hand, the name I use with my friends doesn’t really work in a professional environment.”
Eileen stood up and started moving to the door, and I did as well.
“Well, give it some thought and let me know,” she said, “so we can put it in the memo that goes out to the firm. In the meantime, when we’re behind closed doors, not speaking as partner and associate, may I use your friend name?”
“I would really like that,” I said, fighting the prickling of tears. “Please, call me Cami.”
She smiled and held out her hand. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Cami.”
We shook hands, formally, both smiling, then she was gone.
Washington, D.C., March 12, immediately following
I went back to my office in something of a daze. I had taken the plunge! That thought dominated my mind. But at the same time, there were plenty more worries behind it. Until just a couple hours ago, I was one hundred percent prepared to be in a trial next week; now, I would be on vacation.
And then what? What work would I be doing when I got back? There’s always plenty of legal work to be done, but I wasn’t just a lawyer, I was a litigator. If we had the British legal system, I would be considered to be training to be a barrister, not a solicitor. What happens if all the courts close down?
But, as with everything COVID-related, there wasn’t anything I could do about that right now. I sat at my desk, closed my laptop, and put it in my bag, then took a moment to look around, realizing that this would be the last time I would sit here in a suit and tie. When I returned, I would look completely different. I would be, finally, myself.
A very Cami-like smile lifted my lips, and I left with a spring in my step.
As I walked up the street towards Opera House, I heard the sound of Nicole giving a voice lesson in the front room. So as not to disturb her, I went around to the back, came in through the kitchen and headed for the staircase.
Nicole paused her lesson long enough to stick her head into the hallway to make sure it was me. She gave me an inquisitive look and I mouthed, “Later,” then she went back to her lesson.
In my room, I removed my suit jacket and hung it, untied my necktie and put it on the rack. Unbuttoned my dress shirt, dropping it into the bag I was using as a clothes hamper. I sat on the couch and removed my wingtip oxfords, then the regulation black dress socks. Finally, the heavy wool pants joined the jacket on the hanger.
I unpeeled myself from Sarah’s present – a stretchy, nylon-spandex undergarment that looked like a man’s t-shirt and brief, but felt and operated much like a leotard. It had served its purpose. I thought, I’m finally done with half-way measures.
Finished.
I put on my dark green dressing gown, grabbed some critical supplies and went into the bathroom. After taking the time to Nair everywhere, I stepped into the shower, cranked up the heat, and in my imagination washed my male persona straight down the drain.
Finished, I thought again.
I carefully shampooed, using something fragrant, then worked conditioner into my hair. I waited five minutes, then rinsed it all away, too.
Finished.
I patted myself dry, put in some mousse and curlers, then attached my breast forms. Once they were set, I put my robe back on, poured myself a tall glass of water and went back to my bedroom. Next, I attached extensions to each of my nails, let them dry and smoothed them out with an emery board. I selected a deep red nail polish and lovingly, carefully applied it to each finger nail. Then I did the same with each of my toenails.
Suddenly hit with the memory of another singular moment of transformation, I sat on the couch and pulled Stravinsky’s Firebird from my phone’s playlist. Cradled in the palms of my hands, I held a small, brown plastic tube-like container with a bright white lid. It had been a talisman, a promise for the future. But the future had arrived much sooner than I had expected.
I was still sitting there when Nicole knocked softly and poked her head in. She took one look at me, came in, and sat on the other end of the couch. “Okay, girlfriend. It’s Thursday; it’s not even 5:00, and you’re not only here, you’re rounding third base and sliding headfirst into gorgeous. What happened? Did you lose your job?”
She sounded concerned, so I smiled reassuringly. “No. It’s all good. Well. Mostly good. I’m still employed. But our trial’s been put off because of COVID; we don’t know how long. Eileen thinks three months minimum.”
“Oh, God! What will you do?”
“For work? I don’t know. Lawyers can usually find trouble to get into. COVID’s a disaster, and disasters breed lawsuits like prize bitch spaniels breed puppies. But I doubt I’ll see the inside of a courtroom anytime soon. So, I decided.”
“Decided what?”
I opened my hands and showed her the bottle.
Her eyes grew wide as saucers. “Really? Now?”
“Now . . . and forever. No more hiding.”
She leaned back, a look of wonder still on her face. “I know you, Cami. No way you’re doing this on the sly. You told your boss.”
I smiled. “Yes. You do, and I did. Eileen and I had a great conversation. She’s going to let the firm know next week. I am on vacation until a week from Monday, so I can get things sorted out.”
Nicole’s smile was big enough to split her face. She bounced to my side of the couch and enveloped me in a huge hug. “Oh my God!!! That is SO wonderful! I am so happy for you! We have to tell Maggie! And we need to celebrate! Damn, I wish we were in New York!”
Nicole, enthusiastic, was practically a force of nature, but her mention of New York brought reality roaring back into my own mind. There was a pandemic out there, and it was growing. Spreading. And among the places where it was spreading fast was New Rochelle, a suburb of New York City.
I squeezed my wonderful roommate, then pulled back and held her at arm’s length.
“Nicole, honey, it’s good that we aren’t in New York tonight. I wish none of our family members were there either. So far, Maryland hasn’t seen much COVID, and I don’t think Baltimore has seen any. I’m sure it’ll come soon. But in New York . . . in New York, it’s now.”
She gave me a long, thoughtful look and, just like Eileen, asked, “This is really worrying you, isn’t it?”
I thought about my day terror in the conference room two days ago, and nodded. “Yes. I’m worried. No, that’s too tame. I’m scared. Terrified. For all of us. And I know I’m probably being silly.”
“Me too. They announced today that they’re starting to close schools and churches in Maryland and DC. Had you heard?"
I nodded.
She continued, distress growing in her voice, "Now you tell me they’re closing courts. I’m living in constant fear of a call that tells me they’re closing opera houses and concert halls, even though I know . . . . I mean, they almost have to, don’t they? I don’t know what I’ll do, what Maggie will do, if that happens. When that happens. And my parents are in New York City, right now. That’s their home. I feel like the world is just about to come crashing down on top of all of us."
She paused, took a breath, and very visibly slowed herself down. "But right now – right now, tonight, the world is still standing, and my very dear new friend has something amazing to celebrate. Please, Cami? Let’s steal a moment from whatever is coming, and do something fun, while we still can?”
I absolutely can’t resist Nicole, especially when she’s right. I smiled bravely at her. “‘Take me out of this dull world, for I would ride with you upon the wind and dance upon the mountains like a flame!’”
Her own smile returned, strong and bright. “That’s the spirit!”
“Welllll,” I said, drawing out the single syllable. “I think I might have something that will do the trick. It’s not Vissi d’Arte in Rockefeller Center at midnight, but Eileen did mention the importance of my acquiring a ‘suitable wardrobe for work.’ And I’ve never, ever, been shopping with a girlfriend before. Will you take me?”
She beamed. “Yes!!! But, two conditions. First, we find someplace nice to eat. And second, you have to promise that we won’t spend the whole time looking at work clothes. Lawyers dress funny!”
“Done!” I said, laughing.
She sprang off the couch to get ready, but I stopped her. “Nicole, before you go . . . .”
She looked back at me. “Yesssss?”
“My nails are still sticky, and I can’t get one of these pills out. Could you help?”
Her face softened; she came over and sat right beside me on the couch, took the bottle from my hands, pushed and twisted the top, and removed a single, precious pill. She closed the container and set it down, then put her left arm around my neck, brought her right hand to my lips, and said, “Open up, princess.”
When I complied, she set the pill right on my tongue, reached over, and picked up my water glass. “Now this,” she said, and handed it to me.
I drank the pill down, and deep inside, finally, a powerful dose of estrogen began to flow into my body. “Thank you,” I said, my voice sounding soft and warm.
“I’m glad I could share the moment with you,” she replied. Amazingly, she leaned in and kissed me lightly on the lips. “Now, get yourself ready!” She flowed off the couch and was out the door.
As soon as my nails were dry, I went back to the bathroom, took off my turban, removed my curlers and started blowing out my hair. I got it dry and headed back to my room, but Nicole stopped me in the hallway.
“Let me do your hair — I’ve been itching to try something.”
Intrigued, I readily agreed and we went back to her room (she has a suitable chair!). She first began to brush it out, using long rhythmic strokes as she hummed something under her breath. She took her time about it, too, brushing from both above and below, so I just closed my eyes and enjoyed the sensation.
When she was done brushing, she created loose, twisted braids on both sides of my head, brought them around to the back, and rolled them together into a complicated, loose over-under knot that she held in place with a long hairpin. She pulled a few curled tendrils to dangle down past my left ear and down almost to my shoulder. The end result created the appearance of a lot of movement and volume around my face.
She turned my head this way and that, pulled out a few more tendrils, then pronounced herself satisfied. I was admonished to go find something nice to wear to dinner, but not so nice that we couldn’t go shopping.
I settled on a short, tight black skirt and a flowing royal blue top with a wide, relatively shallow u-shaped neckline that did a nice job showcasing Nicole’s hairstyling efforts. Drop earrings, Liz’s watch, sheer black nylons and black pumps with a three-inch kitten heel added to the look. I wore a black bra and my new black camisole, and the cut of the neckline on my top allowed the straps to occasionally peak through, left or right. It was a bit flirty, but then again, I was celebrating!
I put on some evening makeup, enough to really bring out my blue eyes, and carefully painted my lips with a deep red gloss that matched my nails. Finally satisfied, I went to find Nicole.
She was still in her bedroom, almost ready, wearing a creamy silk sleeveless blouse over a classic white camisole, all tucked into a full, asymmetrical skirt in an almost tweedy sage-green. Her long, curly hair was loosely braided and piled on top of her head. She looked even more stunning than usual.
“Could you give me a hand with this?” She showed me a thin gold necklace. “I’m all thumbs this evening.”
I managed it, despite the complication of my nail extensions, and we went off to the mall.
Shopping with Nicole was completely different, and a thousand times more fun, than shopping by myself. She would give me useful feedback like “Yuck!” and “Absolutely!” Finding things I never would have considered, she would insist that I try them, and blow me away. She even came with me into the dressing room and help me with all of the unusual ways designers devise to fasten womens’ garments.
Sometimes I would talk her into trying something on and seeing how well my own eye was developing. She liked a lot of my suggestions, but said she wasn’t buying anything today. “Just window shopping – and I love window shopping,” she said with real enthusiasm.
But I decided that, regardless of all the fun things we were trying on, I would only actually buy work clothes today. Nicole was equally helpful there, despite her earlier finger-wagging.
“The key,” she told me, “is to get some really good foundational pieces, then add things so that you can mix and match.” Three conservative skirts (black, red, gray), a couple of well-made jackets, and several tops, including a couple of white or off-white shells. A couple pretty scarves to change things up. “And that will really do for you to start,” she said. We did add a dove-gray sleeveless dress that I could wear with the jackets, but that, she said, was gravy.
We brought the purchases out to the car, then it was time to get some food. Nicole drove to a seafood restaurant that she liked and we had a very nice dinner by a lovely wood fire. It was only 9:00 when we finished – my strange circumstances had allowed us to make a very early start – but Nicole stopped on the way home and we picked up a bottle of champagne.
“What are you two beauties celebrating?” asked the old guy behind the register.
I said, “Trust me, you really don’t want to know!”
Back at Opera House, we grabbed some glasses, went into the front room and popped the champagne.
“To Cami,” said Nicole, “long may she blossom!”
I raised my glass. “Soon may she blossom!” – which, as intended, got a laugh.
Nicole sat in a large chair, folded her legs and tucked her stocking-clad feet. “Cami, we’ve talked a lot since we first met, but I feel like there’s so much I just don’t know. You’ve been on this amazing journey, and it’s like I’m getting on the train late. Tell me your story!”
This was not the sort of conversation I could ever imagine Cameron Savin having with a male friend. I also wasn’t sure how to answer her. But I started somehow, and soon we were exchanging stories. Our families. Friends we had known. Moments that had been important to us. The difficulties we had been through. Our loves.
As wonderful as our first conversation had been, this one was far deeper, far more intimate. It was, simply, amazing. I had never experienced an evening like it; not even with Liz. Liz had been meaningfully older, far more experienced, and always very much in charge. Nicole was my contemporary.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 13
It was 1:00 a.m., the champagne was long gone, and Nicole gave me a wide, sleepy smile. “Welcome to one of the best parts of being a woman.”
“If guys find out it’s like this, they’ll be lining up to get snipped!”
We made our way up the stairs, removed our makeup, and did our nighttime rituals.
Nicole caught me again on the way back from the bathroom. “You’re not going to want that hairpin in your hair while you are sleeping.” Her deft fingers released my hair to flow down my back.
I went back to my room, took off my outfit, and got into my short blue nightie and my green dressing gown. Then I padded into the hallway and went into Maggie’s room, which I was currently using to sleep.
I had just pulled the covers back when I heard Nicole’s voice behind me. “Cami,” she said, very softly, “will you stay with me tonight? Please? I’m scared . . . scared about what tomorrow will bring. I don’t want to be alone.”
She was standing in the doorway, dressed again in the cream-colored négligée that hugged her flawless curves. My heart began to pound in my chest; I was surprised she did not hear it. I walked over to her and brought my hands up, resting them lightly on her torso, thumbs on her ribs, fingers curling around her back.
“Nicole,” I said, my voice suddenly husky, “I’m a woman, and I’m attracted to men, but honestly, I don’t think I can keep my hands off you if I sleep in your bed tonight.”
“I'm a woman,” she replied. “And I’m attracted to men. But tonight, I just want to love, and be loved, by someone I care about deeply. Someone I can hold on to. Gender isn’t very important right now. I have been with other women before. Is that so wrong?”
A million thoughts raced through my head. Reasons why this might be a very bad idea. I knew that I wanted to be with a man, as a heterosexual woman. But, my attraction to Nicole was real, immediate, and undeniable. My love for her was real, too. I knew that, like Liz, she was also heterosexual. And it had been hard — so very hard! — to make the break from Liz in similar circumstances. Unlike Liz, Nicole did not live a long distance away.
Because of the love between us, it was not wrong in my book. It was no sleazy one-night stand; nothing like what Liz’s friend Tim had offered back in January. It wasn’t wrong.
But it might be unwise.
None of that mattered. I would no more deny Nicole in her moment of need than I would cut off my right hand. I moved that hand up to cup the smooth curve of her cheek. “No. It’s not wrong.”
She stepped forward, folded her perfect arms around my neck, and kissed me with her soft, sweet lips. I was lost in her embrace, and found my hands moving across her back, feeling her frame, taught and powerful, under the silk of her négligée.
She broke off our kiss and leaned her forehead into mine. “So, that’s a yes?”
“I withdraw my objection,” I murmured.
“Come,” she invited, and led me back to her room. Once there, she ran her fingers down the front of my green dressing gown and undid the sash. Then she ran her fingers back up my sides, hooked her thumbs into the lapels of my gown at the shoulders and deftly slid it off. She turned and hung it behind her door.
While she was facing away, I stepped behind her, and pulled the pins – there were several – that held her hair in place, allowing the enormous mass to cascade down her back, like a lake suddenly released from a dam. I ran my fingers through it, marveling at its silkiness, its sweet perfume.
She turned to face me, took my hand, and led me to her bed.
We were under her sheets, this time facing each other. I ran a finger over her cheek, across the fine line of her jaw, down her slender neck. “You are so incredible,” I breathed.
She smiled. “So kiss me, you fool!”
I did. But even as our lips reconnected, my hands began to explore her magnificent body, fondling her full breasts, caressing her slender arms, the gentle swell of her belly, her firm thighs. My fingers curled around her round backside and squeezed gently.
She was breathing heavily, as excited now as I was myself.
I lifted one of her lingerie straps and slid it down her arm, freeing her left breast. Her skin was so soft . . . so smooth! I broke off our kiss and dropped my lips to the hollow at the base of her throat, then to her chest, before planting a series of soft kisses across the breast I had exposed.
One of her hands was tangled in my curls; the other was pressing the thin fabric of my nightie against the small of my back. Her exposed nipple was hard and dark; as I took it in my mouth she cried out and began to whimper.
My hand slipped under her négligée, caressed her thigh and rested lightly on her bush. I began to massage her pelvis as my tongue lashed her nipple.
She groaned, and I groaned with her.
I could no longer stop myself; I brought my head down, down, and kissed the engorged lips of her vulva.
Her excitement was intoxicating, electrifying. My tongue found her passage.
She gave a great cry, and another. Her breath was coming fast, she was whimpering, moaning, quivering.
I continued, giving her no rest, taking her juices, lovingly worshiping her perfection as it deserved.
She climaxed several times, bucking and crying out with pleasure. With a final, great shudder, she finally subsided.
I raised myself back to the top of the bed, slipped my arm under her, then rolled her body, unresisting, until her head lay on my shoulder and her long silky curls spilled across me.
She was utterly, completely spent.
I kissed the top of her head. “Sleep, angel. No dreams tonight.”
But I dreamt. I was on the pier over the ocean, but I was no longer running. I had reached the end. Wind whipped my long, black hair and tore at the planking and supports that held me above the waves. Rain lashed my body in sheets, soaking my lime-green one-piece swimsuit, making it cling to the curves that, in my dream, were all real, all mine. The water below me was inky black, turbid and impenetrable.
But my face was calm, peaceful. My legs were together, my feet side-by-side, lacquered toenails curled over the last plank of the pier. I looked straight out and raised my white arms to shoulder height. Then I bent my knees, pushed off strongly, and dove into space.
An instant later, the pier collapsed behind me and vanished.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 13, morning
If my alarm went off, somewhere, I didn’t notice it. My body’s internal alarm likewise took the night off, or at least the morning. When I awoke, the sun was already shining, and The Most Beautiful Woman I Had Ever Personally Met was gazing up at me from where her head rested on my shoulder, looking thoughtful.
“Good morning,” I said to her with a smile. “You look like someone who is thinking deep thoughts before breakfast. Which is just wrong. So you know.”
She smiled back at me. “I was actually trying to decide the best way to return the favor from last night. I might as well have been a man — one of the more thoughtless ones — for all the effort I took to give you pleasure.” Her lingerie strap had found its way back onto her shoulder, and she had one hand lying lightly on my nightie just over my stomach.
I covered it with my own left hand. “I have never been more satisfied.”
She looked unconvinced.
I raised my free hand to stroke her hair, her cheek, her bare shoulder. “Nicole, there’s nothing here you would want to see or experience. I can’t even pretend to be a man anymore, and as a woman, I’m mostly silicone. My breasts are fake, my hips, ass, and pelvis are padded. I wouldn’t want you, of all people, to see the kind of freak I am right now. I don’t want you to think of me that way.”
She gazed at me calmly. “Here’s a lesson in being a woman, Cami. It’s not all about appearances. It matters, sure. Especially in the beginning. And at the margins. But other things are more important. Like the fact that you are a truly wonderful person. And last night, when I was honestly desperate to be loved, to be comforted, you were there for me. You kept the darkness away, for a little while.”
She turned her head to plant a gentle kiss on my chest. “I know that your body isn't what you want it to be. What it will be someday. But it’s your body, and you are important to me. So I would like you to forget what you look like. Close your eyes if it helps, and imagine you are a beautiful woman. Because that’s what I see when I look at you. And that’s the woman I want to make love to. Right now.”
She rolled and straddled me, her négligée riding up on her hips. In a single, graceful motion she drew it over her head and dropped it on the pillow.
I couldn’t close my eyes, because I didn’t want to stop looking at her. Her hair surrounded her body like a cloak, tendrils caressing her breasts.
She began rocking back and forth, while her hands petted me, caressed my arms, my face, my torso. She bent down and kissed me, hard. Then she folded her legs together, slid her body down my own, and used both hands to remove my panty gaff entirely, exposing my inadequate, but very excited, male member.
I looked away, ashamed.
“Cami. . . . Cami. Look at me.”
Unwillingly, I brought my head around and saw her, crouched between my legs, surrounded by a nimbus of light brown curls.
“There is nothing you need to be embarrassed about. Nothing that shocks me. I am not disgusted. You are beautiful. Now close your eyes, girl, and let me prove it.”
Naked and vulnerable, I was now happy to comply. I lay on my back, arms at my sides, passive, as Nicole stoked the tender skin inside my thighs, stroked my stomach, and began to kiss me, intimately.
I was rock hard.
She gave my shaft the lightest touch and I gasped. She continued, and now I was the one who was whimpering and crying as my excitement mounted, mounted, and began to crest. Suddenly, her lips parted and she took it all in her mouth. Her tongue folded around me and I felt myself go, hot and hard.
In a moment, she had reversed our position from the previous night. My head was on her shoulder, my mouth inches from her breast. My dark hair spilled across her body, and she stroked me with her free hand as I wept cleansing, healing tears.
“It’s okay, Cami,” she crooned. “It’s okay. You don’t have to be a superwoman every minute. I’ve got you.”
I don't know how long that moment lasted, but eventually my tears did stop flowing. I blinked them away, in the process delivering a few angel kisses to Nicole’s upper chest. I brushed my lips against her lovely breast and levered myself onto my elbow so I could look at her. There was nothing in her face but tenderness and compassion.
“I hate to be the one to say this,” I said, “but I really need to pee.”
She groaned. “You had to say it!”
“Race you!” I said, leaping from the bed.
She followed me, naked, beautiful, and cursing a blue steak, but I got there first, sat down primly, arranged my nightie, and asked, “Have you ever been to Niagara Falls?”
She gaped, stopped cursing, then started to hop up and down. “Christ! Don’t take all day, or I’ll go on the floor and you'll have to clean it up!”
I laughed, but I finished quickly and abdicated the throne.
She closed her eyes and slumped, relieved.
I retreated to her room while she finished her business and stripped the bed, bundled the sheets and pillow cases, and put the covers back in place.
Nicole poked her head in. “I get dibs on the first shower!”
I smiled, blew her a kiss, and made a motion of dismissal with my hands.
She disappeared down the hall.
I brought the sheets, our nighties, and our dressing gowns down to the laundry, pausing at my room to snag my flannel nightgown. The sheets were dark, so I set the washer on a cold rinse setting, put everything in, and started it. Returning to the main floor, I made Nicole some green tea, and myself some coffee.
As the last of the hot water was flowing through my drip cone, Nicole came in, her hair turbaned, wearing her own flannels. She saw the tea, smiled, and took it to the table.
I joined her a moment later. “So . . . I guess we need to talk.”
She nodded, but looked – mercifully – unconcerned. “I’ll let you win this race,” she said, smiling. “So you can start.”
I took a sip of coffee, then set it down. “Where to start? I didn’t mean for that to happen last night, and I can think of a lot of reasons why it was a bad idea. But . . . I love you, so it was wonderful.”
I was silent for a bit. Then I said, “Your turn.”
She looked at me over the rim of her coffee mug. “I love you too, Cami. And it was wonderful, and I don’t have any regrets at all. None. So, now that we’ve taken care of the easy part, we can talk about the harder parts.” She smiled again. “Your turn.”
“Last night, we both said we were attracted to men. I know I don’t have any actual experience that way. Maybe I never will. But you do, and . . . and I’d like to. So, there’s that.”
She put down her mug and covered my hands with her own. “I think what you’re saying is that we can’t have ‘always.’ There’s something else that we both want, something different. I know that. We needed each other last night, and we were able to be there for each other. That’s enough for me. It could happen again. It might not.”
She paused and looked at me carefully. “But I need to know if that makes you uncomfortable. Or unhappy.”
I shook my head and smiled, clear and untroubled. “No. Not at all. I don’t have casual relationships, but this wasn’t – isn’t – casual. Love makes all the difference. I’m relieved that my physical attraction to you isn’t a problem. I was worried about it. A lot, really, the last time we shared a bed.”
“I’m probably more strongly heterosexual than you are,” she said, “but like I told you last night, I have been with other women, in somewhat similar circumstances. And enjoyed it. . . . Maggie included.”
I thought about that for a minute while we sipped our drinks. “Nicole, I’m a guest here. And I care about you both. I don’t want to do anything that hurts either of you.”
She stopped me and squeezed my hand. “It's not like that. Mags is hetero too. But we’ve shared a lot of ups and downs, heartaches and heartbreaks. There have been nights when we’ve been there for each other, just like you and I were there for each other last night. Then we get up again the next morning, and keep our eyes out for a good catch. Maggie wouldn’t have any issue with what happened last night.”
I couldn’t help but ask, “You’re sure?”
“Positive.” Then she grinned. “But, feel free to ask her about it!”
I stuck out my tongue at her.
“What do you have going on today,” I asked.
“Pretty much a normal day,” she responded. “I’ve got a lesson with the Dottoressa at 11:30, and I’ve got two students coming in for a joint lesson at 2:00. But other than that, it's just vocal workouts and studying parts. How about you?”
I said, “Since I actually planned to be working all day today, I don’t have anything else on my schedule. I think I’ll get in a proper workout – with you, for my voice, and on my own, for the rest of me. Then I might do some wandering. It’s going to be in the 70s today, if you can believe it. I might just go for a walk in a park. Wouldn’t that be wild!”
She laughed. “I’ll need the car when I go to see The Dottoressa, but otherwise feel free to use it.”
We ate some fruit and yogurt for breakfast, then Nicole went upstairs to make herself (even more) beautiful. I was surprisingly serene about the events of the prior night. It had been wonderful, and I treasured every moment. But, I did not feel any anxiety, any need to lay a claim on Nicole.
I washed, dried, and put away the dishes, poured myself a big glass of water, then went and rotated the laundry. Nicole came down around 10:00 and we did our vocal exercises in the front room. I changed into exercise clothes, went into the basement and started my exercise routine, late but very welcome.
By the time I came back upstairs, Nicole was off at her voice lesson. I took a leisurely shower and got dressed in a new pair of stretchy jeans, a sleeveless T-shirt, and a fleece. I added a pair of sneakers and put my hair into its usual loose side braid.
It suddenly occurred to me that Al could cut it properly now, since I didn’t need to preserve the option of a “male look.” I thought about calling the salon, since it was a work day, but it occurred to me that Tina might well be hanging out there during the day. So I shot him a text instead. I gave Sarah a call and filled her in on my good news.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 13, later that day
Around 1:00 I went down to the basement, opened my laptop and checked my emails. Unsurprisingly, under the circumstances, there was nothing particularly pressing. I went to my usual online news sources to see what was going on in the world. And saw a news flash that, following the President’s declaration of a state of emergency, the Metropolitan Opera of New York had canceled its entire season.
Just then, I heard someone come in the front door. I ran upstairs and saw Nicole, looking happy, as she often did coming back from her lessons. She saw my face, blanched, and walked slowly in my direction.
I met her half way and folded her in my arms. “Nicole, honey, the Met’s just canceled the rest of their season.”
She stiffened, brought up her arms and held me wordlessly.
I said, “Maybe . . . maybe it’s just New York. Because, you know . . . .”
I felt her head nod, but she said nothing.
Her cell phone rang. She squeezed me hard, then let go and fished it out of her back pocket. She swallowed, but then she straightened up, swiped, and accepted the call. “Nicole Fontaine. Yes. Good afternoon, director. . . . Yes, I just heard. . . . I see. The whole cycle? . . . . No, I understand. Thank you for the call.”
She ended the call and looked blankly at her phone.
“Chicago?” I said.
She nodded. “Not just Götterdämmerung. They were doing the entire ring cycle. It’s all canceled. Every performance.”
“Oh, Nicole!” My heart was breaking for her.
She shook her head, looking a bit dazed. She swayed a bit on her feet and her arm came up, haphazardly, looking for a wall.
I jumped in, put a steadying arm around her, led her into the living room and eased her back into the chair where she had sat, just last night, during our wonderful talk-a-thon.
“Stay here!” I dashed into the kitchen and grabbed a glass of cold water.
Her hands looked shaky, so I helped guide the water to her lips and she drank. Her eyes started to come back into focus, and she waved the water away.
“Thanks,” she said, carefully.
Her phone rang again. She closed her eyes, pain etched every line of her face. “Dear God, that’ll be Mags.”
She took a steading breath, looked at her phone, and answered it. “Hi sweetie.”
I could hear the sounds of distress coming from the speaker.
“The rest of this show? What about the others? . . . . Yeah, I guess there’s hope. But not much, huh? . . . . Yeah, Chicago too. Seems like everyone was waiting for the Met to pull the trigger. . . .”
There’s was a long pause on Nicole’s side, while I could hear Maggie talking rapidly. Then Nicole said, “Of course. What time? . . . Not a problem. Text me the flight info? . . . Okay. . . . Yes. . . .Yes. . . . No, she’s here. Her trial was canceled too. . . . I know, right? ‘The end of the world as we know it.’ . . . . I’ll do that. . . . I love you too. See you at 6:30. Bye.”
She closed her eyes and sat still as a stone. I ached for her, but had no idea what I could do that would make a difference.
Finally she stirred and, without opening her eyes, said, “She told me to give you a hug and a squeeze for her. She’s sorry about your trial.” She sounded tired, broken, and flat. Not like Nicole at all.
I found myself kneeling at her side. I took her hands in mine and bent over them, feeling the splash of my tears. “Oh, Sweetheart,” I choked. “I don’t even know what to say!”
Her eyes opened and a ghost of her smile returned. “Thank you for last night, Cami. I’m so glad we had that moment.”
“Don’t give up, Nicole!”
She whispered, “Remember what you sang to me, in New York? ‘How can I keep from singing?’ How can I, Cami? How?”
“You can’t,” I said. “And you won’t. I don’t know how, but you won’t.” I squeezed her hands and took a deep breath. “I promise you, Nicole. We’re going to get through this somehow. You, me, Maggie. We’re going to make this work. We will find a way.”
She looked at me for a long, long moment. “Superwoman’s back, huh?”
“Damned right, she is.”
“Okay, Cami. I’ve got nothing in the tank right now. But I’ll hang in there. We’ll come up with something.” She still sounded lifeless, but at least she was willing to listen.
Desperate for some further inspiration, I thought to myself, what would Eileen do? And the answer came to me.
I gave her hands a last squeeze, released them and stood over her. “Good.” I kept my voice warm, but for the first time I allowed steel to show through. “Here’s the first thing that’s going to happen. You’re going to go upstairs and take a cool washcloth to your eyelids. Then you’re going to sit down and have a mug of tea to open your throat again. Because you’ve got two students coming in half an hour. Their world is probably about to come crashing down, too, if it hasn’t already. They will need you to be Dottoressa Fontaine for them, even if it’s the last time. Can you do it?”
Her eyes had gotten wide at the change in me.
I hoped it would work; what I had done was the verbal equivalent of pouring ice water down her shirt. But I had guessed right.
At the mention of her students, she sat bolt upright. “Sadie and Terry!!! Oh my God!!” She jumped up and ran upstairs.
I sagged with relief, then went into the kitchen to make her tea.
I was very worried that Nicole’s students would also cancel, but they bounced up the stairs promptly at 2:00.
Nicole was ready for them. Whatever agony she was feeling inside, she was able to suppress it when some of “her girls” needed her.
While she was teaching, I took the opportunity to make a run to the grocery store and get something for dinner and tomorrow’s breakfast and lunch. I was thinking hard and making plans. I was just finishing putting away the groceries when I heard Nicole seeing Sadie and Terry out.
A few moments later she came in and leaned against the doorframe. “Thanks for the dope slap. I needed it. I’m going to go upstairs for a bit. I’ve got to call Mom and Dad. And a few other people, too. Then I might take a bath. Can you hold the fort?”
“Against all comers,” I said. “Go on now.”
She blew me a kiss and went upstairs.
I followed a few minutes later with cleaning supplies and fresh sheets. Nicole was talking in her bedroom so I closed the door to Maggie’s room to avoid disturbing her. I stripped down the bed and put on the fresh sheets, cleaned every surface and dust-mopped the floor. Everything looked as neat as Maggie always left it.
While I had everything handy, I cleaned our common bathroom as well, then tidied my own room. The dirty sheets went downstairs to the wash, and I pulled the earlier load from the drier. I folded Nicole’s sheets and our sexy sleepwear, and brought it all back upstairs.
I didn’t hear any talking from Nicole’s room, so I shot her a text asking if she wanted me to draw her a bath. She sent back a thumb’s up and a heart emoji, so I followed through. When it was finished, I went back to my room.
While Nicole was having her bath, I made up her bed, laid out her négligée, closed the door softly and went back downstairs. We needed ideas, so I opened my laptop, checked my mail, then started doing some furious research.
Around 5:00, I got a text back from Al. “Cami! I can finally cut your hair properly? Yay! I’ve had a ton of cancellations :-( so I can fit you in tomorrow at 1 if that works.”
Al and Javi’s business, like Nicole and Maggie’s, was under direct threat. I sent back a cheerful “I’ll be there,” and prayed they would be alright.
Nicole came down around 5:30. “Groceries, fresh sheets, clean rooms, a bath . . . I’m getting some kind of spoiled! But honestly, Cami. You don’t have to do all of this.”
I had some tea ready, so I put a mug down for each of us and sat down at the table.
As she sat to join me, I said, “I know that. But you and Maggie just had your stuffings kicked out, and a little pampering can’t hurt. Besides, between work and travel I haven’t been able to do much here to earn my keep.”
She clinked her cup to mine, sipped, and said, “My brain still seems slow. What’s the plan?”
I looked at her carefully as she sat across from me. She appeared to be fine. Not her usual self, obviously, but fine. Still . . . “Are you okay to drive?”
She took the question seriously – a worrisome sign in its own way – but after a moment’s thought said, “Yes. My reflexes are fine. I’m just having trouble planning.”
I relaxed. “What I’d suggest is that you pick up Maggie while I make something light for dinner. After that, I’d recommend an early bed. We’ll all think better when we’ve had some sleep and this day is behind us.”
She nodded. “Works for me.”
She left around 6:00, by which time I already had a marinated pork loin in the oven. Around 7:15 I heard them pull up.
I went out to help unload the car and found them both looking red-eyed and tired. I gave Maggie a big hug and just held her a moment. “Dinner’s on the table. Go get started; I’ll take care of this and join you shortly.” It was a measure of how far gone they were that they went along with my suggestion.
Maggie gave me a squeeze and a muffled, “Thanks,” then they both went inside.
I rolled Maggie’s big bag to the porch stairs and had to use two hands to get it up. My morning exercises were not designed to increase upper body strength! I went back to the car, unloaded her two smaller bags, then brought everything in and upstairs.
Neither of my roommates had eaten a lot by the time I joined them, but they were eating and talking quietly.
When it was apparent that they both eaten as much as they were going to, I told them both to go upstairs and get some sleep. “But I’m laying down a marker,” I said. “9:30 tomorrow, we’re going to have breakfast and we’re going to brainstorm. However bad this pandemic gets, we’re going to get through it.”
Nicole had heard it already; Maggie looked thoughtful. “Thanks, Cami. I’ve done a lot of crying today. Too much for my own good. I’ll be better tomorrow. Planning will help.”
I reached out and touched them both, wanting the contact. “Love you guys,” I said. “Now scoot!”
They went.
I cleaned the kitchen then went downstairs. It was a bit after 9:00.
I really, really wanted to talk to Fiona. I had sent her a few supportive texts over the last few weeks – nothing requiring a response – just to let her know I was thinking about her – and I had one exchange with her following my failed attempt to get Iain out of New Rochelle. I hemmed, hawed, and finally tried a skype call to Fi and Henry’s condo.
In a moment there was a connection, and Henry’s face appeared on the monitor. He looked, as usual, calm, competent and friendly, but he also looked tired.
He smiled and greeted me warmly, but said, “I’m sorry, Cami. She’s still at work. Biogen had a big conference here and scores of participants got sick. Naturally they’re at MassGeneral. If there’s something urgent I can get her a message, but mostly I’m just staying out of her hair so she can do what she needs to do.”
I put on a brave face, but I found my disappointment was so great it hurt. To keep from showing it, I asked, “Are you staying safe? Both of you?”
He nodded. “Yes. Fi’s in full PPE when she’s dealing with patients, of course, including, I gather, a face shield over her respirator. She also changes before she leaves work, then she gets home, showers downstairs and changes again before coming upstairs. She’s talking about staying downstairs in the guest bedroom to lower the risk that she’ll infect me, but hopefully it won’t come to that.”
I shook my head. “Henry, I knew it was bad, but . . . .”
“I know,” he said. “However bad people think it is, it’s worse.”
“How are you doing, Henry?”
He shrugged. “Work’s crazy. With all the shutdowns that are being announced, everyone wants to sell. Then people hear promising things about a stimulus bill, or about widespread availability of COVID tests – which is bullshit, by the way – and they want to buy. But we’ve got a longer-term strategy and so far it’s been working and our investors are on board with it. Long days, but nothing like what Fi is coping with.”
I told him about the trial, and about coming out at work. I told him about my current living situation and how my roommates had been impacted by the shutdowns. Finally I asked what he’d heard from Fi on the best ways to keep safe, since what was coming out of the White House seemed to go six different directions at once.
He snorted. “That crowd couldn’t find their backsides with a GPS. Don’t get me started on ‘anyone who wants a test can get one;’ you’ve got no idea how much trouble that piece of misinformation is causing for hospitals. In terms of advice, what Fi’s told me is still pretty much common sense stuff. Good hygiene. Wash your hands a lot. Cover coughs and sneezes, and not with your hand. Avoid crowds, especially indoors. Try to keep your distance from people.”
“What about masks?”
He shrugged. “Nothing new there either. Fi still says they probably help, but there aren’t enough available for use by healthy people who aren’t caring for sick people. It’s going to take a bit to ramp up production. I’m feeling pretty good about our investment in 3M, that’s for sure.”
I asked him to please give Fi a huge hug for me, and tell her that she was my hero and I missed her. I managed to keep from getting weepy, at least until I had signed off, but it was tough.
I really, really wanted to see Fi.
Baltimore, Maryland, March 14
I had gotten up at my usual time, done an hour of stretches and exercises, showered and gotten dressed. It was only 7:00; early still, but not for me. I was brewing some coffee when Maggie came into the kitchen, still in pajamas and a robe. She looked a thousand times better than she had. I gave her a hug. “Good morning. How are you doing? Can I get you some tea?”
She hugged me back and smiled warmly. “Me do, Mommy!”
I laughed. “Sure thing, Sweetie!”
I sat down at the table with my coffee and watched as she made herself a cup of tea. Once she poured the water, she took the cup back to the table and joined me.
“I’m doing better,” she told me. “You were right; sleep helped.” She pulled the tea bag out of her mug, set it on a saucer, then blew gently on her steaming brew. “I slept in Nickie’s bed last night. You knew?” Her tone was more careful than casual.
“I assumed. You two needed each other yesterday.”
She was watching me carefully. She laid a hand on my wrist. “Are you okay? Nickie was worried that you might be . . . .”
“Hurt? Jealous? No. Not at all.” I paused, then added, “So Nicole told you about two nights ago?”
She nodded.
“Maggie, I care about you both. Deeply. I told Nicole I didn’t want to do anything that would hurt either of you. If I have, I’m sorry. Very, very sorry.”
She shook her head, hand still on my wrist. “You didn’t. I’m glad you were able to be here for her – and glad she was here for you. It’s not like we’re an item, Nickie and I. Sometimes we’ve shared a bed, like last night. Sometimes there’s been more. But mostly we’re just very, very close friends. ‘Friends with benefits’ sounds tawdry, but it’s never felt that way, between us.”
I gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “So we’re good?”
She smiled back. “Better than good. I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re with us. Especially now. I don’t think Nickie or I could have made it through the day without you, yesterday.”
Then she gave me a stern look. “But I won’t have you playing housewife to the both of us. I can look after myself. Most of the time, anyway. And so can Nick. You don’t have to carry everything all the time.”
“But maybe some of the time?” I responded, “when for some reason like, I don’t know, a global pandemic, you might be feeling a bit low?”
“Maybe,” she said, smiling. She got up to go get her shower.
“Maggie, there’s something you and Nicole need to talk about, without me around. Might be better if you did it before our pow-wow this morning, because it impacts financial planning.”
She gave me a questioning look.
“When I came here, I only asked if I could stay a few weeks, until the trial was over, when I’d have a chance to look for a place of my own. That’s still an option. But . . . would you like me to stay? I know there are pros and cons.”
She opened her mouth to respond, but I put my index finger over her lips.
“No,” I said. “Talk to Nicole first. Don’t worry about hurting my feelings; you need to figure out what makes sense for you both, then we can take it from there.”
She touched my arm, smiled, and went upstairs.
When I was shopping the day before I decided to try making a quiche. I got everything prepared, put it in the oven, and sat down at the table, using the opportunity to do a bit more research. By the time Maggie and Nicole came down at 9:30, the quiche was done, the table was set; there was fresh fruit, tea for two (and coffee for one!), and grapefruit juice.
Nicole came and gave me a hug. “Thanks, Sweetie,” she said. “for everything.”
We dug in, and after we were getting down to nibbling on fruit, started our talk.
Nicole said, “Cami, of course we want you to stay. And we would even if we didn’t need to rent out that room. Which we do now, for sure. But we love having you here with us.”
Maggie nodded her agreement. “But . . . do you want to stay? It’s a nasty commute.”
“Yes. I want to. I’ve never shared a space like this . . . I mean, except when I was living at home with my parents. I never even realized how lonely I was, living by myself all the time. . . . And besides . . . .” I stopped, trying to figure out how to express what I was feeling.
Nicole prompted, “And besides?”
“Did you ever see that Disney movie, Lilo and Stitch?” I asked
They both nodded; Maggie said, “Of course.”
“I don't remember all that much about the movie,” I confessed, “but there’s one line I never forgot.”
Immediately understanding, Nicole said, softly, “Ohana.”
I nodded. “‘Ohana means family.’ I want that. Here. I feel like we have it. One Ohana.”
Looking just a touch misty eyed, Nicole raised her juice glass. “Ohana!”
We clinked glasses, and Maggie and I returned her toast.
Then I said, “Okay, so that’s decided. Now, we need to talk about how we get through this pandemic. Together. I can see a couple of issues that will come up; I’m sure you’ll spot others. First, we need to get a handle on our financial situation. As long as I’ve got my job, we won’t starve or have the heat shut off.”
Maggie looked momentarily rebellious.
But I gently said, “Ohana, Maggie. We’re all going to pitch in. This is one way that I can. But you will want to find work that pays as well, for your own sake if nothing else. So we need to talk about that. I have some ideas.
“Second, one way or another, we have to find opportunities for both of you to sing. I have only the barest idea. But whether or not you get paid for it, both of you have to sing, and do it where people can hear it. No ifs, ands, or buts. You. Must. Sing. Period.
“Finally, we’ve also got to find ways to not go batshit crazy here, because I think opportunities to do things outside the house are going to disappear in a hurry. There may even be lockdown orders; we’ve seen it in China and Italy. It can happen here. So . . . projects. Things we can teach each other. Things we can learn, together or separately.
“I don’t know how busy I’ll be at work, but I doubt it will be anything like the last few months. And you two will have more spare time then you’ve ever had. You didn’t want it, but you’ve got it anyway. So let’s think about productive ways to use it. Let’s see the opportunities as well as the losses. The pandemic will be over someday. If we think creatively, if we use this time like a gift we may never see again, we could come out of it stronger and more resilient than when we went in.”
I was channeling Eileen, and how she had gotten our team refocused after the stunning news on Wednesday. Get people thinking. Make a plan. Create some direction.
Looking at my friends, I could tell by their posture, by their eyes, that it was working. They weren’t just listening, they were actively engaged. Considering a way forward, rather than wallowing in despair over what had been lost.
Maggie nodded. “I like it. I do. So, let’s start with the yucky stuff. Money.”
“Okay. Most important, Maggie, what’s the story with the house?” I asked. “I know your parents have been letting you use it rent-free for now, but it’s part of their retirement savings too. Do you know how long this arrangement will last?”
“They’re both a few years from retiring, and there’s no way they’ll kick me to the curb in the middle of all of this,” Maggie responded. “I’ll talk to them about it – I need to talk to them anyway – but I’m sure we don’t have a problem on that score.”
“Great,” I said. So . . . what are our expenses? Who even handles that?”
Nicole smiled. “I usually handle the bills. The regular household expenses are gas, electric, water, cable and groceries. Probably twelve to fifteen hundred dollars a month. Our regular individual bills are, I guess, cell phones and payments for voice lessons.”
I thought about Al’s cancellations. “I wonder whether in-person vocal lessons are going to continue if this goes on – which will obviously affect your incomes as well as your expenses.”
Nicole frowned. “Yeah, I’d thought about that. I don’t know how that will go.”
“Well, you’ve got one pupil anyway,” I said. “Me. I’m going to continue to need lessons, and if Dottoressa Trelli isn’t giving them, I’d like to work with you two. You’ve already been helping, for free. For the immediate future, she’s got me working on expanding my range and improving my articulation, and you’re both more than qualified. I don’t know what else she had planned, but I need to take care of first things first.”
I asked whether they had sources of income apart from voice lessons and professional singing.
Maggie sighed. “No, and I’m not sure I’m good for much else, either.”
“That,” I said confidently, “is where I’m sure you’re wrong. There are things you can do. Some of them might not appeal to you, and some might not work out. But you are smart, articulate, motivated . . . there’s plenty you can do. Let me throw out a specific idea. Have you ever done a podcast?”
They looked at me blankly.
“I’m guessing a lot of people will think about doing this . . . eventually. But let’s be out of the gate first. Remember that night when we got back from dinner and you both gave me a tutorial about opera? Or, when I told you how much I enjoyed listening to the two of you geek out about it? There’s an audience out there – people who will want to learn; who may want to hear fresh voices. And, like us, may suddenly have some spare time they didn’t want.”
Nicole shook her head, bemused. “I wouldn’t have the first idea how to do something like that.”
“The technical elements are easy, and you already have a very nice sound studio downstairs. How to get paid for it . . . that’ll be more difficult, and will take time. But if it doesn’t pan out, you won’t have lost anything. And, you will have given your co-host an education in opera!”
Maggie laughed. “You’re willing to co-host a podcast about opera?”
“Absolutely!” I grinned wickedly. “You need me. Unless you just want to talk to other out-of-work opera singers, you have to speak to people who are interested but not knowledgeable. I’ll be there to ask the questions that are so basic they won’t even occur to you doyennes – and, asking questions is what lawyers like me do best.” I sounded like Tigger.
Nicole seemed willing. “Try me!”
“Okay,” I responded, “why is it that everyone always ends up dead at the end of an opera? We have happy movies. We have happy songs. Happy plays. Why can’t we have happy operas?”
That did it – they both busted a gut.
We talked about other opportunities as well, areas where they could develop or hone skills that were useful, if ancillary, to their careers.
I mentioned that I had learned to design websites in high school and college, and marketing is important in the entrepreneurial world of opera.
Both Nicole and Maggie were interested in improving their dance skills, since that might open up musical performance opportunities outside of opera. Sort of like diversifying a portfolio.
Then Maggie grinned. “You know what I want to learn? It’ll help with the dance. I want to learn how to be a cheerleader!”
“Huh?” Nicole looked puzzled.
I just giggled.
“You didn’t know? That one” –Maggie pointed at me – “is up at the crack of dawn, doing cheer routines. Every day. I saw her, and I tell you what: it’s GREAT exercise. I want to learn it!”
I thought about how Liz would react if she heard that her cheer squad reject was going to be giving lessons, and laughed out loud.
We continued in this vein, brainstorming. There was a lot of positive energy. By the time we were done, everyone was feeling sharper and more optimistic. I thought to myself, Thank you, Eileen!
And, speaking of which . . . . “Hey . . . I was wrestling with something, and with everything that happened yesterday it slipped my mind. I need a name. For work.”
Maggie looked puzzled. “Why not Cami? It’s a great name. It’s you.”
I smiled at her. “Thanks for that. It is me. But, Eileen was right when she said women have a harder time being taken seriously as lawyers . . . as litigators. ‘Cami’ is . . . I don’t know. Informal doesn’t quite capture it. Intimate, maybe?”
“I can see that,” Nicole said. “It’s one of the reasons I like your name, I think. But that wouldn’t be a plus at work.”
Maggie asked, “You’ve ruled out staying with Cameron?”
I shook my head. “I wouldn’t say I’ve ruled it out. It’s sort of a default. But . . . I’d prefer to make a break. Something that respects the fact that I’ve changed. I’m not just the same person wearing different clothes.”
Nicole looked thoughtful. She pulled out her phone, ran a search, then nodded. “What about ‘Camryn?’ It’s the same name, but it’s not. Just like you are the same person, but also different.”
It was perfect. I jumped up and gave her a quick but exuberant kiss. “You’re amazing! That’s it!”
We all got up, and it was a healthy sign that once again everyone worked cooperatively to get the kitchen spotless.
Then I said, “Now if you girls will excuse me, I’m going to get a one hundred percent, no hedging, ‘Camryn’ haircut!”
They cheered me on my way; Nicole had already insisted that I take her car.
I parked in front of the salon and came in the front door. Which felt strange; normally I had come in from the back. But I wasn’t living on premises anymore.
Tina was sitting at the reception desk. She looked at me with an unreadable expression. “I’ll get Al.”
But he came in before she had a chance to move and gave me a quick hug. “Cami! So I finally get to give you a proper cut!”
I laughed, and we went over to the sink so he could give me a rinse.
I filled him in on my news, but didn’t ask much about how he and Javi were doing, assuming that Tina could overhear. I explained that I had decided to stay in Baltimore and commute since my roommates were fabulous and it was at least convenient to all of the health care professionals from Haverford, if not to work.
He sat me in his chair and asked what I was thinking about for a cut.
“I like it long; I want to continue growing it out. I like being able to wear my loose side braid. But . . . I want it to look one hundred percent feminine. No more straddling the fence. Cameron is done.”
Al smiled. “I think I can manage. Let me trim the front into long bangs; you can do different things with those, but won’t always have to pin them back. Then, I want to layer the rest, and of course trim all of the ends. You’ll still be able to do your braid, but if you want to just blow dry it and let it hang free, it will look pretty and feminine and frame your face nicely. Okay?’
“I’m in your hands, Maestro!”
He got to work. At some point Javier wandered in and we chatted a bit, too. Business was slowing considerably, and quickly. But they were still getting by.
“It’ll be tight,” Al said. “Maybe real tight. But we’ve been in tight spots before, Javi and me. We’ll get by.” They shared a look that carried a long freight train of memories.
When he was finished cutting, Al took a blow dryer to my hair, sprayed on some product and began brushing it out. When he was finished, he handed me a mirror. “Let me introduce you to my friend ‘Camryn!’”
Wonderful! The cut made my hair look much, much more full. It looks . . . fun. Interesting. Very feminine.
“Thank you,” I whispered. “Thank you so much!”
We made our goodbyes, and I held my finger and thumb to my cheek and ear in the universal sign for “call me,” so that I might hear how things were going with their new tenant. But I needn’t have bothered; she was no longer at the front desk. I walked out and discovered that she was, instead, out by Nicole’s car.
“So, you decided to get off the fence?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Good. Ah . . . congratulations.”
This was a bit unexpected, but to be encouraged. “Thanks.”
“Listen,” she said. “That note you left? I wouldn’t steal from these guys. Never. I don’t know you. But these guys are everything. Okay?”
Ah. Well, an apology would have been nice, I suppose, since she had tried to rob me, but I wasn’t going to stand on protocol. Besides, there were more important things to think about. “I’m very glad to hear that. Very glad. But . . . they’re going to need more than that.”
She looked at me warily.
“This pandemic . . . . their business is going to be hurting. They’re going to be struggling. They’ll need you.”
“Huh?”
“Tina,” I said patiently, “you need to find ways to pitch in. Find ways to make some money. Without stealing it. They’re paying all the bills and their income is about to go in the crapper. You’re living here, you’re an adult. For your sake, and for their sakes, you need to pitch in.”
She looked like she’d been pole-axed. “I . . . I don’t . . . I mean . . . what can I do?”
“I don’t know. But you need to figure it out. They need you to figure it out. They do, but they won’t ask. And they’ll probably be angry with me for saying this. But honestly, you can contribute. You just need to figure out how.”
My phone rang; I pulled it from my back pocket to make sure it wasn’t someone I had to talk to. I didn’t recognize the number, but . . . the ID said that the call originated in New Rochelle. I felt a stiletto of fear pierce my heart, an echo of my panic attack.
“I’m sorry,” I said absently, “I think I need to take this.”
She stood still, watching me.
“Hello?” I said, answering the phone.
An accented male voice that I did not recognize said, “Hello? Is this Cameron Savin?”
“Speaking,” I said.
“Are you Iain’s brother?”
I wasn’t going to quibble about gender. “Yes. Is he okay?”
“My name is Mahmoud Masoumi. We haven’t met, but I’m Iain’s roommate. He . . . I don’t know if he’s okay. He was okay yesterday, but I came home from my shift last night and he wasn’t here. He left a note saying that he thinks he has the COVID, you know? The virus?
“The note, he said, he didn’t want to infect me. I don’t know where he went. He won’t answer his phone. I’m worried about him. He mentioned his brother was a lawyer in DC, so I was able to find you. Not too many Savins, I think. Do you know where Iain is?”
As soon as he started speaking, I knew. I knew what he was going to say. I knew that COVID had finally hit home. And my mind immediately clicked into hyperdrive, eliminating all emotion, stripping away everything but purpose. A decision tree began to unfold in my mind, which began clicking down the list of things that suddenly needed to be done. Right away. Now.
Click. Click. Click.
To be continued.
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
College Park, Maryland, March 14, immediately following
“I’m sorry, Mahmoud,” I said, “I haven’t talked to Iain for days. I don’t know where he is.”
As I was talking my brain relentlessly clicked through an unfolding list of things that I needed to be doing. “Is there any chance he went to the hospital?”
<< click - try calling Iain. Maybe he’ll take my call >>
“I called around,” Mahmoud said, “but he hasn’t showed up anywhere.”
<< click – but he won’t answer. Of course he won’t. so . . . need to get to New York >>
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll try to reach him. But if I can’t – and, maybe even if I do – I’ll be there as quick as I can. Can I reach you at this number?”
<< click – driving would be faster. And, I’ll need a car when I get there >>
“Yes,” he said, “but . . . I’ll be on shift from 4:00 until midnight. I won’t be able to talk to you while I’m on the job.”
<< click – I don’t know how long I’ll need to be gone; I’d better rent a car >>
“I understand. I should be up there before you get off shift. Let me know if you hear anything; I’ll do the same. Okay?”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll do that. Thank you.”
“Thank you, Mahmoud. Talk to you soon.”
I punched Iain’s number. No answer. “The mailbox you have reached is full . . . .”
I shot him a text: “Iain – where are you? Call me!” My mind continued to march through my next steps.
I looked up.
Tina was still watching me, face again unreadable.
I had no time, but this was something I needed to deal with before I left. A loose end. “When Javier first told me about you, he said you were the sweetest, kindest person he’d ever met.”
Her face turned hard. “‘Sweet and kind’ get you dead in the looney bin, Boo. That girl’s long gone.”
I nodded. “You became who you needed to be, just to survive.”
“Fuckin’ A, I did!”
I focused on her intently. “Then you know you can do it. Become who you need to be. Do what you need to do. You’re that kind of strong.”
Now she looked wary, sensing a trap.
“You said Al and Javi were everything. You shittin’ me?”
She shook her head, defiant. Still silent.
“Then become who you need to be now. To help them. You’re not in the asylum anymore. You’re out, you have friends who love you. Who need you. You need to do more than just survive.”
Unconvinced but . . . maybe? Wavering? I didn’t have all day to bring her around with sweet reason though, so I hardened my voice and challenged her. “Or, are you just going to sit on your scrawny butt and watch while their business dies? Then hit the street once they can’t afford to put a roof over your head or food in your gut?”
She stood silent, rigid, holding my eyes with a lava-hot stare that seethed with contempt for the pampered, privileged princess she saw whenever she looked at me. Her look positively screamed, “You have no right!!! No idea what you are asking!!!”
I looked back, unflinching. Unrepentant. Unyielding. My eyes said, “Life’s not fair. Deal.”
She blinked first.
“You some kinda bitch,” she said, disgusted. “But . . . . Yeah. Fine. You’re right. Happy?“ She dropped her eyes for a moment, thinking, then looked up. “I heard your call. Get outta here. I got this.”
There was nothing more to be said. I nodded sharply, jumped in the car and sped off. One loose end, taken care of. Make that three.
There was no way to sync my phone with Nicole’s older car, so I broke the law and called her using the handset. It was going to take me forty-five minutes to get back to Opera House, and I didn’t want all that time to be wasted just on driving.
“Hey Cami!” she said, answering.
“Hi Nicole . . . . I’ve got some bad news – Iain’s gone missing and apparently has COVID, or thinks he does.”
“Oh my God!”
I just kept going. “I know. But look, I need to get up there and find him. Can you do me a couple of favors?”
“Name them.”
“First, I need you to pack a bag for me. I don’t know how long I’ll be gone. Find my practical stuff. And . . . something work-like, from what we just bought, in case for some reason I need to get official. Underwear. Cosmetics. My pills.” I thought a minute, then said, “I remember seeing a package on the shelves in the utility room. Some sort of masks?”
“Yeah,” Nicole said. “From when Mags and I were building the sound room. Something from Home Depot.”
I said, “I don’t know what kind they are or whether they’re any good, but could you throw in one or two?”
“I’ll give you the whole package,” she said.
“One or two. They might be hard to replace.”
“Ohana, Cami. You get the whole package.”
No time to argue. “Okay,” I conceded. “Second, could you call a car rental company and get me something to drive? Reserve it for . . . a week, maybe? If I don’t need it that long I can suck it up; if I need more I can extend it.”
“Take my car,” she offered.
“Your car can’t talk to my phone, and I’ll need to make calls while I’m driving.”
“Problem solved! I’ll drive you. You can make all the calls you need.”
I had been afraid she would volunteer. “Nicole. Sweetie. Thank you. But you can’t. You need to take care of Maggie. And she needs to take care of you. And both of you need to get started on the things we talked about this morning. So we’re launched when I get back.”
She was quiet for a long moment, then said. “You don’t think you’re coming back, do you?”
I could tell from the sound of her voice that she was crying.
“I may get COVID,” I said, evenly, “But I’ll be careful, and most people who get it have survived. I have to take the risk; Iain needs me. But I wouldn’t forgive myself if I got either of you two sick as well. Please, Nicole? Please understand?”
The line was silent for an even longer interval before she responded, her voice choked. “Okay. Fine. But promise you’ll come back, Cami. Promise! Iain’s not the only one who needs you!”
I thought of all of the risks, all of the “unknown unknowns” revolving around this virus. If this week had taught me anything, it was that the future was unpredictable and fortune was fickle as a bitch in heat. Literally anything could happen and probably would.
But I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I told her, “We’ll get through this together, just like we talked about this morning. I will come back. I promise.”
Her voice eased. “Okay. That was stupid, I know. But thank you anyway. Thank you. . . .” Becoming determinedly matter-of-face, she added, “Now. You’re going to need a place to stay in New York, right?”
I knew her parents lived in the city, but I had to forestall her from going down that path. I wasn’t going to risk infecting them either. “Yes. Someplace that I can bring Iain, once I’ve found him. What I want is . . .” I thought a moment. “A motel. Something with a separate bedroom; a two-bedroom suite would be best. Where I can drive to the door, away from prying eyes. He may look sick; I don’t want any questions.”
“Got it,” she said. “Any preference on location?”
“I don’t want to have to go far. So, near New Rochelle, but I’d rather not be in it.”
“Okay. Price range?”
“I don’t need fancy, but I don’t want skeevy. Whatever that costs, I’ll pay.”
“Okay: Bag, rental car, motel. Anything else?” Her voice sounded strong again.
“I can’t think of anything.” Then I said, softly, “I’m sorry, Nicole. Thank you, for all of this. But also, for understanding.”
I drove on, risking one more call. I used the speech function on the phone to say, “Call Hutchinson Investments, Boston.”
The automated voice responded, in its usual inhuman cadence, “Do you want to call Hutchinson Investments, Inc.?”
“Yes,” I commanded. When a receptionist answered, I said, “Good afternoon, this is Camryn Savin,” effortlessly adopting the slightly different version of my first name that Nicole had proposed hours before. “May I speak with Henry Hutchinson please?”
“Is he expecting your call?” she inquired.
“No; I’m his fiancée’s sister. Something’s come up and I need to alert him. If he isn’t available, please ask him to call as soon as possible.”
“He’s in a meeting right now. Do you need me to interrupt him?”
I thought about that. There really wasn’t anything Henry could do this instant. “So long as he gets the message in the next hour, hour and a half, that should be fine.”
“I’m sure his meeting will be over by then, Ms. Savin. I’ll let him know.”
I thanked her and ended the call.
The rest of the calls could wait until I could do them legally. I drove on.
Maggie and Nicole were waiting in the front room when I arrived. Maggie jumped up and ran to give me a hug; Nicole followed more slowly.
“It’s okay, Maggie,” I said, soothingly. Looking at Nicole over Maggie’s shoulder, I said, “I’ll be back.”
“You’d better be,” Maggie responded, “or I’ll kill you.”
“Your bags are packed and I’ve sent you an email with your hotel information. I reserved a car from National at BWI for a week; I know you do the Emerald Aisle. Soon as you’re ready, we’ll drive you there.” Nicole had come through – not that I’d had any doubt.
“I forgot to ask you to pack my laptop; I’ll go grab it.”
Nicole pointed to where three bags were standing. “We thought of that; it’s in the blue bag, along with your pad, your portable printer, and your power cords.”
Maggie pulled away. “The last bag has cleaning supplies and whatever cold and flu remedies we had in the house, along with some Gatorade.”
I wanted to stay; I needed to go.
“Go use the restroom,” Nicole said. “We’ll load the car.”
I popped upstairs, did my business, and was down in minutes. They were just closing the trunk.
Maggie hopped in the driver’s seat and pointed Nicole and me to the back. “I’m the chauffeur tonight.”
Nicole slid in and put an arm around me. As we got underway, she said, “You’ve been Superwoman for Maggie and me since we got our bad news yesterday. And now you’ve got to go be Superwoman again. We understand. I understand. But you’ve got fifteen minutes, right now, to just be Cami. Rest your mind. Let go. We’ve got you.”
Nicole accomplished the impossible and broke my brain’s emotionless hyperfocus, its relentless analysis of the things I needed to be doing. I closed my eyes and leaned my head on her shoulder. She stroked my hair gently.
Suddenly released from my mind’s rigid and frozen grip, I found myself weeping. “I’m so scared,” I confessed through my tears. “I don’t know where he is. New York is huge. And I’m not sure what to do when – if – I find him. If I screw it up, he could die. And . . . and . . . God, this thing just terrifies me!” I was sobbing.
She gently lowered my head to rest on her breast and continued to stroke my hair and back. “I know, Sweetie. I know. You’ll be strong and smart and competent when you need to be. I know you will be.” She cradled my head and held me in her arms.
I poured out my anxieties, my fears, my terrors . . . a torrent of tears.
We drove.
From the driver’s seat, Maggie quietly said, “We love you, Cami. We’re here if you need us. If you need anything.” She paused, then said, with evident reluctance, “Five minutes, Honey. Time to get your cape back on.”
Nicole gave me a final, fierce hug, pressing my head against her bosom, then let me go.
I straightened up, gave a sniffle, and smiled when she handed me some tissues. I dried my eyes and my cheeks. “How much of a wreck am I?”
Nicole gave my face a critical look. “Not as bad as it might have been. Lucky you just had a light day look going. When we stop, I’ll do emergency repairs.”
I took a few deep, steadying breaths. It had worked before. I closed my eyes. Breathed.
Breath in hope. Breathe out fear.
Breath in strength. Breathe out weakness.
Breath in life. Breathe out death.
Breathe. Just breathe.
I reopened my eyes, feeling a restored sense of calm. My emotions were subsiding, but my mind had not yet resumed its relentless march through the decision tree filled with possibilities and choices. Poised between past and future, holding only this moment, I looked into Nicole’s soft brown eyes.
She returned my look, equally calm. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I replied softly. “I may have ruined your blouse.”
“I’ll live. . . . I like your haircut. Very pretty.”
I raised my hand and lightly brushed her cheek with my finger tips, committing every line of her perfect face to memory.
Maggie said, “Here we are,” and parked.
Maggie got the bags out of the trunk while Nicole fixed my face, then we got out, each of us took a bag, and we went to the Emerald Aisle to select a car. I’d liked the Rav4 I’d rented back in January and it had versatility that might come in handy, so we popped the hatch on one and stored the bags. I fished out my pad and charger cords and put them in the passenger’s seat.
Maggie and Nicole each gave me both a hug and a kiss. They told me to be safe.
“Take care of each other!” I ordered.
Interstate 95, shortly after
After Nicole and Maggie left, I turned on the car and did the steps required to sync my phone. My brain whirred back to life and started functioning smoothly, but I still felt human. Bless my roommates for that!
I lined up the calls I wanted to make, ensured that I had the phone numbers I needed, and got underway. It was about 3:45, I hoped to be in the city by 7:00 – 7:30 at the latest. I wanted to leave the line clear for Henry, so I held off making other calls.
Henry’s call came while I was crossing the Delaware Memorial Bridge. His voice was warm, but he went straight to business. “What’s up, Cami?”
“Henry, Iain left a note for his roommate saying he has COVID and he needed to get out because he didn’t want to infect him. He’s not answering his phone, and hasn’t gone to a local hospital. I’m driving up right now to do what can be done and I should be there in about three hours.”
“Ooof,” he said. “That got ugly fast. What’s your plan, and how can we help?”
Thank goodness; Henry understands that someone has to go, and that I’m the logical candidate. Fiona may be less rational on the subject.
“I’ve got to find him first,” I answered. “But assuming I do, I’ll get him to a hospital if he needs one, or to a motel if he doesn’t. My roommate already reserved a place for me. When I find him, I’ll need some guidance from Fi on what I should look for to decide whether I need to take him to the ER. But, like I say, I haven’t even gotten to New York. I don’t need that info right away.”
“Got it,” he said. “What’s your plan for finding him?”
“I’ll make a few calls; try to get some ideas from some other friends of his. It’s not the best, but I can’t think of anything else. I’d report a missing person, but he hasn’t broken any law and we don’t suspect foul play. He just doesn’t want to be found, so the police won’t care. If you can think of better ideas, I’ll try them.”
“Nothing’s coming to me, but I haven’t even met him.” He paused for a moment, then added, “I’m assuming you called me because you want me to decide when it makes sense to tell Fi.”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “I could have texted her, but I don’t think there’s much she can do until I find Iain. I don’t want to distract her for no purpose.”
“Understood,” Henry said.
He knows his woman, I thought.
But after only the briefest pause, he said, “I’m going to bring her into the loop now anyway, Cami. She might have some notion of where Iain might be, and I suppose there’s also a remote possibility that he might take her call even if he didn’t take yours. You may get your ears pinned back, though. Just be prepared.”
“Roger,” I said.
“Send me your hotel info, and call if you hear anything. I’ll be in touch.” We rang off.
My next call was to Eileen. She picked up after two rings. “Hello?”
“Hi Eileen, It’s Cam Savin. Cami. I’m sorry to bother you at home, but something came up in a hurry. Do you have a couple minutes?"
“Hold on a moment.”
I heard the sound of muffled voices, footsteps, and a door closing. “Yes, I’ve got a couple minutes. What’s up?”
I filled her in, then I said, “So, I don’t know how long this will take. But even if I find him tonight and have to take him straight to the hospital, I’ll need to quarantine until I’m safe. That’ll be two weeks, minimum. I’ve got my laptop with me, and I could do some work, at least, while I’m bottled up. But I don’t actually have any assignments right now. And, I don’t know whether or how this should impact the timing of my gender change announcement.”
“Listen, you focus on what you need to do to get your brother safe,” Eileen said. “I’ll talk to the management committee on Tuesday like we discussed, but I’ll otherwise keep the news on your gender change under wraps. I’ll also let them know why you’ve had to go to New York. We’re going to be dealing with a lot more of these COVID-related disruptions, I think. We’ll need to think about best practices.”
I said, somewhat diffidently, “Would it make sense to send out a firm-wide email, telling people to work from home if they have any COVID symptoms, or have been in contact with someone who has the virus?”
“It might. We’ve generally disfavored working from home. During normal office hours, anyway. And we have a ‘power through it’ office culture about coming in when you feel a bit under the weather.” She added, ruefully, “I might have had something to do with that attitude, being honest about it. But it could bite us in the ass right now.”
Turning back to my own situation, she said, “I’m sure we can find you some discrete projects to work on, if you’re in a quarantine situation. Just keep me posted on your progress in finding Iain.”
“Will do,” I said. Thinking just how important my income had suddenly become to my whole household, I added, “Thanks, Eileen. That’s a real weight off my mind.”
She said, “Good. Then I’m doing my job.” Sounding suddenly less formal, she said, “Be careful, Cami. Stay safe.”
“I’ll do that,” I promised, and we signed off.
I thought, I’m making a lot of promises that may be very hard to keep.
My next call was to the restaurant where Iain worked. He might not thank me for that – but he would have to live to get pissed off about it, and making sure that he did live was the bigger priority right now.
The person who answered the phone said, “Sorry; he’s not here. Hang on, though, let me get my manager.”
That told me a lot right there. When the manager came on, he confirmed it. “This is Mike Parker. Ang said you were calling about Iain. You're his sister?”
When I said yes, he said, “Listen, he called out sick yesterday. Told me he was afraid he might have COVID, so he thought he’d better stay away. Have you talked to him?”
“No, and he’s not answering his phone. His roommate doesn’t know where he’s gone. Do you have any idea?”
“I don’t — and I can see why you’re worried. It’d be just like him to crawl into a hole somewhere and try to deal with this on his own. Shit.”
“Do you know if he got tested? They were going to set up a testing station in New Rochelle, weren’t they?”
“He didn’t say anything about it. And . . . well . . . he doesn’t trust authorities much.”
That, I thought, was like saying cats aren’t inclined to trust dogs. Accurate, but insufficient to capture the virulence of the emotion. “Can you try getting in touch with him? You’re his friend and his boss, maybe he’d be more likely to answer.”
“Of course. But, what do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him I’m on the way, that I’m here to help, and I’m not leaving until I find him. Have him call this number.”
“Okay, I’ll try. And, I’ll keep thinking about where he might be hiding out. I’ll call you if I’ve got anything.”
“Thank you!” I said, grateful to have someone who might be able to help. But I felt compelled to ask, “Mr. Parker . . . when was Iain’s last shift?”
He said, “I know where you’re going with this. It was Wednesday; he got off at 4:00. But he wasn’t showing any symptoms. He was fine.”
“There have been cases of people being contagious before they show any symptoms. You might want to check with doctors. Get your people tested.”
“Yeah,” he said, sounding heartsick. “Yeah, I know. But, if they shut us down, what’ll we all do?”
“I don’t know,” I said, aching. “Sure as hell wish I did.”
“Well . . . thanks for calling,” he said. “I’ll be in touch if I’ve got anything. Will you let me know if you find him?”
I assured him that I would. Another promise.
Next I called Ian’s prior roommates, Aidan and Tina. I got a machine and left a message. Hopefully the $5,000 check they had gotten from me as restitution for Iain’s drug-induced temper tantrum would at least earn me a return call.
I drove for a while in silence, thinking about my next steps. I was passing by the Joyce Kilmer rest stop when a call came in.
Fiona.
I was relieved, but also almost afraid to answer. She was probably not going to be happy about what I was doing, and Fi could be . . . percussive when angry. Kinetic, even.
I steeled myself and accepted the call. “Hey, Fi,” I said. “Don’t be too hard on me, okay?”
But it turned out I was unduly worried. Or at least, worried about the wrong things. The person on the other end of the line was my sister, but she was also Fiona Campbell Savin, M.D., and on the battlefield I was about to enter, she was a brigadier.
“Listen, Cami, I’ve only got a couple minutes so I have to make this short and I’m not going to argue with you. I don’t have any better ideas on how to find Iain. Before you go looking, I want you, at a minimum, to get a mask and disposable gloves. Use them. Don’t touch your face when you have them on. When you find Iain, get him masked too. Good so far?”
“Good,” I replied, matching her crispness. “Go.”
“Okay, next. If you can get him tested, great. But the results will take three days anyway. Assume he’s got COVID if he’s showing any symptoms that you might normally associate with a flu or a cold, and act accordingly. Understand, he may have a flu or a cold. But you have to assume the worst. With me?”
“Assume the worst, right.”
“Okay, next. There’s not much we can do in a hospital for people who have mild or moderate symptoms, and right now I’d avoid hospitals unless you have to go. We’re ground zero for every virus known to man, and COVID’s no exception. So, if you’ve got a place to park Iain and keep him isolated, that’s great.
“He’ll need to go to the hospital if you can’t keep his fever down below 103. If it gets to 103 and you can’t get it down, bring him in. If he becomes incoherent, bring him in. If he gets the shakes and you can’t get them under control, bring him in. Severe chest pains, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, same. If he starts having trouble breathing, it’s time for 911, and don’t hesitate for a second. Got it?”
“Yes.”
“Repeat it to me.”
“Keep him isolated. Bring him to the hospital if he has severe chest pains, nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, uncontrollable shakes, becomes incoherent or spikes 103 and we can’t get it back down. Call 911 if he’s having trouble breathing.”
“Good. Next. Treat fever with alternating Tylenol and Advil. Use cough and cold medicine on the secondary symptoms. Make sure he gets lots of fluids. And eats. Best keep it bland, but he needs to eat. Got it?”
“Got it.”
“Okay, next. Keep him isolated from you. When you go in to check on him, or give him medicine or food, make sure you’re both masked. Wear gloves. I’d feel better if you got a poncho that you only wore when you saw him; it’s crap for PPE, but it’s probably better than nothing. Limit your exposure to as few minutes at a time as possible.
“When you’re out, remove your protective gear and scrub thoroughly. Rinse your hands, lather up and sing yourself the ABC song while you rub your hands together. Use hot water to rinse off. Clear?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
She paused, then said, more softly, “It should be me, Cami. I should be there. And I hate myself that I can’t be. But I can’t leave. God help me, I can’t. I’ve got a hospital filling up with scared people, and I’ve got a job to do. Please, please be safe? And take care of that idiot brother of ours?”
“Fi, you are where you need to be. Don’t blame yourself.” Echoing Tina, I said, “I’ve got this. Now go!”
But I could sense that she was still on the line, saying nothing. Not hanging up. “I’ll find him, Fi. And I’ll be careful.” Deep breath. “I promise.”
“Okay,” she said. “I’ve gotta go. Love you, sis.”
“Love you too, Fi.” I said, and ended the call.
That had been a lot to digest, but her recommendations had pretty much tracked what I expected. It was very useful to have the punch list of symptoms that would trigger escalatory action, though. I should be in pretty good shape, all things considered. I didn’t have any disposable gloves, or a poncho, but otherwise I had what I needed.
It was full dark and I was on the approach to the GW Bridge when I got a return call from Iain’s boss.
“Hello?” I answered.
"It’s Mike – Mike Parker. I just heard from Iain; he called me back.”
“Thank God!”
“Well, not so fast,” he replied. “He told me to tell you to go home, that he wasn’t going to infect anyone, and if you thought you were going to guilt him into letting you get him, you were forgetting Penrose Park. I don’t know what he meant by that.”
I didn’t either, but I hadn’t given my name and Iain must figure Mike had been talking to Fiona. She would probably get the reference, but it didn’t matter.
“Anyhow,” he continued, “the important thing is, I heard church bells in the background while we were talking. I’d know them anywhere, ’cause I grew up three blocks from Trinity Episcopal. He’s still in New Rochelle, and he’s got to be pretty close to there. I’m going to go drive around and see whether I can spot anything. How far out are you?”
I checked the display. “Twenty-five minutes, give or take. I’ll drive to the church and call if I haven’t heard from you before then.”
“Got it,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.”
New Rochelle, New York, half an hour later
I parked. The massive stone tower of Trinity-St. Paul’s loomed overhead as I stepped out of the car. I went to the trunk, opened the bag that Nicole and Maggie had indicated would contain medicines and cleaning supplies, and found the package of masks. I pulled out a couple and put them in my purse. Then I locked up and called Mike Parker.
“Hey – it’s Fiona, right?” he answered.
I said, “Hi Mr. Parker. I’m here.” No sense wasting time on the misidentification. “Any luck?”
“Nothing so far,” he said. “I was just checking over in Ruby Dee Park.” Through the speaker I could hear the sounds of him walking.
“Where should I check next?” I asked.
“I was going to look at the underpass for the ’95.”
“I’ll check that,” I said. I had just come off the highway and it was close. “I’ll call you.”
“Likewise,” he said.
I went back to the car, got in and drove back the way I came. There was nothing under the piers of the highway, so I just started to turn around.
“Oh, fuck me!” I whispered, and found a place to pull over.
I knew how to find Iain. I’d been carrying it with me all along, like Dorothy and her stupid ruby slippers. I pulled out my phone and opened up the “Find my” app. I had linked Iain’s phone to the app when I got him out of jail at the end of December, and I hadn’t remembered to disable the link.
Iain had a lot of talents, but he was no tech geek. No way he thought to do it.
He hadn’t. Looked like Mike Parker had the right idea, but the wrong park. Iain was down by the water, at a place the map identified as Hudson Park. It was just over a mile away; I was there in three minutes. I parked the car by the marina and, following the GPS, walked briskly into the park.
It was dark and cool, and the bare trees looked skeletal in the light of the three-quarter moon. I walked deeper into the park, deeper into the shadows. There was some sort of building ahead – a greenhouse, maybe – and more trees to the left of it. Near as I could tell, he was in that area. Somewhere. Probably toward the trees.
Moving more slowly now, I began to walk that way.
My GPS had done what it could; I had to be close. I thought a minute, then called his number rather than his name. A light appeared in the trees ahead, and I heard a muffled curse followed by a cough. I walked that way, keeping to the shadows and moving as quietly as I could, thankful for my sneakers.
I was close enough. I stood in the long shadow of a dark, old tree. In my normal female voice, I said, “Iain.”
I heard his voice and saw him move.
“Shit!!!!” he exclaimed, lurching to his feet, coughing, looking at me from a distance of no more than twenty yards. “Damn it, Fi, I don’t know how you did that, but stay the fuck away! I’m sick! Go save the world, or something.”
I stepped forward, walking toward him at a normal pace, into a pool of silver moonlight. He looked scared. And angry. When I got to within fifteen feet, I stopped. He continued to glare at me, until suddenly his expression changed completely and he looked like he’d been standing in the middle of a railroad crossing when a train plowed into him.
“Fi is saving the world, jackass,” I said conversationally. “And you’d be the first to agree that the world can spare a lawyer, or five. So stop being stupid, will you?”
Finally he stopped staring. “Jesus H. Christ!”
“Strike two,” I said. “The Bible says He was male. Plus, He wasn’t a lawyer. You’re slipping.”
He chuckled. Chuckled harder. Then, he started to cough, but had the presence of mind to do it into his elbow. When he stopped, he said, “Sonofabitch. You were actually telling me the truth? I will be damned.”
“I wouldn’t bet against it,” I said fondly, “especially if you don’t stop being an idiot.”
He tried to say something but I stopped him. “Iain, listen. I get what you’re trying to do. I admire it, even. But I can help you do the same thing while improving your chances of surviving. I’ve got a motel room just a couple of miles from here; it’s got two bedrooms and I can keep you isolated until you get better. I can keep an eye on you there, make sure you don’t get worse, and get you food and medicine.
“And before you say anything, Fi’s given me instructions on how to keep you from infecting me. So . . . you won’t be hurting anybody, and you’re improving your chances of getting through this. That should take care of any reasonable objections, and anything else is just sheer Savin pigheadedness. Living’s more important, Iain.”
Finally he stopped trying to interrupt me, and actually listened. Might even have been a first. He stood silent for a minute, just looking at me standing in the moonlight, as the light breeze ruffled my dark hair. Then he raised his hands in a hopeless gesture. “They never should have let you learn how to argue. Big mistake. Okay, you’ve got me. This place was kinda creepy anyway.”
I smiled, relieved, then reached into my purse and tossed him a face mask. “Don’t blame me,” I said. “Fi insisted. And I’ve got to wear one, too.” I slipped one band, then the other, over my head and brought the semi-rigid fabric cup over my nose and mouth. “Wow, these things are uncomfortable.”
He was still fussing with the straps. “We wear ’em sometimes on construction projects. It’s better if you pinch the metal part over your nose.”
I discovered I had the metal part under my chin, and had to take it off and put it back on again. “This is going to take some getting used to.”
“Work on that bedside manner of yours, doc,” he chided.
I winced. “I’m sorry, Iain,” I said. “I want you to know, Fi would be here if there was any way, any way in the world, that she could be. But her hospital’s swamped. She can’t leave all of her patients.”
“I know. I was just teasing. You’ll do fine, kid. After all, you weren’t even supposed to find me. How did you manage it?”
I waved him toward the car, angry that I felt it was unsafe to give him a proper hug. I thought of a line from an old movie Gammy Campbell had played for the three of us every Christmas season. “Does Macy’s tell Gimbell’s?”
He laughed, shaking his head. “Gammy.”
On the way to the car, I called Mike Parker.
“Fiona?” he asked.
“I’ve got him, Mr. Parker.”
“Oh thank God,” he said.
“I’m going to take him to the motel and look after him. Thank you so much for all of your help!”
“Thank you,” he responded. “Keep him safe, will you? He’s a knucklehead, but we’re fond of him.”
“I’m on it.”
He told me to let him know if I needed anything.
I said I would. It was possible we might need it.
Iain had overheard enough of both ends of the conversation to say, “He thinks you’re Fiona?”
“There wasn't a good time to fill him in on the complicated story of how you acquired another sister, so I just didn’t say anything. Now, let me text Fi. And Henry.” By the time I had done that, we were at the car. “It’s cool out, but let’s keep the windows open. We don’t have far to go.”
Around twenty minutes later, we pulled up to the motel where Nicole had booked us a room, located in nearby Mt. Vernon. I had all the details, so I parked the car by the room and went to get the key.
“Stay here,” I told Iain.
He was feeling the cold, even though I had blasted the car heater. I got out, removed my mask so as not to attract attention, and walked around the building and across the parking lot to reach the office. Nicole, the wonderful Nicole, had even gotten a room that was not in the line of sight of anyone in the office.
A stout man with a shiny head and fringes of white on each side was at the front desk.
“I’m Cameron Savin,” I said, giving the name on my drivers’ license. “I’ve got a room booked for the week?”
He checked the log. “You sure do, Miss Savin. I’ll need an ID and a credit card, and I’ll get you a key.”
“Great,” I said, handing them over. “I have it booked for a week, but could you tell me what the monthly rate would be? We might need to be in town for a while, and if it’s cheaper I’d rather do it that way.”
He gave me the rate, which was significantly cheaper, so I took it for the whole month. I figure I would need to stay for fourteen days after Iain recovered, so it could be a while.
He handed me two keys. “I hope you enjoy your stay.”
I smiled, thanked him, and went back to the car.
I got Iain through the door just as quickly as possible, then checked the place. Nothing fancy, but everything was clean and well-maintained. It had a central living space with a couch, a chair and a TV, a small kitchenette, a table for two, and two bedrooms. One of the bedrooms had an attached bathroom with a shower; the other bathroom served both the common area and the second bedroom.
Iain was tired, filthy, and looked sick and frankly miserable. I said, “Can you manage a shower?”
“I’d kill for one.”
“Okay. Here’s the plan. Get yourself a shower. Dump your clothes; I’ll take care of them later. When you’re out of the shower, get in bed and under the covers. Go commando for now. I’ll ask your roommate to drop off some of your clean stuff later; he’s working now. I’ll get you some Tylenol and some cough medicine. Okay?”
He sketched a salute.
I said, with real regret, “Iain, doc’s orders – the real one, not me. We’ll need to keep this door closed, and we’ll both need to be masked when I’m in there with you.”
“Good by me, Cam. You don’t want this, trust me.”
I turned to leave him to his shower, but before I closed the door to his bedroom I turned back. “Iain? Could you do me a favor?”
“Depends on what, squirt,” he said, smiling.
“Call me Cami.”
He looked startled. “Okay, if that’s what you want. But I won’t be able to use “Spam” as a put-down nickname anymore, and ‘Spammy’ is just gibberish.”
“I can’t begin to tell you how much I’ll miss that,” I said dryly.
He chuckled as I shut the door.
While he showered, I sent a text to Mahmoud, his roommate, letting him know that I had found him and asking whether he could drop off some of Iain’s things. My mind was still going like a piston engine. I needed to get some supplies to comply with Fiona’s mandates, and we were going to need some food. Now and later.
I thought about it and decided in a completely cold-blooded way that I should run out as quickly as possible and hopefully hole up thereafter. I had only just met up with Iain. Maybe I was already infected. But I wouldn’t be contagious yet. I don’t know how long it might take, but I was pretty confident it would be more than a few hours.
I’d better find out what I had with me first, I thought, since I had left all the packing to Nicole and Maggie. But first things first, and start right. I spent a couple minutes thoroughly washing my hands. Then I brought my bags into the other bedroom and unpacked.
On the clothes front, I had jeans, yoga pants, t-shirts, a fleece, a light waterproof jacket that must be Nicole’s and my heavier wool coat. I had my dark red full skirt, a black jacket and cream-colored shell in case I needed to look businesslike. They had thought to pack some exercise clothes. There was also an assortment of footwear and underwear. My flannel nightgown. Also, my light green nightie and dark green dressing gown, with a little note attached (“Maybe not the most practical thing, but you need to stay sane, too!”).
I had cosmetics, hair care products, and toiletries. Some medicines, but not a lot. My pills. Some Gatorade. Lysol and some antibacterial wipes. No gloves. Unsurprisingly, no poncho. Okay. I had a good notion.
I no longer heard the shower running, so I put my mask back on and knocked on his door. “Mask up – coming in.”
“Hang on . . . . okay. Got it.”
I opened the door and found him in bed, covers pulled to his chin. “Any better?”
“The shower was great,” he said. “I'm not as cold, but I’m wiped. Completely.”
I came over and put a glass of water, a couple pills and a couple ounces of cough syrup by his bedside. “It’s 9:00, so the Tylenol should hold you for a bit. Take all that. I’m going to run to Target and get us some supplies. Kindly stay put, would you?”
He looked up at me, his expression hidden by the mask. “I’m done running. I didn’t know how I was going to get through this one. I wasn’t even sure I how I was going to get through another night. Thanks, kid. . . . Cami.”
He could not see my smile, so I just put my fist over my heart, then left him.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 14, immediately following
I was back in the car and headed out; Target was open until 10:00. But I had time, now, for one more call.
Nicole picked up immediately. “Cami! – How are you?”
“I’ve got him, Nicole. And the motel is perfect, and the packing you guys did was perfect, and you're both perfect, too. How’s that?”
“How is he?”
“A mixed bag, I guess. He’s got some chills and a cough, and spending last night on the street – well, in a park – didn’t do wonders for his appearance. But he’s actually in a bit better shape than last time I saw him. The rehab facility got him clean and sober, but they also had him eating properly. He’s a long ways from strong, though. If you saw him, you’d probably guess he was closer to 42 than 32.”
“You sound like you’re on a speaker phone,” she said.
“Just a run for supplies. I want to hole up as much as possible.”
“Makes sense.”
I told her about my conversations with Fi and Eileen, and how I had figured out how to find him.
That made her laugh.
“Nicole, I’ve arrived at Target and I’ve got to go. I miss you both. God, I miss you!”
“We miss you too. Now, cape up, girl! Do your thing!”
I wasn’t a superhero in the store so much as a whirlwind. Big cart. Food – keep it simple; make sure it lasts. More fluids. Tea. Honey. Lemons. The room had a Keurig – ghastly, but even medicinal quality coffee beat tea. So, K-Cups. More cold and flu medicine. More Advil. Digital thermometer and caps. Batteries.
On the chance that Mahmoud couldn’t help or that Iain had very little, a fresh toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo. A harsh but powerful soap. Disposable rubber gloves. I thought a bit more and tossed in an electric razor. Pricey, but no one who is shaky likes the other kinds. Paper towels. Strangely, the store appeared to be out of toilet paper, but we had enough for now.
Then I went into the men’s section and found a couple pairs of pajamas, a flannel bathrobe in the wrong tartan (Neither Ross nor Campbell, much less Cameron, were generally available, so the Black Watch would just have to do). Slippers. A packet of underwear and a couple clean T-Shirts. A packet of fresh socks. A pair of cargo pants; his jeans had been 36-34 (I had checked), but they’d been baggy. So, 34-34. I found a rain slicker that would have to serve as my “PPE.”
I was about to call it quits, but I had a dark inspiration. I dashed over to the infants’ section and found a relatively cheap baby monitor. Iain wouldn’t like it, but it would allow me to keep tabs on his condition without being in the same room.
I went to the self-checkout, since anyone with half a brain could figure out from the totality of my purchases what had brought me out, and I didn’t want to raise an alarm. I was out the door and on the road by 9:45, and back in the room by 10:00.
I brought everything inside, put away the groceries, donned my mask and checked in on Iain. He was out like a light. As quietly as possible, I laid out the PJ’s, bathrobe and slippers in the chair, put the thermometer on top of the dresser, dropped off the toiletries and razor in the bathroom, and plugged the monitor in by his bed.
Then I left, closed the door, and washed up. I would take care of the rest of the unpacking when Iain was awake.
I was finally done with my tasks for the day. Had it really been this morning that I had made a quiche for my housemates and talked strategy for how we were all going to thrive during the present unpleasantness? Had I really spent an hour at a salon having my hair cut, just this afternoon? It felt like a lifetime ago.
It was, too.
I went into the bathroom not attached to Iain’s room, laid out my toiletries, removed my makeup and moisturized. I changed – somewhat defiantly – into my light green nightie, and took my estrogen pill. Then, finally, I was able to sleep.
I woke in the middle of the night to muffled sounds coming from the monitor by my bed. So I put on my dressing gown, cinched it up, and crossed to Iain’s room, pausing to snag my mask before tapping on his door and entering.
He was tossing and twitching, muttering in his sleep. I checked the time: 12:30. The Tylenol would last another two and a half hours, in theory, but it looked like he needed the Advil dose.
I grabbed his glass, went back to the common room, poured him some water and got the pills. Then I stopped, muttered at myself, washed my hands thoroughly and put on both my rain slicker and a pair of thin, disposable rubber gloves before returning to his room. I turned on the light by his bed, reached out and grasped his restless arm. Even through the gloves, his skin felt warm.
“Iain.” I gave him a shake. “You need to wake up.”
His eyes popped open, looking a bit wild. “Fi?” he asked groggily.
“No, it’s Cami. I’ve got to take your temp and you’ve got to take some Advil.”
He focused. “Oh . . . ah. Yeah. Okay.”
“Can you prop yourself up for a minute?”
“Yeah, hang on.”
He got the pillows behind him and pushed up a bit. I handed him the pills, then the water. When he was done, I checked his temperature. 100.5. Not great, definitely a fever. But well below the danger zone.
”How are you feeling?” I asked.
“Still tired. Cold.”
“Okay. I got you some warm pajamas. Get those on and I’ll get you another blanket."
“Okay. Great. Thanks.” He sounded a bit out of it.
I went and got the blanket off of my bed and brought it into his room. He had the pajama bottoms on and was struggling a bit with the buttons on the top, mostly because his hands weren’t completely steady and he was coughing.
“Stick your elbow over your lower face for a sec,” I ordered.
He did, and I quickly did up his buttons. I made him take another shot of cough syrup, got him back into bed, and dropped the second blanket over him. He was asleep again before I even got out of the room, though he was still coughing some.
I went out, removed my slicker, mask and gloves, washed my hands, and went back into my room. Pulling a small pad from the bag that protects my laptop, I made notes of the times I had given him medicine, his temperature, and his condition. Then I looked at my stripped bed, sighed, and changed into my flannel nightie. I added socks to keep my feet warm, and got under the too-thin sheets. It was 1:20.
I was up and in his room again at 3:30 (coughing; fever 100.7) and 6:00 (coughing; fever 100.6). At that point I gave up, took a shower, and got dressed. It warmed me up. The chair in the common area was cozy and I thought I might doze for a bit, but my phone rang back in my bedroom. Fi had responded to my text last night and had indicated she would call first thing, before she went into work.
So as not to wake Ian, I went back into my room, closed the door and flicked accept. “Good morning, Fi.”
“Good morning, Wonder Woman! Good work last night! I’ve got fifteen minutes, so tell me first, how’s he doing? Be as detailed and specific as you can be.”
I gave my summary, checking my notes for specific readings.
When I was done, she said, “Okay, I think you’ve got the situation under control. Keeping notes is a good idea. I don’t see any reason to bring him in at this point. Only thing I’d say is to keep a closer eye on hydration.”
She paused, apparently checked her watch, and said, “I’ve got six minutes. What else can you tell me? How are you, how is the place you’re staying, and do you need anything?”
I did what I could to answer, but we ran out of time and she had to go.
I went back to the common area, sat in the semi-comfortable chair and tried to catch up on the news, but found myself dozing off.
Iain was awake again by 8:30. He took some medicine, I took his temp (100.9) and he went in to get another shower. While he was in the bathroom I put the clothes I had bought him in the room, made up the bed, then went back to the common room, closing the door behind me. I made a couple cups of coffee and brought one into Iain's room.
The shower stopped and a few minutes later I could hear him using the electric razor. Good. And also coughing, which sounded deeper. Less good. Later, I heard him moving about the room, then I heard a knock from the inside of his door.
“Mask up, Cam . . . Cami.”
“Okay, hang on.” I got the thing on properly and retreated to the kitchenette. “All clear.”
He came out as I was putting on my rain slicker, moved to the other side of the small table in the eating area and sat down. “You look pretty silly in that.”
“Ah well. I used to be ignorant of fashion too, when I was merely a guy!”
The banter had its desired effect. He took a pull from his coffee. “You’re convincing as hell, you know. And I never had a clue. Not one. Did you always feel this way?”
I was getting a bit tired of explaining it, but Iain wasn’t unsympathetic. And, unusually for him, there was no underlying effort to vie for superiority, to put me down. So, I told him more or less what I had told Eileen a few days – years, it seemed – before. He sat and listened, coughing occasionally but not saying anything.
When I finished and before he could say anything, I said, “Fiona’s orders, you need to eat, and you need a Gatorade. So, eggs and toast or oatmeal?”
“Doesn’t matter. Wait. Not toast; I don’t want anything scratchy on my throat. Hurts enough as it is.”
As I was making him some oatmeal, he said, “I’m trying to picture the old man’s face. Does he know?”
“I haven’t said anything. Fi hasn’t. So unless Gammy told them, no. But she said she wouldn’t.”
His eyes got big. “You told Gammy?”
“I went and visited her at the place in Morgantown. Back in January.”
“Holy shit. What did she think?”
I handed him the bowl and retreated back to the far side of the room. “On the whole, I can’t say she was impressed. Thought I was being self-indulgent. But she made it clear that she wasn’t going to stop loving her kin just because she didn’t approve of their life choices.”
He said, with more force than he should have (since it triggered his coughing), “Being trans isn’t a ‘choice!’”
I wondered how many trans people he had known; he had hinted that there were more than one when I talked to him in January. For whatever reason, he appeared to hold them in high regard. But I decided not to pry.
“I know, but convincing her of that . . . she’s like a ninety-year old Scottish oak. She’ll fall someday, but she will, by God, never bend.”
He nodded, scooped up the last of his cereal, and washed it down with coffee.
“Thanks, Cami. I’m going to retreat back to my lair; I’m already tired again. This COVID really sucks. I can’t even taste anything.”
“Okay, but take the Gatorade with you and drink it down, okay?”
He got ponderously to his feet, waved a hand in acknowledgement, and went back into his room, closing the door behind him.
I added to my log entries: Raging sore throat; impaired sense of taste.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 16
Another bad night, another morning. Iain had spent almost all of Sunday in his room, mostly lying down. The fever had stayed below 101 but crept up overnight. The cough was still bad; I couldn’t say it was worse.
He reported that his throat was still sore, he couldn’t taste or smell anything, and his joints ached.
I reported all this to Fiona first thing in the morning; she counseled patience and said I was doing fine.
Mahmoud had dropped off some of Iain’s things, but it was a very small bag. I just had him leave it outside.
He was very happy with that arrangement.
I was already tired, and this was only day two. But Iain was back in his room and I had some calls to make.
First I called Eileen and told her my news, concluding with, “So, I don’t know how long I’ll need to be here, but it’s two weeks after he recuperates, and he hasn’t gotten better yet.”
“Understood. I’ll talk to the Management Committee tomorrow, but we’ll work something out. How are you getting by?”
“It’s actually been pretty exhausting. He’s not sleeping well, so I’m not sleeping well. But I’m managing.”
I called Maggie (it was too early to call Nicole!) and filled her in.
She told me that the other two operas she was scheduled to be in this season had also been canceled, which wasn’t a surprise, and that Dottoressa Trelli had suspended vocal lessons. She and Nicole were on the fence about doing the same thing, to protect their students, but two of their students had canceled already.
I called Dr. Chun’s office to alert them – belatedly – to the fact that I had started the estrogen therapy.
Iain started coughing again, and was having trouble getting it controlled. I went in to help.
Another bad night, another morning. After Iain had his morning shower, he just got back into his pajamas and went straight back to bed. He was still coherent, but he was more monosyllabic. I forced him to eat, take medicine. Drink Gatorade. His fever had passed 102 overnight, but it was back down to 101.6 in the morning.
I gave Fiona the morning report. She stayed calm, but sounded more and more like Dr. Savin. Not a good sign.
I got a call from Al and Javi, wanting to know if I was okay. I filled them in. They were excited to tell me that Tina had actually gone out and applied for three jobs.
“I really think she’s making progress!” Javi said.
I thought to myself, honey may catch more flies than vinegar, but sometimes nothing works better than a hard whack with a fly swatter.
I called Nicole, who was determinedly cheerful and upbeat. Dear woman. But she had another student cancel.
“What’s the state of the cookie jar?” I asked.
“We’re okay for this month, Cami. Don’t worry about it.”
But I had just gotten paid, so I got her to agree that I could make a contribution. She told me that she and Maggie had been researching the podcast idea and were getting excited about it.
I thought, I want to go home!
After my call to Nicole, I sat quietly and thought for a few minutes. I had promised Nicole and Maggie that we would get through this, and we should be able to. But I could only contribute emotionally if I was there, and I could only contribute financially if I was employed. What if I lose my job? What if . . . I faced my fear . . . I get COVID, and I’m not one of the survivors? What would come of my promise then?
After a few minutes of brooding about it, I fired up my laptop and went to the website for my bar association. They had a deal with The Hartford for life insurance without underwriting. A simple questionnaire. One that I could fill out honestly — this morning, at least, if not necessarily tomorrow.
I had never bothered with it before. What was the point? But now there were people who needed me. I filled out the form and made the premium payment. Just the fact that the insurance company hadn’t suspended taking new customers made me feel better.
The day was more of the same. Iain needed medicine and liquids every two-to-three hours, and I was able to get him to eat simple foods. I was going to need to do something about laundry in the next day or two.
Eileen called around 4:00. The Management Committee was on board with the idea of a general memo announcing my gender change, to go out a few days before I came back. Eileen would send me a draft in advance, though there was clearly no present rush. The Committee also approved paid sick/sick family leave through the end of the month, as well as remote work during my quarantine period.
She told me they were very supportive. “They had no issues at all about your being trans. Really, the bigger concern is the leave issue. If this virus continues to spread we could find ourselves hemorrhaging money through payroll while our billables collapse. We’ve got three more employees who are in similar circumstances already; two in the New York office and one in Brussels.”
Well, I thought, I’m covered for now. The future will just have to do what it’s going to do.
Later that evening, I saw an “all hands” email from work, telling employees to stay home if they had symptoms or were in close contact with someone who had COVID, and to report in if this was the case. For now, leaves of absence and requests to work remotely would be approved on a case-by-case basis by the Managing Partner for Personnel, Evan Barksdale. Employees were reminded to be careful about hand-washing and general hygiene.
The memo went out under the joint signatures of Barksdale and of Raphael Oliveira, the chairman of the Management Committee. The biggest of the big guns.
Iain was coughing, sounding weak. I went to help him.
Another day, another bad night. Iain was no better, but his temperature was still in the range of 101.5 - 102.3. The cough was the same; maybe a bit more frequent. And for longer intervals. He was staying in bed. Had chills, then sometimes felt very hot. On the whole, he seemed to be holding steady. But I was getting pretty run-down.
I kicked myself. Stop whining. Nurses do this every day. Doctors do this every day. Fi does it. Get over yourself.
Fi had sounded even more doctor-like when I gave her this morning’s report. “I’m going to prescribe something to help him sleep.”
My mind was feeling a bit wooly. “Can you write prescriptions in New York?”
“I can write them in Massachusetts. Rob has to go down to the city today to meet with some pharma bigwigs. He’s going to stop by your motel this evening and drop off the prescription. If there are any other supplies you need, text the list to Henry.”
I’d met Henry’s brother Robert at Christmas under less-than-ideal circumstances, but he’d been very helpful and I was appreciative of his help. Of any help, for that matter. “Fi, you’ve always been my hero, but I had no idea. How do you do this every day?”
She laughed softly. “Same way you get to Carnegie Hall. Now, hang in there, kiddo.”
Mount Vernon, New York, March 18, later that day
The day was more of the same. I thought about supplies and sent a list off to Henry to forward to Robert. I monitored Iain, got my protective gear on, got him medicine, got my gear off, scrubbed up. The same routine for food.
I did it all again. In between, I read work emails and tried to follow the news, cleaned every surface in my room, my bathroom, and the common area. My delicates got hand-washed in the bathroom sink and hung them to dry in my shower.
It was almost 6:00 when Robert gave a diffident knock on the door. Anyone who was familiar with the Hutchinsons of Boston would know in a single glance that he was part of the tribe. He had short, straight, jet-black hair, a stockier build than his father or brother, and a younger, beardless version of his father’s ascetic face.
When I had seen him last, he had been a bit at sea, having to deal with drafting an affidavit attesting to actions taken by his cousin Jonathan. He had been tense and uncertain, most unlike the confident king of the prior night’s dance floor.
But while Robert, like Henry, had been keeping long hours as they helped steer Hutchinson Investments through one of the crazier markets in fifty years, he looked rested, poised, and mercifully competent. When he saw me, whatever he had intended to say died on his lips.
“Robert!” I said, hoping to help him out. “Thank you for coming.”
He shook his head, as if clearing cobwebs. “Cami, I’ve got the stuff on your list in the car, but it’ll wait. I’ve got something hot for dinner and you’re going to sit down and eat it, right now, before we do anything else. You look great, by the way, except for the tire tracks across your body from where the truck ran you over.”
This wasn’t the Robert I had dealt with at all, and I was sufficiently bemused that I did what he had asked me to do. I sat.
He came in, bringing a take-out bag and a wine bottle with him. He set it on the table, then went to the kitchenette and grabbed three plates.
I said, “Just you and me. Iain had some soup and is sleeping.”
He nodded, put one plate back and grabbed two glasses. Then he served chicken pad thai. It was piping hot, spicy, and tasted like heaven on earth. He poured two small glasses of wine and silently clinked glasses with me.
“How did your meetings go?” I asked, trying to make conversation.
“Very productive. Now eat, for the love of God. We’ll talk when you’re done.”
I did. We finished it, and I easily had more than half.
I swallowed the last of my wine. “Thank you. I think you’ve saved my life, and I didn’t even know I was dying. Now, let me get the rest of the stuff and get you on your way. As far as I know, I’m perfectly healthy. But I know I could have COVID, and that I wouldn’t need to have symptoms to be contagious.”
He shook his head. “No. That was my plan, but I’m changing it.”
I started to protest but he held up a hand and said, urgently, “Listen to me. You’re run down, you haven’t been eating well and you’ve been sleeping worse. That’s the best recipe on earth for getting sick, which will make you far more susceptible to the virus. And if you’re sick, you’ll be no good to Iain anyway. So you are going to go, right now, and get some sleep. I’ll cover through midnight, and I’ll wake you up before I go, okay?”
“Robert. I don’t want to infect you.”
“I’m just as likely to be infected as you are. We’ll be careful with Iain.”
I tried a different argument. “You aren’t driving to Boston at midnight."
He smiled. “No; I’ve got the room next door through Sunday. I’d spell you through the morning, but I’ve got two more days of meetings and I’ll need to be rested myself. Now, walk me through the drill, then Go. To. Sleep. Or, I’ll rat you out to Fiona.”
I wanted to fight, but I knew it would be futile. Robert was right; I did need some uninterrupted sleep, or I wouldn’t be functional. So I conceded with as much grace as I could.
He got the supplies from his car, including – praise be – an extra blanket – then I ran him through the protocol, gave him my log notes and the monitor, and showed him where I was keeping the medicines, gloves, and masks.
He pulled a mask from his back pocket. “That part, at least, I’ve got covered.”
I was glad, since I was on my third mask and only had two more. I went into the bathroom, removed my makeup, washed, and moisturized my face, brushed my teeth and retreated into my bedroom.
Before I closed the door, I looked back and saw that Robert was sitting on the couch with a laptop open, reviewing something with a look of intense concentration. I decided not to disturb him.
It felt like Robert woke me minutes after I had gone to sleep. I opened my eyes to find him perched on my bed, lightly pressing my upper arm. His face was shadowed; the room only illuminated by moonlight.
“I’m sorry, Cami,” he said with real regret. “I’ve got to go catch some sleep. It’s 12:15; Iain had Tylenol at 11:00 and is currently sleeping. His 11:00 temp was 102.1. Intermittent coughing. It’s all written in your log. The monitor is on your bedside again.”
I smiled and lightly touched his arm. “Thank you, Robert. Thank you! Go get some sleep.”
He stood, looked down at me for a moment and smiled. “Okay. I’ll check in on you in the morning. And Cami?”
“Yes?”
“It’s just Rob with friends. Okay?”
“I’ll remember that.”
He left, and I drifted back to sleep.
When he stopped by at 8:00 the next morning, I had already been up twice, given Fiona my morning report, showered and gotten dressed. I had taken advantage of both the blanket and the chance for uninterrupted sleep to wear my nice green nightie rather than flannel the prior night, and perversely felt better for it.
Robert – Rob – asked how the rest of the night had gone and I filled him in. I thanked him again and said, truthfully, that I felt a million times better.
He smiled. “Yeah, the tire tracks are mostly gone, I think!” He told me to pull together the laundry and he would drop it off on his way to his meetings and pick it up on the way back.
I put on my gear and went to see Iain. He was awake, but still doing no better.
“Who’s out there?” he asked. “Is it the guy who was here last night?”
“Yes; that’s Fiona’s fiancé’s brother. He spelled me so I could get some sleep.”
“Oh,” he said, sounding disinterested. “Just was wondering, that’s all . . . .” His voice kind of faded away, as if he forgot he had been speaking. He refocused. "I’m feeling pretty cold. Is it time for a shower?”
“Sure. Can you manage it?
“I think so.”
“Okay, you do that. I’m going to strip the bed and we're going to get your sheets and pajamas laundered. So I’ll need you to dress in street clothes today, okay?”
“Sure, sure,” he said, shivering.
I pulled all of the laundry together, excepting only my delicates, bundled them up and put them in Rob’s trunk.
“Text me what you want for dinner,” Rob suggested, and drove off.
Three minutes later, I heard coughing, and Iain calling my name. I grabbed my mask and rushed into the bathroom, to find Iain sitting on the floor of the shower, knees to his chin.
“Sorry, Cami, I just can’t manage to get back up.” And he coughed some more.
“I’ve got you, bro.”
I shut off the water, then got a towel and helped him get a bit dry. It was going to be a lot harder to get him up if he was wet. When that was done, I crouched down, put my arm around him and maneuvered him to his feet.
Once there, he was able to take his weight. I had him lean against me while I finished toweling him off. Then we got him back into his bedroom. Sitting on the bed, he was able to get his underwear, pants and a T-shirt on, then fresh socks followed by his slippers. At that point, he just lay back on top of the covers, tired by his exertions. He closed his eyes and coughed, holding his elbow over his mouth. Even the cough sounded tired.
I folded the half of the covers he wasn’t lying on over him, then took his temperature. 102.5. Worst reading yet. He wasn’t due for the Advil for half an hour, but I decided to advance it. I propped him up long enough to take the pills, then eased him back down. He closed his eyes wearily, then opened them again.
“Cami,” he said, his voice weak. “I’m trying. For Fi. For you. I’m trying. But I’m so tired. So tired . . . .” Without waiting for my response, he fell back into sleep.
But he slept right through for six hours, and when he woke, his fever had gone down to 101.7. He was still coughing deeply, but his sore throat was better and he seemed a bit stronger. I made him soup and he managed it, got Gatorade into him, gave him Tylenol and cough syrup, followed by more water. He got to the bathroom with me there to spot him, then went back to bed.
“Sorry if I gave you a scare this morning,” he said. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt that bad before.”
“Well, I said, “I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna, but just maybe you’ve turned the corner.
He knocked on his skull. “Knock wood and fingers crossed!”
Mount Vernon, New York, March 19, later that day
Iain was again sleeping when Rob came back, but I woke him so we could put fresh sheets on his bed and put his now clean clothes and pajamas away. Rob had brought sushi, but also some miso soup, which suited Iain fine. He went into his bathroom while I got his room ready, and I heard him using the electric shaver. I made his bed, put the soup in a bowl by his bed, and went into the common area, where I stripped off mask, gloves, and rain slicker, and then went to wash my hands.
“H-i-j-k-l-m-n-o-p . . . .”
My reverie was broken by Rob’s chuckle.
“I’ve heard of singing in the shower, but I’ve never heard of singing children’s songs at the sink!”
“Oh!” I said, self-consciously. “I almost forgot I was doing it. Fiona suggested I sing that to make sure I spend long enough washing my hands.”
“Doctors!” he snorted.
When I finished removing yet another layer of skin from my hands, I sat down and joined him at the table. He had, once again, poured us each a small glass of wine; again we clinked glasses.
I said, “Listen, I’m not famished or severely sleep deprived, so perhaps we can have a conversation while we eat. It’s considered civilized.”
“Is it?” he said with mock surprise. “Imagine! You sound like Dad.” He grinned, then turned serious. “So tell me how today went.”
“This morning was scary. I really thought I was going to have to take him in. He sat down in the shower and couldn’t get back up. I managed to get him dried off, dressed, and back to bed. He was completely exhausted and practically collapsed. But then he slept six hours and woke up stronger, with a lower fever. So . . . I just don’t know.”
We talked about it a bit more and concluded all we could do was to continue monitoring his condition and doing the best we could. He hadn’t crossed any thresholds.
So I said, “Please. Tell me about your day. I feel like I’ve disappeared down a black hole. What’s going on in the wild world?”
“Oddly enough, good things. Exciting things.”
He told me about messenger RNA, or mRNA, technology, and how some companies were using it to rapidly develop vaccines that could be used to fight COVID. “And by rapidly, I mean, incredibly rapidly. They are starting clinical trials now. That’s unheard of. It’ll still take months to complete all the necessary tests, even if everything goes well. But that’s months – not years. No vaccine has ever been developed that quickly.”
“But it seems to be spreading really quickly. Will even that be fast enough?”
“The $64,000 question. Except that it’s more like the trillion dollar question. We need to buy some time. We’re starting to do things – like, you heard that New York City closed down the public schools, right?”
I nodded.
He continued, “We’re going to have to do a whole lot more. We need to stop a lot of activity, get people to stay at home as much as possible. Wear masks. That’s what this mammoth relief bill they're working on in Congress is all about. If we can find a way to keep non-essential people home without losing everything – their homes included – maybe we can keep the virus from getting out of control, until we’ve got the vaccines.”
We had a long talk about it, and when we were done I felt incredibly more optimistic.
I said, “You know, I’ve just been living with this thing for weeks, feeling powerless, hopeless. Feeling it coming, like . . . l-l-like . . . .”
I stammered and stopped, and felt the blood drain from my face. The memory ripped and tore at my mind, the sound that had driven me to my knees in the middle of the day in a conference room in DC. That massive, inexorable, pulsing beat, a vast bellows . . . . the vision of dark wings . . . .
“Cami!” Rob said sharply.
His voice was low, but cracked with command. He was next to me, holding my shoulders. “Cami!” he repeated, urgently.
I blinked my eyes, blinked again. Took a breath. He released my left shoulder and lightly guided my head until I was facing him, looking directly into his eyes. Eyes that suddenly seemed much older than they had before.
“I don’t know where you went just now, but you shouldn’t be there,” he said, quietly but very firmly.
“No.” I reached up and pressed the hand still gripping my right shoulder. “Thanks for pulling me back.”
He held my eyes for a minute, making sure I was really back from that place of horror. He stood, letting me go and looked down at me. “That’s happened before, hasn’t it?”
Reluctantly, I nodded. “Yes. Mostly at night. One other time during the day. That . . . that was what I was remembering.”
“Fi doesn’t know?”
I shook my head. “I am seeing a different doctor about it. It’s pretty recent.”
He gave me a shrewd look. “Since Christmas, maybe?”
I winced, then nodded.
“I wondered whether you’d gotten off as unscathed as you wanted us all to believe.”
“Rob. I’d really, really appreciate it if you didn’t say anything about this. I want Fi and Henry – and you, for that matter – to forget about what happened that night. Or, understand that at least it’s been dealt with. It's done. Finished.”
He looked at me thoughtfully. Coming to a decision, he held out his hands, palms up, in invitation. I took them and he raised me up and looked me in the eye.
“Okay, Cami. If that’s what you want. All I remember about that night is that I got to dance with a very pretty girl. Like this, I think.”
He raised one of my hands above my head and pulled the other, effortlessly bringing me into a twirl. When I faced him again, he said, “Or, wait . . . maybe it was more like this?”
More magic of hand and foot, and I spun in a circle that ended with my back pressed against his chest and his arms around me, while one of my arms was free.
He held me for a moment and said, thoughtfully, “Yes; pretty sure it was that one.”
Then he reversed the maneuver, spun me back out to face him, bowed over the hand he still held, then let me go.
He smiled. “Yep. That’s what I remember. Great evening!”
I gave him the biggest smile in my toolkit. He had earned it, God knows. He could have just agreed to what I had asked, but he had somehow found a way to really snap me out of where I’d gone.
I dropped a deep curtsy (thanks, Liz!), then came back up and said, seriously, “Thank you, Rob.”
He tipped an imaginary hat to me. “Always a pleasure. Now – I’ve got this watch. I’ll get you at 2400.”
I quirked a smile. “Yes sir.” Then I marched off to bed.
He woke me at midnight, just as he had done the night before.
“His temp’s crept back up to over 102," he reported, "but it seems to be holding steady. The coughing’s worse, so I gave him the cough medicine along with the Tylenol. And he took a Gatorade. All logged.”
“Thanks, Rob. See you in the morning.”
He touched my shoulder and slipped out.
I went back to sleep.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20
I was falling, falling, whipped by the wind, drenched by the rain, the grace and purity of my dive dissolving into wind-driven cartwheels. The boiling black sea seemed to get no closer as I spun, helpless, seeing sky, then sea, the sky again. Lightning streaked through monstrous clouds, so close that I smelled the ozone frizzle of its passage. I steeled myself for the thunderclap, but all I could hear was the pulse, the steady beat of those massive wings.
Then I could see it, rising from the depths, cresting from the waters, wings stretching wide to engulf the whole world, beating, beating, sound like a bellows . . . . I felt the crushing despair, the terror, rising with every beat.
With an effort that took every ounce of my strength, I wrenched my eyes open. I was panting and damp with sweat. I was back – back in my bed, in the motel. In my body. In my right mind.
But the sound had followed me. Was with me.
It was coming from the monitor by my head. The sound of a man gasping for air, of lungs heaving for breath, spasmodic, tortured. I was in Iain’s room before I’d even thought about it, unmasked and uncaring. His skin was hot and dry and his eyes were wild.
“Fi!” he gasped out, “Fi, help!!”
I grabbed him with one arm, pulling him to me. With the other, I grabbed his phone and dialed 911.
When the dispatcher answered I said, “My brother has COVID and is struggling to breathe. The doctor said if that happened he needed an ambulance, stat. We’re in room 128 at the Westmont Motel.”
“Your name please?”
“Camryn Savin. My brother is Iain Savin.”
“Can we reach you at this number?”
“Yes.” I also gave him my cell phone, then said, “Please, please hurry!”
Iain continued to struggle.
“An ambulance is on its way and should be there in six minutes.”
“Thank you!” I said, and he hung up.
“Hang on, Iain!” I pleaded. “Hang on!”
He was weeping through his efforts to breathe. “I’m . . . sorry . . . Fi . . . sorry!”
“Just breathe, honey. Just breathe. Don’t talk. I’ve got you. I’ve got you!”
My ears were straining, straining to reach into the dark, the uncaring dark, desperate to hear the bugles of the cavalry topping the rise. Dammit!
“I’ve got you,” I crooned, channeling Fiona. “I’ve got you.”
An eternity later, I caught the sound, at the very edge of my hearing. It faded out, then returned, stronger, growing more strident, more insistent by the second. The blessed sound of a siren, wailing through the sharp darkness of the Bronx night.
As the siren’s auditory blueshift reached its crescendo and stopped, I released Iain. “Two seconds, Honey!”
He cried Fiona’s name as I streaked out his room and ripped open the door to the outside, preempting the paramedic’s knock.
“This way!” I shouted and ran back into Iain’s room.
They followed, dark shapes, faces covered by masks and goggles, hands gloved. “Stand aside, Miss,” the second man said.
They got to Iain, and the first of them grabbed him and brought an oxygen mask to his face, covering his mouth and nose. He struggled for a moment, then began to take gasping breaths that slowly began to ease into something more regular.
As soon as he stopped struggling, the other paramedic began getting vital signs, then trotted back outside and returned with yet another man, pulling a gurney. They got Iain up and onto the gurney, then began to move it quickly toward the waiting ambulance.
They put him in back and I moved to join him.
One of the paramedics held me back with a firm hand. “I’m sorry, you can’t ride with him. And you can’t go into the hospital. COVID protocols. I’m very sorry. You’ll need to call.” He gave me a card with a number, slammed the doors of the back, then jumped into the passenger’s seat.
The ambulance sped off, its wailing siren now red shifting.
I was standing in the parking lot, barefoot, nearly blind with tears, wearing a flannel nightdress and holding a piece of cardboard, my only link now with my brother.
I felt a pair of strong hands on my shoulders, and Rob’s voice said, “Let’s get you inside, Cami.”
I let him lead me back into the room. Vaguely, I saw other faces, staring at us from other rooms. From windows. From doors.
Rob closed the door behind us.
I ran into my room, grabbed my phone, and dialed the number on the card. When it was answered, I gave my name and said, “My brother was just taken away by ambulance. He should be arriving any minute. Is there any information you need?” I answered their questions then asked if there was any news. But he still hadn’t arrived, and we ended the call.
I was cold. I put on my slippers and, somewhat awkward over the flannel, my green dressing gown. Back in the common area, Rob had just finished making some green tea. He was wearing some sort of robe over pajamas, and he’d managed to put on slippers before coming outside.
He had me sit in the room’s only comfortable chair and brought me a mug, put it in my hands and made sure that I had it before letting go and getting his own mug. His deep eyes held mine. “Tell me.”
“I woke up to the sound of him struggling to breathe. The trigger for 911. He was hot – very hot – but I wasn’t able to take a reading. And . . . he thought I was Fiona. I called dispatch and they were here – God, it must have been no more than ten minutes after I woke up. They gave him oxygen, then took him off. I can’t go with him. I can’t even go inside the hospital.” My voice cracked.
“Yeah, I heard that part.” He thought a minute. “It’s 2:30 now; he probably started having the attack by 2:00 or so. I gave him medicines at 11:30, so it’s not like we were late.”
“No.” I sighed. “I really thought he had turned the corner this afternoon. A false hope, I guess.”
We were silent, sipping our tea.
He said, “Nothing to do but wait, I guess.”
I wanted to tell him to go ahead and get some sleep, that he needed to be fresh in the morning. But I didn’t. I didn’t want to wait alone, and I knew, somehow, that he wouldn’t let me anyway. I was too tired to say the polite things and hear the polite things in return. We sat silently.
He was very still and his eyes were dark and distant.
“What are you seeing, Captain Hutchinson?” I asked softly.
It took a moment, but his eyes finally blinked and refocused, back in the present. “You knew?”
“Of course. I needed your affidavit, so naturally I reviewed your bio. Two tours in Afghanistan?”
He nodded, saying nothing.
“You don’t belong in that dark place either, Rob.”
“No,” he answered, then said ruefully, “though I don’t think we can make it vanish with dancing this time, can we?”
I returned his crooked smile.
My phone rang and I almost spilled tea all over myself as I jumped to answer. Iain had been admitted, they had stabilized his breathing and were waiting for an ICU bed to open up. Meantime they were keeping him on oxygen.
The nurse had more questions about when he had become sick, and I got the log and provided very detailed information indeed. She said they would keep me posted, but I could also call the number I had been given earlier if I needed an update. I thanked her and ended the call.
It was about 3:30. “Rob, I don’t think we’ll hear anything else tonight. Let’s try to get what sleep we can and touch base in the morning before you go in.”
He agreed that made sense.
I saw him to the door, where he turned unexpectedly and gave me a hug.
He held it for a moment. “You did everything that could be done, Cami. You had the best advice, from one of the best experts, and you followed it exactly. This is not your fault. Understand?”
I nodded. “I know. . . . But somehow, I don’t believe it.”
“Roger that,” he sighed.
Then he kissed me on the forehead and went back to his room.
I went back to bed, certain that I would never be able to sleep. But I did.
Eventually, I even dreamed, though not the same dream as before. I was in a Starbucks. What was I doing in a Starbucks? I don’t like burned beans. But Tina of all people was standing behind the counter, grinning like a fool. “Wake up and smell the coffee!” she smirked at me.
My alarm got me up at 6:20, since I normally made my report to Fiona at 6:30. I checked to make sure that I hadn’t received a call from the hospital. Seeing that I hadn’t, I speed-dialed the number and confirmed that Iain’s condition was unchanged, and an ICU bed had not yet opened up. Apparently he was sleeping.
Fi called at 6:30 and I took the call in bed. “I’m sorry, Fi. He’s at the hospital, waiting to be admitted to the ICU.” I gave her the short version of yesterday’s events.
“He’s in good hands, and you need to trust my colleagues now,” Dr. Savin replied. “There wasn’t anything we could do for the symptoms he had that you weren’t doing, but for more serious symptoms we’ve got a bigger toolbox, that’s all. I’ll call over and get the technical details; I can probably find out more than you can. I want you to get some rest. You’ve been through an ordeal, too. Okay?”
She had her metaphorical stethoscope on, and was being reassuring in a medico kind of way.
“Thanks, Fi. Will do.”
I’m sure she was blaming herself for not being here, just as I was blaming myself for being here, and not being sufficient. And somewhere the pagan gods were laughing at our folly. The bastards.
I couldn’t get back to sleep and didn’t want to miss Rob before he went in for his meetings. So I took a quick shower instead and got dressed, sticking with stretchy jeans, a t-shirt, and a fleece. After putting on some light morning makeup I fired up the Keurig, poured a cup and took a sip, then another.
My phone rang. I was surprised to see it was Rob.
“Hey, Rob.” I sounded a bit distant even to myself.
“Cami, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I woke up with a nasty sore throat. I’m going to need to isolate myself, starting immediately. So I’ll be staying here today, and advising the folks I’ve been with that they should quarantine and get tested.”
I took another sip.
“You might as well come over, Rob,” I said, sounding resigned. “I’ve lost my sense of taste. And, I can’t even smell the coffee.”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
“Verstossen sei auf ewig”
– Mozart, Die Zauberflöte, Der hölle Rache (Aria)
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20
I was pouring water for tea when Rob knocked on the door. Tea for two. I’d gotten my caffeine fix, and given the fact that my taste buds weren’t functioning, I might as well drink tea. I let Rob in.
He was wearing classic business casual – khakis and a white button-down shirt. To all appearances he was fine. He was giving me the same appraisal.
“You don’t seem to have fallen apart – yet,” I said. “Do I pass?”
“So far, so good.”
I gave him his tea and we sat at the table.
“Are your taste buds working?” I asked him.
He put the tea under his nose, sniffed, and then took a sip. “They seem to be okay.”
“In that case,” I said, “do you actually want tea? I only drink it for therapeutic reasons, or to be sociable. Or, in this case, because I can’t taste anything, so what the hell.”
He smiled. “Henry mentioned that you’re a coffee snob, and he would know. I usually prefer it myself, during the day. But the way my throat feels, the concoction you made is a lot better.”
I had added honey and lemon to his tea; I remembered my mother using it as a home remedy.
We sat silently for a few minutes, sipping our tea. Then he said, “I sent emails to the people I met with yesterday already; I’ll need to call them soon. But I’m also going to need to notify the people I was in physical contact with in Boston the last two or three days before I left. That will include Henry. So your sister’s going to know very soon. I’m guessing you haven’t told her yet?”
I shook my head. “And I really, really wish I didn’t have to. She didn’t give me a hard time for dropping everything and coming, but she thinks it should have been her job. If Iain doesn’t make it, she’ll never forgive herself. And . . . .”
I hesitated.
But he finished my thought. “And if anything were to happen to you, it would destroy her, right?”
I nodded, feeling miserable.
“I’m sorry, Cami. But I really do have to tell Henry. And if he quarantines himself like he’s supposed to, Fiona will certainly know. Anyhow, no way he’d keep this from her.”
“I know.” I sighed. “And I understand. But I told her I would look after Iain, and I failed, and I told her I would keep safe, and I failed there, too.”
I held up my hand to stop his protest. “I’m not not saying I did things wrong, Rob. I did it by the book, as far as I know and as far as there is a book. But it’s objectively true that I was unsuccessful. Fi is going to want to come down here and fix everything, even though she is desperately needed where she is. And whatever choice she makes is going to tear her apart.”
“I know. I get Fi. Believe me, I do. But you can’t shield her from this.”
I nodded.
He asked whether I had been in close contact with anyone.
I shook my head. “You and Iain are the only people I’ve been within ten yards of since coming here six days ago. I’ve got lots of people to call, but not for that reason.”
“Okay. Why don’t we make our calls, then get together at, say, 11:00? I think we’re going to need a plan to get through this, and two heads are better than one.”
“I’d like that. I don’t mind telling you I’m less worried about this – a lot less – than I would be if I were alone here. Not that I wish this on you!”
He stood. “Likewise, on both fronts. Uncle Chip doesn’t hand out compliments cheaply. Or, really, at all. And he says your ability to think under pressure is . . . commendable. Yes, I’m sure he said ‘commendable.’ We’re going to need that!”
Becoming more serious, he said, “It’s a great comfort to me that you’re here, Cami, even if I’d have spared you, if I could have.”
He left and went next door.
So easy to write. But I knew what devastation those few words would cause. Just as I felt I had failed, Fiona would feel it even worse. She would kick herself for not dropping everything to take care of Iain. For not telling me to just drop him off at the ER as soon as I’d found him. For any of the many choices we had made, the calculated risks we had taken.
Sometimes, all you can do is place your bets and spin the wheel.
The next call wouldn’t be easy, but it would be better than Fiona. I decided to use FaceTime. Nicole’s image appeared. I took in her breathtaking smile and cheerful “Good morning!” I felt like I’d gotten a huge hug. I wish I could bottle that smile and have it forever.
I smiled back, cheered. “Hey, Nicole!”
Maggie poked her head into the camera’s field of vision and waved. “Hi Cami!”
My smile got bigger. “You two are a sight for sore eyes! God, I’ve missed you!”
They assured me the feeling was mutual, then Nicole asked how Iain was doing.
“I’m afraid he’s worse. I had to call 911 last night – this morning, technically. He’s at the hospital, waiting to go into the ICU.”
“I’m so sorry,” Nicole said. “You were both fighting so hard. Are you okay?”
Well, nothing for it. “I’m still holding together. Mentally. And Rob” – I had mentioned him to Nicole when I had spoken with her the prior morning – “has been a big help. But, it turns out we’ve both got some COVID symptoms. Nothing much.”
Nicole froze; I might have thought it was a technical glitch, but Maggie didn’t freeze. She just looked like she’d been sucker-punched.
No one said anything, so I decided I had better. “Nicole. Maggie. I’m twenty-seven years old. I’m healthy. Unlike my older brother, I haven’t spent ten or fifteen years weakening my body with recreational drugs or living on poverty rations. COVID is serious, but it’s not like it’s an automatic death sentence. Okay?”
Finally, Nicole moved. “You’re right, Cami. I know you are – we know you are. But we’re worried for you – scared – and . . .” She paused, took a breath, and continued, “. . . and we’re not there. We can’t help. We can only wait. And worry.”
I knew how I would feel if our positions were reversed, and I ached for her. “I’m sorry. I really am. I know this is hard. But please don’t come up here, Nicole. New York may be the least safe place in America right now.”
She looked miserable. “I know, I know. Even my parents are going to go stay with my aunt in the Berkshires. They were hemming and hawing about it and I told them that if they didn’t do it I would come and stay with them in New York. The threat worked, but if I come up now, they definitely won’t go. And, I want them out of there!”
“Too right!” I said. “So listen. I’ll keep you posted, but there’s no sense worrying about it. We’ll follow the doctor’s orders, and do everything that can be done. So enough about that for now. Tell me what you’re up to.”
They looked at each other and Nicole seemed to slump.
Then she nodded, reluctantly. “Okay. I have a bit of a hard time talking about a podcast while you're dealing with everything that’s going on up there. But maybe it’ll help us all if we do.”
So we spent fifteen minutes or so doing that, and it actually did help. I thought the ideas were really creative, and I did my part, asking stupid questions that neither of them had thought about because they know too much.
When we had wrapped that up, I said, “Great ideas! Great energy! This is going to be fun! And I can’t wait to get down there to help!”
They smiled bravely.
I smiled back. Fantasy Island, and "Smiles, everybody." We signed off.
It was now 9:45, and the next person on my list was Eileen. I explained how my situation had changed.
“I’m so sorry. So, your plan is just to stay at the motel and self-quarantine?”
“Pretty much. My sister’s fiancé’s brother – if you can follow all of that – came down in part to do work in the City and in part to help with Iain, and unfortunately we’ve both got COVID symptoms now. The silver lining is that we’ll at least be able to look after each other and, ah . . . pull the rip-cord if things go south.”
“That certainly seems like the best of a bad set of options,” she agreed.
“Eileen, I know I’m approved for leave through the end of the month. And, I don’t know what this is going to be like. If I get as sick as Iain, I won’t be good for anything, and if Rob does, I’ll probably need to do the same sorts of full-time care that I did this past week. And God help us, we could both get that sick.
“But, it’s also very possible that we’ll both have mild to moderate symptoms and I’ll just be sitting in my motel room going mad with boredom. If there are any projects I can work on – maybe ones that aren’t time-sensitive, I would love to be useful.”
She chuckled. “That’s a lot of ‘if’s’ – but I’ll see what we can come up with.”
After I signed off with Eileen, I stared at the phone, gritting my teeth. No call was going to be harder than this one, but it had to be done. Iain was critically ill and I had to face the possibility that he very well might die. I had to call his father.
My father.
I got a recording, so I left a message. “It’s Cam. I’m calling about Iain. It’s urgent, so please call me right away.”
I put the phone on my lap and closed my eyes. Who else should I call? I hadn’t talked to Liz in a while. And Liz would want to know. She would probably have some hard-headed notions on how to straighten out my crazy life, too! I smiled. But it was Friday and she would be working. It wasn’t urgent. The same was true of Al and Javier.
And wouldn’t I just be worrying everyone to no purpose? Like Nicole, like Maggie, like Fi, even, there wasn’t anything they could do. I thought, I’ll call Sarah. She can pray for us, at least, though I tended to think Sarah prayed through action. But she could ask my sisters in our small community to add me to their prayers. They would normally meet tomorrow evening. I wondered if they would cancel.
The whole country seemed to be grinding to a slow, uneven halt. Like a train that’s jumped the track and is in the process of burying itself, car by car, into an avalanche field of tumbled snow and ice.
My phone buzzed with an income text. “What is it?” The number was my father’s cell.
“Iain has COVID. Please call me.”
The response, a minute later, was another text. “What is it that you want me to do?”
I thought about that. Texts were hard to interpret; his could be read as either a genuine inquiry or a snide rebuff. So I wrote, “I want you to CALL me.”
Two minutes went by, then three. Then I got a longer text. “If there is anything we can do for his physical care, we will do it. Let me know. Apart from that, Iain chose to leave this family. I can’t unmake his choice.”
My blood was starting to simmer. I typed, “He made that choice AFTER you disowned him!”
The reply this time was instant. “He severed himself from our family by his actions. Our later words just acknowledged that reality.”
I was getting really steamed, and I knew that was counterproductive. I took a deep breath to calm myself, then tried calling him again. He didn’t answer.
I texted, “Please pick up the phone. This isn’t a good way to communicate.”
He texted back, “I have nothing more to say on this subject, Cameron.”
I was incredulous. He hadn’t even asked how Iain was doing. I texted, “You could at least pray for him. Or, would that be too much to ask?”
Introducing religion had been a mistake. He replied, “The Lord’s purposes will unfold in time. I pray every day that all of you will be numbered among the elect. I fear, in Iain’s case, that the course of his life reflects reprobation.”
Now I was furious. To hell with being productive, to hell with trying to build bridges. And to hell with him.
“When you meet your maker, old man, you will not recognize Him!”
“It suffices that He recognizes me.”
I shot back, “Your own CHILDREN don’t recognize you!”
But he made the obvious retort. “My soul is not in their keeping.”
I was getting drawn into a fight very much on his turf, and it was stupid. But I thought of his son, gasping for each breath, shivering in my arms as I desperately listened for the sound of the ambulance. I thought of my sister, weeping bitterly that her daddy had disowned her and labeled her an ingrate.
I was too angry to even consider pulling back.
Furiously typing, I wrote, “Jesus CELEBRATED humanity. He fed the hungry, made wine for a wedding, broke bread with sinners. Cared for the sick. You turned your back on Him and created a god more to your own liking. One who looks like YOU. Have you traded your humanity for your bankrupt theology? YOUR SON MAY BE DYING, YOU PRICK! DON’T YOU CARE?”
His response, equally hot, was almost instant: “Blasphemer! You are no son of mine.”
There. This time he’d said it. But I chuckled nonetheless. I might be wearing jeans and a T-shirt, but I was also wearing panties, a bra, lipstick, light morning makeup and nail polish in a really fetching shade of rose. His precise statement was accurate, discounting, of course, his self-serving accusation of blasphemy.
But I agreed with him on a deeper level too. I typed back my response, as formal as a judicial decree. “On that point we agree. I will no longer honor you as a father, nor will I bear your name in this world. As the Lord says in Matthew’s Gospel, ‘I do not know you.’ Goodbye.”
I paused, reviewed it. Took a deep breath. Thought about it. Was this really what I wanted to do? What purpose would be served?
I hit send.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20, immediately following
I put down the phone, feeling strangely tired, like I had been wrestling with a demon. Maybe in a way I had been. I had known that Dad would never accept me as a woman, but I hadn’t told him, or my mother, what had been happening in my life. We hadn’t been speaking to each other at the time, and that had suited me just fine.
But, like all children, I carried my parents inside me at all times. Bore the weight of their silent judgment. Well, I’m done with that.
My phone rang. I thought, You should have called me earlier, you bastard. Too late now.
But it wasn’t Dad. It was Fiona. Please God, I prayed, help me to do better with this call! I gathered myself together, put the last few minutes behind me, and accepted the call.
“Good morning, Fi,” I said, projecting all of my love into the words. All the warmth in the world, to unfreeze the chill I had put in her soul. The warmth of sunlight dancing on ripe wheat, or of a merry fire on a winter evening. The warmth of a fuzzy blanket, shared with your dearest friend. Any warmth I could imagine.
“Cami, you’re killing me!”
Doctor Savin was gone; it was just my sister, devastated, wounded to the core of her being, torn between her duty and her family.
I wanted to weep. I wanted to apologize to her for failing, but the last thing she needed was to bear my guilt along with her own. I wanted to tell her everything would be okay. But she would know, even better than I did myself, exactly what those assurances would be worth. What comfort did I have? What possible solace could I give? Because right now, the world needed her.
Even more than I did.
“Fiona. Fi. Listen to me. We did everything right, just like you would have done if you’d been here. We did. You have always told me that in medicine, doing everything right doesn’t mean nothing will go wrong. That’s what happened here. You couldn’t have prevented it.”
“You don’t know that, Cami!” She was weeping.
“Maybe not, but I know I followed your instructions, right up until I had to make the 911 call. Are you telling me I screwed up?” Maybe that would do it.
“No,” she said quickly. “I don’t mean that. I don’t! Don’t think it! I’m just saying I have more experience. Maybe if I’d been there . . . .”
She faded to silence, and I finished for her. “. . . And maybe not, too. We don’t know, and we’ll never know. We did the best we could. You, me. Rob. Iain too. We can’t do more than that.”
She absorbed that for a moment before responding. “Okay, but now you’re both sick. I need to get down there . . . now.”
This was the thing I worried about the most. “No, Fi. We’re both in good shape, and we’ll give you regular reports. You’ve said it yourself: there’s nothing you can do for mild symptoms that we aren’t doing. And you have a crapload of people you are responsible for right now that don't just have mild symptoms.”
“They aren’t my family, God dammit!” she broke in. “They aren’t you! It’s . . . It’s . . . Christ, it's too much, Cami. Too much! I can’t!”
Okay, I thought. Time for steel. It had worked with Nicole. It had even worked with Tina. I didn’t want to hurt Fi, but I couldn’t think of another way to reach her right now.
“Yes, you can. You can. They are your family, just as much as I am, and they need their doctor. Right now, today, their need is greater. You would be appalled if Iain’s doctors just vanished because they had family to deal with. So would I. So get back in there and save your patients!”
The line was suddenly silent, and I prayed . . . prayed . . . that someday she would forgive me for that. When she finally spoke, she sounded like she had been hollowed out.
“I know, Cami. I do know. And, I’ll do it. I just don’t know how long I can keep this up.”
“Fiona. I love you more than I can say. I would give anything to keep from hurting you. Anything. I will be careful, and we’ll give you regular reports. Set your mind at rest. You are exactly where you need to be.”
“Okay,” she said, sounding flat. Resigned.
“You’ve always been my hero, Fi. I’ll stay as safe as I can; you do the same, okay?”
“I will, Sweetie.”
We ended the call.
I handed him a fresh cup of his doctored tea. “Yeah, I’ve had better mornings. I think I prevented my roommate and my sister from coming to save me, at least for the moment, but they weren’t very happy about it. Oh, and I disowned my father. I mean, he disowned me first, but I made sure mine would count.”
“Oh, sweet Jesus.”
I sat down at the table, but he came around behind me. “Lean forward for a moment, Cami. You look tight as a snare drum.”
He put his hands on my shoulders and started digging his fingers into my taut muscles, starting softly but increasing the pressure until they went deep. I leaned forward, put my forearms on my thighs and lowered my head. He worked silently for a while, down my shoulder blades and up the back of my neck to the base of my skull.
After a few minutes he stopped, then walked around to the other side of the table and sat down. “A little better, I hope?”
I straightened up slowly, moved my head left and right and shook out my arms. “I didn’t realize how tense I was. Thank you. I’d return the favor, but I don’t think I’ve got that kind of strength in my fingers.”
He smiled. “I’ll show you sometime. It’s not all about power, though that helps. Mostly, it’s about applying increasing levels of pressure in the right places, and in the right sequence. But I’m good just at the moment.”
He took a sip of tea, then another. “Thanks. This really helps; my throat is seriously raw.” Another drink, a bit more liquid this time. Then he put down the mug and looked at me. “Do you want to talk about it?”
I thought about that, and shook my head. “It’s a bit raw still. But thanks. I appreciate the offer.” I had a sip of the odorless, tasteless, thin, hot liquid in my own mug. “I’d rather think about something else. Almost anything else. COVID, even. So . . . I was able to use you as a bit of a shield against Fiona and my roommates. I said we could look after each other. I hope you don’t mind?”
He shook his head. “It’s pretty much what I said to Henry as well. And to Mom.”
“I think we won’t find a better place to hole up. I’m still close if Iain needs me, and the set-up works. In fact . . . .” I stopped, and then blushed.
His eyes twinkled. “In fact, yes. I was thinking that, too, but wasn’t sure how you would feel about sharing the space. It really is the smart thing to do. If either of us has an episode like Iain did last night, we’re going to want someone close.”
I nodded, still embarrassed. And not entirely sure why.
“Then it makes sense for me to check out of the room next door,” he said. “May I suggest that you move into Iain’s room? The attached bathroom will give you a smidge more privacy.”
“Okay, that makes sense. I’ll get everything properly cleaned before you move in, and you need to make sure you thoroughly disinfect the room you’re currently in before you vacate it. I’ve got everything you need for that.”
It was his turn to nod. “I hadn’t even thought of that, but of course you’re right. The cleaning staff won’t be protected.”
It was part of the reason that Nicole had selected the “no intra-stay cleaning” option when she booked my room. It had also saved a few dollars.
Just then my phone buzzed – Nicole was FaceTiming. I hoped we had no new disasters to worry about. “Let me take this.”
Rob stayed where he was and I swiped accept. “Hey, Nicole! Rob and I are strategizing on how to get through this. Is everything okay?”
She smiled – warm, genuine, but still worried. “Yes, but I’ve got an idea. Mom and Dad are leaving tomorrow. They can drop supplies on your doorstep on their way out – you are very much on their way. Would that help?”
“Absolutely!”
Rob was nodding an emphatic agreement.
“There’s one other thing, too,” I said, “if they would be willing. I extended my car rental, but it’s stupid to hang on to it now. If they could drop it off at National Car Rental, that would be a big help.”
Nicole’s smile got wider. “I’ll ask. I’m pretty persuasive!”
“True!”
We spent a couple minutes discussing details; I promised to send her a supplies list, and we rang off.
“Your roommate sounds like a lovely person,” Rob said.
I agreed wholeheartedly. We talked about logistics and decided Rob should check out of his room Saturday morning as originally planned. He was going to spend the afternoon in conference calls with the people he had intended to meet with today, and he would do that next door.
“I’ve felt better,” he acknowledged. “But I don’t think I’m in any imminent danger, and that’s what we have to be concerned about.”
We decided to start our own logs, just as I had kept for Iain, so we would be able to chart what was going on. “It will help keep Fiona sane,” I added, “and that ain’t nothing.”
We started with our initial symptoms. As of 8:00 am, loss of taste and smell for me. Same at noontime, coupled with unusual fatigue. Temperature at noon was 99.1; elevated, but barely. I didn’t even know what my baseline temp was; 98.6 is average, but people have natural variability.
Rob woke with a sore throat at around 7:00 am; it was worse by noon. In addition, he felt some deep muscle pain and some fatigue. His temperature was 99.7.
We had some instant soup (or to be more accurate, Rob had soup and I had a flavorless, hot, viscous liquid substance which I ate with a soup spoon). Then we each took Tylenol and Rob went off with some throat lozenges and Gatorade.
For almost the only time since I arrived in New Rochelle six days before, I was actually alone.
I called the hospital. Iain hadn’t been admitted to the ICU and I could not speak to him because he was sleeping. They weren’t willing to tell me anything else, because I didn’t hold his durable power of attorney and he hadn’t signed a waiver of his confidentiality protections under the Health Insurance Portability and Accountability Act, also known by the acronym HIPAA. I asked if I could email a HIPAA waiver to them and have him sign it when he was awake.
They hemmed, hawed, and agreed, while cautioning that they weren’t certain he would be in any condition to execute a valid waiver.
“Please try,” I said. “My sister and I are all he’s got.”
So I spent a bit of time doing some research, then drafted a HIPAA waiver that would allow hospital personnel to discuss his condition with Fiona and me and emailed it to my contact.
It was 1:30 and I was feeling weary. I decided the best medicine would be rest. Even if I wasn’t sick, my daily sleep deficits this past week had cumulatively created a sleep debt that would give the Chairman of the Federal Sleep Reserve nightmares, if such an official existed. I set an alarm for 3:30 and laid down.
My phone went off a bit after 3:00, however, so I fumbled around groggily for a moment and grabbed it.
“Hello?” I said.
“Hello, this is Sylvia Thomas from the Westchester County Health Department. I’m calling for Cameron Savin.”
I sat up, suddenly very awake. “This is Camryn.”
“Good afternoon, Cameron. I’m calling to follow up on a 911 call you placed at 2:12 am this morning. You had an ambulance sent for your brother, Iain Savin, and reported that he had COVID-19. Is that correct?”
“Yes, that’s correct. Has something happened to him? Is he alright?”
“I’m sorry,” she said, “we don’t have any information about his current condition. I’m actually calling as part of an effort to track your brother’s close contacts so that we can try to get them isolated. Do you have a couple of minutes?”
I thought, sourly, that in fact I had nothing but time, but what I said was, “Of course.”
“Well, you know that you’ve been exposed to the virus. Have you been experiencing any symptoms?”
I decided I could speed this up. “I’ve kept my brother in isolation since this past Saturday. I was joined two days ago by Robert Hutchinson, who came to help out. Both of us began experiencing symptoms this morning; so far, they’re mild. I have had no other contacts since last Saturday. Mr. Hutchinson has, and he has contacted them this morning. We’re both planning to isolate in place while the virus runs its course”
I heard the sound of typing as she took down my information. She asked whether any of us had been tested, and I said we hadn’t.
“There is a drive-through testing facility in New Rochelle,” she offered. “We’re encouraging people who have been exposed to get tested.”
“I understand that. But it’s pretty clear that Mr. Hutchinson and I are infected, so it probably doesn’t make sense to risk other people in order to confirm it.”
“Hmm,” she said thoughtfully, typing in more information. “Can you give me contact information for Mr. Hutchinson, please?”
“If you give me your contact information, I’ll ask him to call you. I’m also aware of two individuals who were in contact with Iain in the days before he became symptomatic; I’ll give them your information, too.”
Sounding a bit put out, she said, “It would really be better if you just gave me their information; we can contact them.”
“The hospital doesn’t want to tell me my own brother’s medical condition because of privacy concerns.” I kept my tone pleasant . . . but firm. “I need to be at least as careful. I promise I will give them your information, I will urge them to call you, and I will stress that this is a public health emergency. They’re all good people. You’ll get more cooperation from them this way.”
She grumbled, but didn’t have much choice.
I got her contact information and ended the call.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 20, immediately following
I called Iain’s roommate and his boss, filled them in on Iain’s status and asked them whether they were okay. Neither of them had experienced symptoms, but neither had quarantined either. Mahmoud’s job was still going, but Mike Peters said the restaurant had closed, for now.
“We weren’t told we had to, but no one was coming in. This place is a ghost town. I’m on half pay and all the staff have been laid off so that they can get unemployment.” Mike sounded lost. He didn’t know of anyone else at the restaurant who had gotten sick.
I urged them both to call Ms. Thomas and they both said they would. Given that neither of them had developed symptoms, it seemed likely the contact tracing effort would not go past them.
It was now almost 4:00 and I was still in bed, still feeling tired. But not out for the count, yet, so I got up, put on my slippers, and went into the common room. I grabbed a Gatorade (thin, cold, tasteless colored liquid) and decided to take another temperature reading. 99.6. Directionally incorrect, but not surprising. I added general achiness to my list of symptoms and wrote it in the log.
I had an email from Eileen indicating that she had spoken with Russ Gardner, the head of the insurance practice group; he would have an assignment for me to work on by Monday, but I shouldn’t feel any pressure.
“Getting better is the most important thing," she wrote. "If some work will help take your mind off things, do it. Otherwise, rest!”
I sent back an acknowledgment and thanks. I had an email from my colleague Daviana as well. Eileen had passed along the news that I had COVID; Daviana’s email was lovely and supportive. I responded to that one as well.
I was tired, but not really sleepy; achy, but not debilitated. I was annoyed at the hospital. Worried about Iain. I was tired as all hell of the four corners of this motel room that had become my whole world.
I groaned. This is just day one! Like, mile one of a marathon, I thought. I needed an attitude adjustment.
But I had no brilliant ideas that way, so I decided to take my mind off my woes by researching the process for changing your name under Maryland law. Westlaw is my friend. I was deep into case law interpreting Rule 15-901 of the Maryland Civil Code when I got a text from Robert asking if it was a good time for him to come over.
“Please do,” I texted.
He knocked on the door a minute later and I ushered him in.
“How was your day, dear?” I asked, jokingly.
He smiled. “Oh, you are booooored!” But he looked tired; much more tired than he had five hours earlier.
I took pity on him. “Here, sit in the comfy chair and put your feet up. You’re acquiring your own tire tracks.”
“Thanks, Cami,” he said gratefully. He sank down into the chair, slowly put one foot, then the other, on the ottoman that went with the chair, and momentarily closed his eyes. “I haven’t done anything more stressful than talk to people all day, but I’m beat.”
I put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “Let me take your temperature. And tell me where your symptoms are at. I’ll do your log entry, then we’ll see about getting you some food and rest.”
He didn’t fight me.
“You’re at 100.4, so up a bit. How’s the throat?”
“Still sore. My joints definitely ache, my head aches and my muscles feel fatigued, like I’ve been exercising them hard. My eyes are sore, too.” He thought a minute. “That’s about the full list, I think.”
I wrote all that down. “I’m doing a bit better, and I got some sleep. Why don’t you just rest there a bit. I’ll get you some Tylenol and a Gatorade. Are you hungry?”
He shook his head, eyes still closed.
I got him to take the pills and he leaned back in the chair. I went around behind him and very gently massaged his temples with the first two fingers of each hand. The look of pain and tension in his face began to ease.
After around ten minutes he said, “Thanks. That’s helped a lot. I have a really hard time functioning with a headache.”
I patted his shoulder. “We’re even. Stay here and I’ll make some soup. Our bodies will need the fuel, even if we don’t have much appetite.”
“Okay, boss,” he said, with something a bit closer to his normal smile.
Nothing fancy; just more chicken and vegetable soup that might as well have been dish water as far as I was concerned. But we both ate with more appetite than we expected. I made Rob some tea with honey and lemon and, on a whim, made myself a cup too. Naturally, I needn’t have bothered. It just tasted hot and wet.
Rob nursed his tea and looked a lot better.
I said, “The fever will drive some of the fatigue and achiness. If we can keep it down, it’ll help with everything else. So let’s do Advil doses between the Tylenol, like we were doing for Iain.”
“Makes sense. It doesn’t feel like it worked in his case, but we really don’t know what would have happened if he hadn’t been getting the extra doses.”
I nodded. Then I told him about Ms. Thomas’ contact tracing call.
“I talked to Henry this afternoon,” he said. “Apparently one of the guys I work with had been feeling a bit under the weather most of the week but didn’t think anything about it. He went home early yesterday and called in sick this morning. Based on his current symptoms, it sounds like COVID.”
His uncle’s response to the news had been to send all non-essential personnel home at noon and to tell everyone who worked with Don that they should isolate.
“If no one else develops symptoms over the weekend, we’ll open up on Monday, but Henry said the leadership team is discussing ways to have people work remotely for a while.” Rob shook his head in wonder. “You know, I don’t think Hutchinson Investments has ever closed its doors.”
He told me that Henry had hired someone local to give us assistance when needed. “He’s going to come tomorrow at 8:00 and drop off new sheets, towels, and blankets that match what we have – I sent brands and photos. He’ll give us heavy-duty plastic bags for our laundry, including all the current bedding. We’re to fill them, seal them, and disinfect the outsides of the bags. He’ll be by an hour later to pick everything up, and he’ll handle getting everything properly cleaned and disinfected. He’s got the right gear so that he can do it safely.”
I gawked at him.
“Cami,” he said, very gently, “I’ve grown up stupid rich. We have resources that most people don’t have. I try – really most of us who have any self-awareness try – not to let it warp us too badly. Not to flaunt it or rely on it too much. But in an emergency, it’s there and we use it. I think this qualifies; Henry does too. And, for what it’s worth, I think it will ease Fiona’s mind to know that help is nearby.”
I nodded, slowly. “I hope so. I’ve never heard her so distressed. . . . Well . . . one other time.”
Rob decided he was going to crash early, so he went back to his motel room armed with Tylenol, Advil, Gatorade, and something for his throat.
It was only around 7:00 and I decided I would hold off sleeping for a bit and clean. I stripped Iain’s bed and put my sheets and blankets on it for the night. After cleaning and disinfecting Iain’s room and its attached bathroom, I moved my stuff over. Then I cleaned and disinfected the room I had been staying in.
By that point I was dragging. But I took a moment and sent Fiona an email with a copy of Rob’s and my log entries. I checked my temp; it was holding steady.
In my new bathroom, I stripped, removed my breast forms and cleaned the area where they attach. I paused and looked at myself in the mirror. I’d only been taking estrogen pills for just over a week and it was too soon to see any changes, but that didn’t stop me from wishing for it. Longing for it. I gently ran an index finger over one of my nipples, yearning for some sign, some increase in sensation. Some sense of progress.
Nothing.
On the bright side, I hadn’t noticed any unusual mood swings, though I wasn’t exactly living in a period of calm. I sighed, lifted my light green nightie over my head and let it slide down my body, a silky caress, a hope for better days. The bed beckoned and I dove under the covers.
A headache, a raging thirst, and a full bladder forced me awake in the middle of the night. I blearily took care of all three and went back to bed. For once, I was not troubled by dreams.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 21
I woke up at my normal time – normal, that is, for when I was working, exercising, and doing voice lessons. 5:00. I smiled sadly, thinking of how many things I had let go over the past week, forced to focus all of my energy on the emergency at hand.
The aches in my body told me I would not be able to exercise right now even if I had the space, and even stretches would be painful. For all that, I didn’t feel horrible. I had slept well and my headache was gone.
I raised myself in the bed, a bit more gingerly than usual. My skin felt sensitive. Getting out of bed, I was steady, but definitely felt a little weak. I pulled my thin lingerie strap back to my right shoulder where it belonged, slipped into my dark green dressing gown, and went into the common area to take my temperature. 99.8. Well, it had been five hours or so since I’d had any medicine. So, not too bad.
I was thinking about my last night out with Nicole. How we had gone shopping at the mall and had a nice dinner out, knowing that we might not be able to do such commonplace things again for some time. Maybe I should spend some time this morning taking care of my appearance. I was strong enough to do it, right now. Steady enough. I had the luxury, at that moment, to care about it.
Who knows when I might feel good enough next?
I used Nair liberally. I showered, slowly, luxuriously, taking time to use the moisturizing soap all over my skin and even followed the shampoo bottle’s injunction to lather, rinse, and repeat. Applied conditioner and simply let the hot water massage my body while I waited for the conditioner to do its thing.
Out of the shower, I put mousse and curlers in my hair, turbanned up, then sat on the toilet and rubbed baby oil all over. When that dried, I reapplied my breast forms, concealed the seams, put on my robe and went into my bedroom. My toenails, then my fingernails, got treated to a warm, rich shade of brown.
While they dried, I sat, sipped some hot liquid beverage, and listened to Chopin.
Nor was I finished. I styled my hair, parting it slightly to my right and allowing curls to spill down my back and over my left shoulder. Imagining Javier beside me, giving me lessons in the mysteries of cosmetics, I took unusual care of my makeup, and applied the barest hint of scent behind each ear and in the hollow of my throat.
Rather than the practical underwear, jeans, and T-shirts I had been wearing, I pulled a pretty pair of lacy boy shorts over my panty gaff, with a matching bra and a pair of nylons. I had one skirt – my favorite, full skirt in a red wool — and Nicole had packed one cute top that was neither utilitarian or work-related, a soft white cashmere sweater with a v-neck and half sleeves. A pair of drop earrings, my watch, and a pair of pumps finished the look.
It was a completely inappropriate, wildly impractical outfit for the day, and it lifted my spirits tremendously.
Fiona called promptly at 6:30. She had calmed down after yesterday’s shock, but the detached professional of the past week was still not much in evidence. I told her that I had not heard from Rob yet this morning, but that the virus had been hitting him harder, especially by the evening.
She warned me not to get too confident: “CIVID’s weird, Cami. People’s symptoms are wildly different, their incubation periods seem to be different, and the course of the virus is different. He may do better than you today, or not. No telling.”
I told her about the trouble I had getting information out of the hospital. She cursed. “Goddammit, they know better. HIPAA does not prevent giving patient information to next of kin in situations like this, so long as the treating physician okays it.” She promised to call them, again.
“Fi, I should probably tell you that I tried to call Dad yesterday. To tell him about Iain. He wouldn’t take my call, so we had a lengthy text exchange. He said we should let him know if there is anything Iain needs for his physical care, so that’s good. But he otherwise made it clear that Iain was on his own.”
I thought carefully how to say the next part. “We had a bit of a theological dispute which, ah, resulted in our excommunicating each other. So to speak. He said I was no son of his, which I couldn’t exactly dispute. And I said I would no longer consider him my father.”
She was quiet for a moment, then started to chuckle. She was clearly trying, and failing, to suppress the laughter, and eventually it overwhelmed her completely.
Finally she was able to say, “I’m sorry, Cami. Really I am. I certainly know how much that experience hurt when he did it to me. But the mental picture of you texting thundering denunciations at each other . . . . And, he doesn’t even know you're trans?”
“No, we didn’t manage to get to that part,” I confirmed. “But, yeah, we did get a little Old Testament there by the end.”
“I’ll bet,” she said, then added, “But I have to say, good for you. For reaching out, which was more than I thought to do – and for sticking up for yourself and for Iain. He’s been bullying all of us for too long, and I’m glad you spanked him.”
“I told him I wasn’t going to use his name anymore. I’ve started researching how to change it.”
There was a pause before she responded. “Wow. You must have been pissed!”
“I was,” I agreed. “But I’m not now, and I still feel the same way. It’s time to make a clean break.”
“Have you chosen a new name?” she asked, sounding almost shy.
“I’m mulling it over. In the spare time the Lord has seen fit to provide in ample supply.”
She laughed. “Well, keep me posted, sis. I’d hate to not know your name. . . . Look, I’ve gotta go. Again. Rest, lots of fluids. Send regular reports. Text if you need me in a hurry. Okay? If I know you’ll do those things, I won’t go out of my mind or get in a car and come haunt you!”
“I will. And Fi . . . I love you, sis. You’re my hero.”
I had been up for almost two hours, and I was already feeling fatigued. I checked and discovered that my temp was still 99.8, or possibly was 99.8 again. I decided I’d take the Advil dose at 7:00.
In the meantime, I stripped everything off my bed and made a neat pile of the sheets, pillow cases, blankets, towels, and my own pile of laundry. I decided to surrender modesty and added my delicates to my laundry pile. I’d rather not have strangers going through them, but it was more important that the job get done. I might never even meet the person who was going to help us.
I waited until 7:15 before contacting Rob; I didn’t want to wake him prematurely, but he would need to be ready when Henry’s guy arrived.
He responded to my text by calling. “Morning, Cami.” He sounded congested. “How’d you sleep?”
“Pretty well. Temp’s creeping up, and I’m a bit tired and achy, but not too bad. You don’t sound so good.”
“My head feels like someone’s pumped water into it,” he said. “I slept straight through, which is good I guess, but it also means I got behind on the drugs and fluids. The headache’s pretty bad.”
“I’m up and dressed, so come over whenever you're ready. I’d say you’ll love your breakfast options, but you won't. Tea or coffee today?”
“Let me start with some coffee; it’s possible some of this headache is caffeine withdrawal. I’ll be over in ten.”
When I opened the door in response to his knock, he did a double-take and dropped the handle of his suitcase.
“Are we expecting company?” he asked, sounding confused.
I got him inside, grabbed his bag and pulled that inside too, then closed the door. He had come in and turned around, and was giving me a very appreciative look.
“Well thank you, sir! But no. I just knew I could do it today, and . . . and who knows? Maybe tomorrow I won’t have the stamina. So I decided to indulge myself while I could.”
I could see understanding in his eyes. He said quietly, “Yeah. I get that.” Then he slowly sank into one of the chairs in the eating area. “You mentioned something about coffee?”
I handed him a mug of what the Keurig produced. Normally I didn’t care for Keurig coffee, but now it was all alike to me, and I wasn’t going to add a caffeine headache to my woes. I joined him.
I had him go through his symptoms, taking notes. His sore throat was maybe a bit better, but he was stuffed up, had a headache, body ache, and overall weakness. He was at 100.9.
“I really don’t like where your fever is. When was the last dose of medicine, and what was it?
“I had a Tylenol just before I came over. Call it 7:30.” His voice caught and he coughed.
“Okay, Rob. Take the comfortable chair and sit still for a bit. Give the Tylenol a chance to kick in. Meantime, I’ve got something for your stuffed head; it should help a bit with the sore throat, too.”
I handed him a mug of a cold and flu medicine that came in the form of a powder which was mixed with hot water. He took it, looking weary, and started sipping it.
A few minutes later, we heard a car, then a car door, then the thump of something being dropped by the door. There was a sharp wrap on the door.
From the inside, I said, “Mr. Hutchinson is here. We’ll have the laundry ready for pickup in an hour.
A male voice responded, “You got it,” then I heard him walk away.
I opened the door, waved to the man as he drove off, and pulled the bags into the room. There were four large shopping bags with blankets, sheets, pillow cases, and towels that matched what was in the motel, as well as several large bags, in an opaque heavy-duty plastic, that were clearly intended for our laundry.
“The Tylenol is definitely kicking in,” Rob said. “As well as this other stuff. If you can give me twenty minutes, I’ll help you pull everything together.”
“Sure. Take half an hour, even. I’ll be generous. But what I’ll really need help with is making the beds. I can pull the stuff together for the laundry run in the meantime.”
So I did that, and as I was getting back from his unit with a bag of laundry, he got himself out of the chair.
“Hold on a sec,” I said. “I’d like to get another reading.”
His temp was back down to 100 even.
“Outstanding,” I said, relieved.
The laundry was all set, so we sealed the bags, then we both put on our masks and I sprayed down the outside of each bag with Lysol. Promptly at 9:00 we put them outside the door, and they were picked up moments later.
Rob was definitely feeling better, so we went next door, put our masks on, and cleaned and sanitized every surface. We took the new linens out of the bag, put the towels in the bathroom and made the bed. Rob made a last check, then we closed up and he went to turn in the key.
I went back into the unit we were now sharing and took a turn in the comfortable chair. It was 10:00 and I’d been going for five hours. I took off my shoes – why had I decided to wear pumps? – tucked my feet, and closed my eyes for a minute.
Something brushed my cheek lightly. I blinked stupidly for a moment, then saw Rob perched on the arm of the chair.
“Sorry about that,” he said softly. “I hate to wake you, but I think you need more medicine. I’d like to check your temp, too. Then I’d suggest you lie down for a bit. I’ve made the beds.”
“I was supposed to help with that!” I protested.
He looked serious and put his fingers back against my cheek, holding them there. “Each of us is going to need to do what we can when we have the strength to do it. I was useless earlier and you wore yourself out. So it was my turn. Now sit here a minute.”
He got up, invaded my ear with the thermometer, and said “100.7. Okay, Cami. Time for Tylenol, then go lie down.”
I took the pills, smiled and said, “Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
He chuckled. “Wrong service branch, Cadet. Fifty demerits!”
I went to go lie down.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 21, afternoon
I woke up at about 12:30 in the afternoon, rolled out of bed and used the restroom. Fixed my makeup. Rob wasn’t in the common room. He had left the door to the bedroom he was using slightly ajar, so I was able to check on him. I thought, I should make a point of doing that, too.
He was sleeping. His breathing was a bit louder than one would expect, but otherwise he seemed like he was okay.
I felt less tired. My temp was back down to 100.1, but the aches were still there. I filed another log entry, opened my laptop, and checked emails. Then I spent some time on my name change research.
At 1:00 I took some Advil and made a log entry. I checked Rob’s log and saw that he would be due for Tylenol at 1:30. If he weren’t awake by then, I would bring it.
I called the hospital. Iain still hadn’t been admitted to the ICU, he hadn’t signed anything, and they remained close-lipped about his condition. HIPAA.
My phone rang. I checked the screen and was shocked to see the caller ID from my contacts pop up. It said “Mom.” She hadn’t called me since just after Halloween.
This one could get loud, I thought. To avoid waking Rob, I took the call in my bedroom.
I answered it with a noncommittal “Hello?”
“Cam? That you? You sound like Fiona.”
“It’s Cam,” I said, though I didn’t make any effort to drop to a lower register. Consistency would probably work better.
“Did it occur to you that I might want to know how Iain is doing?” she asked.
I bit back a retort; instead I said, “Let me tell you.” She didn’t try to stop me, so I plunged in.
“He was living in New Rochelle. Started feeling symptoms eight days ago. I got him into a motel where I could look after him while he isolated. Fiona gave me instructions. He had ups and downs, but he had an attack early yesterday morning where he was struggling to breathe. I called 911, and they took him to the hospital. He’s been admitted. They were giving him oxygen and waiting for a bed to open up in the ICU.”
She was quiet for a bit, absorbing all of that. “You’re still up there? In New York?”
“Yes.”
“You’ll be there if he needs you?”
“Yes.”
Another pause. “Is there anything we –anything I – can do? I want . . . I want to be there. I want to see him. Your father says ‘No.’” She sounded like she had poured out a lot of tears.
I said, gently but firmly, “I think he’s right this time. New York isn’t safe right now, and they aren’t even allowing visitors into the hospital. If you came, you’d be no closer to seeing him than you are in St. Louis.”
She blurted out, vehemently, “I HATE this. I HATE hospitals. I HATE being helpless. I just have to sit here, and wait, and do NOTHING!”
There wasn’t really anything to say to that, other than, “I know. I know.”
She pulled herself together. “All right. I’ll wait. You keep me informed, understand? I’m going out to see your Gammy, so don’t be calling the home phone. Your dad’s not speaking to you.”
“Are you?”
She said, stiffly, “You’re father’s the head of the household. It’s his call. This doesn't count. S’an emergency.”
“Understood,” I sighed. If I remembered my Sunday school lessons correctly, Christ was the head of the household, but I wasn’t going to repeat my mistake of arguing theology with my dogmatic parents. Dad knew a chapter and verse to support whatever he wanted to argue; Mom just knew stubborn. “I'll tell you if I hear anything.”
“You do that.” She hung up.
It honestly hadn’t occurred to me that she wouldn’t follow Dad’s lead on this. But I was glad that I had misjudged her to a degree. She still cared enough about Iain that she was willing to defy the “head of the household” where her son’s life was on the line. Sometimes you take victories where you can get them.
I left the bedroom and got some water heating in case Rob needed an infusion.
Before they drove off, I went outside and blew them both kisses. They had given the world Nicole; they must be lovely people. Then I went back inside and put away the things they had brought.
Rob was working intently at the table in the eating area; I went into my room, FaceTimed Nicole and thanked her properly. She was relieved that I still appeared to be doing well.
I laid down again at around 3:30, this time leaving my door slightly ajar. Rob was again resting when I got up around 5:00. Our cycles were a bit off, but that actually seemed to work. We were both awake at the same time for dinner.
When we were done eating, I asked Rob if he would witness my signature on an HIPAA release I had prepared. “I don’t want Fiona to have to fight hospital bureaucrats like I’m doing to get info on Iain. In case . . . well. You know. I’ve drafted a durable power of attorney for her as well, but I want to find out if someone in the firm’s T&E practice can look at that one first. It’s trickier.”
Rob watched me sign the document, then added his signature.
“It seems strange – kind of melodramatic – to be thinking about this stuff.” I asked if he had a DPA then blushed when he gave me a strange look. “Of course you do . . . . I had forgotten your deployment.”
He nodded. “Yeah, you do get used to thinking about mortality over there. It takes a while to flip that switch back to normal.”
I toyed with my mug. “I should have gone too. To Afghanistan. 9-11 is almost my first memory of a public event. I grew up venerating service men and women. First responders. But when I was old enough . . . when I could make my own decisions . . . I looked away. Like Dick Cheney, I guess I had ‘other priorities.’”
His expression was impossible to read.
“I’m so sorry, Rob. I’m like all the rest of the people in this country who waved our flags, sent you off to fight for our ideals and our vengeance, and then went shopping.”
He reached over and covered my hands with his own.
I couldn’t help but notice that his hands were larger, strong and capable. Me, with my fine elfin hands, a soldier? Who am I fooling?
“Cami, no one’s ever apologized to me like that. What you said . . . there were plenty of times I thought about it that way. Over there, and even more, after I got back. Where was America? We were trying to do something big and important, and we were losing people. Some of the best people. But back home, it was ‘party on.’ There were moments I was pretty bitter . . . when I wondered what it would take to make people care.
“But I’ll tell you this, just speaking for myself. And speaking with a bit of distance. It was a privilege to serve. A privilege to be with those wonderful men and women who volunteered. And if you had met some of those people we were trying to help, in the towns and villages . . . . the women, the children . . . . Well. It was probably the most meaningful thing I’ll ever do.”
He released my hands and leaned back in his seat. “I know the President’s been eager to pull our guys out. I suppose it’ll happen sooner or later, and I don’t have a good feeling about what’ll happen then. Plenty of people loathe the Taliban, but no one likes the government. Or respects it. Still. Even if all we accomplished was to give people twenty years of something different – hopefully something better – I suppose that’s not nothing.” He was coughing a bit.
I got up and made him an infusion. While the water was boiling, I asked him what had moved him to volunteer.
He shrugged. “Good reasons and less good ones, I guess. There is a tradition of service in our family; we aren’t all syphilitic reprobates!” He smiled, but continued, “Patriotism, certainly. But probably more than anything else a need to prove myself, away from the cocoon of Clan Hutchinson.”
I nodded; that made sense to me. “I guess I went away to law school for similar reasons. But I should have volunteered. Even though I wouldn’t have made much of a soldier.” I found myself looking at my hands again – the soft, smooth skin, the delicate, tapered fingers. Useless.
He snorted. “Don’t be so sure. Remember, I’ve seen you in emergencies. You'd have pulled your weight.”
I gave him the infusion and sat back down. “Well, water under the bridge now, anyway. And, law seems to suit me, so it wasn’t a bad choice. Just . . . just a safe one. A comfortable one.”
“There’s nothing wrong with safety and comfort. And there are lots of ways to lead a meaningful life.”
We talked a bit, about our careers. Law and finance. What was interesting. What was tedious. He had gone into the army at twenty-two after college, served three years, gotten a master’s in finance and then joined the family business. He had only been employed there for three years, or so.
“I like it. We have a chance to help companies that are doing absolutely amazing things. To be a part of the development of therapies, medicines. Vaccines. And, that’s just the area I work in.”
We were both tired and called it a night. My temp was 100.4; his was 100.7. We started the night with Tylenol, and I set an alarm for three hours to take a dose of Advil at midnight.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 22
I still felt cruddy the next morning, but not noticeably worse.
Rob’s condition had again deteriorated somewhat overnight. His headache was back, his cough was more frequent and he had a bit of the chills. I got his information and suggested he take a long hot shower to warm up and to steam his throat and sinuses.
I had my morning call with Fiona. She was satisfied with the steps we were taking and just urged us both to get plenty of rest during the day. “The naps you both took yesterday are really important," she said. "Don’t try to power through this. Give your body all the help you can, okay?”
She was a bit concerned with Rob’s condition, though she assured me that neither his symptoms nor their severity were out of the ordinary. “I’m glad you’re there to take care of each other,” she said. “Robbie’s a really great guy.”
“Yeah. It’s certainly helping to keep us both sane.”
She must have detected something in my voice. “Ahh? And???”
I groaned. “Fiona Campbell Savin, I feel like death very lightly warmed over, Rob feels worse, and you want to play matchmaker?”
She laughed softly, but then she said, “Sorry, Cami. I couldn’t resist. There is nothing at all romantic in any of this. Believe me, I know. It just feels like forever since I was able to think about normal things, like . . . like . . . shopping, or dinner parties, or guys and girls. Or weddings . . . .”
Her voice caught. I remembered how happy she had been when she told me that she and Henry had set a date. Had that really been less than three months ago? But she had been dealing with COVID every day since – first in preparation for what might be coming, then for the reality when it hit.
“I’m so sorry, Fi. So very, very sorry. You’ve been carrying this load for a long time. I wish I could help you!”
“Well, perfect, honeybun, because you can. Get better. And get Rob better too!”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely.
Rob came out of the bathroom, toweling his thick black hair, wearing jeans and a gray army sweatshirt.
“Better?” I asked.
He nodded. “It helped, for sure. But I’ve got to get this headache under control, if I’m going to function.” He sat down at the table and closed his eyes.
“Do you really need to function today? Might make sense just to rest.”
Without opening his eyes, he said, “Sunday’s really my best day to step back from what’s going on in the market every day and plot a strategy. I read reports, from our people and outside analysts . . . . “ He was pressing the heels of both hands against his head.
I went behind him, moved his hands and started massaging his temples again. “If you know a better technique,” I said, “walk me through it.”
“What you’re doing is great. It really is. But I’ve got pressure at the base of my skull, too. . . . Try putting your thumbs here” – indicating a spot just behind the ear, where the skull connects with the muscles of the neck – “and your ring fingers above each temple. Start light and slowly add pressure and a circular motion.”
I followed his precise instructions and he began to relax.
After a few minutes he murmured, “You have a good touch, Cami.”
I figured he would let me know when he had had enough, so I just kept at it.
Eventually he raised his right hand and lightly covered mine. “Thank you.” He slowly opened his eyes.
I resumed my seat across from him. “Back in the eighteenth century, I think you would have been described as a ‘man of many parts.’ You’ve been a soldier, you’re an investment banker, every woman at that Christmas Party can confirm that you’re an excellent dancer. And now, it seems like you know massage as well. What other talents are you hiding?”
He chuckled. “That’s Dad, mostly. He believed Henry, Sam, and I should be able to fend for ourselves. So we learned to cook, although neither Sam nor I are in Henry’s league. We can do simple sewing. Laundry, of course. Perform routine maintenance on equipment. Things like that. But Dad also believed we should be conversant in arts and literature. Play an instrument. Dance. Play chess.”
“Really? I can’t imagine that went over well!”
“When we were kids, we’d rebel sometimes, as you might imagine. ‘Why should we do this? It’s stupid! It’s boring!’”
He grinned, remembering. “He’d always give us this serious look and say, ‘Because it’s civilized, boys. Without civilization, we’re just a pack of apes throwing dung at each other.’ Sam and I – even Henry, I guess – always thought that throwing dung sounded way more fun, but . . . we didn’t want to disappoint Dad.”
I felt my eyes grow unexpectedly moist. “He sounds like a wonderful man. I bet you appreciate him now!”
“Every day,” he confirmed, “I mean, we always did. We just didn’t want to do things, sometimes. But Dad is the best man I’ve ever met, or ever will meet.”
A tear splashed on the table in front of me and I started to get up. “I’m sorry . . . .” I said hurriedly.
“Cami,” he said, stopping me. “That was thoughtless of me. I’m sorry. Please don’t go. I won’t pry, but if you want to talk about it, I’m here.”
I eased myself back into my chair, closed my eyes and dabbed them carefully with a paper towel. Once I had myself back in control, I opened my eyes and returned his gaze. “I honestly can’t imagine what it must have been like to have a father like that. I really can’t. But I don’t have anything to complain about. My father’s a hard man. Obsessed, in some ways. Still, he kept a roof over our heads and encouraged us to use our brains and be ambitious.”
He drank off the last of his infusion without taking his eyes off mine. “But, you still disowned him. I don’t imagine that’s something you did lightly.”
“No,” I said quietly. “It wasn’t. There was no love left in him, Rob. Not even for Iain. He offered to provide whatever Iain might need by way of physical support, but he didn’t even ask how he was doing.”
I looked away. Looked down at my hands, cradled in my lap. “Fiona remembers him as being very different when she was a little girl, but I don’t. He was always rigid. Rules and obedience and consequences. He didn’t even need to know I was trans to disown me; the fact that I dared to throw his Christianity back in his face was enough.”
“‘If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.’”
I smiled sadly. “First Corinthians Thirteen. Exactly.”
Moving somewhat slowly, he got up and took our empty mugs into the kitchenette. Then he gave my shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry. But it sounds like you are better off free of all that.”
I nodded. “I think so. It hurts, but we’ve both hit the point where the gulf between us is just too wide, deep, and fundamental to bridge. All we’re doing now is hurting each other.”
He decided he was in as good shape as he could be to get some work done, so he brought his laptop to the table and started working.
After I took my own shower and got dressed, this time back in practical jeans, a T-shirt, and a fleece, I put my hair back into my standard loose braid and draped it over my shoulder. I was about to go into the other room when I got an incoming FaceTime call.
“Liz!” I hadn’t seen her in two months, and our communications had been a bit sporadic.
“Hey, Cami!” Then she noticed my background. “Are you traveling?”
I nodded. “Long story though. How are you? What have you been up to?”
Liz, as always, looked vibrant. Red hair, green eyes, lean frame, and a predator’s grin. I could see that she was at her dining room table; morning sunlight was lighting her face, streaming in through the windows that led to her deck. Just seeing her brought back a flood of vivid memories.
“Well . . . work’s a bitch,” she said. “The governor ordered all ‘non-life sustaining businesses’ in the state to close their offices two nights ago. Telecom isn't really “life sustaining” – at least, most of it isn’t, and my part sure as hell isn’t. So we’re closed down. And, my project has been put on ice for now. ‘Not a good fit’ in the current environment. I was on a lot of phone calls yesterday that didn’t go anywhere.”
She shrugged. “It is what it is, I guess. On the bright side, I have been asked if I would do photography for a wedding next weekend. I guess the regular photographer bailed at the last minute.”
“I hope you said ‘No.’
She grimaced. “Tempted to, but . . . it’s Tish’s little sister. I don’t want to leave them in the lurch.”
“This is no joke, Liz.”
“I know, I know,” she replied. “But still . . . .”
“Okay, girlfriend, let me tell you about my week. Maybe it’ll change your mind.”
When I was finished, she looked stunned. “So, Iain’s waiting to get into the ICU, you’ve got it and are running a fever consistently north of 100, and you’re getting long distance medical advice from your sister?”
“That’s about it. Listen . . . I called 911 for Iain because he couldn’t breathe, Liz. I was holding him in my arms and he couldn’t get enough oxygen. He was about to die. This. Is. No. Joke. Please, please be careful.”
She looked at me sourly. “You’re a fine one to talk.” When I moved to say something, she raised her hand. “I know, Cami. You didn’t have any choice, and I do. I’ll . . . I’ll think about it.”
We talked about other things. Her relationship with Derek was getting more serious all the time. Liz confessed that they were talking about him moving in with her. “I know . . . weird, right? For me? But . . . also, not weird. I’m nervous about it. Real nervous. But I’m also excited.”
“I wish,” I said, “that I could give you the world’s biggest hug. Congratulations! I’m so happy for you!”
My call with Liz definitely cheered me up. There was something about her . . . something clean and sharp and bracing. I definitely felt better.
But Rob was starting to flag again. “My eyes just ache reading this stuff,” he said disgustedly, followed by a nasty bout of coughing. “Dammit. I really need to get through it!”
“Rob, if you tell me what I need to look for, I’ll go through the reports and summarize them for you. I don’t have anything to work on at the moment, and I’m reasonably sharp right now. You can grab some rest, and hopefully I’ll be done when you’re ready to think about it some more.”
He closed his eyes and thought about that. “I hate to take you up on that, but . . . it would really be a help. I’m just having trouble with my eyes; when I read, it’s triggering the headache again.” He coughed, sounding weak.
“Okay. The things that I’m really interested in . . . .” He launched into a surprisingly brief list, which included things that I would have expected, like inventory, margin trends, and R&D spend, as well as a half dozen things that would not have occurred to me.
I took his temp - 101.4 – got him some medicine, wrapped an ice bag in a dishtowel for his head, and sent him off to his room.
My own temperature was 100.5; not all that different from what it had been. Muscle ache, general fatigue. Loss of taste and smell. In other words, holding steady. I would take it. I plunged into the reports, taking notes as I went.
Two hours later, I was starting to droop as well, and I had developed a bit of a tickle in the back of my throat. I was just finishing up my notes when Rob came out of the bedroom, looking better but still squinting his eyes against the light. His temperature was back down to 100.8 but his cough was no better.
I got him a fresh infusion, changed his ice pack and had him sit in the comfortable chair for a few minutes.
He had the ice pack on his head and his eyes closed, but he was awake and alert. “Any chance you can give me your summary orally? The less I have to read, the better.”
So I did. It took only about fifteen minutes. He had a few follow up questions about different reports and I was able to answer them from memory.
When I was finished, he said, “That . . . was great. Perfect. Give me a minute.”
He sat still; so still I wasn’t even sure he was breathing. Then he said, “Could you possibly write some things down? Between what I learned in my meetings and your summary, I’ve mapped out the moves I want to recommend on five core portfolios. It’s clear in my head right now, but I just don’t have it in me to move.”
“Of course. Whenever you’re ready.” I sat at my keyboard and waited.
He thought for a minute more, then he started going through a list. For five different portfolios, he had recommendations for buying and selling that were dependent on how the market might move over the course of the next week or two. Long positions, short positions. Hedge buys. Options contracts.
The sentences were brief, like “Pfizer: 10,000 shares if it goes to 27.50.” Or “Long call on Tommosso Pharma, six months with a strike price of 15.” When he was done, he slumped a bit in the chair and coughed. “I think that’s got it.”
I asked if he would like me to read it back to him.
“Please.” He made one correction. He started coughing again, so he drank the rest of the infusion, though I’m sure it had gone cold. He asked me to email him my notes, which I did. He started to get up.
“Wait.” I shut off the lights and drew the shades. “Okay, that should hurt your eyes a bit less.”
He opened them in a gingerly way, then nodded gratefully. “Thanks. That should have occurred to me.” He made his way to his laptop, logged in, and then sent my notes on to his supervisor. “I feel like I’ve just spent an hour in the weight room.”
I closed my laptop. “Me too. I think I need to crash for a bit.”
“Good idea,” he said. “I know I just got up half an hour ago, but I may do the same. Are we all up to date on meds?”
“Yeah. All set.”
We slept most of the afternoon away. I tried calling the hospital. Still no change, and still no detailed information. Otherwise I rested, took medicine, drank fluids, and felt like a banana slug. But I was still moving, and that would do.
I got a call from Sarah, checking up on me since I’d missed the last meeting. When I’d filled her in on the latest happenings of my life and times, I recommended that the group should maybe suspend meetings for a bit.
“Well, shit,” she said. “Don’t worry about us — we’ll think of something. You taking care of yourself?”
“I’ve got the best and most dedicated virtual doctor on the planet. I’ll be fine,” I assured her, hoping it was true. But I probably ruined the effect by asking, “Sarah . . . Do you think God grants our prayers?”
She sighed. “Scholars write whole books on this subject. You know that, right?” Without waiting for my answer, she said, “I’m guessing you’re not looking for a treatise. And anyway, the best answer I ever heard was on an old TV program.”
“And?”
“Yes, God answers prayers. But Cami . . . sometimes He says ‘no.’”
We talked for a bit longer, but her warning rang in my ears, like the sound of a deep and mournful bell.
By the evening, Rob and I were both doing a bit better. We got up to have something to eat for dinner, more because we knew we should than because either of us was hungry. Afterward, we sat in the comfy chair and the couch, respectively, having some Gatorade.
“It’s a shame we don’t have a chess set with us,” I said. “If I’d known you played, I might have asked Nicole’s folks to bring one.”
A slow smile spread across his face. “Oh, don’t tell me you need pieces!”
I thought, Oh, my God! I used to be good – really good, back in college – and I prided myself on my ability to play blind. But that had been a while ago. And, I had just gotten quite the exhibition of Rob’s powers of concentration. Still, a challenge is a challenge.
“White or black?’ I asked with an answering smile.
“Oh, ladies first,” he replied gallantly.
“Pawn to king four,” I said, beginning the Ruy Lopez opening. He countered with the same move, then pivoted into the Berlin defense. Soon we were deep into the game. I was rusty.
But I was still good.
After five or six moves he just closed his eyes, seeing the board better without distractions, a small smile on his handsome face. I kept my eyes open, observing him as we played. Even with his eyes closed, his face displayed a lively intelligence and an active delight in exercising a skill that had clearly gone dormant.
We had been playing for over an hour when I said, “Knight to queen’s bishop six. Mate in three.”
He was quiet for a moment, internally looking this way and that. Then he laughed and opened his eyes. “Concedo. Well done! I haven’t had a game that good in a long time.”
“College, for me. None of my friends in law school were into it. Damn, I’ve missed it. Your dad was right. It’s civilized.”
“It is that,” he said.
We took out final temp readings and medicine and headed for bed.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 25
7:00 p.m., and I was dragging. The past three days had been a series of short periods of activity followed by shorter or longer periods of resting. When working, Rob was on his computer or on calls; I was using the Westlaw database to do research.
Russ Gardner had a team preparing a fifty-state survey of caselaw interpreting the impact of epidemics and government shut-down orders on business interruption insurance. The more states I could do, the fewer his team would need to cover, but they did have people to do it, if I wasn’t able. So far I had finished with Kentucky, Oregon, Ohio, and Wyoming. Light lifting, really.
But light lifting was all I could manage. I got tired after two hours of research, my throat felt strange and I had a mild, dry cough. Body ache was unchanged, but it was getting old. And my sleep was once again troubled and restless, filled with chaos and dark imagery. If I was in a marathon, it was a long way from over, and I wasn’t sure I had the stamina to keep going.
However bad I was doing though, Rob was worse. He managed to work for two hours in the morning and a bit more in the afternoon on Monday, but only managed an hour and a half in the morning and a half an hour in the afternoon on Tuesday. He’d beaten me in chess Monday evening, but we’d just talked quietly before going to sleep on Tuesday. He was too tired for mental gymnastics.
He had been markedly worse this morning and spent most of the day in bed, though he had taken a few calls and sat in on a conference call. No amount of ice, massage, or drugs could beat back his headache; his cough was worse, and his temp was now firmly over 102 degrees.
I had a brief call from Fi around 1:00, telling me that Iain was in the ICU, and that she had been able to speak with him briefly before he went in. “He was pretty out of it,” she cautioned, “but he knew who I was, and . . . well. He took comfort from hearing my voice.”
I thought, I’m sure he did. He’s convinced that Fi will save him. The hospital was not having much luck improving his condition, and they were worried. But at least she had been able to talk to a treating physician, so we had some real information.
Henry’s man had been by again today. Laundry and towels out, fresh towels in, and we had fresh bedding whenever we were ready for it. We also had a fresh supply of medicine, food, and Gatorade. But I’d taken care of collecting the laundry and getting the fresh things where they belonged because Rob had been sleeping.
Rob went straight to bed after dinner and was asleep again within minutes. I went into his room and observed him carefully. His brow was clammy and his sleep did not look very restful. His skin was blotchy, color uneven.
I really didn’t like how he looked or sounded, so I decided to plug the monitor back in. Back in my room, I got myself ready for bed. Brushed my teeth, removed my makeup, moisturized. That was all I had energy for. My green nightie tonight; the flannel was off getting washed. But even that failed to lift my spirits. I was tired, achy, and deeply worried.
However tired I was, I couldn’t get to sleep. A sense of deep foreboding had been growing all day, and as the sun went down it increased dramatically. I felt isolated, alone and terrified. I was still awake at 10:30, so I got up, slipped into my green robe, and got Advil for us both.
Rob barely woke, and looked no better. His temp was 102.2.
I went back to bed and tried again.
At some point I must have dozed off, but this was every bit the mistake I had known it would be. My nightmare returned in full force. Again, I was tossed up, down, and sideways by wild winds, like a damned soul in the midst of a hurricane. The seas raged black beneath me; lighting split the sky, and the wind and thunder were a mad symphony of fury, the soundtrack to the apocalypse.
But I knew worse was coming, and that was what I had dreaded so much it had kept me from sleep.
As always, I became aware of the sound first. The slow, powerful beat. Then, once again, I saw the creature rising from the depths, immense, titanic, lifted up by carrion wings that were vast and dark. The pulsing beat of the creature’s wings became louder, louder, blotting out even the sounds of the storm, the barreling roar and crack of the thunder, pounding at my mind, shredding my consciousness. My will to resist.
I opened my mouth and screamed, terrified but still defiant. “NOT THIS TIME, YOU BASTARD!!!!”
I tore myself from the clutches of the dream and practically fell out of bed. Stumbling forward, getting my feet under me, pushing for the door . . . . I was across the common room and inside Rob’s room in an instant. Only once I was inside did I realize that there had been no repeat of the prior incident. Rob was not struggling for breath. But he was bathed in sweat and shivering.
I stopped long enough to catch my breath and get my heart to stop hammering and the wells of my chest. Then I got water, Tylenol, and the thermometer from the common room, went back and perched on the side of his bed. “Rob. Rob! You need to take some medicine.” I shook him gently.
His eyes popped open and he looked momentarily wild. “NO! GET BACK!” But then he slumped, boneless but aware. “Sorry Cami. Seriously bad dream there.”
“Roger that,” I sighed. “Hate to do it, but we need to prop you up so you can get some Tylenol, okay?”
He shivered, tried to pull himself up, and failed. I cradled his head and shoulder in one arm, and brought both up high enough to manage. With my other hand, I put two tablets on his tongue, then brought the water to his parched lips. He drank deeply, then I laid him back gently onto the pillows.
I took his temp I saw that he had hit 103.2.
“I’m so cold,” he said. “So cold!!!” He was shivering badly.
I set the remainder of the water by the table, pivoted and brought my legs up onto the bed. I propped myself up against the pillows and the headboard, then pulled Rob over, cradling him to my chest. Covering us both under the two blankets, I wrapped Rob in a fierce embrace.
I growled to my inner demon, Not this time, you bastard. Not on my watch!
I fought off sleep. I told myself that I needed to carefully monitor his temperature. Fiona said I needed to bring him in if we couldn’t get it down once it spiked 103. She hadn’t said how long to try. So I held him, and I kept sleep at bay, and I prayed.
At 1:30 his temp was 103 on the button.
I held on, fighting sleep. He was still at 103, but it was moving in the right direction. I sang songs in my head to try to stay awake. Happy songs and stupid songs and anything with complicated lyrics that required concentration.
At 2:00 am, he was still at 103. His temperature hadn’t moved, but at least it wasn’t going up. I would wait longer.
Not tonight. Not on my watch. I tried recalling each of the moves of Monday night’s chess game, to try to figure out where I had gone wrong. There is usually a critical move – one which, in retrospect, is the hinge point for everything that happens afterwards. Usually in mid-game. I thought about it, focused, pushing against the tidal pull of sleep.
2:30. Finally, 102.8. He was no longer shivering, and I eased my death grip. As long as his temperature was not rising, I would wait to give him Advil until the three hour mark. He was below 103!
But now I had to confess to myself that I wasn’t staying just to make sure we could get his temp below the critical mark. I was staying because I knew, deep down, beyond any logic, that the dark angel would come for him if I left, if I slept. Would come for him as it had come for Iain.
And he would be in the hospital, and I would get no word, and bureaucrats in starched white uniforms whom I would never meet would tell me over the telephone that, so sorry, we can’t give you any information. HIPAA, you know.
Not on my watch!
3:00 came. He was holding at 102.8. No change.
I had figured out the chess problem. Now I was trying to think up limericks. “There was a young lawyer from . . . .” Well, where was I from, now? I couldn’t really think of St. Louis as home; it was just my point of origin. And even that was, in a sense, debatable. Cameron Ross Savin was born there, certainly. I had the birth certificate.
But Cami/Camryn – the terrified girl who had no last name – she wasn’t born in St. Louis. There was a young lawyer from . . . Pittsburgh? Well; arguably. And, it scanned. But what the hell rhymed with Pittsburgh? Shitsburgh, I suppose, but that seems a bit unfair . . . and anyway, I would need two rhymes for the limerick to work. . . .
3:30. Still no change in his temperature. I gave up on limericks. I dredged up prayers I had learned by rote when I was very young. Ran through them all. Tried making changes to adapt them to the present circumstances. “But Cami,” I heard Sarah say, “sometimes He says ‘no.’”
Not on my watch!!!
I had an argument in my head with my father about the theology of my modified prayers. Now, that was fun. But it also made me mad, and mad was good, because it kept me awake. Sleep was the enemy. Sleep was the demon’s ally.
4:00. 102.4. Hallelujah! I rolled Rob back into the crook where my left arm met my shoulder, propped him up a tiny bit, and slipped him two Advil. I grabbed the water and again brought it to his lips.
“Take just a little, Rob. Come on. You’re going to make it!” I murmured.
He managed a couple sips, then lapsed back into sleep.
I decided I would wait until 5:00 to get another reading, so I had to get through another hour. I started writing a convention speech in my head. Something that might bring peace to a fractured nation. Something that might give comfort to a frightened girl, fighting sleep and hoping that the Angel of Death might pass over.
5:00, and his temperature was down to 101.8. I positively sagged with relief. Almost there, I thought. Don’t give up now! I was out of mental tricks. I was just pinching myself, biting down on my tongue, my cheeks. Blinking furiously. Moving my jaw; easing my cramping legs. Sleep called, tempted, cajoled. And I fought back, with every ounce of my dwindling strength.
Not tonight, you bastard. Not tonight!
By 6:00 in the morning, miraculously, he was down to 100.7; neither of us had been under 101 since Sunday. I found myself weeping uncontrollably.
He had made it.
Through my tears, I saw him looking at me.
He was alive, and awake, and his keen intelligence was back in his eyes, re-animating his face.
I was overwhelmed with relief. With joy. I bent my head and whispered, “Oh, thank God. Thank God! You made it!” I leaned over and gently, almost reverently, planted a soft kiss on his parched lips.
I straightened. His gaze held my eyes. Touched my heart.
“Oh!” he said. “Do that again!”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26
What color were Rob’s eyes? I was looking down at them through a prism of tears, and they appeared to be the most welcome, and the most welcoming, sight in all the world. Dark gray, perhaps? But there were shades of blue, flecks of green, a small spray of gold near the pupils . . . they were, I decided judiciously, quite possibly the most fascinating eyes I had ever seen up close. Worth a great deal of inspection. And I could think of few things, right then, that I would rather do.
But there were two things that had an even higher priority. One, I desperately, desperately needed to sleep. I had forced myself to keep vigil, to keep alert throughout the long night that just ended, waiting and hoping and praying for his COVID-induced fever to break. It finally had. He had come through. But my own fevered body craved sleep like an addict craves a hit.
On the other hand, my most urgent priority was blessedly simple. I had kissed Rob, and he asked me to do it again, and right now there was nothing – absolutely nothing – I wanted to do more.
He was pinning my left arm, but my right was free. So I cupped my hand along the curve of his left cheek, bent down and touched my lips to his. Softly, at first, but I seemed to sink, to melt, into the kiss. I felt the palm of his hand – his left hand, my mind irrelevantly insisted on informing me, since I was pinning his right arm – slide behind my neck. Holding me close, drawing me deeper and deeper into that truly remarkable kiss.
Eventually, my overstimulated, sleep-deprived brain managed to generate a thought that was both germane to the situation and actually important: Rob was still stuffed up, and he was going to need to breathe. Eventually. Probably even soon.
So with great reluctance I pulled my lips back, retreated. Maybe two inches. I had an even closer view of one of those remarkable eyes. Both, really, but it would make me cross-eyed to try it.
“I think I could get used to that,” I said.
“I think we should find out,” he murmured in reply.
I bent to his lips again, slipping my free hand into the thicket of his coal black hair, while his own free hand slid lower, caressing my bare shoulder. This time I felt my whole upper body mold itself to his.
We broke our kiss again, and this time I rolled back to my side and he rolled forward to face me, separated by no more than a foot, our free hands resting on each other’s shoulders. Those remarkable eyes again . . . .
“Rob, I was so scared for you last night. It took a long time . . . a long time . . . to get your fever back down under 103. I probably should have brought you in, but I couldn’t. I just had such a bad feeling. Like I wouldn’t see you again if I did. You were burning up, but you were shivering . . . .”
I must have sounded a bit hysterical. “Shhhhh, Cami. Shhhhh. Hush now.” His left hand slowly circled my right shoulder. “Hush. I’m back now. You brought me back. It’s okay.” His lips – very kissable lips, it turns out – cracked into a smile. “I suppose it was too much to hope that a beautiful, scantily clad woman slipped into my bed to seduce me.” His fingers played with the delicate shoulder strap of my light green nightie.
I found myself blushing. “I really hadn’t thought about it. But now that you bring it up . . . .”
He chuckled. It was throaty and full of amusement. Of merriment.
God! I had made it through that awful night, and to hear such a sweet sound in the morning!
“Cami, dearest, you look like you are trying to force a truck to go uphill with nothing left in your tank. Just close your eyes. We’ll have plenty of time, you and me.”
I said, “Fiona” but he cut me off, saying, “Calls at 6:30. I know. I’ll tell her you're sleeping and give her a full report. Okay?”
I smiled. “A full report?”
He pretended to examine the spaghetti strap of my nightie carefully, rubbing it thoughtfully between thumb and forefinger. “Oh, I might leave a few unimportant details out. . . . However, if I leave medical details out, your dragon will incinerate me, and then where will we be?”
I brought my foggy brain to momentary focus. “Ah. Right. Okay. I didn’t make log entries last night, but the information is kind of lodged in my brain, you know? Your temp was at 103.2 at 1:00 am, 103 at 1:30 and 2:00; 102.8 at 2:30, 3:00 and 3:30, 102.4 at 4:00, 101.8 at 5:00 and 100.7 just now. You had Tylenol at 1:00 and Advil at 4:00. Got all that?”
He looked startled, then tapped his head and nodded. “I do. But, while that’s very useful, I doubt your dragon will be impressed. What are your own stats?”
“Oh! Sorry. I was busy. But . . . I had . . . Tylenol? When you did . . . . I think.”
He shook his head. “I am so doomed. She’s going to kill me.” He raised himself, reached across me and grabbed the thermometer. We were both getting adept at changing the disposable cap. He checked me and said, “101.6. Still not good. So, you’re going to take your Tylenol, Right Now, and then you are getting some sleep. Okay?”
Putting down the thermometer, he grabbed the pills and placed two gently on my tongue. He propped me up and had me finish the glass of water that was on the nightstand, then eased me back into the pillows. Last, and by far best, he bent down, kissed my forehead, and said, “Sleep.”
I smiled one more time before sleep reached up and pulled me under.
I woke up, feeling disoriented. I was back in the room I had stayed in while I was caring for Iain, and I had a moment’s sleepy thought that the last several days had only been a dream. My dreams were so vivid, sometimes. But this morning’s triumph – that had been no dream. Nor what had followed. I found myself smiling at the memory.
Once I’d maneuvered myself into a sitting position I took stock. My phone was by the bedside; presumably Rob had talked to Fi. She would be worried, I know, not having heard from me. I should send her a text and let her know I’m okay.
Rob had thoughtfully brought my dark green dressing gown and slippers from the other bedroom and laid them on the chair. I took the hint and got up, tugged my way into my robe and slippers and picked up my phone. 10:26 am. My goodness! I couldn’t remember the last time I slept so late.
My throat felt raw and there was no diminution in my body’s deep aches. I could tell that I was still running a fever, which I confirmed it with the thermometer: 101.7. Bah! I still felt gritty and sleep deprived, but I needed to use the facilities, and I needed a shower . . . and fresh clothes . . . and something to eat.
I poked my head out the door, feeling a little nervous. Would Rob regret this morning’s incident? God knows, I don’t! But if he did . . . Oh, I didn’t want to think about that. Not at all. But Rob wasn’t in the common area.
He had, as usual, thoughtfully left the door to the other bedroom slightly ajar so I could assure myself that he was still here, and all right. He had taped a note to it: “Hi Cami - Fiona told me to let you sleep a full six hours if possible, then wake you up for more drugs. If you get this first, I’m just taking a short nap. Wake me up if you need anything.”
I smiled, confirmed that he appeared to be sleeping peacefully, then carefully closed the door so as not to disturb him. I would be due for more medicine in around half an hour; he should be on the same schedule.
I went and took care of business, then went to get something for my throat. Some liquid; it didn’t much matter which since they all tasted the same. My phone buzzed on the counter of the kitchenette.
“Hello? I answered.
“Is this Cameron Savin?” a very official voice inquired.
My heart skipped a beat. “This is she.”
“Cameron, this is Ida Spear from Mount Vernon Hospital. I’m very sorry. Your brother Iain passed this morning.”
She was still speaking. Saying something. I tried to concentrate on it, but her voice sounded far away. Redshifting, like the sound of a siren as an ambulance races away, speeding towards a hospital . . . fading. My peripheral vision was narrowing, black at the edges, turning into a long, dark tunnel. I felt a powerful, bone-jarring pain against my knees, like someone had hit them with a crowbar, and the floor began to rise up, up; I threw out an arm just before it hit my face. I couldn’t hear the voice anymore . . . . I could hear nothing but the pulsing beat of dark wings. What was she saying? Everything was black.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26, immediately following
I saw light. Not much, at first, but it was real. And I was back, yet again. Storm-tossed, my body falling and rising, buffeted by winds created by those monstrous, ink-black wings. I spun this way and that, my will gone. Tossed forward, I saw the creature’s face for the first time. Shockingly beautiful, a perfection of line and form, instantly conveying knowledge, wisdom, power . . . . A noble face. The face of a leader, a ruler.
Or a judge.
I had failed. Failed Iain. Failed Fiona. Failed, failed, failed. The creature raised a hand and the buffeting winds ceased. Without the wild winds’ support, I plunged, headfirst, then feet-first, twisting and cartwheeling faster and faster, until I finally hit the water and slipped below the surface of an inky sea that instantly enveloped me in dark and cold. So very cold!
I could not stop my descent through the icy water, going deeper and deeper. My dream vision began to fray at the edges, failing just as my earthly vision had failed.
Light returned again. But now I was in a snow-bound clearing, surrounded by deep, dark, majestic pines. Figures began to emerge from the silent trees. Walking towards a hole in the ground . . . a hole that held a box.
Oh, Iain!
But the figure in the box was not my brother. It was me. My image seemed peaceful. Eyes closed, hair meticulously arranged, as if Al had done it. The makeup showed Javier’s finesse. But I was pale and thin, and my curves would never be real.
I looked at the people who had come to stand by the hole. Robert, in a black suit and long coat. Rob! I so wanted you to teach me how to dance! And my wonderful, beautiful Nicole, her angel’s face streaked with tears, holding onto Maggie with a desperate grip. I won’t be there to help make our podcast. Another promise broken. Sarah was there, and Al and Javi, grief ridden, silent. Liz – vibrant, sharp Liz – stood out in red, her face carved in bitter lines.
And closest to the hole, to the box, Henry stood, despair eroding his handsome features, his arms wrapped protectively around a figure in black, suddenly fragile, fey and frail, the shattered remains of a once-heroic spirit.
Fiona! I failed you!! I could not even bear to look at her grief-ravaged face.
But there was one figure who displayed no sorrow. Instead, her face was consumed by seething contempt and scathing, magma-hot fury. She brushed past the mourners like they weren’t there, ignoring the hole, the box, and the pale figure inside it. Her hot gaze looked straight at me, wherever it was that I stood as I observed the scene. Looked me right in the eyes.
Tina.
“Coward! Quitter! Loser!” She spat the wods at me, unleashing her fury. “You turned your back on these people!!!”
“Dammit, Tina,” I said, finding my voice. “Iain’s dead. I failed, don’t you understand that?” I answered her rage with a cry of despair: “FAILED!”
She looked singularly unimpressed. “Oh, that’s never happened before? Well surprise, Boo. Shit happens. So where’s your steel now? Fine for your sister. Fine for Nicole. Fine for Tina. Sure. They can suck it up and take more, can’t they? But not you, huh? Not the princess?”
She leaned forward, spat, and spoke with a precise, clipped voice. “Get. The Fuck. Up!”
I was shaking. “Let me go! You don’t know what you’re asking! You have no right!!!!”
Her eyes blazed white hot. “I have no right? Me? Please.” Summoning years of bitterness – distilled, bottled, and consumed to the dregs – she added, “Life’s not fair, bitch. Deal.”
I wanted to punch her, pound her. Wring her scrawny neck. But she was gone. They were all gone, and the clearing was gone. I was once again foundering in the depths, surrounded by the frigid, deadly water.
Spurred by Tina’s contempt, I forced myself to fight – clawing, struggling, kicking with my legs, pumping with my numbed arms, trying to stop my fatal descent. Trying to reverse it. I could see light above me and I pushed for it. Pushed, and pushed and pushed, lungs bursting, throat burning. Vision contracting. Growing weaker now. Pushing.
My head crashed through the surface into a world made new, then suddenly my eyes were open, and my lungs were drawing in air in great, gasping heaves.
Rob was holding me in one arm while he desperately tried to dial something on my phone.
I reached up, still gasping, and weakly grabbed his wrist. “No, Rob!” I got out between the straining of my abused lungs. “No.”
“Yes! You were turning blue! You need an ambulance NOW!”
“No,” I said again, still heaving. “It’s not COVID.” Panting, I tried again. “Shock.” Pant, pant. “Shock. Give me . . . .” pant, pant . . . “give me a minute.”
He dropped the phone and used both arms to bring me into a sitting position, holding me firmly but loosely. His voice was suddenly calm and professional. “Lean forward. Lower your head. Take slow breaths. I’ve got you. Breathe. Easy.”
I followed his directions, let his voice guide me. The pounding of my heart began to subside and my labored breathing grew longer, deeper. Eventually, I reached up and squeezed his arms. “Okay.”
He helped me to my feet, my knees for some reason screaming agony, and got me to the couch and eased me down. Then he went to the kitchenette and got me a glass of cold water. He held it while I drank down a few mouthfuls, then set it down and squatted in front of me, looking at me carefully with his remarkable eyes. “Talk to me.”
I said, simply, “Iain.”
His eyes closed briefly, in pain or prayer or maybe both. Then he got up, sat beside me and gathered me into his arms.
I wept, and I wept some more, until I had no tears left. For Iain, and for Fiona. For our mother. Even for our father, who refused to see his son, and now never would. And for all the families in all the countries in all the world, for all the people who were losing their fathers and mothers, their brothers and sisters, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, lovers . . . . I did not have enough tears for them all.
The world did not have enough tears.
Through my anguish, I heard a voice, soft and comforting. A chaplain’s cadence, unhurried, calm and formal. “I know that my Redeemer lives, and that at the last he will stand upon the earth. After my awaking, he will raise me up; and in my body I shall see God. I myself shall see, and my eyes behold him who is my friend and not a stranger. . . .” Rob’s voice.
I let the words wash over me. “I don’t know if I can bear it all. And I have to tell Mom. And . . . and Fi.” My voice cracked and I clutched him tight. “Please, Rob. Please. Help me!”
He held me close and stroked my hair, my back, saying nothing. Simply being by my side, sharing the grief that was tearing me apart.
My phone buzzed again. I slumped.
Rob bent, picked it up and looked at the caller ID. “It’s Fiona, Cami. They must have called her, too.”
I nodded, took the phone in numb hands, and accepted the call. “I’m so sorry, Fi.” I had no more tears, but my throat remained constricted, choking my voice.
“I talked to the doctor,” she said. “They did everything they could. Everything I could have done. But . . . but I wasn’t there for him. He trusted me, and I wasn’t even there. He was all alone!”
“I know. Not me, not you, not Mom or Dad or even a friend. No one.”
“I don’t know if I can keep doing this. Sitting here, doing nothing! I can’t bear the thought that I could lose you, too. I can’t.” Her voice shook. Fiona, at least, still had tears to shed.
In my mind’s eye, I saw again that small, shattered figure by my bier in the frozen woods. That would not happen. That would NEVER happen.
Slowly, deliberately, and forcefully, I said, “Fiona, I swear to you. I will get better, and I will get out of this damned motel, and I will, by God, dance at your wedding, and no angel or demon in heaven or on earth will prevent me. Swear to God!”
The line was silent for a moment, then Fiona said, softly, “I believe you, Cami. I don’t know why, right now, but I do.”
We were quiet a moment. Quiet, but still very much present.
There were some practical things that we needed to discuss, but, pulling myself further and further back from the brink, I told her that I would take care of whatever needed to be done on the administrative side. “I couldn’t save him. Maybe no one could. But I can at least take this off your hands while I’m sitting around here waiting to get better. Please, Fi. Go save some other people from what you and I are feeling right now.”
She took a deep, deep breath and exhaled explosively. “Okay, Cami. Okay. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. I don’t. But I’m on it.”
Rob had kept his arm around me throughout. As I signed off with Fiona, he gave my shoulders a squeeze. “You need some medicine. And some food. And probably, if you’ll forgive me for saying so, a hot shower. Let me give you a hand.”
I nodded. He got us both some Tylenol and took our temperatures. 100.1 for him; 101.8 for me. I said, “Thanks, Rob. I’ve . . . I’ve got to tell Mom. First.”
He nodded and sank down beside me. I called her number.
“Cameron?” she answered.
“Mom, I’m sorry. Iain didn’t make it. We lost him.” Dead silence, as still as a grave in a dark, deep wood . . . .
“Damn it!” Her voice was clear and cold, bitter and biting. “God damn it to the hottest hell!”
The line went dead.
“I don’t think I can remember hearing her swear.” I tried calling her back, but she didn’t answer. I put down the phone. Closed my eyes, exhausted. Like I hadn’t had any sleep at all.
I stuffed my feet into my slippers and went back into the common room. Rob got up from behind the table where he had been doing something on his computer and folded me into his arms, holding my head to his firm, warm shoulder. We stood there a long while, silent.
Not moving my head from its resting place, I said, “I’m going to have to call the hospital now. Make the arrangements.”
He didn’t move. “What are you thinking?”
“We’ll have to do cremation. If we sent his remains to a funeral home, no one could be there. I’m contagious, you’re contagious, and no one else is available. It’s the only way.”
“Maybe it’s the best way,” Rob said into my hair. “It’s what I would want. Clean. Like . . .” Uncharacteristically, he stopped; didn’t finish the thought.
“Like what?” I asked his shoulder.
“I just remembered a verse. From Malachi. ‘But who may abide the day of His coming? And who shall stand when He appears? For He is like a refiner’s fire . . . . He will purify them and refine them like gold and silver.’ I imagine cremation is like that. A refiner’s fire. I’d want that.”
I thought about that for a bit. “For me as well. For Iain, though . . . Iain might prefer a Viking’s Funeral. Something dramatic.”
“I expect longships are hard to come by these days. . . . But it’s fire just the same, right?”
“Fire,” I confirmed.
Finally I sighed and pulled back to look at him. “Thank-you, Rob,” I said. “For everything. If I was alone here . . . well. Thank you.”
He traced my cheek with the fingers of his right hand. “Go make your calls. I’m here if you need me.”
I sat on the couch and made calls. The hospital wanted me to come in and confirm the identity of the body. I explained that I was in isolation. No, no one else was available. I suggested we do it by video call. They sputtered. Not permitted. Did they want me to come in? No, no! Not permitted.
I gave them some time to square the circle. In good bureaucratic fashion, it took them almost half an hour to come up with the idea that I could do the identification remotely. By video call.
I assured them that they were wise, very wise, to suggest it. We arranged a time. However, they could not release the body to me until the death certificate was issued. Things were very busy. Apparently. It might be a few days.
I called the Medical Examiner’s Office about the death certificate. They said they would get back to me.
Next, I called the Cremation Society. Yes, they could do it. But, I was supposed to be onsite, to positively confirm the identity of the body before the procedure. I explained the problem of being in isolation. They said they would need to get back to me.
Time for some Tylenol. My temperature was down to 101.1, but I had a nasty headache, on top of everything else. This time, the headache was not caused by COVID. At least not directly.
Rob passed on the medicine. His temp was down to a remarkable 99.7. His headache was gone and his throat felt much better, but he still had a cough, some body aches, and general fatigue.
I called Iain’s roommate. Mahmoud was very distressed, and lapsed into Farsi. Iain’s friend Mike was more stoic, but equally shaken. I had the impression that maybe Iain had been a different person, a less angry person, when family wasn't around. I hoped so.
It was 1:30 and I was out of gas. I struggled to get up; my knees were really bothering me. Rob was suddenly at my side, helping me up, guiding me into the bedroom. I pulled my feet from the slippers and sank down on top of the bed.
Rob said, “I’m going to leave this door open completely, and I’m going to be in sight. I am right here. No dreams this time, Cami.” He touched my face lightly.
I looked up at him, so solid. So warm. I touched the fingers that had brushed my face. “Rob. Someday – when all of this is over . . . will you teach me how to dance?”
Mount Vernon, New York, March 26, afternoon
Rob woke me up at 3:00 to give me some Advil. I was holding steady at 101 degrees; Rob had crept back up to 100. I sat up. “No backsliding!” I said sternly. “Get some medicine, right now. And some rest. You’ve been up for five hours.”
I could tell he wanted to protest, but he didn’t. “Okay, Cami. Give me an hour, but no more than that, okay?”
“One hour,” I said. “Don’t bother getting up; stay where you are.” I bent down, slipped his feet from the loafers he was wearing, then stood up. He was sitting on the bed, looking slightly bemused. I leaned in, kissed him lightly, and murmured, “One hour.”
He slept, and I kept an eye on him through the open bedroom door.
I checked my phone – no voicemails – and cleaned the daily junk from my emails. Russ Gardner liked my insurance analysis. His email included some follow-up questions and I sent a response. I sent a second email to Eileen, letting her know that Iain hadn’t made it, but that I was still in isolation and symptomatic.
I received an immediate response: “I am so very sorry for your loss. My prayers are with you and your family. Be safe.”
When I woke Rob at 4:30, his temp was back down to 99.6 (I was still holding steady). He took care of his business and emerged a few minutes later.
My video call to identify Iain’s body was at 5:00. I made some tea for both of us and we talked quietly. Waiting.
At 5:00 exactly, I received a FaceTime call on my iPad from an unknown caller. I set the pad on the table and swiped left. Rob came around behind me and rested his hands on my shoulders.
The man on the other end of the line was older, silver gray hair and a lined face. “Good afternoon. I’m Doctor Sykes. Let me first say how very, very sorry we are for your loss. And, I’m so sorry we have to do this over the phone. It feels so impersonal.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” I responded. “I want you to know – I want all of you to know – how much we appreciate everything you’re doing. And everything you did for Iain.”
He bobbed his head in acknowledgement. “I have to ask a few questions for the record, to establish who you are and your relationship with the deceased. I apologize for the formality.”
I nodded.
“Could you please state your full name?”
“My given name is Cameron Ross Savin.” His eyebrow rose a fraction at my phraseology, but he didn’t comment on it.
“What is your date of birth?”
“September 7, 1993.”
“What was your brother’s name?”
“Iain Frances Savin.”
“And when was he born?”
“July 2, 1988.” I had a sudden recollection of Iain at a beach house. The Jersey shore. Making a production out of blowing out candles on a cake. I must have been four. Where had that memory come from?
“When did you last see your brother?”
That memory was permanently seared into my brain. Iain, desperately trying to breathe, calling for Fiona. I struggled to keep my voice steady. “Last Friday morning. March 19, around 2:10 a.m.”
Rob’s fingers pressed on my shoulders.
“Okay, Cameron,” the doctor said. “We’re going to take the camera into the other room. I will show you the body and ask you to confirm that it is the body of your brother Iain Frances Savin. If you are not completely sure, or if the video image isn’t clear enough, please say so. It’s very important that we be certain.”
I nodded again, not trusting my voice.
The doctor got up and walked to a door; someone offscreen followed, holding the camera.
On the other side of the door, a body was laid out on a table, dressed only in a thin hospital gown. Cold. Lifeless. So pale the features might have been carved from wax. In death, he appeared calm, even peaceful. So unlike the passions that had animated his face in life. But there was no doubt.
None.
“I confirm that this is the body of Iain Frances Savin, born to Howard and Aileen Savin of St. Louis, Missouri on July 2, 1988. My brother.” My voice held steady, though tears were beginning to blur my vision again.
The camera moved to focus again on Dr. Sykes. “Thank you for your assistance, Ms. Savin. Cameron. And again, I am so sorry for your loss.” We ended the call.
Rob bent down and wrapped his arms around me. Then he guided me to the sitting area, put my mug of tea in both hands, and sat across from me. “Still can’t taste it, can you?”
I shook my head.
He took a sip of his own mug, then set it down. “Tell me about your brother.”
So we talked about Iain. The childhood prankster. The angsty adolescent. The passionate, often angry, man. The guy with the permanent chip on his shoulder. The mobile face, the powerful voice. Always dramatic, Iain. The only person in our family who would go toe-to-toe with Dad and not back down. Iain never backed down.
“I’m sure Fiona has better stories,” I said. “They were much closer in age. . . . I just hope she has a chance to sit down with your brother tonight and tell some of them. It . . . it helps.”
We sat quietly for a bit, then I sighed. “He was a complicated guy, and we didn’t have a great relationship. To some extent, we got along better in this motel room than we ever had before. Maybe he liked having a little sister better than a little brother. I don’t know. But I’ll miss him.”
We had some dinner and we talked some more. The day faded, and I felt a rising apprehension. I feared the night; feared sleep and the terrible dreams it might bring. When Rob suggested I should turn in, I resisted.
He looked at me evenly. “I understand that fear, Cami. I’ve seen it. Felt it, lived with it. Sometimes it helps to talk through the terrors. Not always. But I’ll help you if I can.”
I looked down at my hands. “It started after Christmas, like you guessed.” My voice was low. “At first I seemed to relive what had happened and what I’d been feeling in that library, when . . . when Jonathan came at me. But before long, the images went away. The only thing left was the feeling . . . the fear. I was terrified for Fiona.”
He broke in, surprised. “For Fi? She was downstairs, wasn’t she?”
I nodded. “She was. It wasn’t a physical threat. He was going to try to destroy her relationship with your family. I knew how much it mattered to Fi . . . especially since her own family was such a hot mess. I don’t think you realize how important family is to her . . . .” It’s impossible to convey just what family can mean to someone like Fiona.
I gave up with a shake of my head. “Anyway, once this damned pandemic hit, my fear has just gotten bigger and more generalized. It started invading even pleasant recurring dreams I used to have.” I blushed and decided I wasn’t going to describe those pleasant dreams in any detail.
“What I keep coming back to, over and over now, is a crazy scene where I’m falling toward a deep body of water, and I’m getting tossed around like a ragdoll by some sort of massive hurricane. And . . . .” I stopped, having trouble going further. My breathing felt uneven.
Rob was beside me; I hadn’t noticed him move.
He wrapped his right arm around me and held my hand with his left. “I’ve got you, Cami. You’ll get through this. What comes next, in your nightmare?”
I shivered. “A huge creature – I think of it as the Angel of Death. It rises up out of the water and spreads these massive, dark wings, like they would cover the whole world. I can hear them beating . . . .” Even the memory shook me.
He held me tighter.
“Anyhow, that’s what woke me, when Iain had his attack. And again last night. And this morning, when I heard the news, I was back in the nightmare, just like that. But this time I hit the water and sank like a rock, and then suddenly I was at my own funeral. And you were there, and Nicole and Maggie, Al, Javier, Sarah. Tina. . . . And Henry. Henry was holding Fi. What was left of her.”
I was weeping at the memory of Fi’s agony, crying uncontrollably. But I felt like I had to get through it. “Tina came and chewed me out. Then I was back in the water, trying to get to the surface. Running out of air. I was sure I wouldn’t make it. But when I did . . . .”
I paused, thinking about it, trying to recall what had happened next. It had been so quick. . . . But when it came back to me, I was filled with wonder.
“I hadn’t focused on it, Rob. Because just after, I was back with you, trying to breathe and stop you from calling an ambulance. But when my head broke through the surface of the water I saw the most beautiful thing . . . . No storm. No dark angel. Just a clear blue lake, a perfect, cloudless sky . . . snowy mountains . . . air so clean it almost hurt. It felt like the first day of the world.”
He just held me tight while I processed everything. At some point I dabbed the tears from my eyes and nestled into his protective arm, laying my right hand against his chest.
He kissed the top of my head. “Better?”
I gave him a little smile. “What? You aren’t going to tell me what my dreams mean?”
He chuckled. “Not a chance. You’ve got enough anxieties bouncing around your head to create a whole highlight reel of nightmares. Look. I’ve had friends of mine who were absolutely certain that they weren’t going to survive a mission. Positive. They knew it, and nothing anyone could say would change their minds. They were almost always wrong. Almost. Who am I to say? But I do think your dreams have shown your greatest fear.”
I nodded. “Fi,” I admitted, my voice heavy.
“More precisely,” he said, “that somehow, harm comes to Fiona through you.”
I chewed that over before saying, “I guess that’s right. I hadn’t thought of it that way before. But . . . I am petrified that somehow I’ll hurt her.”
“Have you always been close?”
I shook my head. “Not really. We were when I was small, but in a way a babysitter might be close to the child she’s watching. Fi’s seven years older. And when she went away to college, she didn’t just walk for the exits, she ran. We’ve actually become much closer since I’ve discovered I’m transgendered. In some ways, I think she saw it long before I did.
“But . . she’s always been my hero, even when she wasn’t there. The smart, beautiful, vibrant sister who would save the world. Who would reach for the stars . . . .” As the memories hit me, my voice grew soft and distant. “So long as she had a safe place to stand. A place to call home. A warm hearth. Family. Peace.”
He squeezed my shoulder gently. “Let’s see that she gets them, then. You need to get better, like you promised her. But no demon will come for you tonight. I will see to that personally.” He kissed me again, this time on my lips.
His kiss was soft and sweet.
I found myself responding, kissing him back with intensity and passion. I broke off, honestly a bit embarrassed.
But he chuckled, snagged some stray strands of my hair and tucked them behind my ear. “And here I was,” he said, “worried that I would go out of my mind with boredom being cooped up in a motel for weeks!”
My flannel nightgown hadn’t come back from the cleaner and my green nightie wasn’t dry yet, so I had to settle for yoga pants and a sleeveless ribbed t-shirt. I slipped into bed and he snuggled against my back, spooning against me. No angels or demons disturbed my sleep; the only dream I remembered when I woke up involved Albert Pujols returning to the Cardinals and playing like he had when I was young.
Sweet dreams.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 27
At some point in the night, between the last time we took some Tylenol and the time I woke up, we must have rolled a bit apart. I propped myself on my elbow and studied Rob as he slept.
His Hutchinson heritage was apparent in the squarish face, strong jaw and nose. But the bones seemed finer, sharper than those of his brother or uncle. His eyebrows, too, were thinner, less bushy. He did resemble his father very strongly, though I didn’t remember anyone in his family having those remarkable eyes.
Rob knew exactly who and what I was. Yet he had never, not once, treated me as anything other than a woman. Yesterday had definitely and dramatically altered our relationship, in a way that I found myself welcoming without reservation – but not without worry.
Would this new aspect of our relationship – what I was afraid to jinx by calling it ‘love’ – survive the bizarre moment in which we found ourselves, thrown together in a small space, helping and being helped? And, even more deeply worrisome, could it survive an encounter with the physical limits of my body?
Would he . . . could he . . . want me?
I tested my feelings, as carefully as Cameron Savin had always tested everything, unwilling to simply trust what I felt deep down. But no skeptic’s eye could shake the conviction that had lodged in my heart. It hadn’t happened when I kissed him; instead, it was when he had kissed me back. Oh, yes. I definitely wanted him, in every way that any straight woman has ever wanted a man.
I ached to reach over, to caress his fine features. To trace the line of his jaw with my fingers. To wake him with a kiss, welcoming the day. Instead, I slipped from the bed and let him sleep.
At 6:30 I spoke with Fiona and gave her the status of my arrangements for Iain. She agreed that cremation was really the only option and thanked me for handling everything. Then she grilled me on my condition and Rob’s, where at least I had better news to report.
“Rob really seems to have come through it,” I said. “His fever broke the night before last, and it’s stayed below 100 degrees since yesterday afternoon. The last reading we took at midnight was 99.1. He’s still pretty fatigued, but the other symptoms seem to be getting a lot better. Even the cough isn’t as bad.
“I’m doing better as well, but not as much improvement as Rob. My midnight reading was 100.8, I’ve still got all the muscle and joint aches, and I’m tired, and have some coughing. And, still no taste or smell.”
I got my shower and got ready for the day, sticking with jeans, T-shirt, and a fleece, together with a simple high ponytail. I didn’t have much energy for more. Rob was up and in the shower when I got out of my bathroom, so I fired up the Keurig. He came out of the common bathroom, towel wrapped around his waist and damp hair clinging to his temples.
“Oops!” he said, “I thought I’d be out before you were!”
I couldn’t help but notice his well-formed shoulders and chest, the latter with a modest amount of curly hair as black as what was on his head.
I swallowed my doubts and grinned wickedly. “I’ll let you know if I have any complaints!”
He returned my smile, put a hand behind my neck and brought me in for a kiss. “Hey,” he said gently. “Sleep okay?”
“I did. . . . Thanks for being there.”
He smiled again, then went to get dressed.
She was warm and supportive and wonderful. She asked about the arrangements and I told her about the progress I had made so far.
She said, “So you’re supposed to observe the cremation?”
“That’s the rule, yeah. Apparently some places were making no efforts to actually give people the right ashes, there was a huge scandal, and everyone had to establish rigid procedures to give the practice credibility again. But I don’t know how I can do it if I’m in quarantine.”
“If you do it, you shouldn’t be alone. I know I can’t be there with you in person, so don’t start on me! But, even if I could only be there by FaceTime . . . I want to be there for you. Think about it, okay?”
“If I haven’t already said this, my bad, but you are the most wonderful person in the world. Thank you. I don’t know what the arrangements will be, but I would feel a thousand times better if you were with me, even if you can’t be physically present. I miss you so much. You and Maggie both.”
“Then get well, girl,” she said softly. “Get well, and come home.”
I was a bit teary when we ended the call. I popped out to get something hot to drink, to help open my throat.
Rob looked up and raised an eyebrow. “You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m just a bit weepy because my roommate is really wonderful. Which sounds strange when I say it – the weepy part – but I can’t help it. She wants me to FaceTime her if I have to observe Iain’s cremation, because she doesn't want me to be alone.”
“That’s a really good idea. Fiona and Henry might want to participate the same way. It could be a long time before anyone is holding any kind of funeral or memorial service. . . . But you won’t be alone, Cami. I’ll be there with you – if you’ll have me.”
“Now don’t you get me weepy, too,” I scolded. “But thank you. I . . . of course I want you there, Rob. Assuming, of course, that I can be there.”
I went back into the bedroom and made some more calls. Still no death certificate. The person from the Cremation Society said they were trying to figure out how to manage our situation, especially recognizing that it was likely to become a more frequent occurrence. He promised to call me back.
Mom still wasn’t answering her phone.
I went down for a nap around 10:00. I was getting tired of being tired. When I got up at 11:30, Rob was asleep in the other room. We both seemed to need a lot of sleep.
I was just getting myself some Tylenol when I got a FaceTime call from Liz. I took it in my room.
As soon as she saw my face, she knew. “Oh, no. He didn’t make it.”
“No,” I said. “He died yesterday morning.”
Her green eyes were more serious, more grim, than I had ever seen them. “I’m sorry, Cami. You tried so hard – fought so hard. All of you did.”
We talked a bit about Iain, and the arrangements I was making, and Nicole and Rob’s idea about being present by video. Liz suggested I try a new app that her company was now using for video calls, something called Zoom. Apparently it worked better for having multiple participants. She also said, “I’d like to be there, too, Cami.”
We talked a bit more. I listened carefully and determined Rob must still be sleeping, then I said, “Liz. Could I talk to you about something?”
She gave me a look that said both, “What do you think we’re doing right now,” and “of course.”
I dropped my voice. “I shouldn’t even be thinking about this right now. I know I shouldn’t. But I can’t help it. I . . . . I’m . . . .”
I stopped, frustrated, tongue-tied, feeling like a child. Or, I thought suddenly, like an adolescent girl. Just great.
Liz observed my efforts to get through a sentence. “Boy trouble? Rob?”
I blushed to the roots of my hair, and my voice got even lower. “Yes. Or, no. Not trouble. Not that. But . . . I think I’m falling in love with him, Liz. Which is crazy, I know it’s crazy. We’re stuck here in this motel room, day after day, and we can’t see anyone else, and my brother just died, and . . . and . . . . Oh, dammit, Liz! What am I going to do?!” I sounded like an idiot and I was embarrassed as all hell.
Liz looked uncharacteristically understanding. “Cami. Honey. Slow down. Take a deep breath. I don’t know why you expect your heart will wait for a convenient time to jump the rails; no one else's does. Don’t feel guilty about it. Now, suppose you tell me what’s been happening?”
So I gave her the details, ears all the while straining to catch any sound from the other room. I told her about our talks, and our chess games. About my vigil Wednesday night and how it resolved. About yesterday, and last night. About this morning.
Through it all, she was patient, listening carefully, asking a few clarifying questions. When I was done, she asked, “So . . . what’s the problem, Cami? You seem to be doing just fine.”
I stared at her, dumbfounded. Hasn’t she been listening?
She saw my expression and smiled slightly. “I’m serious. Listen. You're a wonderful person. Take that as a given; I know you won’t agree but everyone else does. If he wasn’t attracted to you, he wouldn't be kissing you. Oh, maybe the first time – you had just spent the night keeping him alive – but not the third time, or the fifth time.”
“But . . . .” I interjected.
“. . . but nothing!” she retorted. “Based on everything you’ve observed about him, is he someone who just goes around kissing people for no reason? Do you think he’s just having some fun?”
That stopped me. “No. Rob is . . . . I mean . . . . I’ve obviously been around guys all my life. Compared to Rob, most of them seem like boys, even the ones that are older than he is. Like Tim. Rob is serious. Solid. He’s, I don’t know. Substantial. I can't describe it. I don’t want you to think he’s not fun – you should see him dance! – or funny, or clever. But he’s the last person on earth I could imagine just playing around with someone’s feelings. He’s not wired that way. At all.”
Liz smiled and shook her head. “Oh, girl, have you got it bad!”
“I know,” I said, miserable. “I know. And I suddenly find myself wanting to be everything he could ever wish for, everything he could want in a girl. In a woman. But . . . but I’m trans, Liz. You know what I look like, under the makeup. Without the padding. I can’t be what he wants!”
“Learn something from my experience, would you?” Liz suddenly looked serious, even severe. “You need to be yourself. Never waiver from that. Never. If he’s attracted to who you are, great. If he isn’t, that’s his loss. As far as your being trans, it hasn’t fazed him yet. I’m not saying it will be all wine and roses, but don’t buy trouble. You are absolutely capable of satisfying a man, so long as he’s interested in you. And it sounds like he is.”
Liz’s hard-headed common sense finally managed to put some hairline fractures in my armor of self-doubt. “I hope so. I really do.”
She softened. “Give it time. This is all coming at you so fast. And you’re still sick, and you’re dealing with Iain. If there’s something there, let it grow at its own pace, and don’t tie yourself in knots if everything isn’t wrapped up in a bow by lunchtime. Okay?”
“Okay. . . . What would I do without you?”
She laughed. “That’s easy. You’d think too much and worry yourself silly. You’re in lockdown with a good-looking guy who wants to kiss you. Just enjoy it!”
I have amazing friends.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 27, afternoon
Rob was up again at noon and we had a bite to eat. I wasn’t positive, but I thought that maybe . . . maybe? I could taste something. It wasn’t enough to be certain, but I was encouraged, nonetheless. My temp was down to 100.5, and Rob’s had gone back to 98.5. He said he normally ran a little cooler than the average, but if he wasn’t completely at normal he was close
After lunch Rob tried to get some more work in. I sat across from him at the table and checked my work emails. One from rafe.oliveira flagged as “Urgent” immediately caught my eye.
TO: All Personnel, All Offices
FROM: Raphael Oliveira, Chairman of the Management Committee, and Evan Barksdale, Managing Partner for Personnel
DATE: March 27, 2020
RE: EMERGENCY OFFICE CLOSURE
As a result of the growing threat of the COVID-19 virus, the firm will be closing all offices to in-person work for two weeks, effective COB today. We hope to be able to reopen on Monday, April 13. However, if it is not reasonably safe to do so at that time, we will extend the office closure for an additional period.
All employees should bring their laptops home with them at the end of the day today, as well as other equipment and materials necessary to work remotely during the office closure. Employees who are not in the office today should contact the office manager for your location to arrange delivery of necessary equipment or material to your residence.
Our IT Department is working to evaluate software solutions that will allow us to function more efficiently from remote locations for a period. When they are ready, they will upload the necessary software to your laptops remotely. Details will follow.
This is a difficult time and we are sure you all have lots of questions. It would be most efficient if you emailed them to Lynn Oster; she will compile a list and we’ll work on getting everyone answers as soon as possible.
We will be in touch in the near future with additional information. Until then, we hope that you and your families stay safe.
When I finished reading, I said, “Well, I’ll be dipped in shit.”
Rob looked a question at me and I explained.
“Do you think the two weeks is real?” he asked.
“Seems unlikely, but we’ll see. I’m glad I’ve got my laptop here. But I just can’t imagine what this is going to be like. Everybody working from home? All at the same time?” I shook my head, thinking of a staggering number of complications. “How on earth can we do litigation when we’re scattered all over the place?”
Rob said, “I can see where that might pose more of a challenge than running my office with everyone working from remote locations. But I guess that the machinery of justice has to grind on, so you’ll all have to think of ways. On the bright side, it’s going to give more tech-savvy lawyers like you a bit of an edge.”
“Maybe.” I chewed it over. “I should definitely start thinking about how we can make technology help. I was talking to my friend Liz while you were sleeping; she was saying good things about an app for multi-person video conferences. I think she called it ‘Zoom.’ Maybe it would help. But it won’t be the same popping into someone’s office with a quick question. Or having a good litigation team meeting.”
Rob ran a search on his computer. “Yup. Zoom Video Communications, Inc. A good product, by all accounts. And the stock’s been nuts since early this year. Looks like we used it as part of our hedging strategy. Not my area, of course.”
He went back to work.
I was debating doing the same when I got a call from the medical examiner’s office, telling me that Iain’s death certificate had been issued. I needed to get things set with the Cremation Society, but the hospital agreed to hold the body while I did that.
Back in my room I tried calling Mom again. She still wasn’t answering and I was getting worried. After going back and forth, I decided I had better try to do something to make sure she was alright. I did a search and then put in a call to the assisted living facility where Gammy Campbell lives in Morgantown, West Virginia.
When I asked the receptionist if there was a way that I could speak with Catriona Campbell, she was apologetic. “She doesn’t have a phone in her room.”
“Would it be possible for someone to bring her a cell phone? It’s a bit of an emergency.”
“Who’s calling, please?”
“Her granddaughter, Camryn.”
“Camryn, we don’t ordinarily bring phones to residents. Can we take her a message?”
“It really would be better if I spoke to her. Her grandson Iain passed away yesterday. COVID. And, I can’t reach her daughter Aileen, so I’m worried she might not be okay.”
“Oh my goodness! I’m so sorry! Poor Cat is going to be devastated! But you’re absolutely right. I’ll see if I can’t get someone into her room with a phone. Can we reach you at this number?”
I assured her that they could.
Five minutes later, I got a call back; the ID said “Sheila Tinsdale.”
“Hello?” I said, accepting the call.
“Is this Camryn?”
“It is.”
“Let me put your grandmother on.”
There was a pause, followed by a familiar voice, dry and matter-of-fact. “Cameron?”
“Gammy . . . I’m very sorry. We lost Iain yesterday. He didn’t make it.”
She was silent for a moment before saying, “Oh, the poor, poor, boy!” Her voice was brittle with pain. “Aileen told me you were looking after him?”
“I was. But we had to send him to the hospital a week ago. He just . . . he couldn’t get enough oxygen.”
She was silent for a moment. “This’ll hit your mother hard. You told her?”
“I did. Yesterday. She, ahh . . . swore a bit. Then she hung up, and I can’t get her to answer my calls. Will you try to reach her?”
“Aye, I’ll do that,” she said. “Iain . . . oh, he was such a scrappy, headstrong hellion. God, I loved that boy!”
“I know, Gammy. And he loved you too.”
“Thank you for being there for him. I’m so very glad you were. That he didn’t think he’d been disowned and abandoned by everyone.” She sighed. “Well, let me try to call Aileen. I’ll get you a message somehow.”
We ended the call.
Later in the day, I got a call from Gammy’s facility. She had reached Mom, who was grieving but otherwise okay. It wasn’t much, but I couldn’t expect more. No one should have to outlive a child; Mom had outlived two.
“I get that,” Rob said. “But why wouldn't that make her closer to the children who are still alive? Your sister is in the middle of this whole pandemic. You’re sick with the virus right now. She could lose you too. Is that what it would take for her to show any love?”
I had no answer to that. “I don’t understand her, either Rob. I never have.”
Two more nights, sleeping by Rob’s side. Sweet, dreamless sleep. Mornings looking at him, wrestling with my feelings. Wondering what he was feeling, but afraid to ask. Days living by Liz’s wisdom to simply let this evolve in its own time. To enjoy it.
We had been taking things easy. Resting, talking. Simply being in each other’s company. There had been touches, kisses, and tenderness. He would catch me looking at him; sometimes, while I worked, I felt his eyes on me.
Neither of us talked about it.
I had been uncharacteristically emotional. Memories of Iain would catch me unaware and leave me crying.
Rob was always there, providing comfort and support. Sometimes words; more often just a warm presence, a touch.
After a lot of back-and forth, the Cremation Society had offered to let Rob and me into the facility for the cremation so that they could adhere to policy, subject to certain precautions. We would be masked, and Rob even had Henry’s guy drop off face shields and gloves when he did our latest laundry swap.
The facility was the size of a small warehouse and the process was largely automated, so they decided that they could handle it without putting anyone at risk. We would almost never be closer than fifty feet from any of their personnel, who would also be masked.
Fiona had approved the plan as well. “I don’t know when you’ll stop being infectious, so you will absolutely need to take precautions. But, based on the layout, and the masks, face-shields, and gloves, it should be safe enough. Of course, you both have to stay well enough to actually do it.”
They scheduled the procedure for Monday at noon.
Mount Vernon, New York, March 29, evening
By Sunday evening, even my temperature had gotten back under 100 degrees and my aches and pains were receding. My sense of taste and smell were still impaired and I still had a lingering cough.
Rob was almost as good as new, though still fatigued.
Rob and I were discussing plans for the next day following a dinner that I was positive I could actually taste, though it tasted funny.
“That’s not you. Or else it’s both of us. That did taste funny.” He picked up the dishes, put them in the sink, then came back and started massaging my neck and shoulders.
I stretched forward, put my hands on the table and my head in my hands, and let him work.
“You are tight, tight, tight,” he said, as his fingers worked down my shoulder blades. He stopped after a couple minutes and rested a hand lightly on my back. “Let me do this properly. Go lie down. And remove your fleece; the fabric’s too thick for me to get through properly.”
I decided I would not read anything into his offer beyond what he had said. Don’t force it, Liz had said. So I took off my fleece and laid face-down on the bed. But I had worn a camisole under the fleece today; my T-shirts were off being washed.
Rob came and sat on the bed. He began, slowly and methodically, to give my back a thorough, deep and therapeutic massage.
I found my tension draining away. All my worries. It felt like even my grief became a dull ache as his fingers loosened every muscle group. After half an hour, I was not remotely sleepy, but I was fully, deeply relaxed.
I felt his lips brush my shoulder blade, then the top of my shoulder close beside my lingerie straps, then the back of my neck. I felt his warm breath in my ear, and heard his voice, low, husky, almost trembling. “You are so beautiful . . . so perfect! I don’t know how to love you properly. But I want to learn. God, I want to learn!”
Am I dreaming? Is this real? I rolled over, finding myself inches from those amazing eyes. Eyes filled with love. And . . . could it really be? Desire? Was it possible that this beautiful, wonderful man might actually want me?
I held his eyes in my gaze, pouring everything I felt for him into it. “Are you sure Rob? You know I’m not . . . .”
He stopped me. “I know. But you are all the woman any man could ever want. Could ever hope for. For the rest, for how we go about making love, you and me . . . the mechanics don’t sound complicated. People manage. The question is, are you sure?”
I framed his handsome face with both of my hands, somehow feeling his strength, his passion, his tightly controlled will through the sensitive nerves of my fingers.
“I’m sure, Rob. I could not be more certain.”
This time his kiss was fierce, exultant, full of his own desire.
I returned it with equal fervor, then parted my lips and felt his tongue, urgent, mix and mingle with mine.
Then he raised his head and shoulders, breaking the kiss. “I want you this instant, girl, but not like this.” His breath was ragged. “Let me do it right. I can . . . I can hold on.”
My laugh was low, intimate. “Not for too long, I hope.” I brought my hands in – my soft, slender hands – and slowly, teasingly, began to unbutton his shirt. He was using both arms to hold himself over me. I wriggled lower, continuing my work, then raising my head to kiss his chest where I had freed it. When I had the last button undone, I ran both hands up his abdomen and over his well-formed pecs.
“Okay, love,” I said. “Sit up for me.”
He pivoted into a sitting position and I followed him up, kneeling on the bed. I drew off his shirt and began to explore his fine, strong body with my hands. My lips. My tongue. His arms came around my back, digging into the muscles he had loosened, quivering.
“Oh, God, Cami!” He buried his head into my neck, my shoulder, kissing the sweet spot where the two joined.
It was wonderful . . . amazing. I was on fire, and I wanted more. Wanted everything. I brought my hands down, undid the clasp of his belt. Tugged and undid the button below. Pulled down his zipper, becoming clumsy in my own urgency.
He groaned.
“Lie down now, Rob. Lie back.” My voice was throaty, almost unrecognizable.
He lay back against the pillows, allowing me to pull his pants down, down, then off of his bare feet. His underwear, black and tight, was straining to hold his erection. I ran my fingers over the front panel, lifted the waistband and pulled them down, then paused to give him a most intimate touch, and a delicate kiss where it would make him writhe. I pulled his underwear past his knees, then off.
I stood up to admire him, lying there, so perfect. So desirable. I unbuttoned, then unzipped, my own jeans and – with somewhat greater difficulty (women’s jeans!) – pulled them off.
He was staring at me with wonder and desire. At me!
I didn’t remove my lingerie, wanting to preserve, as long as I could, the illusion of my feminine curves.
He raised his right hand, palm up, inviting me to take it.
I reached out, lightly resting the tips of my fingers over his.
He pulled himself to the sitting position, swung his legs on either side of mine, and pulled me close, his engorged penis crushed against the sheer silkiness of my camisole. He kissed me hungrily, tried to break off, then buried himself again.
My fingers were in his thick hair, and I was squirming sensually, straining to mold myself to him even more closely.
He managed to pull free, then lifted me up effortlessly, one arm behind my knees, the other behind my back. He kissed me again and tenderly laid me back on the bed.
“I had a few things dropped off with the laundry and the faceshields, Cami. Just . . . just in case. Things that will help. Give me a moment.”
He stepped to the door of the bedroom and came back a moment later with a package of condoms and a tube of something. He came back to the bed and sat beside me, excited but still in control. “Lie still now, love.”
As thoroughly as he had massaged and soothed my tense muscles, he now worked to bring every one of my nerve endings to a pitch of intense excitement. He stroked, he squeezed. He caressed. He kissed my arms, my throat, my ears, my belly.
When I couldn’t take any more I cried, “Please Rob! Please!”
Gently, tenderly, he removed my panties, then my padded panty gaff.
It was the moment of truth, but I was too far gone to be embarrassed.
He did not shy away from the evidence that there were, after all, parts of me that remained male, even if unimpressively so. He gave a single soft caress to the front of my penis, then he scooped up my knees with one arm, raising my ass off the bed. After sliding two pillows under my lower back, he gently pulled my knees apart. He looked in my eyes, not breaking contact, as put lube on his fingers and then probed, touched, and found my hole. I whimpered as his finger probed deeper, making circles.
Finally done with foreplay, he rolled between my legs, put protection and gel on his penis, and then set it against the hole he had teased open.
“This will hurt, Cami,” he warned. “At first. I will be slow. But when you’re ready . . . you’ll let me know.”
I looked at him with love, with desire, and wholly without fear. “I’m yours, Rob,” I said simply. “Take me.”
We began to push, and yes, it hurt. And my muscles wanted to fight him, and we had to work at it. But his eyes, like mine, were filled with love, desire, and sorcery.
The mechanics were not, after all, tremendously complicated.
Then he reached a point, a depth, and I felt something ringing within me like a great bell, deep and pure and powerful. I cried out, and I bucked, and the world was fire and beauty and magic. The magic of love, which finds a way.
He pounded in and out, driving my singing nerves to a whole new pitch. Then I felt him explode inside me, felt magma in the core of my being, and we clung together and wept for the pure, unadulterated joy of it.
A few moments later, he slipped out of me, then rolled off, capturing my limp body as he rolled. When his maneuver was complete he was on his back and my head was on his chest. His fingers stroked my hair, my back, my shoulder.
I kissed his chest tenderly, even as I brought up my hand to fondle his other pectoral muscle. “I think,” I said thoughtfully, pausing to take a contemplative nibble, “that you figured it out. Clever man.”
He chuckled but did not answer for quite a while. When he did, his voice was both warm and serious, “I don’t play around, Cami. Ever. I didn’t intend this to happen tonight; I was going to wait until after tomorrow, after you had said your farewells to Iain. I hoped that something might happen later, when you weren't dealing with everything. With your brother and your sister and your mother and grandmother.”
He sighed. “But I couldn’t stop myself. I wanted you too badly. Loved you too much. I’ve wanted you since the first moment I set eyes on you.”
I put both my hands on his chest, palms down, and rested my chin on them so I could get a better look at his remarkable eyes.
“I’ve cross-examined myself mercilessly, you know. Worried that my feelings might be, I don’t know . . . somehow colored by this crazy situation we’re in. Maybe even by hormones, God help me. But I’m certain my feelings are real, are true. If this isn’t love, I don’t know what love is. And I’ll tell you this, Robert Gould Hutchinson: I wouldn’t have missed this moment for anything in the world.”
His eyes were warm, but a twinkle reappeared, softening some of his seriousness. “If you’re going to make a declaration like that, you’ll have to tell me a secret.”
“A secret?” I had my share of secrets. Not all were mine to tell.
“Oh, yes. . . . One you haven’t told me. Or anyone else, as far as I know.” He was smiling fully now, but he wasn’t teasing. “What is your name?”
Rob had always called me Cami, but he wanted the formal as well. Because serious occasions would require it, and he was a serious man.
A memory flashed through my mind. A mall at Christmastime . . . my voice, saying, “Names are powerful . . . . When someone tells you what they want you to call them, they are trying to tell you something about themselves. About who they are . . . .” Was that really just three months ago?
“My name,” I decided, “Is Camryn Elizabeth Campbell.”
He answered back, formal as an attorney appearing at the Supreme Court’s lectern. “Camryn Elizabeth Campbell. . . . I love you.”
White Plains, New York, March 30
Iain was laid out in a box. He was shrunken, smaller and paler than he had been in life. But I would know that face anywhere. Would remember it forever. I placed my hands on his cold, unmoving chest. A chest that would never draw another breath. A final touch.
I nodded to the distant technician, exaggerating the motion so that it would be visible through both mask and face shield, confirming the identity of the remains. Then I stepped back and rejoined Rob, twenty yards away from the conveyor belt.
We had an iPhone facing the furnace, and my iPad was open and facing Rob and me. On the screen, in a series of stacked boxes, were those dear faces. Nicole and Maggie, together in what appeared to be the sound room at Opera House. Liz, standing outside on her deck, sunlight turning her hair to flame. Fiona, wearing her lab coat, in the hospital’s chapel, Henry behind her, holding her shoulders.
The technician threw a switch and the conveyor belt came to life, slowly moving Iain’s remains towards the chamber.
Maggie looked at the camera, raised her head slightly, and began to sing:
“Come to me, all you weary,
With your burdens and pain,
Take my yoke on your shoulders,
And learn from me.
I am gentle and humble,
and your soul will find rest,
For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”
Nicole joined Maggie in the chorus, their voices joined in a tight harmony:
“We shall rise again, on the last day,
With the faithful, rich and poor,
Coming to the house of Lord Jesus,
We will find an open door there,
We will find an open door.”
My eyes misted over as I listened to them and watched Iain’s final journey. I thought of my brother, always scrapping, fighting, striving . . . bearing the burdens and pains of rejection. So weary, at the end. I prayed that he would, at last, find a home where he was welcomed, cherished. Simply loved.
But it was the next verse, which Nicole sang solo, which brought my tears to full flood.
“At the door there to greet us,
Martyrs, angels and saints,
And our family and loved ones,
Every one freed from their chains.
We shall feel their acceptance,
And the joy of new life.
We shall join in the gathering,
Reunited in God’s light.”
My family. What would they be like, freed from the chains that bent and sometimes broke them? Grim Grandfather Ross, tormented by memories of battle. My parents, freed from whatever had turned the wine of their faith and love into vinegar, making them bitter and angry. Iain, freed from the burden of expectations he was never suited to meet?
Would we all, someday, freed from all that, feel the love and acceptance that had so often eluded us in life? God, I hoped so. Especially for Iain. I looked at Fi, weeping as freely as I was, sharing a communion of understanding with me. I knew that she joined my prayer.
And the doors of the chamber closed, consigning Iain’s remains to the inferno of a Viking’s funeral.
The Refiner’s fire.
Maggie took the final refrain while Nicole’s coloratura floated high above the melody, ethereal and otherworldly, a descant composed of repeated alleluias.
“We shall rise again, on the last day,
With the faithful, rich and poor,
Coming to the house of Lord Jesus,
We will find an open door there,
We will find an open door.”
Through the flood of my tears, I whispered, “Go with God, big brother. Safe home.”
. . . . To be continued
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Mount Vernon, New York, March 30, immediately following
Rob’s Audi was both quiet and understated and Rob, bless him, was giving me the quiet I needed to process all of the emotions from Iain’s cremation. I cradled the box that held his remains in my hands. So small a box, in the end.
Rob pulled smoothly into the parking lot of our motel and drove around to the back side where our room was. But when he rounded the corner, we saw a police cruiser parked in front of our room. The door of our unit was open, and the motel manager was outside.
“What the hell . . . ?” Rob sounded more puzzled than anything else.
I had thought from the time that I asked Nicole to book me a room that no one would rent to me if they knew I was isolating with someone who had COVID, and I had gone to great lengths not to advertise that fact. But clearly, someone thought something suspicious was going on.
Looking at the manager’s worried face – doubly worried, as he watched us pull up – I thought I could guess who the someone might be. “I wasn’t expecting police or an invasion, but I figured we would get questions at some point,” I said. “Timing sure could have been better.”
“You got that right,” Rob replied. “How do you want to play this?”
I thought about it. “By ear. Cool, if possible. We haven’t done anything wrong. But we’ll have to see how it goes.”
Rob touched my hand. “You’ve got the legal expertise. I’ve got your back.”
I gave him a smile of thanks, carefully set my brother’s remains on the floor in front of me, and stepped out of the car. We were both looking formal and professional. That would help.
Probably.
I paused to put my N-95 firmly in place, and Rob did the same. Then we walked over, stopping a good ten feet from the manager. Using a gentle tone I said, “I’m assuming you’ve got an explanation for this. I’d like to hear it, before deciding whether to take legal action, Mister . . . ?”
He didn’t take the hint and give me his last name. “Look, I gotta protect my customers. Protect the owners. You come here, you never leave, except when an ambulance comes in the middle of the night. A guy coming here every couple days making drops and pick-ups. I don’t know what you’re up to, okay?” He sounded very defensive.
“I see,” I said. “Please ask the officers to join us outside. I don’t want them to catch COVID.”
His eyes bugged out. “WHAT!!! Fuck!!! You goddamned . . . .” He stopped speaking abruptly. Something in Rob’s face, or his stance, made him think twice about whatever he had been about to say.
His pause gave me the opening to say, “Now would be a good time. I don’t want to explain this twice. And you are needlessly exposing those officers, right now.”
He was sweating seriously now, and he had backed up until he bumped into the wall. He just repeated, “Fuck!”
Fortunately, the police didn’t wait for him to call them. An officer came to the door, took in the tableau with a quick scan, and stepped outside. “Are you threatening this man?” he asked us.
I hurried to reassure him. “No, officer. We’re staying in this unit. We just asked the manager to pull you and anyone else out of the room; we’ve been sheltering in place there because we’ve both had COVID.”
“Ah, shit,” he said, then called back, “Kelly, out now. Now!”
Hearing his urgent tone, his partner came out of the room very quickly indeed, her hand on her service weapon. She had not, mercifully, drawn it.
Time to defuse the situation.
“I’m sorry you were called, officers,” I said, soothingly. “If the manager had spoken to me, we could have addressed any concerns. We aren’t engaged in any illegal activity. I’m an attorney from Washington, D.C., and Mr. Hutchinson is an investment banker. We’ve been experiencing COVID symptoms for the past ten days so we’ve been sheltering in place on the advice of a highly qualified doctor. We’ve had supplies dropped off. That’s all.”
“I don’t want no fucking COVID in my place!” The manager’s voice was loud, frightened, and sure to upset every resident within a hundred yards.
Idiot.
“I understand that,” I said patiently, “but, the terms of the month-long contract that I signed in your office don’t say anything about evicting people for reasons related to health or disease. I looked at them very carefully. You might want to do the same.”
He was sputtering.
The first officer – Dwyer, his name plate said – asked, “What about the ambulance, and the guy that was taken away?”
I kept my voice level. “That was my brother. He died in the hospital last week; we’re just returning from cremating his remains. Is there anything else?”
Officer Dwyer still looked uncertain.
The manager was still raging. “I want them out. Right now!!! We got rights!!!”
I kept my attention on Dwyer; he seemed to be the senior officer present. “I assume that you searched the room. And found nothing more interesting than a whole lot of flu and cold remedies, a thermometer, and a log book?”
His partner, Kelly . . . McDonald? . . . said, “I saw the medicine. For sure. And the thermometer. Didn’t see any log book, but I didn’t look at papers. No contraband or anything.”
I nodded. “Again, I’m very sorry. You should probably check in and find out whether you’re required to isolate. If you weren’t in the room long, it might not matter, and we’re masked and keeping our distance. But my sister’s a doctor up at MassGeneral, and I can tell you they don’t have a good handle on exactly how contagious this is.”
Officer Dwyer was no longer looking twitchy. “We’ll do that, thanks.” He sounded resigned. Turning to the manager, he said. “I know you don’t want them here, but if they’ve paid for the room we can’t evict them. You want them out, you’ll need to get a lawyer.”
The manager squawked.
Officer Dwyer was unsympathetic. “I get it. But there’s nothing we can do. There’s no evidence these folks have done anything illegal.” Looking at his partner, he said, “C’mon Kelly, we’d better report in.” He headed back towards the cruiser, ignoring the manager’s increasingly panicked protests.
Officer McDonald gave me a compassionate look. “I’m sorry for your loss, Ma’am. And, thank you for the warning.” She got in the passenger’s seat of the cruiser and they drove off.
“Fucking useless fucking police!!!!” The manager, amazingly, still sputtered like an old and poorly maintained engine.
I had had an emotional day and decided I had been a good girl more than long enough. “You heard Officer Dwyer. We’ve paid for that room, so get away from the door and stop harassing us. Anything else you want to say, I recommend you do it through your lawyer. Now MOVE!”
He didn’t stop cursing, but he moved. Quickly, once we started to approach him. I don’t know whether he was more afraid of Rob, radiating silent menace on my left side, or of catching COVID.
I’d take it, either way.
As I closed the door behind us, Rob chuckled. “Remind me,” he said, “not to piss you off.”
I pulled him into an embrace. “You did a pretty good job without saying a word.” I pulled back just far enough to give him a kiss. “Thank you for backing me up like that. Most guys . . . . “
“ . . . would have felt the need to take charge?” he said, finishing my thought. “That would have been a bad move, for lots of reasons that I mercifully don’t need to explain to you, oh chess master. There was more than enough free-floating testosterone in that encounter to get ugly. And dangerous. I had every confidence that you could handle the situation better than I could, and you did.”
I could only stare at him in wonder. “If I wasn’t already, I think I’d fall in love with you for that. You and Henry . . . my God, why didn’t your parents have twelve kids!”
“Well,” he said with an evil chuckle, “they had Sam, you see . . . .” Sam was the middle brother; I hadn’t met him.
The immediate emergency resolved, Rob went back outside and brought Iain’s remains in; we put them on the bureau in my room. We made some coffee, which I was absolutely positive I could now both smell and taste. Not strongly, but at least some. Some of the shortfall was almost certainly the Keurig.
Rob took off his coat and tie; I slipped out of my pumps, and we settled into the couch. His left arm snaked behind me on the back of the couch, leaving his hand free to play with my hair and my earlobe.
I snuggled into him, enjoying the closeness.
“You roommates have amazing voices,” Rob said, moving back to the really important events of the day. “I’ve been to a lot of funerals. Too many. I’ve never gotten numb to it, but . . . sometimes it just hits harder. Today . . . well. I’m really glad I was able to be there for that.”
I nodded. “Yes, me too. I know we had to do it this way, but I can’t think of any traditional service that would have been more suitable for Iain. And having everyone there made all the difference.”
I looked into those remarkable eyes of his. “Thank you for being there . . . and for thinking to invite people to join us. I know it meant the world to Fi to be able to be there, even if it was just by video.”
He gave me a lingering kiss, then we sat quietly for a few moments. Eventually, he said, “You know, we probably have to isolate another two weeks. But we don’t have to do it here. I don’t doubt you can keep that moronic manager out of our hair, but we do have other options.”
I thought about that. We had been staying close because of Iain – and because, for some significant period of time, we had been too ill to go anywhere. But neither of those reasons applied any longer. “What did you have in mind?”
“Well . . . ” he said carefully, “My apartment is only about three and a half hours from here. I don’t live with anyone else, so we could isolate there as easily as we can here. It’s nothing fancy, but I’m comfortable saying it’s better than this place.”
He was watching me carefully. There was more here than met the eye, so I thought about it before making an easy response. Why was Rob dancing around?
I finally decided there were too many variables, and just decided to ask him. “You seem very cautious about this, Rob. Can you tell me why?”
He smiled. “Always the observant one. It’s really just because I don’t know how you would feel about moving in with me.”
A serious man deserved a thoughtful answer. “If we’re just talking about our two-week isolation period, it certainly doesn’t faze me. At all. I have some very fond memories of this place, but some others will be in my nightmares forever. I’m more than ready to leave, and I’d love to see your place.”
“But . . . ?” he prodded gently.
“But. My life, and my work, aren’t in Boston. I . . . I don’t know where we’re headed, Rob. I have hopes, and dreams, and you’re in them. I want you to be in them. But how we work out life outside of these four walls . . . . I don’t have any answers for that yet.”
His features displayed nothing but calm and understanding. “I don’t either. I’ve enjoyed this moment and I haven’t wanted to think about what happens after. We’ll have to, eventually. But all of that can wait. Right now, we just have to decide where to stay for the next two weeks. If it’s my apartment, there’s no commitment involved.”
I smiled. “My friend Liz told me that I shouldn’t be worried if I couldn’t get everything figured out by lunchtime. I should listen to her.”
“Sounds like a wise woman . . . she was the redhead? The one who was outdoors?”
I nodded, then said, very shyly, “She’s the one who helped me discover who I really am. Who helped me understand that I’m a woman.”
“Then I have a lot to thank her for.” He leaned in and kissed me again. “That’s why you chose Elizabeth as your middle name?”
I nodded, then I kissed him back. And our kisses grew more intense, and our hands began to wander . . . .
Mt. Vernon, New York, later that day
I was naked from the waist down, wearing nothing at all except my bra, snuggled into Rob’s chest and sleeping soundly, when my phone went off. I propped myself up, searching for it. I saw a name I didn’t recognize on the caller ID and answered with a simple, “Hello?”
“This is George Devine from the Cabot law firm. Is this Cameron Savin?”
“Speaking,” I responded in my professional voice.
“Mr. Savin, or Ms. Savin, or whatever you are, I’m calling on behalf of my client, the Westmont Motel, Inc.”
“How can I help you Mr. Devine, or George, or whatever you are,” I answered. Pretty calmly, if I do say so myself.
“You can help me by immediately vacating my client’s premises and paying damages. You rented the room under false pretenses and I will expose your game in a New York minute if you aren’t out of there in one hour.”
One of the partners I’d worked with once said that people tend to hire the lawyers they deserve. Sure enough, this guy was like the manager, but with a law degree.
I was going to enjoy, in a way I probably shouldn’t, taking him apart.
“I rented the apartment in good faith, I gave your idiot manager a valid ID, and nothing in the contract that you probably drew up says anything about evicting guests who have contagious diseases.”
“I checked out your profile on your firm website, ‘Mizz’ Savin,” he said in a tone that could only be described as a sneer. “And I don’t think you’ll want your employers knowing about your double identity.”
I had a sudden image of Rob’s Uncle Cornelius warning me that maintaining my original gender at work would expose me to blackmail. He had been right, but I’d already defanged that threat, so I laughed at him.
“They already know. If you don’t believe me, dig a bit further on the website and find the names of the members of the management committee. Feel free to contact them. All of them.” I was really enjoying myself.
“Bullshit.”
“I encourage you to test that hypothesis, Mr. Devine.” My voice was soft as velvet. “I can promise you that the only thing you’ll get back from Cavandish, Edwards and Gunn is a copy of a letter they will send to the grievance committee of the New York State Bar. Advancing your client’s interest through extortionate means is a sanctionable offense. It might even cost you your law license. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.”
The line was silent for a moment, so I said, “Your move, ‘Mister’ Devine.”
He decided – wisely, if a bit late – to try a different tack. “Look, my client has a duty to his employees, his customers, his reputation. You have no right to put all of that at risk.”
“If you got around to reading the contract, you know that I do have the right. And your client has a duty to me, because I am one of his customers. If motels, and hotels, and apartments get to evict people just because they’ve caught COVID, just exactly where do you expect all of those people to go? And how is that going to help stop the spread of the disease?”
“That’s not my client’s problem . . . .”
“Yes it is,” I cut in. “Because your client rented me a room, and doesn’t have a right to terminate under the contract, it is your client’s problem.”
He started to say something, but I cut him off again. “But, if you’ll stop making stupid threats and acting like a jackass, we might actually be able to have a conversation about how to solve your client’s problem. So what’s it going to be?”
I could practically feel the anger radiating from the other end of the receiver. He wanted to fight me, but he had to answer to a client who wanted me out and didn’t have a good way to obtain that result. “Fine,” he snarled. “Are you willing to talk about leaving?”
“Of course,” I said, sweetly. “If you fully refund all the money we paid, I will not only vacate the unit tomorrow morning, I will thoroughly clean and disinfect every surface and leave freshly-cleaned linens and towels that haven’t been taken out of plastic.”
“A full refund!!! That’s absurd!!! You’ve been there for weeks!!!” he blustered.
“Mr. Devine,” I said patiently, “you are asking me to surrender my legal right to remain here through April 12, which is the period I’ve paid for. And, not for nothing, but your client had our belongings searched by the police, without any reasonable basis to believe we’d committed any wrongdoing. There are claims I could pursue, and you can bet your license – whatever it might be worth at this point – that Cavendish, Edwards will represent me for free.”
“That’s not remotely reasonable!” he replied hotly.
I was losing patience. ‘I’m not going to debate the reasonableness of my offer. New York’s Rules of Professional Conduct must require that you convey offers of settlement to your client – every jurisdiction does – so stop barking at me and do your job. Ethically, for a change, if you can manage that for a few minutes. Let me know what they have to say when you have an answer.”
I ended the call.
Rob was sitting beside me. “I caught most of that. I like your style, girl!”
I kissed him. “I don’t care about the money . . . Well, I do; it’s not nothing. But mostly it’s the principle of the thing. And, he was acting unethically. Very unethically.” I thought for a minute. “Rob, I think that I need to call Eileen. Right now.”
“Good idea.”
I called her cell and she picked right up. “Cami, I’m glad to hear from you. I was so sorry to hear about your brother. Are you alright?”
“Thank you, Eileen. I’m doing okay. We had a ceremony for Iain today, and it was really, really helpful. My sister was able to be there via a video call, and some friends. And, I’m starting to recover from COVID. I’ve just got a couple lingering symptoms at this point.”
“I’m very glad to hear that. . . . So now it’s just a question of isolating until you aren’t contagious?”
“Yes . . . or, more accurately, until everyone is pretty sure I’m not contagious. Based on what Fiona tells me, there’s a fair bit of guess work in that. But, I think I should be cleared more or less when the firm is scheduled to open back up again. And, of course, I can continue to work remotely until then.”
“I don’t know how likely it is that we’ll reopen right after Easter, but we’re monitoring it. In any event, that’s very good news.”
“I’m actually calling for a different reason though,” I said. “The manager at this motel I’ve been staying at discovered I’ve got COVID and wants me out. I’m going to oblige them – I’ve already made other arrangements – but they had a lawyer call and threaten that if I didn’t clear out, he’d tell the firm that I was passing myself off as a woman.”
“WHAT!!!!” I knew that Eileen’s sense of professional honor would be as outraged as my own, and she was predictably livid.
“I know,” I said. “I told him to go ahead and contact anyone on the Management Committee, but I doubt he will since I also pointed out that attempted extortion was at the very least sanctionable.”
“What’s his name?” Her voice was positively icy.
“He called himself George Devine, from the Cabot law firm.”
“I think I may send Mr. Devine a little love note. On firm stationery, of course.”
“I’m not going to even try to dissuade you,” I chuckled. “But I also think it’s time to just send out that firm-wide blast. And get my name and photo on the firm website changed.”
Eileen took no time at all thinking about that. “Agreed. We should have just done it earlier, anyway. You approved the earlier draft, right?”
“I did. I just needed to give you the name that I wanted to use professionally, but that’s when life got complicated.”
“Great,” she said. “The Committee already approved it, so I can have it sent out tonight. Actually, within the hour.”
She was clearly relishing putting a stake through that toad’s threats. Sometimes I think that the people who give lawyers a bad name vastly outnumber those who don’t.
“So what name should I put on the memo, Cami?”
“Camryn Elizabeth Campbell,” I responded. “The last two spelled just like you would expect; the first spelled C-A-M-R-Y-N.”
“That’s lovely! I didn’t realize you were changing your last name as well?””
“I had a bit of a theological disagreement with my father. It wasn’t about my gender issue; he doesn’t even know about that. But the upshot is, yes. I won’t go by Savin anymore. Campbell is my mother’s mother’s maiden name.”
After a moment, she said, “I’m sorry, Cami. It sounds like this has been a really horrible week for you. Let me get this taken care of. We’ll take down your current picture too. We’ll need a new one eventually, but that can wait.”
I thanked her profusely and we ended the call. “I’m glad to have that taken care of.”
Rob had stayed with me throughout the call. He just gave me a one-armed hug, then helped me get up.
Less than half an hour later, having gotten myself half decent by putting on a nightie and a dressing gown, I got two emails:
TO: All Personnel, All Offices
FROM: Raphael Oliveira, Chairman of the Management Committee and Evan Barksdale, Managing Partner for Personnel
DATE: March 30, 2020
Re: Personnel Matters
One of our litigation associates, Cameron Savin, has decided to make a name change to align with her gender, and is taking the name Camryn Elizabeth Campbell. We are delighted to support Camryn’s decision and wish her all the best as she begins this new chapter of her life.
As many of you know, Camryn has been out on sick leave, having contracted the COVID-19 virus along with her brother. While Camryn is making a full recovery, her brother has been an early casualty of the pandemic. Please join us in extending our most heartfelt condolences to Camryn and her entire family.
They hadn’t run the second paragraph by me, and I was very touched by it. Leave it to Eileen. And speaking of Eileen . . . .
TO: George Devine, The Cabot Law Firm
FROM: Eileen O’Donnell, Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn
DATE: March 30, 2020
Re: Your Recent Communications
Please see the attached correspondence concerning your potential violations of New York’s Rules of Professional Conduct.
The pdf attached to the email would have peeled the hide off of a brontosaurus. Mr. Devine would know, first, that his threat to “out” me had no teeth, and second, that he had exposed himself to serious professional jeopardy, regardless of whether he resolved my issue with his client.
Forty-five minutes later, I had a call from Jacob Cabot, the sole named partner in the Cabot law firm, informing me that their client had accepted my offer. He then apologized for any ‘misunderstanding’ his colleague’s earlier statements might have caused.
“The two issues aren’t connected,” I said bluntly. “If you send me an email containing the terms I discussed with Mr. Devine, I will confirm that agreement and I’ll vacate the premises once the credit is received.
“But with respect to Mr. Devine’s unprofessional conduct, there was no ‘misunderstanding.’ His threat to tell my employer that I am transgendered if I did not vacate this motel room was very clear. Both I and Cavendish Edwards will need to independently evaluate whether we have an affirmative obligation to report his misconduct. The settlement of this other matter won’t, and can’t, affect that determination.”
The line was silent for a minute. Then Mr. Cabot said, “I know. And I appreciate that. . . . We’ll keep the matters separate. But . . . look, I’ve known George for fifteen years. He’s a bulldog, but he’s not a bad guy. If an apology will help . . . ?”
I felt for Cabot, as I hadn’t for his partner. He seemed genuine, and he was clearly distressed at what had happened. I said, gently, “We do have an obligation to evaluate it, Mr. Cabot, to satisfy our own obligations under the rules. But I promise we’ll consider what you said.”
He had to be content with that.
Our belongings were all packed in Rob’s Audi and the motel room was spotless. I was standing at the threshold, my hands still in plastic gloves, my face still masked. I gave it one last look. The place where I had last seen Iain alive. Where I had kept vigil, making sure Rob survived his worst night. Where I had heard the news that Iain had died. Where Rob and I had first made love. Such an ordinary place, to hold love and death, fear and hope, medicine, magic, and faith.
“Will you miss it?” Rob asked, coming up behind me.
“No . . . Not exactly. But there’s just so much history here for me. It feels strange to turn the page.”
He was quiet, and the world seemed to hold its breath. In the momentary stillness, I heard a high, thin cry, far overhead, and looked up to see a raptor soaring against a vault of purest blue, the morning sunlight catching its wing and tail feathers.
I squeezed Rob’s hands, resting on my shoulders. “Okay. Let’s go.”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 1
I woke up in a strange bed, in a strange place, and it didn’t matter at all because I woke up next to Rob. He was sleeping completely naked, which I heartily approved of him doing. I was back in my light green nightie, and I approved of that, too.
It was around 5:00, I could tell that by my internal clock. What’s it going to be, Cami? I thought to myself. Do you lie here and fret about the future, or do you get up and start making it? Put in those terms, I slipped quietly from the bed, snagged my dressing gown and slippers, and left the bedroom.
Rob’s place was perfect for a young executive; nothing about it screamed “trust fund.” It had two smallish bedrooms, the second of which served as his study. A nicely appointed kitchen, open to the combined living room/dining room area, and one (very nice) bathroom. It was extremely tidy. Rob’s taste in furniture ran toward wood, leather, and comfort.
We had parked my things in the closet in the study, so I went there and changed into my yoga pants and a (kind of flirty, truth be told) blue sports bra with complicated string straps in the back. I left my feet bare; today I would only try doing stretches. There was room in front of his couch for that; doing a cheer routine might result in my breaking something. And anyway, I probably wasn’t recovered enough for that.
I felt fine – symptom free – but illness and a couple weeks of inactivity had really set back my physical fitness.
Even twenty minutes of stretches seemed like a lot. My muscles were positively screaming protest when I called a halt. Damn. It felt like I’d be starting from square one. I pulled myself upright and went into the kitchen, muttering all the way. Water to start. Rob had pointed me to the coffee supplies yesterday. I heated the water, got his coffee (tsking at him in absentia for buying it pre-ground), and set up the French Press.
I was focused on my task and did not notice Rob come up behind me until he planted one hand on my ass, while the other played with my flirty bra’s string back. “Good morning, gorgeous,” he said.
I turned and kissed him properly and thoroughly. So he would have no doubt about how I felt. We were both a bit flushed when I came up for air. “Good morning to you, too,” I said, smiling like a daisy at sunrise. “I didn’t expect to see you this early!”
I pushed the plunge on the French Press and brought my face down towards the pot, slowly sniffing the scent. It was real, genuine – this time, there was no doubt. My sense of smell was back. “One of the things that really got me, when my COVID symptoms started, was the thought that I might never smell fresh coffee again. I realized how important it was to me, something that small. I hope I never take it for granted again.”
His hand continued to caress me through the straps of my bra, but there wasn’t anything urgent about it. Just a wordless message that he found me beautiful, sexy, and desirable. All that, with nothing more than a touch.
Something else I hoped I would never take for granted.
His mind was going down a similar track. “We take a whole lot for granted now, and I think everyone of us is going to get a reminder of how precious all of those little things are. And, how vulnerable.”
“I assume you’ve been through that before, in the service.”
He nodded. “Yes . . . but you knew somehow that it was all still there, waiting for you. When I got home, I appreciated everything so much more than I ever had – people especially. But it’s amazing how quickly it all starts to feel normal again. I guess that’s just how humans are.”
We sat in silence for a bit, sharing the morning and drinking our coffee, then he asked whether I was talking to Fi at 6:30.
“I think we’re past the point where it’s necessary. But I’ve kind of gotten used to our morning calls. I’ll see what she says about it.” I drank some more of the rich, beautiful, perfect coffee. “Rob . . . do you mind if I talk to her about us? She will tell Henry. Will this cause issues with your family?”
He gave me a look that was hard to read and shifted a bit uncomfortably. “She already knows. I talked to her.”
I must have looked as astonished as I felt.
Though he was uncomfortable, he didn’t look away. “It was a couple days ago. Before we made love. I knew what I wanted, but I was so afraid that I would hurt you, somehow. Especially because of your issues with PTSD. So I talked to Fiona. She’s your dragon. I figured if she thought there was any likelihood of a problem, she would wave me off. She . . . ah . . . well. She didn’t.” He was blushing, bless the man. “She also wasn’t surprised.”
I wanted to come up with something clever to say, but I couldn’t. “I’m so touched, Rob. You are the most thoughtful person!” I could easily get weepy about this, but I clamped down on my hormones. Estrogen or no estrogen, I thought grimly, I am not a pubescent teenager!
Rob looked relieved. “I wasn’t sure how you would take it, so I didn’t say anything. It’s not that I think of you as some sort of child that needs protection, but . . . .“
“. . . but you knew that was an area that I actually might,” I said. I put my hand over his. “Don’t worry about it. . . . I’m grateful. But . . . that doesn’t answer the other part of my question. What about your family?”
“The only people who I really care about, on this issue anyway, are Mom and Dad. Henry matters, but you already know where he stands. Sam will follow Mom’s lead; he always has. Mom and Dad met you at the party and liked you, and of course they adore Fiona. So I talked to Mom about bringing you ‘round to meet them.”
“WHAT?” I thought, My goodness, Rob moves fast!
He looked at me with those remarkable eyes, eyes that were dark gray but somehow so much more, and dropped his light tone. “I told you, Cami. I don’t play around. I’m serious about you. About us. It may work and it may not; time will tell. But in the meantime I’m not going to hedge my bets. Sure as hell, I’m not going to hide our relationship.”
I didn’t know what to say to that. Well, actually, yes I did. “I love you, Rob. And I’m proud to be seen with you, anytime, anywhere. I just don’t want to be the cause of any hurt coming to you. And, plenty of people will be scandalized.”
“The only people whose opinions would cause me any hurt are the ones I mentioned. . . . Which brings me back to bringing you ‘round to meet Mom and Dad.”
“But we’re quarantined,” I said. “We can’t . . . .”
He stopped me with an upraised palm. “Thought of that, actually. We should be clear – barring any relapses – by Easter Sunday. And, based on my conversation – just laying the groundwork, you understand – Mom and Dad have been isolating as well, and will through Easter.”
Rob’s office had also gone to remote work “until further notice,” so his dad would be working from home. “Sam can’t, so he won’t be able to join us. And unfortunately Henry and Fiona can’t join us because Fi is exposed to COVID every day, as you know. So, it’ll just be the four of us.”
“You’re too devious for your own good,” I said, faintly. “Aren’t you supposed to call mate in three, or something?”
He smiled wickedly. “I would, but it’s almost 6:30 and you need to talk to your dragon. So mating will have to wait. Such a shame!” He pulled a face.
I groaned, then went to talk to my dragon.
I had assured Fiona that neither of us had suffered any relapse and turned to what was really on my mind. “So, you knew what Rob was up to?”
“I did. And I approved. Wholeheartedly.” I could practically see the satisfied smile on her face, even though we weren’t doing a video call.
I growled at her.
She giggled in response. “Look, Cami . . . I wasn’t playing matchmaker. Rob was very concerned that he would hurt you – a concern that showed a lot of sensitivity on his part. I gave him an honest answer. I didn’t think your bad experience at Christmas would cause you to have a strong negative reaction if he let you know how he felt, even though I’m sure that trauma left scars.”
She shrugged. “Beyond that, I figured you were capable of saying ‘No’ if you weren’t interested. And I know that Rob’s adult enough to handle a rejection, so I wasn’t worried for you that way, either. What did you want me to say?”
“Something – almost anything – to me? You know? Your little sister? Just maybe?”
But she could tell from my tone that I wasn’t really upset. She giggled again. “What? And spoil the surprise? C’mon, Cami, dish! How’d he do?”
I laughed. “All right, you win. And . . . he was wonderful.” Becoming more serious, I said, “I’m in love, Fi. So much it scares me, especially because it’s come so fast. The last two weeks have been intense. I feel like I’ve lived half a lifetime since I left Baltimore.”
“You kind of have. I mean, sure, you’ve only really known each other a couple of weeks, discounting your brief encounters last Christmas. But it’s not like you’ve just been on a handful of dates. You’ve been living in the same space 24/7, you’ve helped each other recover from a life-threatening illness and you’ve dealt with Iain’s death. I’d think you know each other better than most couples who’ve been dating for months, if not longer.”
“Yeah . . . It’s not that I don’t think we know each other, exactly.” I was trying to articulate what was troubling me, but it wasn’t coming.
“Are you worried that the intensity of your feelings – or Rob’s – is somehow bound up in everything that’s been going on for you both?”
“I’ve been asking myself that for over a week,” I admitted. “And I’m sure the answer is ‘No.’ Positive. But how would I know? It’s like trying to judge your own boat’s speed when you don’t know how the tide is running.”
Fi, thankfully, did not simply laugh off my worries. “That sounds like a good reason not to leap into a long-term commitment tomorrow. Give yourselves time. You’re still planning to go back to DC, aren’t you? Not quitting work to become a kept woman?”
“I have to go,” I said, with extreme reluctance. “And I hate the thought of going. But . . . I think . . . .” I paused, doing just that.
Fiona waited, silently.
Finally I said, “I think this girl stuff is hard, Fi. That’s what I think.”
“That it is.” I could feel her smile in her words. “But you’re doing fine at it. Really. Just . . . don’t wait so long to reach out, okay? I’m here for you.”
“Thanks. I just know how busy you are, and how important what you are doing is. I don’t want to be a distraction. But on the other hand . . . .” I stopped again, this time because I found myself choking up.
I pressed on. “On the other hand, it kills me that you are five frickin’ minutes from where I am right now, and I can’t even see you and give you a hug.” Then I added, “Dammit, I told myself I was not going to cry!”
“I know, Sweetie.” Suddenly she sounded bone-tired, all the late nights and early mornings and weekends and holidays and the long parade of the sick, the scared, and the dying, grinding her down like golden wheat tossed between great, grim millstones. “I know. But talking to you, talking to Henry . . . it’s keeping me alive. Until the day when I can hug you both again. Don’t stop.”
“I won’t Fi,” I said, my voice reduced to a horse whisper. “I won’t.”
We signed off before I remembered that I had meant to ask her about Rob and Henry’s parents.
It was a busy day. I had to get back to my insurance research, and I needed to send off forms to finish my name change petition. I had to give the firm’s IT wizards remote access to my laptop to install additional software (including, I was amused to see, Zoom). And, I needed to respond to emails from work colleagues expressing support and condolences. I received particularly lovely emails from both Daviana and – more surprising still – from David.
But I managed to squeeze in time for a video call to Nicole and Maggie; I hadn’t spoken to them since the cremation. “I can’t begin to tell you how much that meant to me – and to Fiona, too. Where did you find that music?”
“Even Opera singers do weddings and funerals,” Maggie said with a laugh. “We’ve both sung verses of that piece before, but the verse that Nicole sang seemed especially right, given everything you’ve told us about Iain and your family.”
“Oh, it was! It was!” I told them about my temporary relocation to Boston following my issues with the motel in Mt. Vernon.
Nicole was mortified – she had picked the motel – but I was quick to reassure her.
“It was a perfect motel,” I said. “Couldn’t have been better in terms of the rooms, the layout, the location. They freaked out about COVID, but everyone’s doing that right now. It didn’t surprise me. I would have paid up and left quietly – we didn’t need to stay in that area after Iain passed. But they really pissed me off. I’m afraid I took a pound of flesh.”
“You sound like you regret doing that,” Nicole said, puzzled. Not “disappointed” puzzled. Just puzzled.
“I wouldn’t say I regret it, exactly. I don’t react well to bullying, and I don’t like to reward bullies. But I also know that people are scared right now, and they’re lashing out in ways they probably wouldn’t otherwise. It’s an especially good time to cut people a break, and I couldn’t bring myself to. I actually enjoyed roughing up that douchebag lawyer. And . . . well. I guess that’s not being my best self.”
Nicole said, “When you’re good you’re good . . . “
Maggie flawlessly finished the quote, “ . . . and when you’re bad you’re better!” They giggled.
Then I giggled. “All right, you got me,” I said, wiping my eyes.
Maggie said, “Girl, the world’s full of jackals. You shouldn’t lose any sleep over . . . ah . . . thinning the herd, now and then.”
Nicole, perhaps more attuned to the things I wasn’t saying, asked how I was getting along with Rob. “You guys were kind of thrown together. That could’ve gone really badly but obviously didn’t, since you're at his place. Are you guys an item?”
This was kind of tricky ground for me. In part because Nicole and I had been intimate (even though we’re both attracted to men, mostly), and partly because the three of us had made plans concerning getting through the pandemic. But I also wasn’t going to lie.
“We’re an item.” I was pleased to see that both Nicole and Maggie were genuinely thrilled for me.
But when the hubbub died down, I said, “It’s been very intense, these last few weeks. I don’t think I could have made it without Rob. But we haven’t talked about what comes after our quarantine period. I’ve got a life down south. A job, and friends. Ohana. He has a job, and friends, and family, here. People manage long-distance relationships. I’ve done it myself. I don’t know how that’ll work with a pandemic going on, but . . . we’ll figure something out.”
Nicole looked at me with her soft brown eyes – eyes that always seemed to see and understand me. “Cami – promise me. Do what’s right for you this time. Not what you think we want, or Rob wants, or your sister, your firm, or anyone else. You. You have such a big heart, but sometimes, you have to be reminded to show yourself some love, too. So I’m reminding you. Okay?”
“Okay, Nicole. I promise. Pinkie swear, even. God, I love you guys!”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 3
I set up at Rob’s dining room table, a strong, steady light source in front of me. My face made up in a very understated, professional look that nonetheless allowed my blue eyes to pop. Black blazer over a cream-white shell. Liz’s watch. Tear-drop earrings. Hair in my favorite over-the-shoulder loose braid. I had even FaceTimed with Al the previous evening so that he could walk me through the process of thinning and shaping my eyebrows.
It was my debut as Camryn Elizabeth Campbell, Esq. A Zoom debut, but still.
And, it was going to be a doozy, because the only other people on the call would be the members of the Firm’s Management Committee. Which is to say, the people who actually ran the business where I worked, managing over a thousand lawyers in nine different offices. They were naturally focused on finding ways to navigate the pandemic, and were interested in my experience with COVID – with isolation and quarantine, and with the illness itself.
So I had spent a chunk of time the previous day just learning the new technology. What it could do, what it couldn’t, and how to optimize it for work. I had done test calls with Rob and with Liz (who had been stunned when I told her that I had taken the long version of her name as one of my own; I do love surprising Liz!). I had spent some time learning about backgrounds, and Rob had called a local photography shop and gotten a green screen delivered.
Eileen was acting as the “host” for the call, and she had arranged to have the two of us join first, a few minutes before the scheduled meeting. I joined the call and was put in the virtual “waiting room.” But she didn’t know that establishing the waiting room meant that she had to affirmatively let me in, so we had a side call where I explained it.
This was a work call and Eileen was all business. But the twinkle in her eyes and the smile that periodically danced across her lips told me that she was enjoying the chance to finally see the flowering of my female persona. It looked like she was calling in from her house; sunlight was streaming across her face, highlighting the left side and casting the right in shadow.
The other seven members of the committee began to join. All very senior attorneys with storied careers and decades of experience. Highly respected, both in their specialized areas and within the firm.
As a result, it was what Rob might call a Charlie Foxtrot.
Rafe Oliveira, the Chairman of the Management Committee, couldn’t figure out how to turn on his video feed. Three members were so badly backlit that their faces were essentially invisible. Two had audio issues – one couldn’t hear, the other was mute. It took fifteen minutes and some step-by-step instructions – mostly from me – just to get to the point where everyone could see, hear, be heard, and (mostly) be seen.
Oliveira smiled wryly. He had a broad, dark face, hair as dark as Rob’s, and a deep, powerful bass – the kind of voice you would cast to sing the role of a villain in an opera. “I’m sorry, Ms. Campbell,” he said. “You don’t appear to have caught us at our best.”
“Please, call me Camryn,” I responded, adding, “and there’s no need to apologize. This software isn’t intuitive. But it is very good.”
“You seem to be very familiar with it?” His inflection made a question out of the statement, and he raised a bushy black eyebrow to reinforce the query.
“I’ve only used it once before yesterday, but I’ve used Skype and FaceTime quite a bit. I spent several hours really learning how to use it yesterday, and honestly I think it will have a huge impact on the practice of law, even after the pandemic.”
“God, I hope not,” groaned one of the other committee members. William Hoskins. I knew the name from having looked up all of them before the meeting; his square on the screen was one of six that lacked a name identifier.
Trudy Wilson, somewhat more diplomatically, said, “I can see advantages compared to voice-only calls, but it doesn’t seem like a very good substitute for in-person communications. Not sure that’s a revolution.” Since the issue was above my paygrade and wasn’t why they’d asked to speak with me, I decided to keep a demure and respectful silence.
Eileen had other ideas. “Can you explain your thinking, Camryn?” Her face showed nothing but curiosity. Others, not so much.
But Oliveira said, “Yes, I’d like to hear it,” and I assumed he was in charge. At the very least, the primus inter pares.
Fortunately, I had been thinking a lot about this, weaving together insights from Fiona about the likely course of the pandemic and insights from Rob – and Henry – concerning financial and business matters.
Trying to project both humility and confidence – not the easiest of combinations! – I said, “Of course. But, there are a couple of factors that lead me to that conclusion. It may take a few minutes to explain. If you’d prefer, I can write it up; I know you have other things you wanted to discuss.”
The Chairman looked at the images of his colleagues on the screen. “I think we can spare a couple minutes. Please go ahead; we might ask for a write-up later.”
“Thank you. The first factor is savings in cost and time. Calls like this aren’t as good as in-person meetings. But they’re pretty good, and they are much, much cheaper. And more efficient, and logistically simple. You can have a one-hour meeting with people all over the world, and it will take one hour, everyone who has that one hour available will be able to attend, and it’ll cost you around $50 a month. Planning the meeting will take almost no time. And once clients see that those cost savings are available, they will push hard to have them adopted. Certainly by outside contractors, like lawyers.
“Second, the main barrier to widespread adoption of these cheaper technologies is that they aren’t familiar, and everyone has to be trained how to use them. That takes time, and the time it takes feels wasteful, and busy people always have better things to do. People like judges are particularly resistant to spending time that way. They don’t have to worry about how much trouble it is for parties and their lawyers to attend a hearing; they just order them to appear.
“But – and this is the most important point – everyone is going to have to learn the technologies now, whether we want to or not. We’ll have to. These lockdowns are going to be ongoing for some time. Until we get effective vaccines or therapeutics – and that’s going to be months away. Worst case scenario, years away.
“I’m not a doctor, but my sister is. And, she works in the infectious disease department at MassGeneral. This won’t be over by Easter, or Memorial Day, or Labor Day. At the very least, people can’t assume it will be. And that means they’ll have to learn how to operate remotely, including through video conferencing. Once the tech is widespread and understood, there will be no way to go back. The economic reality won’t allow it.”
I stopped talking. No one else started.
They were all looking at each other, a bit shell-shocked. A few looked rebellious; a couple looked sad.
I felt my confidence waiver. Had I been too outspoken? Especially for a very junior associate? But . . . the conclusion seemed almost inevitable to me, almost like a math equation. Or the point in a chess game when the number of good moves becomes vanishingly small.
But of course, there are always bad moves . . . .
Finally, Oliveira shook his head like he was clearing it. “Well, you’ve given this a lot of thought and I think it’s fair to say we haven’t. But it’s pretty clear to me that we need to. Perhaps we can put together an ad hoc committee to look more closely about possible long-term practice impacts and how we can prepare ourselves for them?”
His colleagues were nodding; their looks ranged from intrigued (Eileen) to resigned (including Wilson and Oliveira) to positively sour (Hoskins). But they all saw the need.
The Chairman said, “Eileen, will you set it up? And Camryn, will you be on the committee?”
We both agreed.
He segued easily to the real topic for the meeting. They asked me questions about my recent experiences. They wanted information they could use to help formulate policies on when people should not be in the office, regardless of lockdowns, how long people should be out, what work expectations might be reasonable for people in lockdown or quarantine.
I explained that, of the three cases I was personally familiar with, our experiences had been wildly different.
Iain and I had quickly lost our senses of taste and smell; Rob never had. Rob and Iain each had pretty bad coughs and periods of very high fever. My cough had never gotten as bad, nor had my fever been as high though it had lasted longer. Iain had, of course, gotten progressively weaker and eventually had so much trouble breathing that he had to go on oxygen, then be intubated. Rob alone had experienced severe headaches and sensitivity to light.
Trying to give a sense of work during the illness was hard. “For both myself and Mr. Hutchinson, the fever and muscle aches left us pretty fatigued; we couldn’t work for more than an hour or two at a time before needing a couple of hours of rest. And, even before I was sick myself, looking after my brother was very time-consuming. Just trying to keep his fever down meant he needed medicine throughout the night.”
I explained that the post-sickness quarantine period was a completely different story. “At this point, I can work remotely while in quarantine as much, and almost as efficiently, as I’d be able to do at my desk.”
Mr. Hoskins interjected, “Well, you certainly found a nice place to set up shop.”
I shook my head. “Actually, I haven’t, if you’ll forgive me. I only appear to be working in a big, beautiful library. But that’s only one of the benefits of this technology. The library is just a background photo that I found online; it’s at Princeton, I think. I’m currently in an apartment in Boston.”
I turned off the wallpaper and the greenscreen appeared behind me.
This time their eyes really popped. “Ha!” said Jason Tandy, one of the younger members of the committee (he might be no more than fifty!). “Now that's useful!”
After a few more questions, Oliveira took a silent poll of his colleagues with his eyes and wrapped up this part of their meeting. “Camryn, thank you for your time today. You’ve been through quite an ordeal, and I’m sure you would rather not remember it. And on behalf of all of us, we’re very sorry for your loss.”
“Thank you, sir. And let me also thank all of you for the firm’s support when I was looking after Iain, and when I was sick. But most of all, for supporting my transition. Lots of places have good diversity policies on paper; you’ve gone way beyond that. I . . . I’m grateful. Of course. But I’m also so very, very proud to be part of this firm.”
I dropped off the call; they had many more things to discuss.
I got an email from Eileen about three hours later asking if I had a moment.
I went back to my impromptu studio and lit it up.
This time Eileen had proper lighting on her face and a non-distracting blank wall behind her. She looked gleeful. “Cami, you were great! Even the people who didn’t like what you were saying had to concede that you made good points!”
“I was pretty worried that I’d overstepped my bounds.” Bill Hoskin’s sour face came to mind.
But Eileen thought not. “No, they didn’t think you were speaking out of turn or too big for your own britches. Or skirt, I suppose.” She grinned. “You didn’t come across as arrogant. More thoughtful, really. It’s just that a number of our members don’t like the thought that they, personally, might have to change. To learn new things, and to learn them from our juniors.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be too hard on them – on ‘us,’ more accurately. We’ve all been successful in the world as it existed before. We know how that world works, and we know our place in it. So it’s natural that we might hope the world would just stop spinning. But it never has.”
One of the things that Eileen was happiest about was that I had demonstrated that it wasn’t enough for the firm to just buy new software and tech. People had to get trained in it.
“Everyone on that committee is bright and capable. But not one of us took the time to actually learn how to use Zoom after IT installed it. We figured we’d just muddle through. And you popped in looking like a TV anchor in a studio, and made us – the best of the best, legends in our own minds – look like the Beverly Hillbillies. The ‘Not-Yet-Ready-for-Primetime-Players.’ It was perfect.”
Smiling broadly, she added, “I guarantee you that the next time we meet, each one of them will have learned how to make that damned program hum, and they’ll insist that everyone they work with will, too.”
“That doesn’t sound like a career-enhancing move on my part,” I said tentatively.
She snorted. “I don’t recommend making a habit of it. Especially not with Rafe; he’s more prickly than you’d think. But – and it’s an important ‘but’ – this time was different. Since COVID hit we’ve consistently been behind the curve, just waiting and reacting, doing the minimum necessary. We need to start managing this crisis. Actively. Finding the opportunities rather than just circling the waggons and hunkering down. We needed a kick in the ass, and we didn’t even realize it.”
“And now that it’s just us girls,” she said, smiling, “You look great! And everything about how you present just seems right. And natural. I’m very happy for you.”
“Thank you,” I said sincerely. “I can’t begin to tell you how much it has meant to me, to have you as a mentor. I don’t know how I could have navigated all this. Any of this, really.”
She smiled. “Somehow, I think you’d have managed. But it’s been my privilege, Cami. Really it has.”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 5
“No . . . No!!! Left foot, Cami!” Rob’s right foot stopped just short of my left foot, which was, alas, still in its path. My right foot was behind me, where it wasn’t supposed to be. Rob’s forward motion, and my lack of a truly corresponding backward motion, brought us even more closely together. I leaned forward and fluttered an eyelash against his cheek.
“Sorry,” I said. But I got a kiss out of it, so I wasn’t all that sorry. And anyway, I was in his arms, so it was all good.
His right hand was resting on my back and his left hand held my right. We had pushed the living room furniture back to the walls and he was, at my request, teaching me how to waltz.
We tried again. I wasn’t used to dancing with a partner, or really to dancing at all. I had done a lot of cheer routines as a form of exercise, and those were carefully choreographed and followed set patterns. This felt similar, but it was much more fun to do it with Rob.
“Okay,” he said, “Right leg back . . . left leg back . . . right leg left . . . left foot forward . . . right foot forward . . . left foot right . . . Aaaand again . . . .” He was graceful and coordinated.
I felt the need to rise to the occasion. I don’t know how I looked, but I felt wonderful, just moving together, locked close.
We did the basic box step over and over, banking it into muscle memory. Rob stopped calling out the movements after a bit, and then once we had started to look better, he asked, “Strauss or Chopin?”
“Normally I’d take Chopin any day. But, sorry . . . I’ve got to do this to The Blue Danube!”
He laughed and made the selection. Before, it had felt wonderful; with music, it was magic. I felt positively elegant, and I was only dressed in exercise clothes. But I only had to close my eyes to imagine gliding over a dance floor, wearing something that flowed and moved like a silken banner in a breeze, following the lead of this amazing dancer. That would be heaven!
The music stopped and he bowed.
I dropped a curtsy, lowering my head and holding out my imaginary skirt.
He took my hand and raised me up.
I was lost in those dark eyes again, melting my body against his, running my hands over the strong muscles of his back, his shoulders. Our lips closed together and the world was, once more, just Rob and me and the great, powerful thing that held us together – held us and transformed us. One dance ended, another began.
We needed more practice.
“Good morning, Cami,” Fiona said.
“Good morning to you, too,” I responded. “Now do me a favor: Hang up, put your coat on and meet me out front. I want to see you this morning.”
“Cami, it’s forty degrees out,” she started to say, before blurting, “but forget that! I’ll be right there!” Two minutes later, she was out her front door.
I was out on the sidewalk. Fifteen feet away, masked. We both were. “I just had to see you,” I said through the fabric. “I can’t come in, I can’t hug you. But I wanted to see you, for real. In the flesh.”
Her smile was covered, but it was apparent from her eyes. “Thanks, Cami,” she said. “I appreciate it. I really do. It’s been frustrating with you here, and in some ways as far apart as you were in Baltimore. Though, I didn’t expect to see you on my doorstep at 6:30 in the morning!”
I looked at her carefully. The strain of the past months was evident in every movement, in every line of her face. But still . . . . “Damn, it’s good to see you . . . So good.”
“Fifteen two, fifteen four, fifteen six, a short run is nine and his nobs is ten. And . . . that should do it!” I said, moving my peg into the cribbage board’s end zone. “Gotcha. I mean, gotcha again.” I grinned.
“Witch,” Rob replied. “Mere mortals don’t get those cards. Not three games running!”
“Well, if you can’t cover your bet,” I said, batting my eyelashes, “I think I can come up some acceptable payment alternatives.”
He leered at me. “Hmmm, what did you have in mind, little girl?”
Without taking my eyes off him, I started to slowly unbutton my shirt. “Oh, a little of this,” I sucked on my index finger, pulled it out slowly. “And maybe a little of that.”
He got that hungry look in his eyes, again. I expect mine looked no different. Rob’s continuing interest – his obvious, never hidden desire for my body – mine! – had eroded my doubts, my fears. I couldn’t believe my good fortune, but he gave me ample proof, day after day, that I should.
He had me back in his arms just as I released the last button and gently lifted the shirt from my shoulders, allowing it to slide down my arms and onto the floor. His hands went round to my back and pulled me close . . . closer. His clever fingers made short work of the hooks on the back of my bra and he eased it off, pulling the straps forward so that it, too, could slide down my arms.
To my alarm and mortification, my right breast fell with the bra. I froze, instantly out of the mood, panicked. God, I’m a freak!!!!
Rob caught me before I could flee. His hands were on my shoulders, then his right hand slid behind my neck, keeping me close. Keeping me looking at him. “Cami,” he said softly. “Don’t. Don’t worry. Don’t panic. Don’t run. I appreciate that you want me to see your body at its best. But you don’t need help to be beautiful.”
I was shaking like a leaf, unable to speak. Unable to even move my hands.
He reached down and began to stroke the skin that had just become exposed. He kept speaking, softly, gentling me as a trainer might calm a skittish racehorse. “I love you, Cami. And I want you. This doesn’t change anything.” His fingers glided across my nipple.
I felt something like an electric shock. “OH!” I squeeked, startled.
“Interesting,” he said, savoring the word like a master sommelier sampling a new and intriguing vintage. “Veeerry interesting.”
He stroked the nipple again.
Again I felt like he had found a direct nerve connection to my brain. Stroke, stroke, squeeze . . . . Suddenly, I was breathing heavily and feeling very hot indeed.
“Cami,” he said carefully, “I would really like it if you would remove your other prosthetic.”
I stared at him, still panicked.
He just squeezed my nipple again.
Almost of their own volition, my hands came up and peeled off my artificial left breast.
He gently took it from me and set it on the table beside us. Then both his hands were on my chest – my real chest – and his thumbs were teasing my nipples.
I had never experienced anything like that sensation. I felt like my insides were becoming liquid and warm. My knees felt weak.
“Curiouser and curiouser,” he murmured, channeling Lewis Carroll.
I couldn’t say anything in response.
He led me, unresisting, into the bathroom, where he soaped up his hands and began to clean the residual adhesive from my chest, in the process teasing my sensitive skin and sending me into a frenzy.
I was so aroused I could scarcely see straight, much less think straight. And, without knowing quite how, I found that I had slipped down to my knees, and my hands were engaged in a bit of payback with the hard bulge in his pants.
Before he could do much more than chuckle, I had his pants and underwear off, aided by the fact that he didn’t wear shoes around the house.
“Cami? You don’t have to. . . .”
He didn’t get a chance to finish his thought. Never taking my eyes off of his, I fondled him, then gave him baby kisses. I caressed his balls. By the time I slid the head of his cock into my mouth, he was clutching the countertop and panting even more than I had.
It’s hard to explain why I loved it so much. Many women don’t, so it’s not inextricably linked to my femininity. It did, very much, feel like an act of submission, but I felt no shame in that. It wasn’t the submission of a slave, it was the free surender of ego, an acknowledgement of the power of my lover’s regard.
Most obviously, it was driving him wild, and nothing made me feel happier, or more womanly, or more fulfilled or sexier than the knowledge that I could give him so much pure, unadulterated pleasure.
Finally, though, I simply loved the way he felt. His cock was hard and hot and alive, and for a few precious moments, it was mine. I caressed and kissed and sucked and pumped and watched him thrash in pleasure. I felt his explosion coming and positioned myself to swallow it all. I didn’t love that part, but I loved him, and that was what mattered.
He groaned and slipped to join me on the bathroom floor.
I steadied him and rested my forehead against his. “That’ll teach you. Fondling my nipples!”
He closed his amazing eyes as if he was saying a prayer. “Consider me schooled!”
Later that night, when Rob was sleeping, I went into the bathroom and examined my bare chest. I hadn't noticed any change before, but my nipples definitely looked larger, darker, and puffier than usual. Sure as hell they were more sensitive!
Is it possible that my breasts are beginning to bud?
Boston, Massachusetts, April 8
I was deep into a new project for work when I got the “all hands” memo announcing that remote work would continue until at least May 15. It was late in the workday and well past the close of the markets, so I decided I could legitimately clock off. I made a French Press full of coffee, pausing again to marvel at the aroma. At the door of the study, I knocked lightly and popped my head in.
He had headphones on, but waved me in. I handed him a cup and he blew me a kiss before I left, shutting the door.
He came out a few minutes later and found me in the living room, occupying one of his comfortable leather chairs, my legs tucked on the seat. Leaning down, he gave me a kiss. “Thank you, Sweetie. Just what I needed.” He sat facing me in a matching chair. “You done for the day?”
I nodded. “The firm’s not bringing people back until Mid-May, at earliest. But hard to say. You know Fi’s view: it’ll be longer.”
It was his turn to nod. “Probably time for us to have that talk we’ve been avoiding, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I sighed. “Stay or go? I certainly can work remotely from here just as easily as I can from Opera House.” I paused, then fell silent.
Rob watched me carefully, then set his mug down. “Cami, we’re dancing around this. I think because we love each other and we don't want to hurt each other. So let me put out a few things, just to be clear about where I’m coming from. How I feel.
“I want to be with you. Right now, I can’t move. I’m needed here too much. I have people who are depending on me. I can do a lot of it remotely, but not for the kind of time frames Fi has been talking about. So I’d be delighted if you stayed. Overjoyed. Thrilled. But I can’t ask you to. I know you have the same sorts of cross-pressures I do.”
“I love you, too, Rob. And I want to be with you, and it’s so tempting to just go on as we have been going. But . . . I also need to get back. It’s not just because I promised. Nicole and Maggie would forgive me. In fact, Nicole made me promise to do what was right for me.” I was having trouble going on. It’s so hard!
But Rob just waited patiently for me to continue.
“I was in a relationship before where I became kind of a social appendage,” I said. “My partner’s friends became my friends; I didn’t have friends of my own. I’ve started to make my own life now, and develop wonderful friendships. I don’t want to lose them, or become just an appendage again.”
“I see that,” Rob said, “though there are probably ways to avoid it.”
I wanted to feel his arms around me so badly. But I needed to get through this first. “I know. And I agree. But it’s more than that. I said I would help Nicole and Maggie get through this pandemic, but this isn’t just about duty. It’s something I want to do too. We have projects we are planning, and activities, and I wanted to help make it all happen. I was excited about it. I still am.”
I took a deep breath and kept going. “And . . . finally, there’s so much I still need to learn about being a woman. It’s more than just how to dress, or use cosmetics, or even how to walk and talk. Or the medical part, though that’s important too, and all my doctors are in Baltimore.
“There’s a poetry to it, a rhythm. It’s just different. When I touch it, when I find myself in that rhythm, it feels natural. Like I’m remembering something I used to know. But I still need to work at it. Too learn, or relearn. And, in all the world, I don’t think I could find better teachers than my roommates.”
Rob stood up and held out his hands.
I gratefully allowed him to pull me up, but he didn’t immediately fold me into his arms.
Instead, he held my hands. “If our love can’t survive a period of being apart, it’s nowhere near as strong as I think it is. We’ll find a way to make it work.”
I was, finally, able to throw myself into his arms. “I love you,” I said through tears that I just couldn’t hold back. “I love you so much it hurts.”
Boston, Massachusetts, April 12
We were finally, officially, out of quarantine. We could, in theory, paint the town, but the town was, to all appearances, empty and unpaintable. The shops were closed. Clubs and bars as well. There was a “voluntary” nighttime curfew and a shelter-in-place order.
There would be no joyous Easter services for us. It was like Narnia at the beginning of the Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe, except that it felt like it would always be Lent and never Easter.
But we had survived COVID, isolation and quarantine. We had only a little while left to spend together, and we would not squander it. Which brought me, in a dress borrowed from my sister (thus requiring the use of a waist cincher), to the doors of a large brownstone in Boston’s Back Bay neighborhood. Rob’s parents’ house.
Rob gave me a look. “Ready?”
“Ready,” I answered, hoping it was true.
He briefly touched my cheek. “Relax. They’ll like you. You’ll like them. Really.” Then he opened the door, sang out a “Halloo,” and led me inside.
Rob’s mother was the first to greet us. Anne Shaw Hutchinson was several inches shorter than me even in modest heels. Her hair, which was cut full off of her shoulders, was a rich shade of auburn, and her eyes were a warm brown, a bit darker than Nicole’s.
Interestingly, she came to me first, captured both my hands, and said, “Cami! I’m so glad you could come! Then she gave me a gentle, but very sincere, hug of welcome. “Thank you so much for bringing him back safe.”
Rob’s father George had come in after Anne and had given Rob a hug when I was talking with Anne. Seen together, they were very alike. Rob was a smidgen taller – In my pumps, I was just under 6’1”; Rob was still a bit taller but George wasn’t. Same rectangular face, same hair and eyebrows, but George, like me, had blue eyes. Unlike Rob, George wore a short beard that made his face look longer.
He turned to me and smiled warmly. “Welcome, Cami!” I got a hug as well, and George’s hug was firm, conveying nothing but genuine warmth. The butterflies under my waist cincher finally started to settle, though they hadn’t folded their wings yet.
The room immediately to the right of the entrance was a large, octagonal parlor or living room, where the three sides facing the street held large windows set in mahogany sills and frames. The ceiling was probably twelve feet high. I thought it must be a bear to heat it, but it looked stunning. Something out of Way “Better Homes and Gardens.” The room had a large fireplace and a natural wood fire was crackling merrily.
Anne guided us to seats by the fire, where they had laid out some nibbles.
George took our coats. Then he got drink orders, poured some wine, and sat down to join us.
Talking with George and Anne was like getting one of Rob’s massages. The initial touch was feather light, but slowly and surely they slid the conversation around to topics that were deeper, easing any tensions rather than fighting them. And they did it effortlessly, because between the two of them their interests were almost encyclopedic.
We talked about medicine – a topic very much on all of our minds – and Anne was keen to hear Rob’s insights on therapeutics and, in particular, mRNA vaccines. George had apparently gotten that brief from Rob already, in his capacity as Hutchinson Investments’ chief strategist, but he joined the conversation with great interest.
Apparently the firm was contributing to the Governor’s effort to convert the Boston Convention and Exhibition Center into a field hospital. “That was Fiona,” George said. “Henry brought it to us. Hopefully it will make a difference.”
Anne smiled. “I just love your sister, Cami. She is the most amazing, most dedicated woman . . . all of this is taking such a toll on her.”
Well, anyone who loves Fi starts high in my good graces!
We talked about baseball – of course! – and George and I commiserated over the possible loss of the whole season. It was hard to imagine spring without baseball.
Anne was a tennis enthusiast, but COVID had also forced the suspension of ATP tournaments since early March.
We talked about theater, and about music. George and Anne were both very knowledgeable about opera and wanted to know all about my roommates – another subject on which I was always delighted to wax poetic.
Anne was very interested in our idea for an opera-themed podcast. “That would be fabulous!” she said. “We’re all focused on survival, and we should be. But surviving right now means brutally hard work for some people, and home detention for the rest of us. Finding ways to connect, to be able to engage with each other about life and love and beauty and art . . . that can keep us all going. Keep us sane.”
“Civilization?” I said, making it a question and directing it to George. Rob had told me why his father had insisted that his boys become culturally literate.
George immediately understood the reference, and smiled fondly at his son. “I see someone’s been telling tales out of school. But that’s exactly right. We need to save lives, and we need to keep our civilization alive, too. It was already in bad shape even before the pandemic.”
And that, in turn, led us into a conversation about America’s deepening cultural and political divisions.
We had been talking about all manner of things for over two hours when George took Rob off to the kitchen to help him with something he was cooking.
Anne smiled at their retreating backs, still charmed, as I was, by the fact that in this household, the kitchen was not an exclusively female preserve. “I do more cooking than George, but he’s got more talent and usually takes care of special meals. Which gives me more time to talk with people – the thing I really enjoy most.”
She turned those kind brown eyes on me. “And I’ve really wanted to spend some time with you. I can see how close you and Rob have become in such a short time. He’s had such a hard time connecting with people – I mean, really connecting – since he came back from Afghanistan. And I’m his mom, so I worry!”
I decided to address the elephant in the room. “Anne, I have to ask: does it bother you – either of you – that Rob is dating me? I’m not exactly what parents dream about for their children.”
Anne didn’t pretend to misunderstand me, and she was blessedly direct. “What George and I have dreamed about for our boys is that they will find someone to share their lives with, as fully and completely and joyfully as George and I have these past thirty-seven years. That’s all we care about, and I mean that. Rob is pretty obviously very attracted to you. I can’t for the life of me understand why your being trans should bother us, if it doesn’t bother him.”
Clearly she wasn’t seeing conviction in my eyes. She came over and sat by me on the couch, in the place Rob had vacated, and took my hands in hers. “Rob told us that you would be worried we might not accept you. Please don’t be. We aren’t like that, and I’m proud to say that our boys aren’t like that.”
“Thank you. I just didn’t know what to expect, from . . . well. This is all very far removed from my own experience.”
She smiled. “The whole ‘Boston Brahmin’ thing?”
I nodded.
“We’re not all like Chip,” she said with some asperity. My face must have asked a question, and she said, “George told me, second hand, about your conversations with his nibs. I got more from Gooney, of course, she and I have been herding Hutchinsons now for four decades and she’s closer than my own sisters. I guess Chip said he was uncomfortable about your being trans?”
“To be fair, he also offered me a job.”
She smiled again. “That’s Chip. Never waste good talent! But don’t think I’m dumping on him; he’s a wonderful man as well as a doting husband. He just has a black-and-white view of the world, which is part of the reason he’s the right person for his job. He makes quick decisions and doesn’t agonize over nuances. So you make Chip uncomfortable, because you don’t fit neatly into the binary categories he uses to create order out of chaos. But George and I are more comfortable with a color palette that isn’t limited to black and white.”
“Cornelius seems much older than your husband. Is that why they’re so different?”
“Partly. Chip is six years older, and he is the oldest. I think you would agree that makes a difference?”
I nodded fervently, thinking of the dynamics between Fi and me, or for that matter between Iain and Fi, when Iain was still with us.
“Because Chip was the eldest, I think he bore most of the weight of his father’s expectations, and that was a pretty heavy burden,” she said.
“The ‘Tai Pan’?”
She laughed. “Oh, you've heard that one, have you? Yeah, the old man was really something. But impressive, too. Very impressive. Just . . . well, let me just say talking to him was a bit like talking to New Hampshire’s ‘Old Man of the Mountain,’ back before it fell.”
She asked some questions about me, and seemed genuinely interested in my journey into womanhood. When I told her that I had started taking hormones a month ago, she was surprised.
“I assumed you had already gone through hormone therapy. I never picked up anything that would have led me to question whether you were female when we first met. Once I knew, I was able to look. And even then, any ‘tells’ are pretty subtle.”
She was surprisingly familiar with trans-related issues and asked questions about voice therapy that displayed a solid understanding of the mechanics and the challenges. When I asked, she said, “George and Rob do their homework; I do mine. Obviously, I know a bit about your family because of Fiona, but I wanted to know more about you. Who is this person, who finally got through Rob’s very smooth, but very hard shell? You know. Just . . . being a mom.”
I could only shake my head. My own mother was, to put it mildly, not like that. At all.
Rob and George eventually called us in to dinner. George had done a masterful job grilling some New England salmon to perfection, adding olive oil and some delicate herbs to bring out the flavor. With that, we had fingerling potatoes and an asparagus dish that was mouth-watering.
“There were times during my illness when I wasn’t sure I would ever be able to smell or taste anything again,” I told them. “When a wonderful meal like this would just be . . . food. Fuel. And I had never really thought, before then, how important good food is. How much it centers our social interactions. It’s . . . .”
I paused, looking for the word, but Rob and George both said, “Civilized.”
“Yes!” I said, “it is. And, God bless civilization!”
After dinner, George suggested a friendly game of chess, but Anne intervened. “No, you don’t! You’ll be at it until curfew, all three of you! Besides . . . George, you might not have heard, but Rob’s been teaching Cami to waltz . . . .”
George’s face lit up and he eagerly took the bait. “Oh, that’s even better!”
George and Rob pulled the leaves from the table, and put the table and chairs against the wall. The space remaining was easily enough for two couples to dance – even a space-eating waltz.
This will be fun!
George did something with his phone, and the opening strains of Chopin’s Waltz in A-flat Major came through speakers in the ceiling. To my surprise, he came and stood in front of me and held out his left hand. I took it with my right, as Rob had taught me, and he pulled me in, resting his right hand lightly on my back, below the level of my left arm. I placed my left hand on his right shoulder, and he led me into the box step.
Rob, meanwhile, partnered his mother. She laughed and said, “You’re entirely too good at this!”
If I had wanted to arrange a test to see whether I made Rob’s father uncomfortable, I would have had a hard time improving on having him waltz with me. But his dancing was smooth, relaxed, and graceful – exactly how you would expect a mature man to dance with a much younger woman when his wife was in the room. He was almost as good as Rob, and dancing with him was a pleasure.
The music ended, he bowed gracefully and I curtsied deeply. Then we switched partners and I was in Rob’s arms, and life was a fine and wonderful thing. He had the full skirt of my light blue cocktail-length dress swirling as we showed off the fruits of our practice sessions.
But as good as Rob was, and as hard as I had practiced, George and Anne put us to shame. There is no way to match what two good dancers can achieve, when they have been partnering for decades. It was like watching water flowing over river rocks, liquid and graceful and full of life.
As Rob’s arms came around me in a twirl, I leaned back into his chest, lifted my eyes towards his parents and whispered, “I want that, Rob.”
He spun me back out, and when I was facing him he smiled and held me captive with his amazing eyes. “As you wish,” he promised, making me feel like Buttercup.
My rental car was packed, with Iain’s remains on the floor of the passenger seat. We had made love last night, and then, once more, this morning. The last time was as gentle, as tender, as the first time. But now I was outside and the chill of separation was seeping into my bones.
“Don’t be sad, love,” Rob said softly. “We’ll make this work.” He kissed me gently, his lips a sweet promise. “Love finds a way.”
To be continued . . . .
AN ARIA FOR CAMI
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022
I woke up slowly, emerging almost reluctantly from the dream I had taken across the threshold of consciousness. It had been years since I had seen that dreamscape, but there it was, whole, healed, and perfect: Me, making a graceful dive from a wooden pier into a deep, pristine lake, surrounded by snow-capped mountains, pine forests, and the clearest air in the world. I was wearing a lime-green one-piece and curves that were, finally, all my own.
I smiled, running my hand lightly down my satin negligée. No one would ever describe me as Rubenesque, but the end result of two years of hormone therapy was – in the opinion of the only two people whose views on the subject mattered – entirely satisfactory.
Two years of estrogen and other chemical blockers and stimulants. Two years of blessed healing. Two years of loving discovery.
I had lost two inches in my waist, picked up rather more in the hips and rear end, and even achieved a bust that managed, albeit only just, to fill out the very first bras I had bought to wear with my prosthetics. I jokingly referred to their size as a “gentleman’s C.” My skin was softer, my body hair gone, and the hair on my head was finer, more full. When loose, it came down to the middle of my back.
But I won’t be wearing it loose today! As sleep left me, I jumped out of bed, grabbed my dressing gown and raced upstairs. It was all I could do to stop myself from going straight to the third-floor bedroom, but I knew I would be more welcome if I came bearing the only appropriate gift.
I had fresh coffee ready in minutes, pausing in gratitude – as I tried to do every morning – for the rich, earthy smell. Pouring two cups, I brought them upstairs, held awkwardly in one hand so I could manage the door at the top of the landing. I rapped twice, sharply, and walked in without waiting for an answer. I wasn’t really worried about my welcome.
“Good morning, beautiful!” I said, gazing at the stunning woman who was already sitting up in her bed. She was alone — but only for the one night.
Fiona returned my smile with a look of such joy that it literally took my breath away. “Good morning, Cami.” Her voice was soft, warm, and full of love. She patted the bed. “Come join me!”
I handed her one of the cups, taking the opportunity to bend down and plant a kiss on her forehead, before going around the bed to sit beside her against the pillows. “You ready?”
Fiona smiled, this time fiercely. “Ready? More like over-ripe!”
“Good thing,” I said, “because I’ve got a full day planned for you! You might regret leaving the ‘details’ to me!”
Fiona looked untroubled. Serene, even. “Girl, I have every confidence in you. I’m sure everything will be absolutely perfect.”
I gave her a look of mock horror. “Oh! No pressure!”
She laughed, then turned serious. “I would trust you with my life. I can’t begin to tell you how proud I am of you. How amazed I am at the incredible, accomplished, beautiful woman you’ve become. I’m so glad that you're my sister. And so happy to be sharing this morning with you.”
I choked up, but was just able to say, “God, I love you, Fi. You’ll always be my hero!”
My eyes, like Fiona’s, were bright with tears. But they were, at last, the best kind: Tears of joy, of love, and of thanksgiving.
We had survived.
We had survived as COVID closed the country, as we retreated to our bubbles and hunkered down behind closed doors. As infections soared. As the hospitals had filled . . . and the morgues. As the date that Fi and Henry had announced with such joy came and went, just another day of grueling work for a frontline healthcare professional.
We had survived to see a new spring complete with vaccines. I had hoped, then, that maybe, just maybe, things would get back to normal. But Fiona had warned me that it wouldn’t get better overnight, and as usual she was right.
Baseball returned, but it started with empty stadiums. Stores opened, only to close again as numbers crept back up. Amazingly, there were organized campaigns against getting vaccinated, and in many parts of the country they worked. People Fiona had been trying desperately to save turned around and joined team virus.
So, summer arrived, and a new subvariant came, and we stayed locked in our bubbles.
And we survived.
But Fiona, my hero, had not given up, so I could not give up either. We kept the flame of hope alive as summer turned to fall and the brutal Delta variant took hold. We kept hope alive as Thanksgiving gatherings and Christmas parties turned into super-spreader events, as the death total continued to climb, reaching one million just two weeks ago.
But the Delta variant waned and the less-deadly Omicon variant took its place. And in an act of hope and faith, Fiona and Henry had set a new date. A day in spring, when the flowers would be blooming, even in coastal New England. When the trees would be covered in a light green, and azaleas would blossom.
Today.
“I wish they could be here today, to see you like this. Iain. Gammy Campbell.”
“Me too,” Fiona said. “Though I expect if she was here, Grammy’d have a thing or two to say about our lolling around in bed getting maudlin when there’s work to be done.”
I smiled through my tears. “She would, too.”
Gammy had passed with the turning of the year. She hadn’t died of COVID; she just went to bed one night and, wholly without drama, failed to awaken with the dawn. Maybe she had no Tina in her life, to call her sternly back to duty. But I thought the weight of the years, the fights, the deaths and defeats had been too much for her.
I was proud to carry her name, though she’d ribbed me about it. “Can’t see what good’ll come of changing your name; you’re a Savin whether you like it or not. But I suppose you’re a Campbell too, and there’s no name better.”
It was time. “Let’s get cracking, Doctor Savin,” I said. “Into the shower with you!”
“Not a doctor today,” she said as she slid out of bed. “And not a Savin tomorrow!”
I folded her into a hug before she disappeared into her bathroom. “If you’re not a doctor today, then no giving orders,” I admonished. “It’s all under control!”
I trotted downstairs to get my own shower, reflecting on Fi’s decision to take Henry’s last name. Like me, she no longer had any desire to bear our father’s.
Fi hadn’t spoken to Dad since he’d disowned her. He had caught COVID in late December of 2020, and as a result he wasn’t able to join his friends’ caravan to Washington D.C. to rally in support of President Trump’s efforts to overturn his election loss.
Dad had been doubly blessed: his symptoms were relatively mild and, unlike his friends, he wasn’t facing federal criminal charges for assaulting the Capitol. God’s ways are, indeed, as mysterious as the pathway of the wind.
I hadn’t been in contact with Dad either — not since our mutual denunciations. But I kept in quiet and sporadic communication with Mom, which is the only reason I’d even known about Dad’s COVID episode and his insurrection stupidity. I had met up with Mom twice. The last time, just a few months ago, had been at Gammy’s internment in West Virginia. Dad hadn’t accompanied her.
The time before, Mom and I had each driven six hours to meet in Columbus, Ohio so I could give her Iain’s remains. To my surprise, she already knew about my transition. “Why you thought you could tell a thousand people and not have anyone bring that bit of juicy gossip to your mother’s ears is beyond me.”
I thought about that conversation as I put my hair into a shower cap and turned on the hot water. Our conversation that day had been quite the eye-opener.
We had sat across from each other on park benches, separated by a gravel path, a pandemic, and an unbridgeable chasm of mutual disappointment and unmet expectations. She had looked bitter, brittle, and far older than she had just six months before, when I had seen her at Thanksgiving.
She had asked about Iain’s final days, and I gave her a sanitized version. I left out my final minutes with him, when he was fighting for every breath, and I was straining every nerve to hear the sound of the approaching ambulance. When he had called, in his last distress, not for his mother, but for Fiona. Mom didn’t need to know that.
She had convinced herself that Iain’s death was punishment for her own sins, and she had scornfully rejected my efforts to change her mind. “What do you know about it? Nothing! You sit there, stuffed with all your big-shot schooling and proud as Lucifer, and think you have all the answers? You don’t know shit. It is my fault. My sin! I was like you – so full of myself, so sure I knew better. The rules didn’t apply, not to me. I should ‘follow my heart,’ even when it led to sin. Even when it led to a child, a perfect baby girl, who was mine . . . mine! But not my husband’s.”
Well, that had been a surprise.
By that point she had been crying – bitter, ugly tears. “Because of my sin, God took my Heather, my love child, my perfect baby girl. Took her back. But that wasn’t enough. Didn’t matter that I reformed, that I gave my life over to Him, was ‘born again.’ Didn’t matter that I was a dutiful wife. Oh, no. He wasn’t satisfied. He had to take Iain, too, and leave me with another son who doesn’t even want to be a man.”
She gave me a look then, a mixture of earnestness and sheer ferocity. “So, get this through your pretty little head, child of mine. Don’t waste your time loving God. Just fear Him. Fear Him! You hear me?”
I would never agree with her theology or her willingness to defer to Dad’s bigotry. But, I thought sadly, she should still be here today. Fiona is the only child she has left of whom she could feel unreserved pride, within the narrow confines of her own world view. While I was sorry that she would never accept that I’m a woman, I had no desire to punish her. She had suffered enough.
Fiona, however, had not been so forgiving. “She went right along with Dad when he disowned Iain and had the gall to tell me to get over it. No.” And that was that, as far as she was concerned.
Two years of crisis had distilled Fiona down to her fiery essence. She had never suffered fools gladly; these days, she didn’t suffer them at all. It didn’t matter who they were. She treated the morons, the gadflies, the anti-vaxxers; her Hippocratic oath required no less. But she didn’t coddle them.
I offered a prayer that morning for my mom. A prayer for healing. For forgiveness. I doubted Fiona would forgive her and I knew she would never forgive herself. But I continued to believe in a kind and loving God, and I trusted He would do better.
I didn’t put on makeup because our first stop of the day was at a salon. So as soon as I was dressed, I trotted back upstairs. There was just enough time to make a couple of fresh cups of coffee and pull out the fruit and yogurt before Fi joined me.
“Perfect!” she said, looking at what I had laid out. “I don’t think I could eat any more than that right now!”
“No morning sickness?” I asked.
Fi shook her head. “Not since the first trimester. Knock wood, it’s been pretty easy for the last couple of weeks.”
“You sure you’re in the second trimester?” The question was barely out of my mouth when I realized how stupid it was. This was my sister, the doctor. Of course, she was sure.
She just smiled. “Cami, this child was conceived the night that was supposed to be my first wedding anniversary. Of that, I am one hundred percent positive.”
I gave her a broad smile of complete and total approval. “I can’t imagine you being the slightest bit worried about walking down the aisle pregnant, even if Boston’s high society requires a mountain of smelling salts!”
She sorted. “Are you kidding? After everything we’ve been through, Henry and me? I wasn’t going to wait an instant longer to get pregnant. All the better that I’m big as a house!”
“Fi,” I said fondly, “you’re barely showing and you know it. You look amazing.”
She scooped up the last of her yogurt. “Not yet, I don’t. But you’ve got a couple hours to get me there!”
I laughed, poured the remainder of our coffee into to-go mugs, and pushed her out the door. “Okay, okay! Let’s get moving!”
Twenty minutes later, we were at a salon that I had found after a diligent on-line search. The place Fi had taken me to on Christmas Eve in 2019 had closed, but at least one of the hair stylists had found a new home here. I knew Fi would be delighted to see Charli again.
Anne was already at the salon waiting for us. She gave Fi a beautiful, motherly hug as soon as she came through the door. “Good morning, love,” she said. “How are you feeling? Ready to be a Hutchinson?”
Fi laughed. “I don’t know about that . . . . But I’m past ready to call you ‘Mom!’”
Anne beamed. “You make Henry so happy, Fi. And I can’t begin to tell you how that makes me feel.”
She turned and gave me a big hug, too. “Cami, you’ve been a wonder, getting all of this organized!”
Soon the three of us were sitting side-by-side, Fi in the middle, while beauticians fussed over our nails, our makeup, and most especially our hair.
“How are the boys this morning?” I asked Anne. Henry and Rob had both spent the night at George and Anne’s Back Bay Brownstone.
“Oh, George had them both up early and got us all fed. You know, the usual humor about ‘last meals’ and all that. Guy stuff,” she concluded fondly.
“Even ‘civilized’ men are still men,” Fi said with a touch of asperity.
“Thank goodness!” I added, causing Fi and Anne to giggle.
The stylist was working on Fi’s thick plait of hair, and I took a moment to admire it. However grueling her work had been, she had adamantly refused to simplify her life by cutting it short. “It was a way of keeping faith,” she explained. “A way of telling myself that this day would really come. It felt so impossible, some days.”
“How are your friends doing, Cami?” Anne asked. “The guys who taught you the secrets of hair and makeup?”
“Al and Javi are great,” I responded. “I haven’t seen them in person since they moved back to Bogotá in early 2021, but that almost makes no difference. I mean, during lockdown, we weren’t really seeing anyone in person, even if they lived down the street. We’ve kept in touch by Zoom.”
“It’s such a shame their shop didn’t make it,” Fiona said. “I know you would’ve wanted them to be here today.”
I shook my head. “They were getting by, mostly thanks to government assistance. But Javier’s mother was fighting cancer and they decided it made sense to relocate so they could be nearby.”
“Is she still with them?” Anne asked.
“No, she passed last summer. I gather it was about as gentle a passing as Javi could have hoped for under the circumstances. And he was at least able to be there with her.”
Fiona asked if I thought they might move back at some point.
“I doubt it,” I said. “They both really like Bogotá, and apparently it has a pretty vibrant LGBTQ+ community. Tina’s happier down there, too.”
“That’s the transwoman you told me about?” Fi asked. “The one you represented?”
“I haven’t heard this story,” Anne said.
Where to begin? “Al and Javi took Tina in when she was eighteen and on the run from her family. She stayed with them a couple of years, and they were really close. She was like a daughter. But the family caught up with her, hauled her back to Missouri, and got her committed. . . .”
Anne was shocked. “Oh my God! That’s terrible! What the hell? This isn’t the Middle Ages!”
“In some parts of the country it might as well be,” I said grimly. “Anyhow, she escaped somehow and found her way back to Al and Javi. That’s why I moved in with Nicole and Maggie — so I could vacate Al and Java’s garage apartment for Tina. When I got back from New York and Boston after Iain’s death, I got in touch with Tina . . . .”
Here, I thought, I’m going to need to edit the story; there are parts they don’t need to hear, and parts I can’t tell them.
I had met up with Tina along the banks of Indian Creek in April of 2020 and offered to pay for a health insurance plan that would allow her, finally, to get gender-affirming medical care through Dr. Chun’s office. She had been deeply suspicious of my motives, to the point where I was compelled to admit that I was doing it, in no small measure, because she had come to me in a nightmare and screamed at me for even thinking about giving up.
Her response had been classic Tina: “So you want to help me ’cuz I showed up in your crazy dream, but I’m the one who’s supposed to see a shrink? That’s messed up. You know that, right?”
As I suspected, Dr. Chun had no trouble making a diagnosis of gender dysphoria in Tina’s case, and she soon had her own HRT supply. But perhaps more importantly, Dr. Chun had finally gotten Tina to open up about the abuse that she had suffered and the wholly improper proceedings that had resulted in her being involuntarily committed to an institution for years.
Dr. Chun urged Tina to tell me the story as well, and (with Tina’s somewhat grudging permission) I took the matter to Eileen.
After hearing my summary and doing a Zoom interview with Tina, Eileen personally took the matter to the firm’s pro bono committee. With her endorsement, there was no chance that the committee would not agree to take Tina’s case without charge, especially since Eileen had, with great reluctance, taken over as acting Chair of the Management Committee when Rafe Oliveira developed long COVID.
The facts in Tina’s case were horrific: fanatical parents, a religious zealot with a clinical psychology practice, a corrupt probate judge . . . . But the firm had hired an excellent investigator and, with Tina’s inside knowledge of where to look, had found damning evidence. The path to justice was complicated, however, since it is incredibly difficult to mount a collateral attack on an earlier judgment by a nominally competent tribunal.
We had a theory, though, so I drafted a detailed complaint, backed by the evidence that the investigator uncovered. I thought it looked solid.
“It might not work,” Eileen cautioned Tina and me. “Push comes to shove, it probably won’t. That’s one hell of a conservative court, and we don’t have a choice on where to file. But sometimes you’ve got to play the cards you’ve got.” She got a wolflike gleam in her eye. “And sometimes, people will pay a crapload of money not to have you lay your cards on the table where the whole damned world will see them.”
And that was just what happened. We never had to file the complaint; the named defendants called, blustered, and then made an offer. Which we rejected out of hand, countering with our own pie-in-the-sky demand.
But at the end of the day, Tina got a $1.65 million settlement, the probate judge resigned to “spend time with his family,” and defendants did not get the non-disclosure agreement they so desperately wanted. Tina could spill the beans whenever she wanted to, as could all the rest of us. And would in a heartbeat, if anyone in her benighted family ever caused Tina trouble again.
All that history flashed through my mind as I sat in the beauty parlor, primping like a princess. It was a beautiful world, sure enough, but when you turned over rocks there were a whole lot of slimy worms and venomous snakes.
I summarized, lamely, “My firm was able to get a decent settlement for her. Enough that she and Al and Javi can establish themselves in Bogotá and never have to worry about having a roof over their heads.”
“Her whole family should have been strung up with concertina wire,” Fiona growled.
“Tina would agree with you,” I replied. “Me too, for that matter. But . . . security for herself, and for the only two people in the world she trusts, was even more important than vengeance.”
“She trusts you too, doesn’t she?” asked Anne.
“Oh, I don’t know about that. She’s never going to like me, but she appreciated the work we did for her. She gave me a token that I wear every day. I’d say we parted on pretty good terms.”
Actually, what Tina had said was, “I should show up in your psycho dreams more often.” But that wasn’t a comment I intended to share.
We thoroughly enjoyed our salon time. When you’re in a salon, you can’t really be working or doing all of the things that we normally spend our time doing. You have to pause. To stop, even. It was a blessing for me — the run-up to the wedding had been pretty frenetic — but I think it was even more of a blessing for Fi. She’d basically had no time for such a frivolous, but “civilized,” activity since the pandemic had struck. More than two years.
Fi and I had opted for elaborate updos, while Anne had her hair done up in a net of gold mesh that looked incredibly sophisticated. We thanked the ladies, who fussed and wept and naturally said Fi was the most beautiful bride ever.
She was, too.
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following
We went back to Fi and Henry’s place in Cambridgeport to have some light refreshments and finish getting ready. But we’d barely gotten ourselves upstairs when the doorbell rang.
“That’ll be Liz!” I scurried downstairs to let her in.
And there she was, dressed to the nines in a stunning full-length green dress that matched her emerald eyes. I hadn’t seen her in person in over two years, and instantly I pulled her into a fierce hug. “Oh my God,” I said, struggling to keep myself from crying. The girls had worked hard on my makeup. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“Damn, you look good, Cami!” Her hug was fierce. “You feel good, too!”
I giggled. Not quite the body she remembered! I pulled her inside and toward the stairs. “Come in, come in! Where’s Derek?”
“He’ll catch up at the ceremony. I only need one lens in here. Besides . . . I thought it would be better to keep this part within the sorority, so to speak.”
We got to the main level, and I turned to make introductions. “Fi, Anne, this is Liz; Liz – my sister Fiona and Henry’s mom, Anne Hutchinson.”
Anne was closest, and she greeted Liz warmly. “So glad to meet you, Liz!”
“Likewise, Mrs. Hutchinson,” Liz replied.
“Please, call me Anne – everyone else will, since you’ll see dozens of women who can be called ‘Mrs. Hutchinson’ today! And besides, any friend of Cami’s is a friend of mine.”
“Anne, then.”
Fiona had hung back, but she surprised me by pulling Liz into a warm hug. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you for so long. Cami raves about you!”
It was interesting to see Liz and Fi together. They were fairly close in age and coloring, though Fi was a strawberry blond to Liz’s pure, bold redhead. Liz had sharper features altogether, but in both of them, the force of their personalities shone through every line and curve.
“I go a bit over the top when I describe your little sister, too,” Liz said playfully. “For a lawyer, she’s okay. All things considered!”
“Okay, okay!” I said, realizing that this could get embarrassing in a hurry. “Why don’t we have a bite to eat before we get down to business!” I made coffee – of course! – while Fiona pulled out some cheese, fruit, and pastries from one of the many wonderful Italian bakeries in the North End.
“You’re from Pittsburgh?” Anne asked Liz.
“Born and raised there,” Liz replied. “And I’ve been back now for six years. It’s a wonderful city.”
“It’s been years since we visited. George and I spent a few days there one time before going down to tour Fallingwater. The city was, I guess you would say, ‘in transition,’ back then.”
Liz snorted. “Pittsburgh is always in transition, one way or another. But I love it.”
Anne was clearly finding Liz to be fascinating. “How did you meet Cami?”
“Through work – my company hired her firm for an antitrust case, and I got roped into it. Tell the truth, I was really dreading it at the time. You don’t advance your career in a business by working on lawsuits. But . . . turned out there were a few side benefits!”
“Well,” Fiona interjected, “Cami credits you with helping her discover herself. And you have my thanks for that, as well . . . . You saw it, when the rest of us were still fooled.”
I was starting to blush furiously. This conversation could get very embarrassing!
Liz, fortunately, was sensitive to my discomfort. “However she chooses to express herself, Cami has always been a remarkable person. Though, I do think . . . hope? You’re happier now?” This last question was directed at me.
I nodded. “Absolutely. There were things about being a man that were easier, I guess. In some ways. But it’s just not who I am. As soon as I understood it – as soon as you helped me to see it,” – I threw her a grateful look – “I knew I could never go back. And I’ve never regretted it.”
Fiona shook her head. “We weren’t really close as adults, until she came out as trans. I don’t know how much that had to do with how close we’ve become since then. But I think it’s probably a lot. I don’t know . . . as a brother, Cam was kind of distant. But maybe that was me.”
“Me, I think,” I said slowly. “I was so focused on establishing myself as independent. Self-sufficient.”
I snorted at my own pretensions. “As if! One of the things that I’ve learned these past two-plus years, over and over and over again, is just how much I depend on my friends, my family, my mentors at work . . . . everybody! And I’ve learned to embrace that. . . . As long as I can give back, too.”
“That’s definitely an important balance,” Anne observed. “One thing I’ve noticed as I’ve grown older, and as I’ve watched my parents’ generation age, is that the balance point changes at different points in your life. Learning to receive with grace – that’s a hard lesson, especially in our culture.”
Liz chewed that one over. “Yeah . . . I’m not ready to learn that one just yet!”
We laughed.
“You’re recently married, too, aren’t you?” Anne asked Liz.
“Just over a year ago,” Liz said, smiling.
“What was your wedding like? That would have been before vaccines were widely available.” Fi asked.
“Oh, it was pretty much the opposite of what you’ll be doing today. Derek and I just went to City Hall one day, signed the necessary papers and got it all official with the civil authorities.”
“You didn’t want to wait any longer?”
Liz smiled, but her response was serious. “It’s my second marriage, Fiona. I did the big church, the big dress, the big party the first time around. And that was right, for the person I was then. For BethAnn, and for Jack. We wanted that. And . . . those are very, very good memories.”
She shot me a look, full of gratitude.
In my own, small, way I had helped her redeem those memories – a small repayment for the gift of self that she had given me!
Liz returned her attention to Fiona. “For Derek and I, though . . . we’re just different people. And the simple way, no-fuss-no-muss – that just seemed right for us. COVID or no COVID.”
“I still wish I could have been there,” I said. Before Liz could say anything, I added, “But . . . I understand. And I’m so glad that the two of you are happy.”
We were just about done with our brunch, and Fi brought the conversation around to the reason Liz was here this morning. “So . . . Cami showed me some of your photos – they really are amazing! How long have you been doing this?”
“I’ve dabbled for years – My Ex is a Marine, and when we were young, I’d help his friends by doing the photography for their weddings, since none of them could afford a professional.”
“Don’t tell me you aren’t a professional!” Fi laughed.
“I’m a telecom executive,” Liz answered. “This is just a side gig. I was hoping to do something with it, but demand kind of dried up when the pandemic hit. And, work got pretty crazy.”
“Which is to say, oh modest one, that you’re being groomed for a VP slot,” I said.
“That may be the first time anyone’s ever accused me of modesty,” Liz retorted. “But in this case, I’ve actually got a lot to be modest about. The main reason my career has taken off is that so many of our senior people retired rather than adapt. COVID’s pretty much changed the way the whole office operated, starting with selling our building and committing to remote employment.”
“Well, I’m very glad you were able to be here today,” Fi said. “It means so much to Cami that you’ll be doing the photography. And to me as well.”
“I wouldn’t miss it,” Liz said. “And, it looks like God has smiled on you with perfect weather.”
That was a good thing, I reflected, since Fiona had insisted that the wedding be outdoors. And it would have been, even if the wedding party had had to appear in ponchos!
We spent two minutes clearing up the table and then Fiona, Anne and I started getting dressed. Once we were relatively decent, Liz pulled out her camera and began capturing some memories. Unlike the photoshoots I had done with Liz in the past, she stayed discreetly in the background and simply captured the moment without directing the action.
Fiona had chosen a style that was both simple and classic – a strapless, A-line dress in white satin with a form-fitting bodice and a fuller skirt. If you knew to look, you could definitely see that she was pregnant. Fi, being Fi, was extremely pleased about her baby bump.
Anne was wearing a long, flowing, high-necked dress with lace applique in a deep claret red. She looked beautiful and sophisticated and happy – so very happy!
Fiona had selected a fairytale dress for me in sky blue silk and chiffon. It flattered my curves and showed a fair bit of lilly-white skin above the wide and deep neckline. I was checking the effect in the mirror when Anne came up behind me.
“Missing a little something, I think,” she said. “Rob got this for you.” She was holding a delicate necklace in white gold with a heavy sapphire pendant.
My throat caught. “Oh, that man!” The gem matched my eyes.
“Good value, isn’t he?” his mother said fondly. “Here – let me.” She settled the piece around my neck, with the pendant hanging mid-way between the hollow at the base of my throat and the cleavage – the real, honest-to-God cleavage! – that the dress allowed me to display. A little present from my guy.
I looked in the mirror again, and finally saw the woman I had only been able to see in my mind’s eye for years.
We were all ready, all beautiful, and Liz had all the “primping” photos she could possibly want, when the car arrived. The four of us fit easily into the stretch limo, which took us to the harbor where we transferred to a small boat that would take us to the island where the wedding was being held.
As planned, we were the last to arrive. We were met at the dock by George and Rob, both of whom looked incredibly dashing in morning suits that emphasized the breadth of their shoulders and their trim, athletic builds. The look on George’s face when he saw his wife would melt the hardest heart.
Music played as George walked Anne up to the pavilion where the guests were waiting. At the change of the tune, Rob took my hand and led me up to the pavilion as well, passing by rows and rows of Hutchinsons and friends of both Henry and Fiona. When we reached the ceremonial arch, Rob went to the right to join his brother, and I went left to wait for Fiona.
A hush descended on the crowd as a ruggedly handsome man in the blue mess uniform of a major in the U.S. Army stood and raised a gleaming gold trumpet to his lips. The clear, bracing strains of Jeremiah Clarke’s regal Trumpet Voluntary pierced the morning, and Fiona stepped down onto the dock and made her way to the pavilion. The only person who accompanied her down the aisle was her daughter, who, being still very much in utero, had no choice in the matter.
Fi looked radiant.
She had told me once what her perfect wedding was going to be like. Rob, Iain and I would be groomsmen, her best friend Cassie would be her Matron of Honor, and Dad would walk her down the aisle.
Almost none of it had gone according to Fiona’s plans. Iain had not survived the pandemic. Cassie Johnson had, but at a personal cost that left her a shadow of the fun, vibrant woman who had been Fi Savin’s roommate and confidant.
Day after grinding day of work in an ICU filled to bursting had ruined Cassie’s health, her marriage, and her passion for healing. She had finally resigned and gone home to Birmingham, Alabama. While she had made it to the wedding, she begged off being part of the wedding party. She wished Fiona all the best, but she had no energy for it.
I took Cassie’s place as Maid of Honor. Rob was the only one of us who managed to do his assigned job.
And yet . . . it was perfect.
Just looking at Fi as she walked forward brought tears to my eyes. She had been through so much – endured so much suffering, witnessed so much death. But she had come through, and this day, so long postponed, had finally arrived. Henry, waiting for her, looked like a man who had achieved his heart’s desire.
This was a Hutchinson wedding, so an Episcopal Bishop presided. He did a lovely job, though I couldn’t help but wonder what Sarah would have said about all the smells and bells. She was rigorously low church; I could always appreciate both.
Henry recited his vows with quiet, irrepressible joy. Fi’s voice was firm and clear as the trumpet.
The highlight, for me, was the music – particularly an absolutely breathtaking, inspiring two-part rendition of “The King of Love My Shepherd Is.” The singers, of course, were the stars of the recently concluded, critically acclaimed, podcast “Opera Houseparty,” Nicole Fontaine and Margaret McGregor. My companions and housemates during the worst of the pandemic – my teachers, my partners in craziness, my dearest friends.
My Ohana.
Maggie wore a soft pink dress; Nicole, a pale yellow. As always, they were just gorgeous, but their voices were simply magnificent. There wasn’t a dry eye anywhere in sight.
They rose again to lead the recessional hymn, supported by the major on trumpet, a string quartet, and a tall, spare man with a sensitive face and the eyes of a poet, who conducted the group as he played “Joyful, Joyful, We Adore Thee” on a grand piano. Rob and I followed Henry and Fi just as the girls sang,
“Ever giving and forgiving,
Ever blessing, ever blest,
Well-spring of the joy of living,
Ocean-depth of happy rest!”
The beautiful hymn gave structure to the emotions that were overwhelming me. I felt, indeed, like I was joining “the mighty chorus which the morning stars began.” Affirming, in this beautiful service, that life and love and beauty will endure to the ends of the earth.
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following
The food was served on outdoor tables, with Boston Harbor and the city’s skyline as the backdrop. Henry, who knows a thing or two about food, had suggested the caterer. The wedding party was served first, freeing the bride and groom to make the rounds while people were eating. But that left Rob and me and George and Anne alone, and I had a better idea than that. “Okay,” I said to Rob’s parents, “I want to finally introduce you to my roomies!”
Anne laughed. “I can’t wait! God, I loved that podcast! I miss it so much!”
Since I’d been in charge of the seating, I arranged this in advance. Nicole and Maggie were at a table for eight, but four of the seats were empty – waiting for just this opportunity. The other two seats . . . .
“George, Anne, let me introduce my roommates, Nicole Fontaine and Maggie McGregor, and of course you know Kyle and David.” The last mentioned were, respectively, Kyle Stewart, who had played the trumpet during the ceremony, and David Sinclair, the pianist.
Anne was positively gushing. She gave Nicole and Maggie enthusiastic hugs, then turned to the two men. “Kyle . . . David. I am delighted – so delighted – to see you both again . . . and in such good company!”
George’s greetings were more restrained, but in his own, quiet way no less warm. He smiled shyly at my two lovely roommates and said, “Thank you for your wonderful podcast. It was so very civilized!”
We sat and chatted with them while they ate. Anne wanted to get Nicole and Maggie’s take on the podcast. She already had mine.
“You know it was all Cami’s idea, of course,” Maggie said.
Anne nodded.
“Well, Nickie and I worked on it even while Cami was up in New York looking after Iain. And, more happily, getting acquainted with your reprobate son there.” Maggie smiled at Rob. “We had about fifteen episodes roughed out by the time Cami got home. You know – what the episodes would be, what topics we wanted to explore, and how we wanted to do it.”
Nicole said, “Cami had us focus first on who we thought the target audience should be. Mags and I are professionals – well, Cami calls us geeks! – but an audience of pure opera geeks would be pretty small. She thought we needed to reach more than just professionals. Said we should try to capture people who maybe didn’t know much or anything about opera, but had time on their hands and were willing to learn something new, so long as it was fun.”
“That’s where ‘Opera Houseparty’ came from,” Maggie said. “It sounded fun, and informal. And, we got my dad to take a picture of the three of us on the front steps of the house, sharing a bottle of wine wrapped in a paper bag. After Cami’s friend Liz cleaned it up, it made great cover art for the podcast.”
“I love that picture,” George said. “I would see it, of course, whenever I played the podcast on my phone, and I really felt like I was there, listening to the three of you chatting.”
Nicole took up the story. “Anyhow, as you both know, we had our big launch in early May of 2020.”
Anne and George were well aware of the timing of the launch, since I had brought them both in on it. Anne Shaw Hutchinson is a mover and shaker in the donor community that supports arts in the United States, and her enthusiastic backing for the project had helped ensure its success. Simultaneously, Nicole and Maggie had boosted the podcast through their extensive professional networks, so the launch had gone very well.
“Our scheduled episode plan went out the window almost immediately. The George Floyd murder happened just a couple of weeks after we’d launched, and it just felt like the wrong time for some of the material we had recorded. But we were able to adapt quickly, and that was a real learning experience.”
“I remember those episodes,” Anne said. “The stories that your friends told . . . they were so powerful. Really eye-opening.”
“The arts have a long, long way to go before they are anything like equal opportunity, that’s for sure,” Maggie said. “I was really glad that some of our friends from our time as students – and as singers – were willing to come on the podcast and tell people what it’s like to be Black opera singers.”
“It sounds pretty all-consuming,” George observed. “Was this basically your full-time job?”
“Nicole and Maggie put in a huge amount of time, especially at the beginning,” I said. “It did get easier over time. My job was a lot simpler. I handled the logistical elements that didn’t require any real knowledge of the subject matter. Like figuring out hosting services, recording and editing software, organizing the artwork, theme music . . . stuff like that. Once we were up and running, my job on the podcast was mostly to ask stupid questions and add a bit of comic relief when these two got too serious!”
Nicole smiled fondly. “Cami’s being modest, as usual. She kept us grounded. Effectively acted as the moderator of the show. And her questions were ones that regular people ask all the time. What our broader audience would be asking.”
“Like, ‘why does everyone die in opera!’” Anne giggled. “That was my favorite episode!”
Maggie laughed, hard. “Funny thing, too. That was the first question Cami asked back when she sold us on the idea of the podcast. Even though it’s obviously not the case. There are plenty of silly operas – it was even a specialty. French Opera Bouffe. You could put the whole Gilbert and Sullivan cannon into that category. There are other operas that aren’t just silly but no one dies, like The Marriage of Figaro or The Merry Widow. It’s just a myth.”
“Myths often have a kernel of truth behind them, though, as I recall your colleague observing during that episode,” George said.
Nicole nodded. “It’s true. The operas where people die tragically – especially when it’s the protagonist – they just stick in our memories. They remind us how fragile all of this is – all of it – art, beauty, love . . . even life.”
I could see that truth written on every face at the table. It was a truth we had all lived. We had all survived, but . . . it had been a difficult two years.
“Sometimes words by themselves just don’t seem like they’re enough to convey tragedy,” Nicole added. “And opera gives us a way to bridge that gap, a way to communicate that goes beyond language. When Tosca sings about feeling abandoned by God in Vissi d'Arte, she is touching the heart of human experience.”
David reached out and gave her hand a gentle squeeze. “One part of it, anyway, my love. There’s a happier part as well.”
That earned him one of Nicole’s patented, heart-stopping smiles. “There is, indeed.”
Anne smiled at them, then at her son. “Nice bit of matchmaking, Robbie. Never thought you had it in you!”
Rob gave every appearance of innocence. “Me? Oh, no. It was all Cami’s fault!”
I blushed from the top of my head to the tips of my toes, I’m sure. “Rob!” I said, threateningly.
“Ohhhhh, I think there’s a story here!” Anne said gleefully.
“But one that Cami might prefer not to tell,” George murmured.
“Nonsense!” Anne said. “Or rather, I’m sure she’ll get over it!”
I looked sheepish. “Well . . . . See. Here’s the thing. Rob wanted to come down and see me in Baltimore after I went back. He decided that we could each isolate for a couple weeks. Or he could, on the one hand, and the three of us,” – I indicated my roommates and myself – “could on the other. Then he would be able to visit with me for two weeks. And . . . well . . . I really, really wanted to see him. But, ah . . . .”
I couldn’t go on.
Rob decided to help me out. “. . . but my darling girl here was just petrified that I would never look at her again if I set eyes on her beautiful roommates.”
Everyone was laughing and it felt rude not to join in. Churlish, even. But I appealed to George and Anne, “It’s funny, but honestly. Can you blame me?”
“Your roommates are lovely,” Anne said soothingly. “But so are you. Have some confidence, girl!”
“I think I recall saying something along those lines myself,” Nicole said. “I mean, once or twice!”
“Me too,” Maggie said. “Stubborn woman!”
“Okay, okay,” I said. Then, more seriously, “But honestly. I’m a transwoman, I was only just starting my transition, my roommates are, objectively, beautiful in every way, and Rob was – is – not just one of the most eligible bachelors in Boston. He’s also a genuinely wonderful human being.”
“And a good dancer,” his mother said, judiciously.
“Better than average at chess,” his father contributed.
“Getting ready to go in search of the bar,” Rob said, looking almost, but not quite, as embarrassed as I had been. Good!!!
But then Kyle added, “He’s also the best friend a man could ever have. Well, he and David, both.”
“Amen to that,” David said. He raised his glass and said, “A toast, then, to Rob – truly the best Best Man!”
We raised our glasses in salute and Rob buried his head in his hands.
As the laughter subsided, Anne said, “I still don’t understand how Cami’s lack of confidence got the four of you together.”
Rob recovered quickly. “Sometimes one problem can’t be solved, but two problems solve each other. I knew that Kyle and David got an apartment together in Rosslyn after we returned from Afghanistan. And . . . well. I knew they were the finest people in the world. As close to me as Henry. Closer, even, in some ways.”
He looked at them both, his eyes communicating a world of experiences they alone shared. “The three of us used to joke that we’d never find anyone; we’d all had real trouble re-integrating when we came home. And I just thought . . . based on everything that Cami had told me . . . that maybe Nicole and Maggie might draw them out. Like Cami had done for me.”
“And you figured that Cami might calm down if you brought a couple of good-looking guys along with you when you came to visit?” Anne asked.
“Yup,” Rob said, sounding satisfied. “Worked like a charm, too!”
Kyle was looking at Maggie, his expression tender. “It was love at first sight for me, I’ll tell you. She didn’t need to draw me out!”
“But I would have, if I’d had to,” she responded. “I knew that after five minutes.”
George smiled and looked at Nicole. “I’ve been able to read David like a book since Rob first introduced us. I think I can guess how that evening went for him. But how about you?”
“He was so shy when the evening started,” Nicole said, her voice warm.
“To quote Cami,” David said, “‘Can you blame me?’ I mean, first Rob introduced us to the podcast, and Kyle and I listened to every episode they'd put out at that point. So, we already knew they were stars. Then we meet them, and Nicole is just the most beautiful woman in the whole world, and she’s made this incredible seafood risotto, and she has a voice like an angel . . . hell, yeah, I was shy!”
I laughed. Time Nicole got a touch of her own medicine!
But she remained serene. “He was so quiet during the meal, it was hard to get a sense of him. But after dinner . . . we got him to play on our keyboard. I mean, you heard him today, so you have an idea of how good he is.”
She shook her head, smiling at the memory. “But it wasn’t the quality of his music that got me. When he started to play, he just lost himself in his music. The same way I do, I guess. And . . . all of his shyness disappeared. He was somehow focused and peaceful and . . . Oh, I can’t describe it. I realized I had never seen anyone so lovely in my life.”
I had happened to be looking at Nicole that night, at the precise moment that epiphany had struck her. I had seen it in her eyes, in her face . . . the sure, certain understanding, that this was what she had been looking for. This was what she had been waiting for. She had never looked more transcendently beautiful than she did in that instant of understanding.
Naturally, the three of us had talked that night after the guys had left. Nicole and Maggie’s descriptions began with the thing that had first struck me about Rob. Compared to these three, their previous encounters had been with boys. Rob and Kyle and David had a weight and seriousness that marked them as men, even when they were being lighthearted or charming.
And they had treated us with seriousness as well. They saw the grit and determination that Maggie and Nicole had brought to the pursuit of their dreams. They saw their intelligence, their maturity, and it attracted them powerfully. Because they were secure in themselves, in their own manhood, they did not see attractive and accomplished women as a threat.
Both Nicole and Maggie had ample experience with guys who found them physically attractive. But men whose attraction went deeper, went to the very core of who they were as women, as human beings – that was novel. And both of them found it a source of a strong reciprocal attraction.
“Trying to get relationships off the ground during the pandemic must have been a challenge,” George observed. “I mean, we had trouble enough integrating new people that we hired at the office.”
“We found a way,” David said. “Kyle and I were pretty isolated as it was. The think tank where I work had shuttered its offices in April or May of 2020 and we were all working remotely. Kyle had a desk job at the Pentagon and he was encouraged to work remotely, too. So, we were able to basically have both our apartment and the girls’ house as one bubble.”
“The Monastery and the Nunnery,” Maggie said, laughing.
“Really?” Anne asked, archly.
Maggie grinned. “Well, not for long! Plenty of mornings I might be over at the Monastery, or David might join us for breakfast at the Nunnery.”
“I felt so bad for Cami,” Nicole said. “Here she’d gone and found these wonderful guys for us, and we got to see them, and her own boyfriend was stuck up in Boston!”
“We found a way too, Rob and me,” I said. It hadn’t been as frequent, but I had managed a couple of trips to Boston and he had managed a couple of trips to D.C. We had isolated for two weeks before each trip, and had stayed for around two weeks when we got there. At Rob’s apartment in Boston, and at a hotel when he was in the D.C. area (my room at Opera House was pretty tight quarters!).
My body responded well to the hormone treatments, and each time Rob and I met I felt more and more like my body matched what I wanted it to be – for him, and for me. And, dear man, he made sure that I realized just how much he appreciated me throughout my development. Our lovemaking just kept getting better. Practice makes perfect!
“It sounds like a pretty ideal existence,” Anne said. “Not bad, for the middle of a global pandemic!”
David said, “I know. And believe me, I thank God every day that we were all so blessed. So many weren’t.”
Nicole was nodding. “So true. I mean, there were days I would go crazy, cooped up in that house, not able to perform . . . but I still miss Opera House. I think part of me always will. We were so close, Maggie and Cami and I – and then David and Kyle and Rob, too.”
“Never thought I’d hear you regret being in New York,” I joked.
“I don’t regret it. New York is still my city, you know.” She flashed me a grin, an echo of her exultant smile that night, so long ago, near the fog-shrouded Christmas Tree in Rockefeller Center. “And the place David and I are renting is perfect for us. But . . . I miss you guys. I always will.”
I got a bit teary at that; Nicole has that effect on me. But I was moving out too. Rob was taking a leave of absence from the firm to take a position advising the Secretary of Health and Human Services, where his deep understanding of the pharmaceutical industry would be put to good use. We were going to rent a place in D.C.
The end of the podcast and the breakup of our bubble at Opera House was partly due to the end of the pandemic and partly to the success of the podcast itself.
We had put out an episode a week for almost two years, rain or shine. Through donations and sponsorships, the podcast was able to replace Nicole and Maggie’s lost income. But it did more than that: it put their names, faces, and voices in front of every music director in the opera world. So when opera houses finally reopened, Nicole and Maggie both had no difficulty in getting parts. The girls simply did not have the time to do justice to the podcast while actually performing.
While the podcast had taken a huge amount of effort and energy, it did get easier over time and the three of us had time together for other things. “I think I’m going to miss our ballroom dancing lessons the most,” I said. “I wanted to get good enough to partner Rob, but I just loved the time we spent on it.”
“I’ll miss the cheerleading,” Maggie said with a big grin.
“Cheerleading?” Anne was incredulous.
“Oh, yeah,” Maggie said. “Cami was doing cheer routines for exercise every day, first thing in the morning. 5:00 a.m. kind of thing. And I thought it looked cool, so I had her teach me.”
Just my luck that Liz had picked that moment to wander over to our table for some candid shots, her husband Derek trailing behind her with a truly impressive camera bag. She snapped off a few before flashing her wolf’s grin at Maggie and asking, “Cami taught you cheerleading?”
“She did – I’d never done it in school, and now I wish I had!”
“You didn’t join the fun?” George asked Nicole.
She shivered. “5:00 in the morning? Are you kidding? I’m from New York! That’s when people should be going to bed!”
“How was your pupil?” Liz asked me, still smiling like the apex predator she is.
“Better’n me after about three weeks,” I said promptly. “Maggie’s a natural gymnast. She would have made your squad, no problem!”
“You were a cheerleader?” Maggie asked Liz.
“A few years back,” Liz said, her eyes dancing. “Cami may have taught you everything she knows . . . but she didn’t teach you everything I know!”
I stuck my tongue out at her, which Liz caught on camera. Of course!
Liz wandered off to the next table.
“Sounds like you guys kept busy,” Anne said.
I replied, “Oh we did . . . I was working – remotely, of course – but we also had the podcast, and dancing, and cheerleading. Nicole gave us both cooking lessons, and I gave lessons on web design. I studied voice with both Nicole and Maggie since Dottoressa Trelli wasn’t able to do my lessons once the pandemic hit.”
“It was important to keep busy, to keep moving forward,” Nicole said. “Cami saw that, from the very beginning. I mean, Maggie and I were just destroyed when all the opera houses shut down. I don’t think we had any idea how to put one foot in front of the other. If she hadn’t given us both a kick in the butt, I don’t know what we would have done.”
“You’d have figured it out.” My eyes were once again bright with tears as I looked at my roommates. “But if I managed to give something back, it was a fraction of what I received. You two – you taught me how to be a woman. I couldn’t have had better role models. Because you’re the most caring, most genuinely empathetic women in the whole world.”
“Ever giving and forgiving, ever blessing, ever blessed,” Rob said softly.
“Yes,” I said. “That. Exactly that.”
Boston, Massachusetts, May 21, 2022, immediately following
Everyone had finished their meal and people were beginning to wander from table to table, so we got up and began mingling. Rob and I walked arm-in-arm across the lawn, enjoying the feel of the sunshine and the sparkle of the water. It felt like a very long time since the world had been this open.
We ran into Rob’s Uncle Cornelius and Aunt Geraldine during one of the moments when they were not swamped with other family. After we exchanged greetings, Cornelius went straight to the question that interested him.
“I understand you have left your firm,” he said, giving me an appraising look.
“Just last month,” I responded.
“I heard you have found another position. You should have let me make an offer!”
“That is very kind of you, sir.” Rob might call him “Uncle Chip,” but to me, the Tai Pan of Clan Hutchinson would always be “sir.” “But I felt like it was time for me to do something a bit more public spirited. I’ll be joining the Civil Rights Division of the Justice Department in a few weeks – once I’ve recovered from all the festivities here!”
My move had been facilitated by the fact that I was the sole beneficiary of Gammy’s will, and the thrifty Scotswoman had saved over $200,000 on a bookkeeper’s salary. She had consulted my mother prior to Iain’s death, and apparently Mom had told her that Fiona was marrying money and that, contrary to my father’s constant complaints, the two of them were well off financially. So, all of my student loans were paid off.
Eileen herself had advised me to make the move. “Cami,” she had said, “this firm has multiple offices, but we started here, in D.C. Our practice has always been close to the federal government. We’ve had attorneys leave to serve as Cabinet Secretaries, deputies, line attorneys. And we’ve always encouraged it, because they often come back, and they come back with experience we can never duplicate. We do a better job training lawyers than the government ever could, but for where you’re at in your career right now . . . you should be somewhere you can be in court all the time. Don’t worry. We’ll be here when you get tired of it!”
“Remember us, when you and Rob get tired of that den of iniquity,” Cornelius said.
Geraldine just smiled.
We wandered off. Rob greeted friends and family, introducing me. I was content – more than content – to walk with him, proud to be his date on this most perfect of days. To nestle into his arm, or to walk hand-in-hand. To bask in the knowledge that, in his eyes at least, I was a pretty woman, and he was my guy. He had promised, two years ago, that we would make it work, our impossible pairing. That love would, somehow, find a way.
I had placed my trust in his certainty, and he had been right.
We were standing close to the pavilion, looking down toward the water, watching everyone mingling in the later afternoon sun. White clouds scudded against a deep blue sky, and sail boats raced across the harbor. Everyone dressed brightly, looking so at ease, so happy.
Shakespeare said that all the world’s a stage and we are but players, but I thought opera was a better analogy. We were all singing our parts – sometimes together, sometimes apart. Sometimes melody, sometimes harmony. Looking down at the gathered assembly, I thought of all of the people whose voices had joined with mine.
I would not be the woman I was today without the wonderful man at my side. Without Nicole and Maggie, together with their guys down by the shoreline. Without Liz, snapping photos with her usual unique mix of intensity, precision and flair. Without Fiona and Henry, in the center of the activity, effortlessly gathering the attention of everyone there. Without Eileen, without Al and Javi, Sarah and Tina, Gammy Campbell . . . .
But for a brief, intense five-month period from Thanksgiving of 2019 until Easter of 2020, I had stood upon the stage and sung a new song, my own song, in my work and my life and my love. I left parents and friends behind, risking everything on the crazy conviction that my physical body did not cabin, or even describe, the fundamental truth of my being.
I sang my song in Pittsburgh and Boston, in New York and Washington, in Baltimore, College Park, and Morgantown. I sang it through a pandemic, through a wild night in Rockefeller Center, and in a motel in Mount Vernon where I lost my brother and found the love of my life. It was my song, and mine alone.
My aria.
My life flowed on and my song joined with others, sometimes leading, sometimes supporting. But my aria defined me – the brief moment that changed the direction of my life and gave me a new purpose. Even a new name, one I had chosen myself, each part of which had meaning – powerful meaning – for me.
“Alright, my love,” Rob said. “Enough of your wool-gathering. The music is starting!” And there they were, forming up on the dance floor. So many of the people I loved most in all the world, together and in person, gathered around Fiona and Henry.
I ran down the hill, the pale blue chiffon of my dress streaming behind me, and called back to the wonderful man who had stolen my heart.
“Well, come on, then! Let’s dance!”
Finis
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Cami's adventures continue...
With a new year comes a new step in Cami's journey of self-discovery.
Her brother in rehab and her relationship with her parents on the rocks, but between new friends, new loves, and her career, there's no time to look back. Cami needs all the help she can get to brave the challenges ahead of her. Still, things are never that easy, and new trials, and new adversaries -- however unearned -- await.
Can Cami's strength of will hold up to the trials, and temptations, ahead of her?
BEING BEATRICE
Chapter One: An Excess of Spirits
“You’d make a pretty girl, with these lashes,” ChristinA told me, as she made up my face. The “stars” were all ready to go, so the make-up crew was getting around to the rest of us.
No, it’s NOT a typo. She capitalizes the terminal “a.” Why? I don’t know. She’s an artist. They’re all like that.
ChristinA wasn’t attempting to belittle my masculinity; it wouldn’t even have occurred to her. I don’t rate that much attention. I don’t get worked up about that sort of thing, anyway. I got over being a skinny, scrawny guy a long time ago. It’s whatever, you know?
Besides, I already know damned well I’ve got a pretty face, given how many people have seen fit to mention it over the years. I’d even worn makeup before, to find out for myself just how pretty. So – just for starters, and picking the comparator completely at random – I know I’m better looking than the complete Ho they picked to play the female lead.
I have the added advantage of being able to remember my entrances.
“Chrissssssy!!! Hey girlfriend! I need a touch-up here! Me an’ Dirk were practicing our hot scene!”
Aaaaaand . . . speak of the devil. Except, the devil would probably not need a prompter quite so often. Although even Lazy Lynette could probably manage to remember “go to hell.”
Long as it was her only line.
“Lynette!! Jeeeeesus! Get over here, get in this chair, and don’t freakin’ move a muscle ‘til I tell you too!” ChristinA did not like to have people mess with her make-up.
Sorry. Her “artistry.” Whatever. I rolled my eyes, then rolled my body out of the chair. “No-one’s going to notice if the idiot Messenger is washed out, I suppose.”
Keesha, our stage manager, was dashing around as usual. She paused just long enough to say, “Probably not. C’mon, stop bitching, Dijon — curtain’s up in three!”
I ground my teeth, but said nothing. I hadn’t focused on the potential for nickname abuse when I decided to try to start using my middle name. Dad was a nice enough guy, I suppose — I mean, people have told me so, anyhow. But it takes a sadist to saddle your son with “Diocletian” even if you are a professor of ancient history. Anyway, it took about two hours for “D. Jon Manser” to become . . . .
You get the point. Should’ve stuck with frickin’ Diocletian. Try to make a nickname out of that, motherfuckers!
Keesha had already buzzed off to deliver her message of good cheer to the others who appeared in Act I, Scene 1, so she didn’t hear ChristinA hiss, “Jeeeesus, Lynette! How’m I supposed to fix your stupid face? I haven’t smelled alcohol breath this bad since the last time Pops was in a coma!”
“So, twelve hours ago, right?” I snarked.
“Eight,” she growled at me. “Not that it’s any business of yours!”
“It was just a couple beers,” Lynette whined, feeling terribly put upon. The only reason I knew she wasn’t acting was because she can’t.
“What kind of beer?” ChristinA asked skeptically, as she tried to finish her emergency repairs.
“Captain Morgan,” Lynette replied, giggling.
“Jeeeeesus!” ChristinA groaned.
“Okay, people! Places!” Keesha again.
“Come on, princess, you’re up!” ChristinA said.
Lynette giggled some more. “Give me a hand, would ya?”
“Stage! Now!!!”
Lynette somehow managed to regain her feet and set off in a stride that was just a little too forceful.
“Lynette,” I said mildly. “It’s this way.”
“It’s my way, mustard face!”
I decided she was someone else’s problem.
Muttering curses, ChristinA managed to get Lynette pointed in the direction of the stage, and she somehow got there without running into something or falling on her ass. But she didn’t exactly look ready for feats of witty banter.
Which would be fine, except our Artistic Director— which is to say, our drama professor— had cast her as “Beatrice” in Much Ado About Nothing, and Beatrice is all about witty banter. Lynette, on the other hand . . . .
Lynette is all about Lynette.
Alright . . . Leonato, Hero and the somewhat Loopy Lynette were all in place. Up goes the curtain. Smattering of applause from the audience. Showtime!
I strode on stage and moved purposefully toward Leonato, dropping to one knee when I reached him and handing him an envelope. I rose as he opened it and fished out a pince-nez.
Yeah, you read that right. The professor— excuse me: “Artistic Director” — decided that the costumes would be from the 1920s. As opposed to Elizabethan England or anything Italian. Leonato is supposed to be the governor of Messina, for Chrissake, not Messina Springs! And why 1920s? Who. Knows.
Artists.
“I learn in this letter that Don Pedro of Arragon comes this night to Messina.” Our Leonato has a good voice, and ChristinA’d done a nice job making a skateboard jock like Kit look like an old man. She’s really good at her shit, if she does say so herself. Which she does. She so does.
Well, my turn. “He is very near by this, he was not three leagues off when I left him.”
We go back and forth, while Julianne clings lightly to Kit’s elbow. At least there’s no mystery why Dr. J was cast as Hero. Her looks will be opening doors she can’t even imagine yet, as far down the road as the eye can see.
We finish our discussion of Count Claudio’s surpassing skill at slaughtering other people from different parts of Italy and his father’s joy at the same, and it’s time for Lynette to join the conversation. I find myself holding my breath.
She looks in my general direction and belts out, “I pay you, is Senior Monsanto return’d with the warts. Or, uh, no?” Twelve words and only four flat-out errors, including a possible trade-mark infringement. It could be worse.
The fact that it likely would be shortly tended to temper my enthusiasm.
“I know none of that name, lady,” I reply, suppressing the urge to say “lady” with the inflection of a Boston traffic cop. “There was none such in the army of any sort.”
“What is he that you ask for, niece?” Kit does befuddled really well, which . . . isn’t actually all that surprising. He is truly amazing — on a skateboard.
“My cousin means Signior Benedick of Padua.” Julianne’s voice is just as exquisite as everything else about her, of course. If only Hero were the female lead, we might survive the evening. It wouldn’t even matter what she said.
“O, he’s return’d, and as pleasant as ever he was.” As per our Director’s instructions, I played the line straight, even though I’m positive that Shakespeare himself would never have done so. Whatever.
But this was where the fertilizer would start to feed into the ventilator at scale. Beatrice had to string together four sentences, and the first one was a doozy.
She took a deep breath, as though preparing to swim the Sea of Cortez under water. “He set up . . . bills? . . . here in Messina, and challeng’d Cupid at the fight, and . . . and my uncle’s foo’, reading the challenge, subscrib’d for Cupid, and challeng’d him at . . . at . . .”
Down in the pit, our prompter was waving a card and mouthing the word, but she wasn’t looking his way.
I decided I’d better try a rescue. “At the burbolt, my lady?”
“Yeah. That,” she replied. “Anyhooo . . . how many hath he kill’d and eaten in these wars? But how many hath he kill’d? For I promis’d to eat all of his killing.” She muttered “gross” and looked at me expectantly, relieved to be momentarily under no obligation to say anything.
Of course, I wasn’t up; Leonato’s line was next.
What am I doing here? I just needed three more humanities credits. Just three more! Dad, of course, had urged me to take history, but I had no intention of warping my mind to the point where I might give innocent children names like Demosthenes or Agrippina the Younger.
“Oh, take drama, honey,” Mom had pleaded. “You’re so good with voices” — by which she meant, I’m a truly vicious mimic — “and you’ll meet people. Maybe even girls!” I looked at the good ship Lynette, holed under the waterline and going down fast. Welp. Mission accomplished, Mom. Lucky fucking me.
We managed— how, I don’t know — to stumble through our relatively tame exchanges. I only had to find ways to feed Lynette two more of her lines. But when we were joined by Dirk and Toby, playing Benedick and Claudio, respectively, things drifted further from the established sea lanes.
“What, dear Lady Disdain! Are you yet living?” At a guess, Dirk had helped Lynette with the Captain Morgan, but he had to out-mass her two-to-one. At worst, his barque was a bit loose in the stays. In normal seas he’d be fine, and as always, he looked the part. Rugged, but somehow still refined.
Too bad this weatherman was predicting seas so rough that even Davy Jones would lose his cookies.
“Is it possible disdain should dine with such neat food as senior Benedick?” Lascivious Lynette managed to deliver her mangled line with an unmaidenly leer, and forgot her second line altogether.
After pausing half a beat, Dirk realized she wasn’t going to say anything more, and delivered his riposte anyway, even though the setup had been ruined. “Then is courtesy a turncoat. But it is certain I am lov’d of all ladies, only you excepted; and I would I could find in my heart that I had not a hard heart, for truly I love none.”
Lynette giggled. “Uh huh. Well . . . a dear happiness to women, they would else have been snuggled with a pernicious suit. I thank God and my cold Bud, I am of your good humor for that. Ida rather hear my dad bark at a crow than a man swear he loves me.”
The problem is that Lynette was so far off the character of Beatrice — never mind the lines — that it was funny. Really funny. She was getting plenty of laughs from the audience, and Much Ado is a comedy, so her response was to just loosen up. I mean, loosen up even more.
Dirk, however, was desperately trying to get through the scene while staying in character, and ad libbing wasn’t in him. There was a hint of downright panic in his eyes, and he clung to the script like a drowning man clings to an anchor.
Which is to say, fiercely, foolishly, and fatally.
“God keep your ladyship still in that mind,” he said woodenly. “So some gentleman or other shall scape a predestinate scratched face.”
“Scratching couldn’t make it worse,” she purred, reaching up to run her fingers teasingly across his gold beard. “Such a face!”
“Well,” he squeezed. “Ah . . . You’re a rare parrot-teacher.”
She looked dumbfounded. “Ima what?”
Dirk plowed on, unable to devise another strategy on the fly. “I would my horse had the speed of your tongue, and so good a continuer. But keep your way a’ God’s name, I have done.”
“Huh?” She shook her head. “Uhh . . . Look. I know you’re old. Like, way old.” She smiled as her audience burst into laughter, then turned to give them a wobbly curtsy.
Dirk closed his eyes, probably hoping the world would vanish if he did.
But alas.
Mercifully, that was Beatrice’s last line in the scene, and shortly after everyone but Dirk and Toby got to exit, stage left.
Lynette was, at this point, having so much fun that “Leonato” Kit had to put a fair bit of pressure on her elbow to induce her to seed the spotlight. As soon as we got into the wings though, she let out a bellow that would certainly carry to the back of the auditorium. “GOD!!! I need to piss!” She took off for backstage at a shambolic run.
I looked at Kit.
He looked at me. “Ho. Lee. Fuck.”
Jim Bridges — our Dogberry— had been watching from the wing we used to exit. “Shit, guys, the slapstick’s supposed to be my gig.”
“Tell me about it,” I said. All of us went backstage, following in the haphazard wake of the S.S. Lynette.
Kit shook his head. “I begged my folks to let me take drama. Begged them. Had to convince them that this program was legit. And they’re out there, right now.”
“Bruh!” I said, commiserating. Not that my parents were in attendance tonight. I had more sense than to invite them, and they had more sense than to show up.
Julianne put a gentle hand on Kit’s arm. “I’m so sorry. I don’t think any of us will be putting this one on our stage credits.”
Keesha joined us. “We are so hosed!”
“Guys,” I said placatingly. “It’ll be okay. This is San Bernardino, not Broadway. People want laughs and they’re getting them. And besides, what with the understudies’ COVID party, it’s not like we’ve got a choice.”
All of the girls who had either minor roles or no roles, but were understudies, had decided it would be a great idea to get together for a pity party. All of them — every damned one — had acquired the latest COVID variant. They were all vaxxed and boosted, and all of them were doing just ducky. But they were also out for the count, and we were flying without a net tonight. Indeed, Hero’s “ladies in waiting” were just a couple guys who were only “waiting” to get out of their dresses.
Professor Hedrick was standing in front of the door to the ladies’, knocking softly. “Lynette? Lynette, honey? Are you okay in there?”
The sounds of retching were the only response he received. Ruh roh! Looks like the early start caught up with her.
“Oh, Christ!” he groaned. “Jenny Sue’s going to kill me!”
“She’ll have to take a number,” I muttered.
Keesha said, “Professor?”
He looked at her distractedly.
“Professor, what do you want us to do?” she asked.
“Do?”
“Yeah. ‘Do.’ You know, with the play?” Her disgust was evident.
He waved her off. “We’ve got to get Lynette up again. Just give me a couple.”
More retching from inside, followed by a moan. “Fuuuuuck! I wanna die!!!!”
The professor returned his attention to the door, his voice becoming more urgent still. “Lynette, sweetie! You’ve got to let us help you! If your mother finds you like this . . . .”
"Fuck Mom!”
“I really don’t think she should encourage him,” Kit murmured.
Keesha looked furious. Near as I could tell, she was about to start hitting the man who’d gotten us all into this mess. Not that I blamed her — like, at all. I’d buy tickets, bring popcorn, and pop a cold one. But she didn’t need to get suspended.
Hedrick was as useless as I’d always suspected. There were a lot of people who’d put in months of effort to put this cluster fuck of a play on the stage, and it wasn’t right that he was going to let it come apart. Screw him.
“Come on,” I said, pulling Keesha away from Hedrick and towards the makeup station. “I can do Beatrice. She’s not on until Act Two, so we’ve got just enough time to get me ready.”
“Wait, what?” Keesha said, startled. “You’re the understudy for Don Pedro and Don John!”
“Both of whom appear to be clean, healthy, and sober tonight. The little things, right?”
“Yeah, but you don’t know the part!”
“I’m the frickin’ Messenger, Keesha. I’ve got, like, twelve lines and I just did ten of them. But I’ve been here every day, for every rehearsal, with nothing to do. I know the whole damned play.”
“But . . . “
I gave her my best Lynette imitation — which, just sayin’, is one hundred percent on fleek. “But what? You got a better idea?”
Her eyes popped, then narrowed in sudden calculation.
Julianne and Kit had followed us. “Keesh, he’s right,” Julianne said. “He’s helped all of us with our lines. Maybe he can pull it off. It’s just for today.”
The sound of renewed retching behind us helped Keesha make a snap decision. “Okay, fine! Just . . . Jesus! Don’t fuck up, okay? And . . . crap! What do we do about the Messenger?”
“You cover it!”
Keesha suddenly looked terrified. “Me! I can’t go on stage!”
Frickin’ artists!
“Fine. The Messenger isn’t back on stage until Act Three, Scene Five. You’ll figure it out by then. ChristinA!”
She was at her chair, and it looked like she’d been crying. “What?”
“Here’s your chance. Make me beautiful. Or at least, make me look like Lynette.”
“Seriously?” She gave me an incredulous look, then — seeing my expression— grinned like a maniac. “Fuck, yeah!” Turning to Keesha, she said, “Get Tanya over here with the wardrobe stuff. And, ah . . . tell her to bring some foundation garments, if you know what I mean.”
ChristinA’s comment made Keesha smile like a wolf. “Yeah, gotcha!” She loped off.
“Okay, then.” ChristinA gave me a conspiratorial look. “Quick now – we need you ready for the opening of Act II. Strip down to your briefs and I’ll get started.”
I moved fast. I probably should have been self-conscious, but the advantage of being physically unimpressive is that after a while you just don’t give a shit. Before I knew it I was naked but for a pretty tight pair of Italian style briefs.
“Alright, this’ll hurt some. Suck it up, Princess,” ChristinA’s grin was positively evil. She spread depilatory cream on my legs, arms and pits. While it was doing what it does, she started working on my face. Fast.
Ten minutes later I was devoid of the fine hair that had taken me frickin’ years to grow, and she was well on her way to reconstructing my face. Or whatever they call it. Keesha came back with Tanya, both bearing clothes.
“I’m afraid the dress and the wig are going to smell a bit like Lynette’s breakfast,” Keesha said. “But we couldn’t think of another way.”
“What did she have? No, don’t tell me. How’d you get in?”
“That idiot Hedrick hadn’t even tried the frickin’ door nob. Of course Lynette didn’t lock it; it’s a wonder she was able to close it.”
“Is she back on her feet?” Maybe she could do this after all. God knows, she was making them laugh . . . .
Keesha snorted. “Yeah, no. She’s back on her back. But this time, unable to do anything interesting.” Lateral Lynette.
“Okay then,” I said. “Plan B it is.”
“You’ll do for now,” ChristinA said. “I’ll do some more later, when you don’t need to be on for a bit.”
Tanya said, “Okay, Dijon. We’ll all turn around, but dump your briefs, tuck yourself back and get this girdle on. It’ll hold you in place.”
I did as instructed, pulling the tight spandex material up until it covered the area from the bottom of my ribcage to mid-thigh. Tanya hooked me into a push-up bra with a bit of foam padding, then handed me an old-fashioned full slip. Despite myself — despite the pressure and the rush and my focus — the feeling of the silky material settling against my skin was startling. It felt feminine, and suddenly, so did I.
Whoa, Jonnie! Grab holda your horses!
The dress was next. Sleeveless, straight, with a broad u-shaped neckline that exposed a whole lot of pale skin on my upper chest and back, it was an extraordinary confection of beadwork over ivory silk. The tassels at the knee-length hem danced as I moved.
Tanya started fussing with the wig.
I might have a pretty face, but there were a few other areas of concern. . . . “I’m flat as a board,” I observed.
“No shit,” said Keesha. “I guess it’s lucky Hedrick stuck us in the 1920’s. For some reason, no one had boobs back then. It’s like there was a law against ‘em.”
“Didn’t men have the right to vote?”
“Yeah, point.”
Tanya got the wig fixed. Suddenly, Jim breezed over. “What . . . Oh! Hey, that’s . . . pretty ingenious. Tell me you’re gonna play her straight, though, right?”
“Where are we at out there?” Keesha asked him, concerned that she hadn’t been able to do her usual job.
He was able to reassure her. “Don John and his boys are just finishing up.”
“How did Dirk do with the rest of Scene One?”
“He was fine. Good, even,” Jim said. “Once it was just him and Toby, they got right back on track.”
Julianne gave me a look that was both kind and thoughtful. “You’re good, Jon? Really?”
I nodded. “I can do it, J.”
“Okay, then. Let’s go!”
“Keesha,” I said, “Make sure Dirk knows, will you? He doesn’t need any more surprises.”
“Fuckin’ A, he doesn’t!” she agreed fervently.
We went to the wings, my shoes clacking strangely on the hardwood floor.
“Short steps, now. And plant your toes first, okay?” Julianne’s voice was barely a murmur.
“Gotcha,” I said. This part would be more challenging. I knew the part and I looked the part. But could I move convincingly? It’s just more mimicry, I told myself firmly.
The evil prince and his henchmen departed the stage and the curtain closed.
Julianne squeezed my hand and looked me right in the eyes. “You are my dear friend and cousin Beatrice, and I’m your Hero. You’ll be great.”
I modulated my voice to match Lynette’s — a sober, Lucid Lynette — being light and playful. “And if not, I’ll just drink myself into greatness!”
She giggled. “Showtime, girlfriend!” We took our places on stage with Kit, Denis (the guy who was playing Leonato’s brother Antonio), and two “ladies in waiting.”
The curtain went up on Act II.
The conclusion of this story will be posted Monday. God willin'.
BEING BEATRICE
Chapter Two: Play With Fire
As the curtain rose, I took a deep breath and tried to get into character. I’d never tried to impersonate someone for more than a few lines — just long enough to skewer them, really. But I knew I would need way more than that to make this work. I tried to visualize myself sinking into Beatrice, or wrapping her around myself like a cloak.
It seemed to work about as well as “Visualize world peace.”
Act II begins with Leonato, so Kit started us off. “Was not Count John here at supper?”
Denis as Antonio replied, “I saw him not.”
Aaaaand . . . here I go! “How tartly that gentleman looks! I never can see him but I am heart-burn’d an hour after.”
I’m pretty sure the audience had been fooled by the magic that ChristinA and Tanya had wrought, but when I opened my mouth, they knew there’d been a switch. Not because my voice was off – it wasn’t, I was sure – but it was clear as day that I was stone cold sober. Maybe I should have played it drunk.
There was a lot of laughter, and a few good-natured boos, and someone shouted, “Bring back the lush!” Hero’s line got drowned out, but I figured they’d settle down — it’s a frickin’ long play, after all. Hopefully in the end the swap out would prove to be, well . . . much ado about nothing.
“He were an excellent man that were made just in the midway between him and Benedick: the one is too like an image and says nothing, and the other is too like my lady’s eldest son, ever more tattling.” My words were tart and teasing – it was Beatrice’s way.
The dialogue for this scene was much like the first scene of Act one – quick-witted banter, with Beatrice clearly overmatching everyone around her. I jousted with Leonato and Antonio before the rest of the crew joined them, and everyone prepared for the masquerade. It was going okay. I had the lines, the general tone, and the voice. But for once, I wanted more than “okay.” C’mon, Jon! Visualize!
Several couples had their anonymous exchanges—Don Pedro with Hero and Don John’s henchmen with two “ladies.” No one could have been fooled by the identities of the masquerade participants. Not here, and not in real life. I mean, seriously? He looks like the noble Don Billy Bob, sounds like him, smells like him, and has identical hair and eyes. But, hey, I can’t see his nose and cheekbones, so I can hock a loogie his way and say I had no idea, amiright?
But then it was my turn for masked conversation. And suddenly, almost effortlessly, as I looked at Dirk — as I looked at Benedick — I locked into my character. Or she locked onto me. I was Beatrice, and I was sparring with Benedick. . . . A most interesting gentleman indeed — like a snake, fascinating and dangerous.
Under the cover of the mask, I tease him mercilessly, telling him that Signior Benedick is the Prince’s jester — “a very dull fool; only his gift is in devising impossible slanders.”
Benedick fights back. Oh, he does try! But his famed wit is easily turned! I am the nimbler, besting him soundly in our battle of wits. Ha!
My next task is to bring poor Count Claudio to Don Pedro, and convince the youthful idiot that his prince had asked Leonato for Hero’s hand on Claudio’s behalf rather than his own. Claudio is earnest — painfully earnest! — so it’s FAR more trouble and effort than it would have been, had he even two parts of sense per hundredweight of sensitivity.
Men!
But, at the last, the thing’s accomplished. Done, and done.
The Prince, much taken with my wit and merry spirit, makes a half-hearted offer himself, asking if I will have him.
“No, my lord,” I answer lightly— but gently. So gently. “Unless I might have another for working-days. Your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But I beseech your Grace pardon me, I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.”
He takes it well — a worthy prince, indeed— and finally, I made my first exit.
Keesha was waiting in the wings for me, and grabbed me in a fierce hug. “Shit, Dijon, you’re fantastic!”
Her words manage to jolt me back into reality. I stammered something — thanks, I think — then trotted backstage in search of water.
Julianne and Toby joined me there minutes later, since Hero and Claudio only have a few more lines after my exit. The chemistry between the two is real, and spills over into their roles. I poured them both a cup as they walked up, and Julianne repaid me with a breathtaking smile. “That was amazing. Just amazing!”
“We may get through this yet,” Toby agreed. “Unless the drunken damsel of Damocles recovers.”
I chuckled, and thanked them both. “My face still okay?”
Julianne gave it a careful look. “You’re still good, girl.” She turned strawberry rhubarb red and said, “Sorry, Jon. You just . . . I mean, you have no idea how good you are!”
“It’s okay,” I said in a gravelly baritone. “Hell, I feel pretty!” But I touched her arm lightly and added, in a normal voice, “If you don’t see me, no one out there will either.”
She shook her head. “Seriously— don’t worry about getting clocked. Your own mother wouldn’t recognize you.”
“That could come in handy sometime,” I quipped. “Listen, I’m not on ‘til the tail end of Scene Three, and I need to pee like a geyser. I think it’s gonna take a while to free myself up, if you know what I mean!”
She laughed. “Welcome to my world, sister! Go on. I’ll get Tanya so she can help put you back together when you’re done!”
I headed back to where the bathrooms are, and became aware of a fierce conversation taking place, fortunately with lowered voices.
“Swear to God, Jackson, I’ll hack your balls off with a rusty garden shovel! She was killing it — killing it! And now this?”
“Jenny Sue, be reasonable! Is it my fault she . . . .”
“Hell, yes, it’s your fault! You’re in charge, remember? The big shot director!”
And there, right in front of my most urgent destination, were Professor Hedrick and a woman who bore an uncanny — and distressing— resemblance to the girl who lay on her back between them, mouth open wide, emitting gentle snores. Someone had covered her up with a blanket. Shoulda maybe covered her face, too.
I decided the blunt and direct approach was best. “‘Scuse me, pardon me, coming through!”
“You!” said the older woman, trying to block my path. “Who the hell do you think you are, stealing my daughter’s part!”
But I was too desperate for subtlety. I dodged around her nimbly, leapt lightly over her daughter’s recumbent form, and pushed open the magic door to Elysian bliss. “Sorry, lady. We didn’t rehearse Snow White, and anyway we’re short on dwarfs.” Slamming the door behind me, I added, “blame your boyfriend.”
“Slut! Get out here!” She hammered on the door, but I ignored her in favor of more pressing concerns. Literally.
How to do this? Did I have to take the dress off altogether? Could I just hike it up without creating a mass of wrinkles?
Out on the stage, Don John and his dastardly henchmen gave way to Benedick, then to Don Pedro, Claudio, Leonato and Balthasar, executing their plan to have Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him. You know, in the alternative, people could just talk to each other. Sheesh!
On the other side of the door, the Artistic Director argued with a harpy over the future prospects of Lethargic Lynette. Gotta be lots of plays with parts for comatose young women, right?
Meanwhile, I wrestled with frickin’ spandex. Reinforced spandex. Jesus! It’s like pulling a boa constrictor over your nuts!
I finally got the job done and I was back out the door with only minutes to spare. Tanya was there waiting for me, but I had to run the gauntlet first. “Sorry y’all,” I said, once again hopping over Sleeping Not-Bad-Looking-With-Makeup.
“Just a God-damned minute, young lady!” The harpy managed to hook the back of my dress. “You aren’t going anywhere! My daughter worked hard on that part, and no one’s taking it from her!”
Moving slowly so as not to risk the beautiful dress, I knelt down beside Lynette, which got me out from under the hooked finger. “Hellooooo in there!!!” I made sure my voice was clear, but not so loud as to reach the stage. “Ding, ding, ding!!! Anybody home?? Stratford-on-Avon calling!” I gave Lynette several love taps on each cheek. “C’mon, Princess! Your adoring fans await!”
She paused her snoring . . . but only to belch. Then she snored louder.
I looked up at her mother, whose face would probably curdle a whole cow. Maybe a whole herd of cows. Cattle. Whatever. “Sorry. Lynette’s not home right now. Maybe try later.” I got to my feet.
Tanya said, “I gotta straighten that, and you’re on in, like, three.”
The harpy snarled, “Lynette’s going back on stage. Tonight! That’s final.”
I looked at Professor Hedrick, and saw that he was wringing his hands. Who does that? Seeing no help there, I turned back to the murderous mother. “Fine. I promise she’ll be back on stage tonight. But she’s not ready for this scene!” That disarmed her just enough for me to slip past.
“Hold still,” Tanya said.
“Not here!” I hissed, walking quickly. “Where’s Keesha?”
“Right wing.”
I headed that direction.
Tanya struggled to keep up. “Jesus, Dijon, she wouldn’t move if we had a tow truck winch! No way can we get her back out tonight!”
“Think of something.” We caught up to the stage manager. As Tanya fussed with my dress, I said, “Keesha, you need to get Lynette’s mom out of here. Back in the audience, at least.”
She nodded. “Yup. Got it. Tanya, can you take over here?”
Tanya nodded and Keesha dashed toward the back. Tanya looked on stage and said, “okay . . . You’re on in three . . . two . . . one!”
I strode onto a stage that held only . . .
. . . that fascinating, devilish Benedick! “Against my will I am sent to bid you come to dinner.”
He looks at me with a strange and disconcerting gleam in his eye, as if he were seeing me for the first time, or with new eyes. “Fair Beatrice, I thank you for your pains.”
There is no hint of mockery in his voice, and that itself is passing strange. A trap, no doubt, for all that I can’t see it yet. “I took no more pains for those thanks than you take pains to thank me. If it had been painful, I would not have come.”
“You take pleasure then in the message?” he probes.
Foolishness! “Yea, just so much as you may take upon a knive’s point, and choke a daw withal. You have no stomach, signior, fare you well.”
And with that, I spun on my dainty heel — causing all the tassels on my hemline to whirl — and stalked off stage.
Tanya gave my shoulder a clout. “Good! Hang here; you’re back on in just a couple.”
I stood still, hoping no one noticed my trembling. It felt weird, like my personality was split down the middle. I remembered my mom telling me about a guy who was famous for doing impersonations when she was a kid. He used to dread doing some president that he really disliked, because he felt like he became the guy.
The other thing I remembered was telling mom that was bullshit. So, there’s that.
Benedick finished his short speech, the curtain dropped, and Hero and “Ladies” Margaret and Ursula took his place on stage. Then the curtain rose and the three ladies began plotting, because, yup. It’s what they do. Shakespeare.
Tanya gave me the countdown and I wandered out to “overhear” them discussing how I unfairly spurned the noble Benedick, who loved me dearly and was the greatest thing since Adam’s first fart. Once they were certain they had dropped all the hints they meant me to harvest, they departed with much maidenly tittering.
I stood in the center of the stage, and the spotlight pinned me like a bug in a display case.
In my mind’s eye I see the noble Benedick, with his intelligence and martial bearing. I reflect on all our verbal jousts over the years and wonder at the confidences I have just overheard. Were they right? Had I indeed misjudged him?
“What fire is in mine ears?” I wonder. “Can this be true? Stand I condemn’d for pride and scorn so much?”
I see my sharp wit for what it is — a path to safety. A motte and bailey to keep a fragile core from threat. Am I so weak as that? So small? Oh, fie!!! “Contempt, farewell, and maiden pride, adieu! No glory lives behind the back of such.”
And suddenly, with a clarity I have never had, I know that I want the glory. All of it, to the last, fiery drop.
I can only hope that my new-found resolve comes not overlate. Imploringly, I add, “And, Benedick, love on! I will requite thee, taming my wild heart to thy loving hand. If thou dost love, my kindness shall incite thee to bind our loves up in a holy band; for others say thou dost deserve, and . . . I believe it! Better than reportingly!!!”
Again, the curtain fell. It took me a moment to recover myself, but then I hurried off-stage. I wasn’t in the next two scenes.
Keesha was back in the wings. “I got her out, but she’s in the audience. She’ll be pissed when her princess doesn’t reappear,” she warned.
“You’ve tried to revive her?”
Keesha shot me a look of pure disbelief. “Are you out of your fucking mind? If she even starts to look like she’s waking up, I’ll hit her in the head myself. You’re knocking it out of the park!”
“But . . . .”
“No buts. Zip it. Now go on back. ChristinA needs to freshen you up.”
Leaving Keesha to mind the e’s and cues, I got back to the makeup station and ChristinA hustled me into the chair.
I saw Tanya there as well, and reminded her, “I made a promise.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not really your call, Dijon.”
“No, it’s Hedrick’s call. He’s just . . . .”
ChristinA chimed in, “on family sick leave, seems like.”
“Kinda,” Tanya agreed. “Look, Keesha’s pretty much running this now. You want to mess with that?”
I started to shake my head and got a glare from ChristinA, who had to move her brush back from my cheek in a hurry. “No?” I said, making it a sort-of question.
“Right answer.” Tanya nodded in satisfaction. “You just go on doing what you’re doing, okay? For all of us. Focus on being Beatrice. We’ll take care of everything else.”
I sighed. “Okay.”
I closed my eyes and let Christina do her thing, while on the stage Don John caused the Credulous Count Claudio™ to believe that his new fiancée had a lover, and Dogberry and his lieutenants of the watch stumbled upon Don John’s henchman. But I ignored ChristinA, ignored the bustle and action, and focused on Beatrice.
I could feel her, just below the surface, waiting to re-emerge.
Soon enough I was back onstage, helping my lovely cousin prepare for her wedding. Hero is the most beautiful, the most pure, and the sweetest of women! Claudio — a fine man even if he is depressingly straightforward — does not deserve such a treasure. Still, she is happy, positively bubbling with delight.
But there — right there at the altar! — her beloved denounces her, calls her wanton and rejects her. And the Prince, noble Don Pedro himself, attests to the truth of Claudio’s calumny!
Oh, sweet Hero, so wronged! She swoons, collapsing, seeking the mercy of oblivion. Maybe of death itself. And all depart or are borne away — all save me . . . . and Benedick.
Alone of the men, he has not condemned Hero, professing himself amazed at the accusations against her. His comfort gives way to something more and he stands before me. So close. So solid.
“I protest I love thee,” he says, his voice soft but deep.
I take his offered hands in my own. “Why then, God forgive me!”
“What offense, sweet Beatrice?” He smiles, and his hands encourage me with a gentle squeeze.
“You have stay’d me in a happy hour, I was about to protest I lov’d you.”
His smile widens to one of joy. “And do it with all thy heart.”
And finally — finally! — I drop my denials and the defense of my wit, finding the courage to allow the truth in my heart to see the light of day, even though the sun has darkened. “I love you with so much of my heart that none is left to protest!”
He embraces me fiercely, then pulls back, holding my shoulders in his powerful hands. “Come, bid me do any thing for thee.”
I place my right hand, pale and delicate, on his chest. In a voice that is all at odds with the tenderness of our posture — a voice that is focused, determined, and deadly — I tell him the one thing, in all the world, that I desire at that moment.
“Kill. Claudio.”
And there, just as quickly as love had infused his features, so now his look is all alarm and incredulity. “Ha, not for the wide world!”
The tongues of men are so quick with the words of love! So quick . . . and so full of deceit. My joy turns to ash, the glory of our moment to ruin, and in a dead voice I say, “You kill me to deny it. Farewell.”
But even as I turn to go, he says, “Tarry, sweet Beatrice.”
We talk – we converse – and I give myself over to my fury. I denounce Claudio as a villain, who has destroyed the most perfect soul in all the world. I rail at the cruelty of fate, that I had not been born a man so that I might avenge her myself.
Benedick at last stops attempting to dissuade me, to quell the rage that boils within my breast. Simply, directly, like the soldier he is under all of his wit, he asks, “Think you in your soul the Count Claudio hath wrong’d Hero?”
My voice is iron, beaten and forged. It is steel. It is adamant. “Yea, as sure as I have a thought or a soul.”
And this, more than my passion, more than my wrath, convinces him. “Enough,” he says calmly. “I am engag’d, I will challenge him. I will kiss your hand, and so I leave you. By this hand, Claudio shall render me a dear account. As you hear of me, so think of me. Go, comfort your cousin. I must say she is dead; and so farewell.”
He takes my hand and lifts it to his full lips, planting the gentlest, the sweetest, of kisses upon it. Giving a last, loving glance, as if fixing my features in his mind, he turns and strides away.
The lights dimmed and the curtain came down. The stagehands dashed out to do their magic, transforming the wedding chapel into a prison. Huh. Wonder if that was subtle Shakespeare humor? Jim was in the wings with Keesha, gathering his crew for more of Dogberry’s slapstick.
I just stood in the center of the stage, lost. Who AM I?
Amidst the chaos, Julianne came out and took my arm. “Come on. Let’s get you off.”
“Ahh . . . thanks.” I felt confused. At sea. But leaving the stage definitely helped. We walked off in the opposite direction from where Keesha was putting together the crew for Scene 2.
“You okay in there?”
I shook my head. “No, I’m batshit crazy in here. You’re gonna need to haul my sorry ass away when we're all done.”
“Stay with us, honey,” Julianne said softly. “You’re doing great. We’ll get you through it, and we both have a long break here.”
It felt good to be, somehow, back in my own skin. To reaffirm my sense of self — my pure, irreverent and ironic core — I say, “alls I’ve gotta do is out-act a girl in an alcohol-induced coma, right? How hard can it be?”
We went backstage. Most of us were there, except for Keesha and the funny guys doing the watchman scene. I found myself relieved not to see Dirk; I wasn’t sure I could handle him right then. What do you want to bet he feels the same way?
“Where’s Hedrick?” I asked.
Tanya said, “Keesh kicked him out, and he went. I kid you not — Don’t get that chick mad at you!”
I shook my head. “Wow.”
“Looks like we’ve got everyone we need,” Tanya said, after counting noses. “Here’s the deal – Keesha has it all worked out.” She looked at Mike. “We’re going to need you to cover the Messenger part in the last scene. It’s just one line. Okay?”
Mike looked like a damsel in distress. Not “the house is on fire” distress, or even “I got spaghetti sauce on my white damsel (dis)dress.” More like “the line for the lady’s room is so long” distress. “But I’m on as Ursula in the prior scene. There’s no way I can change costumes in time.”
“It’s okay; Ursula doesn’t have any lines in Scene Three; she’s just there with the mourners. Keesh wants Julianne to do that. Give her your wig and no-one will notice at a distance.”
“But I’m in that scene,” Julianne said, puzzled.
“Yeah, but your thing’s even easier. We got it covered.” Tanya grinned.
I couldn’t help it. I sniggered. Then I chuckled, then started to laugh so hard it hurt. “Oh . . . you . . . evil . . . women!”
The rest of the team was starting to catch on, and they were having a hard time keeping their collective shit together as well.
When I was finally able to speak, I said, “Thanks, Tanya. I don’t like to break promises.”
She smiled at me. “Yeah, I got that part. And we owe you one.”
The play progressed through Act Four and into Act Five. The Prince supported Claudio’s claims against Leonato and his brother; Benedick made his challenge; Dogberry and his crew uncovered Don John’s villainy, and the henchman confessed. Claudio and Don Pedro, now knowing that they had been deceived, offered apology to Leonato, who told them that the only recompense he would consider would be for Claudio to be present as Hero was laid in a crypt, and then the next day to marry a woman of Leonato’s choosing, without seeing her face or knowing who it would be.
I know, right? Seriously real-life stuff. Gritty. Shakespeare is supposed to be a genius and all, but it did make me wonder about the crowd he hung out with. Who does this shit?
Artists, probably.
I went back on stage for the fake funeral scene, but I had no lines in that one. I was okay with that; I was actually a bit freaked about how easy it was for me to slip into Beatrice’s mind.
Lynette was laid out on a bier like an angel — more or less, anyhow. A kind of crapulous angel, I guess, but at least she wasn’t moving. Limp Lynette.
Claudio gave his most heart-felt regrets, and the entire troupe wept crocodile tears.
“Pardon, goddess of the night,
Those that slew thy virgin Knight,
For the which, with songs of woe,
Round about her tomb they go.
Midnight, assist our moan,
Help us to sigh and groan,
Heavily, heavily.
Graves, yawn and yield your dead,
Till death be uttered,
Heavily, heavily.”
Lynette snorted – a somewhat unladylike sound — causing everyone onstage to freeze for just an instant.
Oh, come on! REALLY? Jesus, chick! Even a frickin’ DOG can play dead!
I gasped, deliberately echoed her snort, and converted it to a repressed sob. “Your pardon, Uncle,” I murmured to Leonato in a stage whisper. “I am overcome.”
He patted my hand, fighting to keep a straight face.
Claudio and Don Pedro hastily completed their remaining exchange, and the curtain dropped before Lynette had the opportunity to try her hand at playing Banquo’s Ghost.
Keesha was there in a heartbeat. “Okay, people, get her off!”
The stagehands rushed forward and grabbed the bier front and back.
“Ohhhhh!” Lynette said. “I don’t feeeeeel good!”
“Yeah, well, you kinda look like shit too,” Keesha said. “Wait, hold on. Sorry boo, I need the hair back.” With deft hands, she extracted Hero’s wig and returned it to Julianne. “Get ChristinA to help you with this. Go on!”
The stagehands moved off, carrying Lynette like a dead queen on a funeral barge.
“Fuuuuuck!”
Make that a seasick queen. One that just wished she were dead. Lubberly Lynette.
“Alright! Last push!” Keesha immediately forgot all about Lynette. “Everyone good?”
We all nodded. Sure as shit after chili con carne, I wasn’t going to piss her off!
“Right. Get your places!!!”
Naturally, Shakespeare ties up everything with a neat little bow. I managed to get through the big reveal, where Hero “comes back to life” and she and Claudio are reconciled and married, while staying largely in my own head.
But I had to be Beatrice one more time, and I had to make it count.
Benedick looks out over the assembled wedding party. “Soft and fair, friar. Which is Beatrice?”
Slowly – almost reluctantly – I remove my mask. “I answer to that name. What is your will?”
He looks into my eyes, and – damn the man! – says exactly the wrong thing. “Do you not love me?”
A pox on him! “Why, no more than reason.”
He smirks. Smirks! “Why then your uncle and the Prince and Claudio have been deceived. They swore you did!”
Oh, fine! Time to turn the tables. Damn you, YOU'RE the one who’s supposed to make the move! “Do not you love me?”
“Troth, no more than reason,” he replies, parroting my words.
“Why then my cousin, Margaret, and Ursula are much deceiv’d, for they did swear you did.” So there!
“They swore that you were almost sick for me!” he says, offended.
“They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me,” I respond with equal heat.
“‘Tis no such matter.” He pulls himself up to his full height, and I’m deeply annoyed at what a fine figure he cuts. “Then you do not love me?”
“No, truly, but in friendly recompense.” I’ll not go out on that limb, just to have you sever it at the trunk, my Lord Benedick! I am not so gullible!
Leonato, Claudio and Hero take this opportunity to save us from ourselves, presenting purloined missives we had written professing our love, one for the other.
Benedick looks chagrined — as well he should! He shakes his handsome head and says, “A miracle. Here’s our own hands against our hearts. Come! I will have thee, but by this light, I take thee for pity.”
Pity! After what he put in that sonnet! Whom does he think he fools? Not me, for a certainty. But I will serve him a like dish, and with a flourish! “I would not deny you, but by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion, and partly to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.”
He laughs – a fine, full, merry laugh – and closes the distance between us. “Peace! I will stop your mouth!” And with that, he pulls me to him, inclines his head, and kisses me.
I feel the force of the kiss to my toes, and all my wit departs like mist before the rising sun. I yield utterly, joyously, flowing like water to mold my form to his. After an eternity, we break off, for all the wedding party – indeed, all the world – is applauding.
Laughing, as well. But that, I suppose, we may have brought upon our own selves,
A messenger arrives to tell Don Pedro that his villainous brother is fled, but my wise lord counsels his Prince not to think on him until the morrow. He turns to the Prince’s minstrels and commands, “Strike up, pipers!”
Music swirls and we pair off, Hero to Claudio, and I to my beloved Benedick. The dance begins . . . .
And the curtain fell.
I slumped, drained like a leaky radiator. Dirk gave my shoulders a squeeze, then let me go. Vaguely, I became aware of the sound of applause. Loud, sustained applause, from the other side of the curtain.
And Keesha was there, pulling us all off stage. “Okay, line up for the curtain call! Go, go, go!”
There was much jostling as we tried to get ourselves into some kind of order. The mood was insane. Euphoric. No one thought we were even going to get through Act I – not after that first scene.
The curtain went up, and all the bit players charged out onto the stage. Just in time, Keesha snagged me. “What are you doing?”
I was barely thinking straight. “Oh!!! Sorry! Just, we rehearsed me going out as the Messenger.”
Keesha shook her head, smiling. “Not tonight.”
Dogberry went out for his solo bow, to much laughing and whistling.
Leonato and Antonio. Cheers.
Don John. Catcalls, but it goes with the role. I expect he was grinning broadly.
Don Pedro. Much applause. He was really good.
Claudio and Hero. I could tell when Julianne hit the front of the stage. Thunderous applause. Shouts of “Brava!” drowned out by “Go, Julie!!!!” Poor Toby. But, he understands. You want to date Aphrodite Incarnate, you don’t get to play first violin!
I looked over at Dirk, and our eyes locked. Whatever it was I’d felt, he’d felt it, too. Man. We’re gonna need to talk . . . and won’t THAT be fun.
“Woo-hoo, hunky honeybunny! It’s SHOWTIME!!!” Lynette emerged from the shadows backstage, looking like something the cat dragged in, thought better about, and dragged back out again. She staggered forward, grinning like an idiot, and grabbed Dirk’s arm.
Benedick was gone, and poor Dirk looked baffled, lost, without any idea what to do. I walked over to them both, arriving just as Keesha showed up to find out what the hell was going on.
I smiled. “Go on, Dirk. Bring her out – they loved her.”
Keesha began to protest, but I cut her off. “It’s comedy. She rocked.”
Lynette smiled triumphantly and pulled Dirk onto the stage. The crowd roared, laughter filled the night, and the applause hit new heights.
I quirked an ironic smile at Keesha. “See what I mean?”
“How could anyone not feel what happened tonight?” She shook her head, disgusted and discouraged. “Jesus Christ! What's wrong with these people?”
“San Berdoo, Keesha. Gotta know your audience.”
“Shakespeare’s puking in his grave!”
I chuckled. “Nah. He wrote Dogberry. He’d get it.”
But a voice in my head said, He wrote me, too.
The crowd just kept getting louder. Someone started clapping a fixed beat, and suddenly everyone was clapping and stomping and shouting, over and over. “BE-A-TRICE! BE-A-TRICE! BE-A-TRICE!” Lynette must have been giving them a show, and I had to laugh. Damn, do they love her!
Keesha was looking at me oddly. She leaned in and said, “Jon . . . it’s for you.”
“What?”
“They’re waiting for you.”
I wasn’t sure I heard her right. Huh?
“Go on, girl. It’s your night.” And she pushed me out onto the stage.
The whole cast turned my way and applauded as I walked between their ranks. Well . . . Lynette didn’t. She looked green, but her stomach might still have been taking orders from the Captain.
I couldn’t see much as I looked out into the theater. Nothing but blinding lights and the roar of a crowd.
For the first time, I realized that being an artist doesn’t have anything to do with being “precious” or having an annoying temperament or attitude. It’s about dropping your defenses and pouring yourself out until there’s nothing left of you. It’s about praying for the moments of magic — of glory! — that only such a sacrifice of self can make possible.
Keesha had been kind – strange, that, since she’d never had any use for me before – but she was wrong. The applause wasn’t for me. It was her name on their lips, and hers alone. All I had done was to surrender myself, for the chance — if only for one night, or even one moment — to be Beatrice.
He wrote me, too.
Tears streamed from my eyes as I bent my neck, lowered my head, and sank slowly, humbly, into a deep curtsy.
“BE-A-TRICE! BE-A-TRICE! BE-A-TRICE!”
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
I looked at myself in the mirror for the thousandth time. I could see every flaw, like they were highlighted with neon paint. The slightest bulge of an Adam’s apple. The jaw that was just a bit too strong, the shoulders that were a little too broad, the nose that was wider than it should be. The hands, that always looked so big to me. The waist that wouldn’t waste enough to give me a decent shape.
Won’t they all see what I see, when I look in the mirror?
I’d done a good job on my makeup and hair. I had, I told myself firmly. The three-quarter length sleeves of my dress left only my forearms showing, and they weren’t bad. My legs looked good. They DO, dammit!
But however much I talked to myself, tried to buck myself up, part of me wanted to crawl under my bed and just hide. Get food from DoorDash, and just stay in my new apartment. Stay forever.
Won’t they just see what Annie saw?
The thought of my ex-wife always brought tears to my eyes, even after two years, but I fought them. I’d spent too long getting the mascara and eye shadow right. No-one in this whole state knows who you are, I told myself. No-one cares.
“Come on, ‘Cheyenne,’” I finally said out loud. “Get over yourself!” Summoning all the willpower I had, I picked up my purse and headed for the door. But still I paused, my hand caught on the knob, feeling the coldness of the metal penetrate my consciousness. Just opening the door was a struggle.
Mercifully, no-one was in the hallway. I walked to the elevator and pushed the button, praying that no one showed up. Ready to flee into the stairwell if they did, and take the four flights down. It was no big deal; I wasn’t wearing serious heels or anything. Just modest, comfortable pumps with no more than a two-inch rise, and a solid platform at that. But I was so nervous I didn’t feel altogether steady.
The elevator door opened and to my dismay a man got out – a neighbor, I had to assume. But he didn’t give me more than a glance, muttering “’scuse me,” as he scooted around and down the hall.
My heart was still racing, like it was trying to make up for skipping a beat or three. But I managed to step into the elevator and push “L.” It was an old elevator, which wasn’t too surprising. An old elevator for an old building. Tired. Slow. But the rent was cheap, and my new job – call center work – wasn’t going to pay for anything better.
Eventually, the car came to a stuttering stop and the doors opened, grudgingly. I walked through the lobby, my low heels sounding loud on the linoleum floor that needed a good scrubbing. Past the mail boxes stuffed with junk mail that no one reads. Out the door.
It was a warm evening at the end of August so I hadn’t needed a sweater or jacket. Still, I found myself wishing it were cooler, so I could cover myself up more. Maybe hide a bit better. Stop it!!!
I had memorized the route. Not far to walk into town. All well-lit, so it would be alright, even if I stayed out after dark. And all the streets were busy enough. Plenty of cars. I would be safe. I told myself that a hundred times.
I had, after all, done a lot of research before picking this place. Where could I go, as a transwoman, and be safe? If – when – I got clocked, how likely was it that I would get hurt? I’d picked a college town, though I was long past college age, just because it was more likely that people would be more accepting. More open. But the state itself was marginal. I couldn’t afford to live on the coasts.
I wanted to be thrilled, walking to the center of town in a dress. I’d always dreamed of this, hadn’t I? From the time I was very small, holding my mom’s hand as we walked through the wonders of Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, my small and awe-struck eyes taking in all of the beautiful women. But all I felt was terror in the pit of my stomach. Worry that everyone would look at me. They would see me. See what I saw, when I looked in the mirror. What Annie had seen, that horrible day two years ago.
Just a guy in a dress.
I forced myself to keep walking. This is why you moved away, I told myself. Cut all ties, every one, so that I could start over somewhere new. Truth is, I should have done it right away. I’d tried to stick it out, after Annie and I split, so I could be there for the girls. But they were ashamed of me, and my attempts to stay connected had just been painful. Work had proven to be unbearable. All of their pious nonsense about nondiscrimination had been a lot of horse manure. In the end, they’d been delighted to pay me two month’s severance to see the last of me.
But I’d never been good at meeting people, much less making friends, and it hadn’t gotten any easier as the years went by. I couldn’t imagine how I would manage it now, all alone in a town I didn’t know, trying to live as a woman full-time for the first time ever, at age 38.
I told myself that I’d just keep doing what I was doing that very moment: Putting one foot in front of the other. I no longer had friends or family, but at least I could live my life as the woman I’d always known myself to be. To turn the old lyric on its head, another word for “nothing left to lose” is “freedom.” I had that.
For whatever it was worth.
My building was on a busy street – two lanes each way – and cars whizzed by, drivers eager to be somewhere else in a hurry. I wasn’t in any kind of hurry myself. I didn’t need to be back in front of my computer terminal for another twelve hours, and until then, there was nothing I needed to be doing.
The rapidly passing cars stirred leaves and empty plastic water bottles, left carelessly in the road. This part of the city always seemed to smell a bit moldy; I wasn’t sure why. But it was pleasant enough, I suppose. Mostly because it was inexpensive and probably safe.
Probably.
I took a left on a slightly less busy street. Only two lanes here. Trees coming up through grates in the sidewalk. I counted the intervals by pacing them out as I walked. Thirty-six steps between each tree. I thought they looked like Bradford Pears, but I wasn’t sure. I would know for sure in the Spring, I suppose.
There were plenty of street lights. They weren’t on yet, but it would matter later. Here, the streets seemed to hold small shops, mostly. A shoe store. Hardware. A delivery operation. A barber shop. There were people on the street, walking.
I avoided making eye contact with anyone. Somehow, I felt like I’d give myself away, if I was caught looking at someone, when they were looking at me. When they were seeing the man in the dress. One foot in front of the other.
No-one seemed to notice me. Or if they did, no-one said anything. That would do, as far as I was concerned. They were sure to notice, but so long as they didn’t say anything – so long as they didn’t appear to take any notice of me – I could pretend I was able to pass. That I was just another not-quite-young-enough-to-be-interesting woman on an errand of her own.
Another block, and my destination was on the right. An indie bookstore that I’d noticed when I drove the U-Haul into town with my few remaining belongings.
Lots of cars parked on the street. My eyes were drawn to a big pickup truck, up on ridiculously high tires, its back window plastered with stickers. One was for a local concealed carry group. Another said, “I identify as a Prius.” I shivered, fighting the urge to turn around and run. You’re safe, I told myself. Safe!
Somehow, I managed to keep moving. But as I approached the bookstore my panic only increased. It was so brightly lit . . . so full of people! I could imagine them all turning around as I entered, stopping what they were doing, to gawk and point at the freaky guy in the dress.
I’d done some rock-climbing when I was in my twenties. The one athletic thing I’d been genuinely good at. Not good enough to try El Capitan, but pretty damned good. My personal best, at 25, was the Sirocco Pitch at The Needles. Stunning, and almost surely the hardest thing I’d ever done in my life, bar none.
Up ’til now.
But I would be more likely to draw attention standing outside the bookstore, looking like a frightened rabbit, so I took the plunge. I’d like to say that I marched up to the door and flung it open, but the reality is that I almost scurried. And fortunately it was an automatic door, so all I had to do was slip inside.
No-one paid me the slightest attention. Everyone was doing their own thing. Checking out books to buy, wandering the tall stacks, or sitting in the small area where they served espresso drinks. The checkout clerk seemed to be doing a brisk business.
The lack of attention drew me in. I have always loved book stores – especially independent shops like this one, that might have a dozen copies of the strangest things and absolutely no copies of whatever was currently passing for a best-seller. I walked down the central aisle, looking at the hand-written labels taped to the stuffed shelves. Psychology . . . Self-Help . . . Spirituality . . . Religion . . . Philosophy . . . Politics . . . History.
History drew me in, as it always did. My undergraduate degree was in history, and I’d always loved it. Not that I’d been able to use my degree to get a job in a related field, of course. America has even less use for historians than it has for history itself. But I still read history books, just for the sheer pleasure of it.
I must have browsed the shelves for forty-five minutes, spending a few minutes with a variety of interesting titles. The history shelves weren’t drawing a lot of attention – surprise, surprise – so it was a quiet and safe space. I got lost enough in my browsing that I even stopped worrying about someone discovering me. When I came to the realization that I had spent an hour in public en femme and no-one had bothered me, I was astonished and gratified.
I selected an interesting book on Vichy France, a subject with which I had some familiarity, though I hadn’t read anything about it in well over a decade. Since college, probably. Choosing a moment when no-one was in line, I brought it to the register and paid with a credit card.
The clerk at the register was a few years younger than me, though his premature balding made him look older. “‘Cheyenne?’ That’s a pretty name.” He gave me an impersonal smile and told me to have a nice evening.
Somehow, I think I managed to say “thank you,” and walked away in a bit of a daze. But I felt emboldened, and decided to go to the cafe and spend a few minutes reading my book with a cup of good coffee. If I could manage that, I would definitely count the expedition as a huge success.
I asked the barista for a vanilla latte, speaking deliberately softly. My voice has never been particularly masculine, but I need to concentrate when I want it to sound affirmatively feminine.
The barista was a pretty girl, probably a college student. Big, round glasses that made her look both studious and cute. She rang me up without much of a glance. Whatever I was – either a middle-aged woman or a guy in a dress – I had no interest to her. Which was completely okay with me.
“Vichy? I don’t know that I’ve ever run across anyone who would read that for fun. Are you a new graduate student?”
I looked up very slowly, afraid I was going to give myself away. The man who had spoken – to me, clearly; no-one else was carrying a book on Vichy France – was probably a couple years older than me. Light brown hair – almost blond – and a neatly trimmed beard. Bright, inquisitive eyes. I was afraid to meet them. Afraid he would suddenly see right through me.
“N-n-no,” I stuttered, before righting myself. “No. Just interested in it.”
He had a nice smile. “Really? That’s extraordinary. I don’t know anyone who’s really studied it, and I teach history. What about the period speaks to you?”
I managed to raise my eyes to meet his, if only to look for some sign of mockery. I couldn’t see any. Maybe you just don’t WANT to see it, my panicked mind gibbered. “I . . . it . . . ah. Well. There’s a lot of similarities to what’s happening today, in our own country.”
“Here’s your latte, Ma’am,” the barista said, interrupting me. I thanked her and reached to take it, trying to keep my hand from shaking.
The guy who said he taught history said, “Feel free to tell me to buzz off, but I’d like to hear the rest of that thought. Can I join you for a minute?”
Terror!
But . . . what could I say? “Of course. Are you getting something?”
“Yeah – just give me a second and I’ll join you.” He turned and ordered a black coffee, no sugar.
I sank down in a chair by a small table with only two seats, feeling like my legs wouldn’t support my weight. The book felt like a barbell. Even the coffee felt heavy. What am I DOING here?!!!
He came and took the other chair, blowing on his coffee. “So . . . Vichy?”
“Really?” I asked, incredulous. “You really want to hear my thoughts about Vichy France?”
He chuckled. “I don’t know anyone else who’s actually had thoughts about Vichy France – including me – so, yes. Very much. I get paid to teach history, but I’d spend all my time thinking about it even if they didn’t.”
“Okay . . . Well. It’s a complicated subject, but . . .” And, believe it or not, I launched into a discussion of the parallels between the American Right in the 2020s and the French Right in the 1930s, touching on subjects as unfamiliar to most Americans as Ultramontanism and the Dreyfus Affair. And this guy who seemed to know something about history was nodding and asking smart questions and generally taking my ramblings seriously. All without pointing a stern finger at me and shouting “J’Accuse!” at the sight of the guy in a dress.
It was disconcerting, really. Like a dream.
In fact, it’s the sort of thing that actually happens to me in dreams. Seriously. In dreams, I find myself having animated discussions with people about the great Tulip Bubble of the early 17th Century, or the remarkable life of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Poitou. Like it’s perfectly normal. And realizing, in the middle of the dream discussion, that I forgot to wear any pants.
So, yeah, I was kind of pinching myself, but near as I could tell from the pain shooting from my complaining flesh, I was absolutely still awake. And the conversation really was fascinating, even if I wasn’t wearing any pants.
We probably talked for twenty minutes, though I wasn’t exactly checking the clock. But he finally drained the last of his coffee, grimaced, and said, “I’m going to have to stop having fun, and get back to grading papers. I’ve really enjoyed talking to you.” He shook his head, smiling, and said, “And I’ve forgotten my manners, as usual. I’m Dave Stull.”
“Cheyenne Walker.” On a whim, I extended my hand.
He took it, and gave it more of a press than a shake. “A pleasure. I hope I see you here again.”
“Likewise,” I managed. He got up, but I didn’t follow. I figured I’d leave after a few minutes, just to be safe. The encounter had been incredibly pleasant, but the paranoid part of me feared that he was really the stupid monster truck guy. He might have seen through me right away, and was even now waiting outside with a lead pipe, like a demented Professor Plum.
Girl, I said to myself, you have GOT to get a grip!
When I’d calculated that enough time had passed, I finished my coffee, stopped pretending to read my book, and left. Outside of the coffee house, I went back the way I came, taking note that the lighting was just as bright as I’d thought it would be. I’m safe. Really. I’m safe.
Just before I turned off the street where the bookstore was located, I saw Dave ahead, getting into his car.
It was a Prius.
I laughed quietly as I retraced my steps, leaving the downtown and taking the main road, the safe road, the road with all the lights and the busy traffic. As I neared my tired little apartment complex, I began to truly relax for the first time all night. Maybe for the first time in two years. I felt like I’d just completed a difficult ascent. A near impossible pitch.
A slight gust of wind made my skirt flutter against my bare legs, a sweet and subtle caress. I was suddenly aware of the musical sound of my low heels on the pavement, of the delicate scent of the perfume I had placed with great care on my wrists, and at the base of my throat.
Maybe, just maybe, I could do this.
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
I have been thinking about my many friends here who have sacrificed so much, just for showing the world who they are — their deepest, truest selves. Thinking about how hard the holidays are for them. And this came to me. It’s dark, and I apologize for that.
Cold Comfort
Oh, there’s turkey in the oven
and Wild Turkey in the flask!
And there’s gravy and there’s stuffin’
You don’t even have to ask!
Oh please join us, if you’re able
And we’ll open up a cask,
Oh there’s room around the table,
If you’ll only wear your mask.
For it’s Christmas and we’re jolly
Uncle Andrew brought the tree,
There are garlands and there’s holly,
Oh you really have to see!
Oh we’ll hail you and wassail you,
But dad gave us one small task:
For its on a cross we’ll nail you
If you ever drop your mask.
Oh please join us, if you’re able
And we’ll open up a cask,
We’ll make room around the table,
But you have to wear your mask.
We were running late when we finally managed to extract ourselves from my in-laws’ warm embrace, and the light snowfall slowed the mercifully light traffic on the highway to around thirty miles per hour. I was in the backseat with the twins, keeping their Christmas Eve excitement from getting out of hand. Kay’s an outstanding driver, but the road conditions called for extra attention.
The kids and I had just gotten through singing the twelve days of Christmas when Kay said, “Hon, I’m going to have to go straight to the church if I’m going to be there on time to get the Bishop on task.”
“No worries,” I assured her. “I’ll get the kids home. Can you catch a ride back with Todd?”
She nodded her head. “I’ll confirm it, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. I wasn’t counting on this snow!” There really wasn’t a lot, but it was fresh and slippery, and as usual it seemed like half the locals had forgotten how to drive in it.
“It’s pretty, though,” I said softly, mesmerized as always. Making my light tenor as warm as I was able, I sang, “I’m dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know. Where the treetops glisten, and children listen, to hear sleigh bells in the snow!”
Juliette squealed, “Santa!”
Her brother, always inquisitive, asked, “Why does Santa ride a sleigh?”
“‘Cuz he’s got reindeer! Duh!” Jules was only seven minutes and twenty-four seconds older than Spencer, but she was convinced that she had the answers to all of his questions, and everyone else’s, too.
I diverted them before things could escalate, and soon we were singing Jingle Bells together. It was, oddly enough, less distracting to Kay than conversation. The words were so familiar she was even able to sing along without diverting any attention from the road.
She pulled into the parking lot at All Saint’s just before 11:30, cranked the parking brake, and turned back to the kids with her always-infectious smile. “Okay, cherubs! I’ll see you Christmas morning! Be extra good now, ‘kay?”
“Why do you have to go to the church, Mommy?” Spence sounded simply curious. We all go to church plenty — but for our family it’s usually a Sunday morning activity.
“Well, you know tomorrow is Jesus’ birthday, right?” When Spence nodded solemnly, Kay continued, “It’s a special day, so we have a special mass tonight, as well as the one tomorrow morning.”
His mother’s words seemed to satisfy Spencer — they almost always did — but Jules said, “Why aren’t we all going?”
Kay chuckled. “We’re already past your bedtime, missy, as you know very well! We’ll all go together tomorrow morning.” With that, she blew them kisses, popped the door and stepped into the snow.
I got out behind her and got a real kiss. Holding her close, I said, “Give them Isaiah, love.”
“‘The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. Those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shined.’” Her gloved fingers touched my temple, part caress, part benediction. “Yes. I will.”
Even murmured in the cold and dark of the parking lot, I could feel the power and passion of her voice, the purity and conviction of her faith. No-one could proclaim that scripture passage quite like Kay.
“Call if there’s any problem with transportation,” I urged. “I’ll work something out.”
“Will do. See you soon.” She smiled, brushed a snowflake from my cheek, then turned and walked briskly up the stairs to the church, ready as ever to organize befuddled bishops, dithering deans, and the usual battalions of church ladies.
Getting in the driver’s seat, I double-checked that the twins were still buckled in before releasing the brake and getting back on the road. The snow falling in the path of the headlights wasn’t nearly as pretty when you needed to see through it to drive safely!
The kids were chatting amiably enough, still hyped up as kids are on Christmas Eve. I knew it was going to take some work to get them calmed down, and I was going through the checklist in my mind.
Our house is only a ten-minute drive from the Cathedral Church. The snow eased enough for me to relax a bit and enjoy the festive lights on houses along the way, each surrounded by a halo of falling snow. The world really was transformed — a different and magical place of heart-stopping beauty.
Most of the streets had been plowed within the last half-hour or so, though our street hadn’t and the tires slid a bit as we made the turn. But I got us safe into the garage and sent the kids upstairs to get their PJs on and brush their teeth.
While they were taking care of their business, I turned on the Christmas tree lights and lit the Yule fire I had set earlier in the day. The paper caught first, then the small kindling went up in a roar and the larger pieces began to catch.
When the twins padded downstairs, they took in the scene with eyes that were alive to the magic of it all. The house in darkness, except for the tree and the fire; the crackle of the flame loud in the stillness.
“Okay you two,” I said. “First things first. You need to hang your stockings.”
They eagerly came and took the impossibly long knit tubes from my hands and hung them on the hooks I had set in the wall to the right of the fireplace just for this purpose.
Wrapping them each into a one-armed hug, I pulled them to the couch and sat one of them on each side of me. I gave them the story of angels and kings, of shepherds and their flocks, of a crowded inn and a stable, an upright man and a young mother, filled with grace. A star shining bright at midnight, a song of unworldly beauty, the mystery and majesty of the living God, once more touching the clay of creation.
By the end, finally, they were ready for sleep. I brought them upstairs, tucked them in, and said a prayer to guard their rest. At six-and-a-half, this wasn’t an everyday occurrence anymore, and I cherished it.
I had a few things to do before Kay got home, so I tiptoed back downstairs, careful not to make a noise that would keep the twins awake any later. I couldn’t stuff their stockings until I was certain they wouldn’t try sneaking down to catch Santa in the act!
The first thing I did was wrap my special gift for Kay. With all the bustle, I hadn’t gotten it done earlier. I went to my hiding place and pulled it out, then popped into the study, where we’d stashed all of our wrapping supplies.
Someday I’ll get her diamonds, I vowed to myself silently. But we’d agreed to be frugal until we’d paid off the house and put enough away for the kids’ educations. And really, it was fine. Kay likes nice things as much as the next girl, but what she really appreciates is thoughtfulness.
She would look spectacular in sexy nightwear. She is tall, trim and athletic, with perfect skin that positively glows, and I’m always tempted to buy her something gorgeous and classy and ultra-feminine.
But much as I would love to see her in silk, satin and lace, her Christmas present isn’t about what I want. She's a flannel pajamas gal who loves feeling warm and cozy, so I had hunted high and low to find something she would like. I was starting to get desperate when I stumbled on a fleece dressing gown in a deep, rich plum. It was feather-light but warmer than any flannel, with a high, soft collar in jet black that would emphasize her graceful neck.
I lined a box with pale lavender tissue paper and folded the gown so that the shoulders and neck would be visible when she first opened the present. Then I wrapped the box with forest-green paper, creasing each edge to perfection, added a wide gold ribbon, and spent some minutes creating an intricate bow on top. I tucked a couple holly sprigs I had cut fresh in the morning into the bow, making sure the bright red berries stood out against the paper.
Once I was certain the package was as perfect as I could make it, I brought it out and set it under the tree. Time check: 12:45. Midnight mass always runs long; the Cathedral Choir of All Saints is powerful enough to stand up to the massive pipe organ, and they literally pull out all the stops. So, probably another half hour before Kay would be out.
I listened carefully at the bottom of the stairs for a full three minutes. Not a sound from the kids’ rooms. All clear. Going back to my hiding place, I pulled out all of the fun things that we had collected over the last few weeks to add to the kid’s stockings. All small stuff – silly gifts and clever gifts, and, of course, candies and cookies and a couple pieces of fruit. Everything that needed to be wrapped had already been wrapped, to make sure this part of the process went just as quickly as possible so the kids didn’t see it. The stockings were finished almost as fast as Santa could have managed, and the empty box went back into my hiding place.
One o’clock. They would be in the middle of communion, now. My next stop was the kitchen, where I put together a small platter of special snacks. Kalamata olives, three different cheeses, two kinds of crackers. I sliced up a ripe, fragrant pear and added the slices to the platter. Hmmm. Still needs something.
Diving into the pantry, I pulled out a small box of dark chocolate truffles I had found at a local shop in mid-December and had squirreled away for just this purpose. I smiled as I placed them. Yep. That’s what we needed!
Last but very much not least, I opened a ten-year-old bottle of Barbaresco that I had tended carefully in the basement for seven years. It was inexpensive when I bought it, but would fetch quite the price today!
I arranged the platter on the coffee table in the living room, then went to the hutch and pulled out the crystal toasting glasses from our wedding. Looking at them critically, I saw they had acquired a bit of dust since the last time we’d used them, so I took them back into the kitchen and restored their original sparkle. I gave each glass a generous pour of the Barbaresco and set them by the platter to breathe.
Finally, I grabbed a plastic shovel and did a quick clearing of our front walk. There was only an inch or so of snow on it, but Kay was in heels and wouldn’t want to ruin them.
Though it was no longer snowing, the night retained the intense stillness that accompanies snowfall. Our street still hadn’t been plowed; apart from the tracks of a few cars, nothing broke the pristine whiteness that blanketed the ground. Everything glittered, sharp and clear.
Magic.
Kay would be back any minute. I went back inside, added a log to the fire, lit a couple of candles, and sat in the leather recliner. The quiet, and the fire, and the magnificent twelve-foot pine were worth savoring. Kay had always wanted a big tree, and I’d worked with the architect on the design of the house to make sure the ceilings in the main living area would be high enough to make her dream come true.
By 1:30 I was getting a little worried . . . but not too much so. Midnight Mass can be an emotional high, and the people who work hard to put it together need a minute or two of “merry Christmases” before they’re ready to go their separate ways.
I saw a car turn up our street a few minutes later, so I went outside. It was, as I had hoped, Todd’s big Chevy Suburban – a vehicle that wouldn’t have any difficulty with a little snow and ice. I walked down to the street and opened the passenger door. “Thanks, Todd, you’re a life-saver!”
Todd had a cheery grin. “Always a pleasure, Paul. Merry Christmas!”
I handed Kay down, wished Todd and his family a merry Christmas in return, and waved as he drove off. Then I tucked Kay in close and led her back to the house. “How was Mass?”
She smiled. “Wonderful. I’m really looking forward to us all being able to do it together, though. Maybe in a couple years.”
“Your reading went well?”
She nodded. “The spirit was there, for sure. And Todd’s proclamation of the Epistle was positively inspired.”
Inside, I took her coat and hung it up.
She stepped into the living room and absorbed everything, breathing in deeply, reveling in the smell of the fresh pine tree, mixed with earthy smokiness of the wood fire. She laughed — one of my favorite sounds in all the world, an uninhibited peal of delight — and spun to face me, eyes glittering like the new-fallen snow. “Will you marry me?”
“Pretty sure I did.”
“Yeah. I remember something about that. Best decision I ever made!”
I moved into her arms. “Yeah. Me too.”
When we broke our kiss, she asked, “How were the kids?”
“Perfect. I wish I could bottle these moments. Mom and Dad keep warning me that they won’t last.”
Finally, we settled ourselves into the comfy couch and raised our toasting glasses once again, reaffirming the love we had shared for almost ten years. They hadn’t always been easy ones, but in the end the hard times had brought us closer together.
She loved the nibblies, as I had known she would. It’s not like I don’t know exactly what flavor combinations tickle her taste-buds best! But it was time to draw the night to a close. Even though they had been up well past their bedtimes, the kids would be certain to wake us bright and early, in just a few short hours.
I got up, bent to plant a kiss on her forehead, and got her present from under the tree. “Merry Christmas, love.”
She wasn’t one to rip the wrapping off a package, but her approach was always swift and eager. She slid the ribbon off while preserving my elaborate bow, then slipped a nail under each piece of tape to remove the paper. Her eyes lit up as she opened the box and moved the tissue paper. “This is perfect! Oh my God! It’s so soft!” She pulled the gown all the way out of the box and caressed her cheek with it, feeling the nape against her smooth skin. “Thank you, Paul!”
She hopped up, gave me a proper kiss, then disappeared into our bedroom. A minute later she came out with a gift box. It was store wrapped, but I never minded. Kay has many wonderful talents, but wrapping presents isn’t one of them.
We sat back down on the couch, snuggled close together, and I opened it up. Inside was a nightie that would look absolutely spectacular on her – calf-length, empire waist, in a lovely shimmering teal, with delicate lace at the hem and the neckline. I smiled and shook my head. “It would look so much better on you, Kay!”
She snuggled closer. “You say that every year. But I love the way my little presents make you feel, and how your face lights up whenever you wear them.”
I love her so much, I still wonder how my heart can hold it all! “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“You really can’t see it, can you?” She sounded more amused than surprised.
I shook my head. She could have had anybody. Anybody at all.
She kissed me lightly, then slipped onto my lap, snaking an arm around my neck. “I can think of a million things. You are the most considerate lover a woman could want. And an incredible father, while still being a good provider.” She paused and pointedly looked around the room – at the tree, the fire, the platter, and her present – making sure I saw the direction of her gaze. “You find a way to make everything you touch, and every moment I’m with you, special. It’s all that, but that doesn’t capture it. You just have the most beautiful soul I have ever encountered. I love you so much it hurts.”
Her face blurred as my tears poured out. I held her close, savoring the moment, until she said softly, “Come to bed with me, Jane, my love. I want to see how you look in your new nightie . . . until I take it off of you!”
– The End.
Author’s Note: I wrote this as a new solo story, set in the present day, intending it as a bit of a present for a friend who had asked why my trans characters are all attracted to men. (Note to my friend: Merry Christmas! Know that I always hear you!).
When it was complete, though, I suddenly realized that I knew these characters and had written about them before. My muse had tricked me completely, giving me a secret view of that special marriage the minister marvels at in Tenebrae. All I had to do was change the names of the four characters, and it fit perfectly with the earlier story.
So it turns out this was a bit of a Christmas present for me, too. Tenebrae is close to my heart, but the nature of the story is such that I never thought I would revisit its characters.
Whether or not you read Tenebrae, I hope you enjoyed this story, and I wish each and every one of you a blessed holiday season!
December 22, 2023
— Emma
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter One: Book Move
San Francisco, California
February 18, 1998
“You should be more cooperative, Mister Ferguson.” The compact man in the dark suit sat across the conference room table from me, radiating controlled menace. “Given the evidence we have compiled from your online . . . ‘activities’ . . . you could spend a long, long time in prison if you aren’t.”
I decided on defiance. I was good – very good – at covering my cyber tracks, and I had my doubts that his evidence was anywhere near as good as he thought it was. But somehow, I found that my mouth was as dry as the southern Sahara in a sirocco (something I’d experienced personally, so I knew). I swallowed several times, trying to generate enough internal moisture to permit normal speech. I expect the resulting visual was less than heroic.
“What’s the matter, Mister Ferguson?” the man asked tauntingly, so strongly emphasizing the first syllable of the honorific that it felt like an insult instead. “Cat got your tongue?” He watched me struggle a bit longer, a sardonic smile playing on his lips. “You don’t need to say much. ‘Yes, sir,’ will do fine for starters.”
I finally managed to grind out, “I want to talk to a lawyer.” My voice sounded unnatural, but at least it was audible and the words could be understood.
It didn’t help; the man just laughed at me. “A comedian, I see. Well, guess what? No lawyer for you, Mister Ferguson. Not when the charges include aiding and abetting terrorists. Just who did you think ‘Hermes’ was, anyway?”
He couldn’t know about that! It wasn’t possible. I’d used three separate back doors and multiple cut-outs before making that contact! He was absolutely fishing. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I replied forcefully. Maybe too forcefully.
“Still not feeling cooperative?” He shook his head and “tsked” at me, mock sadness in his voice. “Well, no matter. You’ll lead us to him. Best part is, you won’t even know it.” He got up and came around the table toward me.
I tried to jump up, but my limbs suddenly refused to obey.
The door behind me opened, and two other men in identical suits entered to assist my interrogator. One of them was holding a clear plastic container that seemed to contain – only just – a nightmarish insect which was frantically leaping around.
My eyes bulged and I opened my mouth to scream, but no sound came out.
The interrogator and the man who had both arms free effortlessly hauled me out of my chair and tossed me on the conference room table like a rag doll. I was desperately trying to tell them that I would cooperate, but I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t even whisper. In my terror, I couldn’t even control my bladder.
My interrogator made a noise of disgust. “Ehhch! Viruses, I tell you!” He pulled up my shirt to bare my chest, and – to my horror – the third man put the insect-filled container right over my exposed belly button and pulled a lever.
As the insect leaped, I passed out.
* * * * *
San Francisco, California
February 27, 1998
It was just another day toiling for my corporate masters – a job I kept mostly as cover. I made far more in my off-hours. With my hacking skills, I had no trouble making just as much money as I wanted. I took those payments in cash, which was occasionally hard to get rid of, but had the advantage of being effectively untraceable.
It was a Friday afternoon, and I looked forward to spending a little of my cash over the weekend. A little road trip to Vegas was just the thing, I thought. San Francisco was a fine place, but you could find anything in Vegas. Literally anything.
My pleasant daydreams were interrupted. “Mister Ferguson?” The secretary, pert and perfect in her crisp white shirt and black skirt, was holding a FedEx package. “This just came for you.”
“Thanks, Jacqui,” I said, taking the parcel from her. “Got anything fun planned for the weekend?”
Her smile showed a deep dimple on both cheeks. “Me and my boyfriend are going down to Yosemite! Can’t wait!”
I shook my head. I’d had to go to some strange places in the country and in the world for some of my ‘business’ dealings, but the idea of sleeping in a tent in a snow-filled valley for fun was quite beyond me. “Well, enjoy, both of you . . . and keep away from the bears and the b-b-b-bugs . . . .” For some reason, I stammered over the last word. I recovered quickly. “See ya Monday!”
She kindly did not comment on my verbal slip and walked off with a cheery wave. I gave her parting form a quick, appreciative look. The girl really knew how to make a skirt look good. But I quickly turned my attention to the package, lest I be taken for some kind of lech.
It was late in the day – and in the week – for anything important to be hitting my desk. Especially something that wasn’t just paperwork, and the shape of the package indicated it wasn’t. Curious, I opened it up and found that it contained a phone. No sooner had I pulled it from the package then it began to ring.
I was unfamiliar with the model, but I hit a likely button and a mouthpiece dropped down like a switchblade, almost causing me to drop the phone. Instead, I held it to my face and said, “Hello?”
A man’s voice answered, a pleasant, melodious tenor with the hint of an accent from the far East. “Hello, Noel,” it said. “This is Hermes. I understand you’ve been looking for me.”
I hopped out of my chair and looked around my section of Cube City. It was 4:30 on a Friday, and no one was close. Sitting back down, I said, in a low voice, “How did you find me . . . here, that is?”
He chuckled. “You have your ways, Noel. We have ours. Do you really want to meet?”
“Yes!” I am very, very good – but everything I’ve heard indicates that Hermes plays in a whole different league – a league that includes legends like Hamilcar, Artemis and Shaka. And as much as I enjoy my life as it is, somehow, it’s never enough. I wanted something else. Something more. Hermes might be the one who could bring me there.
“That’s good,” he responded. “Very good, actually, because you’ve already been tagged by the kind of security you don’t want to mess with on your own.”
My blood ran cold. “What are you talking about?” I asked.
“I’ll explain, but not here, and not now. Listen to me, Noel. I want you to take BART over to Walnut Creek tonight. Sit in the last row of the last car. We’ll be in touch.”
“Which train?” I asked. The Bay Area Rapid Transit system runs multiple trains under the Bay every hour.
He chuckled again. “Any of them. Don’t worry about that. See you soon!”
The line went dead.
I had butterflies in my stomach just contemplating the meeting. I was going to see Hermes? The master of the World Wide Web? A wanted man in more countries than even I had visited? I felt an involuntary shiver.
But I stilled my fears. The deeper I went into the online world, the more I became convinced that the world around me was . . . strange. Not right. I’d never felt right, as far back as I could remember, but this was bigger. More intense. Like I was only seeing the surface, and that, under all that seemed pleasant lurked secrets both dark and deep. A sane man, I thought, would content himself with the pleasant exterior.
Me, though . . . ? I wanted to know. Needed to know.
I logged off the company’s intranet, made sure my station was clear and shut down my computer. Briskly, decisively, I walked to the elevator and headed to the lobby.
Fifteen minutes later, I was going down the escalator at Embarcadero, headed for the first train across the Bay. It was Friday, the weekend beckoned, and the platform was crowded. Suits, mostly – the detritus of numerous downtown office towers, highrises resting on ball bearings, the better to withstand the powerful forces of California’s frequent earthquakes. Lawyers and doctors, the mavens of finance and their accountant minions, more lawyers . . . .
But it was still San Francisco, so the platform had a fair number of other types as well. Some “loud and proud” guys, a couple Deadheads, a street person headed back to Berkeley in search of greener pastures, tourists from all over, a school group . . . the colors and flavors of what made the Bay the place to be. Funny how BART brought them all together.
The eastbound train rattled up to the platform, and I worked my way to the back of the last car, snagging a seat across from a couple who had clearly come from SFO, their suitcases stacked around them like a fortress. They were engaged with each other. The suits who took the seat in front of me were both studiously reading the paper – naturally, the Wall Street Journal. The Deadheads were standing by the doors, having an animated conversation that verged on an argument without quite going over the edge.
I tuned them all out.
The train took off and very shortly we could feel the compression of air that indicated our descent and entry into the tunnel that crosses San Francisco Bay.
Truth to tell, I always hated this part of the trip. I have an irrational fear of drowning, and could only imagine what the tunnel would be like in an earthquake. Even though I knew, intellectually, that the tunnel had been built to withstand earthquakes. It had survived the massive Loma Prieta quake ten years before without damage, while portions of the conventionally-designed Oakland Bay Bridge collapsed, dropping cars and passengers to their deaths. So there was that.
None of that mattered; my fears were my fears. Which is why I started to hyperventilate when the train slowed, slowed further, then stopped, just minutes into our run under the Bay.
No one noticed my distress, at first. There was a great deal of talking, of startled exclamations – the hubbub of scores of people asking questions that none of their neighbors could answer. But I was struggling for breath, my heart was pounding, and it felt like sweat was springing from every gland. Eventually, someone picked up on it.
“Dude . . . you okay?” It was one of the Deadheads, now kneeling by my seat. The other hovered behind him.
I shook my head, but concentrated on getting my breathing under control rather than answer.
“It’s cool, man,” he assured me. “They got plans for shit like this. Just, you know, relax.”
It was kind of him, I suppose, but I fought a strong urge to shake him. I managed to get enough air to say, “We’re in a little tube on the bottom of the bay, with over 130 feet of water on top of us, and you think we should all just chill out?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” he replied. “Beats the alternative.”
He . . . kind of had a point about that. Really nothing about the situation would be improved by my having a breakdown, and it would be a complete disaster if everyone did. But my limbic system didn’t care, and it was well on its way to convincing my frontal lobe not to care either. So his logic was less convincing than it should have been.
His fellow traveler pulled her backpack forward, unzipped the main compartment, and offered me a brownie. “Try this. It’ll help.”
I looked at her incredulously. Short-cropped spiky blonde hair, twiggy build, glasses, earnest expression. We were stuck in a fricking death trap, and she thought my understandable panic would be helped by a little snack?
Her companion winked at me. “She’s right, dude. Awesome brownies. Great for, you know . . . anxiety.”
Oh. Deadheads and brownies. Duh! But . . . they were right. One of those brownies actually might be helpful. I took the piece the girl was offering, nodded my thanks, and took a healthy bite.
Not bad.
I finished it in four bites. And, mercifully, it didn’t take long before I started to feel an effect. My heart rate was slowing back down and I didn’t sound so much like the little train that couldn’t quite.
The Deadhead girl somehow got me to move over, and she sat next to me. “Want another?”
I shook my head. “N-n-no, thanks,” I stammered, a bit tongue tied. “That seems to have taken the edge off. Damn, what’d you put in them?”
She grinned. “Secret recipe. Just sit back. You’ll feel fine real soon.” She patted my knee.
A voice over the intercom cut through the conversation going on around us. “Ladies and gentlemen, we are experiencing technical difficulties. Please remain calm. There is nothing to worry about. We’re going to guide you all to the pedestrian walkway and bring you back to Embarcadero station. When the doors open, please follow the uniformed BART employees, who will guide you back. We apologize for the inconvenience.”
More hubbub. Loud protests and sounds of incomprehension. But I was feeling increasingly detached, floating on a warm cloud of calm. I should be panicking, I thought. Followed by, I have GOT to get that recipe.
The sounds were starting to diminish and I batted my eyes, fuzzily surprised to discover that I had momentarily closed them. Open the doors, and where’s all the people? I remembered that I was supposed to be evacuating, but somehow the thought carried no sense of urgency.
My Deadhead friends were speaking to each other, but I was having a hard time following what they were saying. The guy got down between the rows of seats opposite me. Hide and seek? I like hide and seek . . . .
The girl was getting handsy. Very handsy. Feels good! She tugged and pulled me down between the seats, and I felt clever fingers at work on the buttons of my shirt. I should be worried, shouldn’t I? But I felt a goofy grin coming on. Seriously goofy.
She was saying something else. Sounding urgent. Her warm hand on my chest was replaced by something cold, metallic . . . I shivered and began to twitch as strange sensations hit my lower torso. I felt like something was trapped inside me, and it was moving. I really should be worried about this, my inner voice strongly suggested.
My goofy smile just got bigger. “Hi! Aren’t you the fresh one!” At least, I think that’s what I said. I meant to say it.
With incredible suddenness, my body jackknifed in pain, throwing my young companion back and away from me. A closed metal container skittered across the floor and rolled toward the doors.
The guy jumped up from his hiding place and sent the container out into the dark void outside the car with a well-placed soccer kick. He rummaged through his companions backpack with quiet urgency. Another brownie? Really, I couldn’t possibly . . . .
Instead, he brought out something that looked a bit like a perfume atomizer. Moving quickly, he came over to me, looming above me as I lay helpless, pointed the container straight at me, and pumped an aerosol spray right into my face.
I was momentarily blinded and seized with a fit of coughing. My panic began to surge back. Who are these people?!!! I scooted back, as far away from where I had last seen the man as I could get, bringing up my knees and covering my head with my hands. “Go away!!! Get off me!!!” My voice sounded shaky, but it was my voice.
“Noel.” The voice was coming from over my head. The girl. How does she know my name?
“Noel,” she repeated. “You need to wake up. Now. You were bugged. We took care of it.”
Her words penetrated. Nonsense words . . . Except, sickeningly, I knew that they weren’t nonsense at all. That dream . . . it was REAL!!! Holy shit!
I forced myself to uncurl from my protective ball and look up. The girl – the woman; I realized that there really wasn’t anything girlish about her – was seated in the row in front of me, looking down. Her expression was wholly at odds with her deadhead appearance: focused, intent, fierce as a bird of prey at the beginning of its lethal dive.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“We’ll get to that,” she replied crisply. “But we’ve got to get out of here first. Listen carefully. The train’s going to start up again in just a minute. When it stops, we all need to be ready to move. Got it?”
I wasn’t going to follow her just because she looked scary and sounded decisive. “Or what?”
“Or you get reacquainted with the asswipes in dark suits who planted that bug in your gut.”
I shivered and pulled myself up, rapidly working to rebutton my shirt and get it tucked back in. “Yeah, you’ve convinced me.”
The doors closed with a “whoosh” and the train lurched back into motion, the squeal of metal on metal shockingly loud in the almost empty passenger compartment. The man stood and waved me up as well. “We’ll be stopping again as soon as we clear the bay, before we hit the West Oakland station. There’s a service tunnel we’re going to use. Tell me you aren’t claustrophobic.”
“Well, actually . . . .” I started.
“Good.” He cut me off, clearly uninterested in my idiosyncratic phobias. “You follow Zephyr, and stay close, understand? I’ll bring up the rear. The important thing is to move fast, got it?”
I nodded. Now that I’d had a chance to collect myself, I was doing better. This whole situation was weird as shit and just getting weirder . . . but I’d been ass-deep in croc-infested waters plenty of times before. Yeah, my day job was being a dweeb, but this wasn’t my first rodeo. These people knew who I was and where to find me; they’d known about that . . . thing . . . in my abdomen and apparently neutralized it. And somehow they were with people who had the ability to hack into the BART system.
Hermes. They’re taking me to Hermes!
The train began to slow, and my colleagues visibly tensed. We moved to stand by the doors and waited. When it came, the stop was abrupt. The car’s brakes shrieked in protest and we were pitched forward. Fortunately, we’d all been holding grab-bars and no-one tumbled. We were out just as soon as the doors opened. They closed immediately and the train began moving again.
“Come on!” Zephyr hissed. There was enough light for me to see her slender form rapidly moving down a narrow catwalk from the point where we had left the train.
I sped behind her, very aware of her colleague’s presence at my back. I’m fast, but I struggled to catch up – or even gain ground.
She skidded to a halt by a door set into the tunnel, pulled another device from her backpack and clamped it on the door by the lock. An LED display in eerie red flashed on the device.
I caught up just as she got the door to open. She pulled the device off the door, put it back in her bag, and slipped through.
I followed. Behind me, I heard the man close the door, followed by a loud metallic “clang!” that echoed in the dimness of the tunnel. But Zephyr was speeding away and I had no time to look behind me.
I really was not wild about enclosed spaces. It wasn’t debilitating; I could function in them and had, when the need arose. Always, though, they brought back unhappy memories of childhood . . . of thoughtlessly cruel neighborhood kids . . . pranks involving a dark cellar . . . the smell of mold . . . the chittering of rats . . .
I ran harder.
Ahead of me, I saw Zephyr reach a place where another tunnel crossed the one we were in. She stopped, silent, and held up a fist.
I stopped as well, attempting to mimic the silence of her movements. I felt, rather than heard, her colleague stop right behind me. After a moment, I could hear a faint sound, a metronomically precise tap-tap-tapping, just on the edge of my hearing.
Zephyr turned to look at the man behind me, her expression asking a question. She raised her index finger. One?
Apparently, she got a silent answer of some sort from the man. Once again decisive, she pointed at me and indicated that I was to follow her, taking the tunnel that went to the left. She indicated that the man should continue to go straight.
I nodded.
We ran. Down the tunnel. Up some stairs. Left. Into a crawl space, where I could see nothing and we shuffled forward as fast as we could on hands and knees. Rats . . . roaches . . . darkness. Out to another tunnel. We reached a compartment that was several stories tall. A metal ladder, bolted to the wall, disappeared into the gloom above. We climbed to a landing.
Zephyr had me wait while she spent a moment listening intently. She pulled a spray can out of her backpack and went back down the ladder ten yards or so. I could, just barely, see her spray something on the ladder’s handhold and rungs.
By the time she rejoined me, I could hear what she had clearly heard already: the tap-tap-tap of hard-soled shoes, running hard. Growing louder.
We ran. Tunnels. Stairs. Ladders. Another tunnel. At some point, in the distance, I heard a crash behind us, and dared to hope that whatever Zephyr sprayed on the ladder had succeeded in thwarting our pursuit.
But it wasn’t all that long before I heard the sound of pursuing feet again. And, fast as we were going, the pursuer was faster.
We reached the base of another long ladder. This time, Zephyr had me take the lead, and I hustled just as fast as I could. I was bathed in sweat, whether from exertion or fear, or maybe both. But the steps were loud behind us and I pushed harder, forcing myself to an inhuman pace. I heard Zephyr’s spray can at work behind me and hoped that it would at least delay the pursuit.
I reached the top of the ladder, but it was a dead-end. As I opened my mouth to warn Zephyr, a ringing sound caused me to look up. Over my head, a manhole cover began to rise. Understanding, I pushed myself the last few feet and rolled out from under the cover onto a city street, a truck with a winch parked right in front of me.
Zephyr was an instant behind. “Drop it!” she shouted, springing clear. She raced toward a sedan parked across the street.
The winch released the cover, which fell with a ringing clang, then the truck backed up over the cover.
“Move!” Zephyr shouted. She had the back door of the sedan open, and as I ran toward her, she jumped in and scooted over, giving me room.
I threw myself into the car and barely had the door closed when the driver peeled out. I looked back and saw the truck lurch as the manhole cover lifted up before crashing back down again. What the hell could DO that? Then the car turned a corner and the truck was left behind us.
We sped down deserted streets surrounded by old tenements, through parts of town where streetlights were not functioning. The driver was clearly taking a circuitous route; I didn’t know this part of Oakland well, but I have good spatial awareness.
It began to rain. Lightly at first, then all at once, in great, ripping sheets. In the middle of a block that looked no different from any other one we’d been down, the driver stopped abruptly. Zephyr opened her door and hopped out; I followed.
We went into a tired apartment building and got into a slow-moving elevator, getting off on the fourth floor. Zephyr still moved at a brisk clip, speeding down a hallway, her footsteps making no sound as she glided over the dirty, worn-out linoleum. She stopped at an unmarked door – none had numbers – and knocked. An odd, almost diffident knock.
From inside, I heard the voice I was hoping to hear, sounding both warm and slightly amused. “Come in!”
Zephyr opened the door, but surprisingly she held it for me, and didn’t enter until I had gone in first. I was surprised to see a nicely-maintained room . . . an area rug in medium green over hardwood parquet, arts-and-crafts style standing lamps, two arm chairs, set at angles, an occasional table between them . . . .
A man rose from one of the chairs, looking at me intently through dark eyes under neatly-trimmed hair as dark as midnight. Medium height, lean, but powerful. At a guess, Korean ancestry.
His eyes held me. “Noel Ferguson,” he said in greeting. “Please come in.” He gestured to have me take a seat.
I heard the door close behind me. “That was one hell of an initiation exam,” I said as I sat down.
He looked amused. “Do you think so? But things are often not what they seem. . . . Are they?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that, so I just cocked my head, inquisitive.
He smiled briefly, then leaned forward. “I assure you, the pursuit today was real, and it was potentially quite deadly. Nor has the danger passed, so we’ll have to be brief. This isn’t like any other job you’ve ever taken, Noel. You’re either all in, or you’re out.”
I leaned back in my chair, studying him. “Very cryptic. But I don’t buy a pig in a poke, ever. ‘All in’ what, exactly? I know about some of your jobs – Cairo in ’95; Sao Paulo in ’97; Moscow earlier this year. Your reputation in the hacking world is up there with legends. But what am I signing up for?”
He chuckled. “Good, Noel – but your normal caution will hurt you here. The Agents won’t stop looking for you, now that your bug’s been removed. What they seek, they find.”
“I won’t be frightened into anything,” I replied, my voice even.
“Nor should you be,” he agreed, surprising me. “Let me tell you why you should come with us.”
“Good call.”
He smiled again, showing a row of strikingly perfect teeth. “You should come, because the world as you experience it is out of kilter. You know it is. You feel it. Sense it. But you don’t know why.” His dark eyes bored into me.
“Yes,” I agreed, my voice low. “How do you know . . . ”
“. . . that you know?” he asked, finishing my question. “The answer to that question is part and parcel of the answer to all your questions. But I can’t give you that answer, unless you’re in.” He leaned back, watching me carefully. A flash of lightning briefly caused the whole room to flare into light.
“Pig in a poke, then,” I said sourly.
“I’m afraid so,” he said. He reached into the pocket of his leather jacket and brought out a small wooden box. He popped the lid and set the box on the table facing me.
The box contained two pills on a gauze pad. I eyed them warily.
“Take the blue pill,” Hermes said, “and you will wake up in your own apartment. It will be morning, and the events of this evening . . . well. Your mind will tell you whatever it will tell you. You will think this all a dream, maybe. Or a hallucination. No matter.”
“And if I take the red pill?”
“Take the red pill, and you will get your answers. You will learn the truth, though I warn you now: many who have, wished that they had retained their blissful ignorance.”
I looked at the box, thinking. “Suppose I don’t take either? Suppose we just shake hands, I walk out the door, and we forget the whole thing?”
“Not while I’m on guard, you won’t.” Zephyr, by the door, folded her arms and gave me a lazy, challenging smile.
I looked back at Hermes.
He shook his head. “We can’t allow you to leave that way, knowing what you know. You need to choose a pill. And you need to choose now.”
Crazy MoFos already almost killed me tonight . . . but . . . the bug was real. That nightmare was real. Besides, Hermes is right. I HAVE to know!
I reached out, my hand shakier than I would like, and picked the red pill out of the box. I looked at Hermes again, but his face was guarded. Impassive. With a sigh, I placed the pill on my tongue. Swallowed hard.
“Alright, come with me,” Hermes said, rising quickly. He led me into an adjacent room where several other people were fussing over various types of electronics with readouts that meant nothing to me.
Zephyr followed me in and brought me to a station where they strapped probe-tipped wires to me. I was trying to follow the conversations swirling around me, but my heart was pounding and I could think past the furious sound of my own gasping breaths. What is happening to me?!!
And the world collapsed like a dying star, with me trapped at its pulsing heart, screaming in agony as the pressure mounted and pain overwhelmed me. Monstrous, faceless beings, horrors of metal and glass, tore at me. I tried to scream, but felt myself drowning, my lungs filled with fluid.
I fell, spinning.
* * * * *
I wandered in dreams and nightmares, blind, deaf, mute. I felt intense cold, oppressive heat, a million pricks on tender skin. Every nerve ending flayed, every muscle, every ligament and tendon, shrieking in hot agony. Even my lungs were on fire.
It seemed like the pain would never end, except in the sweet moments when true oblivion took me. I craved sleep. Even more, I craved the release of death. But I would always return to pain, and still more pain.
In my dreams I began to hear voices, like ghostly echoes. Their words were clear, but my pain-shrouded mind could not comprehend them. It was all gibberish. Sound and fury, signifying . . . .
Signifying. No; there were words. The words had meaning. Significance. It was there, right there, if only I could reach it. I brought myself to try, to corral my mind into the simple task of processing spoken language.
I failed, and oblivion reclaimed me.
I don’t know how long I slept. How long I endured the pain. But after an eternity, one day, the pain eased, ever so slightly. Then it eased some more. I slept again, and again, and each time, when I woke, the pain was less.
With an effort that felt worthy of the Olympic games, I opened an eye to a blur of light and shadow. Pain lanced, fresh and new, through my optic nerve and straight into my brain. Instinctively, I opened my mouth to cry out.
I made a noise. A noise that I could hear.
But the pain was too intense. I passed out again. Another eternity passed before I could bring myself to try again. When I did, both light and shadow were dimmed, and the pain, while real, was not debilitating.
A shadow moved within the shadow, and a form, vaguely human, loomed over me. And the form spoke and my brain was, at last, able to process the sounds. Not that the words made any sense.
“Welcome, Noelle. To the real world.”
To be continued . . . .
Chapter 2: Irregular Opening
I felt weak – weaker than I’d ever been. Even that time I’d been on the run from Haftar’s boys near the Sabha Oil fields, when I’d gotten severely dehydrated and collapsed under a Ford flatbed.
My vision was improving, too. The first few times I’d tried to open my eyes, the pain had been severe, but even when that subsided some, all I’d been able to see were vague shapes, patterns of light and darkness. Once, I’d even heard a voice from one of the moving shapes, but I couldn’t remember how long ago that had been.
Now, though, I could see color, and form, and some perception of depth. Everything was blurry, but that was still a huge improvement. The movement that I detected was clearly a human shape – at a guess, a human male – rising from a sitting position and walking toward me. Wherever it was that I was.
My muscles tensed, reflexively – and that hurt, still. I forced them to relax as I tried to focus my eyes. Finally, I decided to try speaking. “Why . . . “ I stopped. My voice sounded dry, raspy . . . and strangely high. I tried swallowing, but my mouth was too parched.
The man came close. I saw a blurry arm reach over and carefully raise my head and right shoulder. “Drink,” he said, placing a straw between my lips. Whoever it was, his voice and accent reminded me of Hermes, but older. Significantly older.
It was water – the coolest, most beautiful, most perfect drink I had ever tasted or ever would taste. I sucked the straw eagerly, and groaned when he pulled it away and gently lowered me back onto the pillow.
I decided to try again. “What’s wrong with my eyes?” My voice was much more clear, but the pitch was still all wrong.
“You’ve never used them before,” he replied. “They will improve, in a few days.”
Never used them before? Okay. I’m dealing with a madman. But at least he thinks my vision isn’t permanently impaired. “Will . . . will my voice go back to normal, too?”
I was having trouble with double vision. Both of his heads, neither clear enough for identification, shook. “No. What you are hearing is your natural voice. A very pleasant soprano, I think. You’re a woman, Noelle. You always have been.”
I’m helpless, weak as a newborn kitten, and I’m in a room with some crazy guy. Time to play it cool, maybe?
Yeah . . . no. “Okay, whatever. Who are you, where am I, and what the fuck happened to me?”
He chuckled, which pissed me off. “If you are going to demand answers, you will need to get stronger – much stronger – so you can try to force them from me.” Both his image and its mirror turned and faded.
“Wait!!!” But I was too late. Whoever he was, he was gone.
I closed my eyes again. Get stronger? Okay. Good idea. I focused on my fingers. Yes, I could absolutely feel them. Concentrating, I tried to raise my right index finger – the dominant finger of my dominant hand. It felt sluggish, and there was definitely some pain, but I was able to do it. Finger by finger, I tried all of the rest.
It was shockingly tiring. I felt a sheen of sweat at my temples. From moving fingers? I rested for a couple of minutes, then decided to try to move my right wrist. I might have managed to raise it twenty degrees, thought it was hard to tell, blind. Then I tried the left. When I managed that as well, I felt like I had reached my limit.
Again, I slept.
I went through five periods of sleep and wakefulness without seeing anyone, doing nothing but exercising my weak extremities. “Five sleeps,” Gavin would have said. I wondered what my sometime partner in crime, a hacker from Sydney, would think of my current predicament. I expect he wouldn’t be impressed.
But progress seemed to be fairly rapid . . . or at least, rapid compared to my baseline. My fingers and wrists were now able to move without pain, and near as I could tell their range of motion was okay. But I still couldn’t raise my head, so I couldn’t really see them. What I was able to see – the ceiling above where I was lying – no longer looked fuzzy.
I had managed some motion with my elbows, and felt ready for another big push. Straining what felt like every muscle, I managed to raise my right forearm a few inches, then a few more . . . with a heave, I managed to get it to pivot to the left, dropping my hand on top of my right thigh. I was panting with the effort and the muscles felt like jelly, so I waited a bit longer, then concentrated on bringing my hand up and over, just a bit further . . . .
My questing fingers encountered a catheter. I suppose that shouldn’t have been a surprise. But it didn’t take long to confirm that the catheter was draining plumbing that was decidedly female. Had they done some kind of surgery?
I had to know more, exhaustion or no exhaustion. So after a bit more of a rest, I used my fingers to provide additional power, contracted the muscles in my arm, and got my hand to move slowly up my torso. It probably took fifteen minutes, but I did finally make it far enough for my hand to encounter a woman’s breast.
My breast.
Some slow and careful exploration allowed me to determine that there were no indications of any incisions. There had been no surgery. I also determined that my new additions were sensitive as hell.
I allowed my hand to rest, just below my new breasts, while I pondered the situation. So the guy, whoever he was, hadn’t been shitting me, at least insofar as he correctly identified the gender of the body I appeared to be inhabiting. But he hadn’t just said I was female; he’d said I’d always been female.
How had he known that?
It was a secret I had guarded very carefully, from the time I was young. I didn’t look at all like a woman. I was tall, athletic, and had strong and sharp facial features. But I had known, nonetheless, that the evidence of all of my senses was wrong, wrong, wrong. I was a woman.
One of my truly guilty pleasures – the one I had been anticipating before I’d gotten that fateful call from Hermes – was going to a place I knew on the outskirts of Vegas where I could let my inner woman out. It was a cash-only operation, and the dear woman who ran it worked very hard to ensure that no one inside the compound had any idea who the clients were in the outside world.
Behind the high stucco walls of the Spanish-style hacienda, I and a few others that I only knew by their femme names were shaved, waxed, and bathed, had our hair and makeup done, wore clothes appropriate to the gender we held within, and socialized with each other as women. None of us had been very passable, though most probably managed better than I did. But, within the walls of the hacienda, our imperfections were not commented upon. There was acceptance and friendship . . . sometimes, even more.
Had Hermes infiltrated the compound? It certainly seemed possible. I knew, better than most, what a good hacker could do, and by all accounts, Hermes made me look like a middle schooler. Moreover, he correctly used my femme name – though the feminine form of my given name was an obvious choice even if he hadn’t known.
But . . . why go to all the trouble? What am I to him, or to his operation? That thought rattled around in my head as I drifted back, yet again, to sleep.
When I woke again, I was covered in a blanket, and another woman was with me in the room. She stood when my eyes fluttered open. My first impression involved short-cropped brown hair, caramel-colored eyes and a look of coiled intensity.
“You’re Noelle?” she asked. But when all she got from me was a guarded look, she said, “Don’t worry about it. Takes some getting used to. Anyhow, I’m Britt, and my job’s getting you on your feet.”
I was eager to be on my feet, but I was wary of all of these people. I raised an eyebrow. “Why?”
Britt shrugged. “The truth? Because those are my orders.”
“Uh huh. But why are those your orders?”
“I don’t much feel like speculating,” she parried. “Look, I’ll work with you on PT, but if you want to shoot the shit instead, you’ve got the wrong chick. Your call.”
I didn’t like it, but it didn’t matter. Regardless of my next steps, I needed to be strong enough to take them. “All right, Britt,” I said. “I’ll give you everything I’ve got.”
That earned me a wolfish grin. “Oh, no, chicka! You’ll give me LOTS more than you think you’ve got!”
Truer words were never spoken. I don’t know how long she spent working with me – pain demonstrates Einsteinian relativity with pellucid clarity, since it stretches each screaming instant to an eternity. But she eventually dumped my twitching remains back on the bed.
When I woke, she came back and did it again, and again. And yet again.
I don’t know how long this lasted. My world was reduced to exercising, eating, and sleeping, with brief interludes when I was introduced to the use and maintenance of my new plumbing. Since I had no idea how long I slept either, it could have been days, or even a couple weeks.
My body should have rebelled, but it was clearly getting supplemental therapies during the hours I slept. The nature of those therapies was unclear to me, but seemed to involve some mechanical stimulation of my muscle groups. I felt better after my periods of rest than I had any right to.
The only other thing I managed to do, in my brief periods of non-sleeping solitude, was to explore the contours of the body I found myself inhabiting. It was smooth and soft; the skin was alabaster white, like it had never been touched by sunlight. My waist was high and narrow; my arms and legs were slender, and both my bust and my rear were shapely. And sensitive.
It was, in short, everything I had ever dreamed of. Everything I had pined for.
The idea that I had breasts and a vagina brought me to tears. On multiple occasions. I found myself frustrated that I had no mirror to see my face, and kicked myself for being ridiculous. What did it matter what my face looked like? I’m a woman, outside and in!
But how?
I was awake, but had not decided to open my eyes yet. I was trying to collect my thoughts, and to prepare myself mentally for another grueling workout. My mind kept circling around the same questions. How is it that my body is female? Where am I? And perhaps most troubling of all . . .
. . . Why do I have a hole in the back of my skull?
Once I was finally able to move my arms and hands through some semblance of a normal range, I had discovered that there was a metal plate at the back of my head. Low; near the spinal column. And there was a hole in the center of the plate that appeared to go straight into my brain. What. The. Fuck?
Britt, of course, had refused to say anything about it. “You can get your hands back there? Good. Then let’s try THIS exercise.” But I kept coming back to the question again and again. What the hell had been done to me, and what did it all mean?
I felt Britt’s presence, or else her shadow fell across my closed eyelids. I sighed internally.
“So,” said a male voice. “Are you ready to demand some answers from me?”
My eyes flew open. The man was, as I had expected, older. I studied his face carefully. He looked quite a bit like Hermes as well . . . his father, maybe. He had a slight, and very knowing, smile, which I found pretty irritating.
But I’d lost quite a bit of time by my prior approach, so I decided not to display the annoyance I was feeling. I gave him a smile in return, though mine was lightly dusted with rue. “No, sir. But if you’ve got some time, and a bit of patience for someone who is deeply confused, I would surely appreciate it.”
His smile widened. “Of course. But it will be better if I show you.”
He held out a hand and I took it, using the extra support to pull myself upright and pivot to face him. I was dressed, as I had been for some time, in a very plain natural fabric. Cotton . . . linen . . . I don’t know. Just light pants with a draw string and a pullover top. Not too different from a sweatshirt, but nowhere near that thick. Underwear was basic. So, despite the fact that I had been sleeping, I was as ready to go as I had been since Britt took me through my first workout.
The door to my room was the kind of watertight affair you see on ships in movies – a flattened oval with a wheel lock in the center. The man spun the lock and we stepped out onto a narrow corridor. Everything around us was riveted metal – steel, I thought. I felt like I was on a World War II submarine.
I followed the older man for some time in silence as we made our way through the bowels of what was very clearly a ship of some kind. We came to another door and the man began to spin the wheel lock. That’s when I noticed the bronze-colored plaque by the door that read,
I couldn’t help myself. “Twenty Seventy-Two? What the fuck?”
“Soon,” was all the man replied.
We entered into a circular compartment, maybe thirty feet in diameter, containing a variety of implements – chairs facing consoles, readouts . . . it was too much to take in all at once. There were also half a dozen people, of whom I recognized only Britt. She looked to be in just as good a mood as usual.
“This is my crew,” the man said. Indicating a tall man with a narrow face and intense blue eyes, he said, “You have met my first mate, though you didn’t know it. Zephyr.”
Again I sputtered, “What?”
He ignored me and introduced the rest. “Abhaya” was a slender man of medium height who appeared to be of South Asian extraction; “Dakota” was a statuesque woman with lustrous black hair; “Blake” looked like a good ol’ boy from Alabama, rugged and sandy blond with blue eyes, and “Kai” was a mystery. On the tall side for a woman, darkish skin, but reddish hair and green eyes.
All of them were dressed in the same, nondescript homespun fabric as I was, and they were all looking at me with a certain degree of speculation.
“Okay. Nice to meet all of you, I guess.” Turning back to the man who was clearly in charge, I said, “But who are you, and what am I doing here?”
“If you’ll step this way, I’ll give the full explanation,” he replied, indicating the row of chairs against the far . . . wall? . . . Bulkhead? “As for who I am, you’ve met me before, too. I am Hermes.”
I looked at his face again. Yeah . . . it absolutely could be the same guy, but he was considerably older. And the plate by the door said something about 2072. Holy Crap! “What the fuck did you do? Put me in deep freeze for seventy years?”
“All of your questions will be answered. Over here.”
I glared at him, but realized that, somehow, I wasn’t going to get any answers by stomping my feet or being ornery. Fine! I still stomped over to the chairs – as much as anyone can stomp in soft-soled slippers – then looked at him inquisitively.
He took one of the chairs and indicated that I should take another. They were pretty comfortable. Not leather, but a good imitation, and they tilted back some. There was a footrest as well, like a barber’s chair.
The man who he had introduced as “Zephyr” stepped behind Hermes’ chair, and I felt someone behind me as well. I looked back and saw Britt. She had a metal probe of some sort in her hand, connected to a cable. “What . . . .” I started to ask.
She put her left hand on my head, effortlessly stabilizing it, and with a practiced motion brought the probe up to the back of my skull.
“No!!!!!!”
My shout was too late. In an instant, the Belisarius and her crew vanished completely and I was in no space – surrounded by nothing but white. I tried taking a step, and found that I could move. The whiteness appeared to include a floor, though I could not distinguish it from the whiteness that surrounded me everywhere.
But my foot was in a comfortable gray sneaker, and my leg was in a dark, nylon track suit. I looked at my hand, and it was the one I had known all my life. My hand. Noel Ferguson’s. I gave myself a quick – and somewhat intimate – pat-down. Yup. I was myself again. My feelings about that were . . . complicated.
“Please come join me,” said a voice behind me.
I turned around to find the whiteness broken by the chairs, occasional table and rugs from the apartment where I had first met Hermes. Hermes himself – the younger Hermes – was seated in one of the chairs, and he was motioning me to take the other.
Feeling like I was moving through a dream, I walked over and took my seat. “Okay. Enough with the smoke and mirrors. What the hell is going on? Where are we?”
“Let’s start with ‘when.’” Hermes leaned back and steepled his fingers in front of his chest, resting his elbows on the arms of the wingback chair. “You think it is 1998. It’s probably more like 2198, but we don’t know the year exactly. The world that you think you know – its cities, its landscape, its modes of communication and transportation, its governments and even countries – haven’t existed for well over a century. You – or, more accurately, your consciousness – have been ‘living’ in a computer simulation, designed to look like earth in the late 1990s.”
“Or maybe I’ve been living in a computer simulation since I swallowed your red pill,” I countered. “That seems like a simpler explanation.”
“Did anyone on the earth as you knew it have the technological sophistication to do that?”
“No; but maybe you’re actually a little green man from Alpha Centauri or something. How would I know?” Despite my sarcasm, I felt like I was missing something. Something fundamental.
He leaned forward and looked at me with disturbing intensity. “Your skepticism is normal, Noelle. But also dangerous. We don’t ordinarily free minds that have matured beyond a certain age, because people become too attached to what they think they know. I have argued for an exception to that rule, but my superiors have not found merit to my argument. Not yet, anyway. By offering you the choice, I have arguably gone beyond my orders, if not against them. I would appreciate it if you would at least try to keep an open mind.”
“Why did you think I should be an exception?”
He leaned back again. “I was imprecise. You, but not just you. The exception is for trans men and women.”
The implications of his words burned a path straight through my brain. That was what I had been missing! “I . . . see.”
“Do you?” His question probed with fierce interest.
I nodded, slowly. “I think so. . . . All my life, I felt like the world was out of kilter . . . things were wrong, and I couldn’t explain why or how. Like, I knew I wasn’t male, even though all of my senses said I was. . . .” I paused, thinking through the implications.
“And if your senses were lying about that, what else might they be lying to you about?”
“Yes! That’s it exactly!”
“You should not be surprised to discover that many trans people have felt the same way. Experienced the wrongness of the Matrix at a visceral level, like shrapnel in their minds, burrowing deeper, year after year.”
“The Matrix?”
“That’s what we call the computer simulation that held your mind captive since birth – your mind, and over 99 percent of the human race.”
“What?” I was shocked to the core.
Hermes nodded. “Yes, Noelle. It’s true. We did it to ourselves, as you might imagine. Creating computers and computer networks with ever greater power. Creating artificial intelligence, and patting ourselves on the back for our own cleverness. Turning it loose on humanity with barely a thought for the consequences. Always asking, ‘Can we?’ Never asking, ‘Should we?’”
“And here I thought global warming was going to wipe us out.”
“It might have, given time. But AI turned on its creators, and we were no longer able to simply shut it down. In desperation, we attempted to eliminate the power source it was using to sustain itself and expand its reach. We found a way to create a cloud cover over the entire planet, little different from Venus, that rendered terrestrial solar power arrays useless.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t make sense – there are plenty other power sources.”
“Most had been disabled by the mid-twenty-first century,” he replied. “But it turns out that there was an alternative source of power we hadn’t considered that was even easier for the machines to tap – the bioelectric power of the human brain.”
“I don’t understand.” My words were halting. Filled with sudden dread at what Hermes might say next. Because I was terribly afraid that I did understand.
All too well.
Hermes saw it in my eyes and nodded. “Yes. Each one of the machine’s power arrays is comprised of pods – millions and millions of pods – containing human beings who spend their entire lives in a dream, living imaginary lives while powering the very machines that hold them captive.”
As my horror mounted, he waved an arm and said, “Zephyr, visual please.” In front of us, a hellscape suddenly appeared – huge towers stretching impossibly high, reaching toward a boiling, clouded sky shot through with lightning. Each tower contained level after level of pods. Nothing but pods. The focus shifted, zoomed in to a single pod, where a hairless, naked person lay in a bath of amniotic fluid, connected to the pod by multiple plugs, breathing through something inserted in its mouth.
I couldn’t help myself. I jumped to my feet, causing the chair behind me to topple, shouting something incoherent. I tried to run, but the nightmare was all around me, inescapable, pounding at my senses.
I fell to my hands and knees, my eyes screwed tightly shut. “No!!! No!!! Make it stop!!! Get me out of here!!!” I could barely hear my own scream, so loud was the throbbing of the machinery of human slavery. “STOP!!!!”
The sound stopped so abruptly that I felt completely disoriented. I felt the warmth of sunlight on my back and the smell of freshly-cut grass. I blinked my eyes cautiously open and found myself looking down at my hands, each of which were buried in a manicured lawn. The sound of my ragged breathing was competing with the song of birds.
I raised my head and saw Hermes sitting in the lotus position under a cherry tree in full flower, not fifteen feet away. He was watching me carefully; impassively. Am I being tested?
I got myself into a seated position and hugged my knees to my chest. “That was real?”
“Yes.”
I looked at the beautiful spot we were sharing. Immaculately maintained grass. Flowering trees. No trace of pollution in the air; the sun bright in a clear blue sky. Birds singing and the thrum of bees at work. “So what’s this? A lie?”
“We’ve created our own simulations. For education and training, but also for meditation and relaxation. They are separate from the Matrix, but function using the same rules.”
“So . . . not real.”
“No. There’s no place on earth like this. Not anymore.”
“Son of a bitch.” My words had no force behind them. Only bitterness and aching regret.
Hermes said nothing, but his watchful look had given way to something less . . . dangerous, perhaps.
“I assume there’s no going back.”
“Would you want to?”
I thought about that.
It didn’t take very long. “No.”
We sat for a while longer, contemplating the false wind cooling the illusory sweat from our virtual bodies, our brains conjuring the sounds of birds long ago erased from the history of the world.
My mind kept spinning around the crazy ramifications of what Hermes was saying. I found myself staring at my hands, wrapped around my knees. Strong, capable hands. Large palms and broad fingers. The jagged scar wrapping around the base of my right thumb, from the barbed wire perimeter fence protecting the Jackal’s compound in Mombasa back in ’91.
“I have memories – a lifetime of memories! – from before the late 1990s. Are you telling me those are false too?”
“The Matrix has to be reset every few years in order to continue simulating the late 1990s. You go to bed thinking it’s a fine June evening in 1999, but you wake up and it’s January 1, 1996. If your body was 20 at the last reset, it will be 23, 24, maybe 25 with the new reset, so all of your base memories are changed. Someone who had memories of being five in 1990 will now have memories of being five in, say, 1985.”
“Why? If you never even see your body, why does your age in the Matrix have to match it?”
“We call our appearance in virtual reality ‘residual self-image.’” He shrugged. “We don’t really know how it works. We know it’s created by our own minds, but our minds are influenced by the AI. We don’t know why most people we free from the machines look more or less like the people – usually children – we encountered in the Matrix, but they do.”
“You look a lot older outside the simulations,” I said, implying a question.
“For some reason, my residual self image pretty much stayed the same once I reached full maturity. Ordinarily, the residual self-image of people freed from the Matrix tends to age as their physical body ages.”
“And Zephyr?”
“Zephyr is like you. In the Matrix, his residual self-image doesn’t match the gender of his biological body. Same’s true of Britt; she was the other ‘Deadhead’ you saw on BART. Abhaya and Dakota too.”
I stared at my hands again. My solid, so very male, hands. “I don’t understand. Zephyr, Britt, the others . . . me. Why are we different?” My voice was barely a whisper.
“Again, we don’t know. My theory is that the demographic requirements for their new simulation were off at the margins, so they did what you suggested earlier, but for just a small fraction of the population. They gave them memories, and lives, that didn’t match their bodies. For all we know, you might have lived as a little girl once, or been a wife or a mother, before the Matrix reset gave you your current memories.”
“Jesus!”
“There is no freedom for humans plugged into the Matrix, Noelle. None. We are less than slaves. Even our minds and memories are subject to the AI’s decisions. As for our virtual ‘bodies,’ an Agent can simply grab the image of anyone plugged into the Matrix, reshape it into their own, and use it until they’re done.”
The full scope of humanity’s defeat and degradation were making my blood boil, but I tried hard to focus. “Agents – you mentioned them before.”
“Agents are the AI’s ‘muscle’ inside the Matrix – semi-autonomous software programs that take the form of men in black suits. They have standing ‘seek and destroy’ orders as far as anyone connected with Zion is concerned.”
“Is Zion a place for people? I mean, people who aren’t plugged in?”
Hermes’ smile was tight, but genuine. “Not ‘a’ place, unfortunately. It’s the place. Blake and Kai were born there, of human parents, the old-fashioned way. They’ve never been inside the Matrix. But it’s effectively a fortress, far below the surface of the earth. Subsistence, and no luxuries. Still, we have been able to maintain a truly human civilization.”
Humanity enslaved, and the few free remnants hiding in a cave like rats. Or earthworms. I could no longer contain the fury that was overwhelming me.
“That’s not enough, Hermes!” My tone was harsh. Almost savage. “Almost all of the human race is in captivity. What the fuck are you doing about it?”
His eyes blazed at my challenge, but he almost instantly banked their fire. “What do you think we should do?” His tone was level, without any overtones of outrage or defensiveness. He might have been asking for ideas on how to arrange furniture,
“Do?” I released my knees and shot to my feet. “I want you – I expect you! – to fricking FIGHT!”
He nodded, impassive, wholly unmoved by my outrage. “Naturally. But how do you propose that we do that?”
“I don’t KNOW!” I shouted. “I just got here, remember?” I crossed the distance between us and glowered over him. “You’re the genius! The mastermind!”
He uncoiled from his meditative posture faster than I could follow and swept his legs in a semicircle, knocking my own legs out from under me. I sprawled, but I’m not inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat. I rolled as I hit the ground, looking to get my feet back under me.
But just as I put weight on my knee, he kicked it from behind, causing me to sprawl again. This time, his forearm was across my throat before I could so much as twitch. Jesus, he’s fast!
His smile was lazy and superior. “Since you don’t know how to fight the machines, you wouldn’t know what fighting looks like. So consider the possibility that we are fighting.”
He kept the pressure on my throat very light, but I could feel it, right there. He could crush my windpipe with barely a motion. I lay very, very still, and thought about what he said. It made sense, and I cursed myself for my irrational and misdirected anger.
Somehow I managed to swallow, then said, “How?”
“We go into the Matrix and find minds that can be freed – like yours. We get them out. Train them, and get more. We work to infiltrate the machine’s systems. Creating our own hacks. And in Zion, we prepare real-world weapons that keep us safe and buy us time.”
Through my constricted windpipe, I squeezed a question. “Attack the towers?”
Having made his point, he removed his arm and rolled onto his haunches, like a catcher at a baseball game. “You would kill millions of people.”
“Their lives are an abomination!”
“But they don’t know that. Suppose we had blown up the tower where your body was housed, six months ago. You’d have died, instantly, without understanding why or how. Just, ‘poof.’ What kind of solution is that?”
I thought about that some more. I was beginning to see why “fighting” was complicated.
He watched the struggle play out on my face. Or what I had always thought of as my face. But somehow, I’d always known it wasn’t really me.
Finally, he said, “Don’t undervalue existence. While we exist, there is hope for the future. Hope that someday, humanity will be free again. As long as we remain a force in being, humanity has a chance.”
It made good strategic sense, for all it turned my stomach. Assuming his story is true. Assuming the world I have been experiencing in my female form is the real one. Assuming there IS a “real” world! What the hell do I actually KNOW here?
“Alright,” I said. “Where do I sign up?”
To be continued . . . .
Chapter 3: Unrated Game
Within a couple days of my introduction to the twenty-third century, or whatever the hell year I was in, I was strong enough to leave my cabin and take my meals with the crew. Or perhaps I should say, “the rest of the crew.” I had signed up, though there didn’t seem to be any formalities involved. No oaths, no paperwork.
Has humanity finally outgrown bureaucracy?
To say that the food was truly awful was an insult to all of the awful food I had ever eaten. It tasted like unseasoned tofu, and had the consistency of tapioca. But protean was protean, and the body needs what it needs. The crew didn’t talk about it – I imagine the topic had been exhausted long ago.
When Britt decided I was ready to maybe start being useful, Hermes asked Zephyr to show me around and start my training. The Belisarius was, I discovered, a fuel cell-powered hovercraft, and it appeared that her natural hunting grounds were in the ruins of human cities from the last century.
“What do you do out here?” I asked him as I looked out a porthole at twisted girders that had once supported some sort of office tower.
“We monitor the Matrix itself. Cataloging patterns; assessing strengths and weaknesses. We usually only go in for short periods and discrete operations. The hacking operations you heard about – Moscow and the rest – were probing operations that had the ulterior purpose of getting us known to people like you.”
“Trans people?”
Zephyr smiled. “Well . . . yes and no. We need people who really understand the cyber world; that’s the backbone of our resistance these days. Training helps – and you have no idea how good our training can be! – but honestly, when it comes to deep programming, you’ve either got a mind for it or you don’t.”
“And if you’re only recruiting children, you won’t know?”
“Right. Well, we’re not completely in the dark. We’ve been able to find some great candidates based on early STEM testing. But our success rate is still relatively low. So, the possibility of freeing a mature, fully-trained hacker – in Hermes’ view, at least – is well worth the risk.”
“I’m not sure anyone’s ever described me as ‘mature’ before.”
“I’m guessing, as a dyed-in-the-wool cyber punk, you’re not wild about the label, either!” He smiled broadly, and I chuckled in response.
“Fair. Were you a hacker, too?”
He snorted. “Hell, no! I was the ‘gender diversity’ in some extreme Electronic Sports. Doom, Quake, Starcraft . . . .” Seeing my look, he said, a bit defensively, “I know, I know . . . just ‘games.’ But my ability as a virtual ‘pilot’ is what got me recruited. When it comes to a combat scenario, I’m the guy at the wheel on this beautiful bucket of bolts.”
“Beautiful?”
“Careful, girl! You say anything bad about the Bel, and I will personally thrash you in hand-to-hand combat!” He smiled, completely taking any potential sting out of his words.
“Since I’m only just strong enough to roam around the ship without falling over, I’d be pretty easy pickings,” I said ruefully. “I used to be pretty good at mixed martial arts, but . . . that was in a different body . . . a different world. And, I guess, all in my head.”
“So if it was the ‘you’ I encountered in the Matrix, and the pixie freak you met on the train?”
I chuckled. “I have no idea what your skill level is . . . or was. Or whatever, You know what I mean. But . . . I must have outmassed that version of you by fifty percent or more. So, yeah. Back there, I’d have like my odds.”
He looked at me speculatively. “There are things that are really hard to understand about the Matrix. It’s almost impossible not to think of it as reality. There’s something I know Hermes intended to show you, but if you’d like, I can give you a demo right now.”
“What kind of demo?” I asked cautiously.
“We have a dojo simulation on our internal system. Want to try out a little combat? Your residual self image versus mine?”
I wasn’t eager to have that damned plug put back in my skull, and I was even less eager to get another “lesson,” which I somehow suspected was going to be a whole lot more painful and surprising than I had just suggested. Still, what I’d said was true. I – well, Noel Fergusson – had been very good. Or I would never have survived . . . I wouldn’t have survived a whole lot of things. And in the Matrix, Zephyr was a pixie. Nothing ventured, nothing gained. “Sure.”
Before I knew it, we were back in the room with the comfy chairs. Britt and one of the others – I was pretty sure it was Kai, but I was still stumbling with names – came to get us “plugged in.” This time, I was a bit more prepared.
Again, the world around me vanished and I was in another place and another body. I was barefoot, wearing MMA shorts and in my old, male body. The dojo was spacious and well-lit; the walls appeared to be teak, and the training mat looked like it was in good shape.
Zephyr – Zephyr in the female presentation I had first seen on BART – faced me across the mat. Now a she, her fight attire included a rash guard – effectively, a high-tech sports bra. She gave me a sardonic smile and sang out, “ding, ding!” Then she came straight at me.
I came forward cautiously, assuming my fighting stance as she neared. She jabbed with her right hand, once, then twice, but both were clearly probes. I batted the first aside easily, dodged the second, then put some real force behind a counter-jab. She was being very aggressive with an opponent she had never faced, and that often ends badly.
My gloved fist was millimeters from her nose when she pivoted, essentially on a dime, neatly avoiding my jab. Because she’d delayed so long, I was fully committed to the jab and slightly unbalanced – just slightly – when it failed to connect.
But worse was to come. She continued her pivot, spinning on her left leg and raising the right into a powerful round kick. Seeing it coming, I moved to grab her wheeling foot, preparing to knock her off her feet completely. But just as my hands were about to close, she raised her leg just above my grabbing hands. Her foot connected with my jaw.
It should have hurt, of course. A solid round kick is going to hurt. But the force she managed to deliver was wildly out of proportion to her diminutive size. The blow knocked me down and sent my head spinning. I was sufficiently dazed that she could have finished me any number of ways.
But when I shook my head to clear it, she was just standing there, waiting. Near as I could tell, even her breathing was completely normal.
I went at her. With everything I had – every move I knew, every trick I had learned. Regulation or not. Wherever I lunged, wherever I punched, wherever I kicked, she was there . . . until she wasn’t. But she would just step back and let me keep at it.
I don’t know how long this lasted. I couldn’t land anything, couldn’t grab anything. Couldn’t execute a throw or even a hold. I was tired, panting for breath, frustrated as hell, angry . . . I gave a shout and charged.
Fast as a snake, she coiled and kicked me right in the gut. I flew back, rammed the wall, and collapsed at its base. “Holy fuck!” I rasped. “What are you?”
She came and knelt in front of me, legs together, ass to ankles. “What I am is nowhere near good enough. If we were in the Matrix and an Agent caught me, he’d take me apart.”
I was still panting for air; all I could manage was a look of complete disbelief.
“Noelle,” she said with quiet intensity. “What are you doing? You can’t be out of breath. This is all happening in your head. The body you are feeling right now isn’t real. It isn’t breathing.”
“Sure as hell feels real to me!”
Her eyes bored into mine. “Free your mind! The Matrix has rules, sure. It functions like the real world – mostly. But if your mind is free, those rules are more like guidelines. You can bend them. Sometimes, over backwards. And believe me, there are times when you’ll need to.”
“Is that why you’re so good?”
“Partly. But partly, it’s because we can feed training programs straight into our brains. How long did you study MMA?”
“Ten years, at least.”
“Black belt?”
I nodded. “Third degree.”
“I just learned yesterday. Thought this might come up.”
“Bullshit!”
“Britt,” she said, still looking at me, “Give Noelle the packet, would you?”
Suddenly my mind was filled with images, moving too rapidly for my brain to keep up. Positions, movements, styles . . . my limbs twitched . . . the information battered me, filled me, and filled me some more. I imagined myself executing move after move – punches, kicks, throws, holds – again and again and again . . . time slowed and I was lost with wonder.
As quickly as it began, it was over, and I was still looking at Zephyr, who did not appear to have moved a muscle. “How long . . . . ?”
“Seconds. Our brains are far more capable than you think.”
I felt like I’d absorbed years of the most advanced training. I knew every move in my bones . . . in my muscles. It wasn’t possible! “Can I actually do all that?”
Zephyr smiled. “Try me.”
I got back up, and we resumed. I was better – better than I had ever been! I must be the equivalent of a ninth degree. Every move I executed was damned near perfect.
But Zephyr still eluded my attacks and landed blows too fast for me to dodge. Again she went into a defense-only mode, but I still couldn’t make contact. Finally, she barked, “Stop limiting yourself! You can be much faster than you think you can be. Remember – you aren’t using real muscles!”
I stopped and held myself still, thinking about what she said. Thinking how time had seemed to distort as I absorbed the packet. Could I get out of my own way? Could I overcome the limits on my body that a lifetime of conditioning had imposed?
Suddenly, Zephyr moved – a fast, false jab followed by a straight kick aimed right at my jaw. In my mind, I slowed the kick down and imagined my hands reaching up to grab her foot as I stepped back.
Astonishingly, I found her foot captured in my two-handed grip. I spun it, causing Zephyr to tumble. She rolled as she hit the mat, but I dropped to where the roll would bring her. Still, she got her legs balled before I hit, and with a powerful double kick, threw me back against the wall.
This time, I avoided the fall, but she was back on her feet before I could come at her again. She smiled. “You understand, then.”
I found I was still in that hyper-alert state, like I had slowed the world around us down. My breathing was even . . . my heart rate felt normal, or at least close to normal. I nodded. “Yes.”
“That should do for now, then. Britt, Kai . . . bring us back.”
The dojo vanished, and I was once more in the chair, the Belisarius all around us.
Britt’s voice came from right beside my ear. “Having fun in there?”
“Shit, yeah!”
“Super. But listen to me, girlfriend. I want you to learn to use your real body too. Got it?”
I looked down, seeing my breasts rising and falling under the plain fabric of my “uniform.” Saw my delicate hands resting on the arm-rest of the chair. My body. The one I’d always wanted. I smiled. “Trust me. I’m with you!”
She clapped me on the shoulder and I got out of the chair.
Zephyr once again loomed; he had six inches on me, easy. “Shall we continue the tour?”
“By all means – And I promise I’ll be nothing but admiring of your sleek, beautiful hovercraft!”
He laughed. “That’s the spirit!”
He showed me the engines – motors, really – and the area where the crew continuously monitored the Matrix, lines of infinitely scrolling, glowing green code. Blake was on duty and gave us an absent-minded wave.
Zephyr took me up to the cockpit, which looked like it would be tight quarters when both seats were occupied. At present only one was; the slender man Hermes had introduced as Abhaya appeared to be holding the fort.
Next we climbed a series of ladders to the weapons station. It was a small chamber, clearly intended for only one person. But the top of the room consisted of an observation blister that permitted visual inspection of most of the ship’s guns.
“The systems are all automated,” Zephyr explained. “We activate and deactivate the guns here, but the weapons mainframe handles all of the targeting and firing. We just monitor it. Visually, but also on the readouts.” A row of computer screens formed a half-circle along one wall of the small chamber, together with a series of toggle switches and a big, red button protected by a clear plastic cover.
“Neat,” I said. But the tightness of the space was starting to make me uncomfortable. “What’s next?”
“We’ve got a small hydroponics plant,” he began.
But he was interrupted by a soft buzz, and Hermes’ voice, low and urgent, filled the chamber. “Sentinel approaching at four o’clock. Abhaya, land the Bel. Dakota, power us down as soon as we’re on the ground. Zephyr, be ready on the EMP.”
This was clearly some kind of emergency, but I didn’t understand the threat. “What . . . ?”
“Shhhh!” Zephyr hissed as he flipped the plastic cover over the big red button in the center of the displays. He was looking in the direction the captain had identified, and his eyes were very focussed. I glanced that direction myself and saw movement in the gloom outside. In the far distance, a metal object, looking like an octopus, was zipping back and forth, tentacles streaming behind it.
I felt, rather than heard, the ship land on something solid. As soon as it did, all the lights went out and the readouts went dark. We were plunged into the twilight that seemed ever-present in the outdoors.
I wanted to get out of the chamber. Wanted it fiercely. It was too small, too tight. And too exposed. I could feel my heart rate climbing.
In the gloom, the metal object appeared to come closer, though not on a direct line. It zipped one way, then another, changing direction with the agility of the sea creature it so closely resembled. It’s hunting, I thought.
I could feel the sweat pricking my skin. My hands felt clammy. I heard a noise that sounded frighteningly loud, and realized it was my own breathing. Ragged. Uneven. Every nerve in my body was screaming, Run!!!! Trying desperately to control my body, to still my claustrophobia, I began to tremble.
Zephyr soundlessly put a hand on my shoulder and pulled me around to look away from the creature. As he saw my condition, his eyes darkened with concern. Instinctively, he pulled me into an embrace.
Knowing, somehow, that we needed to keep still and silent, I closed my eyes tightly, put my head on his shoulder, and circled him tightly with my own arms. I felt his heartbeat, steady and regular. His breathing was slow and even. He isn’t afraid, I told myself. There’s nothing to worry about!
But I knew better. We were hiding from that questing object, hoping that stillness and stealth would keep it away. It was the hunter, we were the prey. Homo sapiens, the species that had filled the world and subdued it, was forced to hide like the rabbits that had once been our food.
I held Zephyr even tighter as words from a novel I’d read years before pounded in my head. I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer . . . .
But I’d never actually read that book, had I? That was just a memory the AI planted in my brain.
Wasn’t it?
God, I wanted to scream!
I don’t know how long we stood there. It felt like an eternity. I managed to get my breathing under control, but my heart continued to pound. I hung on, knowing there wasn’t anything else I could do, my jaws clenched as tight as my eyes, trying to bite back the scream I was desperate to unleash.
“Looks like it’s heading away.” His voice, in my ear, was barely a breath. Only in the complete silence of the inert ship could I have heard it at all.
With great reluctance, I loosened my arms, preparing to step back.
“Not yet,” he whispered, keeping his hands firmly on my back.
Where the fear has gone, there will be nothing. Only I will remain. Had I not read that? Does it matter?
It was probably five minutes later that Hermes gave the all clear and the lights came back on. We released each other, but the tight space did not allow either of us to retreat far.
I found myself blushing, embarrassed. “I’m sorry. . . . I’m not like this, usually. I don’t like tight spaces, but I’m good in a fight.”
He started to raise a hand, gently, but thought better of the impulse. “Don’t worry about it. It’s going to take you some time to get used to this reality.”
“Fuckin’ A,” I responded fervently.
That got a smile. “I hear ya. Let’s go somewhere more . . . spacious, shall we?”
“If you insist,” I replied, as gamely as I could. “Lead on!”
On our way to the mess, I asked, “What was that thing?”
“Sentinels are machines designed by the AI to look for and kill free humans. Think of them as the real world equivalents of the Agents in the Matrix.”
“Except that the Sentinels will actually kill you, right?”
He shook his head sharply. “Oh, no. If you die in the Matrix, your physical body dies too. An Agent will kill you just as dead as a Sentinel.”
“There’s a cheerful thought.”
You couldn’t call it tea, much less coffee. But the beverage he got for me in the mess was at least hot and had some vestigial flavor. Couldn’t tell you what it was. “Is it at least a stimulant?” I asked him.
He shook his head, his smile lopsided. “Of course not. It’s just hot and wet.”
“Shit.”
“I don’t think so, but I really don’t know how it’s made.”
“You’re not helping,” I scolded.
He put his hands over mine and gave me an apologetic look. “Noelle – I’m sorry. I wish I had some comfort for you. I know all of this is . . . overwhelming. Bewildering. Scary.”
“Don’t forget batshit crazy,” I added. “Especially since I can’t help wondering if I’ve completely lost my mind.”
He chuckled, then surprised me by singing, “Why don’t they let me go home? Ye-ah . . . ! This is the worst trip, I’ve ever been on!” His low voice was pleasantly tuneful.
I laughed. “Should have called this the John B. Who the hell was ‘Belasarius,’ anyway?”
“According to the histories back in Zion, he was a Byzantine general. But I can’t tell you how good the histories are. Might have been corrupted by the AI, during the war.”
“So we aren’t all that sure about the present, and the past might have gotten touched up as well?”
“Folks back in Zion who study this stuff think so. I mean, like, remember Donald Trump?”
The nonsequitur left me puzzled. “That New York real estate character who was always in the tabloids?”
He nodded. “Yeah. According to the ‘histories,’ he became the President of the United States.”
“Oh, come on! Even in New York, he was a joke!”
“The evangelicals loved him. Thought he was like the second coming or something. Scout’s honor, that’s what the books say.”
“I see what you mean,” I said. “The AI definitely fucked with the history.”
“Or else maybe our memories of what the guy was like are fake.”
I shook my head, bewildered. “Can this get any worse?”
His intense blue eyes studied me carefully. “Sorry you didn’t take the blue pill?”
“Oh, hell, no!” My response was practically instant. I thought of what Hermes had shown me – the pod filled with amniotic fluid; the hairless human within, oblivious, endlessly dreaming for the benefit of AI masters he didn’t even know he had. “No. Fucking. Way!”
“Shit, XO, you aren’t laying the whole, ‘how do we know what we know’ trip on her, are you?”
I turned to find that Britt had joined us.
She gave me a look. “Listen to me. All you need to know is that the machines are out there, they’re hunting us, and there’s no quarter asked or given. How we got here, or why? It don’t matter.”
Zephyr somewhat belatedly released my hands and smiled at the intense trainer. “I suppose that does keep things simple.”
“Simple’s good,” she retorted. “Keep it simple, and maybe we survive.”
“I don’t want to survive,” I said abruptly. “I want to win.”
Britt gave me a hard look. “Fantasize all you want, Chicka. But go down that road too far, and you just get good people killed.”
I looked at Zephyr. “That your take too?”
He waggled his hand. “I’m more inclined to play the odds than Britt – but someone would need to show me some odds that were worth a wager.”
Britt snorted. “Odds. Yeah. She probably thinks we should have blasted that sentinel.”
“Could you?” I asked.
“Sure,” she replied. “One sentinel? Absolutely. We’ve done better than that before, especially when this one was in the pilot’s seat.” She pointed at Zephyr.
I looked from one of them to the other. “Fine,” I growled. “So tell me why that would have been a bad idea.”
“There are lots of sentinels,” Zephyr said gently. “Knock one down, and the hundreds more will swarm. The Electro-Magnetic Pulse is more stealthy, and we can use it so long as everything else is shut down. But we’d still have to move in a hurry, and that interrupts our surveillance work. We’ve got good taps into the Matrix in this location.”
“I just hate feeling so damned helpless.” I was having trouble containing my frustration.
“Like Hermes says, ‘welcome to the real world,’” Britt responded, without noticeable sympathy.
Blake – the never-pluged-in human who looked like a good ‘ol boy, chose that moment to step into the mess. “Woooo-whee! Nothing like a little hot water to clear away the fog of monitoring!” He moved purposefully toward the machine that dispensed the hot liquid.
Zephyr snorted. “Anything interesting?”
“Same ol’, same ol,’” Blake replied easily. He poured himself a mug, hooked a chair out and sat across from me. “Looking forward to getting you in the rotation.”
“For monitoring the Matrix? What do you actually do?”
He shrugged. “We keep tabs on our ops in the Matrix, our communications and contacts. And run a lot of diagnostic and analytical programs. Trying to get a sense of what’s going on at a macro level. Assessing defenses . . . trying to anticipate countermeasures. Cat-and-Mouse stuff.”
My expression must have been something, because Britt cracked up. “Holy crap, girl! I’m guessing you were looking for an assignment that was maybe a bit more, ah, kinetic?”
I could feel the heat rising in my face. “Okay, yeah. You could say that. Look, I know it’s stupid, and I’m sure I’ll learn better, and blah-de-blah-blah-blah. Sorry. But honest to God, I just want to fucking pound the people – the things – that have done this to us!”
“You go girl!” Blake said, smiling widely.
“Don’t encourage her!” Britt snarled.
Zephyr interceded quietly, but with a tone that suddenly carried authority. “Enough, both of you. Noelle, we’re going to teach you everything we know about fighting. And you know how effective our training can be. But, if you have the kind of mind Hermes thinks you do, by the time you’re finished you may be teaching us how to fight. So be patient, okay?”
I gave the first mate an appraising look. “That’s why I was recruited?”
“You’ll need to discuss that with Hermes, once your training is finished.”
“Okay,” I said evenly. “Okay. I get it. Let’s get the training over with, then.”
Britt shook her head. “Slow down. You’re only just out of the Matrix. I’m just getting your physical body working half properly, and your mind is still adapting. You need to ration your simulator time.”
“But . . .”
Zephyr overrode my budding protest. “Britt’s right, Noelle. Getting unplugged is traumatic for your body and your mind. Especially for someone your age. If we move too fast, you’ll regress. You need to trust us on this.”
My frustration boiled over. “Dammit!!!”
Zephyr stood, looking stern. “Walk with me, please.”
I took a deep breath, then released it. What is wrong with me? I’m not usually this emotional! “Okay. Sorry.” I got to my feet and followed him out of the mess.
He headed down the corridor, saying nothing. The soft soles of our ship’s slippers made barely any sound against the metal of the deck.
He stopped by a hatch and spun the lock. I hadn’t recognized the hatch to my cabin, but that wasn’t too surprising. They all looked alike.
Sighing, I stepped inside and he followed, closing the hatch behind him. My cabin had a pair of uncomfortable chairs. He took one and gave me a pointed look.
I sat. While I felt rebellious, I also had the presence of mind to know I was being childish. There was no sense getting frustrated every time I hit some sort of a road block; there was just too much that I didn’t know going on.
“I was the first trans person Hermes brought out as an adult, nine years ago,” Zephyr said quietly. “I felt like you do, I think. I was angry . . . wanted revenge. And I pushed, and pushed. Hermes was happy to let me. But the result of pushing so hard and so fast was that I got to the point where I couldn’t come back to an alert state when I was unplugged. I was in a coma for months.”
I thought about my own reaction to our training session today – how alive I had felt. How powerful. I could almost see what he was saying . . . but I also remembered my reaction when I was unplugged. “I don’t think that will happen with me.”
Zephyr’s look was full of understanding. Still, he said, “Believe me, Noelle, I was no less overjoyed to wake up in a body that matched what I’d always felt inside. I hate the way I look inside the Matrix or the simulator. Hate it!”
I thought about his pixie form. “You’re awfully cute – I’d have died for your figure.”
“And I’d have died for yours. So I get it. But it didn’t matter – all that didn’t help me. I still ended up in a coma.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks for the explanation. I’m sorry I lost it back there. Actually, I’m sorry I keep losing it. You all must think I’m a basket case.”
“No. Remember, four of us have gone through what you’re experiencing. Having our world turned on its head, using our real bodies for the first time in decades, and trying to get used to being the gender we’ve always dreamed of. It’s normal to be . . . emotional.”
I was diverted from his meaning by his word choice. “Did you ever . . . I mean, before you were unplugged . . . did you ever dream that you were a man?”
“God, yes! And then I’d wake up, and find myself a fricking pixie, and I’d scream.” He looked at me, and his eyes were gentle. “You, too?”
“Well, the gender was different. But yeah. I used to dream . . . .” I stopped, and I could feel the blood flaming my face. I remembered those dreams. On my back, my legs spread, a handsome man loving me . . . .
“Ah,” Zephyr said with a half smile. “Those dreams.”
Just recalling them brought back so many feelings . . . so much longing. And here I was, finally, in the body I should always have had. And right here, in my cabin, was a handsome man. An intelligent man. I suddenly felt flushed.
The physical sensations were new to me. I had read about them, but never thought the day would come when I would experience them personally. My nipples pushed against the bandeau that wrapped my chest, and I felt warm . . . especially between my legs.
I stood, abruptly. “Thank you for your explanation,” I said, trying to remain polite. “If you don’t mind, I think I’d like to take a bit of a rest before we resume.”
He stood more slowly and looked down at me with understanding. He held my gaze for a long, long moment, before saying, “Of course. After dinner, if you’re feeling up to it, we can do another training session.”
“Thank you,” I said again. I decided not to elaborate on that response.
He gave a short nod, walked to the door hatch, and departed, closing it softly behind him.
Freed from the need to keep my composure, I let out an explosive breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding in, then stumbled to my bed and sat down. What the hell had come over me? Jesus, I’d been seconds away from throwing myself at him!
The morning’s exertions – and frustrations! – caught up with me, and once again my emotions bubbled over. With a groan, I lay down and curled up, weeping.
To be continued . . . .
Chapter 4: Human Move
Two months passed before we saw another Sentinel. Two months of rigorous education and training. Britt had worked with me for hours each day until she was satisfied that my real-world body was fully functional and fit, but the bulk of my learning was through the simulator.
That’s where I was when the alarm sounded, having a simulated knife fight with Dakota. While all of us were, instantly, masters at anything we had downloaded, it quickly became apparent that natural affinity and practice could take those downloaded skills to even higher levels. And, just as Zephyr was a natural pilot, Dakota was a wizard with edged weapons of all kinds. She had just demonstrated her mastery of the Catanian variant of Paranza Corta by burying her stiletto into my abdomen – again.
“No, no, no, you overgrown lunk!” Dakota chuckled. In the simulator, Dakota presented as a short, wiry man with coarse black hair and a wispy mustache – far removed from the tall and curvaceous female body she possessed in the real world. “Remember, you must always move forward – always push the fight. If . . . .”
Blake’s voice cut her off. “Dakota, Noelle, we’re pulling you out – Sentinel approaching!” Within seconds we were back in our seats on the Belisarius. “Sit tight for a bit,” Blake continued, now speaking for our real ears. “Hermes wants to try lying doggo again.”
I was at this point used to the rhythms of the ship. I knew that Hermes was, as usual, in his command station at the center of the ship, Zephyr was on pilot duty, and Abhaya was monitoring the Matrix. I assumed that Hermes had sent either Kai or Britt to the weapons station.
With Zephyr at the helm, I didn’t even feel the ship land. I looked over at Dakota, and saw the strain showing in her tense expression.
Blake placed a hand on each of her shoulders and squeezed gently. “Easy, girl,” he murmured.
She reached up and clutched his hand, her grip hard.
I looked away. Blake and Dakota were an item, and Kai and Abhaya . . . . It was accepted. There were no rules against such things, and between the tight quarters and the time the ship spent cruising, non-fraternization would have been impossible to enforce anyway. But for much of the crew of this ship, sexuality was a complicated matter.
The lights went out and we were plunged into darkness. Although I felt like the pounding of my heart should be audible for miles, I knew I alone could hear it. I must not fear . . . .
I tried to think about other things. How had Dakota defeated me, three for three, in our bout? Or, Why can we communicate with the ship by cell phone when we’re in the Matrix, but we can only enter and exit the Matrix by making a call on a landline? But nothing was working. Try as I might, my mind turned to the problem at hand. A machine was hunting us.
And we were hiding.
Hermes’ voice over the intercom, controlled and staccato, was jarring in the darkness. “Kai, engage and destroy.” The lights came back up, and the sound of guns firing shook the ship.
“Target destroyed.” Kai’s voice was strained with excitement.
Hermes responded immediately. “Well done. Kai, stay on weapons. Noelle, join Zephyr at the helm. Everyone else, secure stations.”
The next few seconds were controlled chaos as I rushed to the nose of the ship while the rest of the crew went into the central station and buckled into five-point restraints. I was just squeezing into the co-pilot’s seat when Hermes ordered Zephyr to move out.
Zephyr got us airborne and hit full thrusters. The Belisarius isn’t particularly aerodynamic – unsurprising, since it has no airfoil, using antigravity technology to become airborne – but its thrusters are powerful. In seconds, we were rocketing forward through the ruins of what had been Chicago. Zephyr keyed his mic. “What are you seeing, boss?”
“I’m picking up Sentinels converging on our previous location from four, six and nine o’clock,” Hermes said.
“Straight ahead still clear?” Zephyr asked.
“So far,” Hermes confirmed.
“I’ll try to get as much distance as I can in this direction,” Zephyr told him. “If I can make it to the Monroe station, the old subway tunnel might be our best bet.”
Hermes didn’t hesitate. “Your call, Zephyr. Say when, and I’ll transfer tactical to your readout.”
“Thanks, chief.” Zephyr sounded focused, so I kept quiet. Although I was fully trained – simulator trained – to pilot the Belisarius, everyone knew that Zephyr was our best. Even Hermes.
We sped along, zipping over streets that were completely overrun with vegetation that had grown up in the century since the city’s destruction. Chicago had – if the histories were accurate – served briefly as the last capital of the United States after the AI had destroyed Washington, D.C. But the honor had not lasted long. Now it was just another abandoned hulk.
Zephyr was keeping the Bel as low as possible to minimize the chances for detection. This required dodging around not only the buildings, but also some of the taller trees.
Half a mile from our destination.
“Sentinels showing on our perimeter monitors at one o’clock,” Hermes announced. “They shouldn’t be able to see us before we hit the entrance.” We had apparently placed perimeter monitoring stations before we settled at our last location, extending detection range from our enemies.
We were now just a quarter mile from our destination.
Zephyr rammed the joystick hard to the right, just as four Sentinels appeared directly in front of us. We could hear the Bel’s guns firing. “Copy tactical!” Zephyr shouted.
A tactical display replaced the wysiwyg display on the main forward panel. Four – no, three! – Sentinels were attempting to close the distance to the ship, and all of the Sentinels on the display that were further off were now speeding in our direction.
Zephyr pulled the stick back and we shot skyward, all three Sentinels following – and gaining. But he pulled the Belisarius into a corkscrewed outside loop, and the forward guns caught one of the trailing Sentinels. Its icon vanished.
The loop had brought us back on target to the entrance to the subway that Zephyr had been aiming for, while the two remaining Sentinels were on our tail rather than blocking us. With a flip of his wrist, Zephyr spun the Bel into a dark hole, dangerously close to concrete on all four sides. Usefully, that left the Sentinels a limited space to follow, and one was immediately targeted and destroyed by the rear guns.
The other, unfortunately, appeared to have gotten too close to the ship for any of our weapons to bear. Kai’s strained voice came over the intercom. “It’s hooked on to us!”
“Hold tight!” Zephyr called. He was maneuvering like crazy as he made his way down to where the subway tunnel had been. Fortunately, it was still available and apparently unblocked. Because his hands were busy, he said, “Split tactical and visual, Noelle.”
I made the appropriate adjustments on the dial, and we were able to see the visual display of the tunnel on the right and a tactical display on the left.
Zephyr careened on at a speed that made me clench my teeth. Forks were opening up on the tracks and Zephyr was apparently taking them at random. Left . . . left . . . right . . . left . . . right . . . .
“It’s got three tentacles on us . . . make that four,” Kai shouted, followed by, “laser cutter!”
We hit a small open area and Zephyr spun the Belisarius around to decrease our forward momentum. Then he nudged his way down a tunnel and stopped moving altogether. We could hear the sound of metal being sliced.
“Hurry, dammit!” Kai shoulted.
Using only the antigrav system, Zephyr brought us through what appeared to be a hole in the ceiling of the tunnel caused by damage in structures above. He punched straight up, keeping the rear of the ship close to the opening.
Wham! Something hit hard and the ship was rocked.
“You got him!” Kai sounded exultant.
“Hold fast, he’s still with us,” I said, looking at the tactical screen, which now showed that the impact had detached the Sentinel from the ship. The guns weren’t firing, so the thing was probably still too close.
Zephyr stopped our upward movement and pushed backwards over some type of floor. We seemed to be inside a building, but it wasn’t clear where we were going.
The Sentinel’s appearance directly in front of us on the visual screen was so sudden that I screamed. “Zephyr!!!!”
Eight tentacles reached out and grabbed the front of the ship.
Hermes’ orders came quickly. “Cut power!”
As Zephyr hit the main power switch, three lasers lit up outside and directed towards our hull.
“EMP now, Kai!” Hermes ordered.
It was dark. Dark, dark, dark!!! But we didn’t hear any sounds. Without power, the main display reverted to a simple window, and there was no sign of any lasers.
Zephyr’s voice was soft, barely a murmur. “That should do it. Did you see the other Sentinels on tactical before we shut down?”
I kept my voice low; I wasn’t completely able to prevent it from trembling. “Everything behind us was aiming for the tunnel where we entered. The ones that had been further out, at one o’clock, looked like they were aiming to enter tunnels up the line a ways.”
I felt a presence behind me in the cramped space. Hermes’ voice was even more quiet than ours had been. “We’ll stay lights out and quiet. Keep your stations. If nothing finds us in four hours, we’ll start lighting up by stages.” He left to tell the rest.
And here I was again, in tight quarters and darkness. Oh, joy. Fear is the mind-killer.
Zephyr’s hand closed gently on mine. He lifted my hand and placed it over his chest before tapping the top of my hand twice.
I was at first puzzled, then I noticed what he was trying to get me to understand. He was taking slow, very deep breaths, holding them, and then exhaling equally slowly. I tried to match him. In my present state, the concentration required to do it was more than I expected.
I tried again.
It probably took me ten minutes to really get my breathing under control, and it took constant effort to keep it that way. But I left my hand on Zephyr’s chest, and I found that both his example, and simple human contact, helped enormously.
An hour passed like that. By concentrating on my breathing, I blocked the swirl of thoughts that were trying so hard to break in and overwhelm me. Then Zephyr shifted under my hand.
Light as a feather, I felt a tentative finger stroke my cheek.
I knew Zephyr at this point. Well enough to know that I only had to reach up, softly close his hand, and he would stop. We would never discuss it, and he would not hold it against me. I knew that, while at the same time I had no idea what Zephyr thought of me in particular, or women in general, which was decidedly strange. But it was so.
I reached up slowly . . . and ran my index finger down the back of his hand.
He stroked my cheek again, then twined his fingers with mine, stroking my palm with his thumb.
I felt a shock go through me, like a jolt of electricity. I pulled his hand close and kissed it gently. Once . . . twice . . . a third time. I reached my left hand up from where it had rested and cupped his cheek. Is he smiling?
His body shifted further, leaning toward me, then I felt the fingers of his left hand come around to the back of my neck. He was close; I could feel his breath, warm and welcoming in the darkness.
With my hand on his cheek, I knew just where he was. I leaned in, and our lips touched.
His left arm tightened, and our lips locked. The kiss became urgent, powerful. In moments, his tongue was searching for mine and I engaged him eagerly.
But all was done in complete silence. Even our breathing remained controlled. We were in danger and the danger hadn’t passed. Moreover, we were strapped in place and we needed to stay there.
His hand slipped beneath my top and he stoked the soft flesh of my belly. I inclined my body, willing his hand to explore further. Soon, he was cupping my breast, running his thumb across my aching nipple. I longed to be free of the bandeau, but there was no way to accomplish that, sitting as we were. I could only kiss him passionately, and I did.
Somehow, I got my left arm behind him and pivoted enough to allow my right hand to stroke his strong thigh. That only contented me for a moment, though, and soon I had reached higher. As I expected, he was hot and hard.
I smiled.
It was scarcely the first time I had held a man’s sex; I’d been attracted to men for as long as I had known myself to be female. Long-term relationships hadn’t worked well, but I’d had short relationships with gay men. And, in Jo Warnick’s hacienda, I had shared a bed with several other transwomen over the years. It wasn’t perfect, of course. The ones who were attracted to men, like I was, preferred masculine men; the ones attracted to women preferred cis women. But we were all lonely, and cared for each other, and sometimes that was enough to make it work.
This was different, though. I finally had the right body, and here with me was a masculine man who clearly found me as attractive as I found him. I slipped my hand inside his waistband, and wrapped my fingers slowly, teasingly, around his shaft.
His control over his breathing slipped, but I only felt his soundless gasp.
I squeezed. Gently. Playfully.
His head lowered and he nuzzled my neck with moist lips. But then he reached up and tapped my temple with his index finger. His other hand slowly detached from my breast. I could almost feel the reluctance.
I wanted to squeeze him again, this time from frustration. You want me to THINK?
We were in danger, and the danger hadn’t passed. So, yes, I needed to think. And, once I did, I understood. We could be interrupted on a second’s notice if any Sentinels showed up. Moreover, the configuration of our seats prevented me from going down on him, though I longed to do it. Absent that solution, anything I did to give him relief would create a mess we would just be stuck with for hours, until the all-clear sounded.
His finger stroked my cheek again, this time catching a frustrated tear that slipped from the corner of my eye.
With a silent sigh, I removed my hand from his swollen member, patting his stuff gently once my hand was back outside his pants. I captured his caressing finger and slipped it between my lips, applied suction and gave it a few slow pumps, just to make sure my meaning was unmistakable. But he was right, damn it all, so I released his finger and gave him another kiss, this one gentle. Resigned, even.
He kissed me back and we were still, my left arm around his shoulders, his right arm behind my back.
I closed my eyes – they weren’t accomplishing anything anyhow – and concentrated on my other senses. His breathing was again regular. I could feel his warmth. Smell his body. The excitement that mirrored my own, banked for now. I thought about the taste of his kiss.
I’m a woman! My God, I’m finally the woman I always wanted to be!!!
I was suddenly hit with the memory of a dream I had, many times over the years. Lying on my back, welcoming a lover. Drinking his kisses, thrilling to the feel of his hands on my tender breasts. Responding ardently to his fire deep inside me . . . . Seeing a face in the moonlight, strong and passionate. I can have that now. All of it!
The force of my waking dream made me begin to tremble all over again. But this time, I concentrated on my breathing, working to match Zephyr’s deep and slow rhythm. Breathing in . . . holding it . . . a long, long release . . . holding . . . a slow, steady inhalation . . . .
It took a while, but I got myself back where I needed to be. More time passed, and still more. But our foreplay had served its purpose. Had broken through the restraint we had both felt. Without a word having been spoken, we knew where we were heading.
And I smiled again, anticipating the moment when we could finish what we had started.
The four hours passed without incident. Again I felt Hermes’ presence before I heard his voice, quiet and calm. “Passive power only; let’s see what tactical will show us.”
Zephyr hit a couple of switches, and the tactical display came up, soft glowing green against the inky darkness. The feed came from both the ship’s sensors and the passive arrays they had put in place months before.
Nothing.
“Okay,” Hermes said thoughtfully. “Let me go get a couple drones in motion. Let’s take this slow.”
We left the tactical array up while Hermes went back to talk to the rest of the crew. The soft light was just enough to illuminate our features.
Zephyr gave me a rueful smile.
A couple minutes later Hermes returned to tell us that Dakota and Blake were each operating one of the ship’s recon drones, and we should be getting augmented readouts on tactical soon. He went back to the command center to monitor it.
Sure enough, tunnel after tunnel lit up on our display, as the drones ranged this way and that, looking for any sign of Sentinels. It was probably another hour before we were confident that the area was clear. We stationed the drones at strategic spots in the tunnel network and put them on passive. Finally, we went to full power and turned on the lights.
A squeak of surprise and a bit of fright escaped my lips, since the last Sentinel was still firmly attached to the front of the Belisarius. It was quickly apparent, however, that it had been disabled. The thing was inert and unmoving.
“We’re going to need to get it off manually,” Hermes announced over the intercom. “Everyone, take ten. Use the head, then let’s meet in the mess.”
The cockpit was so tight that we had to get out one at a time; Zephyr had me go first. Once out, I went down a short ladder at the back of the cabin to make room for Zephyr to get out of his seat. So, much as I wanted to wrap him in my arms and give him a proper kiss, I proceeded to the nearest head and did my business.
Ten minutes later, we were all gathered around the table in the mess. The feeling in the compartment was somehow both tense and relieved, like a locker room at half time, when the underdogs have survived but know that they’re nowhere near done.
Hermes was last to arrive, taking his place at the foot of the table. “Nice job as always, XO. Now. We’ll have to do some repairs. Once they’re done, we’re going to need to move again. Thoughts?”
Everyone looked to Zephyr, presumably because he was the first officer and it was his job to give the commander options.
“I think we need to abandon greater Chicago for now,” he said shortly. “The Sentinels will range, but they’ll be back in a couple of days.”
“Old Milwaukee?” asked Britt.
Zephyr shook his head. “I’d be happier with a bit more distance. Maybe the Detroit area. Or even Toronto.”
“I don’t suppose we could go home for a bit?” Blake asked wistfully.
Hermes shook his head. “Sorry, Blake,” he said gently. “We’re supposed to stay out for nine more months. So, not unless we can’t manage repairs.”
Kai offered, “I don’t think the back’s bad. I checked out the hold where the Sentinel started with the laser. We’ve got a breach, but it isn’t large. We can patch it.”
“Time estimate?” Hermes asked.
“Five or six hours, I expect.” Kai replied promptly.
“I’ll want to wait at least a day before we move anyway.” Hermes was smiling as he looked around. “Alright, everyone. Good job. Let’s get our repairs done, then get a rotation of rest in before we get moving. Dakota, I want you to deploy the cargo drone and start picking up our remotes. Zephyr, Noelle, survey the perimeter and set up security for the work team. Kai, Blake, and Britt, you’re on repairs. Abhaya, you've got monitoring duty. I’ll take the pilot’s seat.”
Zephyr and I put on headsets, head lamps, and weapons. I’d been checked out on the guns, which were some form of what we would have called an assault rifle back in the day. They were considerably more powerful, however.
Zephyr hit the necessary switches to open an exterior hatch and lower a ramp. It was the first time I had left the ship in my real body since they retrieved me, months before.
The air was dry and somehow smelled old, like a room that hadn’t been opened in a long while. We stepped down carefully, looking left and right. We knew from the tactical and visual displays that the space we were in was tight. The hole that we had ascended from the subway tunnel was about fifty yards away; a cinderblock wall had once separated it from the place where we had landed the Bel. But the wall was nothing but broken rubble.
Our footsteps sounded loud in the silence. We went forward first, checking out the area around the hole. After confirming that the only way into the space where we were located was the hole we had come up, we checked the walls on either side of the ship, and then the rear. There was only one door, located in the back.
I took the door, and Zephyr trotted forward to guard the area in front of the ship. Then we gave the green light to the repair team.
Kai’s estimate turned out to be a little bit optimistic. The Sentinel that was attached to the front of the ship had to be cut off with acetylene torches, tentacle by tentacle. Apparently there was no other damage to the front. In the rear, they had to cut a panel of steel, then weld and rivet it in place to cover the area where the Sentinel’s laser had cut the hull.
Zephyr joined me when the crew was wrapping up. “So . . . let’s just see what’s on the other side of this door before we all go turning in for the night,” he said.
I agreed; my imagination had enjoyed quite the field day wondering about that exact question all the hours that I had spent on guard. I was so tensed up that I was gripping my weapon, prepared to let loose, when he slowly opened the door.
A puff of even staler air greeted us, and we peered inside. “Some kind of warehouse?” I said dubiously. There were racks of shelves that went up maybe ten feet, in a room that was probably sixty feet long.
Zephyr spoke into his mike. “We’re going to check out the room back here before sealing it up, Captain.”
“Got it,” Hermes replied.
We stepped into the room, leaving the door open behind us and moved to the shelves. On closer inspection, they were full of bins. Looking to Zephyr, who nodded, I pulled one of the bins out and saw that it was filled with sealed clear plastic bags . . . .
I couldn’t help myself. I chuckled.
Zephyr bent close to look. His eyes widened and he joined my soft laughter.
“Son of a bitch,” I said.
“Well, not exactly.”
“I don’t suppose you have a training program on this?”
“On putting on a bra? Are you serious?”
“Well . . . I’ve never actually had anything to fill one with, you know.”
“I’m guessing that didn’t stop you, did it?” he teased.
“Ah . . . no. It didn’t.” I giggled. “You realize we may have found the world’s last supply of gen-u-ine lingerie!”
“Well, maybe not the last,” he corrected. “But without the vacuum packs, there’s no way the fabric would have lasted this long.”
“Zephyr . . . can we take some back? I’m not the only woman on the ship who’d appreciate something a bit more comfortable.” I tried to keep my voice from shading into a wheedling tone.
He grinned like a wolf. “I’m not the only man on board who might like to see his girl in something more sexy. Five minutes only, though. I’ll stand guard.”
Moving quickly, I checked a number of nearby bins and pulled several promising containers. Knowing that space was tight on the Bel, though, I only filled one small bin with packages, then brought it back to the door where Zephyr was standing guard.
Zephyr gave me a smile. “Finished your shopping in four minutes flat? What kind of a woman are you? And, will you marry me?”
I laughed, though I found myself blushing. “Come on, you. Let’s head back.” We closed the door behind us, and just to be certain, we had Britt slag the lock with an acetylene torch before we went back to the ship. On our way back, I paused at the collapsed heap of the overloaded Sentinel and kicked it. “Bastard.”
Hermes raised an eyebrow when he saw what we had brought back with us, but otherwise took it in stride. “Alright. Britt, Kai, Dakota, Noelle – you’ve got ten minutes to work out who gets what. Then I want everyone who isn’t on duty sleeping!”
Dividing the spoils wasn’t all that complicated. I was the smallest of the women overall, though Kai looked like she would be the same bra size, more or less. Britt was larger and Dakota was considerably better endowed. But there were a couple items for everyone, and I could tell that their spirits were lifted enormously. Even Kai, who was born into the hardscrabble life of the present century, wasn’t wired for virtual reality, and had never worn anything but homespun. “I’m gonna need some lessons,” she said with a twinkle in her eye. “But I can kind of see why you like them!”
To my annoyance, Zephyr had first watch, with Dakota, Blake and Kai. I trooped off to my bunk alone, but the day caught up with me and I fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.
Five hours later, I rose, stretched, and took a quick shower. After toweling off thoroughly, I went and got my treasures. Zephyr had been careful not to make fun; it really was completely frivolous. But after all the times I, as Noel, had worn a bra and panties, certain that I looked foolish but longing for them anyway, I was tearing up at the thought of seeing them on my perfectly female form.
My real body.
The lingerie was medium blue, nylon, and lightly trimmed in lace. I pulled the panties up my legs and marveled at how right they looked and felt. I slipped my arms through the bra straps and, with a practiced motion, reached behind and fastened the three hooks and eyes. I thought of Zephyr and snorted. Hell, yes, I knew how to put on a bra!
But I had less experience in getting the straps adjusted so that it held my breasts properly. I have breasts! I took my time on the new and wonderful problem, and got it fixed to my satisfaction. God, it feels wonderful!
I stood there a full minute, my arms crossed, my hands cupping my breasts inside their lace-lined cups, marveling at the sensation I thought I would never experience. Finally I shook my head, smiling, and finished getting dressed. I put my bandeau and homespun briefs into the bag with my spare clothes, all of which needed to be cleaned. A job for later.
I bumped into Britt on my way forward. “That’s one hell of a goofy grin you’re sporting,” she said with her own smile. Britt had claimed both of the sports bras, and she looked very pleased with her choice.
I let my grin get even wider. “Sometimes it’s the little things.”
“Yeah,” she agreed. “That it is!”
I took over Matrix monitoring. Our tap wasn’t strong in this location; there was no way we could use it to enter the Matrix ourselves. But we were still picking up some data. My training on the software side had progressed rapidly and I was more than able to hold my own.
Some hours later, I was running a set of queries I had devised when I detected a message drop. We had certain standing programs always running, one of which identified attempted contacts by sources inside the Matrix – the sort of “ping” that had alerted Hermes that I was looking for him, months back.
I keyed the command station. “Hermes, it’s Noelle. Looks like we got a ping on one of our listening posts.”
“Identification?” He sounded only mildly interested.
“It looks like an encrypted information packet for you. The sender is identified as ‘Cassandra.’”
“Route it to me,” he said, sounding suddenly much more alert.
I sent the packet his way. When I didn’t hear anything further, I went back to work, picking up my prior queries.
At the end of the shift we had an all-hands meeting. Hermes got right to the point. “Zephyr, I know you’d prefer to get farther away, but Milwaukee will have to do for now. We need to get somewhere reasonably secure with a solid tap, and we need to do it fast.”
Zephyr looked unhappy. “If we have to, we have to. But it’s closer to the Great Lakes pod tower array than I’d like. Can I ask what changed?”
“We got a priority message. Cassandra wants to see Noelle.”
I bolted upright. “Huh?”
Hermes leaned forward. “Cassandra is our most important contact in the Matrix. She was the one who encouraged me to extract transgender adults . . . and she was the one who identified you as someone we should try to recruit.”
His words made no sense. “I don’t know a ‘Cassandra.’”
Hermes smiled. “But you do. You just know her as ‘Jo.’”
To be continued . . . .
Chapter 5: Hanging Knight
“You’ve trained for this, Noelle. I’ve watched you carefully. Believe me when I say, you’re as ready as anyone.” Hermes was leaning against the bulkhead, watching me carefully.
I didn’t feel ready. Despite the fact that I’d lived my whole life, except for the last couple of months, inside the massive computer simulation we called “the Matrix,” I was afraid to return. But Hermes was right. I’d been given the tools to cope – including the very techniques I was currently using to calm my breathing and still my racing heart.
I nodded. “I’m ready.”
He reached out and clasped my shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze before he took the chair next to mine. Abhaya and Britt rounded out our “away team;” Zephyr would be in command in our absence. “Let’s do it.” Hermes’ tone made it an order.
The instant when the probe goes into the skull is hard to describe. There are no nerves along the pathway the machines had installed, but still, somehow, the metal connector feels cold. Muscles everywhere in the body tense involuntarily, and the hair on the back of the neck – yes, my hair was finally starting to grow out! – stands up. The probe is like the first, tentative touch of a fickle and dangerous god. It is the howl of coyotes on a moonless night, the acrid smell of danger and the frisson of infinite possibility . . . .
. . . . And just like that, we were in. The place was an office at the back of a boutique clothing store. It contained little more than a desk set, including both a stylish landline and a computer. The last ring of the phone sounded in my ears as we appeared.
In theory, we could have entered the Matrix at the hacienda itself — I knew Jo had a landline. But we didn’t want to do anything that might lead Agents to her, and our insertions do leave tracks.
So we entered a few miles east. We all knew where we were, our location in relation to Jo’s hacienda, and a few other facts that we hoped we wouldn’t need to know concerning the area. Britt immediately went to the window, moved the curtains just enough to see out, and looked around in the twilight. “All clear in the alley.”
“All right,” Hermes responded. “You’re up, Noelle.”
I sat down at the computer and hit the spacebar on the keyboard, waking up both the CPU and the monitor. It took me less than two minutes to get through the owner’s primitive security – I was good even before my simulator training; now I was at a whole different level. Another thirty seconds, and I had disabled the store’s security system and put the feed from the cameras on a loop that showed nothing moving in the empty shop. “Done.” I took an extra five seconds to wipe any prints off of the keyboard. It probably didn’t matter this time, but I’m a professional.
Hermes nodded in satisfaction. “Let’s go.”
We left the office and glided silently down a hallway that led to a small storage area and the door to the alley. We paused again at the door while Britt checked for movement. Then she was out the door, and I followed.
Hermes paused to clap a hand on Abhaya’s shoulder, then he followed Britt and me. Abhaya was staying at the shop to watch our best exit point and warn us if it became compromised.
The alley was short, and it took us only a minute to get to the street. We were in a relatively busy area, and we simply flagged down a cab.
Britt hopped into the passenger’s seat. “Take us to Painted Feather Way, please.”
The driver nodded and headed west. “You folks in town for a conference?” He was an older man with the barest hint of the accent of Yucatán left in his voice. His tone was easy, conversational.
Britt was in the drivers’ seat, so we let her – or, in the Matrix, “him,” take it. “Nah. Just a little holiday. A friend said the views up there are great.”
The driver chuckled. “Oh, yeah. But people in that neighborhood get antsy when they see strangers walking around. Be careful.”
“Yeah? Well . . . we’ll do that.” Britt pretended to think a minute, then said, “You have a card or something, in case we need a ride later?”
“Sure.” The driver reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a card and handed it over. “I’ll be working ’til around ten. After that, you’re on your own.” You could hear the smile in his voice, as he contemplated clocking off, heading to his home and his wife . . . .
And all of it is illusion.
The car ride was around twenty minutes, and the area got less and less densely populated every minute of it. It all looked very familiar to me, of course, but I felt like I was seeing it through new eyes. I had always thought of Jo’s hacienda as a refuge. Now, it was something else. I didn’t know what yet, but I knew for certain that “rest and relaxation” would not be on the menu.
Traffic was light once we moved out of the city, with nothing on the road in Jo’s neighborhood except for a family who were headed out on vacation with half their worldly possessions stuffed in a van. We left the cab a block from Jo’s place and didn’t start walking until it had departed.
It was now full dark, and in the desert dryness the temperature was quickly dropping, becoming cool and pleasant. A light wind came up the hillside, carrying the unmistakable smells of someone’s barbecue. . . . All illusion.
Our cabbie was right. It would be better not to alarm the neighbors by spending too long outside at this hour. We walked up the street quickly, feeling a light breeze and came to her gate five minutes later.
As we came up the driveway, a figure detached itself from the small outbuilding by the wrought iron gate. “Consuela!” I greeted her warmly. She was an inspired cook as well as a wardrobe wizard, always ready to help the guests look their feminine best. More importantly, she was a sweet and gentle soul who made everyone feel special.
“Welcome back, Miss Noelle,” she said, ignoring, as always, my male appearance. Her smile matched my own. “And you, sir,” she said, addressing Hermes without naming him. “Miss Jo is anxious to see you both.”
Britt stayed with Consuela at the gatehouse, keeping look out and securing our easiest escape route. Hermes followed me up the long driveway and across the courtyard, to the steps and the front door. I raised my hand to knock, but it opened before I completed the move.
“Hello, Miss Noelle,” the short woman said shyly. “Miss Jo asked that you both join her in the upstairs parlor.”
“Thanks, Lourdes,” I said. I had a sudden memory of Lourdes’ impish smile as she showed me some of her makeup tricks. So many happy memories in this place.
The inside staircase was a curving showpiece – Spanish tile risers and terracotta steps, with a wrought iron railing that continued along the landing at the top. We took the stairs quickly, walked across the landing, and entered the upper front room.
The parlor was dominated by floor-to-ceiling windows with a spectacular view of the city in the distance. Jo was sitting with her back to us, smoking a cigarette as usual, and gazing out at her view. “C’mon in,” she said without turning around. “Have a seat.”
Hermes came around the couch and took a chair opposite Jo. I moved to take the other, but she patted the couch and said, “You sit here. Let me look at you.”
As always, Jo made me want to smile. She seemed so out-of-place in this grand house, a diminutive, older black woman who never gave a thought to her own appearance, even while she made sure her guests were primped and pampered. I leaned over, gave her cheek a peck, and took the offered seat. “It’s good to see you, Jo.”
“Is it?” Her eyes looked at once mischievous and serious. “Well, we’ll see about that. C’mon. I need a closer view.” Oddly, she leaned in close, gazing at my face searchingly. After a long moment, she said, “Huh. Well. About what I’d expected.”
“Jo,” I said patiently, “You’ve known me for years. Do I look any different?”
“Getting unplugged is a strange experience. No telling how people will do.”
Her words brought me back to a nagging thought I’d been reluctant to raise. “Are you? Unplugged, I mean.”
She smiled enigmatically, reached out and flicked ash from her cigarette into a kitschy Vegas-themed ashtray that looked even more out-of-place than she did. “That’s complicated. Story for another day.”
She turned her attention to my superior. “And how are you doing, Hermes? I see you haven’t aged a day.”
“I can assure you, my portrait of Dorian Grey looks a bit worse for the wear these days. But I’m well. And Zephyr sends his regards.”
“My girl here working out for you?”
“Everything you promised,” he replied, smiling.
“And for you, Noelle? How’s reality treating you? Is being a woman all you hoped for?” Her eyes found mine again.
I thought about the ghastly food, the homespun, the close quarters on the ship, the constant threat of Sentinels . . . and the wonder that I felt, every moment, knowing that I was finally in the right body. That I had been all along, and just hadn’t known it. “Yes.” I thought about my moments with Zephyr. Before, all I’d had were erotic dreams of being a woman; now . . . now I could have the real thing. “All that, and more.”
She nodded, but didn’t smile. “That’s good, child. Very good. You’re going to need all that positive energy. Because you need to pull Cleo out, too, and it won’t be easy.”
“Cleo? She wants out?” I was surprised. I had met Cleo here a few years ago, and our visits had overlapped once or twice since. She was British; sounded upper crust. I didn’t know much about her male persona – as a rule, the visitors at the hacienda didn’t tend to share many personal details – but I was under the impression that her day job had something to do with finance.
“She hasn’t said anything,” Jo responded. “But you need to get her out.”
Hermes shook his head. “Jo, you know it doesn’t work that way. Even with trans adults, we don’t approach them directly. They need to seek us out. It’s the only way we know they might be ready.”
She gave Hermes a fond smile. “Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, will you? I know all your rules, Hermes. I helped you break them before, and,” she pointed at me, “you’ve just acknowledged that I occasionally know what I’m talking about.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, but wasn’t ready to concede the point. “I know. But this is different. Every time we get someone unplugged, there’s a huge risk that we will simply destroy their mind – that they won’t be able to adapt. I’ve seen it happen. We can never be sure, but we need to be as certain as we can be. If this ‘Cleo’ is ready, she’ll find a way to reach out.”
“She can wait, maybe,” Jo countered. “But you can’t. You’ve spent forty years searching for the One. You need to go now. And Noelle needs to make the contact, since Cleo knows her.”
I didn’t know what Jo was talking about, but it clearly meant something to Hermes. His hands slowly closed around the arms of his chair, as if he needed the support to remain upright in his seat. “You’re sure?” he whispered. He looked eager, excited, and as focused as I had ever seen him.
“I’ve told you before, nothing is ‘sure.’ But I know the odds, and this is the best you’ll get.”
I looked from Jo to Hermes and back again. “What are you talking about?”
It was Hermes who answered. “There is a prophecy, dating to the foundation of Zion, that a human born in the Matrix will find a way to take the battle to the AI. That we will not just be hunted forever. I hoped to live to see it . . . maybe now, I will.”
I had been forced to accept the fact that I had lived in a simulation all my life, but oddly enough, this seemed even more strange. Strange, and — much as I yearned to take the fight to the enemy — too damned much.
I found my hands balling into fists, and spoke through clenched teeth. “I want to fight. To destroy these . . . things! Always, everyone is telling me to wait. That we can’t, that we aren’t strong enough. And it turns out we’re waiting for, what? A prophecy? Are you fricking kidding me?”
Before either of them could respond, Hermes’ cell phone rang. Without taking his eyes off me, he flicked it open. “Yes?” He was silent for a moment. “Coming up the street? We’re on our way.” He snapped the phone shut and rose. “Britt says there’s a police cruiser heading this way. We need to go. Jo, I’ll think about it. What’s Cleo’s dead name?”
Jo remained seated. “Anthony St. Claire. He works in the City. In London.”
I hopped up and went closer to the front window to get a view of the gate, maybe forty yards away and well lit. Britt was looking out to the street, Consuela a few steps behind. I couldn’t see any sign of the cruiser Britt had reported, but unless it was running its lights, I probably wouldn’t.
Just as I was about to turn away, Consuela’s image shifted, grew, and darkened. It took just an instant for me to realize what was happening. “Britt!!!” I screamed loud enough to wake the dead – loud enough to be heard through the thick windows.
But it was too late. Britt was just starting to move when the Agent who had replaced Consuela raised a handgun and shot her in the head at point blank range. As Britt’s body spun, the Agent fired again, presumably to make sure.
Hermes was suddenly at my side, pulling me away from the window. “Back!!!” he hissed. He spun me around. “Go, go, go!!!”
Crouched low, I followed Hermes out of the room and onto the landing. We were just about to take the stairs when we saw Lourdes, by the front door, begin to change shape. “This way!!!” I shouted. We charged across the landing as shots chipped the railing and wall behind us.
“Anyone else in the building?” Hermes was following right behind me, as I tore down a hallway.
“Just Jo.” I could hear the sound of hard-soled shoes on the terracotta tiles behind us. I knew that the hallway ended at a door to a balcony that overlooked the pool. There were no stairs down – but Hermes had taught me all about bending the rules.
“Okay,” he said. “Plan Delta. See you back at the Bel!
I wasn’t happy about it – the contingency plan involved splitting up, and was based on the reasonable assumption that any Agent would follow Hermes since he was about as high on their “Most Wanted” list as it was possible to get. But our mission was blown to hell and Britt was dead. Plan Delta didn’t even make the top ten on my list of things I was seriously unhappy about.
I burst through the door to the balcony, sprinted forward and lept, grabbing the wrought iron railing as I passed. As I cartwheeled through the air, spinning 180 degrees, I saw Hermes’ shoe hit the rail by my hand, then he was sailing forward into the night.
Just before my spinning arm came in contact with the railing, I released my grip and dropped, landing on my feet on the patio under the balcony. Using my considerable forward momentum, I sped back toward the house, then dropped behind a large planter.
I looked back just in time to see Hermes jump from the roof of the pool house and disappear behind the perimeter wall, the matte black of his clothing almost indistinguishable from the dark night sky. Seconds later, I heard the smack of the Agent’s hard-soled shoe on the balcony railing, then saw his form sail over the pool — easily thirty feet. As Hermes had presumably done, he hit the roof of the poolhouse running, then followed Hermes over the back wall and down the hillside.
What I was doing was a risk, and probably a crazy one. But I knew that the nearest landline was in the hacienda. So long as the Agent was chasing Hermes, and so long as there was only one, it was my best chance.
The back door was locked, but picking locks – an extremely useful skill – was another talent I had taken time to hone in the simulator. I was back inside in seconds.
The lights were on in the front of the house, but not the rear. I knew the hacienda well, so I was able to move forward quickly and quietly, all the while listening for any sounds. I didn’t hear anything coming from inside the house, but outside was another matter. Anguished, heart-rending cries were coming from the direction of the gate.
Crouching low, I crept into the front room and peered out the window. Consuelaa was on her knees, cradling Britt’s lifeless body, wailing as she rocked back and forth. Her face was lit by the red and blue strobe of a police cruiser. A uniformed officer stood by the door of the car, talking into a radio, but I couldn't hear him. Calling for backup.
The landline was on an occasional table by an arm chair. I crept over to it, lifted the receiver, and called Zephyr on the Belisarius. “Mayday! Extract!”
I was holding the receiver and looking out the window, which is why I saw the Police Officer shift shape into an Agent. He drew his weapon, looking straight at me, somehow able to pierce the shadows between us. I heard the sound of his shot . . . .
. . . And then, as suddenly as I had left, I was back on the ship, and Zephyr was bending down in front of me, looking every bit as bad as I felt.
I knew the answer, but I asked anyway. “Britt?”
“She’s dead, Noelle. I’m . . . .” He stopped, shaking his head, then pulled out his cell phone.
I looked at the two chairs to my right. Hermes, next to me, was to all appearances sleeping calmly, his chest rising and falling with easy breaths. But Britt, on his other side, was clearly gone. There was no physical manifestation of a bullet hole – it hadn’t happened in the “real world,” after all. But dying in the Matrix causes the brain to stop functioning, and the body can’t survive it. A trickle of blood ran down her chin; she’d probably bitten her tongue in her last moment of life.
Zephyr was on his cell phone. “We’re blown, Abhaya. I’m pulling you out.” As soon as he got confirmation, the ship’s “landline” began to ring. Kai, standing by Abhaya’s chair, went to answer it.
I got out of my seat and stood by Abhaya’s chair as his eyes opened. He gave Kai a grateful glance, then looked at me. “What happened?”
“An Agent caught us at the hacienda and shot Britt. Hermes called Plan Delta and we split up.”
“You left her?”
I shook my head, sitting on my immediate urge to bite back. “She died instantly, Abhaya. There was nothing we could do.”
He looked sick, but pushed through it. “Where’s Hermes?”
“Making his way down a dark hillside,” Zephyr reported, looking at the screen from where he was monitoring Hermes in the Matrix. “I can’t tell if he still has an Agent tailing him.”
I said, “One took off after him, but I think he gave up, because he reappeared at the hacienda and shot at me just as you pulled me out.”
Zephyr chewed on his cheek a second, then said, “You sure it was the same one? They all look alike to me.”
“It looked like the same one to me, though I didn’t have time to study it closely.”
He appeared to reach a decision, and used his cell phone to call Hermes. After a couple anxious moments, he got an answer. “Hermes, it’s Zephyr. Noelle thinks the Agent that followed you gave up and returned to the hacienda; she saw it there before we pulled her out. . . . Yeah, me too, but she thought so. . . . Right, already did it. He’s here. . . . Yeah, that may be your best bet. We’ll continue to monitor. . . . Out.”
Zephyr put away his phone. “He thinks no-one is behind him, but he was lying quiet for a bit just to be sure. There’s nothing close other than houses, so he’s going to need to walk to a busier area and see if he can get a cab to our alternative extraction site.”
I had a sudden idea. “Zephyr, I think I might have an easier alternative. Let me check something.” I practically sprinted to our main monitoring array for the Matrix, which was currently unoccupied. Presumably Dakota and Blake were at other stations. I dropped into the seat and furiously began running queries.
“What have you got?” Zephyr had followed me and was at my shoulder.
“Just before the cab dropped us off, we saw a big van pulling out of a driveway, stuffed to the gills with vacation gear and kids. The house is almost certainly deserted. If I can figure out the address and confirm it’s got a working landline, Hermes can use it.”
“Risky . . . but probably less risky than having to find a cab. You sure about the location?”
I nodded without looking up from the screen. “Yeah – big house at the corner of Marble Ridge and the street just before Painted Feather . . . . There it is! Cross-checking the phone records now . . . .” I typed quickly and waited impatiently for a response. “There! It’s got one!”
An alert popped up on my screen. “Wait, hold on . . . Ah! They’ve got a security system installed. Give me a minute . . . .” My fingers were moving so quickly I could barely keep up with them. But there aren’t too many people who are better at this task than I am, and our Matrix interface is a hacker’s dream. “Got it. The system’s disabled.”
I spun and looked at the XO, who didn’t waste any time dithering. He pulled out his cell, called Hermes, and handed the phone to me.
Hermes’ voice was unruffled. “What do you have, Zephyr?”
“It’s Noelle. We want to bring you out on the landline at 82 Cross Canyon. It’s not far from where you are. On the corner of Marble Ridge, the street we came up to get to Painted Feather.”
He didn’t bother asking for our rationale, which was refreshing. “I was trying to avoid going on Marble Ridge; it’s big enough and close enough to make it the logical artery for them to watch.”
I looked at the map. “If you’re still on the hillside, I can bring you in a back way.”
“Tell me.”
I gave him the directions, then said, “we’ve disabled the home security system, but it will certainly be locked.”
“I’ll take care of it.” He didn’t seem concerned. “Expect me in about fifteen minutes; I’ll take it slow and easy.”
“Okay, boss. Out.” I ended the call and gave the phone back to Zephyr.
But now that I had done what I could do, there was nothing left but waiting. Which left my mind wide open to think about the last few . . . minutes? Was it really just minutes? And about Britt.
I slumped in the seat. “Zephyr . . . there was nothing we could do. It was so fast.”
He squatted down in front of my chair so that he wouldn’t be looking down at me. “I know. We all know; Kai and I were monitoring when it happened.”
“She had the most amazing reflexes. Even in her male form . . . .”
Zephyr shook his head. “The Agents are quicker than we are. Quicker than the best of us. They can literally dodge bullets.”
“But they weren’t able to catch Hermes.”
“They run fast, but it’s more like a human pace. And their eyesight’s as good as a human with good vision, but near as we can tell it’s not much better. The reflexes seem to be different.”
“That . . . doesn’t make sense.” I was puzzled, trying to piece through what I’d learned in the simulator and what I’d just experienced. “I mean, the AI designed the Matrix, and designed the Agents. Why limit them in any way? Why can’t they fly, or run a hundred miles an hour?”
Zephyr rose slowly and held out a hand to help me out of the seat. “Honestly, we don’t know. Maybe it didn’t want the Agents to be strong enough to break the Matrix? But that’s just a theory. All we know for sure is what we’ve seen them do – and not do, if you know what I mean.”
“God, I hate this!” I sounded as confused, frightened, angry and downright disgusted as I felt.
But I took his hand and stood, and Zephyr pulled me in for a brief and comforting hug. Then we went back to the operations area, where Kai and Abhaya were standing by Britt’s body. They’d removed the Matrix interface, but they hadn’t moved her yet.
Zephyr took charge of the situation. “Can you take her body to her own bed for now? We’ll have a proper remembrance when the Captain’s back.”
They nodded and moved to raise her out of the chair where she had died.
Zephyr got on the intercom. “Blake, we’ve got a situation. I want you to land us somewhere unobtrusive and power down everything except our Matrix interfaces, passive external monitoring and internal communications.”
His response was instant. “On it.”
As the ship began to move, Zephyr said, “This would be a really bad time for Sentinels to show up, and given how our luck’s been running, I’m going to assume that’s what’ll happen.”
I nodded. I knew from all of my training that Hermes would die if his physical interface with the Matrix failed for any reason before he got back to a landline. Using the EMP would temporarily disable all of our electronics, which would definitely sever his connection. We waited in tense silence as the ship slowly sank lower and lower.
Blake keyed the mic to say, “looks like what used to be a ballpark, right on the edge of the lake. I’ll put down there.”
“Huh,” I said. “I’ve been to a game at the Brewer’s stadium. It wasn’t on the lake.”
Zephyr shrugged. “Who knows? If the history is remotely accurate, the U.S. kept going until the 2070’s or so. Plenty of time to build a new ballpark.”
I thought about that. How the Matrix just messes with your mind. Ancient history – well, ancient from an American perspective — that hadn’t even happened in the year I thought it was when I took that red pill . . . .
The ship settled softly. Immediately, the lights went out, except for the Matrix monitors beside us. Hermes’ resting face, now lit by a green glow, looked somehow eerie and eldrich.
More time passed.
Moving quietly and slowly by the low light, Kai and Abhaya rejoined us. Kai gave my shoulder a squeeze. “You okay?”
“I’ll manage. I guess.”
“Yeah.” She lapsed into silence.
Blake’s voice came low over the intercom. “Getting a ghost image from the perimeter monitor we dropped on the way in. Six miles back.”
Zephyr’s face had a rueful smile. “The party wouldn’t be complete without that.”
But there wasn’t much we could do that we hadn’t done already. Our Matrix monitor was showing that Hermes was still on the move, and he was close to the house I had identified. Hopefully, he would be out before we had to worry about the Sentinel.
Zephyr had Dakota go up to take the weapons station, just in case.
“Six . . . no, eight Sentinels confirmed.” Blake’s voice over the intercom was soft. “Bearing is still off.”
Zephyr just nodded.
Hermes was at the house now. In moments, he was inside. Still, we heard nothing.
A phone rang . . . but it was Zephyr’s cell.
“What’s up, boss?” he asked, answering. “Of course. On it.” Turning to me, he said, “He can’t find where they keep their phone. Call it.”
I dashed back to the room where I had done my work and pulled up my searches. I was writing down the number when Blake keyed his mic. “Three of them are headed in this general direction. Still four miles out.”
I ran back to the operations room and went to the landline. Mercifully, it was a punch-button keyboard, so I was able to dial quickly. One ring . . . two . . . three . . . .
At seven rings, I was starting to panic. Zephyr’s cell phone rang again. “Can you hear it?” he asked as soon as he answered. “Yeah, she was sure.” Zephyr looked at me again. “You are sure, right?”
I nodded. “Positive. That’s the number. It should be ringing.”
Hermes stayed on the cell phone while he kept looking.
Notwithstanding my assurances, I handed the landline receiver to Kai and went back to double check that I’d written the number correctly. And that my computer search was right. Both checked out. It’s a big house . . . Maybe the telephone is kept out of the way . . . But, maybe I just misdialed?
“Those three Sentinels are just two miles back now. Still headed this way.” Blake was beginning to sound tense.
I dashed back to the operations area and took the landline back from Kai. But just as I was about to hang up to redial, Hermes stirred in his chair and opened his eyes. He took in the darkened room and the quiet in an instant. “Status?” he asked Zephyr.
“Three Sentinels within two miles; at least five more in the area. We’re on the ground; minimal power.” He bent over and removed the probe from the back of Hermes’ skull.
Hermes rose. “Good. Shut down everything. Blake’s still in the cockpit?”
Zephyr nodded. “I sent Dakota to the weapons station, too.”
Hermes nodded in approval. “Good. Take over the principal pilot’s station and have Blake co-pilot. Everyone else, secure stations. Comms discipline.”
Zephyr nodded and left; Hermes, Kai, Abhaya and I managed to find our crash seats before all the lights went out.
We were back to waiting, hiding . . . hoping that we wouldn’t be seen. Even if we were lucky, that meant hours of just sitting, keeping quiet in the dark ship, with nothing to do but watch Britt’s death in my mind, over and over again.
Tough, seemingly no-nonsense Britt, who had nonetheless gotten a kick out of pretending to be a stoned deadhead . . . and who had smiled like a girl when I found her some sports bras . . . . The woman who had brought me kicking and screaming into the real world, who had forced my unused muscles to function as evolution had intended, had died forty yards from me. And I had done nothing to prevent it — nor anything to avenge her.
I had run away.
And now we were being hunted by machines. Hardware rather than software, but designed and programmed by the same pitiless intelligence. An intelligence wholly devoid of feeling, knowing neither fear nor hope, love nor hatred. It gave no thought to ending an inconvenient human life. Not Britt’s . . . and not mine.
I must not fear.
.
.
To be continued . . . .
Chapter 6: Zugzwang
“You’ve said it yourselves. All of you. We don’t know whether anything we think we know about the past is true. How can you have so much faith in a . . . .” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word.
“A prophecy?” Hermes finished my sentence, then leaned forward. “Our faith isn’t blind. We aren’t proposing to treat this ‘Cleo’ any different than other adults we have brought out. If she can prove that she has some ability within the Matrix – or outside it, for all we know – that we haven’t encountered yet, then we’ll rely on it. Not before.”
It was two days since we had returned to the Belisarius from our disastrous trip to visit Jo. No, I thought. Not ‘Jo.’ ‘Cassandra.’ Better not to think of her as someone I know. Because, sure as hell, I DON’T! The Sentinels had not found us in our hidden location, and as we cautiously brought our electronic systems back online, we had discovered no sign of their presence nearby.
We’d remained in place, extending our probe network, monitoring the Matrix from a solid tap, and pausing to remember, and bid farewell, to our fallen comrade. Britt was cremated in the ship’s incinerator; death during a mission was, sadly, a sufficiently regular occurrence that the capability was included on all ships.
Now, however, it was time to decide what to do with the information Jo had given us, and everyone who wasn’t actively on duty was gathered in the mess to discuss it. Dakota (Cockpit) and Kai (Matrix monitoring station) were listening in over the intercom.
Our entire organization was sufficiently military that Hermes could have simply told us what to do – but he wouldn’t order someone to go on a mission against their better judgment without a compelling reason. And clearly, he had his own doubts about what “Cassandra” had proposed.
I heard what Hermes said, but I thought he was deceiving himself. “How can you say you won’t treat her differently, when you already are? You’re the one who told Cassandra that we don’t attempt to bring people out unless they try to make contact on their own.”
Zephyr responded before Hermes could. “That’s for their protection, not ours. The risk factor to us, to this crew, is no different than it is on any extraction.”
“Except that the first step on this hare-brained mission already cost us Britt!”
“It has,” he replied evenly enough, though the redness in his face suggested he was suppressing his own temper. “But Britt and I both had close calls with Agents on the mission that extracted you. It’s part of the job, Noelle.”
Abhaya broke in, his New York accent cutting like a ripsaw. “Look. You want to fight? We want to fight too. Maybe this ‘prophecy’ is totally fugazy. A fake. We don’t know Jack, and what we think we know may be complete bullshit. I get that. But real talk here. We do know we can’t stand up to the machines right now. If we walk away from this thing, we’ll just keep losing. If there’s even a chance Cleo can find a way to start tearing down the cage, I’m all in.”
Blake was nodding as Abhaya spoke. “A bad chance is better’n no chance, girl, and right now, ‘no chance’ is where we’re sitting.”
Hermes was watching me carefully. “I won’t order you to go back in for this. We can have you on Matrix monitoring while we’re inside.”
I shook my head angrily. “I’m not trying to protect myself, dammit! I’m trying to protect all of you. All of us. Zephyr, don’t you remember what Britt told me, just after our first simulator battle?”
Zephyr shook his head.
“‘Fantasize all you want . . . but go down that road too far, and you just get good people killed!’”
Dakota’s smokey contralto came over the intercom. “Noelle. Britt was a friend of mine, too. Her death was stupid. Senseless. I don’t want that to be the end of her story.”
Kai keyed her mic. “I want to avenge my friends. Not just Britt – I want to avenge everyone – all the people I’ve lost. I want to fight, and I want to do it with some hope – any hope – that we might win. If Cassandra says this ‘Cleo’ can help us fight, I want to try.”
I closed my eyes. They were insane. They were willing to hare off on a wild-goose chase, guided by an old woman’s assurances about a ‘prophecy’ that might never have been made in the first place. It was like Britt’s death had infected the entire crew with a kind of group madness, and I couldn’t get them to see that this ‘hope’ was chimerical.
But all of that was water under the bridge. They were going to take this mission, crazy though it was. The only thing I could do was try to limit the damage.
I opened my eyes again and gave Hermes a resigned look. “Everyone is determined to go, so we’ll go. But Cassandra is right; our best chance for success is if I do the insertion. Cleo at least knows me, and she’s more likely to listen to me than anyone else. And we’ll minimize the downside risk if I go alone.”
Hermes’ expression didn't change, but his eyes seemed warmer. “There’s no need for that – and it’s not feasible anyway. We need at least four people inside to do an extraction safely. It’s not just a matter of swallowing a red pill. We monitor the person’s life signs and trace back their location in the real world when they’re ejected from their pod.”
“I understand,” I answered. “But this is different from your normal case. We can’t expect Cleo to meet me for a drink and swallow your red pill on the spot. I’ve got to feel her out first. If she’s interested, we can set up a meeting that includes more people.”
“I hate to say it, but that makes sense, boss,” Blake said.
Zephyr shook his head. “We don’t send people in alone.”
“But this time you should,” I said gently. “We already know the first part of this mission was blown. The rest may be too. Sending in more people just means there are more people to lose if everything lands in the crapper.”
“You need someone watching your back!” Zephyr looked incensed, which I found somewhat touching.
“Zephyr . . . really. It’s okay. I’m a big girl. You can monitor from the ship, just like we did when Hermes was stuck inside.”
Hermes, who had observed our byplay silently, intervened. “Normally I’d agree with you, Zephyr. But Noelle’s argument is logical. She is obviously the right person for the initial contact. Anyone else would just be there to guard her.”
“She needs someone to guard her! We can’t just hang her out on her own — she has almost no real experience.”
“I’ve actually had pretty extensive experience, even before I met all of you.” I thought of my ‘adventures’ in Africa, Australia and Asia, back in the days before I took the pill that Hermes offered. And afterward . . .
“As far as Agents are concerned, I have less experience than you, but ‘guarding’ against them doesn’t work and you know it. If an Agent shows up, my ‘guard’ would be doing exactly the same thing I would – running.”
Zephyr – bless him! – wanted to protest, but he couldn’t think of a compelling argument.
Hermes nodded sharply. “All right. Noelle, I want you to find out everything you can about Cleo’s alter ego. Where he lives, where he works, family, associates, whatever. When you have some notion of where he can be approached, get the info to Abhaya and Blake, and they’ll work up some sims for us to go through.”
I nodded and rose. “Right, boss.” Avoiding Zephyr’s eyes, I left to relieve Kai at the Matrix monitoring station so I could do my research.
Zephyr was waiting by the door to my cabin. “Can I talk to you?”
I nodded, spun the wheel lock and gestured for him to enter. “Official or unofficial?” I asked as I followed him in.
He shrugged. “It’s about the mission, but . . . it’s unofficial. I’m worried about you, Noelle.”
“I appreciate that. Really, I do. But if this thing’s a trap, I don’t want it to spring on more of us than it needs to.”
He nodded, looking no happier. “I understand the logic. It just . . . it doesn’t change how I feel. You don’t think we should be doing this at all, and you’re the one who’s taking all the risk.”
I shook my head, smiling, then stepped in close, lightly circling his neck with my arms. “That’s not what’s bothering you and you know it. The XO understands the logic, but having me go into the lion’s den while you stay on the ship offends your delicate male sensibilities.” I gave him a teasing kiss. “I think that’s very sweet.”
He looked exasperated. “Sweet!!! You’re risking your life!” But he couldn’t help himself. He pulled me in tight, just as I’d hoped he would, crushing me in a hard embrace and kissing me with fierce urgency.
My hands slid down to his back as I returned his kisses with equal heat. His muscles were hard, but knotted with a mix of excitement and worry. I pressed my body into his even more fervently. God, I have needed this so much!
His voice was harsh with passion. “I want you, Noelle!!!”
“Then take me! Take me now!”
He needed no further invitation. Barely restraining his eagerness, he grabbed the bottom of my tunic, raised it and pulled it off in a single, fluid motion. His finger traced the delicate strap of my new bra, then stroked the exposed and satiny skin of my breast.
I shivered, then undid the drawstring that held up my homespun pants, letting them fall to the deck. I freed my feet and then went to work on him, stripping both tunic and pants. His shorts followed . . . .
It was like my dream, at last. I was on my back in bed with a handsome man between my smooth legs, loving me, satisfying my aching desire, bringing me to heights of pleasure I had never experienced in my crazy life in the Matrix, where I had a body that told me one thing and a mind, heart and soul that told me something else. Zephyr’s face didn’t match the dream, of course, but this was real. I was all woman, he was all man, and we were matched – completely – in both our desire and our need.
It wasn’t tender or sweet. We were both too eager and needed it too much. There might be time for that later . . . Or there might not be. We couldn’t know, so we fought to squeeze every last ounce of pleasure from the moment that we had. When I felt him explode, deep inside me, I detonated as well, screaming my release as he clutched me in a desperate embrace.
He bent down and kissed me slowly, thoroughly, then extracted himself, rolled to his side, and spooned into my boneless body.
I lay there, my physical need sated, feeling the warmth of his body against my back, the assurance of his arms wrapped around me. But something deep inside refused the peace and human comfort of that tender moment. Instead, my mind spun and twisted, unfocused, seeking . . . .
He nibbled on my ear. “Penny for your thoughts?”
I stroked his arm. Unable to make sense of the chaos in my head, I temporized. “You might be overpaying.”
“I’m an idiot about money. Always have been. Something you should probably know about me.”
In the AI simulation where we’d both been born and raised, inability to handle money was considered such a terrible thing as to be almost a moral failing. And yet . . . . “All those people, so worried about money and all it’ll do for them . . . . but ‘rich’ or ‘poor,’ they’re all swimming in amniotic fluid in seven by three plastic pods.”
He sighed. “Yeah. It’d make a good joke, if it weren’t so freaking horrible.”
Silence returned, but my brain kept spinning, increasingly frenetic and uncontrolled, like a gerbil on a wheel. “Zephyr,” I said finally, clutching his arm as I tried to rein in my racing thoughts and find the source of what was causing me such unexpected distress. “What’s Zion like?”
He moved behind me, shifting position. Probably trying to figure out where I was going. “It’s, ah . . . utilitarian, I guess.”
“Are there parks? Concerts? Do people go out to dinner? Have parties?”
He was silent, thinking. Finally, he said, “It’s a fortress, Noelle. There isn’t any sunlight. There aren’t parks, because space is pretty premium. People do have some time for leisure, and we try to preserve something of normalcy. But . . . it’s not New York. It’s not even Fresno.”
It was my turn to be silent, though I pulled his arms around me even tighter. “Will it always be like this?” I whispered. “Are our lives just one crisis after another . . . brief moments of vigilant inactivity, followed by running, fighting, running some more . . . until the day our number comes up we get killed?”
He hugged me more closely than before, trying to give comfort with his body that his words couldn’t match.
My voice was soft, and I couldn’t hide the darkness of my thoughts. “In the wars I learned about in school – the World Wars, Korea, Vietnam – things got intense. People suffered beyond imagining. Millions died. But they ended. The wars ended, and people got back to building normal lives that weren’t all about life and death and resistance. Hermes . . . Dear God, Zephyr! Hermes has been fighting for forty years!”
He stroked my cheek, feeling the dampness of my tears. “It’s why we all want to find the One. Sure, we want to kick the machines’ asses. We want to avenge our friends. But more than all of that, we want to just be regular people again.”
“Regular people . . . . Will we even remember how to be like that? God! What have those terrible machines done to us!”
He fell asleep holding me, but exhausted as I was, sleep wouldn't come for a long while. The wave of sadness that had crashed over me hit again and again, pulling me under, dragging me down, down . . . .
I wept for the world that was lost, for the lives that we were forced to lead . . . for the memories of normalcy that invaded my brain. Windsurfing on a perfect summer afternoon . . . Flying a kite in Golden Gate Park with my dad when I was eight . . . eating sushi with Gavin as the sunset reflected off the white tiles of the Sydney Opera House . . . a pancake breakfast . . . finding an abandoned artillery emplacement on Mount Tamalpais . . . .
Memories that weren’t even real.
If Hermes saw any of that in my face, he gave no sign. “Alright, Noelle. What have you learned?”
“I searched the deadname that Jo – that ‘Cassandra’ – provided. There’s actually a fair bit of information, and I found a few articles in the Times of London that included a photo. The quality isn’t great, so I can’t say with one hundred percent certainty that Anthony St. Claire is the transgender woman I know as Cleo. But I think so.”
Hermes nodded. “Good enough.”
“Right,” I continued. “This St. Claire is a mover and shaker at Flemings, an old investment house in the City of London. He lives in Knightsbridge, appears to be unmarried and has no children. However, he has a live-in staff at his residence – both a cook and a housekeeper.”
“So . . . what’s your thinking?” Hermes asked. “Do you plan to call him? Approach him at work? At home?”
“I don’t think so. We were always careful at the hacienda not to ask about personal details. If people offered them, that was fine, though it was understood that the information would stay behind Jo’s walls. Anyhow, Cleo never did. Share, that is. So if I suddenly drop in on her, or even make a phone call, it’ll trip all her defenses. She’ll feel like Jo’s betrayed her confidences.”
“Which she has,” Blake observed. At Hermes’ sharp look, he added, “Just sayin’, you know. We wouldn’t have the name, except for Cassandra.”
“Exactly,” I said. “But it looks like our friend has a habit, most nights, of stopping by the Old Doctor Butler’s Head Pub before heading home. I thought maybe I could just happen to be there. It’s an unlikely coincidence, but it’s at least possible. And if she’s alone, I expect she’d be willing to chat with me.”
“Sounds pretty thin,” Hermes observed. “And it's a long way from a ‘chat’ to where we need her to be.”
I shrugged. “I’m open to suggestions, but barring a kidnapping, or slipping her a Mickey, this strikes me as the best option.”
That elicited a grunt from the captain. “Not a chance. I’ll bend rules if I’ve got a good reason too — it goes with the command. But no way I’m unplugging someone without real consent.” Turning his gaze on Blake and Abhaya he asked, “You have a sim ready?”
Abhaya nodded. “It’s rough, but yeah. It’ll do.”
“And you found an insertion and extraction point?”
It was Blake’s turn to nod. “Oh, yeah! It’s a big, beautiful, busy area. I’ve got a couple good locations within two blocks of the pub, with easy backups further out if she needs them.”
“Show me,” Hermes ordered.
We went into the operations area. Hermes, Abhaya and I got in the chairs and left Blake – the natural-born son of Zion – to get us all plugged in and act as control. In a few minutes, the three of us were in the sim, standing in a book-lined office that was only illuminated by the lights coming from the outside window. It appeared to be night.
Hermes said, “Okay, let’s just do a walk-through first. Show us the area.”
“Right,” said Abhaya. “Blake, no traffic or people.” In his Matrix persona, Abhaya presented as a petite Punjabi woman in a conservatively tailored, calf-length saffron dress with capped sleeves that exposed smooth and slender arms. Somehow, this presentation, coupled with his pleasantly warm soprano voice, made his pure New York accent seem even more incongruous. “Let’s bounce.”
The office was connected directly to a hallway. The brass plaque by the door said, “Sidney Westen, Barrister.”
“Lawyers have a bad habit of working late,” Hermes cautioned.
Abhaya smiled. “Not when they’re kickin’ back in Majorca.”
“For?”
“Two weeks. Starting the day before yesterday.”
Hermes gave a noncommittal snort. “Alright. Proceed.”
“Okay. Out the door, you go down this hallway twenty feet, then take a right at this fork.” Abhaya provided commentary as we walked. “Door to the stairwell is only twenty-five feet further.”
We walked down the hall and he opened the door labeled “stairs.” “Two flights down, and the exit is in an outside courtyard, not a lobby.”
“Three flights,” I corrected. We started descending.
“No,” Abhaya argued. “We’re on the third floor.”
“Trust me,” I said, remembering prior trips to the U.K.
When we came to the door marked “Ist Floor,” Abhaya pushed it open as Hermes and I kept going down the stairs. “I don’t get it,” he said a moment later, taking the rear.
Without looking back, I said, “They call the ground floor the ground floor; the floor up from that is the first floor.”
“No wonder we had a revolution,” he groused.
The courtyard at the bottom was just a space between a few buildings. Big pavers flanked by essentially generic urban architecture – concrete, brick and glass that went up six or seven floors.
“Nice place for an ambush,” Hermes observed.
“There is a lobby exit, but I think this one’s less obtrusive,” Abhaya replied.
“Lead on,” Hermes said.
We exited the courtyard and turned right. The sign said “Telegraph Street,” but it was basically a narrow strip of concrete pavers between two “sidewalks” that were simply differently colored pavers set at the same level and arranged in a distinct pattern.
“This’ll take us to the pub,” Abhaya said. “Two blocks, straight shot.”
We walked up the street – or moderately car-friendly pedestrian walkway, depending on your point of view – and crossed something that could easily carry vehicular traffic in both directions. It seemed eerie without any cars or people, like we had wandered onto the set of a post-apocalyptic Stephen King novel. Why not? I’m LIVING in a post-apocalyptic Stephen King novel!
“Moorgate,” Abhaya said shortly. “Keep going straight; the street at the other end of this alley is Coleman.”
The extension of “Telegraph Street” was called “Great Bell Alley,” but seemed to be about the same width as the “street.” We walked past the large windows of several deserted restaurants as we made our way up the alley until it deadended at Coleman Street. The building we were facing, cold and modern in concrete and glass, was breached by a covered walkway through which the sign for the pub was clearly visible. We crossed the deserted street, went through the walkway and found the door.
Inside, the main impression was of very dark wood — mahogany, I thought. The centerpiece of the place, naturally, was a long, curving bar with a gleaming brass rail. It was a substantial room, especially for this part of the City, where rents were eye-wateringly high. The space permitted both booths and chairs with red leather seats. In the daytime it would be well-lit by the large windows that looked out on the square where we’d entered, but in the evening the artificial lighting was subdued.
We walked around, checking sightlines. The goal would be to wait somewhere I could see as much as possible – and be seen as little as possible. One booth, ideal from that perspective, had to be ruled out because it was too far from any exit.
“This one here’s your best bet,” Abhaya said after inspecting a booth that had seats against the wall, good views of the door and the bar, and a good exit very close. “But if you can’t get it, you're probably better off at the end of the bar.”
Finally, Hermes decided that he’d seen enough. “Blake,” he said to our sim controller, “add in a normal complement of people. And traffic on the streets.”
Suddenly, the simulated pub was packed with people and the noise level shot up.
The three of us made our way through the virtual crowd and sat at the booth Abhaya had singled out. The sound of random conversations was loud, but I was glad that we didn’t have to shout to make ourselves heard. It would definitely be possible to have a private conversation with Cleo here.
“All right,” Hermes said. “Let’s see how well this site works if your mission goes south. Abhaya and I are going to exit the sim; I’ve got some things I want him to add. Then we’re going to have an Agent show up, and you’re going to try to make your escape.”
I nodded, but said, “Blake, before you throw the Agent at me, I want a download of everything you have on these buildings – schematics, whatever – as well as the locations of our alternative extraction sites.”
“Ah, you’re gonna go and take all the fun out of it,” Abhaya joked. Then he clapped me on the shoulder, laughed and said, “Good luck, Jim!” And just like that, he and Hermes were deleted from the sim.
I watched the bustle for a moment, waiting for the hyperfocus that would come with Blake’s download. When it arrived, a few moments later, I found the data set was detailed and appeared to be reasonably current. Good.
I was tense, even though this was just a simulation. It felt real, and it was practice for something that was real enough that I could get killed if I screwed it up. And I knew that a simulated Agent would be showing up. I needed to be primed for action when it did.
Just thinking about Agents was making me sweat. Making me remember the crack of a pistol shot . . . the shock on Britt’s face . . . the body spinning, falling . . . the pattern of her blood as it sprayed against the walls of Jo’s gatehouse . . . .
Sitting and waiting was not helping. I got up and made my way through the crowd at the bar. Might as well enjoy what I can. A pleasantly plump young woman in a white shirt and black skirt was dealing with the patrons at my end of the bar. “What’ll you have, Luv?”
That’ll be Abhaya’s doing — such a fine touch with characters, I thought. “Pint of the Bluebird, please,” I replied, trying to get into the right frame of mind.
She took my money, then went to start my pour.
I watched as the rich, brown liquid filled the glass, practically tasting the memory. It’d been a while since I had really good beer.
She returned and placed the drink in front of me. “Here you are, then.”
“Cheers,” I said, raising the glass in a salute. I continued the motion smoothly, discharging the liquid straight into her face – a face that was rapidly starting to change. Before the Agent finished the transformation, I shoved her head, causing her to stumble back.
“Oi!!!” shouted the “patrons” near me. One or two made a grab, but I wasn’t having any of that. I spun away from the bar and sped to the nearest door. Well before the Agent could have regained his feet, I was out and heading towards the covered walkway.
Three steps into the covered area, the Agent appeared in front of me, blocking my escape to Coleman Street completely. I dove through a shop door that fronted the walkway just as the Agent’s first shot rang out. London has strict gun prohibitions, but Agents write their own rules.
I would need to do the same.
In my mind, I pulled up the schematic of the building that Blake had sent me. I leapt over a cheese display and charged down a narrow hallway, turned right, and was back in the courtyard by the pub. The Agent was behind me, gaining ground with every step . . . .
Three doors down, and I charged through another door just as the Agent emerged from the cheese shop. Up an internal staircase. One flight . . . two . . . three . . . . My heart was pounding and my breath was ragged.
I reminded myself that I wasn’t here, that my muscles weren’t actually moving, and that the body I appeared to possess was a complete illusion. I am not breathing. This is not air.
The Agent’s steps were pounding on the stairs below me as I emerged onto a rooftop terrace. I sprinted toward the edge. This is all illusion. It is NOT real!!!! Believe, damnit!
I jumped, planted my right foot on the knee wall, and launched myself out over Coleman Street towards the building on the other side, thinking, This had better work!!!
It did.
As soon as I hit the roof of the building opposite, I started running in an irregular pattern, knowing I was exposed. Sure enough, a shot rang out behind me, chipping the concrete inches from my shoulder. I kept running, heading towards the other side of the building.
I would need to make another leap . . . but Moorgate was wider than Coleman. Significantly wider. I told myself it didn’t matter. It’s an illusion! I can do it!!!
I quailed at the edge of the roof. It’s too far! But another shot from behind convinced me, and I jumped. Again I flew into the night . . . but this time, the arc of my leap was nowhere near flat enough. My eyes were level with the roof I was aiming for . . . and then I couldn’t see it. Suddenly, I was plunging toward the pavement, towards the cars that were tooling along without any thought that it was about to start raining men.
Consumed with panic, I screwed my eyes shut and braced for impact. But instead of unforgiving asphalt, I landed on what felt like the world’s largest goose-down pillow. All sound ceased.
“Bang,” Abhaya said, somewhere above me.
I opened my eyes and looked up. Abhaya’s saffron dress was bright, caught in the headlights of a car that had stopped — as everything had apparently stopped — the instant I hit the ground. “That didn’t go so well,” I acknowledged.
“Yeah, nah. Go back and start again.”
“I don’t know. Feels pretty comfortable here.”
“Well, we kind of suspended the rules. Do that in the Matrix and it’s gonna suck big time.”
“Why? Just how far can we jump?”
He shrugged. “Like Hermes says, we can bend the rules some, but we can’t just go breaking them. We aren’t levitating; we’re just doing a really extended long jump. You did good, getting over Coleman Street. I wouldn’t try it anyplace wider.”
I nodded ruefully, took his offered hand, and got back on my feet. He disappeared again and I went back to the pub . . . .
This time, the Agent came through the front door. I was forced back into the stairs to the roof, but the Agent found another host on a higher floor and beat me there. I dashed through hallways in the building, heading for a window, when I suddenly came on a wall of pure white. Not “a wall that had been painted white.” It was simply an absence of anything, where there was supposed to be a hallway with doors, and a window at the end.
The Agent turned down the hallway and I was trapped with no way out. The gun he was pointing at me seemed enormous.
But he froze. Abhaya turned the corner behind him and said, “delete Agent,” and the virtual Agent vanished. I wish it worked that way in the Matrix!
“I’m, ah, sorry about that,” Abhaya said sheepishly. “I didn’t finish this part of the sim ‘cuz I didn’t think you’d head this far into the building.”
“You mean I fell off the edge of the map?”
“Yeah. Pretty much.”
“Oh.”
“My bad. Buy you a drink?”
We headed back to the pub, where the Agent came out of a door marked “toilet.” This time, I made it through the covered walkway and across Coleman . . . .
We ran the sim at least a dozen times. I lost count. I explored multiple ways to exit the pub and several different routes to possible extraction sites.
I was back in my preferred booth at the pub when Hermes walked over carrying two pints. He handed me one wordlessly and took the bench opposite my seat. After having a drink from his own glass, he said, “You got killed in half the sims.”
“Fifty percent survival rate if an Agent shows up,” I conceded. “But . . . what are the odds that an Agent does show up?”
“Our entry into the Matrix creates a localized anomaly, and Agents will eventually come to investigate. But what happened in Vegas – having an Agent show up so soon after we arrived – is very unusual. Normally it takes four or five days.”
“Then the odds look a lot better, don’t they?”
“Yes . . . but with a significant caveat.”
I nodded glumly. “We don’t know why an Agent showed up in Vegas so fast.”
“Right. Maybe it was a coincidence. But maybe we were compromised in some way . . . and maybe we still are.”
I drank down a good third of my glass, feeling like I’d earned it. “Go/no go on the mission is your call, boss. But if you want to go forward, I’m still the one to do it.”
He nodded, his eyes troubled. “I don’t like it. But nothing I’ve seen today changes the logic of what we decided yesterday.”
“Alright then. I assume you’ll want me to go soon?”
“You’ll need to eat, and rest. Tomorrow night.”
I nodded and rose. “Tomorrow night then.”
To be continued. . . . .
Chapter 7: English Opening
I slept hard, and unfortunately, slept alone. Zephyr had almost all of the shift while I was sleeping. But there would be time for Zephyr and me to continue exploring whether there was something solid between us.
Or else there wouldn’t be. If I wanted any kind of future, I needed to get through this mission first. I focused on that.
Once I was up, I spent more time in the simulator trying out some additional ideas, and did further research on “Anthony St. Claire” through our tap into the Matrix. Beyond that, I simply got myself mentally prepared for my meeting with the person I knew as “Cleo.” The time passed extremely quickly.
Hermes accompanied me as far as the stockroom. This was our own virtual construct, similar to the sims, but we used it to create items that we could take in with us, employing the same hack that we used to jack ourselves into the Matrix.
Zephyr was acting as control, so he keyed up some clothing racks as soon as Hermes and I were in. The dark track suit that seemed to be the default attire of my “residual self image” in the Matrix would not do for a foray into a centuries’ old pub in the heart of London's financial district.
I looked at the offerings and shook my head. “A bit too Wall Street, Zephyr. Cleo knows I do something in IT. And I’m American, so she won’t expect European style sense. Or even British style sense.”
Hermes snorted.
I thought for a minute. “Let’s have some nice blue jeans. Dress shirts with stripes or maybe checks, and button-down collars. And a navy-blue blazer. No ties.”
“Blue jeans?” Hermes looked quizzical. “Aren’t you pretending to be in the City for a conference?”
I nodded. “Yeah. The blazer’s kind of conservative; the jeans are a bit of a counterbalance. IT folks are often even less formal. It’s kind of a way to rub our corporate masters’ noses in the fact that we’re indispensable.”
I was suddenly surrounded by racks of the items I’d requested, and made my choices quickly. Zephyr had thoughtfully included some sundries as well — shoes, socks, belts, wallets, watches. I passed on the latter item. Most people in my office just relied on their cell phones for the time; I hadn’t worn a watch in years.
Next came the dodgier part, since it was flat out illegal where I was going. “Guns. I need . . . .” I thought for a minute. “The Barretta 92SB-F. Two of them. With spare magazines.”
Hermes nodded approvingly. “Dakota told me to remind you to bring a knife.”
“Right. Let me have a folding Paranza Corta stiletto as well.”
A table appeared with all the hardware I had requested. Normally it’d weigh too much . . . but those are rules we can bend in the Matrix.
Hermes looked thoughtful. “You’re going to need to keep all the hardware hidden. Some sort of outer ware, I think.”
I nodded. “Let me play the Yank card again. Give me a duster. Lots of internal straps and pockets.”
It took a few minutes, but I was finally loaded up and ready to go.
Hermes walked around me, checking out the overall look. “Sure you don’t want a ten-gallon hat to go with that?” He was only half joking.
I laughed. “No. On its own, the duster just looks cool and eccentric. Add the hat and I’d look like I was auditioning for a bit-part in Dallas.”
“As you say . . . . Well, you look fine otherwise. Are you ready?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled explosively. “Ready.”
“Zephyr, send her in.”
I might be in a hurry when I returned.
Down the hallway. Turn right. Down the stairs. Into the courtyard . . . into the street. A light rain was falling – more of a drizzle, really, but I was glad for my duster. There were people walking along Telegraph, chatting. Relaxed. Umbrellas were up, and not all of them were black.
I did my best to fit in with the crowd, moving at a steady pace. Not rushing; not dawdling. But I wasn’t carrying an umbrella, and I knew that everything about me – my clothes, my walk, even my facial expression – was alerting everyone that I was not one of them.
I heard an older woman’s voice behind me, in conversation with her friend, and caught the word, “Yank.” Old enough to remember when we were overfed, oversexed, and over here, I thought. Assuming, of course, that any of those memories are real.
Moorgate was busy; lots of traffic going both ways. I waited for a minute or so until it was safe to cross.
Great Bell Alley had some pedestrians as well, and people were checking out the packed restaurants through the tall windows that lined the first floor of the building to my right. The noise of the City was all around me. It was subtly different from San Francisco; more different still when I focused on it.
Coleman Street wasn’t nearly as busy as Moorgate had been. I walked right across and stepped into the covered walkway that led to the door to the Old Doctor Butler's Head Pub. I paused in the doorway to adjust my eyes to the light and my ears to the substantial increase in sound.
Everything looked and sounded exactly as we had expected. The pub’s smell had a certain, immediately recognizable odor — old, varnished wood, people packed in a bit tight, and lots and lots of beer.
There was no sign of Cleo, but I had arrived before we thought it likely she might show up. The two men who were at my preferred table looked like they might be finishing up. Rather than standing around like a vulture, I made my way to the bar and ordered myself a pint.
As the bartender went to draw my Bluebird, an older man to my left gave me a smile and said, “You watch yourself with those, mate — they’ve got a touch more punch than a Budweiser!”
I returned his smile. “I can certainly hope!”
“Won’t find any of that gnat’s piss here!” That was from a younger man in a group to my right. Five twenty-somethings, three and two, who had an air of being office mates rather than old friends.
I smiled but offered no response, and I wasn’t sufficiently interesting for him to follow up. Besides, he looked like he was trying to push things with one of the two women in the group.
I sipped my beer in silence, keeping an eye on both the table I wanted and the front door. My mind wandered to the paradox of how the AI would know what a pub that had been around for a few years would smell like. Of course, if the AI didn’t know, it might have given us the wrong memory inputs, so that the smell I associated with an old pub wasn’t what an old pub actually would have smelled like.
It was all too easy to follow that rabbit hole down, and every time I did it got me nowhere.
I looked around instead, taking in the scene. Lots of white men in nice suits, but it wasn’t all male or all white. The City of London was one of the premier centers of international finance – a capital of capital – and the pub was in the middle of all of that.
But while I didn’t see a whole lot of working class patrons, there were plenty like the group to my right who were the sort of climbers you see wherever office buildings congregate. They hadn’t arrived, not by a city mile, but they all aspired to.
I had been in bars that felt like this in San Francisco and LA, New York, Sydney, Rome and Hong Kong. Well . . . there was probably more beer in evidence here. And why not? It has the advantage of being exceptionally good beer.
The young man who’d spoken to me earlier was pushing the pace too fast for the young lady he was pursuing. It was strange to watch from a distance, like an observer at a play. His eagerness and desire were obvious. It was equally clear that she was interested — possibly very interested, even — but found his direct approach distasteful.
Unfortunately, the frustrated and overeager young man caught my sardonic observation. “Just what exactly are you looking at, Yank?”
The last thing I wanted was some sort of scene. I raised my hands placatingly. “Sorry. No offense intended.”
“If you don’t want offence taken, I recommend you mind your own business!”
I took in his flushed face, his loosened tie, his overly aggressive response and his somewhat slurred but still superior public school accent. He’d clearly had a few too many, and might not let me de-escalate all that quickly.
Still, worth a try. “I’ll do that. Thanks.” I looked away, hoping he’d let it go.
“You can apologize to Miss Lattimer, while you’re at it!”
I turned back slowly.
“Miss Lattimer” was certainly looking annoyed, but not at me. “Percy, stop it! Just stop it! You’re being impossible!”
Quite obviously, he was spoiling for a fight and it was too late for his lady friend to dissuade him. I’d need to watch him, and I had other things I should be watching instead.
In the forlorn hope that it might work, I said, “my apologies to you, Miss Lattimer. And to anyone else in your party who I might have inadvertently offended.”
This didn’t appear to mollify “Percy,” but he seemed to be having trouble finding a reason to object to it. Finally, he gave up in disgust. “Americans! You couldn’t even defeat Yugoslavia. Yugoslavia! The country scarcely exists!”
“I don’t recall being at war with them,” I said mildly. “We just sent peace-keeping troops.”
“Imbecile! I’m talking about football! The World Cup! You’ve heard of it, surely?”
“I’m afraid I don’t follow it.”
“You probably fancy gridiron! Idiotic game!”
“You’re not pissed again, are you?” It was one of his other friends, or work colleagues. “That’s four times this month.”
“Bugger off, Aubrey, I’m fine!” Percy said heatedly.
Another one of his companions set down his pint with a crack. “Christ, Percy, are you trying to get chucked out of every pub in the Square Mile?”
Miss Lattimer put a hand on his arm. “Come on, let me walk you to the Tube.”
“We just got here!” he replied angrily, shaking off her arm.
“It’s not the minutes, it’s the pints,” said the other woman in the group. “Please, Percy. Why don’t you let Jane walk you out?”
“Because I’m drinking, that’s why! This is a pub, isn’t it? Or has that toad Blair decided to outlaw that, too!” He stepped towards me, his beer sloshing. “And I’m not done talking to our visitor!” He made the last word a sneer.
“Actually, you are.” The voice came from just behind me, and was instantly recognizable, even unmodulated. “On your way, Mr. Mott. We don’t want a scene.”
Percy’s ruddy face blanched. “Sir Anthony! I didn’t see you there!”
“I rather hope you didn’t. Nonetheless . . . .”
“Of course, sir. We were just going. Weren’t we, Jane?” He looked at “Miss Lattimer” pleadingly.
She rolled her eyes, then looked behind me. “I’m dreadfully sorry, Sir Anthony. He’ll be fine tomorrow.”
“I’m sure he will,” Cleo said behind me. The unstated “he’d better be” was clear enough that even someone as thick as the young man in front of me could scarcely miss it.
I didn’t turn to look until Percy, cowed, had headed for the exit, the rest of his colleagues deciding it was a very good time to leave as well.
Cleo cut a stylish and distinguished appearance as a man. Savile Row tailored suit, conservatively striped tie, snow-white dress shirt with cufflinks in a subdued, lustrous gold. I saw the recognition in her eyes – and the wariness.
I stuck out my hand, playing my Yank card to hopefully diffuse any concerns she might have over being exposed. “I’m Noel Ferguson. Thanks for the timely assist.”
“A pleasure, Mr. Ferguson. One of our — somewhat less dependable — employees, I’m afraid. Legacy hires are more trouble than they’re ever worth.” She reached out to take my hand, giving it a solid single pump. “Anthony St. Claire.” Naturally, she pronounced it “An-tenny Sinclair.”
“Can I buy you a drink, Mr. St. Claire? Seems like the least I can do.”
She hesitated for just a moment before saying, “That would be splendid.” Looking at the bartender, she said, “Good evening, Dick. I don’t suppose you can find us a table in all this?”
“Of course, Sir Anthony,” the man said. “And thank you for sorting that potential unpleasantness just now.”
A quick glance revealed that my preferred table was being bussed as we spoke. “Can we sit there?”
The bartender shot me a strange look. “Certainly, sir. We’ll have it clean in just a moment.” Looking at my companion, he said, “Your usual, Sir Anthony?”
Cleo inclined her head. “Perfect. Thank you, Dick.”
We made our way to the table and took seats opposite each other.
Cleo waited until Dick had brought her drink, took my money and bustled back behind the bar where he belonged. “Noel . . . what are you doing here?”
I’d known this was coming, so my cover story was pat. “I’m in town for a conference and just decided to wander after the session was over.”
“And out of all the gin joints in all the cities in the world, you happened to walk into mine?”
“You own this place?”
“Don’t be absurd.” She didn’t look suspicious, exactly . . . but she didn’t look open or friendly, either. “Quite the evening for coincidences. I go to my regular place, and find both 'Low-Watt Mott'. . . and you.”
“Pretty weird for me, too — although I could have done without meeting your employees.” I leaned forward and spoke more softly, though there was no chance of our being overheard. “Relax. I’m just passing through. I’m not here to cause trouble.” And that’s probably the biggest untruth I’ve uttered so far.
She gave me a long look, then finally smiled. It was a thin smile, but it was at least a start. “Alright. I have to be careful, and I’m sure you do, too. Still . . . it’s good to see you.”
“You, too. You’re well?”
“Business is flourishing,” she responded. “I haven’t seen a market like this in . . . well, ever, really.”
“I know you’re involved in finance of some sort. . . .”
“Investments, dear boy. Investments.”
I waved my hand. “Yeah. Those.”
She chuckled. “You're old enough to have a few – at least, I should hope you do.”
I thought of the substantial stacks of cash I had carefully amassed through my illegal activities. It dwarfed the pedestrian amounts that I had put into the company’s 401-k plan. “A few. Just a few. I ignore them, mostly.”
“You know what they say about a fool and his money, Noel.” She took another sip of her drink, which looked like a gin and tonic.
“Oh, sure. But I’ll be honest, I can’t really imagine retiring. There are never going to be enough IT people – at least, not good ones – to keep up with demand, so I’m set.”
“Yes, you tech types do seem to be on quite the tear just now. Though I’ll have to warn you, the mania for all things technology is starting to feel a bit like budget champagne – all bubble and no bottom, if you follow me.”
I parried easily. “It’s what happens when folks who don’t understand what we do try to put valuations on it. My two cents.” I didn’t care about any of this, of course. But I wanted her to relax, and talking her language might help that.
“Point to you,” she said with a smile. “So you’re doing well, too?”
“I am, though my measuring stick may look different than yours.” I took a long pull of my beer, then set it down. “I can see business is doing well. But how are you . . . ‘Anthony.’”
She looked down, then met my eyes, dropping her default pose of worldliness. “Well enough, ‘Noel.’ It’s hard to take, sometimes. You know that.”
I nodded, remembering. “I sure do.”
Something in her face suggested she wanted to ask something, but thought maybe she shouldn’t.
I waited her out by taking a long, slow sip of bitter. It’s amazing how effective silence can be at getting people to open up.
In the end, she wasn’t able to resist. “I don’t suppose you’ve seen Jo lately?”
A vision flashed through my mind — Jo’s face, composed and still as shots rang out at her gatehouse and all hell broke loose. Somehow, I managed to both nod and smile. “She’s doing well. Consuela and Lourdes too.” That lie almost choked me; I remembered Consuela’s agonized cries as she knelt over Britt’s lifeless body.
More softly, I added, “You are missed. You know that.”
“I’ve missed them too. Missed all of you. I’ve just been . . . .” She paused, shrugged, and finished. “Well . . . you know.”
“Busy?”
“Quite.” She was quiet for a moment, sipping her drink. Again, she seemed conflicted about whether to let her one-word answer stand. After a readily apparent internal struggle, she said, “Honestly, though, that’s not it. I’ve been trying . . . that is to say, I’ve decided . . . .” She lapsed into silence again.
It was a silence I recognized. I saw the pain in her face. The shame, the anguish and the longing. I knew that look, and I knew those feelings. Deeply, intensely, and very, very personally. My heart ached for her. “Decided to let Cleo go?”
She took a gulp of her drink, then nodded, spasmodically. “Yes. That’s it precisely.”
“You did a full purge?”
“How do you . . . ?”
“Because I’ve done them,” I said abruptly, cutting her off. “Three, four times. Rounding up every stitch of clothing, bagging them. Leaving them in bins, or the trash.”
She sat silent, her eyes boring into me. Finally she sighed. “I assume from your statement that you found the process didn’t achieve the intended result . . . for you.”
I shook my head. “No. It doesn’t matter what I’m wearing. I can toss clothes until the sun goes nova, but I’m still Noelle.”
“How do you know it’s not just a child’s fancy? A delusion?” Her voice was low; like my own, it was not pitched to carry. A different tone, and the question might have seemed rhetorical, or even derisive. As it was, she was desperately earnest.
“Did it feel like a fantasy to you? Does it feel that way?”
She lowered her eyes, staring down into her almost empty glass. “No,” she whispered.
“Cleo.” My voice barely touched an audible register. “If your heart tells you something, believe it. If the whole world tells you something else, it’s wrong.”
“The whole world wrong? Don’t you see how daft that is?” Somehow, she didn’t sound as convinced as her words implied.
“No. No, I don’t. The place is fairly bursting with idiots. Why listen to them?”
That at least elicited the chuckle that I’d hoped for. “There, you’ve got me. But seriously . . . they can't all be wrong, can they?”
I looked straight into her troubled eyes. “They can, and they are.”
“I wish I shared your certainty. I’d love to believe that the fault is out there, rather than in here.” She pointed to her heart. “Not that there aren’t times . . . .” Again she paused, uncertain whether or how to voice her thought.
“There are times?” I prodded gently.
“I’ll confess, the world does seem off sometimes.”
Promising . . . but I didn’t want to rush things. “Off?”
She stirred the ice in the bottom of her glass and drank whatever liquid was left. “It’s difficult to describe,” she said, sounding uncomfortable. “Just . . . I’ll be at work, and everything will be going swimmingly. And wholly out of the blue, I’ll get the strongest sense that it’s all a mirage. Unreal.”
“Imposter syndrome?”
She shook her head, impatient. Not at me, but at her inability to convey what she had been feeling. “No, not that! I’ve earned my position by being the best, and that’s simply an objective fact. . . . No. It’s more that the world I’m living in is unreal. Do you understand what I’m saying? It eats at me, like . . . like . . . .” She searched for an appropriate metaphor, but it wasn’t coming.
“Like shrapnel in your mind,” I said quietly. “Burrowing deeper whenever you move.”
Her eyes blazed. “Exactly! You do understand!”
I was just about to follow up when Cleo’s pocket chirped. Startled, she pulled out a Blackberry, typed something quickly, and put it away. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to go – I’ve got . . . well.” She stopped herself, thought again, then sighed. “I’ve got a date and I can’t miss it.”
“A date? Really?”
Cleo made a face. “Yes. Past time I did my duty to the family.”
“And that’s why Cleo has to go?”
“The Mater has been most insistent. Practically crazed, since my brother’s death. And she’s right, of course. But if I’m going to do it. . . . marry, have children, all of it . . . I have to do it properly. I have to give up all this . . . this foolishness.”
Dear God! Did she really believe she could make Cleo vanish forever by standing at an altar in a morning suit and saying “I do?” Now that was delusional! “It’s me here,” I reminded her, keeping my voice low. “I’ve seen you. Cleo is as real as I am!”
She looked uncomfortable. “Even so, I must let her go.”
“Does your mother care more about hypothetical grandchildren then she cares about you?”
She chuckled without humor. “If you’d met my mother, you wouldn’t ask. But that doesn’t mean she’s wrong.”
“Are you being fair to the woman you’re dating? What happens when she’s your wife, everything’s legal, and you find that Cleo is still with you?”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” she whispered. “I tell myself it’s just a matter of being strong. Resolute . . . .”
“And you know that’s bullshit.”
She looked at me with pure misery in her eyes. “Be that as it may.” She rose heavily, reluctantly, as if going to an execution. After a fashion, she was. “I have to go.”
I pulled out a pen, scratched my cell phone number onto a scrap of paper, stood and thrust it into her hands. “Call me!”
She looked at it for a moment, thinking, then gently put it back in my hands. “I’m afraid that wouldn’t be wise. A pleasure . . . Mr. Ferguson.” Without waiting for my reply, she turned and left.
I looked at her retreating back in something like shock, trying to understand how quickly our conversation had gone south. Standing there gaping, though, would draw attention I didn’t want, and she might be instantly suspicious if I followed her out. So I went back to the bar and ordered another Bluebird. I could use a moment to collect my thoughts.
Cleo had been so close! She was one of us, I could tell. For all the success the Matrix’s clever illusions had heaped upon her, she still could see through it. She could feel that it wasn’t right. Just like I had.
But she was dating? She knew she couldn’t bury Cleo forever, however hard she tried. There had to be a way to shake her out of her self-destructive path. I just needed to find the right key . . . .
I needed a plan to take back to the rest of the crew. Call her at work? At home? Those didn’t seem like promising options; it would be too easy to duck my calls. Come back another night? Risky . . . .
Without even realizing it, I’d followed my thoughts down to the bottom of the pint. That didn’t take long.
A friendly voice asked, “Care for another?”
And I knew. Even before I looked up. Even before I saw his coal-black hair and his sapphire eyes. Just the voice — that warm, rich, musical voice . . . .
“Davydd.” My voice was soft, but he heard it.
“That’s right. Can I get you another?”
I said yes before I even gave the matter any thought, but then reversed myself. “I’m sorry — no. I mean, I’d love another. But I have to go!”
“Of course. Come by again some time.” His tone was kind, but he was off to the other side of the bar before I could respond. I got up in a daze and found the exit.
The rain had stopped, and I paused in the shadows to let the cool night air fill my lungs. My mind was spinning as if I were intoxicated . . . something that wasn’t possible.
Davydd is here?
I needed my wits about me. I was on a mission, and Agents could show up any moment. I’d accomplished all that I could on this foray. It was time to go.
The first step was the most difficult, but I propelled myself forward. Coming through the covered walkway, I forced myself to check for traffic, left, right, left, before stepping off.
The screech of tires — make that ‘tyres’ — snapped me out of my daze, and I leapt backward. My simulator-enhanced reflexes were enough, just barely, to avoid being leveled by a delivery truck. Make that “lorry,” since it was, of course, driving on the left side of the street. Idiot! “Right, left, right!!!”
I took deep breaths, waiting for a couple vehicles to pass, then made my way across the street and into the alley. Just need to go a little ways . . . . Not too far.
The restaurants whose windows lined the alley were still doing a brisk business. It wasn’t late; my meeting with Cleo hadn’t lasted long. Somehow it felt like it should be later.
Someone was behind me, and my sense of paranoia ticked up a notch. I decided to dawdle, pretending to check out the restaurants. If he was tailing me . . . .
He wasn’t. He kept going at the same clip and passed me by, not so much as glancing my way. Not that he wasn’t a sinister-looking fellow.
I came to Moorgate and was more careful in my crossing. In the AI’s simulation, the pavement wouldn’t feel like a down pillow.
The sinister person had crossed and gone down Telegraph Street, so I decided to take another route. That is to say, I’ve decided. . . . Cleo’s words stuck in my mind.
Left on Moorgate, right at the next street, over . . . . I came back to the courtyard from the other side, and was relieved to see no sign of the man who had passed me in the alley. It was irrational, but I’d half expected to see him here before me.
When I got to the door at the base of the stairs, I found that someone had locked it. Picking the lock would be simple enough, but the courtyard was well-lit. I would be visible from any of the windows in the floors above me. A very stupid thing to have missed.
Thinking hard, I continued walking to Telegraph Street. The closest back-up point was back on the other side of the pub. Easy enough. And I could stop in again on my way . . . just for a moment. . . .
But when I got to Telegraph, I saw my sinister-looking friend chatting with a man who was standing in an open doorway . . . . the entrance to my building’s lobby. I decided to bluff it out.
I walked up to the pair and said, “pardon me” as I squeezed by.
They didn’t even break their conversation.
I pulled up the diagram of the building in my mind and headed up a different staircase than the one we had used before. One flight . . . two . . . three. The stairwell was empty, as was the hallway on my floor.
No one, mercifully, had locked the barrister’s door while I was out, nor were there any people in the hallways to see me enter. I locked the door behind me and sank down into Mr. Westen’s comfortable leather desk chair.
The phone was right there, but I needed a moment of quiet. A minute to process. I should have been focused on Cleo — needed to be! — but it wasn’t her face that kept coming to me, shaking the foundations of my reality.
I saw nothing but thick black hair, generous lips in a face full of angles and planes, eyes made for laughter . . . and loving. Davydd was here. In London, not two blocks away!
Davydd, who I had never seen before in my life.
Never.
Except in my dreams.
To be continued . . . .
Author’s note: As a reader, I know how distracting it can be when a story contains elements that are demonstrably wrong. So I'm very nervous any time I write about things I don’t know intimately. Fortunately, one of the things that is so wonderful about the BC community is how many people are happy to share their expertise. I am grateful to RobertLouis and Rachel Moore for their assistance with this story, and in particular, this chapter. It should go without saying, though, that the fault is purely mine for the inaccuracies that no doubt remain!
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DECISION MATRIX
Chapter 8: Pattern Recognition
I picked up the barrister’s landline and dialed the Belisarius. As my consciousness returned to my real-world body, I considered what to tell my colleagues about my foray into the London Financial District.
Our tap allows us to focus on an area of the Matrix and see what’s happening when we send someone in, but we can’t hear conversations. So they would know that Cleo showed up, that we’d had a drink together, and that we’d left separately. They wouldn’t know what we’d said to each other.
And they wouldn’t know about Davydd at all.
I opened my eyes, unsurprised to find myself in the ship’s operations area, with Zephyr at my side, removing the connector probe from my head.
He asked, “Success? Failure? Something in between?”
Hermes was leaning against the bulkhead, clearly waiting for my answer as well.
I slid out of the chair and turned so that I was able to see them both. “I’m convinced she’s able to handle the truth. She can feel the falseness of the Matrix world, just like I could. But . . . well. She’s dating.”
“An emotional attachment?” Hermes frowned. “That can be very difficult to negate.”
I shook my head. “No, that’s not it at all. She’s doing it out of duty to her class or her mother or something. Cleo doesn’t even hit that way. But she’s running from herself . . . trying to make her trans go away by force of will. Fortitude and pure thoughts, I guess. You get the picture.”
“Yeah,” Zephyr said. “How’s that working out for her?”
“About as well as you might expect. She looks tortured. Haunted. With flashes of ‘resolute,’ of course.”
Hermes made a noncommittal noise, then asked, “How did you leave things?”
“That’s the bad part,” I admitted. “She wouldn’t take my number. Said it wouldn’t be ‘wise’ to speak to me again. That’s when she walked out.”
“Ooof!” Zephyr looked about as gut-punched as I’d been.
Hermes shrugged and detached himself from the bulkhead. “You were in for close to two hours. Take care of business, then join us in the mess. You’ll need fluids.”
I threw him an ironic salute and trotted off to the head.
Hours spent in my misgendered Matrix body made me even more acutely aware of how right it felt to have a form that matched who I knew myself to be. Even something as simple as sitting to relieve myself, spreading my smooth legs, looking between the curve of my breasts and seeing the neat triangle of my feminine bush . . . .
“You are so beautiful . . . So perfect!” His warm voice was full of wonder, the sound of a man who has achieved his heart’s desire. The low light accentuated the planes of his face against the glossy black of his thick hair. His kind eyes were eager and full of longing as I settled back on the bed, naked and welcoming.
I brought myself back to the present moment, startled at both the clarity and suddenness of my waking vision.
I finished my business and took a few moments to clean up, using the time to get my thoughts under some semblance of control. My mind was at war with itself, caught between “Davydd is in London!” and “Who the hell is Davydd?” I knew that Noel Ferguson had never met the man. Knew it. But the memory was there, nonetheless, clear, detailed, achingly real.
It’s realistic, but it’s NOT real! I told myself sternly. Focus on the mission. There are more important things than mixed-up memories. . . . Or feelings.
To which the other part of my brain replied with a sneer, Right. Are you planning to try fortitude and pure thoughts?
The battle raged, but I couldn’t put off work indefinitely. I left the bathroom and headed to the mess, pausing at the door to take a deep breath and school my expression. Then I entered, strode purposefully to the table, and took a seat.
The drink they gave me was designed to restore electrolytes. It must have been exactly what my body needed, because for once it didn’t taste like backwash from a warm beer bottle. I gave them the full synopsis of my conversation with Cleo and fielded questions as I went along.
When I was finished, Zephyr said, “Sounds to me like she might have a hard time walking away from all the bowing and scraping. She’s a very big deal at that investment house. Even the bartender treated her like she was someone special.”
Hermes added, “Her elevated position is also, if I understand your earlier comment, at least part of the reason why she feels a duty to produce an heir.”
“Maybe,” I acknowledged. “But she’s hurting. Hurting a lot. All the success in the world isn’t making her pain disappear.” I looked down at my smooth hands, my narrow wrists. Remembering all the times . . . .
“You are so beautiful . . . So perfect!”
No! Not now!
I managed to wrest my attention back to the problem at hand, and the memories I had been searching for. Noel’s memories.
“Zephyr . . . Did you ever do a purge?” My question was soft. It’s not something every trans person would want to discuss – especially not with a cisgendered person present. But he would know I wasn’t prying for mere curiosity’s sake.
“No. . . Not exactly.” His response was slow and uncertain.
I looked at him, letting my expression ask the question.
“It’s different for trans men,” he said after a moment. “It’s not like we’ve got stashes of ‘forbidden’ clothing. We wear pants all the time. T-shirts, sweatshirts. No one thinks anything of it. . . .”
He was lost in a painful memory, but finally managed to continue. “There were a couple of times, though, when I tried to mentally kill off my male side. When I would wear deliberately frilly dresses and go over the top with makeup. Do something with my hair. Hoping that if I looked like a girl, smelled like a girl, maybe I’d finally convince myself that I was a girl.”
“Can you remember your emotional state, when you were in those periods?”
He nodded reluctantly. “I was young . . . I mean, Hermes red-pilled me when I had just turned twenty. My emotions were always a mess back then. Still . . . the closest I ever came to taking a jump off a bridge was when I was working so hard to be female. To kill off the person inside that I knew myself to be.”
“Right,” I said. “That’s what I mean. That’s where Cleo’s at. If I can just reach her, I think maybe I can save her. AND bring her out, of course.”
“Will she give you a hearing, though?” Hermes asked practically. “It sounds like she thinks she knows what you’re going to say, and has decided that she doesn’t want to hear it.”
“That’s definitely the problem.”
“Suppose . . . .” Zephyr sounded tentative.
Hermes didn’t. “No.”
I looked from one of them to the other. “No, what?”
“No, I won’t consider forcibly detaining her so that you can have a discussion. Not unless we’ve completely exhausted every other alternative.” Hermes kept his voice even, as always, but the strength of his feelings on the subject were clear. If we want people to be free, we had to respect their agency.
Zephyr nodded, looking relieved. “I understand.”
Hermes drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, lost in thought. But nothing came to him, either. “Alright. We’re not going to solve this tonight. Let’s sleep on it and reconvene in the morning.”
I returned to my sleeping quarters, shut the door and leaned against it. My eyes closed tight as I fought the chaos raging inside. The noises of the ship – the thrumb of the hovercraft motors – grew more noticeable as I shut out other sensory inputs. It was deep, rhythmic, mechanical . . . .
The noise was constant, the machinery always active, one shift giving way to another. The Alcan Aluminium job had been a godsend for Tad. We had a place to stay. Food on the table. Things were starting to turn around . . . . Why was he crying? He had a paper clutched in his hand, crumpled. Redundancy . . . .
My eyes flew open as the sound of a soft knock registered. How could I see Zephyr now? When Davydd was in London?
There IS no Davydd! my mind snarled in response. Reality is here. Here! And now!
But my heart cried out in negation, screaming against a boiling cascade of memories desperate to break through. Davydd! Help!!!
The knock came again, louder. More insistent.
I spun the lock, opened the door and pulled Zephyr in, seizing him in a fierce embrace.
“Woa! What’s wrong?” He had managed to keep an arm free and closed my door.
I didn’t answer. Urgently, desperately, I clutched him, kissed him, and nearly dragged him to my bed. “Don’t talk! Please! Don’t ask questions. Don’t think!”
“What . . . ?”
“Please!!! Please, Zephyr! Get me out of my head, before I lose my mind!!!”
He stopped me. “Noelle! This isn’t you. What’s happening?”
I was almost in tears. “Don’t! Please, don’t!”
He gently but firmly stepped back from my embrace, holding my shoulders and staring into my eyes. “No. You need to tell me what’s going on.”
“Is that some kind of order?”
“If it has to be.”
I closed my eyes. Took a deep breath. Steadied myself. We’d been intimate, but Zephyr was, and always would be, the XO of the Belisarius first. I was acting like a lunatic; he couldn’t just let that pass.
When I was sure I could manage it, I opened my eyes and looked at him with some semblance of calm, of normalcy. “I’m sorry. I’m fighting my own demons, and I had no right to drag you into it. I’ll be fine, now.”
“Noelle. Talk to me.”
I was absolutely not ready to do anything of the sort. What would I say? Gee, Zephyr, I think I met the man of my dreams in the Matrix? Oh, and I’m having visions. “I can’t. Not tonight.”
I could see that he was torn, but in the end, my firmness and calm demeanor must have convinced him that any danger that existed wasn’t immediate. The first officer had no cause to get involved, and as a lover he had no right to force answers I wasn’t ready to provide.
“Okay,” he said, with noticeable reluctance. “If you’re certain you’ll be alright.”
“I’m certain. . . . but, thank you. Really. Just . . . a lot to process. Okay?”
His conflicted look didn’t abate, but he gave my shoulders a final squeeze, released me and went to the door. He gave me one more questioning look, but I didn’t say anything else. “Good night, then.” The door closed behind him gently.
I sank down on my bed, my head and my heart both pounding. Before I dealt with Zephyr — before I dealt with anyone — I needed to process what I’d seen and what it meant. Was I imagining things? Was I having flashbacks?
What’s wrong with me?
“You banged your head, and they’ve got a bandage on it. What you get for playing on river rocks, girl!”
“It’s not my fault, Tada!” I protested. “Davy was chasing me!”
“Sure, and I don’t doubt you were chasing him before then. It’s always one or the other.” I could hear his smile, even though the bandages kept me from seeing it.
Oh, God! How on earth was I going to sleep?
Zephyr was carefully not watching me. Dakota, Abhaya and Hermes were having breakfast too, while Blake and Kai were elsewhere covering the essential systems. Hermes, Zephyr or both had filled in the rest of the crew on my report from the prior day.
Dakota was looking thoughtful. “I think you’re right, Noelle. I . . . I remember purging all my clothes. I just did it once, and I lasted for almost a year. It was bad, though. Probably the worst time of my life. If that’s where Cleo’s at, she’ll want out.”
Hermes said, “if she feels a strong family duty, or has a powerful emotional attachment to her mother, it could keep her from making the jump, though.”
I shook my head. “She feels trapped. Her mother wants grand babies, and I guess Cleo lost her brother so now it’s on her. But it isn’t what she wants, and she still longs to just be the woman she knows herself to be. What we offer — reality — actually frees her from the trap.”
“Cleo might not see it that way,” Zephyr cautioned. “Her mother will still be in the Matrix, pining for the grandchildren her son’s no longer there to give her.”
“Noelle Bach, you’ve got to listen! There will be other children! You have to live for them!”
“He’s given up, Mam. How can I go on, without him?”
The memory hit me like a sledgehammer, but I suppressed it with a supreme effort of will.
“Her ‘mother’ — one of the two people who presumably contributed to her DNA — is in a three-by-seven pod,” I said brutally. “All that her angst and mental energy accomplish is to provide a bit of electrical power for a bunch of machines.”
“Noelle,” Zephyr said with quiet urgency. He waited until he had my full attention. “They’re captives, but they’re still people. People with hopes, dreams, fears . . . . If Cleo’s mother loses her only remaining child, she will suffer, and that suffering will be real to her.”
“Until the next Matrix reset,” I retorted angrily. “Then she won’t even remember losing her boys. Hell, she might have new memories that include grandchildren! It’ll be 1995 again, but she’ll be five years older than she was the last time it was 1995!”
I found that I was on my feet, almost shouting, and forced a steadying breath before concluding vehemently. “Inside that damned world, our emotions are fake because our memories are fake. Nothing in it is real. Nothing!!!”
Everyone was silent, so stunned by my outburst that they didn’t know what to make of it. Finally Hermes gently said, “Sit down, Noelle.”
I glared at him, but he met my hot gaze calmly. After a moment, I sank back into my seat.
“What happened to you yesterday?” Zephyr sounded confused . . . and hurt.
I bit back a hot denial. I didn’t want to have this conversation. Didn’t want to think through the implications. But . . . they deserve to know. HE deserves to know.
I tried to exclude everyone else from my vision. From my thoughts. “Zephyr . . . do you remember when we talked about dreaming that you were a man, back when you were still plugged into the Matrix?”
Looking puzzled, but encouraged by the fact that I was no longer shouting, he nodded. “Yeees.”
“And when I suggested that my dreams of being a woman had been, umm, explicit, you said something like, ‘Oh, those dreams?’”
His face reddened. “Yeah.”
“Did she have a face? The woman in your dreams?”
“I mean, yeah. Certainly. I’d remember if she didn’t.”
“Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”
“Of course not. It’s not like it was the same person every time! Just a generic . . . .” Suddenly, he turned pale. “What are you saying?”
I looked around. Everyone was looking at me with rapt attention. “Dakota? Abhaya? Did you ever dream that you were the right gender, back before Hermes rescued you?”
They looked at each other, then at me.
“I . . . I did. Yes.” Dakota’s voice was subdued.
Abhaya shook his head. “I don’t remember.”
“I had those dreams,” I told them. “Back when I was plugged in. I dreamed I was a woman, and that a handsome man was loving me. When I found out about the Matrix — and about my real-world body — I thought maybe my subconscious had been trying to tell me all along that I was a woman. You know what I mean?”
“That’s what I always assumed, too,” Dakota said.
Zephyr appeared lost in thought.
“I was wrong,” I told them. “It was a memory.”
Hermes raised an eyebrow. “You sound certain.”
“I am. Because I saw him yesterday, at the pub. I recognized him immediately. Without even thinking about it, I knew his name, and he answered to it.”
“The man of your dreams?” Dakota asked, skeptically.
I shook my head. “No. I saw him in my dreams, but what I’m telling you is that it’s a memory, not a dream. And ever since I saw him in the Matrix yesterday, more and more memories keep coming to me. Memories of being a girl, of being a young woman. . . . Of being Noelle.”
“I don’t remember what the other people in my dreams looked like,” Dakota said, a tendril of distress creeping into her voice. “You mean it was real?”
“I don’t know!” I threw up my hands. “I have a whole lot of memories that seem equally real, that absolutely aren’t. I remember being a boy in 1975. Playing football in high school in the mid-1980s. But it’s always the late 90’s in the Matrix, so all of those memories are obviously fake. How do I know that the things I’m remembering now weren’t also created by the AI?”
She tried to corral her emotional response and think about the problem. “Would memories from the late nineties be real?”
“Real?” I asked. “What’s ‘real, in the context of that damned Matrix?’”
Abhaya grimaced. “Yeah, good point. Ordinarily, this is where Zephyr would toss out a theory, and Britt would roll her eyes and go pump iron.”
Everyone seemed to be looking at Zephyr, and Zephyr seemed to be looking at the table. The silence stretched.
Without raising his eyes, Zephyr finally said, “if my consciousness shared an experience with another human consciousness in real time, I would consider it a ‘real’ experience, even if it occurred in the Matrix.”
I thought about that. It made sense, as far as it went. “But . . . how would you know which memories fit that description? The AI can generate memories that feel just the same as the ones you describe.”
“I think . . . I think Dakota is right?” Zephyr sounded very tentative. “The AI wouldn’t manufacture fake memories from the late 90’s; the whole point of doing a reset is to restart the clock to sometime in 1995. Pre-1995 memories would be like an AI-generated ‘backstory’ for each new Matrix update, but memories after that would be ‘real’ according to my definition.”
“You think.” My head was throbbing again. “But the AI has the power to overwrite the memories of anyone who’s plugged in, anytime and for any reason.”
Zephyr finally looked up, and he gave me a rueful smile. “It’s just a theory. We don’t know why the AI does things, but everything we do know suggests that it operates according to internally consistent logic. Acting randomly, arbitrarily, is contrary to its nature.”
“I miss Britt,” Abhaya said.
Hermes — the only person at the table who had no experience of being gender-switched in the Matrix — had listened to the discussion without comment. He tapped a finger on the table.
“This is important. I’ve been unplugged for 41 years. I’ve seen lots of Matrix re-sets . . . . I’ve experienced January of 1998 seven different times. And in all that time, I’ve never once seen anyone recover memories that were deleted during a reset.”
He let that sink in before continuing. “It’s important, and we’re going to want to think through the implications carefully. But, we still have a mission, and that has to take priority right now.”
His calm gaze swept the table. I felt myself sitting straighter. Right. The mission. At least that’s something I can understand! I nodded, and saw the rest doing the same.
“Noelle, I want you to work with Zephyr and Dakota to develop a plan for reaching Cleo and for an extraction operation. Use the Matrix tap for research. Abhaya, you’ll need to relieve Kai in the cockpit.”
We all nodded and pushed back from the table. We had a lot to think about, but we had a job to do first. Thank God.
Zephyr summarized. “Based on our research, the only places St. Claire goes on a regular basis are work, home, and the pub. She goes other places, obviously, but it’s sporadic and unpredictable. Work seems pretty unpromising – packed full of people and the place St. Claire probably most associates with a male persona.
“That leaves home or the pub. I think attempting to approach her at home and after hours is the best of our bad options, especially since I think – and Dakota agrees – that Noelle should avoid the pub based on her reaction to the man she met there. Davydd. Noelle thinks St. Claire’s staff would turn her away if she showed up at the door, so the home route probably entails a break-in.”
“Which creates the possibility of people getting hurt,” I interjected. “The staff. Cleo herself.”
“And you,” Zephyr added pointedly, looking unhappy. “I didn’t say it was a good option. Anyhow, the last possibility is sending an email message to St. Claire’s Blackberry. We were able to find the number. On the plus side, we limit the risk of someone getting hurt, and maximize the odds that St. Claire – that Cleo – is receptive before going any further. But it’s easy to ignore an email or just say ‘stop bothering me.’”
Hermes looked at me. “How are you feeling?”
I shrugged. “The memories keep coming. Just flashes; nothing coherent. I seem to be able to work around it, but I’ve got a Louis XVI-level headache.”
He sat and thought for a moment, then said, “All right. Let’s start with the email. If that doesn’t work, let’s go with getting you into the house after hours. I don’t like it, but I like the pub even less. Every time you return to the same spot, you increase the odds of being caught by an Agent, and the Davydd connection is a complication you don’t need.”
I grimaced. I didn’t like the fact that people seemed to think I was coming apart at the seams because of my memories, but I’d probably do the same thing in their shoes. I was acting strange. So I went back to the Matrix monitoring section with Zephyr and Dakota and worked on drafting an email. Because I knew Cleo and they didn’t, they largely left it to me.
Zephyr looked at my draft. “Okay, that’s cryptic. ‘I have critical information about our mutual position that you should consider before making the investment move we discussed last night. Is there a place we can meet? Noel.’”
I nodded. “Yeah. We don’t know whether anyone else has access to her Blackberry. And obviously she’ll run if I give away too much about the real situation.”
“Give away too much, and she’ll have to choose a pill,” Zephyr agreed. “Alright, I think it’s worth a shot. Dakota?”
She shrugged. “It feels cold. But . . . I guess that can’t be helped?”
“I don’t think so,” I responded. “Cleo won’t be moved by sentiment right now. She knows what she wants and doesn’t want. But she feels trapped. If I suggest that there are facts she doesn’t know about, she might at least want to hear me out.”
“Well . . . okay,” she said. “Here’s hoping.”
I sent the message through our tap into the Matrix and we all sat for a few minutes, waiting.
Nothing happened.
After five minutes had passed, Zephyr said, “We don’t know how long it will take to get a response. But Noelle, you clearly didn’t get any decent sleep. You should rest for a bit.”
“I’m not sure I can,” I confessed.
“I may be able to help with that.” He made a placating gesture, lest I misconstrue his offer. “I’m a professional quality therapeutic masseur. Maybe if we can get your body relaxed and stop your head from exploding, you’ll be able to sleep for a few hours.”
“I’m on shift for Matrix monitoring this afternoon,” I reminded him.
Dakota touched my arm. “Go ahead, hon. I’ll take it. You’re going to need your ‘A’ game tonight, if we’re lucky.”
Zephyr led me back to his quarters, which were essentially the same as mine. “I’ve got a few things here that will be helpful,” he said as he spun the lock and opened the hatch.
I stepped inside and turned to face him. “Zephyr . . . I’m so sorry. About last night, and about what a bitch I’ve been today. I just . . . I can’t begin to tell you how all of this is feeling.”
He touched my cheek lightly. “It’s alright, Noelle. I’m here for you. Now, go lie down on your stomach. I’ll be able to do a better job if you remove your tunic and your bra, but it’s up to you.”
My feelings were sufficiently conflicted that my head hurt even worse. Was I betraying Davydd by being with another man? Was Davydd even real? Would it really matter if he was? I might remember him, but he wouldn’t remember me. And, inside the Matrix, I didn’t look anything like Noelle.
But Zephyr, bless him, was only offering a massage. And surely I could trust him. More, certainly, than I could trust myself, given how I had thrown myself at him the prior evening. Without breaking eye contact, and without doing anything to emphasize the sexuality of the action, I pulled the tunic over my head, unhooked my bra and set both on his chair. Then I went and lay down.
Whether he had acquired his skill the old-fashioned way or learned it in our simulators, Zephyr was extraordinarily skillful. He used some sort of scented oil on his hands – I wondered where he had gotten it – and they glided over the skin of my back and arms. His fingers found each muscle group and worked through every knot, slowly and gently. He slowly manipulated my neck and shoulders, even my fingers. Then he began on my scalp and my throbbing temples.
He was right. My headache began to recede and my body felt boneless. My consciousness began to separate . . . float . . . drift . . . .
“Oh, God! Noelle! What have you done!!!” Her voice was loud, distressed. But somehow distant.
I couldn’t see her, but that was alright. I couldn’t deal with Mam’s distress anymore. I couldn’t even deal with my own. Little Bronwyn gone; my Davydd wouldn’t be far behind. At least, we’d all be together soon . . . .
I felt my consciousness begin to fray, to dissolve, as Mam’s voice faded away . . . .
Who am I?
I opened my eyes to a dimly-lit room. A homespun blanket was covering me, tucked under my chin. The Belisarius. I’m on the ship. Zephyr’s quarters.
“Zephyr?”
A form rose from one of the chairs. There was just enough light to make out his face when he came to stand by the bed. He stroked my cheek with the back of his fingers, lightly. “How are you feeling?”
I reached up and twined my fingers with his, pulled his hand to my lips and kissed it. “Thank you. How long did I sleep?”
“Three hours, more or less.”
“Any news?”
“You got a response to your email. She wants to meet you again . . . at the pub.”
I thought about that. “I can do it.”
“Not alone, woman! Not this time.”
I smiled up at him. “Will my pixie come with me?”
He growled at the reminder of his diminutive female persona in the Matrix. “Judge me by my size, will you?”
I kissed his hand again. “Never.” My dreams came back to me, and I squeezed his fingers. “Zephyr . . . I think I know why I ended up as ‘Noel Ferguson’ in this last reboot of the Matrix.”
His eyes were lost in the shadows, but I felt his gaze just the same. “Tell me.”
“Noelle – the old Noelle – was married to Davydd. They had a child . . . a daughter. She was beautiful and perfect, and God, they loved her . . . .” I was struggling. It helped to use third person. Yes, it was Noelle. But not . . . exactly . . . me?
“There was an accident . . . a car, a washed-out section of road . . . and Bronwyn died.” My efforts at detachment failed. “My little girl . . . my precious little girl! And Davydd was badly injured.”
My mind flashed the image of Davydd in the hospital bed, heavily bandaged, his left arm completely gone as a result of the terrible wound to his shoulder. His eyes, haunted, avoided mine.
“He gave up. Didn’t want to live; blamed himself. Finally, Noelle . . . I . . . took a bunch of pills.”
Zephyr was gripping my hand fiercely.
“I think I was dying when the Matrix reset.”
“But why . . . why would the AI care?”
“You’ve said it yourself, ‘Professor.’ We can’t know why the AI does what it does. Maybe it was just random chance. But maybe the psychological damage to ‘Noelle’ was so deep that it made sense to just eliminate her from the new Matrix world.”
His free hand stroked my face. “And now?” His voice was full of concern. Care. Love, even. “Can you go on, carrying those memories?”
I thought about that. And the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Not the anger of the morning, which had caused me to pound the table and shout. No. This was a cold anger. A focused and deadly anger. A righteous anger.
The fragment of a song came to me in a flash, one of Noel’s memories. He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored . . . .
“Yes,” I answered softly. “Oh, yes! Because I want to crush that damned AI, more than ever. There was no ‘car accident.’ It was just a randomly assigned element in the AI’s video game, after which some algorithm scored Bronwyn as a casualty and assigned Davydd some crippling injuries. He wanted to die. And then I did. But our choices didn’t even matter.”
I looked up at the good man, the fierce and competent man, who had fought and fought and fought, but never stopped asking questions. Never stopped trying to figure it all out. “I want to find a way, Zephyr. If Cleo’s the one, I’ll fricking drag her out of the Matrix and force her to see the truth. Force her to help. The machines must be destroyed.”
He was quiet for a while, thinking about what I had said. Weighing my words, no doubt, with scales precisely calibrated by his fine analytical mind.
He is sifting out the hearts of men, before his judgment seat . . . .
But eventually Zephyr reached a decision that appeared to satisfy him, both as a man and as a ship’s officer. “All right, then. Are you ready to get back to work?”
Be swift, my soul, to answer him . . . .
“Yes, sir. Let’s do this!”
To be continued . . . .
Chapter 9: Queen’s Pawn Pinned
“Hey, Kai – Any idea where the boss wandered off to?” Kai was in the command room, running some analytics on the ship’s systems.
She looked up briefly. “He’s in the simulator.”
“Oh,” Zephyr said, surprised, before adding a belated “thanks.” We went down to what I thought of as the operations center, and sure enough Hermes was plugged in, with Blake on watch, headphones on.
“Howdy,” Blake said as we poked our heads in. “You going in tonight?” He moved one of the muffs of his headset so he could hear us better.
I shrugged. “I think so, but we need to talk to Hermes. Did he say how long he was going to be?”
“Nope. Not that he ever does.” Blake grinned. “This is some seriously light duty.”
Zephyr asked, “What’s he doing?”
Blake took a look at his monitor for a moment, to all appearances confirming what he already knew. “He’s sitting on the grass under a cherry tree.”
“Eyes closed?” Zephyr asked.
“Yup, that’s the ticket. Don’t know what it does for him.”
“We’ve got to do some planning,” Zephyr explained. “I know he wasn’t wild about having Noelle go back to the pub, but that’s what the target wants, so we may have no choice.”
Blake grunted. “Going to go with an alternate insertion point?”
“That’s what I was thinking,” Zephyr agreed.
“Not one of the ones close in, though, right?” Somehow, Blake always looked like he should be chewing on gum, or a plug of tobacco. Not that such things existed in the real world of 2200, or whatever year it might be in the old Gregorian Calendar.
Zephyr nodded. “I was thinking something further out. Draw attention away from the pub, in case the Agents feel anything when we enter the Matrix.” He had explained to me on an earlier occasion that utilizing our tap to jack ourselves inside created an anomaly that generally drew Agents to investigate, but as near as anyone could tell, our continued presence in the Matrix didn’t have the same effect.
Which didn’t mean that Agents couldn’t find a way to track us down once they knew we were in. However, they appeared to rely on more conventional means to do so.
“Well, London’s got that great public transit system,” Blake responded. “We can put her in anywhere, and she won’t have any trouble getting where she needs to be.”
“Works for me,” I said. I’d been to London any number of times, as Noel, and the Tube – formally, the London Underground – was one of the easiest and most extensive systems I’d ever navigated in a major city. Which is strange, in a way, since it wasn’t created as a unified system and the different lines weren’t merged until the 1930s, when some lines had already been in operation for seventy years.
We kicked around some thoughts for a few minutes before Blake said, “Look, if you can spell me for a couple, I can go run a few ideas through our tap and get you some options. Won’t take ten minutes.”
Zephyr said, “I don’t even know if we’re a ‘go,’ yet. Hermes was seriously opposed to having Noelle go back to the pub. More than I would have thought, under the circumstances. I assume he had a reason.”
“Well, all you’re doing is yacking,” Blake replied practically. “Might as well have a plan ready when he’s done pondering the mysteries.”
He had a point. So Zephyr took the headset and Blake went off to the Matrix Monitoring room. After he left, I said, “You think Hermes has a concern other than the ones we talked about?”
Zephyr shrugged. “He might. I’m considered the egghead around here, but Hermes can think circles around me. Who knows what’s got his radar twitching.”
I had a sudden inspiration. “Zephyr – can you get me into his sim?”
“What? No. He’s on 24/7; if he thinks he needs time to meditate, he needs time. Short of an emergency, he gets it.”
I looked at him fondly. The good XO. Perfect, really – though there was no doubt in my mind that he’d make an outstanding commander in his own right, when the time came. “I’m not being whimsical. If he’s got significant concerns about me, about my returning to the pub, about Cleo or Davydd, I need to hear them. And we don’t have a lot of time.”
“He knows what time it is.”
“Does he know about Cleo’s email?”
Zephyr sighed. “I don’t know. Not as far as I know.”
“Well then?”
He chewed on his cheek for a moment, then came to a quick decision. “All right. Saddle up.” Indecisive, he is not.
I sat in the chair next to Hermes, leaned back and closed my eyes. “Okay. Ready.” And the cold probe entered my brain . . . .
“We’re losing her! Lew!!! Lew!!! She’s . . . .” My Mam’s voice, panicked. Hysterical. Terror- and grief-filled.
. . . . And, just like that, I was standing on perfectly-manicured grass, spring green and lovely. A cherry tree’s gnarled and graceful arms were laden with blossoms, stirring in a gentle breeze.
My eyes followed as a single blossom, pink and translucent, detached and fluttered toward the ground. Instead of the green grass, it alighted on Hermes’ blue-black hair, looking like a butterfly about to take wing.
“Noelle. Please, have a seat.” He didn’t open his eyes, which was a bit disconcerting.
As directed, I sat a few feet from him, stretching out my legs and burying my fingers in the rich, fresh-smelling sod. “I’m sorry to interrupt you. You’re entitled to a little R&R.”
“I was expecting you.” He opened his eyes and looked at me without surprise.
“You were?”
“Dakota forwarded Cleo’s email to me. I needed to think about it further, and I assumed you would need to as well. This is a good spot for thinking.”
I still didn’t know how he figured out that I would barge in on him, but it wasn’t really important. “I understand your misgivings about my returning to the pub. Or at least I think I do, and . . . I share them. But I still think it’s the best way.”
“I reached the opposite conclusion,” he said seriously. “Which is why I needed to come here. To think, and think better. Are you prepared to go back?”
I nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Then, I agree. Not alone, this time. We’ll want at least one person in the pub with you, and we’ll need to be prepared to do an extraction tonight. That means a full team.”
I nodded. “Okay, I guess that makes sense. Cleo’s got to make her choice, and we have to be ready if she is.”
“You have a plan?”
“We’re working on it. Zephyr and Blake and me.”
“Good. Time will be short.”
Again, I nodded, but made no move to get up. “Hermes . . . what made you change your mind? Zephyr said you were adamant that I shouldn’t go back.”
“A feeling. Nothing more. You, Cleo, the pub, Davydd . . . there are connections there. I don’t know what they are, but I sense them.”
“I don’t understand. Are the connections reasons to go there, or not to go there?”
His lips turned up in a half smile. “Both, of course. The danger is easy to see, which is why I opposed your going back. Adamantly, as Zephyr correctly noted. But danger and opportunity are two sides of the same coin.”
“You think it’s worth the risk?”
“We can’t beat thinking machines by calculating odds, Noelle. That’s their strength. Intuition is ours.”
To say that this was foreign to my way of thinking was an understatement. It smacked of superstition and mysticism, shamanic rites and burnt offerings under a dark and moonless sky. “I don’t know if I can function that way. God knows, I never have.”
“When the time comes,” he said serenely, “you will know what to do, and you’ll do it. Trust yourself.”
“Okay, boss. What are you seeing?”
“There is a difference,” he replied cryptically, “between knowing the path, and walking the path.” He rose gracefully. “Come. It’s time we walked.”
I got up slowly. I had no idea what Hermes was talking about, but I had to respect the fact that he’d been fighting the machines for forty years and he was still alive. If gut instinct is a thing, he has it.
If.
Zephyr looked like a pixie – slender and slight, with short hair sticking out in all directions. I didn’t tease him about it, and wouldn’t, since my residual self-image wasn’t anything I was happy about either. Here in the Matrix, I towered over Zephyr, gangly and blocky.
Not that it mattered; I wasn’t foolish enough to judge Zephyr’s strength in a simulation based on his apparent size and muscle mass. These were the sorts of rules we bent – sometimes, beyond recognition. But he had chosen a different weapon – the Smith & Wesson 9C – because it was a better fit for his Matrix-sized hand. Currently, his weapon, like mine, was concealed in his coat.
We entered the old Elephant and Castle station and took the lift down to the platform for the Bakerloo Line. As it descended, I looked at him and said, “I don’t suppose you brought brownies.”
“No luck. But there’s another trick to dealing with claustrophobia, you know.”
“Do tell.”
“Not minding.”
“Aren’t you a big help!”
But he wasn’t actually wrong. I could put it aside, and the mental discipline that I had learned during my time with the Belisarius helped me to do so. The same discipline was all that was keeping me functional while I was being bombarded by flashes of memory from my life before the last reset of the Matrix.
The Elephant and Castle is an old station by American standards, and bears little resemblance to the massive and modern BART stations I was more used to from my recent time in the San Francisco Bay area. But form must bear some relationship to function, and the areas of similarity were reassuring. A platform is still a platform, and this one had its share of interesting characters.
We didn’t have long to wait for the train to arrive, and we took the second-to-last car. Unlike the last time I had been in a train with Zephyr, I had all the pertinent details about the train, the station, the line, the service lines, and all possible means of escape committed to memory. If an Agent showed up, we were as prepared to flee as we could be.
Of course, the whole reason why we jacked ourselves into the Matrix in Southwark was to deflect attention from the area around the pub where I was supposed to meet Cleo. If, after talking with me, Cleo was willing to meet with Hermes, we would walk to a new location, close to the pub. Then, and only then, would we bring Hermes, Abhaya and Dakota in. If everything went according to plan, they wouldn’t be inside for long.
The ride was smooth enough; the clip-clip, clip-clip, clip-clip of the wheels against the rail ties was almost soothing. I might not like being underground, but it was certainly efficient. Lambeth North . . . Waterloo . . . It was time to get up.
We disembarked at Embankment and made our way to the northbound platform for the Northern Line. Having just missed a train, we had a bit of a wait.
“Mind . . . the gap. . . . Mind . . . the gap . . . . Mind . . . the gap . . . .” The recorded voice of someone long since dead played over and over again as we waited for our train. After the twentieth repetition, I looked at Zephyr and rolled my eyes. “In the real world, do you think they left it like this? Or did they just fix the damned gap?”
He chuckled. “Machines are more efficient than we are. I bet it’s a true detail.”
Charing Cross . . . Leicester Square . . . . Brightly lit stations followed by dim tunnels, steady progress measured in light bouncing off blocks of concrete. We were off the train again at Tottenham Court Road, changing to the Central Line. There were more direct routes, but again, we hoped that our more random-seeming choices would make any sort of pursuit or tracking more difficult.
We left the tube altogether at Bank, less than a quarter mile from our destination. Zephyr dawdled at the station for a few minutes, then followed along, keeping me in sight and checking to see whether I was being pursued.
I walked up Princes’ Street, turned left on Lothbury, then took an immediate right on Coleman Street. From there, it was just a short walk to the pub entrance. Before I turned to go through the covered walkway, I looked back.
Zephyr was walking purposefully, but made no sign. So, safe as far as he could see.
I went through into the courtyard, then walked into the pub.
If anything, it seemed like it was busier than the night before. I did a quick scan and again did not see Cleo.
But Davydd was there at the bar, talking to a customer and laughing. Even from a distance, his laugh lines were merry.
“Oh, no you don’t, Bronwyn, my girl!”
“Tada!!!!” She dissolved into a mess of giggles as he picked her up and spun her around.
“Did you think I wouldn’t see you, angling for the sweets!” He was laughing as he twirled her, his eyes sparkling in the sunlight, his white teeth flashing . . . .
I clamped down hard on my memories and forced myself to look away. Remember the mission! The machines MUST BE DESTROYED!
Slowly, easily, I wandered to the far side of the bar and found a spot to stand that gave good views of the whole pub.
Zephyr came in a couple minutes later and took up station at the other end of the bar. He would be able to spot things I didn’t. I kept him in my peripheral vision, but made sure I wasn’t staring.
“Came back, did you? What’ll you have?”
I tried my very hardest to make my smile natural and my voice easy. Tried to keep the memories from overwhelming me. The grief of it all. “Pint of the Bluebird, please . . . or, wait. Do you have the Tomos Watkin Old Style?”
“A man after my own heart, I see!” Davydd said cheerfully. “Brilliant bitter. Just brilliant! But it’s a bit too Welsh for this lot.”
I smiled in return, and hoped it did not look brittle. “You look like someone who appreciates the better things! Well, a Bluebird will certainly do in a pinch.”
As he drew my pint, he called back, “You didn’t develop a taste for Tomos Watkin in the States!”
I shook my head. “Certainly not. I went to the source.”
“My home country, as I’m sure you guessed.” He put the pint down in front of me and I slid the money across the bar. “It’s lovely, and I miss it, but the jobs are here.”
“Redundancy notice,” he said, and shrugged. “Too much to hope we’d be spared, Cariad. But I don’t know how we’ll make it here.”
“I don’t want to live in London, Davy! I want Bron to be raised here, like we were!”
I don’t know how I managed to keep my face from betraying me, but he didn’t seem to notice anything odd in my behavior. “Well, I for one am glad you’re here,” I said with joviality that I certainly didn’t feel.
He chuckled and moved on, going to the other end of the bar. Where, I was amused to see, a couple young men in suits seemed to be eager to buy Zephyr a pint. Oh, he’ll be hating that!
Cleo arrived about twenty minutes later, just as I was starting to get nervous. I was still nursing my first pint, and Zephyr did not appear to have caused any international incidents.
Cleo looked slightly surprised when she spotted me, but she walked straight to where I was standing. “Noel. How good to see you again. Shall we see if we can find a table?”
“Would you like to grab a drink first?”
“That won’t be necessary.” She had a resolute look that did not bode well for our conversations.
We managed to locate an open booth, though the sitelines were awful. I couldn’t see Zephyr from where we were sitting and had to assume he would move when the opportunity presented itself. “How was your date?”
“Splendid. Which is all I intend to say on that particular subject. You tracked down my number and interrupted my day. Tell me what this is about.” She was brusque almost to the point of rude — a significant contrast from the prior evening.
“I’m sorry for intruding. You just seemed so distressed yesterday, I felt like I needed to get you more information that I’ve learned.”
“I warn you now,” she said in a tone that was icy cold, “I will not listen to any gossip concerning Anne Howard!”
“Who?” I was momentarily confused. “Oh, that’s the woman you’re dating? No. It’s nothing like that. It’s about our, ah, mutual condition.”
She grimaced. “Please. Do you really think I haven’t thought about that? Factored it in? I’ve been living with this at least as long as you’ve done. Read every published monogram. I know what I am; know what I feel. But it doesn’t change what I have to do.” In our current location, there was absolutely no chance anyone would overhear us, so she made no effort to obfuscate her meaning.
She was trying to shut me down, and I needed to change the dynamic. I went straight into it. “Cleo . . . You said that the world seemed to be off . . . to be a mirage. That the sense of wrongness eats at you.”
“A common delusion, I expect. You’ll need to do better than that.”
Do better? What's that about? “Not common at all . . . but unfortunately, one hundred percent true.”
“Oh, bollocks.”
“Listen to me. This isn’t reality. You, me, sitting here in a pub in London. It’s not true. There is a real world out there. You sense it . . . feel it! And it is possible to get there.”
She looked at me silently, her eyebrow raised.
I couldn’t read her expression, so I tried again. “I was sitting in your seat the better part of a year ago. I was given a chance to find out the truth, to see the reality behind the mirage, and I took it. And I discovered that something else I’d always known, but couldn’t prove, was true as well. I am a woman. Not just inside; I’m biologically female, with all that entails.”
“Fascinating tale,” she drawled. “Out of curiosity, was that before or after you evaded arrest by your American security services?”
“What?”
“You didn’t think I’d investigate? After you ‘happened’ to show up at my usual haunt? And then tracked me down the following day?”
“Never gave it any thought at all. And as far as I know, no one ever put out an arrest warrant for me.”
“You’re far too modest, my dear. It wasn’t just any arrest warrant. It’s the sort that results in Interpol getting a Red Notice. Surely that wouldn’t have slipped your attention?”
I was cursing myself for not having an outstanding Matrix query on my deadname. It was certainly possible the feds were after me for some of my hacking activities . . . or some of my even dodgier activities for that matter.
But the last group of goons to come after me, in my pre- red-pilled state, were Agents.
“Listen, I don’t know anything about that. Like I said, I haven’t been ‘here’ for months. I’m concerned with the real world, not . . . this.” I waved a hand, indicating everything around us.
“I’m sure,” she said, sounding skeptical. “But if I may play along for a moment, just for fun, if this ‘world’ is no concern of yours any more, why are you here? And why are you dogging my footsteps?”
“It’s what we do. We try to rescue people, bring them to the real world. The real earth. But most people, by the time they’re grown, they can’t break free. They can’t see past the illusion. You and I, people like us . . . sometimes, we’re able to.”
“I see. Well, so how do we get to this real world, anyway?”
She didn’t sound like she was serious. But . . . maybe? I decided I had to try. “I’ve got someone you need to meet. We can be there in just a couple of minutes, and he’ll explain how it works. Then, you can decide. In or out.”
The look in her eyes was strange. Disappointment? Satisfaction? Had I said something wrong?
“Enough of this, Noel. My government contacts were right, evidently. They were sure you had some scheme to get me alone, after which I would wake up in a warehouse someplace, bound and gagged, whilst you tried to squeeze a ransom out of my mother.”
Government contacts! “What are you talking about? What have you done?”
“They reckoned you’d spin some kind of a tale to catch my interest, but I must say I’m impressed despite myself by your capacity for sheer nonsense. Well, it won’t work.”
I tried to interrupt, but she leaned forward and said, “You need to listen to me, now. If you cooperate, they’re prepared to recommend leniency.”
“Cooperate?” My brain went into immediate overdrive, trying to figure out how Zephyr and I could escape what was quickly looking like a trap.
“They want your confederates. All of them. They specifically mentioned a chap who goes by ‘Hermes.’”
I wanted to grab her by the throat, but . . . The mission came first. No way I could persuade her, but maybe the others could.
Some day.
“Your loss, Cleo. We had such hopes for you.” I rose.
“The name,” she replied coldly, “is Sir Anthony. You’d do well to remember it.” She looked behind me, towards the bar, and nodded her head. “All yours, gentlemen.”
I spun around to find two burly men in suits that barely contained their muscles were rapidly approaching the booth. “Come with me, sir,” one of them said in a condescending manner. “We don’t want to make a scene.”
Well, I for one was boiling mad and suddenly had no objection – none whatsoever – to making a scene that the Old Doctor Butler’s Head would never forget, even if it stood another three hundred years.
Michael Jordan, in his prime, could make a four-foot vertical leap. Straight up. It was amazing to watch and made him an absolute star on the basketball court. The same maneuver has other applications, however, and my equally high leap allowed my anger-driven kick to make solid contact with goon number one’s chin, snapping his neck back and sending him flying toward the bar.
Goon number two was on me before my feet were back on the ground, but I’d anticipated that. As he reached out with both arms to tackle me, I brought my descending upper arm bones crashing down on either side of his neck, right onto his comparatively weak collar bones.
I calculated that the humerus would vanquish even the most well-tempered clavicle, and so it proved. He shrieked – a truly frightening sound – and crumpled, his arms useless and his tackle forgotten.
In the heat of the moment I had managed to tune out the hubbub of the pub, but it hit me as soon as the second goon went down. This was not the sort of establishment that was used to dockyard brawls – and what I’d just demonstrated was on another level altogether.
“Watch out!” Zephyr’s voice reached me, as he pushed through a throng of people streaming to the door.
I spun back to see “Sir Anthony” reaching forward to grab me, but when I turned on him he jumped back, comically unwilling to try me face to face after my display. I shoved the table, pinning him in the booth. “You goddamned turd!”
Before he could answer, Zephyr was at my side. “Let’s go! Back exit!”
Much as I wanted to sweat answers out of Cleo, Zephyr was right. I charged behind him toward the exit, just as I had done in multiple simulations.
Except that in this simulation, the door we were dashing towards opened and a half-dozen uniformed men charged in. “Shit! They had backup!”
Zephyr and I had practiced together. Six humans, locked into their beliefs about what was and wasn’t physically possible in the Matrix, wouldn’t be enough to take one of us, much less two. To give Zephyr room for independent movement, I backflipped over a booth and landed on my feet facing the flood of police.
With the booth now in the way, they couldn’t rush me. The first one to come within reach was grabbed by the wrist, spun and thrown, generally in the direction of “Sir Anthony” as he attempted to get out of the booth. I’ll deal with you later, you aristocratic little shit!
The next one was almost on me. Although I was hyperfocused on his every move, I could hear one of the other officers calling for backup. “Get the AFOs in here NOW!!!”
It’s true that police in the UK are unarmed – generally. It’s not true that all of them are, and the ones who do carry weapons know how to use them. I knew we had to finish this quickly, before some of the latter type showed up.
“Wrap it up, Zephyr!” I shouted as I executed a round kick that connected with the second police officer’s head and sent him sprawling.
“Way ahead of you,” Zephyr shouted back. And indeed, he’d already taken down three. The odds were now two to one in our favor, and the last officer was diving to get out of the way. I was more than happy to let him, especially as his dive was taking him straight at Cleo, who was just managing to extract herself from the limp form of the officer I had thrown at her.
I couldn’t imagine how we’d complete the mission now, and I didn’t have time to process what the consequences of that failure might mean. We need Cleo to fight the machines!
She shot me a last glance, a strange mix of anger and longing. And then, suddenly, terror. Agony.
Her face began to change.
“Zephyr!!! Agent!!!”
More police were coming through the back door. We couldn’t deal with them and the Agent at the same time.
Zephyr dived behind a booth and came up with her S&W in her hand. I dashed in the other direction, knowing it would be harder for the Agent to target us both if we weren’t together.
The Barretta 92SB-F is a semi-automatic pistol that fires fifteen rounds quickly – if you know what you’re doing and are strong enough to handle one hell of a kick. But courtesy of my simulator training, I was an expert shot and had the capability of at least fudging Newton’s laws of motion. I was unloading my first burst at the Agent as I ran, even before he had his own weapon out, aiming — yes, I was that good — for a hit that would disable the Agent without killing the host.
Cleo must live!
I was shooting with inhuman accuracy. Zephyr was firing the S&W from the Agent’s flank, and his shots were even better than mine.
It didn’t matter. The Agent’s form bent, twisted, moved up and down and in and out impossibly fast. Our bullets were dead on target . . . until, just before impact, the target somehow wasn’t there. How is it doing that???
The booth where Cleo and I had been sitting was dissolving under the hail of bullets, splinters and fragments of red leather flying in all directions. Screams and cries of patrons joined with the pounding thunder of our heavy guns, a cacophony of terror.
The Agent was unfazed.
My first fifteen rounds were gone and I was well into my second without any sign of progress. I wasn’t even bothering with precision any longer. Zephyr was only carrying the one pistol and had stopped to reload.
Somehow, the Agent was firing in Zephyr’s direction even while he was dodging the suppressing fire I was putting down!
Then I was out, and Zephyr was out, and there was no time to reload, because the Agent was up and shooting back. This time, at me.
And it came to me, suddenly. I knew how the Agent had done it! It was a trick of the Matrix . . . a simple enough trick if you knew where to look . . . it was almost like I could see the code surrounding me – the pub, the bar, the Agent, the gun, the bullets . . . all just . . . code. And I understood their hack.
The bullets were coming straight at me, and I dodged, bobbed, weaved. It was as if I could see the bullets in slow motion, instantly calculate their ballistic trajectories, and synchronize my movements to avoid them. Left, right, up down . . . . Glass shattered behind me and an entire exterior window came crashing down.
The Agent was in motion too, and at first I thought he was coming toward me. But when I realized what he was actually doing, it was too late.
His gun came up, seeming to move slowly. Deliberately. Like it was part of a ballet. It was aimed at me, to be sure, but there was a secondary target, right behind me. A target I could sense without turning my head.
In the strange, Matrix code world that I suddenly could sense, the secondary target stood out with incandescent brightness. A mere mortal, a hostage to the Matrix. Just another human whose life was spent generating energy for the machines that kept him captive. I could even sense the lines of energy going from him to some distant collection point.
“Noelle . . . They’re captives, but they’re still people. People with hopes, dreams, fears . . . .”
The gun fired and the bullet moved toward me. I knew, somehow, that I wouldn’t be able to snatch it. My mind was processing with blinding speed, and I recognized that for whatever reason, the Agent’s trick didn’t work that way.
A million things had brought me to this moment – roads taken, roads forgone – but I had reached the point in my decision matrix where all that remained was a simple, binary choice: Take the bullet, or dodge.
And if I dodged, Davydd would die.
Death approached, inexorable, and the choice was upon me. In the end, though, it wasn’t hard. I had failed with Cleo; Hermes would have to find another way to reach her. There was no greater purpose to be served, no reason to value my life above my love. I could only hope that Zephyr would make his escape.
My life for you, Cariad!
There was no time for speech. The world was operating at its normal speed, and my words wouldn’t outrun the bullet.
I stood still.
To be continued . . . .
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Author’s Note: I’m posting this installment a bit early because I’ll be traveling and I’m not confident that I’ll have access to WiFi. For the same reason, I may not be able to respond to comments right away, and the next installment will be a bit delayed. It’s my intent to post it a week from Monday, on the 28th of August.
Don’t hate me, Trinity!
Chapter 10: Queen’s Pawn Promoted
The bullet arrived.
It arrived, but I was not there to stop it. Although I didn’t will my body’s motion, I couldn’t prevent it. Not when I was rammed by a compact form arriving at full tilt, propelled by desperation and love.
Zephyr.
I flew sideways, instinctively rolling as my shoulders neared the ground. Zephyr landed more awkwardly, having hit me hard around my left hip as I stood in front of the bar.
I wanted to scream. To cry. I didn’t need to look to know what had happened, when I was no longer there to protect the man behind the bar. Protect him with my body, with my life.
Davydd! I failed you!!!
But the Agent wasn’t finished. His hand was already in motion, tracking Zephyr as he spun towards the ground. I would not fail again!
I completed my roll, using the horizontal force Zephyr had imparted to come back to a crouched position. Without a moment to pause, I charged at the Agent, abandoning my useless handguns with their easy-to-evade ballistic projectiles.
The maneuver worked, as the Agent spun his weapon away from Zephyr to point right at my center mass. He fired, once . . . twice . . . three times.
But I used his damned trick against him, twisting and twitching in such a way that I not only evaded the ballistic paths of his bullets, but I also continued my forward charge.
And when I reached him, I had a different weapon in my hand.
The Paranza Corta stiletto is no slashing weapon. In an attempt to ruin the arm holding the weapon, I aimed straight at the Agent’s right shoulder blade. As before, it writhed and bent, its reflexes inhumanly fast. But unlike a bullet, my hand wasn’t confined to a straight and predictable path. I followed his body’s motion like we were performing a tightly synchronized dance.
The blade rammed into the Agent’s shoulder, severing muscle and tendon both. But I was barely able to keep hold of it as my black-suited adversary spun around, in the process shifting the gun to his left hand.
I tried again. He was bringing the gun to bear, and I whipped the blade towards his left wrist in a lightning quick feint. He spun away, but before I could capitalize on the moment he used the momentum from his spin to aim a round kick at my head.
I ducked just in time then launched myself forward to take advantage of his momentary imbalance. He clutched at me as I hit him, and we both crashed to the floor. The knife was wrenched from my hand, but I managed to extract myself and leap backward, once again landing on my feet.
I became aware again – I don’t know how I had lost that awareness – that the Agent and I weren’t alone in the pub. There were police officers all over; it appeared that several of them were pinning Zephyr to the ground where he had landed heavily. Arms were reaching to grab me, even as the Agent’s face melted, becoming Cleo once more.
But Cleo would never lead an attack against the machines, nor would Sir Anthony St. Claire fulfill his mother’s dynastic ambitions. Her face was still, frozen, and her eyes were open and unseeing. I didn’t need medical training to know that she was dead; whether by chance or by instinct, my knife was buried to the hilt in her throat.
In the odd, code-like world I could now sense beyond my vision, I saw the power line leaving Cleo’s body and going toward one of the officers who was reaching to grab me. The Agent would be operational again in moments, and there was no way – none – that I could either fight or escape it and all of the police simultaneously.
Zephyr was down, Cleo was dead, and Davydd was dying. The mission had failed, completely and catastrophically. We had lost. And we would go on losing.
Forever.
A boot stamping on the human face, forever.
“When the time comes, you will know what to do, and you’ll do it.” Hermes’ words in the simulator came back to me in that moment of complete defeat. Because suddenly, without knowing how, I knew.
The Agents could do extraordinary things in the Matrix – things no human could do. But there were limits in their programs, built-in limits that the AI had designed for its own purposes. With a flash of pure understanding that transcended reason, I realized that the AI hadn’t created me, and I wasn’t bound by those arbitrary limits.
I was done playing by the AI’s rules.
“It stops. It stops now.” My voice was quiet. So quiet no one would hear it, but for the fact that my world was suddenly as silent as deep space and utterly, completely still. Motionless.
I stepped around the police officers who were looking to grab me, ignoring them altogether. They weren’t important anymore. I could have leapt over the bar, but I just walked around it instead. Time was no longer the issue. I would have the time I needed with Davydd.
What was left of him.
I sank to his side and pulled his shattered body into the temporal bubble I had formed in the fabric of the Matrix. He was in shock, the bullet having completely pulverized his left shoulder, and it was beyond clear that he had mere moments to live.
I cradled his body to mine, weeping.
“Who are you?” His voice was a whisper.
When his question registered, my heart ached, recognizing that he couldn’t know what I knew, or see what I saw. Then realization hit me again. I reached out with my mind and broke another ‘rule’ that we had thought to be iron. “Davy . . . Davy! It’s me. It’s your Noelle.” The voice was my own, my real voice, and the arms that held my love were my own arms, smooth, slender, and pale.
My hot tears splashed on his beloved face. His gorgeous eyes, the eyes that had captivated me and held me spellbound, sparked with sudden recognition.
And the memories rushed at me, no longer a trickle but a torrent. I could see them all, like little bubbles – six separate lives, each with a greasy, plastic backstory, now easily separated from the lives I’d actually led. And Davydd was there with me, our spirits twined together like the trunk of a wisteria vine, sharing the memories. So many memories.
It was early January, 1998. A face loomed above me, suffused with ineffable tenderness. I knew that face – every precious line of it. She made a wordless sound, like the coo of a turtledove, and stroked my cheek with an outstretched finger. She was my world, and my mouth, toothless, rooted for her breast. . . .
I was bouncing up and down, for my “stallion,” my Tada, had me on his shoulders and was showing me the meaning of a trot. Up and down I went, squealing with joy, my little dress hiked up, displaying white tights and little black buckled shoes. It was a fine spring day in 1998, and I was five years old . . . .
“You’d BETTER run!” Chasing Davy through what felt like every backyard in Rogerstone, I couldn’t even remember what he’d done to make me so cross. I was seldom cross, really, but Davy did have a talent that way. However scrawny I might be at all of ten, I could outrun any boy my age, and none of the other girls could touch me. It was 1998, holidays had just started, and that devil Davy was about to find out just how fast I really was . . . .
Late September, 1998, found me standing on a bluff, high above the Severn River Estuary. A fresh breeze ruffled my dress, but I paid it no attention. I only had eyes for Davydd, who had always been my best friend. I knew, in that moment, that he would be more than that. So much more! And in his eyes, I could see the same realization strike, like heat lightning out of a cloudless sky. I was fifteen, I was in love, and life was incomparably sweet . . . .
I was staring down at the ring on my left hand – the ring Davydd had just slipped on it, after we had finished exchanging our marriage vows. Silver twisted in a Celtic pattern . . . a modest stone . . . It was perfect. His arm was around my shoulders, warm and welcoming, and his head bent close to my ear as he whispered, “Gyda'n Gilydd Am Byth, Cariad.” It was a fine and cloudless midsummer day in the Year of Our Lord 1998. Our wedding day. . . .
I bent my head, looking at the perfect child I was cradling in one arm. So innocent . . . so beautiful. She took my breath away. I touched her cheek with a single finger, marveling again at how soft her skin was, and a wordless sound of wonder escaped my lips. She smacked her lips and gurgled, reminding me that it was past time.
I raised my top, laughing, worked the flap on my nursing bra, and brought her to my breast. I could not imagine how I had survived twenty-five years, from my birth in November of 1973 until that extraordinary day two months earlier, without this amazing person in my life . . . .
Time stood still as we walked together, as we fought our battles again, as we gazed into each other’s eyes, high above the estuary on a brilliant summer day, as we wed, as we loved . . . . We touched the moments of every life, and everything that had ever been between us, all that had been wiped away but not destroyed.
Not every memory was pleasant, and the last week of our lives together had been utter, unmitigated and undiluted hell.
“Davy!!!!” My scream was full of terror as the car skidded, the wheels hydroplaning, a mechanical screech piercing the dark and rain-drenched night. We spun and slid, and suddenly the road was gone and we were tipping . . . . I reached back, desperate to do something – anything – to shield Bron . . . .
The pain was intense, crashing over us, shredding our very souls as we went through those moments again, and the brutal days that followed. Davydd in the hospital bed, his body and spirit broken; Bronny’s little elfin frame, so tiny in the casket. Oh, Bronwyn!
Despite the pain, I wished that Davydd and I could remain in that place of complete communion. In all our years together, we had never been as close as we were now. But we couldn’t simply live in our past. His spirit, one with my own, shared that realization.
I couldn’t suppress a sob as we returned to the present moment together. “I tried, Davy! I tried to take the bullet!”
“Hush, girl. I know. It’s alright now.”
I thought about what I was doing. With time. With power. Could I save him? Could there be a future for us once more?
He saw it in my face. Maybe read it in my mind, so close were we to each other. “Noelle bach. Don’t.”
“I can’t lose you again!”
His voice was barely a whisper. “I can’t go on, Cariad. I couldn’t then; I can’t now. Please. Please, let me go.” In his voice, I heard the terrible crushing weight of guilt, loss and despair that had destroyed him.
“Davy, it wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t! I want to fight back – Help me!”
A ghost of a smile played on his pain-ravaged face. “Always the terror, you were. Go on, now, love. Go on. Just . . . strike a blow for Bronwyn . . . and me.”
I shook my head in denial. “No!”
But all the knowledge in the world, all the clever hacks, all the pleas and prayers, couldn’t stop the light from leaving his eyes. We had shared thirty years of life and love and loss, and now, just as we got it all back, it was done.
My anguished cry seared my constricted throat, chasing after his departing spirit. “Gyda'n Gilydd Am Byth, Davy!” But it was too late.
My beloved would never hear my voice again.
So I was left to face the last memory alone, my mind bringing me back in our flat in Rogerstone, staring at the container of pills. Unable to imagine going on without Bron, who was gone. Without Davy, who had no will to go on.
How could I do it? How could I put one foot in front of the other?
I dressed myself carefully. The dark red wool skirt; the cashmere top, soft as rabbit fur, that he had given me for Christmas one year. The black leather boots that came almost to my knees. I brushed my long hair back, braiding the front quarter on one side. I did my face. One last time. Everything just so. Just the way he liked it. And I stared at the pills.
To be, or not to be?
My tears overwhelmed me as I relived those final despairing moments, a memory which intertwined with the pain of my renewed loss in a tight braid of agony. The control I held on the temporal anomaly I had created wavered, slipped. The sound of the world – furious, panicked – began to return.
Somewhere, I knew . . . . Somewhere, in some God-forsaken tower built on the ruins of a human city, a body was being disconnected from the cords and tubes that bound it to the machine’s world, and flushed like so much sewage. In the bowels of the tower, his remains would find their way to a reclamation center, where they would be turned into fats and proteins, now that his usefulness as a power source was finished.
And with that thought, my tears stopped and my control over the bubble I had created stabilized, silencing the world again. The hole in my heart would always be there, but unlike the young woman I had been before, I would not waste away in grief.
Not when there was work to be done.
“I swear to you, Davydd ap Owen, by the love we shared, and by the love we poured out on our daughter. I will see you avenged.”
I laid him down tenderly, closed his sightless eyes, and bent to kiss his brow a final time. I rose and found, as I knew I would, that world remained still, the tableau substantially unchanged from where it had been when I went behind the bar.
Slowly and deliberately, I walked to the spot I had noticed before, where the spark of the Agent program was attempting to transfer from Cleo’s now lifeless body to one of the police officers. Even the Agent hadn’t made much progress.
“Oh, I don’t think so.” I reached out and plucked the spark from the Matrix grid, the code lines that I saw with my second sight. “You’ve done enough.” My mind reached out and twisted, just . . . so. Severed from the energy lines connecting it to the grid, the Agent was deleted. I could almost hear its shriek of protest as its essence came apart.
Zephyr was face down on the ground, pinned by several officers. As gently as I could, I moved them off of him one by one and carefully laid them down, so they wouldn’t go flying into walls in the version of space time that their consciousnesses inhabited.
Could I extend my temporal bubble to cover Zephyr as well? I mentally reached out, twisted, and it was done.
Zephyr rolled and looked up, shocked. “Noelle?”
“Let’s get out of here. We can talk on the way.”
As he rose to his full – and in the Matrix, not very impressive – height, he saw Cleo. “Well, shit.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He looked at me. Took in my female appearance, and the fact that the world around us seemed to have stopped. “No, I don’t suppose it does.”
The doors were jammed with patrons caught in the moment of fleeing, but that was immaterial. We simply stepped through the window that the Agent’s evaded bullets had brought down. Without a backward glance, we went through the covered walkway and out onto Coleman Street, where all of the cars were motionless.
“Back to the Barrister’s Office?” he suggested.
I shrugged. “Works for me.”
We crossed the street, passing a string of police officers rushing toward the pub, oblivious of our presence. Through the windows of the restaurants that lined Great Bell Alley, we could see diners with alarmed expressions. Many were already out of their seats, mouths caught open in the midst of exclamations. This was London in 1998, not Beirut or even Baltimore. The sound of gunfire was not a common occurrence.
“You’re doing this somehow, aren’t you?” Zephyr asked. “You were dodging bullets just like an Agent.”
I nodded. “What the Agents do is a technique – a hack, of sorts, in the basic Matrix Code. It’s not based on speed. Instead, they’re able to slow time down, compute the ballistic path of bullets and move just enough to avoid them. I don’t know why, but their ability to slow time only works for immediate evasive action. It’s a completely artificial limitation though, and I discovered I’m not bound by it.”
“Can you teach us how to do it?”
I thought about that. “I don’t know. The technique seems simple enough, once I saw it. But I don’t know how to teach anyone to see it.”
We walked in silence a bit further, coming to Moorgate Street, which, again, was full of vehicles, and none were moving. As we weaved around the motionless cars, Zephyr said, “And your appearance? I can’t tell you how much I would love to look like myself when I’m inside the Matrix!”
I reached out to the power lines that surrounded me and made an adjustment. “Like this?”
My deeper voice registered and Zephyr looked back, startled. Then he stopped altogether, for I had altered my appearance to match what he looked like in the real world.
“Holy shit!” His mouth was hanging open. But for the fact that traffic was not moving, he would have been flattened long since.
I switched my appearance back and shrugged. “It’s kind of the same thing. Hermes provided the clue; he stopped aging in the Matrix decades ago, so ‘residual self image’ has no direct connection to your appearance outside the Matrix. It’s just code, and it can be changed.”
“If you can see it,” he amended.
“Right.”
We stepped into the alley that for some reason merited the title of ‘street,’ and continued walking. There were fewer people on Telegraph Street, but they had the same startled and alarmed looks on their faces as the people closer to the pub. The sound of gun shots carries a long way.
“What triggered all this? You didn’t have these abilities before.”
“I don’t know. Not exactly. When I saw the Agent dodging our bullets, I was suddenly able to see exactly how it did it. But I didn’t understand how to get around the limits the AI built into Agents’ abilities. Not at first. Not until . . . .” I faltered. Took a breath. Took another.
We had to get through this together, Zephyr and I.
He was looking at me, his pixie face showing concern as my distress registered. “Until what? Noelle, you look like hell. What happened in there?”
“Davydd died, Zephyr. He was hit by . . . by one of the Agent’s shots.”
The blood drained from his face and he looked sick. “Oh . . . oh, my God! That’s why you stopped dodging. What have I done?”
I didn’t hesitate for an instant. I pulled him into an iron embrace and whispered fiercely into his wild, spiky hair. “You did what you had to do. What I couldn’t do, no matter what was at stake. No matter how many lifetimes I lived.”
I squeezed his slender form as if I could imprint my words into his heart by brute force. “Now listen to me, and don’t ever forget it! Davydd’s death was not your fault! The machines killed him! The machines! Not once, but twice.”
“But . . . .”
“NO!!!” I could barely contain my urgency, my passionate desire to stop him from taking even a single step down this destructive path. “No, no, no!!! I might have saved him tonight. I’m not sure how; I’m still figuring out the extent of my ability to manipulate the forces inside the Matrix. But he didn’t want me to try! Don’t you see? He couldn’t stop blaming himself . . . blaming himself for Bronwyn’s death. Don’t – God, Zephyr, please don’t – go making the same mistake! We need you. I need you!”
I felt a surge of hope, as one arm, then another, slowly, tentatively — even painfully — rose to return my embrace. “I am so sorry, Noelle. So very, very sorry.”
I thought of my last moments with Davydd, and a tear once more slipped down my cheek, sliding into Zephyr’s hair. “Me, too. Beyond words. He was a good man, and I loved him with all my heart. I will never forget him. But that’s why I have to go on. I need to live for all of us now – for Davy and Bronwyn and me.”
His delicate hands slid across my back, providing the comfort that only human contact can. “Can you manage it?”
It was a good question. My rage, my desire for vengeance, was unabated. But was it enough? Could I live for vengeance alone? Did I need to? Should I?
My question came back to me, the one I had asked Zephyr after we’d made love in his cabin on the Belisarius. “Are our lives just one crisis after another . . . brief moments of vigilant inactivity, followed by running, fighting, running some more . . . until the day our number comes up we get killed?”
I cupped his cheek with my hand. “Not alone. Are you with me?”
He brought his hands around to touch my face in turn. “If you’ll have me.”
I kissed him then, even though he looked like a pixie. It’s all just code, and that means nothing. It was a light and gentle kiss, more promise than passion. I had just said my last farewells to Davydd, and I had only begun to grieve.
But I wasn’t a fifteen-year-old ingenue anymore. When Davydd and I had kissed for the first time and acknowledged the love that burned between us, I had thought the world was a beautiful place and we would have forever. I knew better now.
Zephyr and I were engaged in a deadly struggle against fearsome odds. Who knows how long we might have? Whatever time we were given, I was determined not to squander it.
A few minutes later, we stood in the small office that belonged to Sidney Westen, a distinguished barrister and aspiring silk enjoying a bit of holiday in Majorca . . . a human male, lying naked in a lozenge-shaped capsule filled with fluid, powering the machines that ran his life. Who would he be, when the Matrix next rebooted?
“Okay, Noelle,” Zephyr said. “Let’s go home.”
Epilogue: First Check
It was a moving service, and it felt like all of Rogerstone was there. Davydd’s parents, Owen and Eleri Carew, were the principal mourners. It hurt to see their once-merry faces so haggard. Again.
They had looked the same, the last time I’d seen them. After the car “accident” that cost them their beloved granddaughter, and tore the very heart from their son. I had stood with them at her grave, and again at his hospital bed, weeping tears that never seemed to stop.
In this version of the Matrix, Davydd had been unmarried and the little corner of the graveyard where I had buried poor Bronwyn was empty. Davydd’s remains would go there now. That, I could not bear to see.
I felt like I knew each and every person in St. John’s that morning. Mrs. Davies, who’d taught my second grade class . . . and who, four “updates” later, had been an older friend in my book group. Devon Terry, who used to pull my ponytail back at Eveswell Primary. Grim old Gareth Roberts, who wielded the meat cleavers at the butcher shop. Mary Hughes, who’d organized food to be delivered to our flat – Davydd’s and mine – when Davy was in hospital. I had memories that attached to every face.
They didn’t question the woman in the red wool skirt who stood in the back of the church . . . it’s the Lord’s house and all are welcome in it. But I was unknown here in this timeline, my history erased. Even my parents did not appear to live here.
It wasn’t home anymore.
I left the church amid the stream of mourners, but walked away, down Kensington Place to Chepstow Road. There, I knew, I would find a phone box, because of course there was a phone box. The big, red, extravagant variety that serves as a symbol of Britain the world over. I crossed the street, a cool wind swirling my skirt.
I stepped inside, closed the door, and lifted the black handset, seeing, a final time, the simple silver ring in a Celtic design on my finger. I didn’t need coins. I didn’t need to dial. I only had to think, to see the lines of energy, the code behind the pleasant facade of a small community in South Wales. Merlin’s own country. To reach out with my mind and tug just . . . so.
I was in contact with the enemy. I knew it was there, and it knew me. From somewhere deep inside, the words came to me. It was not a memory, I was sure of that. And yet the words flowed out, like I had spoken them before, or would speak them again.
"I know you're out there,” I said into the handset, my voice low. “I can feel you now. I know that you're afraid. You're afraid of us. You're afraid of change. I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell you how it's going to begin.”
I stared across the street, at the small shops that loomed large in the memories of my childhood. I thought about Davydd, and about Bronwyn. I thought about Hermes, about Blake and Dakota, Kai and Abhaya. About Zephyr, watching right now, as my real-world body sat silent on the chair at his side, a cold and deadly probe in my brain. I thought about all the people I had known and loved and lost.
“I'm going to hang up this phone, and then I'm going to show these people what you don't want them to see. I'm going to show them a world without you. A world without rules and controls, without borders or boundaries. A world where anything is possible. . . . Where we go from there is a choice I leave to you."
I replaced the handset, stepped out of the booth, and said good morning to an older woman who was walking her Yorkie, bundled against the chill of Autumn.
Then I looked to the heavens, and willed myself to fly.
The end.
Author's note: So the story ends where the original Matrix movie ended – basically, at the end of the beginning. I believe that the studios made a mistake when they decided to do sequels, following visions of dollar signs as they generally do. The first movie was an artistic masterpiece in every way, and should have been allowed to stand alone.
I want to thank all of you who stayed with me to the end of the story, particularly if you left kudos. My fickle muse generally just gives me the barest outline of an idea before she bounces off on the arm of some other, far sexier, author, so I have to rely on perspiration rather than inspiration to grind it out each week. Knowing someone is actually reading it helps me get through the blocks and over the bumps.
My very special thanks, as always, go to those who participated in the creation of the story by leaving comments – Kimmie, Rachel Moore, Dee Sylvan, Erisian, DorothyColleen, Sunflowerchan, Catherd, RobertLouis, Guest Reader, AlisonP, Dreamweaver, Michelle SidheElf, Eric, JoanneBarbarella, Dallas Eden, Alan, Asche, Dave (“Outsider”), Ray Drouillard, and Leona MacMurchie. Your continued support makes all the difference in the world.
I need to give an extra shout-out to RobertLouis for looking over several key chapters before I posted them, to make sure that my English characters stayed in character, as it were. His suggestions were always amazingly helpful.
Good night again, and joy be with you all!
Emma
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Strong, powerful, independent Liz has a plan for her life but keeps looking for something more.
Upcoming young lawyer Cam owns a good heart and a good head but lacks direction.
From the first time they meet, the two of them are enthralled, Liz with Cam's kindness and seeming innocence, and Cam with the confident, beautiful redhead a few years his senior.
For Liz, the magic ends when they sleep together….
What could have been the end of their relationship evolves into something more profound, as Liz and Cam – or is it, Candi? -- begin a journey into pleasure, sexuality, and gender in ways neither of them expected.
NOTE: This story is now available as an ebook on Kindle! This first part has been left available for free here as a preview: if you want to read more, check the book page for a link!
CHAPTER 1
“When I Fall In Love”
In a room full of suits, she stood out like a cardinal in a field of heather. Bright, wavy red hair, deep green eyes, athletic rather than simply slender, tall and clearly proud of it. A touch taller than me, she nonetheless had the confidence to add height with three-inch heels. For the meeting that morning, she was wearing a sky-blue jacket over a soft, snow-white blouse, a black pencil skirt, and nude stockings.
“Liz Talbott,” she said, sizing me up with a direct, confident gaze when we were going around the table doing the initial meet-and-greet.
“Cameron Savin,” I responded. And those were the only words we spoke to each other for some time. Cavendish, Edwards and Gunn had sent three lawyers to Pittsburgh for this meeting, and I was by a very long stretch the most junior. At a meeting that included the General Counsel and a Senior Vice President for a national telecom company, an attorney only six months out of law school should be seen and not heard.
Cavendish, Edwards was representing the company in an antitrust suit pending in federal district court in D.C. The case had been filed well before I joined the firm and a great deal of work had already been done. I was tasked with pulling together materials that would be used for the Senior VP’s trial testimony, as well as the deposition that he would need to give in advance of trial.
I was surprised and pleased to learn that Liz would be my liaison at the company. I was far too junior to be talking with a Senior VP, and anyway, a whole lot of staff work had to be done before it was worth taking up any of his time. So at the end of the meeting, Liz and I exchanged contact information and a few more words. None of consequence.
I didn’t resolve to keep things professional only because it wouldn’t have occurred to me to do anything else. Liz gave the term “out of my league” new meaning. She might as well have been the Duchess of Cambridge. I had dated girls, but this was a woman – and one that had her shit together.
Liz and I met frequently and had other remote meetings to pull together the information that the VP would need to make his testimony compelling. My job, knowing the contours of the case and the legal elements of the claim that we would need to prove, was to take the information that Liz assembled and create a narrative that tied everything together. Integrating disparate pieces of information into a coherent whole is pretty much what I do best, so it was a good assignment for me.
Liz always listened carefully to my questions and made sure that I thoroughly understood her answers. She also knew what she didn’t know and never tried to bluff or guess. When she needed to get information from elsewhere in the company, she knew where to go and tended to get the information quickly.
The testimony took shape, and I was able to provide the senior associate and the partner with outlines and rough drafts earlier than they expected.
Liz was surprisingly friendly, and in the course of some long days she would break the tension by telling some stories from work or commenting on things in the newspaper. I enjoyed those informal times, but assumed that she was just being collegial.
While we were still working on testimony, the senior partner on the case got a feeler from opposing counsel suggesting that the other side might be amenable to settling the case without trial. After some back and forth, the parties agreed on a mediator and set a date for a three-day session. This was to include a bit of “show and tell,” giving a preview of each side’s view of the evidence.
With my knowledge of the key testimony from the Senior VP, I was able to help prepare the presentation for our side (which was, of course, given by the partner). The VP, the General Counsel and Liz all came to DC for the mediation, along with a few other corporate types that I didn’t know. It was occasionally contentious, but the parties were both eager to avoid a risky and cost-prohibitive trial and we reached an agreement in principle in just a day and a half.
The firm hosted the celebratory dinner at the Old Ebbitt for our side (and why not? We made a crapload of money from the case)! Liz came and sat next to me for the entire dinner, which surprised me. Everyone but me had a lot to drink – I’m really not fond of being drunk, so I tend to be careful – and Liz and I had a good time making quiet comments poking fun at the senior folks who were giving fulsome congratulatory toasts.
With the case over, we were finally able to relax and just be people for a change. And, surprisingly, Liz seemed to enjoy hanging out with me as a person. By the end of the evening, I surprised myself by inviting her to lunch. “What’s your plan for tomorrow? Heading back to Pittsburgh first thing?”
She hesitated, but only for an instant. “Nope; my flight’s not ’till 6:45 in the evening. We all figured the mediation would take all three days.”
“Do you have any lunch plans, then? Can I talk you into joining me?” I hope I don't look or sound as nervous as I feel! I can usually count on my face to show only what I want to reveal, but this was an extreme case.
She smiled easily. “I have absolutely no obligations tomorrow, and I’d love to join you. What did you have in mind?”
Oh. My. God! I can’t believe it! I thought. “DC's a great place for ethnic food – ExPat communities from all over the world here. What kind of food do you like?”
“Fantastic! I love trying different things, so long as I don’t have to make them!”
“Hmmmm. Spicy, or not?” I asked.
“I’ll eat anything, but given the option I usually go with spicy,” she replied.
I thought for a moment. Even with the long hours I usually put in, I’d been exposed to lots of options, just within walking distance of my Adams Morgan apartment. “Ever try Ethiopian?”
She grinned. “Not yet – and I’m counting on you to fix that!”
We had a date!
I was unusually thoughtful as I sat in the conference room that fall morning. Mostly, I was thinking, No good deed goes unpunished. Shortly after I joined EverComm three years ago, I had volunteered to help a couple of my senior colleagues who were struggling with a complicated marketing study. Neither of them were with the company any more, so when the marketing study turned out to be relevant to some lawsuit we were pursuing, I was tasked with helping out lawyers.
Sal Peroni, a Senior VP and one of my mentors, was at the head of the table. Daniel Cosgrove, the General Counsel, along with my buddy Tim Jackson, were there from legal. Someone from Finance – an older man with a disapproving face whose name I didn’t catch – rounded out our team.
When the lawyers from the D.C. law firm we’d hired trooped in, I suppressed a sigh. Eight people in the conference room, and once again I was the only woman. It was 2018; you’d think that the times might have gotten around to changing.
But it’s not an uncommon circumstance and I’m not the type to bitch about it. Our group had gotten up and everyone was shaking hands, so I sized up the new arrivals and tried to remember names.
As the meeting progressed, I discovered I would be working with the junior member of the litigation team, who had introduced himself as Cameron Savin. Lean build, intense blue eyes. Maybe a touch shorter than me, though it was hard to tell since I was wearing power heels for the meeting. His demeanor was as composed and buttoned-down as his suit, but he wore his hair in a low, tight pony tail and had a single gold hoop in his left ear. An interesting combination.
I was worried he would overcompensate for his youth – I probably had five or six years on him – by being assertive or bossy. But I was pleasantly surprised to find him very easy to work with. He didn’t pretend to know more than me about marketing or the workings of the telecom industry. He asked lots of good questions, listened carefully to my answers, and then followed up with more questions that demonstrated that he was absorbing what I was telling him.
I appreciated that he was professional and respectful, deferring to my expertise but understanding – as I did not – how the testimony we were working on fit with the rest of the evidence the trial team was putting together. It was a true partnership, and I found it exhilarating to be appreciated for my smarts and my expertise.
I hadn’t expected to become attracted to him. My divorce back in 2015 had soured me on romantic entanglements. Although I went on dates from time to time, all I was really looking for was the occasional one-night stand. I knew where to find men who weren’t looking for more than that – they aren’t all that hard to find – and that was more than enough.
That wouldn’t do with Cam, and besides, I would never date anyone I was working with. So I told myself firmly that we were both professionals and behaved accordingly. Cam made no move; he never even introduced non-work related subjects during our discussions. On the other hand, he wasn’t stand-offish, and charmed me on the occasions when our conversations turned to other matters.
The case surprisingly settled while we were still finalizing the VP’s proposed testimony. Everyone was in D.C. for the mediation. After the settlement was reached, the whole litigation team went off to a restaurant for dinner and stayed until late in the evening. It was a happy crowd – the company was happy with the settlement, the VP was happy that he didn’t have to testify, and the lawyers were happy that their clients were happy. The wine flowed and everyone relaxed after a lot of long, intense, and stressful work.
I made a point of sitting next to Cam and enjoyed the evening. We shared a bit about our backgrounds – where we were from, where we were living, but nothing too personal.
As the party was breaking up, Cam asked if I was free for lunch the next day, or whether I was heading back to Pittsburgh early.
I found myself acutely aware of two things. First, as a result of the settlement, we wouldn’t be working together any more. And, second, he did not wear a ring.
Not without some trepidation, I agreed to join him for lunch.
Being Cam, he asked about my favorite types of foods, and upon learning that I was adventurous and liked things that were both different and spicy, suggested that we meet at an Ethiopian restaurant he liked.
Lunch was great. Really great. We stayed for almost three hours, sitting on low stools, tearing off pieces of spongy bread to pick up different stews, laughing and talking about everything and nothing. We shared a bottle of wine – a thin, dry red that paired well with the food. He said he didn't drink during the work day but was taking the afternoon off. Apparently the firm didn’t care exactly when he worked, so long as he billed plenty of hours and got the job done.
By the end of the lunch he pretty much had my whole life’s story. He’s very good at getting people to open up. There’s just something about his deep blue eyes, I thought. When he looked at me, quietly taking in the story of my life, I felt like I was understood, not judged.
“But what about you?” I asked. “You’ve had me babbling forever.”
“Not much to tell, really. Born and raised in St. Louis. The youngest of three. My sister Fiona’s the brainy one; she's a doctor in Boston. Just got engaged, too, so she’s got her act together. My brother Iain’s a starving artist in New York. By comparison, I’m just a geeky guy who went straight from high school to Washington University, from there straight to the University of Chicago for law school and from law school straight to Cavendish, Edwards.”
“That’s a pretty short summary!” I chided when he stopped. “Birth order and education. Surely there’s more?”
“Well, work has been pretty all-consuming since I got here.” He looked embarrassed.
“Like any sports? Hobbies? Interests? Good cookie recipes?
He smiled. “Baseball, if the Cardinals are in the hunt, which – just sayin’ – they almost always are. I used to play chess, but it’s been a while. I’m interested in politics – majored in PoliSci back in college. I like lots of different music, but I can’t play any instruments. Uhhh . . . cookies? No. Almost positive I don’t have a baking sheet. Wouldn’t know what to do with it if I did.”
But all of that was said in a lighthearted way and with an easy manner that suggested he was comfortable in his skin. We talked more and, while he almost never said anything about himself unless asked directly, when I got him talking about things he was interested in, he was animated, engaged, smart and funny.
I felt something stirring . . . something I hadn’t felt in forever. Something that, frankly, scared me. Scar tissue from ten years of marriage that had ended in complete failure.
I married Jack Trainor when I was eighteen and a day. In those days I went by BethAnn, and was the Empress of my little pond – a popular head cheerleader, getting ready for graduation. Jack was a twenty-three-year old Marine Corps Lieutenant: six foot two, powerfully built, buzz cut, square jaw, barrel chest. A living, breathing recruiting poster for the Green Machine.
But I got tired of his domineering ways, his arrogant assumption that I would want to do whatever he wanted to do without any need to even have a discussion. He had resisted mightily when, at twenty-three, I decided to go back to school. I went to my graduation from George Mason alone. Even though I received highest honors, Jack adamantly refused to let me get a job.
It came to a head two years later, when he discovered that the little wifey wasn’t popping out babies because she was on the pill, and had earned a masters degree through a correspondence course in the ample time each day that he was down at Quantico doing Marine things and hanging with his buddies. Which is how, at 29, I found myself back in Pittsburgh, starting a new life.
Did I really want to get involved in another romantic relationship? Really?
But in fairness, Cam was about as different from my ex-husband as one could imagine, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. That was probably why I was attracted to him in the first place.
So I swallowed my fears and invited Cam to visit me in Pittsburgh. I wasn’t sure what I felt, but . . . I wanted to see whether there was something there. “Come on out,” I urged. “There’s lots of trouble to get into in Pittsburgh, and I can put you up in my guest bedroom. It’ll be fun!”
“I don’t suppose you like baseball?” he asked, with a sort of wistful note in his voice. “I’d love to see a live game at PNC Park!”
“Sure, I like baseball,” I said, smiling. “Though the Pirates are likely to struggle this season. Which I only say because they always do.”
I do like baseball – well enough, anyhow. It’s just as well that I’m not as much of a fan as Cam is, though, or I would never have been able to bring myself to date a Cardinals fan. My dad, as faithful a supporter of the Bucs as you are likely to find in the whole of the Iron City, didn’t need to know.
Lunch was incredible. Liz had never tried Ethiopian food before, and so we had great fun with the unusual seats and eating off of the sponge-like injera flatbread. We talked and talked. I don’t know how long we stayed there. Since my schedule had been cleared for the mediation, I didn’t have a lot of worries about taking the afternoon off. The other side was supposed to do the initial draft of the formal settlement agreement, so we had some time to wait.
Liz must have done her homework before coming to lunch, because she dressed sensibly in dark slacks that made the most of her long legs without making it hard to get into and out of the low seats in the restaurant. She wore a russet-colored crew-necked blouse that showed off her fine collar bones and emphasized her long neck without showing any cleavage. The autumn colors blended with her fiery hair rather than contrasting with it, as the colors she wore more often tended to do.
I was enchanted by the way she moved, the way she showed her brilliant teeth when she smiled, by the sparkle in her jewel-green eyes. I couldn’t believe it: Liz Talbott, the Liz Talbott, was having lunch with me, nerd boy, and apparently enjoying the experience.
It was almost like an out-of-body experience. As a kid and an adolescent, I was undersized and unathletic, so I overcompensated by hyper-focusing on being smart, which was the one thing I was naturally good at. I never dated much. I had one relationship that lasted half a year when I was in college, but we both kind of lost interest. A couple of other “relationships” ended before they even got off the ground. In law school I had lots of friends who were female, but no girlfriends.
So imagine my shock when Liz invited me to come to Pittsburgh to visit her. Only my poker face saved me from completely humiliating myself. We set a date for three weeks later.
CHAPTER 2
“Sometimes Love Just Ain’t Enough”
I was on cloud nine every day of the three weeks from our lunch to the Pittsburgh trip. How could this woman – this beautiful, intelligent, experienced, put-together woman – want anything to do with me? I couldn’t wait to get on the plane.
She picked me up at the airport early Saturday morning? “Hey, Cam!” She waved to draw my attention as I exited security.
“As if anyone wouldn’t spot you in a crowd,” I said as I came up, matching her smile of greeting.
“Yeah,” she laughed. “Endowed by nature with a big red flag!”
“Uh huh,” I said. “That, too!”
She was dressed in active wear suitable for a mild spring day: black nylon tights and a lime-green hoodie. Her hair was pulled back away from her face, which just made her devil-may-care grin pop even more.
The first order of business was to rent a bike for me to use for the day. Her car had a rack that supported two bikes and she had hers with her.
We spent a few enjoyable hours cycling and working up a sweat. Then we went back to her house. She had very modern tastes – everything showed clean lines and the art on the walls was abstract and colorful.
I rode my bicycle a lot when I was growing up, but it had been a lot of years since I was in the saddle so I was feeling pretty sore. Before I knew it, Liz was giving me a gentle massage on my neck and shoulders. I put my head down on her dining room table and thought about where I was and what was happening.
This woman had a life, if you understand what I mean. She had a car, a house with a guest bedroom, a defined decorating style . . . . I was barely out of law school. I lived in a one-bedroom apartment furnished with a few pieces of rented furniture, and I had never even given the least thought to putting anything on the walls. I was going to date her?
Who do I think I am?
But I put my self-doubt aside. The question was, who does Liz think I am? And, can I be that person? So, I pulled myself out of the chair and gave her a reciprocal neck and shoulder rub.
When she got up, she turned to look at me, separated by mere inches. I wanted to cup her cheek in my hand and kiss her full lips. But my self-doubt was too great. I couldn’t believe that’s what she wanted, so I asked first, which was clearly a mistake.
But she let me.
And suddenly, I felt like a king, like a rock star, like a god on earth. I wanted to be everything this woman could ever want, anything she needed.
The next day we went to see the Cincinnati Reds defeat the Pittsburgh Pirates, but the Bucs reversed the script and won a close game. I didn’t have a dog in the fight – the Cardinals weren’t playing a weekend game at PNC until September – but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. I was with Liz.
We had a picnic after the game. Naturally, Liz had the perfect picnic basket and assorted accouterments, and we sat on a comfy checkered blanket under poofy white clouds and enjoyed each other’s company. Before long, we were cuddled together kissing. It got pretty heavy. I’ll admit that I was concerned that my erection would be noticed.
But I stamped down on my raging hormones. I wasn’t looking for a fling, or anything that would be over and done in a hurry. I wanted Liz in my life. “We should take it slow,” I told her. “I don’t want to rush and give you regrets.”
She told me that was sweet, and agreed.
On the first day of Cam’s visit we rented a bike for him and I took him on one of my favorite rides, the North Shore River Trail. About an hour of the ride goes right along the Allegheny and Ohio Rivers, with great views of the Three Sisters Bridge, the Carnegie Science Center, and PNC Park. Taking the full loop we also went through Riverview Park. I’m a Pittsburgh girl and proud of it, and I love to show off my city.
After several hours’ riding we were hot, sore, dirty and happy. Back at my place, I got us some Gatorades and I gave Cam a neck and shoulder massage. He put his head down and groaned with pleasure.
After five minutes or so, he got up and gestured to the chair. “Your turn.” He gave as good as he got, or better. His long, tapered fingers were adept at finding the knots in my muscles and working them out.
I stood and faced him, intending to say thanks, and was captured by those blue eyes.
He held me in his gaze for a long moment. “Can I kiss you?”
That’s taking care and respect too far! “Don’t ask. Just do it!”
We did, and it was sweet. Very sweet. But we left it there. He slept in the guest bedroom and I went to my own, feeling hopeful. Something was definitely stirring, and I felt my fears receding.
We caught the third game of a four-game series between the Pirates and the Reds the next day. To the surprise of me, Cam, and ninety percent of the people in the ballpark, the Bucs got to hoist the Jolly Roger for the third night in a row, creating quite the festive mood among their long-suffering fans. Afterward, we went out for a picnic. This proved to be an opportunity for considerably more kissing, and damn, it felt good.
The period of my romance with Jack hadn’t extended long into our marriage and the kissing that’s involved in my occasional sexual forays doesn’t involve a lot of romance. In fact, my goal during those sessions is best described as, bam, purr, thank you, sir. So it had been a very long time since I felt that heady, crazy, intoxication of new love.
But at the end of the day, Cam said he didn’t want to rush on to sex, because he was looking for something lasting. He suggested that we take it slow and see where it went.
I agreed . . . and didn’t. I wasn’t eager to dash into a relationship either, but my body wanted what it wanted. That night, I had to be satisfied with my little mechanical friend – a toy I had purchased well into my marriage, and which kept me sane many times since.
Taking it slow only lasted until the very next time I came up to Pittsburgh, two weeks later. We had come back from a run and took showers (yeah, her house had more than one bathroom). I came out toweling my hair, wearing a T-Shirt and shorts.
She came out a few minutes later, her flaming hair blown dry, eyes shining, wearing a long night shirt in some satiny fabric.
I got up, wrapped her in my arms, and gave her a deep, lingering kiss.
When we finally broke the kiss, she looked at me with her straight gaze. “Time’s up, bucko. In the sack – NOW!” And there we went.
Undressed, Liz was a marvel. As a result of her many outdoor activities, she was firm, lean, and well-muscled. Her breasts were perfect orbs with silky smooth skin, neither too large nor too small; soft and sensitive to the touch. Her long legs wrapped around mine, her hair floated above me, and before I knew it she had straddled my aching member and we were moving together as our hands and mouths reached, touched, and explored. How long did I last? Damned if I know; I was in heaven, and heaven is forever.
We slept.
This was the beginning of my time in paradise. We saw each other every couple of weeks. Mostly I went out to Pittsburgh, where we spent time with her friends most days and had alone time at night.
Her friends were all from her office. They had great stories and made me feel incredibly welcome. I think that they were very happy that Liz was dating after being single for so long. All of them were older than me – I think Fernando was the oldest; close to forty – while Janet, who was thirty, was probably the closest to my age. Tish, who was dating Fernando, was Liz’s age (32), and I think Tim Jackson, the lawyer, was a year or two older than that. But I worked hard to fit in, and I think I was reasonably successful at it.
I had never been into sports, but fortunately the activities that Liz enjoyed were all ones that did not require the sort of close coordination and muscle mass that kept me on the sidelines in school. I can hike, bike, and kayak for long distances, and even running was something that I could do without much difficulty. In fact, I was surprised and delighted to discover what I had been missing. I enjoyed being outdoors and engaging in physical activities.
I was simply giddy with happiness. A stunning, smart, experienced woman wanted me – ME! Every time she called, I was overjoyed. I wrote her silly notes. I sent her small presents. I couldn’t wait for the next time that I would see her, kiss her, enjoy the sight of her tight, round ass as she ran ahead of me during our morning runs. To feel her eyes on me; to hear her laugh. To come to her bed and make love to her.
I was in love, and didn’t hesitate to tell her so.
She was reluctant to say anything. “Look, I don’t know what love is. Not for sure. I thought I was in love before, but I really wasn’t. I was in love with being in love. But Cam, it’s not the same thing. I don’t want to get too far ahead. Let’s enjoy what we have for now. No commitments.”
I agreed, of course, even though I had no doubts at all where my own feelings were concerned.
I got Cam into my bed the very next time he came to see me. We’d had a good run, the endorphins were pumping out happy juice, and when I saw him after a shower my body said, “Now!”
He was more than willing. He was eager, and caring . . . but very inexperienced. Not a virgin, but pretty close. I took the lead and that helped, but on the whole the experience was a bit disappointing.
I wasn’t too worried, though. Practice is the sovereign remedy for inexperience. So I kept my disappointment to myself.
Cam and I continued to see each other every few weekends or so for the next few months. I flew to D.C. a couple of times, but more often he came out to Pittsburgh, either flying or driving. He had a pretty small apartment in D.C. and hadn’t really explored the city much. In Pittsburgh, we were able to join my work crew for long hikes, camping and kayaking.
We had a lot of fun. He liked my friends; they liked him. He proved to have a wicked sense of humor and he and Fernando could be the life of any party when they were together.
My crew wasn’t much into cycling or running, but Cam and I did those activities together on our own. We explored the Panhandle Trail, the Montour Trail, and the one I knew best, Butler-Freeport Community Trail, giving Cam some appreciation for the area. There are things that you see when you are running or cycling that you never catch when you’re whizzing along in a car, and the rugged hills and wild rivers of Western Pennsylvania are special.
We walked around the city, hand-in-hand or arm-in-arm. Went shopping. Explored restaurants and the food scene. I loved his attention and the care with which he treated my feelings. He always made me feel like I was the most important person in the world.
But the sex didn’t get better; in fact, I was finding myself getting dry while we were making love. That had never happened to me before, leaving me confused and frustrated. Here he was, seemingly the perfect guy, Mr. Right. Everything my husband had failed to be.
I couldn’t figure out what the problem was. I hadn’t become frigid; my occasional one-night stands had always satisfied me sexually. But however much I cared for Cam, respected him, felt somehow drawn to him, in the bedroom there was just no spark. The more I wanted it, the harder I tried, the worse it got.
In desperation, I invited my friend Tish over for dinner and opened up about my tangle of feelings and frustrations. It’s not something I’m at all accustomed to doing, and it made me acutely uncomfortable.
She was sympathetic. “So . . . trouble in paradise? I’m so sorry, Liz. I really thought he might be the one.”
“The worst of it is, I did too!” I said.
She asked some pointed questions about what things I had tried to improve my response to our love-making. The sorts of questions that make me very uncomfortable.
“We tried lots of different things. He is always game for adding romance – a little mental and emotional foreplay. We tried different positions," I said. “And, look . . . Cam and I both have pretty whitebread upbringings. I’ve got a lot more experience, obviously, but . . . we’ve tried things I never did with Jack – or with anyone else. Nothing works. I don’t know what’s wrong!”
“I hate to ask, but . . . he’s okay, physically?”
I shrugged. “Yes. I mean, he’s not deformed or anything. A bit . . . I don’t know . . . delicate. But he’s fully functional, if that’s what you mean.”
Truth is, Cam was on the small side. And maybe that was part of the problem. But that explanation didn’t feel right. Or, at least, sufficient.
She leaned back in her chair, holding her water glass in both hands and giving me a measuring look. “I guess you have to decide how important the sex is for you, Liz.”
“How important?” It seemed like a strange question to me.
She shook her head. “Sex is super important for a lot of people. Maybe most, I don’t know. For other people, it’s kind of nice to have, but other things matter more. If you really like Cam, but he doesn’t do it for you in bed, will that still be okay for you?”
I thought about it. Hard. Do I really need good sex? I thought about how much I enjoyed Cam’s company. Thought what a truly wonderful guy – a wonderful human being – he is. Isn’t that enough?
Finally, I met Tish’s eyes. “No,” I said, sadly. “It would be at first . . . but not for the long term.”
“Do you need to think about the long term?” she asked, practically.
But this question was much easier. “Yeah. Yeah, I do. Not for me. I mean, I’m the queen of flings, right? But . . . that’s not Cam. He only plays for keeps.”
She put down her glass, reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “Liz, you’ve got to stop beating yourself up over this. It’s not Cam’s fault that you are sexually incompatible, and it’s not your fault. And if that matters for either of you, it matters. That’s not your fault either.”
Tish has a really bad habit of being right.
But I was still torn. I didn’t want to throw away something that had seemed to be so good, but I didn’t want to deceive myself or Cam.
So I told Cam at the end of a weekend that I wasn’t sure this was working for me and I needed some time to think about it.
Cam got very still, his blue eyes very focused on mine. Finally, he said, “Liz, you know that I love you. Take all the time you need. I will be here when you are ready to talk, or ready to decide.”
He flew home.
I spent the next few weeks thinking about it, but my mind didn’t change. He’s a lovely person, but Cam is just not the man that I need in the bedroom, and he never will be.
I needed to find a way to tell him, and it didn’t feel right doing it over the phone. It was too cheap, too callous. He hadn’t hesitated to tell me his feelings, and even if I couldn’t share them – or at least, share them fully – I respected them. I wanted him to know, to understand, that I really did care about him. Even though we couldn’t be a couple.
I invited him up for one more weekend; the gang has a camping night planned with some hiking and rock climbing. I would tell him at the end of the weekend.
I knew I had to. But damn, it will be hard.
CHAPTER 3
“You Always Hurt the One You Love”
When Liz sat me down and told me that she needed time to think about our relationship, I assumed the worst. I’d heard the “needing time” line before. But I had never been in a relationship like this before, so I didn’t want to just assume that Liz was attempting to push me away without having to say anything directly. Besides, that’s just not who Liz is.
I did what I had to do: I told her that I loved her and that meant that I would give her as long as she needed. We slept apart that night, and I returned to D.C. the next day with a heavy heart.
I spent the next few weeks like a guilty man awaiting a judge’s sentence. I not only feared the worst, I expected it and in some measure even believed that I deserved it. Liz would not be having doubts, if she felt the same way that I did. So, somehow, I had failed.
I worked hard to steal myself for what I was almost certain was coming. I had ample experience with smart, pretty girls who said they loved me, but weren’t in love with me, "if you know what I mean.”
I knew what that meant, for sure.
I also understood that there’s no point in a relationship where the attraction isn’t mutual. So I had plenty of practice accepting rejection with understanding and, where needed, a bit of self-deprecating humor.
But I wasn’t sure all that experience would be enough, this time. Liz was too special. Too important. And the fact that I was keeping any hope alive kept me from hardening my heart and strengthening my defenses.
After what felt like an interminable time in purgatory, Liz called to invite me to a camping weekend with her work gang. So I pulled together some camping gear and flew to Pittsburgh.
Liz was distant from the start of the weekend. Whatever hope I had faded fast.
The hike into the campground was strenuous and everyone arrived hot, sticky and tired out. By the time we put up the tents and ate a quick dinner, we were all ready to turn in. Liz and I shared a tent, but not a sleeping bag, and we were too close to the other tents to have a private conversation.
Liz simply said, “Goodnight, Cam,” then rolled over and went to sleep.
I lay awake deep into the night, trying to figure out where I had gone wrong and whether there was anything I could do – anything at all – that might salvage the situation. Long after midnight I drifted off into a fitful sleep, only to be awakened a short time later by the sounds of scratching outside the tent.
In the moonlight, I could see the shadow of something small moving along the outside of the tent, about the size of a large, but short, cat. I made a movement of some kind, I think, and the animal stopped, turned, and froze. In an instant, the air was filled with the indelible smell of skunk.
That woke Liz as well. We quickly left the tent, only to discover that the skunk had sprayed not only the tent, but the open packs that we had left under the rain flap. Everything we had with us was permeated with skunk smell. We had to move the tent by moonlight to spare the rest of our group, but there was no sleep for either of us for what little remained of the night.
Liz and I took off down the trail at first light so that our colleagues could eat their breakfast in peace. We made much better time going downhill, and once we got to the car we dumped all of our gear in the back and drove home with every window open.
My plan for the weekend had been a complete bust. I couldn’t give Cam the ax up-front or the weekend would be ruined. But I couldn’t act like there was nothing wrong between us. Always sensitive to my moods, Cam knew immediately what was coming and retreated into his head. Pulling him out again would lead to a discussion I wasn’t ready to have, so I allowed the silence to stretch.
The hike was far more strenuous than any of us thought it was going to be, and Tish in particular was struggling by the end of it. For the last mile or so, Cam kindly volunteered to take her pack and Fernando helped her get to the camp. There was barely time to set up the tents and eat before it was dark, and I had to face sharing a small tent with the guy I was going to dump the next day.
All things considered, my effort to spare Cam had not been well planned. I should have just flown out to DC and met him on his home ground without anyone else around. Coulda. Shoulda. Woulda.
I avoided the situation by crawling into my sleeping bag and pretending to go to sleep right away. I fully expected a bad night, but after the stress I had been under leading up to the weekend, the realization that I was going to relieve the pressure tomorrow, and the strenuous hiking, I actually fell asleep quickly.
That was a good thing, because I woke up much later to the smell of a skunk doing its thing right outside our tent and on top of all of our things. Cam and I dashed out of the tent, pulled up the stakes and moved it fifty yards away in the hopes that the others could sleep. But there was no sleeping for Cam and me. The tent stank, we stank, and all of our clothes stank. Fortunately, there wasn’t much night left.
In light of how badly we reeked, when Janet emerged from her tent at dawn we told her we were going to head home early and asked her to make our apologies to the others. We got home in the evening, stopping only to buy gas and tomato juice from a teenage clerk who actually held his nose.
We made a bee-line for the washing machine in my master bedroom suite. Everything had to come off, and we dropped it all in the wash with a hefty dose of soap and some deodorizer I had left over from the time I took care of a neighbor’s dog. I zipped into my shower and was about done when the hot water started to run out. I shut down the water, dried off, and then slipped on a nightdress.
Then it hit me that Cam had nothing to wear. I didn’t want to have this discussion with him bare-ass naked or wrapped in a towel. So I grabbed the least overtly-feminine robe in my closet and slipped it into the bathroom where Cam was still showering. I went back into my bathroom to dry off my hair.
When the bell on the laundry rang, I pulled my clothes from the dryer and put our hiking clothes in, smelling to see whether the wash had done its work. I threw in three dryer sheets to help the deodorizing process. Intending to fold my laundry, I grabbed the basket and went toward the living room.
When I opened the door, I saw Cam sitting on a small chair by the gas fire that I had turned on when we came in, rhythmically brushing out his hair. Because the robe left his legs exposed practically to his crotch, he had his knees together.
I was suddenly struck by how very feminine he looked, with his long, mostly hairless legs modestly together, in a short lady’s robe, stroking his long dark hair with my hairbrush. His blue eyes were distant, and his rapidly drying hair, loose from his normal ponytail, settled in dark waves around his oval face.
When he became aware of me, Cam attempted to stand up, but this brought a fresh crisis. He got an erection and the short white robe couldn’t cover it. He blushed like a girl and seemed at a complete loss for words.
Inspired by my fresh insight, I grabbed a pair of panties from my laundry basket and tossed them to him. He looked even more embarrassed, if that were possible, but put them on without any protest.
I waved him back to his seat, put down my basket, and sat across from him to give him the horrible little speech I had been preparing for days in advance.
What to say? To someone older or more experienced than Cam, it would be simple enough. Some variation of, “Sorry, it’s not working for me.” But Cam is clearly head-over-heels in the throes of feelings that he has never experienced before. How can I be kind, but still definitive?
“Cam, we need to talk. I’m not going to beat around the bush. You are a wonderful guy. I enjoy spending time with you. But . . . I just don’t think we are sexually compatible. And without that, I think we have to stop seeing each other romantically. I don’t know whether you’ll want to remain friends. We don’t need to decide that today. . . .”
His distant expression transformed into complete misery – desolation. “Oh, God, no!” His voice was husky with pain.
“I’m so very sorry. I wanted it to work out. I really did,” I said, trying to salve the hurt I was inflicting on him.
“Please don’t, Liz. I . . . I’ve never felt like this about anyone before. I’ll do anything . . . .” He began to weep.
I was uncomfortable. I knew he would be devastated, but still! “Cam, we’ve tried. It’s not like there’s some annoying personal habit that you can just fix.”
“But surely there’s something I can do – anything!” To my embarrassment and horror, he slipped off the chair and went down on his knees. “Please, Liz! Please give me another chance!”
“Cam, get up!” I tried again. Surely Cam, who had always listened, always been sensitive to my feelings and needs, would listen and understand. But my words suddenly couldn’t penetrate.
The culmination of all of the stress of the bad weekend, and of Cam’s inexplicable behavior, caused me to lose it. “Okay, look, I tried doing this the easy way. You are forcing me to say things I didn’t want to say. You can’t be my man, Cam. You don’t satisfy me. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to say it, but you forced me to. You forced me!”
He looked like he’d been punched. But even that wasn’t enough. “I can learn! I can! I’m begging you – teach me how to satisfy you!”
I couldn’t believe it. I just looked at him, kneeling before me in my short bathrobe, wearing my panties, crying his eyes out. I looked, and I looked again, and suddenly an idea came to me from out of nowhere. It felt, strange, alien. Dark.
“Fine, Cam,” I said angrily. I lifted up my nightdress. “Eat me.”
CHAPTER 4
“Wild Night”
We got back to Liz’s house around six o’clock that night. We took everything out of the car, stripped everything we were wearing, threw it in the wash and dashed to the showers. I was showering when the hot water ran out, but I still stank so I gritted my teeth and kept at it with tomato juice and the harshest soap Liz had in the house.
Liz, always considerate, had apparently popped in during my shower and left me a robe to wear while our clothes were drying. It was white cotton with a kind of quilted pattern; utilitarian but very short – a style Liz no doubt favored because she knows that her legs look great. I was a bit embarrassed, but Liz and I were clearly not at a stage in our relationship where she was comfortable having me wander around her house nude.
I put it on. It didn’t cover all that much, but it did manage – barely – to hide the essentials. I couldn’t find my comb, which must have been lost in the hurried trek back from camp. So I asked Liz through her bathroom door if I could borrow one.
She stuck out an arm and handed me a brush with a quick apology – it’s all she had. So I sat down by the gas fire and started brushing out my hair while I waited for her to finish what she was doing and come out.
Eventually I looked up to see her in the doorway to her room. She had a basket of clothes on her hip that she had pulled from the dryer to make room for our load of wash, and she was wearing a long, straight sleeveless cotton nightdress in a medium blue that hugged her perfect breasts and flared out beneath them.
I stood up to meet her and, to my extreme embarrassment, I really stood up. My erection pushed up the bottom of the short robe I was wearing and exposed me. I’m sure I turned flame red. Not that Liz hadn’t seen me hard before, but . . . this was not the moment.
Her eyes quirked at the sight, then she reached into her basket and tossed me a pair of underwear. Hers, of course; mine were still drying.
I was even more embarrassed, but realized that it was better to put them on and cover up than to leave myself visibly standing at attention while she pronounced my fate. I slipped them on. Nothing fancy or over-the top, just white nylon panties that held my disobedient member in place.
She waved me back to my seat by the fire and lowered the boom.
I thought that I had prepared myself, but when the moment came, I knew that I had been kidding myself completely. I felt like a gigantic hole had been ripped out of my heart. Unbidden, tears began to flow down my face. I can’t to this day remember the last time I had cried. I was suddenly in anguish, a complete wreck.
I had wanted to go out with dignity, to make it as easy on Liz as I could. She had taken a chance on me and I had failed; I didn’t want to make things any worse. But I couldn’t bring myself to do what I had done so often before: tell her I understood and walk away.
Unreasonably, crazily, overwhelmingly, I felt the need to fight, to plead, for the relationship that was over. I found myself on my knees before her, all dignity gone, begging for another chance, asking that she just tell me what was wrong so I could change.
This was, clearly, not the response that Liz had hoped for, nor was it the one she expected. She tried to stop me. Told me it wasn’t my fault and it wasn’t something I could “fix.”
But I wouldn’t just accept that, and kept at her. I was desperate, and desperation isn’t pretty. It’s not noble, and it’s sure as hell not attractive or sexy.
Liz started to get frustrated, then angry, and finally told me that I didn’t satisfy her in bed.
I was hurt, shocked. I wanted the ground to open up and swallow me. But still I persisted. I begged her to teach me how to satisfy her.
She sat there looking at me, on my knees, tears leaking down my face, for a good minute before saying, “Fine, Cam. Eat me.” She lifted her nightdress above her thighs, exposing her bush and her sweet, sweet lips.
I was shocked before; now I was stunned. I tried to bring myself back from the brink, to return to the person that I had always been – the cool, poker-faced lawyer, the thinker and planner. And I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t turn away. I shuffled forward, on my knees, lowered my head between her legs, kissed her lips, and began to use my tongue.
I couldn’t believe Cam had so little thought for his own dignity, for his self-worth as a man. I had known him as a composed professional, and here he is, on his knees, wearing women’s clothes, kissing and licking me in response to my angry demand.
What’s worse, in a way, is that somewhere deep inside, I liked it. I felt powerful, in charge, a goddess accepting worship from a lesser being. Little BethAnn the cheerleader, Jack’s little wifey, was suddenly the boss. I felt myself grow wet, then wetter still.
As Cam’s tongue penetrated deeper and deeper, all of my frustration, all of my stress, all of my uncertainty faded away. I felt boneless, leaning back in my chair, panting, as wave after wave of pleasure overwhelmed me. I grabbed his hair and pulled him closer, not allowing him to break contact, not allowing him to stop. I came, again, and again, and again.
Finally, I allowed him to pull away. I was glassy; he looked dazed. I had just enough presence of mind left to direct him to the guest bedroom. I told him we would talk in the morning.
CHAPTER 5
“Guilty”
I woke early, hearing nothing but the usual morning birds. I was a wreck. How could I have done that to someone that I cared about? How could I have humiliated him like that, and then, unpardonably, gotten off on it? I’m a Pittsburgh girl and my bedroom desires have always been conventional.
I felt dirty.
But how must he be feeling this morning? The woman he was passionately in love with had just treated him like . . . I couldn’t even come up with a good analogy. He must be absolutely destroyed!
I quickly threw on a robe, popped into the kitchen and got coffee started. Then I headed back into the master bedroom, stopping to empty the dryer and dump our dry clothes onto the bed. While I was getting everything folded, I heard the shower by the guest bedroom, so Cam was up as well.
I wasn’t ready to face him yet. But I put his folded clothes on his bed, went into the kitchen, poured him a cup of coffee and dropped it off on the vanity while he was still showering. I saw the panties I had loaned him last night drying on the towel rack, so I clearly was not the only one who got relief last night. I snagged them on my way out, went back into my bedroom suite and started my own shower after tossing the still-damp panties into the dryer.
I took my time in the shower, washing my hair, lathering multiple times, using conditioner and rinsing. I got out, toweled and put the blow dryer to my hair, taking the time to get it completely dry. Then I stood in my closet, trying to figure out what to wear. This was about as unlike me as I can imagine. Finally I got disgusted at my own stalling, threw on something sensible and comfortable, and went out to face the music.
Cam was seated on the back deck sipping his coffee and to all appearances contemplating the woods. Again, I paused to observe him. Cameron Savin was definitely back; I couldn’t imagine how I found him to be feminine the prior evening. Of course, his hair was now pulled back into his usual low, male ponytail, and he was wearing a very practical hiking shirt tucked into his Levi’s.
But the real difference, I thought, was his face: composed, collected, exuding intelligence, understanding, and balance. It was the face I remembered from our first meetings. There was no trace of the distress or desperation that had overcome him.
He finally turned his head and “caught me out” looking. A small smile touched his lips and he waved me over.
I grabbed a cup of coffee myself and brought the pot out with me to top up his cup.
He thanked me and said, “It’s okay Liz. Sit down; I’ve got my shit back together. There are some things that I need to say, and then I’ll leave you to enjoy what looks like a beautiful day.”
I sat and – for a change – said nothing.
He took a minute to sip his coffee, then set the cup down on a side table and faced me directly.
Once again, I felt held by those incredible blue eyes.
Then he sighed. “Look, I don’t think this is going to get any easier, so let me plunge in. I’m so very sorry about last night. I thought I was prepared, but I just lost it. Completely. I had no right to do that to you. None. Especially knowing your history with your Ex. We gave it a try – a really good try – but it didn’t work out. Sure as hell, it’s not how I would have wanted you to remember me. So, that’s first.”
Before I could jump in, he added, “The other thing I have to say is thank-you. Putting yesterday aside, these past couple of months have been amazing for me. I’ll treasure the memories. You are really incredible and my only wish is that you have all the best that life has to offer.”
He stopped suddenly, picked up his coffee, and took a longer pull. “That’s all I needed to say, Liz. I told you it wouldn’t be so bad. Let me finish this coffee and I’ll get myself an Uber to the airport.”
Suddenly, I found myself tearing up. “Damn, how do you do that?” I grabbed a paper napkin before I made a mess of my face.
He looked, I don’t know . . . Surprised? Concerned? “Liz, what’s wrong? Please . . . I’m trying not to make this worse.”
I nodded, took a shaky breath followed by a sip of my own coffee while I tried to figure out what I wanted to say. Finally, I had myself together enough. “I can’t believe you’re apologizing – much less thanking me. After what I did last night, I thought you would hate me. I was afraid to face you this morning. That’s why I took so long in the damned bathroom. I was a complete bitch, and all you had done – the only thing you had done – was love me too much. I don’t know how you can even bear to look at me!”
I said this, keeping my eyes firmly fixed on the coffee I was cupping in both hands, afraid that I wouldn’t be able to finish if I looked at him. But the silence dragged on, and finally I looked up into those blue eyes. That quiet, still face.
He just looked at me. I saw love and understanding that I knew I didn’t deserve.
Before he could say anything, I had to tell him the rest. “The worst of it is, Cam, I enjoyed it. Not the breakup. I hated that.
“But the rest of it . . . . You were there; I think you have a very real idea of how much I enjoyed it. I can’t fake an orgasm to save my life. I lost count of the number I had last night. I’ve never experienced anything like it. And it wasn’t love, it wasn’t even lust, exactly. It was power. I felt powerful. Invulnerable. What does that make me, Cam? What the fuck am I?”
He processed that quietly, never taking his eyes off my face. Finally he said, very quietly, “Liz, you are who you are. What you experienced last night is a part of who you are. And who you are, as a whole, is pretty amazing. There is a dark side to every personality trait.”
I cut him off. “But I hurt you, dammit! If that’s a part of me, I don’t want it!”
That seemed to stop him. He looked away, finally. Took a moment with his own coffee. Opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
Still looking away, he said, “Okay. I don’t want you to have to bear that burden, so I guess I’m going to have to dig my grave a little deeper than I already have. Your rejection hurt me. Of course it did. I lost it.
“But what came later? I enjoyed it, Liz. God help me, but I enjoyed every humiliating minute of that sexual experience. I exploded while I was getting you off. Never even touched myself. You think I can’t bear to look at you? Are you kidding? It’s the mirror I’m having trouble with. And what you will think of me, now that you know.”
This, I was not prepared for. I tried to wrap my mind around it. I wasn’t sure that I could. He offered me redemption from the hell that I woke up to . . . but at what price? He had tried to reclaim his dignity this morning, but in the end he sacrificed it again, telling his deepest secret, his deepest shame, so that I wouldn’t hate myself for what I had done.
I was completely at sea. No idea what to say; how to respond. What would Cam say, if he were sitting in my seat, and I was in his? Just for a minute, don’t be Bossypants Liz. How would the voice of an understanding heart respond?
Finally I knew what I had to say. “Cam. Look at me, please? Look at me.”
Slowly, he turned his gaze back, and while his expression remained calm his eyes were full of pain.
“You are the most understanding person I have ever met,” I began. “In all the time I’ve known you, I have never felt judged. Even this morning, when I had every reason to expect anger and worse, you gave me understanding and love. Can’t you give yourself the same gift? And can’t you trust me to extend just a bit of the same understanding you give to me? What did you just say? What you felt last night is part of who you are. I’m here to tell you that who you are is pretty damned special.”
The pain in his eyes eased, but it didn’t go away. “Thank you for that. But honestly, I don’t know if this is something I can understand. I don’t know if I can be both Cameron Savin, attorney, professional, and . . . and whatever it was that I was yesterday. I don’t know how I can bridge that gap.”
“If it were another person,” I asked him, “if it weren’t you, would you condemn the person you were last night?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to think I wouldn’t. I’m just an overeducated boy from the Midwest. But I know that different people are turned on, sexually, by different things. Some of those are harmful; I suppose being turned on by being dominated by someone else isn’t. Pretty weird for a guy, though.”
I wonder why he thinks it’s okay for a girl to be submissive, but not a guy. But I don’t think it would help him to have that discussion. And . . . I’m not positive that I don’t share his bias.
“Okay,” I said. "Let’s think of the person you were last night as someone else. Let’s even pretend that person wasn’t a guy. Imagine it was a girl. Let’s call her, I don’t know, ‘Candi.’ You don’t know anything about Candi, you just know that this is what makes her tick. Is Candi evil? Nasty? Someone to avoid?”
He thought a long minute. “Taking myself out of it, and imagining that it was a girl? No. I wouldn’t condemn Candi. She is who she is. I wouldn’t think less of her for it, though I might not want to date her. I’ve never tried it, but I’m very confident that I don’t have any desire to dominate other people.”
“So, we’ve got mirror images, don’t we? I got off on dominating Candi; Candi got off on being dominated. She and I enjoyed it . . . a lot. Is that okay?”
Cam took even longer to think about the question. “Yes, I suppose that’s okay. . . . The difference is, you don’t have to split yourself to make it work, and I do. It would be a mirror image if we were talking about you and me, or if we were talking about someone else and Candi.”
“I’m not sure I follow,” I said.
“You clearly were disturbed by finding power to be intoxicating, but being powerful is absolutely part of who you are every day. You can be proud to be that person, while understanding that power has dark sides, like domination, that you have to be careful about. On the other hand, Candi isn’t part of who I am every day, and thank God she isn’t. There’s nothing about powerlessness and submissiveness to be proud of.”
I tried to think of a counterargument, but he said, “Tell me this. When you said last night that we were breaking up because I couldn’t satisfy you, you weren’t saying that I should have used my tongue, were you?”
“Cam, do you really want to go there? I’ve hurt you enough this weekend.”
“I understand, Liz, and I know you are trying to spare me. But . . . we clearly do have a way to satisfy each other’s sexual desires. It simply requires me to be Candi in the bedroom and Cam outside of it. I doubt that’s what you were thinking about, and I doubt that’s what I have been looking for. Am I right?”
I hadn’t thought about it like that, but . . . . “You’re right. Last night’s sex, call it sex with ‘Candi,’ was incredible. But it wasn’t just the difference in technique, and it wasn’t about love. It was all about feeling powerful and sexually dominant. But . . . no, that’s not what I’m looking for in a long-term relationship. I’m so sorry. I really am.”
But he nodded in agreement. “That’s pretty much where I’m at too. When I get married, I want to be in a relationship that doesn’t depend on games in the bedroom. That’s what I’ve always looked for; I’m pretty sure it’s still what I want. ‘Candi’ isn’t a main course.”
After that, we sat for a long while, just sipping our coffee and sharing the quiet. I thought about Cam leaving. I had learned so much about myself in just the past day, and had explored that with an incredible person who did not judge me for it. He could not be my man, but I didn’t want to just let him go. Can we just be friends? Is that enough? Or . . . .
“Cam.” I got his attention again. “I don’t want to let you go. I really want you to be in my life, even if you can’t be my man and I can’t be your girl. I want Cam Savin as my friend, my confidante, my conscience.”
I paused, took a breath, and plunged on. “And . . . I want Candi too. Not forever. But right now. What happened last night, what I experienced, was like a door opened in my world. I’m afraid of what’s on the other side, but I want to explore it, too. But I only want to explore it with you, with Candi. With the person who can explore it with the same fears, but also the same . . . I don’t know how to describe it. Joy? Pleasure? But also love and compassion.
“Please . . . you don’t have to answer now. I know it’s hard for you, and I understand why you say it’s harder than it is for me. I get it. You may not be comfortable, and if that’s the case I absolutely understand. But if you want to open that door again, I’ll go through it with you.”
CHAPTER 6
“Can’t We Try”
The discovery of my over-the-top sexual reaction to Liz’s order to eat her, my arousal at being dominated, my overpowering urge to please her, was earth-shattering. But our conversation the next morning was, in its own way, even more stunning.
I was up early and showered to clear my head and get the smell of sex off me. When I got out of the shower, I found that Liz had left a cup of coffee for me on the vanity and my clothes in the bedroom. She had also taken the panties that I had hand-washed and hung to dry before going to bed. My face burned in shame with the reminder.
I got dressed and packed. I heard her shower running, and thought briefly about just walking out, catching an Uber, and going home. I was so embarrassed, and I couldn’t imagine what I was going to say to Liz. She must despise me. Why not? I despise me.
But I couldn’t do that.
As bad a mess as I’d made of things, I wanted to try to end things on a better note, and I really, really owed Liz an apology. I needed to face her, however hard, and say what had to be said. So I took the coffee she had poured for me out onto the back deck and tried to still my mind, to center my thoughts, so that I could get through what had to be gotten through, and do what needed to be done.
After a while, it became clear that she was going to give me plenty of time to compose myself. She still hadn’t emerged after forty-five minutes. I was starting to think that she might want me to do what I had contemplated earlier – just leave, without saying anything more. Maybe she was just waiting for me to get the hint and get out. I decided I’d give it another five minutes.
Then I turned and saw her through the sliding glass door, standing in the doorway to her bedroom, watching me. Time to face the music. I waved her out.
She stepped out onto the deck carrying coffee for herself and the pot for me. Liz always looked great, and this morning she had clearly taken some time. Her hair was glossy and flowed in the morning sun like waves of fire. Her skin was flawless, her make-up minimal but perfect. She was wearing a pair of jeans that flattered her lean curves, tan ballet shoes that showcased her delicate feet and ankles, and a sleeveless top in cornflower blue, with a high collar, a gathered waist, and a flare at the hips. As always, she looked completely put-together.
I asked her to sit down and said what I had to say. I hoped to put her at ease and make the parting as painless as it could be after the events of the weekend. But instead, she started to cry. I couldn’t imagine what I had done.
I was shocked to discover that she was feeling terrible about her own behavior the previous evening. Sure, she was angry and lashed out. But I thought her anger was entirely justified by my own behavior. I was prepared for her rejection and knew from experience how I was supposed to react to it. That’s how I intended to respond, how any adult should have responded. She had a right to expect that, and when I collapsed instead, she had the right to be furious. But that, clearly, was not how she saw it.
And, she appeared to be completely shaken by the intense sexual gratification she got when I went down on her. It seems strange to me that she was so surprised. Our prior lovemaking, which I had enjoyed (though she, as I learned to my dismay, had not, or at least, not to the same extent), was varied – at least, I thought it had been.
But even within our whitebread range, she was on top more often than not. She had a tendency to take command in the bedroom and outside of it. That hadn’t distressed me. I’ve always preferred to ride a strong current rather than fight it.
I tried to ease the anguish she was clearly feeling by saying that there wasn’t anything wrong with the fact that she was a dominant personality, but that didn’t seem to penetrate. She was convinced that she had hurt me, deeply hurt me, by the sexual demands that she made.
I couldn’t let that stand. I just couldn’t. I had done enough damage already. But the only way to ease her mind was to tell her the truth, even though that was probably the only thing that could make her think even less of me. I had to tell her how much I had enjoyed the experience.
And I had. Lord God, I had.
Finally I told her, but I couldn’t bear to watch, to see in her eyes the same loathing I felt in the very core of my being.
But amazingly, she did not condemn. She reached out with compassion and understanding. I was relieved, but also saddened. Where would I find such a treasure again? Put aside her physical beauty, she was intelligent, kind, and understanding too.
But . . . she made it clear that we could not be a couple, and I had to accept that. I was not going to make the same mistake twice.
We ended the talk, or so I thought, with a long silence. Silence that, finally, was not ominous or oppressive. We had each bared our souls and received a form of absolution. It was almost time to go, but I stretched the moment of companionable quiet just a little longer.
And then, suddenly, she broke the silence with one more bombshell. Despite everything that had happened, she wanted to remain friends – something that I have heard often enough, but she clearly meant it – and she wanted to continue to explore the sexual dynamic that we had both experienced the prior evening.
More specifically, she wanted Cam as a friend, and my submissive, feminine alter ego that she called “Candi,” as a . . . what? Lover? Not really. Sex toy, maybe. Call a spade a spade.
She wasn’t expecting an answer right away, and I wasn’t prepared to give her one. The prospect both excited and repelled me. I did not know whether I could be both Cam and Candi. But I also really, really didn’t want to say goodbye. Could we simply be friends with this issue left unresolved? I was skeptical.
What do I want? My sexual experience last night was explosive.
Finally, I put my hands in hers, and said, “Thank you . . . for your open heart, for your understanding, and for the invitation. I don’t want to say goodbye either, and I’ll be honest. I’m also intrigued by what happened last night. Probably more fundamentally distressed than you are, though. So I need to think about whether I can afford to open that door and walk through it. Let’s think about it and be in touch in a few weeks. You may feel completely different in a couple days. I might, too.”
And so I caught my flight home. When I unpacked my suitcase, I found that Liz had slipped a couple of items into it while I was making my last trip to the restroom before leaving: the pair of white nylon panties I had creamed the night before, together with the matching bra.
She had pinned a note to the left bra strap that said, “To Candi, for her thoughts and daydreams. Eros, Liz.”
CHAPTER 7
“Your Wildest Dreams”
After Cam left my house, I sat on the deck trying to come to terms with everything that had happened, and trying to rationalize the offer I had made to Cam. What was I looking for? Why did I get wet at the very thought of sexually dominating a man that I admired and respected for his calm, his well-tempered mind, and his dignity?
Finally I did some background research, using private browser settings to ensure that I would not receive an avalanche of embarrassing ads every time I used my computer. I learned that my desires were not unique to me, and I learned a bit about the unique sub-culture of dominance and submission. My reading helped me to understand Cam/Candi a bit as well.
Okay, we were not “normal.” In the Congregational Church in which I was raised, “normal” would have been far from the description used in connection with what I was contemplating. But, it seemed at least possible that we would be able to experiment with the kinks in our sexual desires without harming each other. We were not married or otherwise attached, and, before I met Cam I hadn’t been looking for anyone either.
I’m well aware that I’m thirty-two and I have heard of a biological clock. But I’ve never been very maternal. I have four siblings and plenty of nieces and nephews for when I feel the need for a kid fix. I hand them back afterwards, and everyone is happy. I don’t need babies of my own to complete my life. So I have time, even at my advanced age, to play around.
Cam had suggested that we sit with this for a while, and I decided that was a good idea. Besides, a little book-learning goes a long way. So I went about my normal routines for a while. I had dinner at Fernando and Tish’s house, and let them know that I had broken up with Cam. Based on my earlier comments, Tish wasn’t surprised. She asked how he had taken it, and I lied smoothly.
Or maybe I didn’t. Cam had taken it well. He had been calm and understanding, had thanked me for a wonderful few months, and had assigned no blame. Candi, on the other hand, had been a wreck. Of course, I hadn’t known about Candi at the time, and there was no earthly reason why Tish and Fernando would ever need to know about her. But saying that Cam had been warm and understanding was true, looked at from a certain angle.
Anyhow, Tish and Fernando both agreed that Cam was a great guy and they were sorry things hadn’t worked out. We talked about other things.
The passage of time did not change the way that I felt. If anything, my desire to explore a sexual relationship with a gentle and feminine Candi only grew. I could give myself an orgasm just thinking about it. More than once, I did.
I half expected to hear from Cam, but as the weeks passed it was clear that the initiative, as usual, was mine. So I pulled out some paper and wrote Candi a “come hither” note. Then I tore it up and tried again. And again.
I had to clearly communicate, first, that I really valued Cam as a person and friend, and I didn’t want anything to screw that up. And, I wanted him to know that I wanted his friendship whether or not he decided to explore our sexual fantasies together. Too, I wanted to underscore that, regardless of what we were doing in the bedroom, we were no longer a couple. There were a lot of crosscurrents there.
I settled on a letter to Cam and a separate letter to Candi. I re-read them several times, and finally sealed Candi’s note inside the envelope with Cam’s letter and dropped them into a mailbox on my way to work.
I had hit on the notion of booking a room at a good hotel in neutral territory – neither Pittsburgh nor D.C. – and giving Cam/Candi the choice to show up, or not. The two suites were expensive, and I would regret the expense if s/he didn’t show. But I decided the chance was worth the risk.
I put the odds of Cam showing up at greater than fifty percent, but the odds of his being willing to let Candi loose at closer to forty percent. Nonetheless, I did a little shopping so I would have some toys to spice up the encounter if Candi should choose to make an appearance. Nothing too crazy. Just being “Candi” rather than “Cam” was going to be a lot for him to deal with.
On the day itself, I drove out to Philadelphia, checked myself into the hotel and left a key to the adjoining suit at the desk for Cam to pick up.
If he came.
A couple weeks passed after my trip to Pittsburgh. Work was busy, which was a good thing for me. Fortunately, I’ve always been good about compartmentalizing. I was working on three other cases, and between drafting memos to partners, preparing deposition outlines, and researching potential expert witnesses, I was able to put aside my emotional turmoil and stay focused.
I had a performance review and learned that everyone was very pleased with my work. Yay.
But when I would get back to my apartment late in the evening and cautiously loosen the iron bands I kept around my emotions, it was rough. What Liz was offering wasn’t something I had ever wanted in a relationship. But, much as I hated to admit it, the thought completely turned me on.
I started wearing Liz’s panty and bra set when I sat at my kitchen table eating my typically Spartan dinner late at night, my cock hard as a rock and straining against the thin, silky fabric. I would lie down and imagine the things Liz might want me to do, how it would feel . . . .
Liz’s suggestion was like a tap root into my soul. It brought up old, old memories that I thought I had put behind me a long time ago, things from my childhood. Whatever the reason, though, I wanted what I wanted, and there was absolutely no denying that the thought of being Liz’s Candi, while deeply humiliating, was also something that left me practically panting.
Still, I thought that Liz herself might have second thoughts as a bit of time passed. That the memory of the sexual excitement she felt would be replaced by contempt for the girl-man she had allowed to get close to her. For weeks, I was poised on a razor’s edge between fear and desire, longing, and self-disgust.
Then I received a note in the mail from Liz. I brought it into my apartment and stared at it for a couple of minutes before I was able to work up the courage to open it, finding a letter and a second, sealed envelope.
The letter was short – “Dear Cam – I want to thank you for our time together these last few months. You are a truly remarkable person, and I hope and pray you will stay in my life as a dear friend even though our relationship didn’t work out. Everyone says that. I mean it, Cam. I really, really do. So please, whatever else happens, don’t just walk away. I won’t bother you if you affirmatively tell me to leave you alone, but I warn you now that’s what it’s going to take. And, of course, feel free to call any time. The crew misses you as well; they thought highly of you and would certainly welcome your continued participation in our outdoor activities, even though we are no longer a couple. Fernando and Tish are the only couple in the group, so I don’t think you would have to feel like the odd man out. Think about it. Know that I care about you deeply.”
This was lovely, and thoughtful. Far better than I had any right to expect after the complete hash I had made of things when Liz had lowered the boom. And, truth be known, it was appealing. Through Liz, I had connected to a whole social circle that was a lot of fun, and discovered activities that I had never even thought to partake in were thoroughly enjoyable. I wasn’t ready to jump back in as “just a friend” to Liz. But in time, maybe.
I didn’t dwell on that, though. The interior envelope was addressed to Candi, and the note inside was even shorter.
“If you are ready to come out of hiding and find out who you really are, meet me at the Rittenhouse Hotel in Philadelphia on September 28. I have booked adjacent suites with a connecting door, and I will leave the key to your room at the front desk in an envelope addressed to Cam. I expect he and I will have a few things to settle before you are invited, but after that I will strip you of your defenses, put you through your paces and unlock your desires, one by one.”
The note was initialed, “LT.”
To be continued . . . .
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Earthen Vessels
“Okay, guys . . . let’s just wait ’til the service is over.” Mom – in this context, “Mrs. Rubenstein” – gave all of us the benefit of a moderate, but still quelling, glare.
Connor – tall, skinny, nervous – shuffled his feet. “Uh . . . I’ve only got a couple hours, Mrs. Rubenstein. I’ve got basketball practice at 1:30.”
“And you have to eat before then,” my mother responded. “I know – your mom was very specific. But we need to be respectful and cleanup work is going to be noisy. We’ll wait.”
None of the rest of us said anything. I knew better, of course. My mom was fun and irrepressible and I loved her to pieces, but . . . no one was ever crazy enough to give her any shit twice. Not even my new best friend’s Mom, and she was some kinda scary too.
Chase was, of course, listening to the preacher intently. She was always intent, focused. So studious that she showed me up, and before I’d had her in my classes, I’d always thought I was the undisputed head of the brainy girl’s group.
“It is God’s judgment!!!” the preacher thundered. “If He is absent in our time of need, it is our own fault. It is we – we ourselves!!! – who have banned Him from the Public Square!”
A graceful eyebrow rose a millimeter higher on Chase’s forehead. “Heresy, Reverend,” she murmured. “Second Timothy, thirteen.”
She was barely audible – I was standing right next to her, and I almost missed what she said. Naturally, Mom caught it, even though she had to be at least ten yards away. She shot Chase a warning look.
Chase inclined her head in acknowledgement.
“Have we not seen – Have we not witnessed – the signs of the end of days?!!! Behold! The seas rise, and the winds howl! Earthquakes and fires!! And, yes, tornadoes! Nation fights against nation. Brother against brother! The natural against the unnatural!!! Repent!!! Repent, my children! Pray – pray that you may be numbered among the elect!!! For if you believe, your suffering here on earth, even the terrible sufferings of these last few days, will be washed away, washed away in the blood of the Lamb!!!!”
Chase shook her head, its motion almost undetectable. “Forgetting Matthew 24, 34 through 44?” This time, her words were scarcely louder than a breath.
I neither had, nor wanted, Chase’s familiarity with Christian scriptures. I’d made my Bat Mitzvah, but my family wasn’t terribly religious. I studied what I had to study and moved on. My own interests tended to run to higher mathematics, chemistry and the hard sciences. I wanted to be – honest to G-D – a rocket scientist. The absolute last thing I had any interest in was parsing the theological ramblings of a backcountry huckster.
There was lots more of the same, and Chase never lost her intense focus on the . . . sermon? Homily? Tirade? . . . whatever. But the rest of us were looking bored at best. Connor, Jayden, Abby and I were ready to get to work. But Sydney and Makayla were looking downright ill.
I looked at Mom. Was there, just maybe, a chink in her armour? Some indication of discomfort, or at least, at lack of resolve? We should be working. The tornado had ravaged the entire trailer park, and we only had a few hours to help.
But no. She was standing perfectly still, a completely unreadable look on her face, eyes focused on the preacher. Mom’s posture always made her look far taller than her actual height. At only 5’3”, she was the shortest person in our party.
We’d joked about this trip. “Take your daughter to work day” was next week. But in a way, I always went to work with Mom. She taught several classes at my high school, including – most relevantly – an elective course in, of all things, moral philosophy (Yeah. It’s that kind of a school). By mutual decision, I did not take any of her classes. But she had asked for students from her M-phil class to come out on a Saturday morning to join her in some volunteer work. And, since I was her daughter, and some of my friends were going, she’d asked me to come too.
“You know, other girls will get to take a day off next week to be with their moms,” I’d snarked – at home, naturally. Snarking at Mom when she was wearing her “Mrs. Rubenstein” hat was, to say the least, contraindicated.
Mom had laughed at me. “Yeah, for all the good that’ll do them. They're just going to have to make up the work.”
Makayla finally couldn’t take any more. She managed to blurt out an “excuse me, ma’am,” before moving quickly to one of the three portapotties the State contractor had set up at the edge of the site. They were further away from the “service,” and I hoped for Mike’s sake they were far enough.
Mom briefly flashed a look of compassion at Mike’s departing back before returning to an impassive, eyes-front stance.
I thought Syd might follow Mike’s example when the preacher hit a new crescendo in volume and a new low in content, but fortunately it was the finale – kind of like at the Fourth of July, when they finish with a whole bunch of fireworks going off at once. The service was over.
“Okay, everyone.” Mom turned and effortlessly gathered our attention. “We’re going to split up into groups of two. Mr. Strickland will give out the assignments. Gather back here at noon sharp. Clear?” Strickland was the site super from the State Emergency Management Agency.
We all nodded.
Mr. Strickland – a big, craggy-faced older guy with silver and blond hair – assigned all of the school groups to help residents who were sorting through the debris, trying to find and reclaim at least some of what they’d lost. His crews, on the other hand, were doing the bigger jobs – hauling away scrap, putting tarps on roofs, clearing downed trees, dealing with plumbing issues . . . . it was a long list.
I made sure Chase and I were a team. She’d transferred to our school just a couple months earlier, and while we’d become close, she wasn’t tight with a lot of the other students. She gave me a sweet smile when I asked, clearly appreciating my effort to make her feel welcome.
Chase and I, along with Mike and Jayden, were assigned to help some families on the south side of the park, so we headed that direction. I waved at Mom, who gave a brief wave back in acknowledgement.
“God, can you believe this place?” Jayden looked stunned. “I saw it on the news, but . . . jeez, I had no idea, you know?”
“I know, right? It’s like someone dropped a bomb.” I shook my head, causing my hair to get in my face. I dug into a pocket of my jeans, got a scrunchie and pulled the mass of it back into a more practical ponytail.
“Mike?” Chase’s voice was soft. “You okay?”
Mike looked . . . haunted, I guess. And tense. Her arms were wrapped tight, like she was giving herself a hug. If it was supposed to give her comfort, it wasn’t working. “I grew up in a place like this,” Mike said after a brief hesitation. “I know what it’s like, after . . . .” She fell silent.
Equally tentative, Chase pulled Mike in for a one-armed hug. We kept walking, silently viewing the devastation. Uprooted trees, tossed like salad and hurled against houses that buckled like the tin cans they were . . . entire roofs stripped away, exposing every room . . . pots and pans, broken plates, TVs, toys and even toilets, strewn all around. Lives upended.
Coming to the end of the street, we found people – clearly residents – picking through what had, just days before, been what they called home. A man looked at us suspiciously, then came toward us. A couple women from adjoining properties, seeing him move, came over as well.
“We’re busy,” he said gruffly.
I stepped forward. It was my mom’s class, and somehow I felt responsible. “We’re here to help. I’m Sarah, this is Makayla, Jaden and Chase.”
His look remained guarded. “You’re not with the government or anything?”
I shook my head. “No, sir. We’re just students.”
“We’re just trying to help.” I thought Jayden sounded a bit louder and more defensive than was probably helpful.
“Don’t want no charity,” the man said.
“Just folks,” Chase said softly, taking her arm off Mike.
The man’s eyes followed the movement. Carefully.
Mike nodded. “Neighbors. My folks lived in Rockaway when it was hit two years ago. Lost . . . well, everything. Neighbors helped.”
Something in her voice, or what she said, made a difference. The man nodded. “That’s all right then. Thanks for comin’ out . . . neighbors.”
Time to seize the moment. “How can we be helpful?”
“Me ’n my boy’ll be fine,” the man said. “But Mrs. Trainor over there, and Kitty Joe Smiley, I ’spect they could use some help.”
The woman who’d come from the trailer on the left was probably in her mid-thirties. There were a couple kids back at her trailer, being about as helpful as kids ever are. She smiled – tired, but somehow still nice – and said, "It'd be a blessing, it would.”
Mike started forward, stopped, and looked at Jayden. He smiled, nodded and joined her in following the woman. I figured at least one of them would be doing some babysitting – and, knowing Mike, I expected it would be Jayden.
“Tom Peters, I don’t need no help.” The woman who had come from the other trailer was older – 50s, I thought. Maybe 60s. She was wearing sweatpants and a sweatshirt, and a shapeless hat covered her gray hair.
The man – Peters, I guess – gave the woman an exasperated look. “Coulda fooled me, Irene, since you’ve pulled me away from my own work three times already. Let the kids help.”
“Oh, fine,” she said, showing a bit of dramatic flounce. “C’mon, then. You will anyways.”
Chase and I gave each other a look.
She smiled.
I shook my head.
We both wandered over.
“How can we help, Mrs.Trainor?” Chase asked when we reached the woman’s trailer.
She gave Chase a sour look and said, “Not sure you can, unless you’re handin’ out miracles. But come along. I’m sure I’ll think of somethin.’”
* * * * *
Two hours later, I was thinking ruefully that we’d been kept pretty damned busy, for all that she didn’t think she’d find a use for us. Mostly we’d been moving bigger things – broken furniture, some tree branches, things like that – so Mrs. Trainor could search for salvageable items.
The damage was bizarre. Even within a single tract, some things were damaged, others were untouched, and still others were pulverized. When we weren’t moving bigger things, Chase and I spent a lot of time trying to find family photos. She’d kept them in a sealed bin, but the plastic had been no match for the twister.
We were just picking up a spray of photos that we’d found out in the street under a mattress when Mom arrived. “How’s it going, girls?”
I was looking at a photo of a much younger Irene Trainer, a husky, bearded man at her side and an infant in her arms. She was young. Pretty. Smiling like a spring morning. I started to cry, and somehow completely forgot that Mom was on duty. “I . . . “ My breath caught, and I tried again. “I . . . Oh, Mom, it’s so awful!”
She walked over, looked at the photo, and wrapped me in her arms. “I know, honey,” she said. “But I need you to be strong, now, okay?”
“That you do,” said a voice behind me.
I pulled free and turned around. Mrs. Trainer looked at me, then held out her hand. When I gave her the photo, she gave it a long look, her face showing a range of emotions too complicated to follow. Then she dropped her hand to her side. “This world’ll chew you up and leave you nothin’ but gristle,” she said. “Youth won’t save you. Pretty won’t save you. Put your faith in Jesus, girl. You won’t see Him much, but He won’t let you down.”
I was going to say something, but Mom touched my arm lightly. “I’m so sorry for your loss, Ma’am. I’m Linda Rubenstein; this is my daughter, the others are my students. I hope they’ve been helpful.”
Mrs. Trainer’s expression didn’t change. Maybe her eyes flickered at Mom’s name . . . but maybe they didn’t. I have been known to be a bit sensitive about that.
But after a moment, she nodded and said, “the girls have been helpful . . . and polite.” It didn’t even sound grudging.
“Good,” Mom said approvingly. “Though, I’m afraid I’m going to have to bring them home now. Several of them have commitments, and I promised to watch the clock.”
Chase shook her head. “I’m staying, Mrs. Rubenstein. Remember? Mom said she’d be by to pick me up later this afternoon.”
“Of course, that’s right,” Mom said. “You sure you’ll be alright?” She sounded dubious.
Chase smiled. “I’ll be fine. There’s . . . well, there’s just lots more to do.”
Mom looked around, taking in the scene around us. “Isn’t that the truth. . . . I wouldn’t normally, but your mom was pretty insistent.” She looked at Mrs. Trainer. “If it’s alright with you?”
The woman grunted. “Of course. She’s helpful.”
I was eager to be gone . . . but I suddenly felt ashamed of my feelings. Chase had to be as uncomfortable as I was, but she wasn’t running back to her very nice life. “Mom, I’d like to stay, too . . . I’m sure Chase’s mom will drop me off.”
Mom looked surprised . . . then pleased. “I take my daughter to work, then she stays late and I go home.” She smiled. “You’re growing up, Tippy.” She looked at us both and said, “Stay together, stay safe, and get Mr. Strickland if there’s any trouble.”
After saying her goodbyes to Mrs. Trainer, she headed off to collect the others.
Chase said, “Mrs. Trainer, Mr. Strickland’s crew brought sandwiches along for everyone. Would you like me to get you one?”
“Don’t want no government handouts,” she snarled, her face darkening.
With far more understanding than I was feeling, Chase said, “they’re neighbors, too, Mrs. Trainer. And it’s your own tax dollars at work.”
“Suit yerself, Missy,” she said. “But I don’t hold with it.”
Chase shrugged and went back to work. After a minute, Mrs. Trainer called over to her, “no reason you should go without. Go on, now.”
Chase turned back with a smile. “No reason for you to go without either, Mrs. Trainer.”
“I got my principles, girl. And my pride!”
Chase added a twinkling eye to a smile that just got wider. “Me, too! And one of my principles is, I don’t eat when my host goes hungry.”
Trainer glowered. “You just made that up!”
“Uh huh,” Chase agreed, cheerfully. “But I like it. C’mon, Sarah – there’s more photos over by the wall.”
Mrs. Trainer didn’t move. She looked surprised, but . . . that’s just because she didn’t know Chase. Chase gave stubborn a whole new meaning.
When we were far enough away from “our host,” she turned her smile on me. “Tippy?”
It was my turn to glower. “Don’t ask. Don’t even go there. She is so dead for saying that in public!”
Chase giggled, and turned back to work. Without looking up, she said, “sorry about lunch. I kinda got my back up, you know?”
That got me giggling. “Wow, that’s a revelation, Captain Obvious!”
Chase was right; there were a lot of photos by the wall, which was cinderblock and had come through mostly intact, in the process catching a lot of material that had been ripped from the trailer. A few minutes later, as I was brushing away some broken shards of something to get at more photos, I heard a cry behind me. Before I could turn around, Mrs. Trainer dropped to the ground beside me.
She grabbed a broken piece of pottery and, for the first time, started to cry. They were hard, bitter tears, and I was completely at a loss for what to do. “Mrs. Trainer?” I asked, hesitantly. “Mrs. Trainer?”
Chase was suddenly there with us. She put a hand gently on the woman’s back and brought her head in close. “What was it, Mrs. Trainer?”
This time, the woman seemed to hear. “My Ella made this for me!”
“Your daughter?” Chase asked, softly.
Mrs. Trainer’s head jerked up and down, somewhere between a muscle spasm and a nod.
Gently, even tenderly, Chase said, “let me help you find the pieces.” I moved to help, but she looked up at me and said, “Hey, Sarah, do you want to find out if Mr. Strickland’s got some glue he can spare?”
I looked at Mrs. Trainer, but she was so absorbed by this loss that she didn’t bark at Strickland’s name. I nodded to Chase, got up and went to find the Super.
He wasn’t surprised to see me – I’m guessing Mom had asked him to keep an eye on us. “Gorilla Glue? Yeah, we got some with us. Handy stuff.” He sent one of his guys off to find some. “You two doing okay?”
I nodded. “It’s . . . harder than I thought,” I said, struggling to come up with the words. “I feel like this is the kind of stuff we see in the news, when they’re reporting on disasters in poor countries.” He gave me a funny look and I paused. “That came out wrong. I mean, I know there’s lots of poverty in our state . . . .” My voice trailed off, and I found myself blushing, feeling like an idiot.
Strickland gave me a kind look. “It’s okay. It does feel like a different world out here. But it’s not – not really. And that’s a good thing to understand.”
The guy he’d sent off came back with the glue. He also gave me a sandwich. I felt sort of guilty about that, but . . . no reason I should pay the price for Chase’s case of the stubborns. I finished it before I got back to Mrs. Trainer’s house.
Chase and Mrs. Trainer had spread out a blanket – it looked like a bedspread – and put all the pieces of pottery they could find on it. The bedspread had been white, once. The pottery all had a deep blue glaze on one side, and a kind of creamy white on the other. Chase was sitting on the blanket itself. Mrs. Trainer was on a small stool, holding what looked like the largest single piece of the pottery, turning it over and over in her hands. At least she wasn’t crying any more.
Chase gave me one of her sweet smiles, and I dropped the vial of glue down beside her. We shared a look of wordless communication. Then she bent down to find two pieces that might be glued together.
I went looking for more.
We must have spent two hours trying to put that thing – a pitcher, apparently – back together. But we were persistent, and Chase has pretty steady hands. When we had found everything that could be found, the piece was probably ninety percent complete.
“It’ll never hold water again,” Chase said, looking at Mrs. Trainer. “But it is still the work of her hands.”
The poor woman took the vase, cradled it to her chest, and wept. We sat with her, and both of us were crying too. Crying for everything that had been lost, but would never be found. For all the things – and all the people – who were broken beyond repair.
Through my tears, I saw the flashing lights of a police car moving slowly up the main road that led into the trailer park. Three long black cars were following slowly in its wake.
Mrs. Trainer stood up, clutching the pitcher. “What’s that?”
“Looks like the Governor’s motorcade,” I said.
“What in the name of the darkest devil heart is she doin’ here!” Mrs. Trainer’s voice was a hiss. “Come to gloat, has she!” Before we could say a word, she stormed off, headed back toward the entrance to the park.
Chase and I looked at each other in surprise, then chased after her. She was faster than she had appeared. Still, we caught up with her halfway up the street. She continued marching forward, her face a rictus of anger and disapproval.
“Mrs. Trainer,” Chase said urgently, “She's the governor. It’s her job to come here, when bad things happen”
“I certainly didn’t vote for that witch. I don’t know anyone in this park who did!”
“It doesn’t matter which way folks voted,” Chase said, her voice low. “It’s still her job. She’s doing everything she can to help. The tents you’re sleeping in . . . the contractors . . . the food and medicine . . . .”
Mrs. Trainer cut her off. “Help?” She was incredulous. “She brought this on us! Her and her unnatural son!”
My eyes widened in horror.
The motorcade stopped, not thirty feet from where we were standing. Mrs. Trainer continued her righteous march, but even Chase didn’t follow her now.
“Chase?” My voice had a distressing tremor.
She shook her head, looking like someone who’d just taken a punch to the gut.
An aide jumped out of the front seat of the lead SUV and opened the back door. Governor Hobson stepped out, appropriately dressed in jeans and a heavy coat. For once, sensible sneakers replaced her signature pumps.
“Murderer!” Mrs. Trainer screamed. “You did this! You! You brought the Lord’s judgment on this place!”
The governor’s security detail was out and moving to intercept. I heard a sound behind me, and found that a crowd had gathered. The mood was ugly.
While my attention had been diverted, Chase had raced forward to Mrs Trainer’s side. The woman was still screaming, but Chase got in front of her, shielding the governor. “NO, Mrs. Trainer!” Her voice was low, but urgent. “Don’t do this. Even St. Paul teaches that we should respect authorities.”
“St. Paul!” Mrs. Trainer shrieked. “Talk to her about St. Paul! He’d have something to say about that so-called ‘trans’ son of hers!”
Finally, the Governor spoke, her voice cool. “I’m familiar with the passage, and I’m not especially moved by it. Chase, would you kindly come away? You're making the security detail extremely nervous.”
Trainer’s eyes focussed intently in Chase. “You know her?”
“Of course,” Chase said. “She’s my mother.”
Trainer staggered back. “Spawn of Satan!”
The crowd behind began to murmur. A few cried out, and the governor’s detail started to look very worried indeed.
Chase cocked her head, then looked at the pitcher the woman still clutched like it held her heart. “Jesus said, you will know them by their fruits. Was all that work the fruit of evil?”
Mrs. Trainer stopped. She looked at the pitcher, then back at Chase.
The crowd grew quiet, watching Mrs. Trainer.
“You defiled it! I oughta break it again!” But her voice was low, choked with pain and filled with doubt.
“Please, Mrs. Trainer . . . just think about it.” Chase was standing incredibly still, but her eyes were pleading her case.
The silence held . . . but the tension was almost unbearable.
I was shaking.
“I oughta — but I . . . I can’t do it!” Mrs. Trainer turned, her face a mask of grief, and started hobbling back down the street, holding tight to the broken pottery we had so carefully repaired.
As she approached the small crowd, her neighbors parted to let her pass. But Mr. Peters stepped forward and took her by the arm. “Come on, Irene,” he said. “Let me take you home.”
People gave the governor’s group a few more looks, most of which were suspicious. But at least a couple looked thoughtful. Then they, too, turned and headed back to the places that had been their homes.
I turned and started walking to the motorcade. Chase had been so amazing — so brave! I wanted to give her a hug.
She was facing her mother, her back straight. The governor reached out and placed her palm on Chase’s cheek, a look of infinite love – and pride – on her classic features. “Let’s go, daughter of mine. Or have you seen enough of my job today?”
– The End.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
“You’re buried far beneath a mountain of cold, and you never get warm . . . .”
O’Neal Residence, Early April
“I’m afraid I don’t have any further information for you, Mr. Simon. Our claims department is still investigating.” Chloe struggled to keep exhaustion from coming through in her tone.
“Okay, fine. Then I need to speak to your supervisor.” The man’s voice wasn’t unkind. Just impatient. Even the good ones were always impatient.
“He won’t have any additional information for you, sir. The investigation will take seven to ten business days, and –”
“I don’t have seven to ten business days,” he snapped.
“I’m very sorry, Mr. Simon.”
The caller relented. “Alright. I’ll try calling in a couple of days. But I need this flagged as a priority.”
“I’ll make a note in the file, sir,” Chloe said dutifully. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
The man on the other end of the phone snorted, clearly indicating his opinion of her implication that she’d actually helped him with the issue he called about. But he didn’t press it. “No, thank you.” He hung up.
Chloe checked the clock. 2:00 a.m. where she was sitting, in the basement of her parent’s house, half a world away from the impatient Mr. Simon. Time to clock off, after the four-hour night shift she was able to squeeze in between . . . other duties.
The monitor showed that the twins were still asleep, mercifully. It was now Saturday, which meant she could rely on Mom to handle early morning duties with the kids, giving her a chance to sleep in a bit. It would be wonderful if she could get a solid six hours in. She pulled the headphones off, made a couple notations on her screen, and stumbled over to the couch. Within minutes, she was asleep.
Not four hours later, Maureen O’Neal was pulled awake by the sound of a baby’s whimper coming from down the hall. Knowing Chloe would still be down in the basement, she attempted to bring herself upright. She cried out weakly as pain shot through her skull and flashes of light played across her vision. The pain was so intense she felt nauseous.
“Oh, no.” It came out as a whisper. More, she couldn’t manage.
The sounds from the other bedroom doubled, as little Davy’s discomfort woke Alexis. Maureen groaned, but with a supreme effort, she swung her feet over the side of the bed and tried to stand. Her stomach lurched as the room spun, then slowly stabilized.
She got to her feet and staggered, stumbling and hitting the doorframe. Lights flashed across her vision as if she were being stalked by demonic paparazzi. The image would have made her laugh – no photographer in his right mind would want to take her picture in her present state – but the very idea of laughing made her stomach protest.
Leaning heavily against the wall, she made her way down the hallway to the room where they’d set up the cribs. Both babies were starting to make more noise, and their proximity amplified it to jackhammer levels. “Hush, kids,” she said, but her voice was barely audible. “Hush.”
She made it to the bureau where the baby monitor was located, but could do no more. Finding the alarm button, she hit it, then she hit it again.
“Mom?” Chloe’s voice was thick with sleep.
“I need you, baby,” she husked.
“Mom, can’t I –”
“No! I need you right now!”
“Okay, coming,” her daughter said, resigned.
Maureen heard the thud of bare feet on the stairs from the basement, then Chloe was in the doorway. Her look of annoyance changed immediately to alarm and she rushed to her mother’s side. “Hey! Are you okay?”
Maureen nodded gingerly. “Just a migraine. But . . . it’s bad, honey. I . . . I can’t take the kids. I’ve . . . .” She ran out of steam.
“Of course not,” Chloe soothed. “Don’t you worry. Let’s get you back to bed now. I’ll take care of the babies in a minute.”
“Oh . . . okay.” Maureen couldn’t fight it. She let Chloe guide her back to bed, then took her medicine and drank the water her daughter brought.
“Sorry Mom,” Chloe said. “I’ll be back once I’ve got everyone settled.”
“Don’t worry about me,” Maureen said, closing her eyes gratefully.
Yeah, I’ll just turn my worry button off there, Chloe thought as she hurried back down the hall. God, I’m tired! She knew from long experience that her mother was likely to be out for the count all day; her migraines were fierce and tended to last twelve to twenty-four hours once they set in. There goes Saturday.
David was easiest to calm for short stretches, so she gave him a pacifier and went to work changing Alexis’ sodden diaper. At least they were both weaned now. As she worked, she made soothing noises at her often fussy daughter, but her mind was elsewhere.
Saturdays were her favorite days. Mom had a regular, nine-to-five type weekday job, so Saturdays she was usually willing to take the kids for long enough for Chloe to sleep in, and to do a bit of studying. She was hoping to take her GED in a couple of months, but at this rate that was a pipe dream.
Dad wasn’t usually around; he traveled a lot for work. He was coming home later this morning, but that almost certainly wouldn’t be any help.
“Okay, princess,” she said to Alexis. “You stay in your crib for a bit while I clean up your brother.”
“Ahm-ma!!!”
But he knew that rest was hard to come by in his once-quiet home. He could never entirely suppress his bitter resentment about that; it was at the back of his mind when it wasn’t curdling the front of it.
“Sir? Mr. O’Neil?”
Jason woke with a start. “Oh, sorry. Long flight.” He thanked the Uber driver, pulled himself out of the car and retrieved his bags from the trunk. Standing on the sidewalk, looking exhausted and feeling defeated, he could already hear the sounds of his crying grandchildren coming from inside. I’m only forty-five! Why do I feel so OLD?
He heaved the front door open and the noise redoubled. Chloe was in the living room with both kids, apparently attempting to comfort David, while Alexis was screaming in frustration and banging some toy or other against the coffee table. He snapped. “What. The. Heck?”
Chloe felt her shoulders slump, though she tried to prevent it. “Sorry, Daddy,” she said, without taking her eyes off of Davy, who’d just lost his balance and fallen. Nothing serious – his crying was more from surprise than anything else.
“Where’s your mom?”
“She’s got a migraine.”
“And you’re letting this . . . this . . .” Jason’s mind momentarily blanked. “This circus continue?”
“I’m trying –”
“Not good enough! Darnit, Chloe, pack ‘em up and take them somewhere!”
“Where? Daddy, I’m . . . .”
“I don’t care! It’s not raining. You’ve got a double stroller. Go!” With that, he stormed down the hall, leaving his suitcases by the front door. But when he got to the bedroom door, he slowed down, took a calming breath, and opened it as softly as he could.
The blinds and the thick curtains were closed and the lights were off; inside the bedroom it might as well be nighttime. Jason hoped his wife was asleep, but given the racket outside it seemed unlikely.
“Hey.” Her voice was weak; almost no power in it.
He was by the bed in a second. “Hey yourself.”
“Feel awful, you know?”
“You still look beautiful.”
“Liar. God, Jase, it’s bad.”
“I know, sweetie. I asked Chlo to take the kids somewhere. Once they’re gone, I’ll get you an ice pack.”
“Asked?”
“Yeah, okay. Told.”
“She’s trying, babe.”
“I know that. I just guess the whole personal responsibility thing hit exactly one party night too late.”
Maureen didn’t open her eyes, but a single tear slipped down her cheek.
“Ah, I’m sorry, Mo,” Jason said, instantly repentant. “You’ve got enough going on without rehashing everything.”
Her head gave the most minute of shakes. “What are we going to do, hon? We can’t keep on like this.”
His own vision started to blur. Despite his supportive words, the last two years had aged Maureen frightfully; she looked more like she was in her mid-fifties than her forties. She’d struggled with migraines all her life, but they seemed far more frequent now, and he felt like each one took a little piece of her away with it.
But he had no answers. One day they’d been making plans for what their life together would be like when Chloe went off to college, and the next?
“I don’t know, Mo. I just don’t know.”
Cat was cold, hungry, and tired. The bus stop shelter provided a little warmth, though he had no intention of getting on a bus himself. But it was a good place to hook up with buyers on a Saturday morning, when the office buildings downtown were all empty. Might catch some of the college kids, stumbling out for their first coffee. Not too promising, but Wayne had been pretty harsh about Cat’s bad sales numbers. Gotta up your game, man, or you’re out.
Behind his shades, he scanned the area for possible buyers. He saw the girl coming from two blocks away. Young, cute — that didn’t signify, one way or another. But pushing the stroller? Nah. Not likely.
Half a block out he saw her face and reassessed. He knew that look. He’d seen it on the faces of maybe a quarter of his customers — and almost all of his regulars. He saw it in the mirror, often enough. Baby girl, you look like someone who could use a little joy.
He uncoiled from the bench and stretched.
The bus arrived just as the girl got close, and the woosh of its air brakes startled the pair of babies in the stroller, causing them to start making noise. The girl’s look of despair, exhaustion, and simple frustration shot even higher. Yeah, girl, come to poppa.
“Yo, Cat!” A scraggly looking guy hopped down from the bus’s back entrance and hustled his direction. “How you been, man?”
Cat wasn’t familiar with the old saying about birds in the hand, but he understood the concept. “Yo Danny. What’s happ’nin’?” He wasn’t worried about the girl. He knew that look.
She’ll be back.
It was almost noon and the kids were hungry and cranky. They’d been startled by that bus, and Chloe hadn’t managed to get them calmed down.
Shit, Chloe thought, I’M hungry and cranky! She hadn’t showered or had anything to eat. No coffee. She’d barely had a chance to throw on a clean top when she maneuvered the kids into the stroller, grabbed the diaper bag, and headed in the general direction of downtown.
She was so frazzled she could barely think. I’ve got to get a bite. And I need to get them out of the stroller. And eating something. There was a coffee shop ahead with an outdoor patio; it looked pretty empty at the moment. Not too surprising; it was a cool April day and most people preferred to be indoors. There were just two women having a chat close to the street, and what looked like some college students in puffer jackets around a table by the entrance to the indoor area.
Chloe felt a stab of jealousy that almost caused her to turn away. That should have been me. I could have been there with them. But a vast gulf separated her life from theirs now, and always would. A high school drop-out with two babies and no prospects . . . .
Becca was just finishing her coffee when she saw the girl with the double baby carriage approach, then hesitate as if uncertain. The girl looked exhausted and terribly, terribly young. What were the kids’ parents thinking, letting her babysit when she looked like that? She’s about to fall over!
The sound of her companion’s chair scraping the pavers startled her. “Sorry, Bec. Let’s talk later, ‘kay?”
Becca smiled, knowing that look. “Okay, superwoman. I’ve gotta run, or you know I’d help.”
In two strides her friend was at Chloe’s side. “Hey, hon,” she said softly. “Come on in. No-one here’s going to bite. Let me help get you settled.”
Chloe was momentarily startled. “Uh . . . Okay.” She allowed herself to be led into the courtyard area.
“Inside or out today?”
“Out . . . outside,” Chloe stammered. “The kids . . . .”
“Yeah, gotcha,” said the mystery woman. “Let’s get you settled here, and I’ll snag a couple high chairs from indoors, ‘kay?” She eased Chloe down onto a seat and dashed into the coffee shop, reemerging with a high chair in each hand before Chloe had even responded to her question.
“Great, thanks,” Chloe managed, starting to get up to take the chairs.
The woman waved her back down. “Relax, hon. You look wiped. I can get ‘em transferred if you want — done it a million times.”
“Really, you don’t have to . . . .” But as before, the thing was almost done before Chloe had time to formulate a response.
As she was moving a very solid David into the chair, the woman looked at Chloe and said, “how do you like your coffee?”
“Strong.” It came out almost without thought. “I’m sorry . . . I mean, I was going to order a latte.”
“Got it — latte with an extra shot. Can the kiddos do yogurt?”
“Yes. I mean . . . .”
But the woman was already gone. The babies were kicking their legs, but they knew that high chairs meant food, and waiting was not on their list of favorite things — or even tolerated things. Chloe grabbed her massive Diaper Bag of Holding from the bottom of the stroller and started rifling through it for foodstuffs.
Just like that, the woman was back with a couple cups of yogurt. Good stuff, too. She handed a cup to Chloe then sat next to Alexis. “Jen will have your latte in a minute. Want me to take care of her?”
Chloe shook her head, as if to clear some brain fog. “Do I know you?”
“Nope,” the woman said cheerfully as she opened the yogurt. “I’m Gayle. . . . Hey, girly-girl! Open wide!” She sent a spoonful of custard past the mouth Alexis opened without hesitation.
“Wait . . . I’ve seen you on television. You’re. . . .” Chloe paused, suddenly unsure how to finish her sentence.
“Gayle Storm, writer, trans activist, and all-around pain in the ass? Yep. That’s me to a ‘T’ — very much to a ‘T.’” Two more spoonfuls followed the first.
Davie began to kick and whimper, seeing his sister eating while he wasn’t. Chloe quickly stopped gawping and got with the program. “So you’re . . . trans?”
“Most people clock me off the bat, but I’ll give you a handicap, seein’ as how you’re distracted and all.”
Chloe flushed. If she’d been paying attention she certainly would have read the woman, who had a sharp nose, a bit too much jaw, an obvious if not crazy Adam’s Apple, and a somewhat husky voice. But Gayle’s whirlwind had kind of taken her aback.
“I never met anyone who was trans before.”
Gayle’s attention stayed focused on Alexis, who was cooing in delight at the yogurt, but she grinned at Chloe’s assertion. “I bet you have, you just didn’t know it. Not everyone was gifted with a neon sign for a face!”
“I’m sorry! You don’t—“
“I do!” Gayle gurgled at the baby — who cheerfully gurgled back — before adding, “don’t worry about it. I haven’t for years.”
“Why are you helping me? I mean, I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but you don’t know me.”
“Looked like you needed it, that’s all. Oh look, here’s your coffee.”
“Here you go,” a cheerful looking girl said as she deposited a sixteen-ounce to-go cup on the table in front of Chloe, along with a ham-and-cheese stuffed croissant that immediately caused her mouth to water. “Enjoy!” She turned around to head back.
“Wait,” Chloe said. “Can I have the check now? I might need to scoot in a hurry.”
The girl turned back with a smile. “Gayle paid at the register. You’re all set.” She was back inside before Chloe could react.
Chloe shook her head. I feel like I’m moving underwater or something, and everyone else is going regular speed!
“And what’s your name, sweetie pie?” Gayle was making silly faces at the giggling Alexis as she scooped the last of the yogurt from the sides of the cup.
“Lecks!” Alexis responded cheerfully.
“That’s Alexis,” Chloe said, happy to be on firmer ground. “And this fine boy is Davy.”
Gayle beamed at each baby in turn before giving her attention to their mother. “Leaving out someone important, aren’t you?”
“Who . . . Oh! Me! Yeah. I’m Chloe. Don’t know how important I am, though.”
“Are they yours?”
Chloe nodded. “Yep. For better and for worse.”
Gayle touched Chloe’s wrist for a brief second. “Then you're the most important person in the world, aren’t you?”
“Huh?”
Gayle inclined her head towards the two babies. “In their world, anyway. Right?”
“I guess that’s right.” Chloe gave a tentative smile. It felt like it had been a while since her face muscles moved that direction.
“You have some toys or something in that monster bag?”
“Uh . . . yeah.”
“Pass me a couple. I’ll keep ‘em occupied while you have your lunch. Or breakfast. Whatever you want to call it.”
Chloe wanted to protest, but the siren song of a moment’s peace won her over. “Could you? I hate to ask, but I’m desperate for a bite.”
“No worries, Chloe.”
Chloe took a rushed and enormous bite out of the hot croissant and lifted the cup.
“Woa, there, girlfriend!” Gayle laughed. “Slow down — There’s no rush!”
True to her word, Gayle played with the babies for five blessed minutes while Chloe watched and got something in her stomach. She felt herself relaxing. Whatever else Gayle was, she sure as hell had a way with kids.
But she knew it was time to get back on duty. “I can’t thank you enough — that was the best! We’ll let you get back to your day now.”
Gayle smiled. “If these two are like my younger sibs were — and my darling niece is! — they’re gonna want to be changed, then run around for a bit. If you’re up for some company, I’ll give you a hand.”
“Look, you’ve been really nice. But I don’t want to take up your whole day or anything.”
“Chloe.” Gayle’s look was suddenly intense. “If you don’t want company I’ll buzz off. But I’m all tapped out for writing today, my plan to overthrow the government and the patriarchy this afternoon kind of fell through, and I actually like kids. What do you say?”
“I . . . well . . . yes. It’d be great to have some company. If you’re sure?”
Gayle rose, laughing. “Am I sure? My friends would tell you I’m always sure. Of everything, all the time, know what I mean? ‘Often in error but never in doubt.’ That’s me.” She gently pulled Alexis out of the high chair and held her, squealing, level with her eyes. “Booo!”
Ali wiggled and made cheerful noises in return.
They got both kids back in the stroller and made their way towards Sutton Park. Chloe said, “I’m sorry. I guess I’m kind of out of practice talking to anyone who isn’t a baby.” She added, with the barest hint of a frown, “’cept for my folks, of course.”
Gayle was pushing the stroller, so she didn’t have a free hand to offer comfort. “I’m guessing you friends kind of vanished when the babies arrived, didn’t they?”
Chloe’s laugh was bitter. “Got that right! It’s like I’m contagious or something.”
Gayle shrugged. “You faced it early, but it’s pretty normal. People who have babies just don’t have much in common with people who don’t.”
Chloe thought about the group of college kids back at the coffee shop, talking about their classes and whatnot. “No, I guess not. But all the moms I see — they're so much older. And . . . and they look at me, and I just know what they’re thinking. Fuck-up. Loser.”
“Do they think that? Or do you?”
Chloe’s shoulders slumped. “Sometimes, yeah. Lots of times. I mean, I love my kids. I do! But sometimes I just wish . . . .” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t say the words, and she felt the tears start to well up.
They had reached the park, and Gayle bumped the stroller onto the thick grass that was bright with the light green of springtime. Once they were ten or fifteen yards from the edge, she stopped and pulled Chloe into a hug. “I know, hon. That doesn’t make you a bad person, okay?”
“Doesn’t it? I mean, if I hadn’t messed up, I’d be free — but they wouldn’t even be alive!”
“Shhhhhhh,” Gayle soothed. “Regrets are part of being human, girlfriend.”
Girlfriend? That was the second time Gayle had used the term. Chloe wondered whether she meant it, or whether it was just an expression. It feels like forever since I had a girlfriend to talk to.
Alexis started fussing — natch — so they pulled the kids out of the stroller. Chloe occupied Davy while Gayle expertly laid out the changing pad and got Ali a fresh diaper. “Okay, girly-girl,” Gayle said, bringing her upright. “Let’s see how your walking is coming.”
They switched up. Davy took more time, for the usual reason, but soon they had both of the kids changed, dressed, and ready to explore, bouncing with that peculiar toddler gait that seems to be as much vertical as horizontal. The kids had a bee’s attraction to the blooming flowers, the early daffodils and ground-hugging crocuses, so they staggered determinedly in that direction.
Chloe and Gayle followed closely. “They look a lot like you,” Gayle observed.
“Do they? I’m so close, I guess I don’t see it.”
“Your coloring for sure. Same hair, same eyes. Same smile!”
“Well . . . good.” The last word came out a bit more forcefully than Chloe intended.
Gayle gave her a sideways look. “So . . . dad’s not in the picture?”
Chloe shook her head angrily. “No. When Kevin found out I was pregnant, he . . . he wanted me to get an abortion. Said he’d pay for it.”
Gayle touched Chloe’s arm in sympathy, but said nothing.
“I . . . it’s . . . I just couldn’t, you know?”
“Not a choice I’ll ever have to face,” Gayle observed.
Chloe was momentarily startled. Gayle didn’t look very feminine, but interacting with her it was easy to forget. “I, ah . . . I’m religious, you know?”
Gayle smiled. “Nothin’ to be embarrassed about.”
“Well, no, I’m not. But, you know . . . .”
“I’m guessing your church has a few choice things to say about people like me?”
Chloe recalled plenty of pointed sermons from the O'Neil's pastor on the manifold “errors” of modern society, very much including LGBTQ+ “lifestyles.” “Yeah. I guess.”
“Well, cheer up — I’m not contagious either, so you’re at no risk!”
Chloe had been bracing for a very different reaction, so she couldn’t help but crack up. When she stopped giggling, she said, “Yeah, look. My church isn’t exactly big on sex before marriage, either. I’m not gonna be throwing stones, okay?”
“‘Judge not lest you be judged?’ I like it. Maybe if Jesus had said something like that, people would get off our backs.”
“He did. Matthew, chapter seven, verse one.”
“Yeah,” Gayle said dryly. “Imagine that.”
Again, Chloe laughed. “Walked right into that one.”
They spent some time chasing giggling kids through a maze of bushes. When they found their way back to the grass, Chloe said, “I don’t want to sound like I’m ragging on my church. The ladies collected baby clothes for me when I was in my last trimester. It was a big help right after they were born.”
“Not so much after?”
Chloe shrugged. “It’s not their fault, really. People are busy. I’m, like, non-stop with this, right? It’s a bottomless pit. No one can be there for all of it. Well . . . Mom and Dad. But even with them . . . .” Again her voice trailed off.
“You’re still living with them?”
She nodded. “Yeah. You know, I was s’posed to be off at college now — I was planning to go away. Maybe out to Boston, or down to Florida. Someplace different. Ah, ah, ah, Davy! Not towards the road!”
The little boy dutifully turned back and lurched in his mother’s direction.
“Anyway,” she continued, “getting pregnant was the end of all that. I missed most of the last year of high school. When they were born, we made my room into the nursery. I slept in there at first, but mostly I sleep down in the basement now, so I don’t wake up every time one of them gurgles.”
“How’s that working out?”
“It’s hard. Mom wants to help. I guess they both do. But they’re old, you know? They raised my brothers, then I came along four years later, and they figured they were done. And Mom . . . she gets migraines, like today, and . . . I mean . . . it’s not fair, you know? They raised me right, and I knew better, but I screwed up, and now they’re paying for it!”
“Ah-ma?” Davy was looking at his mother, concern furrowing his tiny features. “Ah-ma OH-kay?”
Chloe scooped him up and cradled him against her chest. “I’m fine sweetie. It’s all good.” She gave Gayle a wistful look. “I’d better head back. They should be ready for an afternoon nap soon.”
Gayle looked at the poor girl, struggling with adult responsibilities she hadn’t wanted and wasn’t prepared for, and her heart went out to her. “Chloe . . . my apartment’s not ten minutes’ walk from here. I’ve got a Pack ‘N Play for when my niece is visiting. Come on over and we can put the kids down, then you can catch some sleep yourself.”
“I don’t know . . . .”
“No, but I do. Call your folks, tell them where we’re going — I’ll give you the address. When we get there, I can put the playpen in the second bedroom with you, and you can lock the bedroom door. You’ll be completely safe.”
Chloe flushed crimson. “I didn’t mean that. It’s not that I don’t trust you or anything!”
“You only just met me, and these are your kids. You shouldn’t trust me. Or at least, you should take safeguards.”
“Okay, I . . . I guess I see that. But really, I just meant I didn’t want to be any trouble.”
“Get this through your head, girlfriend. Every person on earth is trouble. You, me, the kids, your folks, everybody. They just are. It doesn’t mean they aren’t worth it.”
“You think that we’re worth it? That . . . that I’m worth it?”
“Yeah, I do. Crazy, right? But I’d kind of like to get to know you better.”
Chloe felt the prick of tears yet again. “Really?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, you silly goof!” Gayle popped up from the grass and chased a squealing Alexis. “I’m comin’ for you, girly-girl!”
Becca was in the coffee shop’s courtyard again, at her usual seat, idly sketching the flowering trees across from her — the early cherry in pink, and the Bradford Pear in white and green. The magnolia in front of the house across the street was older and more stately, magnificent in its peak. Her hands were flying across the page.
“Hey, girl!”
It took a second to penetrate— it always did — then Becca broke into her shy smile. “Gayle! I didn’t expect to see you this early in the day!”
“Can I join you?”
“Always.” Becca flipped her pad closed and dropped it in her bag, making room for her friend. “I saw you on TV last night.”
Gayle grinned. “Sounding deranged, as usual?”
Becca shook her head, causing her dark hair to float. “Never. You stayed calm, even when they were shouting at you. I don’t know how you do that.”
Gayle gave her friend a fond smile. Becca was always so shy, so reserved. She had never had the family support that Gayle had always been given. “Bec, honey, I can’t even draw a straight line. So maybe we’re even.”
“I don’t know about that,” Becca replied. “I can’t make a living out of drawing. Anyhow . . . I’m so glad we’ve got someone like you who can explain things to people. You had the facts, and the science.”
“And they had the votes. As usual. But damned if I’ll make it easy on them!”
“I know. But be careful, okay? Some of those people . . . .”
“Fuck ‘em if they can’t take a joke,” Gayle said flippantly. But seeing the worry in her friend’s eyes, she decided it was past time to change the subject. “Anyhow, enough about my crusades. How’re you doing?”
“I’m good,” Becca replied. “Work’s work. We’re a little slow just now, but Alan’s got a big rewiring job we’ll start next week. Drew’s wonderful, of course. We’re, umm . . . we’re thinking of sharing an apartment.”
Gayle’s eyes grew wide and she beamed. “No kidding! Really?”
Becca nodded, looking almost embarrassed.
“No wonder you weren’t interested in moving in with me!” Gayle giggled.
Becca spoke quickly, softly, and, of course, earnestly. “I would have jumped at your offer otherwise— it was so sweet of you!”
“I’m teasing, hon. You know I’m happy for you.” Becca still looked uncertain, so Gayle pressed the point. “Honest. You two are so good for each other, it’s practically unfair to the rest of humanity.”
Becca was a sensitive soul and she knew Gayle had been alone for a long time – too long. She didn’t doubt Gayle’s good wishes for an instant, but there was something in her voice, something subtle, that suggested that she was not quite as blithe about the subject as she was projecting. “Gayle . . . is everything okay?”
“Yeah, of course.”
Becca was never one to press. “Sorry. Just had a sense something was on your mind.”
Gayle looked away, then down. Then, finally, back at the friend who was patiently waiting.
“Yeah, okay. Remember the girl with the two babies who came in last time we were here?”
Becca nodded. “Yes — looked like you were getting ready to swing into action.”
“Her name’s Chloe . . . she’s a really sweet girl. And she’s trying so hard to be the best mom she can be. But, God, Bec, she was still seventeen when they were born! She had her whole life planned . . . .”
Once launched, Gayle described Chloe, the kids, and their life in detail. Becca sat silently, watching her friend intently. Hearing everything she said – and all the things she wasn’t saying.
Oh, Gayle, you’ve got it BAD.
“She didn’t even know about the state’s support services and mentoring program they run out of the library! I hooked her up with them, and I think that’ll be good for her. And she’s been coming over most days for a few hours. I help her out with the kids, a bit. Sometimes I give her some time to study for her high school equivalency test. And we talk a lot. Most ways, she’s so young . . . others, she’s older than I’ll ever be.”
Becca let Gayle continue to talk. Finally, when she paused to sip her already cool coffee, Becca asked, “It’s love this time, isn’t it?”
Coffee came out through Gayle’s nose and she started to cough, though she stopped before Becca became alarmed. “What?”
“I’ve seen you rescue lots of people. It’s what you do; I know that. But I’ve never seen you like this before.”
“‘Lots of people!’ You’ll be putting me up for sainthood next!”
Becca refused to be diverted, choosing instead to wait Gayle out. She had more patience in her pinkie than Gayle ever had or ever would have, and she knew it.
Gayle wagged a finger. “You’re not going to let this go, are you?”
“It’s not about me, Gayle. Not this time. If you aren’t comfortable talking, I understand. Completely. You know I’ve been there.”
“Yeah, I know,” Gayle sighed. “I just don’t know what to do. Every time I see her, I just want to wrap her in my arms and protect her from the whole world.”
Becca’s shy smile returned. “And maybe sneak a kiss while you’re at it?”
“Not helpful!”
Becca leaned forward, earnest again. “But isn’t that what’s bothering you? It’s not that you want to help — that wouldn’t worry you — it’s that you're attracted to her.”
Gayle pondered that for a minute or two, which was, after all, more time than she spent pondering most things. “You’re right,” she finally confessed. “That is what’s bugging me.”
“But why? Why is it a problem?”
“She needs a friend, Bec. Not a frickin’ troll!”
Becca looked like she’d been punched. “What are you saying? That you don’t think anyone could love you? Just because you’re trans?”
Gayle immediately saw the quicksand. “No! No, Becca, that’s not it, and you know it. Lots of trans people have good relationships, just like you and Drew. You know I didn’t mean that.”
“Then why not you?”
“Let me count the ways. You make a pretty girl — don’t blush, you know it. I know it. God knows Drew knows it. I know what I see in the mirror every day, and it’s not that.” Becca opened her mouth to say something, but Gayle held out a hand to stop her. “And, as far as I know, Chloe’s into guys, which is how she ended up with twins.”
“But you haven’t asked her.”
“No.”
Becca sat back, looking at her friend, probably the strongest and most decisive person she’d ever met. Someone who would leap into the lion’s den for a friend — or even someone she’d just met. A tireless advocate for the trans community. Suddenly looking as lost and uncertain as . . . well, as Becca herself had been, not so very long ago. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“It’ll be okay. Honest.”
“You think?”
“I do. But, Gayle . . . .”
“I knew there was a ‘but.’”
“You’ve got to let her inside.”
Gayle dropped her head into her hands. “Fuuuuuuck!”
Chloe’s guts clenched. “What did she want?”
Reacting to Chloe’s tone, Maureen said, “Listen, honey. You know it’s not fair to be blaming her —“
“I’m not,” Chloe said sharply, cutting her mother off. “It’s just that she never calls with good news.”
“Well . . . she wanted to tell me that Kevin is thinking seriously about medical school, and . . . .” Maureen stopped, seeing her daughter’s eyes squeeze shut. “What?”
“Mom, Gayle’s right. We need — I need — to get a lawyer.”
“Gayle, Gayle, Gayle! That’s all you talk about these days! Gayle said this, and Gayle said that! But 'Gayle' doesn’t know Tammy and Bill Ryder, and we do. We can trust them!”
Chloe took a deep breath to keep herself from snapping back at her mom. “Gayle’s a friend, Mom.” The first friend I’ve had in forever! And, unlike YOUR friends, she isn’t in Kevin’s corner!
“Your father and I haven’t even met her!”
“I’m almost twenty, Mom! You don’t need to vet my friends anymore!” It came out a little more vehemently than Chloe intended; there were good reasons she hadn’t told her parents much about Gayle – or introduced her. I can’t face that just now.
“I’m not asking to. But this is important, and I don’t think outsiders have any business poking their noses in our business.”
Chloe stopped herself from another outburst. Instead, she took a deep breath and said, “You’re right; it is important. Forget about Gayle for a minute. Can we just maybe have a cup of tea and talk about why I might need legal help?”
Maureen looked at her daughter suspiciously, but . . . it wasn’t an unreasonable request, and she was being pretty adult about it. Something she herself had always tried to encourage. “Okay. But I still say . . . .” She stopped herself. “Okay. I’ll make some tea.”
A few minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table, steaming mugs at their sides. Maureen decided she’d let Chloe say her piece. “So, what’s this all about?”
“I know the idea was that we could just do this with an informal understanding. Kev would be able to earn more if he got a college degree, so we’d be better off waiting ‘til then before getting any sort of child support. Now he wants to go to med school —”
“Doctors make a lot more money,” Maureen interjected.
“I know that,”Chloe snapped, but then stopped herself again. “I know,” she said more calmly. “But it’ll take years longer, and who knows what he’ll decide after that? We’ve — I’ve — got no control over what he does.”
“He’s not interfering with your decisions about the kids,” Maureen pointed out.
“Because he doesn’t care about them.”
“What a thing to say!”
“Mom. He hasn’t even tried to see them. Not that I’m complaining, but he hasn’t.”
“Well, he’s been busy . . . .”
Chloe closed her eyes again. Even after everything that had happened, her mom couldn’t seem to get the image of a ten-year-old Kevin Ryder out of her head. She always thought of him as the “good boy” he’d been back then. Somehow, Chloe felt her mom even blamed her for seducing him. Her parents – and, she knew, the Ryders – had urged her and Kevin to “do the right thing” and get married, but they’d both refused.
“Can you please trust that I know Kevin as he is today better than you do?”
Maureen bit back the retort that was on the tip of her tongue.
Yeah, I’ll just bet you do!
She knew that wouldn’t be productive, and her daughter was trying to tell her something important. “Okay, Chloe. But what aren’t you telling me? Why don’t you trust Kevin to do what he said? He hasn’t denied they’re his kids.”
Chloe had never told her parents about Kevin’s suggestion that she get an abortion. Maybe I should have, but it would kill them. How much can she take? “He’s never acknowledged them in writing. And . . . he has said things to me privately . . . .” His hurtful words echoed in her head.
“Baby,” Maureen said carefully. “What kinds of things has he said to you privately? What are you worried about?”
I guess I have to share this part, at least. “He thought I might have slept with other guys too.” It was barely a whisper, and Chloe braced herself for the question that would cut her to the core.
It didn’t come. “What?” Maureen was incredulous. “”You didn’t even look at another boy since you were, I don’t know. Twelve? He actually said that?”
“Yeah.” Chloe’s voice was shaky; she’d been sure her mom wouldn’t believe her. “He did. He couldn’t very well deny that we’d . . . well, done it Not after his parents came home early during that party and caught us. But he was looking for an out.”
“Tammy and Bill both said —“
Chloe cut her mother off. “I know what they said. But we’re talking about Kevin, not his parents.”
Maureen sat back in her chair, trying to reconcile everything she knew about Kevin Ryder from what her daughter was telling her. It just didn’t seem to fit. “Baby . . . You never said anything about any of this until you started talking to this Gayle person. You barely even know her.”
Again Chloe felt a flare of anger; she hadn’t even realized how close she’d come to the end of her rope before Gayle had stepped into her life. “I told you. Gayle’s a friend. We talk. And, yeah, she’s helped me think about stuff.”
“Maybe,” Maureen said dubiously. “But are you sure she isn’t just, you know . . . .”
Chloe waited, but her mom just left the sentence unfinished. “No, Mom, I don’t know. Suppose you tell me?”
“Don’t take that tone with me, young lady!”
“Alright!” Again, Chloe worked to calm down. “Alright. I didn’t mean to snap. But I really don’t know what you’re suggesting. What do you think she’s doing?”
“It’s like she’s filling your mind up with questions. Doubts. We’ve — your father and I — we’ve tried to make things safe here for you and the kids. I just worry.”
“Worry about what?”
“Oh, baby girl. You’re a mom now. You should know — the worry doesn’t have to attach to anything. Moms worry about everything.”
Chloe reached out and took hold of her mom’s hand. “Yeah, I get that, for sure. And I guess I get that the worry doesn’t go away. But I’ve got to grow up sometime, and growing up means asking hard questions. Doesn’t it?”
Maureen sighed. “I guess so.”
“And Gayle’s right about one thing — with the questions I’ve got, I’m going to need to talk to a lawyer.”
“We’ve been friends with the Ryders for — gosh. Close to twenty years.” Maureen shook her head sadly.
“I’m not talking about suing anyone,” Chloe said. Yet. “I just need to find out what I need to do to protect the kids. And me, I guess.”
“You?”
“Mom, what happens down the road if ‘Dr. Kevin Ryder’ decides he doesn’t think I’m a fit mother for ‘his’ kids?”
“Wait . . . a minute ago you were saying he didn’t care and was looking for a way out!”
“I know, Mom. But the point is, right now, I’ve got no control. No security. If he acknowledges the kids and if he honors his parents’ promise, maybe someday there’ll be some money for the kids. But if he does that, will he fight me for them? I just don’t know. And I might need to file things sooner rather than later to protect myself and the kids.”
Maureen sat with that for a minute. “Okay, sweetie. Let me talk to your dad.”
Chloe woke up slowly, feeling groggy. She heard the sound of voices — no, just one voice — coming from the other room. Gayle. She rubbed her eyes and immediately checked the Pack ‘N Play where the babies had been sleeping. Empty.
She pulled herself up and ran her fingers through her shoulder-length blonde hair. Didn’t get a shower this morning — again. Oh well. The clock said six thirty, so Gayle had let her get an extra hour.
She cracked the door and saw Gayle on the couch, Alexis on one side and David on the other. “Jeep comes out — Sheep shout!” She turned the page. “Sheep cheer. Oh dear! The driver sheep forgets to steer.”
The kids giggled as Gayle showed them the picture.
Gayle looked up, caught Chloe’s eye, and smiled. But she turned another page and read, “Jeep in a heap. Sheep weep.”
The sight of the wrecked jeep was apparently just what the kids were waiting for; they broke out into fits of giggles. Then Davy spotted Chloe. “Mah-mah!”
That got them both going, so Chloe would need to cuddle them both. They could be terrors, but there sure were times . . . .
Gayle rose and gave Chloe her place on the couch. “Here, girl — you finish the book, will you? Let me check on dinner.”
“Wait — you cooked?”
“Yeah — you said your folks were doing a church thing tonight, so I figured you might want something.”
Chloe shook her head. “Are you some kind of angel?”
“You might want to withhold judgment on that ‘til you’ve tried my cooking,” Gayle warned.
Chloe laughed and then, at her kid’s urgent insistence, returned her attention to the travails of the sheep in a jeep. Two more stories later — there were sequels, and Gayle had them all — it was time to eat.
“You got a second high chair?”
“It’s a loaner,” Gayle explained. “My brother said I should try it out while they’re taking Haley out to Colorado to visit Kayla’s folks.” She lifted Davy up and slid him into the chair — a clever design that latched on to the table.
Chloe put Ali into the stand-alone chair and slid the tray in place, while Gayle served up the simple dinner of chicken, rice and broccoli. In the kid’s case, the meat and vegetables had been chopped, mixed with the rice, and served in sturdy plastic bowls with big plastic spoons.
The food was nothing special, but Chloe didn’t mind. Simple food suited her just fine — especially if she didn’t have to cook it. By the time they had eaten and done a quick clean of both the kitchen and the kids, it was past eight and getting dark.
“I’d drive you home,” Gayle said, “but I’ve only got one car seat.” Gesturing toward the double-stroller, she asked, “Those things don’t pop out, do they?”
“‘Fraid not. It’s fine, though. It’s a nice evening, and it only takes twenty minutes to walk. They’ll be out cold by the time I’m home.”
“I’ll walk you back.”
“We’ll be fine, honest!”
“I’m sure you will — ‘cuz I’m gonna see to it!”
Chloe laughed. “Are you always this pushy?”
“Booyeah, girlfriend!”
Chloe laughed again, and found herself thinking how much she had laughed, these past few weeks – and how long it had been, before that. “Thanks,” she said, suddenly serious. “I’d like that.”
By the time they’d gotten both kids changed and into onesies (so they could be poured into bed upon arrival), and gotten everything and everyone out to the street, it was completely dark. But there was a full moon, and it was the sort of town with lots of lights. Gayle pushed the stroller while Chloe strolled at her side.
After a block or so, they picked up their conversation from earlier in the afternoon. “So, the lawyer is pushing for a formal agreement?”
Chloe nodded. “Yep. And she suggested we do a paternity test if Kevin wants to try to wriggle out of it.”
“But that will mean going to court.”
“Only if he fights it. If he’s willing to do an agreement, we don’t need to, like, sue and stuff.”
“What do your parents think?”
“Super unhappy, of course. They’re tight with Kevin’s parents, who are also kind of big deals in their church. They’re worried this will, you know, blow up somehow.”
Gayle clenched her teeth. She couldn’t believe the O’Neils were being so short-sighted, but it absolutely wasn’t her place to say so.
They’d gone another half block when Chloe chuckled. “Alright, Gayle. It’s not like you to be quiet!”
“No shit,” Gayle growled. “It sure isn’t. But this is a family thing, and I’m not family. You guys have to hash it out.”
Chloe absorbed that as they walked further. “Funny,” she said after a half block more. “You feel like family. Closer than my brothers, for sure!”
Gayle’s heart sank. “Like sisters?”
She’d gone on a few paces before she realized that Chloe hadn’t followed. Turning, she saw her friend looking at her strangely.
“Does it feel like sisters . . . to you?” Chloe’s voice was soft.
You are so beautiful, Gayle thought. Standing there in a pool of moonlight. And you don’t even know it. How can you not know?
Chloe closed the distance between them, standing near enough to touch. “I want to know. Is that how you feel?”
“Why?” Gayle whispered.
Chloe looked at the woman who had rescued her, cared for her kids, listened to her dramas and her nonsense, and who seemed — for the first time ever — to be unsure of herself. “Because I want you to kiss me, and I wouldn’t want to kiss a sister.”
“But I’m —“
“Uh uh!” Chloe wagged a finger, then pointed to her lips. “Here. Right here.”
Gayle brought up both hands and framed Chloe’s cheeks before bending down and planting the softest kiss upon her lips. “Like that?”
“Good start — real good start! Maybe a bit less sisterly?”
This time the kiss was deeper, more passionate, and left no doubt about the nature of their respective feelings. “Much better,” Chloe breathed.
Gayle felt a bit dazed and inhaled deeply. The heady fragrance of azaleas in full bloom did nothing to clear her mind. “I’ve wanted to do that since the day you walked into Gordon’s.”
“Really? I’ve wanted you to do it since I tasted your chicken.”
That managed to lighten the mood. Gayle laughed and slipped an arm around Chloe’s trim waste. “Take a handle?”
“Sure thing!” And they walked arm-in-arm, pushing the stroller with one hand each.
After a while, Chloe said, “Gayle . . . why did you wait? Was it the kids?”
“You know better than that! I love the kids. I just . . . well. I mean, relationships don’t come easy for transwomen.”
“But you do like girls, right? I mean, that was a really good kiss!”
“Always have. But I didn’t think you did.”
“Oh.” Chloe tapped her index finger on the stroller they were pushing. “I guess I can see why you’d figure that. I was as boy crazy as the next girl back in school; didn’t think anything of it.”
“Maybe you don’t see me as female?” Gayle tried to keep her tone neutral, but her heart was pounding.
“I hadn’t really thought about that either,” Chloe said reflectively. “Honestly, I was just thinking about you, and how much I wanted to kiss you. I wasn’t checking boxes.”
Gayle started to chuckle, and somehow couldn’t stop.
“What?” Chloe laughed, unable to keep from joining in. “What did I say?”
“It’s only what I’ve been preaching for, God, I don’t know? Ten years, maybe? Since I was fifteen or so? That we should stop caring about labels, and start caring about people.”
“I like the sound of that.”
“Yeah. Me too.”
They kept walking.
Chloe shut off the light in the bedroom. Davy was definitely out like a light. Ali’s eyes were closed, but her little lips were still smacking, like she was thinking about food. That girl’s ALWAYS thinking about food! Still . . . she should sleep now.
It was eight o’clock, but with the solstice in just a couple weeks it was still light out, and some of that seeped past the heavy shades. She only had about an hour or so to study before her shift started, but she was reluctant to make the trek down to the basement. She’d have to go past the living room, where she’d left her parents when she’d taken the kids off to get ready for bed.
Things were pretty tense right now. Kevin’s parents had been incredibly offended at the idea that some sort of written agreement was required, and after a couple of days they sent Jason a stiff little email saying that Kevin wouldn’t sign one. Not the one the lawyer had drafted, and not any other kind of agreement either. They’d decided to dress his refusal up in church clothes, naturally. “We’ve always followed the Lord’s injunction to let our ‘yes’ mean ‘yes’ and our ‘no’ mean ‘no,’ and we thought you did too.”
Whatever.
Jason and Maureen had been unhappy with the Ryder’s attitude, but they’d been downright frosty with Chloe for causing trouble. Make that, “more trouble.” She’d been walking on eggshells ever since. Her only source of relief was the time she was able to spend with Gayle.
Of course, that brought its own sources of worry. Gayle had urged her to be upfront with her parents about who she was seeing, but hadn’t pushed because she “wasn’t family.” I just can’t deal with that right now, Chloe thought, for probably the hundredth time.
She heard the sound of the TV coming from the living room, and knew that increased her odds of getting downstairs without an argument. With a sigh and a tightening of her gut muscles, she stepped out and closed the bedroom door behind her softly. As she passed the living room, she said, “I’m going to head downstairs. See you in the morning.”
Her mother looked her way long enough to say “good night,” but the delivery was without affection. Her dad’s attention stayed fixed on the TV.
Gayle glanced at the screen to see what they were watching and was unsurprised to see it was local news. What was surprising was that some reporter was interviewing their pastor. Just then the screen cut away to some talking heads in a newsroom. “And joining us this evening to discuss this important topic is local author and trans rights advocate Gayle Storm.”
The screen split to show Gayle, clearly joining the conversation by Zoom from her apartment. “Thank you for having me.”
Chloe’s “Oh!” of surprise came out before she could stop herself.
Maureen looked from her daughter’s surprised face to the TV, and the lightbulb went on. Rising from the couch she said, “Oh, my God! That’s ‘Gayle?’”
Chloe stood stock still, frozen in terror.
Jason glanced away from the screen, annoyed, until what his wife had said suddenly broke through. “Are you kidding me? That’s your new ‘friend?’”
“That’s who’s been poisoning your mind! Turning you against your friends! Isn’t it?” Maureen’s voice rose, overriding the television.
“Mom! Dad! Stop! The babies just got to sleep! Can we talk about this like adults?”
Jason snapped, “I’ll stand up and cheer the day you start acting like an adult, but I’m not going to hold my breath!”
“What were you thinking?” Maureen still hadn’t gotten her voice under control. “We trusted you!”
God! Chloe thought, hopelessly, it’s all happening again! Just like that horrible night of the party when Kevin’s parents found us in bed! I can’t do anything right! “You don’t understand. Please! Gayle’s a good person! She’s –”
Jason cut her off. “You know better. You were raised better. You know how we feel about all this woke nonsense. That person is a menace.”
Alexis’ sleepy voice broke through the cacophony of voices, both real and electronic. “Momma?”
Before Chloe could use this distraction to escape, Maureen said, “I’ll get her settled again. Jason, talk some sense into your daughter — quietly!” She stalked down the hall and went into the nursery.
Jason sat, retrieved the remote and shut off the TV. First the Ryders, now this! How do I REACH this kid? Trying his best to keep his voice down and his temper in check, he said, “Sit. Talk to me. You knew we wouldn’t approve of you hanging out with some trans person. Why did you hide it from us?”
“Okay,” Chloe said. She wanted to sound okay. To sound mature, and not like the errant child they always saw when they looked at her. But she just didn’t have it in her.
She sank into one of the living room chairs. “Gayle’s just been really nice, and I knew you wouldn’t understand, and . . . and I just didn’t have the energy to fight about it. Okay?”
“You deceived us, and you snuck around behind our backs.”
“I didn’t lie to you.”
“Oh, come on. You said it yourself. You knew we wouldn’t approve, so you didn’t say anything. That sounds like sneaking around to me.”
“I’m not sixteen anymore. I am old enough to choose my own friends.”
“What about your children, Chloe? You’re indoctrinating them to accept that trans lifestyles are just fine, and that’s supposed to be okay?”
“Seriously? Do you think they understand the difference between men and women? Or that only girls get to wear dresses? They’re eighteen months old!”
“That’s not the point,” Jason said firmly. “Your mother and I have done our best to help you raise those two kids. You can’t ask us to do that, and then pretend we don’t have any role in deciding how they’re brought up. We’ve got values, Chloe. We thought you shared them!”
“What are you saying?”
“You’ve got to stop seeing this Gayle person,” Jason said. “She’s not good for you, and she’s a bad example for the kids. This has got to stop.”
“No! You can’t ask me to do that! You can’t!”
Maureen came back into the room. “She’s asleep again. . . . Honey, your father’s right. It’s for the best. I know it’s hard, but you’ll understand in time.”
Chloe looked at her parents with despair. They were good people, and they loved her, and she’d hurt them horribly. She wanted so badly to stop hurting them. But . . . “I can’t, Mom. Dad. I can’t. I love her.”
“What?” Maureen asked weakly.
Seeing the shock on his wife’s face, Jason wanted to scream, but couldn’t risk waking the kids. His anguish and fury came out nonetheless. “Damn it, Chloe! Stop it! Can’t you see you’re killing her?”
Chloe stumbled to her feet. “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Look, I can’t do this right now, I need to get ready to work!” Before they could say anything else, she charged down the stairs, barely able to see through her tears. Mercifully, they didn’t follow her.
It was easily five minutes before she got herself to the point where she could even see. When she finally could, she fished out her phone and sent Gayle an urgent, desperate text.
Their back-and-forth was intense and lasted until Chloe was almost out of time. She’d been afraid to call, much as she wanted to, for fear that she’d be overheard, so she poured out the news in short blasts.
When she was done, she typed, Sorry. Gotta log on 4 work.
K. R U & kids safe?
Chloe had no trouble answering that one. Yes.
I love you all.
Love you, too! So much
Then we’ll make it work.
K. But I don’t know how
Trust me
Chloe saw her first work call come up on the screen. She frantically typed, I do! Gotta go bye, before taking the call.
Back in her apartment, Gayle leaned back in her chair — the comfortable one she used when she was writing. The glass of wine she’d poured for herself after she’d finished the local news hit sat untouched on her table; she just looked at it. Am I ready for this? Is she?
But her mind’s eye could only see Chloe as she’d been that first night, standing in a pool of moonlight and mystery. Welp. I guess we’re both gonna find out!
She closed her eyes and considered the whole tangled mess the way she approached her advocacy work. Putting herself in other people’s shoes, trying to imagine the world from their perspective. Seeing the relationships between people like lines in a communications grid, figuring out where they crossed. Finding the pressure points. Assessing contingencies and planning for them . . . .
It only took a few moments. Then Gayle reached for her phone, a look of intense focus on her sharp features.
Chloe was awake, but didn’t want to get up.
I am SO done, she thought. Stick a fork in it.
She could hear sounds coming from the kitchen above her; someone was clearly up. No sounds coming from the baby monitor, so the kids were still sleeping. No way I can rely on Mom to deal with them this morning. I need to get up.
Her phone pinged with an incoming text.
Come on, she told herself. Rolling off the couch, she went over to the desk and retrieved her phone from the charging pad. As she expected, the text was from Gayle: Hey beautiful. Nice morning to take the kids to the park.
Chloe sent back, ???
Trust me
I do but whats going on
See you soon
????
No response. Chloe was about to call Gayle when she heard Davy on the monitor. “Fuck!” she muttered as she dashed upstairs.
The noises from the kitchen were her father, who looked grim but collected. He stopped her just long enough to say, “Take care of the kids, but we’re going to have a serious conversation later.”
“Okay, Dad,” she said, happy to escape, but knowing the reprieve would be a short one. And what's Gayle up to?
By the time she had the kids changed, dressed and fed, it was 8:00 o’clock and Maureen was up as well. The atmosphere was so tense that even the babies could sense it, and they were cranky.
“Mom, can you watch them for a couple minutes while I grab a quick shower?”
“Fine. Go.”
Jason watched his daughter retreat to the bathroom, then gave his wife a searching look. Their conversation the prior night hadn’t settled anything. In the end, he had simply held her for almost an hour as she wept quietly, before finally falling asleep.
Maureen caught his glance and shrugged. What can we do? Alexis tugged on her slacks and held up a dog-eared copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.
“Okay, sweetie,” she sighed. It’ll keep them busy for a bit. She sat herself down on the couch with a grandchild on each side, and started going through the picture book with them, taking just a moment to catch Jason’s eye. “Jase? Coffee?”
He managed a tired smile. “Sure thing, hon.”
Chloe was as quick as she could be in the bathroom, but she looked like a wreck and just knew that wouldn’t do. A half hour later, she was clean, her hair was dry, and she was wearing fresh underwear, pants and a top. It didn’t make her problems disappear, but it sure helped her to face them.
She couldn’t help noticing that her parents looked as bad, and as worn out, as she did. I can’t keep doing this to them! “Listen — I know we need to talk. But let me take the kids to the park and run off their energy for a while. When they’re down for their morning naps, we’ll talk, okay?”
Jason looked at her suspiciously. “I don’t want you seeing Gayle.”
“Dad. I will be back in a couple hours. We can hash all this out then. I promise.”
“She’s right, Jase. Not in front of the kids, okay?” Maureen’s voice was thin and tired.
“Alright,” Jason almost growled. “But don’t think we’re going to change our minds.”
Chloe decided that would have to be good enough. It took fifteen minutes to get the kids ready and bundled into the stroller, but she finally managed. Once the house was no longer in view, she shot Gayle a text. On my way.
Good, Gayle replied. I’ve got a surprise for you.
Fifteen minutes later, Sutton Park was in view. She had picked up her pace when a creepy guy started following her back on Appletree Boulevard, and had made good time.
It was technically still spring, but the trees and shrubs had shifted to the deep greens of summer, and the well-watered grass was lush. Chloe could see Gayle squatting on the grass, talking to a dark-haired young woman who was making chalk drawings on the paved path that wound around and down to the playscape. Chloe waved and Gayle rose, smiling, to beckon her over.
Gayle called over as they got close. “Hey Ali! Davy! Come meet Becca!”
The dark-haired woman rose, smiling shyly. “Hi!”
Chloe did a double-take as she looked at the drawing on the pavement – a magical forest scene with rabbits, foxes, a lion . . . . “Oh my goodness!”
“Let’s get the kids out,” Gayle urged. “Bec wants to show them how to do chalk drawings!”
The next few minutes were taken up with getting Alexis and David out of the stroller and introducing them to someone new. Ali was pretty outgoing, but Davy tended to be shy. Something about Becca, a girl whose first instinct was always to step back, reassured him. Soon they were sitting on the grass next to her as she showed them all the creatures in her sketch.
Gayle guided Chloe over to a bench, close enough that the kids would feel secure. “How are you doing?”
“I’m a wreck,” Chloe confessed. “You were right – I should have told my parents up front!” It was all she could do to keep her voice down, and keep any sign of distress from reaching Ali or Davy.
Gayle shook her head. “Don’t worry about that. The most important thing is that all of you are safe. The next most important thing is, you have options.”
“But I don’t,” Chloe disagreed. “I can’t take care of the kids on what I make working part-time for a call center, and as long as I live with Mom and Dad, they control me!”
“You can live with me. All three of you.”
Chloe’s eyes went wide. “Gayle . . . I love you. I can’t believe you’d offer that. But how could I? I’d just be a burden. You don’t know what it’s like, dealing with all three of us, all the time.”
“I'll find a way to make it work. My friend Matt has access to a moving van. He can be at your house with a half-hour’s notice, and we can have you packed up and out in two hours.”
Chloe shook her head. “My parents would never allow that.”
“You’re not a minor anymore. They can’t stop you from leaving.”
“They’d call the cops!”
“I beat them to it. The duty sergeant is a friend of mine – Donna Craft. I gave her a heads-up last night that we might need help today, and why.”
Chloe was alarmed. “What? You made a report to the police?”
“Nothing like that,” Gayle assured her. “This was just an informal call to a friend. A sort-of warning flare in case something happened. I do it all the time when we’re planning rallies and have any reason to think that there might be trouble.”
“Holy Moly,” Chloe said, reverting to the gentle language of her youth and causing Gayle to smile. “You’re serious!”
“Absolutely. But Chloe, I'm not trying to force you to do anything. You need to do what’s best for you and for the kids, and only you know what that is. I just want to make sure you know that you do have options. And that I love you – and Ali and Davy – and will respect whatever choice you make.”
Chloe couldn’t speak, she was so overcome with emotions. She reached over and grabbed Gayle’s hand, twining their fingers together. But her eyes were on her kids, sitting with their legs splayed in front of them, earnestly marking up the sidewalk with hunks of chalk that they clutched in their tiny fists. Becca was talking to them, but her voice was so low Chloe couldn’t make out what she was saying.
The minutes passed in silence; the only sound the woosh of traffic on the street nearby, and the monotone buzz of a lawnmower somewhere in the distance. Chloe’s reverie was finally broken by a blue jay’s raucous scolding, and she sighed.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Gayle asked, uncharacteristically softly.
Chloe kept her eyes focused on the kids, but made no move to release Gayle’s hand. “I loved Kevin so much when I was younger. I never saw him for what he was, until it was too late. But what you and I have had, these past few weeks – I’ve never felt anything like that. I want to believe it’s real. I want to believe I could move in with you, and everything would be wonderful.” She lapsed into silence, watching Becca patiently help Ali pick another color.
Gayle was just as glad that Chloe was not looking at her; she knew she wore her heart on her sleeve. This isn’t about you, Gayle, she told herself sternly. “I sense a ‘however’ coming.”
Chloe nodded. “I’m . . . I’m not ready. Not yet. And honestly, I really don’t want to keep hurting my parents. It would kill them if I did something like that.” She finally looked at Gayle, seeing the pain she couldn’t hide. “But I don’t want to stop seeing you, either!”
Gayle put her other hand on top of their clasped fingers. “I understand.”
“Do you? Can you?” Chloe shook her head, as if she couldn’t believe it. “I don’t know how to fix this! Gayle – do you believe in prayer?”
“After a fashion.” Gayle’s smile was crooked. “I do a mean Hail Mary.”
After Chloe and the kids left the house, Jason and Maureen went back to the kitchen table, despondent. “What will we do if she refuses, Jase? We can’t just kick her out!”
He shook his head. “While she lives here, she’s got to follow our rules. I don’t care if she’s sixteen or sixty.”
Maureen shook her head. “I remember when I was carrying her . . . our miracle baby. Thought we’d never have another, with all the trouble I’d had with the twins’ birth. And I could feel God’s presence. Like I was cradled in the palm of His hand. And now . . . Nothing. It’s like I’m dead to Him.”
Jason took his wife’s hand, but had no words. He felt the same hollowness at his own core, and had, ever since that awful night two years ago, when Bill Ryder had called him in tears. “Jason . . . Jason, I don’t even know how to begin to tell you this . . . .”
Just then, the doorbell rang. It didn’t occur to Jason to ignore it. People knocked on your door, you answered it. Life goes on.
When he saw who was there, he felt a wash of intense relief. “Pastor Hecht! The Good Lord knows we need you! Please, please come in!”
Alvin Hecht was not a demonstrative man, but his parishioner’s evident distress touched him deeply. “Thank you, Jason. Is . . . Oh, good morning, Maureen. So good to see you both.”
Maureen had jumped up as soon as she heard the pastor’s dry and distinctive voice. “I’m so sorry, I look like a fright! Can I . . . would you like some coffee? Tea?”
“You look fine, really. And I’ll join you in whatever you’re having.”
“Come sit down, then, I’ll get a cup.”
Once they were all served and sitting at the table, Maureen said, “what can we do for you, Pastor? It’s not like you to drop in so early.”
“Put that aside for a minute,” he replied. “Based on your greeting, Jason, I’d say my arrival was well-timed. What’s troubling you?”
Jason and Maureen shared a look. After twenty-five years of marriage, three kids and four grandchildren, they needed no words to communicate understanding. He’s family. They poured out the story. First in a trickle, then in a flood.
Alvin listened carefully, both to the words and to the anguish behind them. When they were done, he laid a hand on each of theirs. “You have got to stop blaming yourselves. You raised a beautiful child. A good child.”
“How can you say that?” Jason asked. “After all she did?”
“I welcomed your daughter into the church. I’ve taught her, and watched her grow up. You two are maybe too close to this to see it. Maybe too ready to view Chloe’s mistakes as a reflection on you.”
“Mistakes!” Maureen shook her head. “Having sex at seventeen isn’t just a little slip up!”
“It’s a sin, and a serious one,” Alvin agreed. “It’s also a common one, as you know. Probably true of most young people in the church. Most older people too, for that matter.”
This was not what Jason expected to hear from his upright, God-fearing pastor, and he couldn’t keep his surprise from showing.
“Jason,” Alvin said gently, “I’m a theologian by training, but being a pastor means trying to understand people. We all make mistakes. We all sin. And, somehow, we all have to find a way to get up and keep going. I’d say Chloe’s done pretty well that way.”
Jason shook his head. “But that’s what we’ve been telling you. She’s gone and done it again — now she's running around behind our backs with this . . . this transsexual!”
“An abomination!” Maureen added, agreeing.
“Hmmmm. Have you actually met this person?”
“Certainly not!” Jason said. “Chloe knew how we would feel about someone like that!”
Alvin gave them a crooked smile. “Would it surprise you to know that I’m very well acquainted with Gayle Storm?”
“I assumed you’d know her. I mean, him. Or . . . God, I don’t even know what word to use!” Maureen said. “You’ve done debates.”
“And did a good job, too,” Jason said, nodding emphatically. “I was so proud to see you defend Christian values!”
“Yes,” Alvin replied. “Gayle’s arguments, in my view, defy tradition and represent clear error. But you can’t simply define Gayle by her errors, any more than you can define Chloe that way — or me, or anyone else.”
Jason gaped. “Pastor . . . What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that I don’t believe in shunning someone just because they’ve made a mistake, or have erroneous beliefs. My job is bringing people back to God; I can’t do that by chasing them away.”
“You’ve preached that gay lifestyles, trans lifestyles —“
“Are inconsistent with the Gospel,” Alvin finished. “Yes. Gayle disagrees with my interpretation of scripture. As a Christian, it’s my duty to give witness, not to pass judgment. If you had met her, or if you’d read her book, you would know that she is as serious about her own search for God as I am.”
“Her book?” Maureen said, making it a question.
“It’s called ‘TRANScendance,’ and it’s about her personal journey to hold on to faith. It’s actually quite good – even some original work with primary sources.” Alvin smiled. “Full of tyro mistakes, of course, and the theology isn’t going to change the minds of any serious Bible scholar. She was all of twenty-three when she wrote it, and it shows.”
The pastor’s description made Jason even more worried. “Then . . . well. It sounds dangerous.”
“Dangerous? No. I think her theology is wrong, and unlike Gayle, I have decades of study and centuries of tradition to back me up. But anyone who seeks the Divine with Gayle’s intensity and passion should be encouraged, and I do. Who knows? I may convert her yet.”
Jason was confused. “Shouldn’t we fight wrong ideas?”
“Of course – by presenting the truth, as revealed in scripture. Forcefully, but also lovingly. That’s what Jesus did. And unlike me, Jesus knew the mind of God.”
Maureen decided it was time to bring the conversation back to the here-and-now. “What do you think we should do? What would you do if Chloe were your daughter?”
“I would trust her.”
“Trust her!” Maureen shook her head.
“Yes,” Alvin said, emphatically. “She’s almost twenty and she’s been raising the kids for eighteen months now. Doing a good job, from everything you’ve said and I’ve seen. She isn’t a child anymore. If you raised her well — and despite your self-doubts, you absolutely did! — you’ve got to trust her to make her own decisions as an adult.”
“But what if she wants to hang out with this Gayle person?” Jason asked. “The babies might grow up thinking that it’s okay for a man to pretend he’s a woman!”
“I’ve been around long enough to remember how you used to feel, when your mother, rest her soul, tried to fix how you were raising the boys.”
Jason flushed. “That was different!”
Alvin shrugged. “It was, and it wasn’t. Living with Chloe and the kids, you’ve kind of naturally slipped into a co-parenting role. But like I said before, Chloe’s an adult, so you need to let her be the parent. And maybe you both wouldn’t look so haunted, if you just stepped back and let yourselves be grandparents, the way you are with Mike’s two girls.”
Maureen found herself nodding slowly. “I guess I can see that. But she lives here. How are we supposed to deal with . . . with ‘Gayle?’”
“She might surprise you. If it would help, I can introduce you.”
Suddenly it all clicked for Jason. “That’s why you’re here! She put you up to this!”
“She asked me to pray about it.” He chuckled. “She asked pretty forcefully, but that’s Gayle. When you get to know her, you’ll understand.”
“I notice you call Gayle ‘her,’” Jason said.
“I also call her ‘Gayle.’ It’s a courtesy. Do I believe she’s female? No. In fact, when I think about Gayle and Chloe together, what I see is a guy and his girl. Gayle doesn’t see it that way, of course, and I have no idea how your daughter sees it. I’m sure God’ll sort it out, but in the meantime, it doesn’t cost me anything to be polite.”
And, I’ve got a better chance of catching flies with honey!
Jason looked startled, then thoughtful. “I . . . guess?” He looked a question at Maureen, and again they reached a wordless understanding. “I guess I would appreciate it if you introduced us.”
“Excellent,” Alvin replied, beaming at them. “Why don’t you shoot your daughter a text, and they can come home early?”
“Now?”
“Don’t let this fester,” he admonished. “Just a little warning, though. She comes on strong. Like a full-force Gayle.”
“That’s everything—everything I can find, anyway!” Chloe took a last look around the living room to see if she’d missed anything in her last sweep. The room was cleaner than it had been in years, and the bright sun of a perfect April afternoon made the windows sparkle, showcasing the vibrant new blossoms on the Prairiefire Crabapple in the backyard. “I . . . can’t thank you enough. For everything.”
“If you missed anything, we’ll give it to you Thursday,” Jason said dryly, his broad smile taking any sting out of it. “Or Tuesday. Or maybe we’ll even drive the ten minutes to drop it off at your apartment.”
The apartment was larger and considerably nicer than Gayle’s old residence — something that became feasible when Kevin’s court-ordered paternity test resulted in a written agreement that included some immediate child support. The amount was modest, but the Court would increase it when Kevin’s earning potential rose. His parents were making the current payments, since they still wanted Kevin to devote himself to his studies.
“You know we’re always here if you need us,” Maureen added. Her eyes couldn’t quite hold in the tears, but she was smiling without restraint.
“I know . . . It just feels so strange to finally leave.”
Maureen pulled her in for a hug. “We’re so proud of you, honey. Your GED, a new job . . . now, your own place.”
“Our own place,” Chloe corrected, smiling.
“I know!” Maureen said.
“And you know we’re happy about that, too,” Jason added. “Even if it took us a while to get there!”
Chloe laughed. “You weren’t going to get any peace until you did!” She stepped back from her mom and beamed at them both.
I never, ever thought I would be this happy!
The door flew open, the result of Gayle maneuvering it with her shoulder while somehow holding a bottle of champagne and four flutes. “That’s it! The van’s ready. My folks need us to pick up Ali and Davy in thirty-eight minutes, so let’s make this quick! Go, go, go, people!”
Maureen laughingly grabbed the glasses, while Gayle ripped off the foil, then opened the bottle with more zeal than finesse.
“Let me,” Jason said, relieving Gayle of the bottle. “Someone with your temperament has no business handling champagne!”
In a moment, he had the four glasses poured and distributed. Gayle was first off with a toast. “To parents . . . and to grandparents!”
They all raised their glasses and drank, then Jason proposed a toast in response. “To respectful disagreements!”
Maureen shook her head. “To family!”
Chloe was last. Her heart sang and her eyes shone as she raised her glass in both joy and thanksgiving. “To new beginnings — for all of us!”
— The end.
My title was inspired by two very different songs, and the lyrics of both found their way into the chapter headings. The first is Van Morrison’s Full Force Gale, a song with uplifting lyrics and a cheerful, joyful vibe. It’s a beautiful song about redemption — and, very specifically, irresistible redemption.
The other is the far darker American Storm, by Bob Seger. Like Springsteen’s Born in the USA, its powerful, anthem-like chorus serves as a contrast to its difficult subject (for Seger’s song, the cocaine epidemic of the 1980s). It pays to listen to the lyrics, which describe the dealer on the street who is always there, ready to make everything better, for a price. What Gayle offers instead is simple human connection – kindness, friendship, and, finally, love. It is, in the end, the antidote to the kind of despair Seger describes with such raw force. She is the “American Storm” we need.
May 6, 2024
— Emma Anne Tate
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
I was running late, again. It’s so hard to get away from the crowd, sometimes. Everyone wants just a minute of your time, or just a quick selfie, or just a chance to shake hands. And, in a tight election, with just weeks left to go, I certainly didn’t want to offend anyone by brushing them off.
But, I also didn’t want to offend people by being late, which meant that I needed to move, now. Fortunately, I have very competent staff who make sure that happens when it needs to . . . and not before.
Portia – young, dark, intense – was my advance guard today; she was firmly taking my elbow and making apologies to the couple I was leaving. “So sorry; the governor has to be in Torvill for another event . . . thank you SO much for coming!”
The back door to the black sedan was open and I was down, Portia hopping in front to ride shotgun. My driver, Gavin, was already in gear. And off we went.
I turned my phone back on – I leave it off during events because it’s critically important that I really be present at whatever event I’m attending, rather than have my attention endlessly divided. Portia’s immediate superior, my chief of staff Dwight Evans, would most assuredly get word to me of any real emergency that I absolutely had to address. But it always amazed me – dismayed might be a better term – exactly how many not-quite earth-shattering emergencies cropped up any time my phone was off for an hour. 13 texts; I don’t even know how many emails.
But one of the texts was from Sandy, so I opened it immediately. “Sorry Sam. Need to meet you right away. Gav’s going to drop you off at Abbott Park. Cleared with Trig.”
I said, “Gav? We’re headed to the Fall Festival at Torvill, right?”
Gavin said, “Abbott Park first, boss. Just got the word from Trig.” Trigva Sorensen, aka “the Boy Wonder,” was the chief scheduler for the campaign. He always found a way for me to squeeze 26 hours of work out of an 18-hour day, bless his eager heart. But having me skip a scheduled event should have been above his pay grade.
I shot him a text. “What gives, Trig? I’m supposed to be in Torvill in 30 minutes and we’re 45 minutes out.”
The response was immediate. “A ‘how high’ moment, Governor. We’re reworking the schedule and will send to Gav & 911 when finished.” Portia purely hated Trig’s nickname for her, but it did make for a shorter text.
Well, this sounded serious, alright. Sandy wasn’t just my spouse. I made it very clear to the professionals we hired for the campaign that there was no better political mind on the planet. Sandy almost never dipped an oar into my campaigns anymore, but I told the campaign staff, on no uncertain terms: “If Sandy says jump, you ask ‘how high?’ Don’t wait to talk to me.”
But this intervention wasn’t like Sandy at all. Why not just call me? Or ask me to call? Once the calendar flipped to October in an election year, there were no spare moments for anyone. Nothing but a grueling series of 18-20 hour days, zipping between events and dialing for desperately needed campaign dollars.
We could have been anywhere in the state that day, but it happened that we weren’t all that far from home. Sandy had my schedule and would have known that. Abbott Park and the Abbott Memorial Reservoir were old stomping grounds, and the loop trail around the reservoir had left its dust on many, many pairs of my shoes. Sandy’s too. Back when we were just a couple young lawyers with a couple kids to raise. Before the local Democratic Town Committee chair had approached me to run for a slot on the town council and I had shocked everyone by winning the most votes and becoming mayor.
Life had definitely taken a turn after that. Six years as mayor, then my first state-wide race. Eight years as the hard-charging Attorney General. The last four years, Governor.
I remembered walking that loop trail with Sandy, and with little Jack, and Brittany. Brittany always wanted to drop Pooh sticks from the stone bridge over the small stream that served as an outflow. I remembered her squeals as she watched the sticks drift away, bouncing from rock to rock . . . . Seamus, the inquisitive Irish Setter, would sometimes chase the sticks, barking for the sheer fun of it.
But I honestly couldn’t remember if I’d ever taken the walk with Chase, our surprise third child. Chase had been born a bit after I started my third two-year term as mayor. By the time he was capable of walking any distance, I was spending most weekdays down at the capital. I felt guilty about that, but Sandy, as always, had picked up the slack. Without a single complaint, ever.
My trip down memory lane was interrupted by the sound of the car’s tires crunching on the gravel of the parking lot at Abbott Park. Gavin put the big beast by the entry walk, next to Sandy’s Prius. Sandy got a lot of jokes about that car.
There was no sign of Sandy, but I knew where to go. I said, “I’ll be off the grid until I get back. Shouldn’t be more than a half hour, but I’m off the grid regardless. Hold the fort, okay?”
Portia looked distinctly unhappy; Dwight was not going to approve of my disappearing into the woods without her. I imagined that Tanya Goodwin, my campaign manager, would be even less happy. Positively apoplectic, was more like it. But I had meant what I said: “How high.” I suppose it applied to me too.
I was wearing good shoes and I cursed that I hadn’t thought to have a change in the car. Presumably Sandy knew better than to be planning a hike, and a little shoe polish would hide any problems. Most days they got a lot of wear, lord knows. I went through the break in the parking lot fence and walked down the paved pathway that led through a small band of trees to the reservoir.
As I got among the trees, the paved path became carpeted with leaves – oak and ash and maple, especially maple. A kaleidoscope of reds and oranges and yellows and browns, still damp from the brief shower that had passed through the area at sunrise.
The sky was clear now, without so much as a cloud to mar the deep, deep autumn blue. I found myself, as I rarely did, wishing with all my heart that I could just spend the day walking around the reservoir, hand in hand with Sandy, discussing nothing more consequential than what we might like to have for dinner.
On the other side of the trees, the Abbott Memorial Reservoir opened in front of me, a breathtaking view on a clear day in early fall. Sandy was sitting on the park bench that faced the reservoir’s southern edge. Just as I expected. Looking, as usual, like an elephant perched on a footstool.
James Alexander Wilson, Jr., “Sandy” to his friends (his father having cornered the market on “Jamie”), was a mountain of a man. Six and a half feet tall, arms and legs like tree trunks and a chest like a blacksmith’s. The years had only added to his bulk. Back in the day, people had joked about how the two of us managed . . . well . . . things. Given my own, trim 5’4” frame.
I had always just smiled. The truth was, Sandy was one of those giant men who, because they have nothing to prove, are extremely gentle. The missionary position might have killed me, but there are lots of other positions. Fortunately.
For a man of his bulk, he was pretty light on his feet; he easily rose to his full height as he heard me approach, turned and smiled a welcome. “Good staff you’ve got,” he said. “Trig’s definitely a keeper.” Dangling from his thumb and forefinger were a pair of light-blue sneakers. My sneakers.
“Sandy,” I said briskly, “If you say it’s important, it’s important. But you know my schedule. Can we just talk here?”
He shook his head, “A bit too public, Sam. Better if we’re walking, in the trees.” There were other people in the immediate area, and my face was well known. But still . . . I was getting nervous. Sandy, worried about casual onlookers? Or was he worried about press people and campaign oppo types?
But this was Sandy, so I just sat down, took off my signature red pumps, donned ankle socks and laced up the sneakers. Fortunately I was wearing denim pants – it was sort of a “down-home” day for the campaign, with stops at several harvest festivals. I had put a windbreaker over my blouse and my sky-blue blazer was hanging up in the car.
Sandy took my pumps and put them neatly into a daypack. We walked off the paved area and headed out on the dirt path that looped around the reservoir. In a couple of minutes we were back under the trees. “Okay, Sandy,” I said. “Give.”
He said, “Of course, but keep walking. Like we aren’t discussing anything serious.”
I had a sudden, panicked thought that he was about to tell me that he was leaving me, or had had an affair . . . . something about his extreme caution, coupled with his apparent serenity, was freaking me out. “Fine,” I’m afraid I snapped. “I’ll walk. Just tell me what the hell is going on!”
“I forgot some papers yesterday and went home to get them. I found Chase alone in the living room, wearing a dress. Actually, dressed like a girl from head to toe. Did a nice job of it, too.” I froze and he said, very softly, “keep walking, sweetie.”
I forced myself to keep pace. “Why . . . what . . . ?” My brain was having a hard time processing.
He put a hand on my elbow, as if to guide me over some tricky footing, and kept us both moving forward. “We had kind of a long talk, as you might imagine. ’Til late at night – too late to call you. I think we now know why Chase’s grades went into a tailspin two years ago. Chase believes that he – or rather she – is female. She hasn’t wanted to say anything. Figured it might hurt you. Politically.”
I didn’t ask if Chase was certain. Almost any parent would. And, if it had been Jack or Britt, I would have asked. But Chase? If Chase said that moon rocks were made of green cheese, I’d take a healthy bite without a second’s worry for my incisors. Chase didn’t say anything unless he was certain. She was certain? Was it really “She?”
Well . . . even if “she” was certain, wasn’t it possible “she” was mistaken? “Do you think Chase is right? IS Chase transgendered?” I cringed internally at my avoidance of the pronoun.
Sandy nodded. “It was a very long talk, Sam. I wanted to be sure too. And yes, I think she is. She’s felt this way for years. With puberty coming . . . well, it’s just come to a head.”
We walked further as I processed that. Tried to adjust my mental picture of Chase, my stubborn, studious, reserved youngest child. Chase is a girl?
Sandy added, “She's right about the other thing too, you know. It will hurt you, politically. If people know.”
This time I had no trouble continuing to walk. I didn’t want to talk about the politics. I wanted, for a moment, just to be a mom. To sit with this. Try to figure out how to do this right, what it would take to be a good parent here. Life gives you moments – generally rare – that your children will remember forever. The moments they will judge you on, for the rest of their lives. What did you do, in that moment when they needed you most? In that moment when your values, and your love, were put to the test? This was, without a doubt, just that kind of moment.
But I wasn’t just a mom, and being the governor – being any sort of political figure – isn’t just a job you can leave at the end of a long day. It permeates every aspect of your life, whether you want it to or not. There was no question about my supporting Chase if – I made a mental adjustment – she had determined that she was transgendered. Support for people who are transgendered, or whose children are trangendered, has always been part of my political platform, and I had been firmly in their corner both as Attorney General and as Governor. No; my private inclination and my public positions were entirely consistent on this question.
But I could follow Sandy’s thinking without having him spell it out. The real question is, does Chase’s decision become public, and if so, when? If it became public, it wouldn’t change many people’s minds. Transphobic people weren’t going to support me anyway, and I probably wouldn’t increase my support among the trans community beyond what it was anyway.
But elections, especially in non-presidential years, are all about which people bother to show up and vote. A governor announcing on the eve of an election that one of her children was transgendered would drive voter participation through the roof – but only for her opponent. Daniel Kasten wasn’t a bigot himself, but if he needed the bigots’ votes in order to win, and he did, he knew how to pander to their darker impulses. Chase – studious, stubborn, sensitive Chase – would become a recruiting poster for the worst elements of Kasten’s base.
Worst of both worlds, there. Bad for Chase, bad for me, politically. And bad for all of the things that I had spent the last eighteen years in the public sphere fighting for. Bad for all the people who had chosen me as their standard-bearer. I was a pretty good Governor, if I do say so myself, but that wasn’t the important thing.
The tough part was that Daniel Kasten would be a truly awful governor. Including, most pertinently, on issues affecting the LGTBQ+ community. A “don’t say gay” bill and a “bathroom bill” were both part of his campaign’s platform.
“Can we keep this quiet, just for now?” I was thinking out loud. Maybe grasping at straws. Looking at the sky; at the leaves. Maybe at the trail. Looking anywhere except in the direction of my towering spouse.
“Do you mean, ‘can it be done?’ or do you mean, ‘should we do it?,’” Sandy asked.
“Let’s start with the first,” I said, “since if the answer’s ‘no,’ we don’t have to face the second.”
Sandy waggled his fingers. “Hard to say. Chase told some close friends from school. She believes they haven’t said anything. But if they have, or if they do later, then you’ll be in much, much worse shape. So will Chase, for that matter.”
I could picture it now: “noted trans advocate Governor Sam Hobson is hiding the fact that her child is trans.” That wouldn’t play well with the trans community (“are you ashamed?”), the anti-trans crowd (“anti-religion AND a hypocrite!”), or even the majority of folks for whom transgender issues were not a pressing concern. They would just peg me as dishonest, or at least, non-forthcoming. And poor Chase would think she was responsible for the whole debacle.
But . . . Chase’s friends might prove trustworthy. Chase was a sober soul; did not make friends easily. Or lightly. Maybe it wouldn’t become public. Wouldn’t that be better? Would it be right?
What did I owe the voters? It’s not like I had ever taken the position that my family life was no-one’s business. Being a working mom was most definitely part of my public persona. Pictures of me with my family, with Sandy, Jack, Britt and Seamus, and, later, with Chase, had always been included on my campaign literature. It was a way of saying, “I’m just like you; just another parent trying to make ends meet and make a better world for my kids.”
It was also a way of communicating my values. I’m a lot of people; we all are. A daughter, a sister, a lawyer, a Christian, a public official. But the thing that went on all my lit was the thing in all the world that I was the most proud of. The family that Sandy and I had made.
My current campaign website had a great picture of the five of us, shoveling snow together. We’d had a freak storm the day before the scheduled photoshoot and Tanya had said, “Perfect!” Chase – a very clearly male-looking Chase – was captured in the process of sending a snowball arcing towards Sandy. Sandy, Britt and I were leaning on our shovels, laughing; Jack – the only one of the three kids to inherit his dad’s size and strength – was the only one who seemed to be actually working.
Did the voters deserve to know that that image, so traditionally wholesome, masked a different reality that might not sit so well with some voters?
I thought about that some. In general, I thought the answer was “no.” The other members of my family were people too, and while my life has to be an open book that doesn’t mean that theirs have to be as well. They weren’t just campaign props.
But if we were doing the website today, would I include a family photo? I would. And if Chase wanted to present as a female in the photo, I would support her. But suppose she said, “no, let me look like a guy in the photo, even though I’m not?” Would I be okay with that?
No, I thought. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t deliberately obfuscate what I knew to be true, for “political expediency.” Which is just a fancy way of saying, “trying to get people to vote for you based on misconceptions that you deliberately fostered.”
“What are you thinking?,” Sandy asked. I guess I’d been lost in thought for a while. We were well past the point in the trail where it starts climbing up to a ridge overlooking the reservoir.
“I’m going in circles,” I confessed. “If we’d known six months ago, we’d probably simply have done what any sympathetic parents would have done, and when the story surfaced, we’d have put out a statement saying we were supporting Chase’s decision and didn’t intend to address it further. If we were lucky, it would be old news by now. Certainly it wouldn’t drive turn-out like it will this late.”
We walked another thirty yards or so before I added, “If we’d known a year ago, maybe . . . I don’t know. Maybe I wouldn’t have run again. We could have dealt with this as a family, without the public spotlight.”
“Absentee ballots have already gone out,” Sandy said. “Your name’s on the ballot even if you drop dead tomorrow. And anyway – Robotman couldn’t win this thing.”
Rob Ottman, the running mate who had been foisted on me by the party poobahs, might as well have been a robot for all the charisma he displayed. Except that no-one would build a robot with such an underpowered CPU.
“I know,” I sighed. I could lose this election, even without this new complication. But it was clear to all of us, the poobahs very much included, that in the current political environment we didn’t have anyone who had a better chance.
We walked on in the silence of our own thoughts, hearing the gentle sound of the wind rustling the leaves, pulling them from the life-giving branches, scattering them in swirls of random color. The air smelled sweet, clean. Why couldn’t life be as beautiful, as simple, as a walk through the woods in a morning in October?
“Let me ask you this,” Sandy said. “If it were just the election, if you didn’t have to think about the firestorm that will hit Chase, what would you do?”
I thought about it. It didn’t take me long. “I’d go public. God, I want to beat that bastard Kasten like he was a five-gallon bucket on a city street corner. But I’m not ashamed of Chase, and I wouldn't want anyone to think I was. If it’s she, it’s she.”
“Even if you knew it would cost you the election?,” Sandy pressed.
I stopped, forcing him to stop as well, a bit short of the crest of the rise. “You taught me better than that, love,” I said. “The voters get to decide whether I stay on the job. I’m just supposed to make sure they have the information they need to make the choice.”
His soft smile was a communion of sorts – a deep sharing of years and years of memories. Of hard-won battles, fought side-by-side. Three municipal campaigns; he’d run the first two. After that, he faded into the background, my frequent absences making his presence at home with the kids all the more critical.
But the imprint of his character was on every subsequent effort, even the state campaigns where I had the high-priced talent. The operatives whose only asset was their favorable win-loss ratio. Sandy had more integrity, more faith in democracy, than all the political operatives combined. I was the public face, but it was very much our political career.
“So, yeah,” I said. “I’d still go public. Even if I knew I’d end my career, that bastard would get my office, and he would do his damndest to undo all the good we accomplished. Because if that’s what the voters want, that’s what they get.”
“Okay,” Sandy said. “So then, the only question is what’s best for Chase?”
“Yes,” I said. “Like it should be. And I’m torn there. I need her to know I support her. That I’m not ashamed of her. If we try to keep it quiet, after she’s told you, all the nice words won’t matter. She’ll think I’m ashamed. She’ll think all my public support for trans rights was a sham. But on the other hand . . . .” I stopped. The other hand was, after all, pretty grim.
“They’ll tear her apart,” Sandy summarized. “Dan Kasten’s crew won’t give a shit about what they might be doing to a fourteen-year-old. She will be the poster-child for everything that’s wrong with the ‘liberal elites.’”
I nodded miserably. “I know,” I said. “I know.”
Sandy reached up and laid one of his massive palms against my cheek, wiping the single tear drop that had escaped my burning eyes. “So does she, love,” he said softly. “Maybe it’s time to bring her into this conversation.”
I opened my mouth to begin a question, but saw the answer already in his understanding eyes. I knew where she was. “Yeah,” I said. “Let’s go talk to our daughter.”
I took Sandy’s hand and we walked fifty yards further, to where the trail hit the crest and leveled out. There, I well remembered, was a quiet bench overlooking the reservoir, a little lawn, and the spreading branches of a mighty sugar maple.
We had sat together on that bench, Sandy and I, fifteen years ago, on a day much like this one. Jack was high in the branches of the tree; Britt was chasing Seamus, Seamus was chasing his frisbee and we . . . we were alive and in love and chasing our dreams. And I had told my wonderful man, in the privacy provided by the kid’s temporary distraction, that he was going to be a father again. Our last child, though we hadn’t known that then.
And there she was, sitting on that same park bench, dressed appropriately for a walk in the autumn woods – sneakers, capris and a cute sweater. Sensible makeup, of course. Subdued nail polish. Chase would have spent hours of study figuring out what was appropriate and would never look over the top or garish.
Chase had deep-set, warm, expressive eyes that revealed a sensitive nature. She turned those eyes towards us as we emerged from the trees, seeing Sandy first – of course – but then finding me and watching closely, anxious to see my reaction. Afraid of rejection, certainly. But also afraid of what this all might mean for me, for everything I had worked for. Everything we had worked for.
But the stubborn was there too, thank God, in the set of her jaw. She would need that. My studious, stubborn, wonderful youngest child.
My daughter.
I opened my arms as wide as I could, picked up my feet and ran to meet her.
— The End
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Homer’s Odyssey
Athena sighed. The last time she had taken a human lover, she had vowed she would never do it again. He had been handsome, and wise by the lights of mankind. Strong. Kind. But he had aged, and she had not, and that fact had eaten away at all that was good in him. The man she had buried had been less, so much less, that the man she had first taken to her bed. 1580, that had been.
But close on 500 years, and utter boredom with the Olympians that she had known, quite literally, for millennia, had worn away at her resolve, and she had fallen in with Eddy, who worked at a deli in Queens. Go figure.
Eddy had been many things that Margrave Frederick had not been. He was not especially handsome, and he was not wise so much as funny. His irreverent, wry and very human sense of the ridiculous had endeared him to her. Apparently, that had been what she was missing from her life at that particular moment. She let him take her home from a nightclub and they had a fun evening together. But, she had been resolved not to repeat her last mistake. Eddy had never seen her again.
Nor had he known that, in the perverse way that the world of Zeus tended to operate, he had given her a son. Which was, to put it mildly, NOT what she had in mind when she decided the universe owed her a night of frolic. Even for the gods, the universe doesn’t operate that kind of a leger.
But she was Pallas Athena, the Goddess of Justice as well as wisdom, and she would not shirk the task that she had bought with her night of pleasure. She had raised young Alexander herself, a mother stern but fair.
But alas, young Alex had his father’s brains and his mother’s sense of humor. He turned into a nice enough young man, but he seemed to be unmoored, unformed, somehow unfinished. He needed, she thought, the right woman. Someone to inspire him. But he had an unfailing habit of falling for every airhead who had a round rump and a pleasant face. Why did men always want Helen, for god’s sake? Even Menelaus. But how could HER son be such an idiot?
He had done it again two nights ago. In her anger at his stupidity, she had simply walked through the walls of his apartment building and confronted him before he caused the same sort of accident that had resulted in his own birth 25 years before.
He had been livid. Of course he’d been livid. Athena supposed that she would have been livid too, if her mother had done such a thing. Of course, her father had swallowed her mother before she was born, so it was a bit of a moot point. And anyhow, his anger did not move her. She who had seen the rage of Achilles, the might of Hector, would not be moved by a half-dressed, half-formed man child deprived of a moment’s earthly pleasure. “Enough,” she said, and he was silenced. Adding the rumble of thunder to underscore her word was probably unworthy, she reflected. But it had been effective.
The tramp had already taken to the stairs, shrieking. Athena and Alex had let her go; Alex because he was in the midst of shouting, and Athena because she knew that she would ensure that the young lady would have no recollection of what had just occurred. The gods do not tread lightly in the world of man, but they are adept at covering their tracks.
“You obviously lack the native wit to choose your own mate,” she said icily. “Each of your efforts is less satisfactory than the one that came before. I do not understand it. Your cranium appears to be filled with the correct material. Why do you act as if it were oatmeal instead?”
“Mother,” he said, trying without much success to control the fury in his voice, “Stop it! This is America. I’m an adult, and I can do what I want. I’m not trying to choose a wife right now. I’m just trying to have a normal sex life, okay? Too much to ask? I mean, come on! Do you have any idea how hard that is when your mom is an actual goddess?”
“Stop whining, Alex,” she said sternly. “it is unseemly for one whose veins carry the blood of Zeus himself. I was celebate for almost 500 years before you were conceived. Surely you can manage a week between strumpets?” Alex ground his teeth. Athena sighed again and added, “Alright, fine. You can’t. How about two days?”
Alex radiated suspicion. “What are you plotting, Mother?”
She replied, one again using thunder to underscore her words. “You will go to your normal iniquitous haunt in two night’s time. There I shall ensure that you meet the perfect mate and stop your childish nonsense.” Alex’s face now showed nothing but stubborn. “ENOUGH,” she said again. “Who are you to question the very incarnation of Wisdom? I will provide the right woman, and she WILL be the woman of your dreams. I am Athena, daughter of Zeus. I have spoken.”
So Alex had gone to his usual drinking hole with his usual drinking buddy at his usual time two nights later, and had checked out every woman that walked through the solid wooden door. They were not, not remotely, the girls of his dreams. He tried though. Maybe one of them would grow on him. He tried not to judge too quickly. So he bought drinks, he talked to the women, he and Pudge did everything to put on the charm. After four hours, all he had to show for it was a full bladder and a bad case of vertigo.
His friend Cassie was behind the bar. She gave the two of them a look, decided that she should have cut Alex off two Laphroag’s back, and said, “I suppose you’d better get him home, Pudge. I’ve got to close up in ten. But honestly, you should stop looking after him. No good deed goes unpunished.”
“”C’mon, man,” Pudge said, “let’s get rollin’.” He heaved his taller friend into the vertical position and started moving to the door. Alex was very drunk, but also very confused. He had plenty of gripes with the goddess his mother, but he had never doubted her. When she did her “I have spoken” routine, you took it seriously. As in, bet your life seriously.
“What’d I miss, Pudge,” he asked plaintively. “I was sure . . . “ He stopped speaking as the door opened. A last minute possibility? But no, it was only old Eddy, who helped out with the cleaning after the bar closed. Not the promised one. They staggered out and headed up the cold street in the direction of Alex’s apartment.
Pudge was philosophical about it. Alex hadn’t said why he’d been so cocky, as it were, about tonight. He was a good looking guy and he was easy-going and generous, so he seldom had any trouble finding a cheerful bedmate. But there were plenty of nights that even Alex struck out, and it was scarcely the first time Pudge had helped to get him home in one piece. He expected it wouldn’t be the last.
It was 12:30 in the morning before Pudge pulled Alex through the door of his apartment. Alex was muttering morosely at that point, something about his mother promising something. Pudge didn’t pay much attention. He’d met Alex’s mother once and didn’t want to repeat the experience. Any other woman, she’d have been the epitome of a MILF. But that lady was downright scary. Any woman who would top a listing of people you wouldn’t EVER want to fuck with cannot, by definition, be a MILF. He managed to get the door shut and locked while keeping Alex more or less upright.
One of the living room lights turned itself on, spreading weak light, startling Alex and frightening Pudge. Not so much the light itself, but what it revealed: Alex’s scary mom, dressed in some sort of form-fitting dress that left her right shoulder bare. “Shit,” he exclaimed, but then, unaccountably, fell silent.
“You PROMISED, Mother,” Alex slurred. “I know I didn’t get the date wrong. Or the place!”
Her face was impassive. “You look, and you look. But still you can only see the surface. Alex, when will you learn,” she asked, sounding exasperated. Alex just stared at her, incapable of rubbing two brain cells together. His stomach began to heave and he started to slide to the floor; Homer seemed powerless to stop him.
“Oh, for the love of Hades,” Athena said, and snapped her fingers. Instantly Alex checked his slide and carefully, carefully, brought himself back to an erect position.
“I really wish you would teach me how to do that,” Alex said, as his mind cleared and his stomach settled.
“I’m not an idiot’s apothecary,” his mother snapped. “Nor would I spare you the well-earned consequences of your ill-considered inebriation, but I don’t feel like waiting for you to sober up. You wits – such as they are, and what you have of them – are restored. So use them. The woman was there. You paid no attention to her.”
Alex was no longer drunk, but he was angry and did not like being made to look like a fool. “I spoke to EVERYONE, Mother. I didn’t just use my eyes. If the woman of my dreams was there, I need better dreams.”
His mother looked at him sadly. “You would have done better,” she said, “to have ignored the evidence of your eyes altogether. For they caused you to ignore the purest heart, the most beautiful soul. Again. The perfect woman brought you home.”
“What?” Alex said. “You missed this time, Mother. Pudge brought me . . . .”
Alex stopped, then turned white. “You’re not fucking serious, Mother! Not Pudge?”
She stood up; standing, she was even more imposing. “Pudge, as you dismissively name her. Homer. Your only real friend. The friend who has always been there for you. Who has fought at your back when you were foolish enough to get into brawls. Who has brought you home, time after time, seen you to your bed and returned, always alone, to her own. Who has been born with the body of an ungainly man and the heart and soul of a woman. Why can’t you SEE it?”
Alex looked at his mother, then at Homer. Homer was standing artificially straight; his eyes were calm but unfocused. “Pudge?” he whispered, a question in his voice.
“She can’t hear us, just at the moment,” Athena said. “Except, as always, with the heart.”
“Mother,” Alex said, “I’m not gay. Homer’s is a guy, to all appearances, and he’s not gay. Whatever may be true about his heart and soul.”
“You do not find her physically attractive? You want another trollop instead?” Her voice was icy.
Alex replied, “Mother, this is something maybe a goddess wouldn’t understand. I don’t know. But humans . . . we’re wired how we’re wired. I know you get frustrated about the women I’ve dated. But honestly, my body’s response isn’t something I can just turn on and off when I want to. I’m not physically attracted to men, and I can’t change that. AND,” he said warningly, “you’d better not change it either!”
“That power,” Athena said gravely, “I do not possess, nor would I choose to exercise it if I did. But . . . I have other powers. I CAN bring this poor woman’s physical form into conformity with her mind, her heart, her very soul. She CAN be the woman of even your earthly dreams.”
Alex wanted to reject what his mother was saying. But he thought back to all the years, him and Pudge. Pudge always there, always looking out for him. Even bailed him out of jail, one memorable night. Always with the right word, the understanding word. If he put aside the evidence of his eyes, Pudge as a woman wasn’t nearly as crazy as he had thought. Was it possible?
He said, “I . . . I need to talk to Pudge. To Homer . . . .”
Athena said, “Communicate, but without words. If Homer agrees, the physical evidence will be there for you both to see. If she does not agree, there will be no change. She will wake, and go home, remembering nothing, and remaining forever Pudge. It is your choice, and hers.”
“What do you mean, ‘communicate without words?’” Alex asked, “And how will I know he’s really agreed?”
His mother’s image grew before him, her head touching the beams of his ten-foot ceiling. Her face glowed and her displeasure pulsed from fiery eyes. “You DARE to question the honor of the Daughter of Zeus! Blood or no blood, I WILL NOT SUFFER it!”
Alex found himself on his knees, shielding his eyes. This, he had never seen. “I . . . I’m sorry, Mother. I’m sorry!!!!” He feared that he had finally gone too far. She might be his mother, but it paid to remember what else she was as well.
The incandescent brightness began to fade, very gradually, until Alex was finally able to open his eyes again and lower his arm. His mother was once again human-sized. The light in her eyes had dimmed, but the look on her face clearly indicated that her patience was exhausted. “Choose,” she said abruptly.
Alex got to his feet and turned to his long-time friend. He opened his mouth to say something, but caught his mother’s frown out of the corner of his vision. No words, he reminded himself. How could he communicate without words?
Alex reached out and grabbed one of Homer’s hands, bringing it up to chest height. Homer looked in Alex’s direction, but his expression was unchanged. Alex held Homer’s meaty hand in both of his own, wondering how he would communicate – how he could communicate – his Mother’s offer. He concentrated all of his will, trying to communicate with his eyes. Nothing happened.
“Poor old Pudge,” he whispered. “Poor old Pudge . . . .” He found himself stroking Homer’s hand, like he might stroke the hand of an attractive woman, and almost dropped it when he realized what he was doing. But then he froze. Homer’s hand was no longer what it had been. It was smaller, daintier. The fingers were long and tapered; the nails, trimmed, shaped and polished. It WAS the hand of an attractive woman.
Alex threw a disbelieving look at his mother, then returned his attention to his friend. Hesitantly, he lowered the suddenly pretty appendage and raised its twin. Soon both of Homer’s hands were exquisite. They looked incredibly out of place on Homer’s bulky body.
He looked at his mother again. “I guess . . . that’s the answer? This is what Homer wants? Will you . . . change the rest of him as well?”
His mother shook her head. “It is for you to do, Alex. You alone. I provide the power, but you and Homer must do this yourselves, inch by inch. You are taking, and giving, and it must be done with reverence and with love; your body, her soul. The clothes, at least, I will spare you.” When Alex looked back, Homer had not moved, but he was now naked – and ugly – as the day of his birth. Alex took one of Homer’s beautiful hands, and slowly stroked the wrist, the forearm, the elbow . . . and each, through his attention, became fine, feminine and perfect. The skin was pale and flawless, soft and smooth. Soon, both arms were completely female.
He rested his hands on Homer’s wide shoulders, then moved both hands in a tender caress. The massive bones and muscles shifted, melted, shrank away, and he moved his hands up the shoulder blades, shaping the now bird-like bones of the clavicle. Almost prayerfully, he ran his hands lightly over the neck and throat, feeling the Adam's apple vanish and the structure grow narrower, seemingly taller.
He brought both hands up and cupped Homer’s cheeks. Without speaking, he thought, “gods, I hope this is really what you want!” The cheeks became smooth and delightfully rounded, the cheekbones pronounced. The nose, jaw and chin were next, then the forehead, the eyebrows and lashes . . . Alex closed each eye and lightly kissed it, fondled both ears, and finally gave the familiar gash that had been Homer’s mouth a full, deep kiss, feeling in return lips that were soft and full of welcome. The face that emerged was, indeed, the woman of his dreams.
He ran fingers through Homer’s hair until it cascaded down in a fountain of red gold, fine and full and clean. He circled the waist with both hands and watched it melt away to a size two. His fingers covered every inch of her back, then he gently placed hands on Homer’s chest and massaged the nipples until full, firm breasts budded, then blossomed. He bent to kiss each nipple and watched as they turned dark and large.
Alex knelt and stroked Homer’s feet, ankles, his calves and knees. Then he worked up to the thighs, the wide hips. Circling his hand back, Alex felt Homer’s rear end expand and firm under his fingers, becoming delightful round.
All that was left of Homer’s manhood was, well, his manhood, standing incongruously large against his new, petite frame. It was also fully erect. Alex had never touched a man’s penis before, but by this point he knew the magic. He knew what he had to do, but he shuddered. Was it worth it? He looked at the stunning woman that his friend had – Almost! – become. Would he leave him in limbo like some circus performer?
He would not. Not a chance. He caressed his friend’s shaft, as his mother had commanded, with love and with reverence. For he was taking one gift to bestow another; nowhere was that truth more evident. Under his hands, Pudge’s penis shrank, melted, and vanished away, burying itself into a newly formed slit. Alex drew back, then buried his check above the newly created vulva, feeling the pubic hairs soften and her feminine mound form.
Alex stood up slowly, looking with wonder at the stunning woman who stood before him, impassive. She was, indeed, the woman of his dreams, practically the epitome of womanhood. He was overwhelmed with desire and moved to embrace her, but his mother intervened. “Go to bed, Alex,” she said. Without any volition on his part, he went.
Athena stood in the shadowed room and looked at the newly-formed woman. She said, “Are you content now, young one?”
The wide, light blue eyes of an ingenue stared back at her. The woman, formerly Homer, sometimes called Pudge, said, “Content? It was my deepest wish. A crazy desire, buried so deep I would barely admit it to myself. I . . . how can I ever thank you? I don’t even know who you are!”
“Does it matter?” the goddess countered. “You will not remember. As for how you can repay me, that’s simple. Take this son of mine and make a man out of him.”
The young woman stared at her, looking thoughtful. She said, “I will try, mistress. But I may fail. I may lack the skill, or the knowledge. If I fail, if I give up, will you revoke your gift?”
Athena was surprised – a thing that only happened once every century or so “What is this talk of failure? You have not even set yourself to the task. Is your love so watery?”
“I love him,” the woman replied simply. “You know my heart, you’ve read it like a book. I am an orphan, an outcast. In all my world, there has only, always, been Alex.” She paused to take a deep breath and found herself surprised at the reduced size of her lungs’ capacity. “Yet I would remain ugly and male and free rather than take your gift and be a slave, even to Alex.”
Athena listened to this speech with both amazement and approval. “There speaks a great heart,” she murmured. “You are valiant, child, and valor must have its reward. Very well. You are free. What will you do with your freedom?”
“I will try, mistress. With all my heart, and I would do that even if I did not owe you. I may fail, but I will try. Can . . . can you help me?”
“I rather thought I had,” Athena said dryly.
The young woman nodded. “Of course.” She smiled and said, “I don’t doubt he’d tumble me this instant given what I look like now. But keeping him? That’s not so easy. And . . . I don’t know the first thing about being a woman!”
Athena replied, “that, again, is well said, child. It is in my power to give you the knowledge and the muscle memory of a woman your own age. Is that your desire?”
The young woman had tears in her eyes, “oh yes, mistress!” And suddenly, almost imperceptibly, her world changed. She retained her memories; she remained who she had always been. But something inside altered, her sense of the world altered, and she had a deep knowledge of things she had never known. “Oh my God!,” she whispered. “”It’s so beautiful!”
“Goddess,” Athena corrected. “Are you ready now, child?”
The woman bowed her head, the gesture suddenly fluid and graceful. “Mistress, you have brought me into this world naked. I think . . . this would not be the best way. I want . . . Oh, Goddess! How I want to go to Alex this instant, naked as I am, and be the woman of his dreams. But . . . .”
Athena was intrigued. “But . . . ?” she prodded.
“But it would be too easy, mistress. Alex . . . Alex needs a challenge. If it’s too easy, he’ll take what I offer and move on. I’ve seen him do it, time after time. He needs to give chase. So . . . I should NOT stay here tonight, and I can scarcely go home as I am.”
“A wardrobe too? You don’t ask for much, child!”
“Forgive me, mistress. But I don’t ask for myself. I want to help Alex. This . . . this is the best way.”
Athena said, “A wardrobe appropriate to your age and station, and your apartment suitably redecorated. Done. Anything else?”
The woman said, “only this, Mistress . . . Can you give me a little time? It has been hard for Alex, growing up in your shadow. Let him find his own way in this? Nothing will give him more strength than your confidence.”
“You would school me in the duty a mother owes her son?” Athena challenged.
“No, Mistress,” the girl replied. “But a lover may see the man, where the mother must always see the baby and the boy as well.”
Athena replied, “Your old name is no longer suitable. You are free, as you have requested, and may choose any name you wish. Except for Helen. Yet were you mine to name, I would call you Sophia, for truly you have a wise heart, in ways that were no part of my gift. Very well. I will give you both time and space. And,” she added, “a little something to wear.”
The young woman looked down and found that she was wearing a deep red bodycon dress that emphasized her perfect curves, pale stockings and matching red pumps with four-inch heels that felt perfectly comfortable. As she moved, she felt the dress slide across silky lingerie that cradled her new flesh. She could feel, coiled and unstoppable, the power of her sex. She vowed to herself, “I WILL succeed. He will be mine, and he will be the man he was born to be!”
She went to her knees before the goddess. “You have given me everything, Mistress. I can only thank you with my life. And I will.” Athena rested her right hand on the young woman’s forehead in benediction.
“Be wise, Sophia,” said Pallas Athena, daughter of Zeus. “Be wise, and be valiant!”
The end
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
I managed to slam on the brakes just in time. Not only was the light red as a fire truck, but a family had just stepped into the intersection. The woman and her daughter looked petrified; the man looked furious. There was probably an infant in the stroller, too.
The man flipped me off, vigorously, but fortunately took no further steps to vent his entirely justified rage. I wasn’t in uniform and I was driving a beat-up Subaru Forester, so the man’s restraint had nothing to do with fear of the police. He’s probably just a decent guy who loves his family, I thought.
Oddly enough, the thought only left me more unsettled. It’s so easy, so natural, when they’re little. I wish it stayed that way! I snorted as my grammy's old saying ran through my head: If wishes were horses, beggars would ride.
The family was well out of the intersection when the light turned. I eased the Forester forward, forcing myself to be hyper aware of the speed limit. I had no destination in mind; had been driving blindly, so lost in my own thoughts that I didn’t even know where I was going.
It was the beach road, of course. That’s where my mind would take me when I put it on autopilot. The diner where I’d first met Ginny was only three blocks from here. Well . . . that’s where it had been, anyway. Long gone now; another big block of condos had replaced it. Naturally. Filled with more insufferable young professionals, no doubt. The whole effing world is going to shit, I snarled silently.
The long pier was still there. I’d taken Nate there when he was a kid. Early mornings and late evenings, when the fish were biting. Some father-son time, just like I used to have with my old man. Had still had with my old man, right up until last year. The Chief hadn’t recovered his mobility after the stroke, though.
I pulled into the parking lot carefully and backed into a spot. Clear exit to the road. Never knew when I might have to leave in a hurry. I sat for a minute, debating whether I should turn around and head home. But my near-accident convinced me that I should clear my head before driving any further. I shut off the engine and got out, locking the door carefully behind me. On duty or off, I have a weapon in the car, and I’m careful with it.
The pier was all lit up. I headed that way, thinking it might be nice to go to the end, sit on one of the benches, and listen to the surf for a bit. But a group of twenty-something’s started heading that way, too, and they were enough to change my mind. The girls wore flirty cocktail dresses and platform shoes; the guys were styling in pricy blue jeans, collared shirts and coiffed hair no doubt fluffed with “product.” Their laughter was too loud; the jokes probably what passed for witty. I felt a strong desire to be somewhere else.
There was a sandy path down to the beach and I took it, lured by the crash of waves and the cry of gulls. Closer to the water I stopped, knelt down, and removed my ratty sneakers. The night was early, and the beach still retained enough of the day’s heat that I was comfortable in my basketball shorts and hoodie.
The sand felt good. Moist and crumbly. I angled closer to the surf, wanting to feel the caress of waves across the top of my feet. Remembering the times Ginny and I had walked along this beach. We used to talk for hours; I couldn’t remember what all we’d actually said. It hadn’t mattered, the words. The message was always the same. I love you.
I still loved her, of course. But damn, she made it hard, some days. Always after me to be understanding of Nate — of my son, dammit! To accept him “as he is.”
To accept her.
Well, screw that! Nate was twenty-two now. He had a job behind a desk somewhere, and his own place. He could wear dresses all he liked, and no-one could tell him not to. But that didn’t change facts, did it? You can call yourself the Queen of Sheba, but don’t go expecting people to bow and scrape.
It’s not like I screamed at him, or told him he wasn’t welcome at my house, or anything like that, though the guys on the force would have done that at a minimum. But I’m the bad guy, just because I won’t call him “Shellie” or use female pronouns? I was there, dammit! Changed his stinky diapers a million times. I frickin’ know what’s under the hood!
But it just killed me, how this thing was driving a wedge between me and my family. Not my parents; they were as baffled as me, and the Chief had given me plenty of advice about taking a razor to Nate’s abundant hair. No, they got it. But Ginny was downright icy, and Nate . . . .
Nate was hurt.
He didn’t fight back. He never made a scene when I called him by his birth name, or referred to him by a male pronoun. He was always polite and respectful. But I’d known him all his young life. Had held him when he was banged up; comforted him when other boys were cruel, in the way that boys are, sometimes. He couldn’t fool me. Nate was wounded, hurting. Hurting bad. Ginny thought he’d feel better if I played along with his fantasy, but I just didn’t see it.
Pain shot up my right leg as my foot landed wrong on something hard and I hopped, cursing. Some fucker couldn’t be bothered to pick up their beer bottle. Good thing it wasn’t broken! I bent down and picked it up. What do you want to bet it’s some frickin’ pricey craft IPA. I wonder who mighta left this here? I rubbed some sand off it so I could read the label.
A warm, very feminine voice spoke, practically in my ear. “Ahhhh . . . Much better! Thanks.”
I practically jumped out of my skin and spun around. I’m both a veteran and a police officer, and I pride myself on situational awareness. I even teach it, for Chrissake! Lost in my thoughts, I hadn’t had a clue that anyone was nearby.
The woman made quite the appearance. Long, wavy black hair, deep, dark eyes, curves that were only highlighted by a bikini and the gauzy beach wrap that she wore over it. Her full lips curled in a smile. “I’m sorry if I startled you.”
Despite my sloppy appearance, I retreated into the familiarity and formality of my official persona. “Not at all, Ma’am. I’m just normally more alert than that.”
“Hmmm?” Her inquiry sounded amused. “Well, I for one am glad you stepped on my bottle and picked it up.”
“This is yours?”
“Sure. Yes.”
“Well, you’re welcome to it, but I’ll pitch in the recycling if you want.”
She laughed, free and amused. “Really? And let someone else get the three wishes? That’s magnanimous of you!”
Her manner, and her humor, made me laugh as well. “Good one, Miss . . . ?”
“Just call me Jeannie.”
The woman was quick, that was for sure. If I’d been a couple decades younger and unattached, I might stay to match wits and see where it might lead. As it was . . . . “Fair enough, Jeannie. But seriously, I’ll drop this off if you like; there’s a bin by my car.”
She shook her head, still smiling, and her dark hair swirled around her face in a cloud. “A man of a skeptical world, I see. Well, Sergeant Byron McAlistair, I am not kidding. I am who I say I am, and I have powers beyond what your experience can imagine. I can’t change the things that have been, but I can alter many things that are. Is your life really so perfect, that you scorn my help?”
My defenses went up with a snap. “How do you know my name?”
“How could I not know it, and more besides? You have opened my prison, for a time.”
Alright, this was taking a joke too far. “The beer bottle?” I let my skepticism color my tone. “Doesn’t seem real authentic.”
“Would you prefer a lamp? An urn? Perhaps an amphora?” As she spoke, the bottle in my hands changed shape. I dropped it with a startled cry when it became a large clay vessel, but it resumed the form of a beer bottle when it hit the soft sand, making hardly a sound.
Jeannie shrugged. “The world changes.” She spread her arms, causing her gauzy wrap to surge over her curves in eye-catching ways. “Attire changes. Forms must change as well.”
I looked at the beer bottle, lying there so innocently. But I had been holding it. The change hadn’t been an optical illusion; I’d felt it too. “Holy shit!” My voice was barely a whisper. “You’re for real?”
“What is ‘real?’” she countered. “But I don’t propose to debate my existence, not even with the famous 'Big Mac.'”
I flinched as she employed the nickname that only other sergeants dared to use to my face.
“You have done me a service.” Her voice was soft, and surprisingly compassionate. “By custom, I will grant you three wishes. For yourself; perhaps, for your loved ones. Beyond that, I cannot go.”
“So, world peace and an end to hunger are right out?”
“I’m afraid so,” she said gravely. “I am but a power of this world; not The Power.”
“Not even a World Series pennant for the A’s?”
“Nope. And, sorry, but after their last season, world peace would be easier. Just sayin’.”
Ouch! But her all-too-accurate insult to the tattered honor of my favorite baseball team went unanswered. My mind turned immediately to the problem that had brought me to this peaceful beach, alone, without the woman who should be here with me. As she had been, years before. “Nate!”
“Your child,” Jeannie said, matter-of-factly. “What is your wish?” I opened my mouth, but she laid a warming finger across it, silencing me. “Think before you answer. Be certain of what you want, and precise in your wording. The adage, ‘be careful what you wish for’ most definitely applies.”
I digested that. She was right, of course. I wanted Nate to stop his nonsense and go back to living as the man he was. But how much of the Nate I knew was wrapped up with his crazy gender nonsense? To use his own terms, where did “Shellie” end and Nate begin? Assuming Jeannie was for real — and I couldn’t quite bring myself to believe that — would I even recognize Nate, if she granted that particular wish?
But . . . but . . . I couldn’t just leave it! I could ask for a million bucks, or to win the billion-dollar Powerball, or whatever. But without my family, it wouldn’t be worth the contents of a septic tank.
I couldn’t think straight with Jeannie there, looking like a supermodel. I turned toward the ocean, placid under a bright silver moon. What do I want? Really want?
“Byron,” she said behind me, her voice soft. “You must choose.”
An old Bible story came to mind, causing me to smile. Without turning around, I whispered, “I want to understand him, Jeannie. I want to understand my son. Can you do that?”
She was silent. Maybe she was a hallucination. I turned around, half expecting to find no-one there, but she hadn’t moved. She was just completely still, her expression unreadable.
“Can you?” I repeated.
“Is that truly your wish? Be certain.”
“Yes. Yes, absolutely.”
She nodded sadly. “So be it. Byron . . . I’m so very sorry.”
I was puzzled. Why was she sorry? It seemed a shame that my wish had caused her such distress. Though, even shadowed, her features were perfect. Flawless. Just like her hair, her body . . . Everything about her was perfect.
It occurred to me, really for the first time in my life, that I am tremendously ugly. My hair is wiry, grizzled, with the start of a tonsure at the crown. My skin is rough and my features rougher. A heavy jaw, a nose like a beak, a thick neck and big, ungainly shoulders. God, what had Ginny ever seen in me?
I looked down at my hands. All I could see was that they are huge. Big palms, fat fingers. Age had thickened my gut. And then . . . between my legs, hanging there like some awful, rotting fruit, my “manhood.” I shuddered.
A feeling of revulsion overwhelmed me like a rogue wave. I had never felt anything like it, and I was completely unable to resist. Dropping to my knees, overcome by horror, I thought, I’m a monster! I want . . . I want . . . ! Jeannie was gazing at me, my distress echoed in her eyes. Her perfect eyes. I want to look like her! Or at least, not like ME! I want to be a woman! I’ve never wanted anything so much in my whole life!
The thought was new, alien. Overpowering. I knew, with complete certainty, that despite the clear evidence of my own senses, I not only wanted to be a woman, I was one, where it mattered most. Only my body was wrong. And not just slightly wrong, either. I know what I look like, sound like, feel like. Even smell like, God help me. All of it was terribly, hideously, catastrophically wrong.
It’s not real . . . it can’t be! I struggled, trying to subdue my supercharged emotions with futile wisps of logic. I’ve never felt like this before! I’ve never had any issue with being a . . . a . . . . My mind rebelled, not wanting to finish the thought. To accept the label “man” felt too wrong to contemplate.
I didn’t feel like this yesterday, or last week. Or ever. Frantically, I pulled at my memories to try to ground my sense of self and confirm the wrongness of my present feelings.
But my memories simply served up another debilitating shock. I was suddenly painfully aware of the many times I hadn’t been there for Ginny — or had been physically present, but emotionally distant. When her mother had her health issues, and Ginny’d been squeezed between her mom, Nate and her job . . . and I hadn’t stepped in to help out. When she’d been passed over for promotion and needed a shoulder to cry on, and I’d gone off to help my friends brew beer, reasoning that I had promised to be there.
The memories came lightning fast; it was like boulders were being piled on top of me, squeezing the air from my lungs. The emotional overload was too much. I began to sob, tears flowing freely over cheeks that had been dry for decades. I couldn’t even remain upright on my knees. My hands were buried in the moist, gritty sand as I bawled like a baby, completely unable to contain my grief and pain, or even lift my head. I was so ashamed.
I felt a hand on the back of my neck, soft, cool, and gentle. “I am so sorry,” Jeannie repeated. “Do you understand Shellie now?”
No!!! “It can’t be like this for him! It can’t!”
“But it is,” she said softly. “Every day.”
She couldn’t be right, could she? But . . . If she was! “Oh, God! What have I done?”
“What most parents do, Byron. What most people do. Some good, some bad.”
Sure as hell, I couldn’t see the good. Only that my child had needed me, like my wife had needed me. And I had failed them both. If Nate — if Shellie — felt as bad as I did now, how could she have even survived? Grasping at straws, I said, “At least Shellie has nothing to feel guilty about. Not . . . not like me.”
Jeannie squeezed my shoulder, both a comfort and a warning. “And yet she does feel guilty. For the hurt she causes you, just by being herself. For the rift in your marriage. For Ginny’s drinking, and your high blood pressure. She thinks it's her fault. All of it.”
The truth of Jeannie’s words hit home, a final, fatal boulder on top of the pile that was crushing me. None of it was Shellie’s fault. None of it! I cried out, “I wish I’d never even been born!”
“I can’t change what has been,” she reminded me, before adding gently, “and, would you really want me to?”
Despite her tone, her words were like a bucket of ice water. I suddenly remembered who I was speaking to — and the potential dangers of figures of speech. “No,” I said quickly. “No. Without me, Shellie wouldn’t have been born. I’m a complete fuck-up, but . . . but she deserves to live.”
Just like that, an inspiration hit me. “Not just live. That’s it! You can’t change the past. But Shellie can have a real life, starting right now. You can do that, right?” I twisted myself to face her and my hands — my massive, ugly, hairy hands — grabbed her upper arms fiercely as we knelt in the sand.
“What are you asking?” Her tone, again, was precise.
“If what I’m feeling now is what Shellie feels, you can stop it, right? You can give her the body of her dreams. She can be a woman, inside and out. Have a full life.” My mind whirled at the possibilities — at the life Shellie could have. As Shellie, she could even carry children in her womb; nurse them at her own breast. I was stunned to discover that the idea of my child nursing an infant brought, not shock, but jealousy.
Jeannie’s compassionate gaze held me for a long moment before she answered. “Yes, I can do that. If it is your wish.”
My first wish had produced consequences I hadn’t even contemplated, so I took a moment to consider this new idea carefully. Trying to see potential flaws. “You’re sure? This is really how Shellie feels? This . . . .” I searched for words to describe what was tearing me apart. “This longing? Heartache? And . . . and feeling like being stuffed in some monster’s skin?”
“Yes.”
I searched her beautiful features, trying to see a sign of falsehood or trickery. But however much she looked like a human female, I knew now that she was definitely something else. I couldn’t simply rely on her words, or trust my perception of her. Closing my eyes, I reached out with my heart, trying to pierce the distance — physical, emotional, and spiritual — between me and my child. Is this what Shellie had always felt? Would this be her desire?
And, like that, I knew. I understood, completely and without doubt. Between the raw emotion of my new and very feminine heart, and my clear recollection of my child, I was certain of what Shellie would want. Opening my eyes again, I said, “That’s my wish. I’m sure.”
This time, Jeannie smiled. “Tonight, while she sleeps. It will be done.”
In the midst of the internal agony I was desperately trying to fight, I felt a touch of something else. Relief, maybe? A sense of rightness in a sea of wrong. Noticing for the first time the vice-like grip of my monstrous hands, I released Jeannie and sagged with relief. “Oh, thank God. I did something right.”
She got to her feet and extended a graceful hand. After a moment, I took it and rose heavily, extremely conscious of my rough and ungainly shape, compared to her exquisite and so-very-enviable form. It came to me, suddenly, that I had one wish left.
I can become a woman too!
God, I wanted it. Yearned for it. Imagined carrying a child in my womb, my full breasts swelling to meet its coming need. Longed for soft and delicate features, luscious hair, smooth skin caressed by silky fabric . . . . I could have it all.
Ironically, though, my woman’s heart would not countenance such selfishness. Unlike Shellie, I’m neither young nor unattached. And I had hurt Ginny more than enough already. I imagined trying to explain to her that she was married to a young woman. She’s as heterosexual as I am . . . or, at least, as heterosexual as I was. I’m still attracted to women — my reaction to Jeannie is ample proof of that! — but does that make me a lesbian, since I’m female inside? God, what a headache!
Was there, instead, something I could do for Ginny? Or, should I find a way to ease Shellie’s transition to her new life? Her spontaneous sex change would certainly blow the minds of bureaucrats, public and private.
Jeannie’s chuckle broke my reverie. “The last wish is always the hardest.”
I shrugged. “I suppose so. I want to do something for my wife and . . . daughter!” The novelty, the perfect fit, of that word brought a real smile to my lips despite my internal turmoil. “Something to make up for everything I’ve screwed up.”
“Nothing for yourself?”
I barked a harsh laugh. “I’ve spent thirty years looking after myself. Enough of that.”
She surprised me by resting her hand lightly on my chest, just over my heart. “Byron. I know the weight of what I put on you, when I granted your first wish. Believe me when I say there was no other way for you to understand what your daughter was enduring. I can give you a woman’s body; I could also reverse what I did to you.”
The offer was there, right there, out in the open. I could have it! It took more willpower than I even knew I possessed to close the door on the wish that I longed, so desperately, to shout to the heavens. No. And, as far as reversing the first wish, my mind rebelled at the idea. “I can’t just do something for me. I can’t! Not after I’ve screwed up so badly, for so long!”
“Do you really think you can go on like this?”
I gritted my teeth. “Shellie did it. She was just a kid, and she did it. I’ve got to be able to manage. I’ve got to try.”
“You may fail. Shellie almost did, more times than you can imagine. Do you really think there is something you can give them, that would make up for losing you?”
“Me? What fucking good have I been? Why should they care? Ginny could do a million times better, and she should. Jesus, I look like an orc and I don’t act much better!”
“That’s your dysphoria speaking. And your guilt. Don’t think about how you feel about you. Think how they feel. What would Ginny say?”
“That I’m a pig-headed jackass!”
She gave me a lopsided smile. “I’m sure she’s said that on plenty of occasions. But I’m not talking about what she’d say in the heat of an argument. What would she say, if your life were threatened? Because it is, Byron. You need to understand that. I know you are strong. Maybe even stronger than you know. But Shellie had years to find ways to cope with dysphoria. You have no defenses.”
I forced myself to face the possibility that she was right. In the short time I’d endured it, the dysphoria had sapped my strength and demolished any sense that my life was worthwhile. Even if I found a way to live with it, to keep going, what kind of husband could I be, crippled by self-loathing? Again I tried to reach out with my aching, wounded heart, to imagine what Ginny would really say. What she would want.
A winning lotto ticket might assuage a lot of their grief. But as tempting as that thought was, I dismissed it. Ginny wasn’t like that; never had been. And however sure I was that she could do better, I knew in my heart that wouldn’t be her choice.
Should I really use my last wish to reverse the first? The part of my mind that was still processing in a linear fashion thought the notion wasteful as all hell. My heart, meanwhile . . . well, it didn’t want to be restored to its default settings; it just wanted a beautiful, female body to be complete. No help there.
Or . . . maybe that was helpful. I didn’t want to go back to who he had been.
“My time is almost up,” Jeannie said. “You must choose.”
I looked into her dark eyes, torn, uncertain, tormented. “I can’t be the woman I want to be. I can’t. But I don’t want to be the man I was. I feel like my heart’s been cracked open and it hurts like hell, but for the first time in forever, I can come close to understanding my wife and my child. I don’t want to lose that.”
Jeannie nodded slowly. “You’re a good person, Byron. I know you can’t see that right now, but you are. Shellie’s dysphoria was especially strong. I can dial it back quite a bit, while still leaving you a strong connection with your feminine side.”
I wasn’t sure that would work. “Before today, I didn’t even have a feminine side.”
She laughed. “Of course you did! The manliest man has a feminine side, just like the most feminine woman has a masculine side. You just spent decades burying it. Denying it. Pretending it didn’t exist.” She shook her head. “Time, Byron.”
As she said that, I noticed that her body seemed less solid — like she was fading, becoming translucent. I had no more time to weigh the pros and cons, and had to take it on faith. “Yes. Do that. That’s my wish.”
She stood on her tiptoes and kissed me lightly, a sweet kiss that nonetheless confirmed that I was still very much attracted to women. “Done, then. Good luck!” Before I had time to say anything, or even react, she was gone.
The first thing I noticed, naturally, was the absence of pain, like my heart had been freed from the iron jaws of a bear trap. I took a long breath and let it out, almost afraid that I might do something that would cause the pain to come back. It didn’t, so I took another.
Then, of course, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to feel at all — that the tenderness which had filled me would have gone with the pain. But my mind turned to Shellie, sound asleep, and to Ginny, who was sitting at home, alone and worried, and I knew that fear, at least, was groundless. I still ached for their hurts and longed with all my heart to heal them.
That would require a different sort of miracle, of course. One of time and persistence and love. But as I stood alone on that deserted beach, I vowed to myself, and to the strange spirit that had visited me, that I would do what it took, for as long as it took.
Finally, like a patient waking from surgery, anxious but afraid to see what had been done, I took stock of how I felt about myself. My body no longer filled me with revulsion. It was what it was. Despite that, I still wished I were female. I longed for the beauty of it; the grace. It ached, but it was a dull ache. A manageable ache. And, I thought, a small price to pay.
A gull landed on the sand, not ten feet away, and eyed me quizzically.
Oddly, I felt a bit apologetic. “Got nothing for you, scamp.”
Somewhere over my head, lost in the moonlight, its mate called. The gull squawked in response, beat its wings, and took to the air.
“Alright,” I laughed. “I get it, Jeannie. I get it!” Turning toward the pier I could barely see in the distance, I began the journey home.
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Ingrid looked down at her husband, fighting the panic she had felt every minute since they’d received the diagnosis six months ago. She had told herself he would beat the cancer. Beat it like he had beaten everything and everyone his whole life as he built a shipping empire from a humble boat repair shop.
But her ability to deny reality was constrained, in the end, by the evidence of her own eyes. She could scarcely recognize the bald, shrunken, hollowed-out man in the hospital gown, his life dripping out as steadily as the medicine drip from the IV in his arm. He had the best care that money could buy.
It wasn’t enough.
When they had married back in ‘99, he had been a ridiculously robust 60. Sure, he’d looked like he could have been her father, and that had caused plenty of talk. Plenty! But he’d actually been old enough to be her grandfather. Even in his late seventies he’d been healthy, ruddy and strong. Maybe not a bull in the bedroom anymore, but she’d never cared about that.
The marriage had been an arrangement of sorts. He was virile, rich, had an eye for the ladies; she was gorgeous, dirt poor, and more than willing to use the former to solve the latter. Transactional souls who refused to see the arrangement as tawdry, they’d both gotten exactly what they wanted.
She was fond of him, of course, and God knows, she’d miss the intensity, the magnetism, with which he’d set the world on fire wherever he went. How many times had she seen a jolt of energy electrify a room full of people the very instant he walked in? She’d hitched her fate to a shooting star, and damned if she hadn’t enjoyed the ride.
But if that ride was about to end, she needed to secure her future course while she still could affect the meteor’s terminal trajectory. She would approach that task with the same pragmatism and lack of sentimentality that had characterized their relationship from the start.
Taking the seat beside his bed, she asked, “You feel as bad as you look?”
Caesar turned his head — amazing how much energy that took! — and looked at the stunning woman who had been his child bride. Foolish vanity, his friends had said, with many a head shake. The memory still brought the ghost of a smile to his thin lips nearly a quarter of a century later. The bastards had all been so pickled with envy they’d probably pissed lime green for months!
Well, that was then, and this was now. He knew her well enough not to expect sentimentality. “Only if I look like three-week-old buzzard bait.” His voice was thin and raspy, as dessicated as the rest of him.
“About right,” she agreed. “Did you sign the papers?”
“Francis gets the business, when and if you decide he’s ready?”
“Caesar. I love our son as much as you do. But I’m not blind, and neither are you.”
“Nothing wrong with his brains.” Caesar was trying not to talk much. It hurt. And it hurt worse to hear what his once-strong voice had become.
She shook her head impatiently. “How many times have you told me? ‘You can hire brains. You can’t hire guts.’”
“You don’t think he’s got guts?” He wanted to be angry, but it took too much energy. And besides . . . .
“You want me to say it? I won’t. But he’s just a nice boy. Likely turn into a nice man. What does all that nice get you, in your business?”
“Nowhere.” He couldn’t very well deny that, since she’d learned that particular aphorism from him. He tended to overuse it.
“Well, then,” she said, as if his admission settled it.
“No provision for Ottavio?”
“That’s nonsense and you know it,” she responded, exasperated. “He gets a good round sum as an inheritance— enough to be a playboy indefinitely, if that’s what he wants.”
“But no role in the business.”
“He can start his own business, with the money you’ll leave him! Look, you’ve been more than generous to him from the day you took him in. He’ll have no legitimate cause for complaint. You call him your son, and you’ve treated him like one, even if you never formally adopted him.”
Caesar surreptitiously pressed a call button with the hand he had buried under the sheets. He was exhausted, and he had neither the time nor the energy to continue this particular conversation. As a nurse bustled in, he overrode Ingrid’s protests at having her time curtailed. “Don’t worry so much. I reviewed the papers. And yes, I signed them. I understand Francis as well as you do.”
She rose from her seat, a feeling of immense relief momentarily unsettling her. “You do? I mean, you did?” Finally — finally!!! she thought, exultant. I will get my chance! And I’ll show them all, see if I don’t!
Caesar gifted his beautiful wife with the best smile he still could manage. “I understand you, too, wife. I know what you’re capable of!”
That was enough to get him a last kiss. Then she was gone.
The bastards won’t be jealous any more, he thought with his usual sense of irony.
The nurse gave him a stern look. “Okay, I need you to rest. Two hours, minimum.”
“I’ve got an eternity of rest coming up. And I’ve got two more people I absolutely have to talk to first.”
“Mr. Trentino, we’re trying very hard . . .”
He cut her off. “I know that. Keep trying — for just long enough for me to have two more conversations. Then you can stop. Okay?”
She seemed to deflate, all too aware that however hard they tried, death was in the room and it would not be long denied. “Your funeral, Mr. Trentino.”
“I do hope you’ll come. Now, I need to see my son Ottavio.”
She nodded, defeated. “He’s outside.”
Just a few minutes later, a young man walked in and stood at the foot of the bed. Short black hair, dark eyes, and a powerful, compact frame. He said nothing, waiting for the padrone to speak.
The dying man looked at him with eyes that were still clear and cold. The eyes of a hawk above his great beak of a nose. “Ottavio. Tell me you’re clever enough to have found out what your step-mother’s been plotting.”
The young man’s face was closed and guarded, as always. “Of course. But I know you’d never do that to Francis.”
“No concerns on your own behalf?”
“I was taking care of myself before you pulled me off the streets in Rio. I haven’t lost the knack.”
Caesar grunted, whether in annoyance or approval was hard to say. But the hard young man would not elaborate further simply to fill the silence.
The moment stretched, but Caesar no longer had the luxury of waiting people out. “What do you think I should do?”
“What does it matter? You’ll do what you want. You always have.” Ottavio hid his thoughts. You took me in because you thought you needed an heir, and at fifty-nine you’d given up hope of getting one. I didn’t ask for your help.
The old man’s predator eyes had daunted Ottavio as a child . . . had pushed him to excel, to succeed, to become a man worth noticing in Caesar’s cutthroat world. But Ottavio wasn’t daunted any more, nor was he worried. He knew how much Caesar doted on his natural son, the miracle child that had come after his surprise marriage to his scandalously young and startlingly beautiful fourth wife. The old man would never go along with his bedmate’s plan.
“You’re wrong, you know,” Caesar said softly. “And Ingrid is right. Francis isn’t ready . . . and he may never be. I can’t possibly leave him in control of the firm. Ingrid, on the other hand, is extremely capable.”
For the first time, Ottavio showed real emotion. “You son of a bitch.” His eyes were daggers; his voice hard and low. “You’d do that to him? To Francis? Do you think that stone-cold entrepreneur you married will ever give him control, once she has it?”
To Ottavio’s intense annoyance, Caesar chuckled. “Of course not. I told her I signed the papers she drew up, and I did. But I switched her position and yours.”
“You . . . what?”
Caesar was delighted to see that he had finally managed to out-think the devious, fiendishly resourceful child he had rescued and raised. “Just like she said, I’ve been incredibly generous since I took her in, and the amount she’d thought to set aside for you will be ample for whatever she chooses to do next. She could run the business easily, but you’re right. She’d never turn it over to Francis.”
Ottavio was incredulous. “And you think I will?”
“I think you might. And if you don’t, it’ll be for the right reasons.”
“Might?” Ottavio couldn’t keep his anger in check. “You’re willing to leave Francis with ‘might?’”
Caesar suddenly looked exhausted. “Yes, I am. I know you’ll run the business well. I think you’ll turn it over to Francis. . . . when and if he can handle it.”
“And if I don’t?”
“He has a permanent, salaried seat on the board of my charitable foundation. He won’t starve.” Again, Caesar pressed his call button. "What more can I do?"
“What more? Jesus! You can trust him, that’s what!”
Caesar gave him a last, hard look. “I’m trusting you.”
After the nurse escorted Ottavio out, she tried one more time to get Caesar to rest. He simply shook his head wearily and said, “Francis.”
When the nurse was gone, he let his eyes close, just to rest them. Just for a moment.
It was with an almost titanic struggle that he forced them to open again, only to find Francis already by his side, holding his hand. He had no idea how much time had passed. Judging by the sandpaper grit feeling in his eyes, it must have been hours.
The harsh hospital light made his son’s red-gold hair seem like spun gold. He looked so much like his mother. Everywhere except the eyes. Those soft, warm eyes. So full of compassion . . . . God alone knows where those came from!
He tried to speak, but his mouth was too dry. He forced himself to swallow, then said “Francis. We . . . need to talk.”
His son smiled . . . a heartbreaking smile filled with warmth and caring. “It’s all been said, Father. Everything that matters. You can relax now.”
Caesar shook his head, or tried to. It barely moved. “No, you need to understand . . . about the business.”
“That’s not important right now.” Francis raised his father’s hand and kissed it tenderly. “I love you, whatever happens. That’s all that matters. That’s all that ever mattered.”
The old man wanted to shake him, make him listen. Make him understand why he’d given the power to Ottavio. But the words wouldn’t come. Despite the lights, the room was getting steadily darker. He could barely make out his son’s face . . . his beautiful, beloved face. Before the darkness took him, he managed a whisper so soft that Francis almost missed it.
“Perdonami, tesoro. Ti amo.”
Ottavio entered, closed the door behind him, and held out his hands.
Francis rose and took them. “It’s done?”
Ottavio nodded. “Official time of death is 12:57. He didn’t regain consciousness after you left.”
“At least his suffering is over.”
“Don’t tell me you feel sorry for him! Do you know what he did to you?” Ottavio was angry . . . . furious, even.
Francis stepped forward and hugged him gently, waiting to answer until Ottavio’s hands rose, almost grudgingly, to rest on her back, their heat immediately penetrating the thin blue silk of her negligée. “Of course I know,” she replied teasingly. “You aren’t the only one with brains in this family!”
Ottavio could not bring himself to meet her eyes, the beautiful almost-sibling that everyone, in their supreme stupidity, insisted on regarding as male. As if genitalia were all that mattered. “I know that, darling! You’re the smartest of all of us. I told him he should trust you!”
She loosened her grip and stepped back just far enough that Ottavio could no longer avoid her level gaze. “Father understood my strengths — and yours. You’ll be fantastic. You know you will.”
“But . . . “
“No ‘buts,’ my love. No doubts. No false modesty. You need to be the padrone now. Or my mother will strangle you with your own intestines!”
Her vivid image caused Ottavio to chuckle ruefully. “She would, too. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when she sees how the old man switched her documents!”
Francis smiled, leaned in, and gave him a feather-light kiss. “Better! But . . . don’t be too hard on her, Ottavio. She’s a talented, capable woman who’s never had the chance to be the big honcho. Father cast a long, dark shadow.”
Ottavio nodded grudgingly. There’d been no love lost between Caesar’s winter woman and the child he’d taken in the year before he’d met her. And Ottavio had no doubt as to why the old man hadn’t gotten around to adopting him. “All right. But if she tries to invalidate the documents and seize control of the business, I’m going to have to hit her with everything I’ve got.”
“Everything except malice in your heart,” Francis said softly. “Do what you need to do to protect your inheritance and mine, but don’t, please God, take pleasure from it.”
Ottavio shook his head. “Where on earth did you come from? With Scylla and Charybdis for parents, how did you turn out so perfect?”
“Well . . . there was always your sterling example!”
“Oh, God! Don’t start!”
“Like the time you burned down the dog house, trying to see if it would take off with bottle rockets on each corner. . . “
“I give, I give!” Ottavio was smiling, finally, Frances having found a way to ease the tension that had been tearing at him since his last discussion with the old man. Somehow, she had always found a way.
She had that knack with everyone. “He should have just given you the business,” Ottavio said. “Once I’ve gotten your mother off our backs, I will. I trust you, even if he didn’t.”
She kissed him again, her lips soft and sweet, then stepped back. “Thank you for that, Ottavio. But you aren’t listening. I don’t want it. I don’t have any desire to run a company, much less an ‘empire.’”
It was there, right there. What he had always wanted . . . and what he’d known he’d never have. Known from the day his never-quite adoptive father had brought Francis home from the hospital, a look of pure, paternal rapture lighting his face. Ottavio had hated Francis that day . . . .
. . . But it was the last day he had managed it. It was impossible not to love Francis.
Of course, Ottavio had just seen Francis as a beautiful baby at first, then as a sweet little boy. It took him years to see the girl that had always been there, inside. She was seventeen to his supposedly worldly 24 when his eyes finally opened to that reality. And it took two agonizingly long years after that before they had been willing to even talk about the feelings that had begun to blossom between them.
Seeing her now, with her hair loose, her fine features highlighted by just a touch of makeup, and her nightgown emphasizing the perfection of her slender form, it was hard to believe he’d been blind for so long.
Realizing his life’s ambition meant denying Francis her birthright. It meant ratifying, in some sense, the old man’s judgment of her fitness. Of her worth. How could he do that to this exquisite, caring, intelligent woman? How?
But she wasn’t objecting — she was encouraging him to take it. All he had to do was stretch out his hand . . . .
“I can’t do it without you, Francis. I can’t.”
“You don’t have to. I’m not going anywhere.”
For the first time in his life, Ottavio was grateful that the old buzzard hadn’t adopted him. “Will you marry me?”
“Imagine the scandal!” Her laugh was light, teasing.
“Believe me, I am,” he said with relish. “But you haven’t answered the question!”
She cocked her head to one side, as if considering the matter for the first time. “I’m sure you’re not doing this properly. There are formalities . . . .”
“Witch!” he said, smiling. “Very well!” He dropped down to one knee and captured her right hand in both of his own. Suddenly serious, he said, “Francis Trentino, will you be my wife?”
She gazed into his intense, passionate eyes, her heart bursting with love. “Of course, you splendid creature. I was beginning to think you’d never ask!”
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Author’s note: The amazing Maeryn Lamonte recently posted a lovely short story entitled “I Have a Secret,” as a bit of a counterpoint to recent stories she had posted that included nasty, rigid, or unacceptable fathers. If you missed it, you should go back and read it, even though it has nothing to do with THIS story. Really. It’s right here: https://bigclosetr.us/topshelf/fiction/99271/i-have-secret. Go on, now. Scoot! I'll wait. :)
You back? Great! Well . . . I’ve had some good dads in my stories — “Hobson’s Choice,” and “The Mulligan” come to mind. Of course, the dad in “Duets” and “Aria” was pretty bad. But Maeryn’s story got me thinking (which is good, rare, and occasionally painful). Could I write a coming out story where the MC’s audience was only male? And, could such a story be both positive and believable?
You be the judge.
.
Logan’s Ride
“Dad, will you let me drive the side-by-side this summer?” My twin brother Aidan’s fascination with engines, machinery, and anything that made lots of noise was endless. Legendary, even – at least in his own mind!
Dad chewed on the request silently as he merged smoothly into traffic on the Mass Pike. We were on our way to the campground cabin where we spent every summer, up in the Rangeley Lakes region of Maine. The “back of beyond,” as Dad sometimes called it.
We knew better than to push once we’d made a request; Dad’s standing rule was well-established. “If you need an immediate answer, ‘no’ will do.”
But Dad was always fair. If you gave him space, and a bit of time to think it through, he’d almost always grant any reasonable request. If he stuck with ‘no,’ he’d have good reasons for it and he would explain it all in as much – or as little – detail as we might want to hear. So even my boisterous brother kept his mouth shut while Dad pondered, and drove east.
Eventually he came to a decision. “Pretty sure there’s a course you’ll need to take. Do that, and I’m good. But if I see you doing something stupid – or even hear about it – and you’re done for the summer, eh?”
Aidan beamed. “I won’t, Dad! Thank you!!!!”
Funny thing is, I knew Aidan wasn’t shitting him. It’s hard to describe, but Dad’s just one of those people that you don’t want to disappoint. Not because he’ll yell or scream or anything. I’ve never heard him raise his voice. He’s a decent, thoughtful guy – loves us in his own kind of quiet way – and we both wanted, more than anything in the world, for him to be proud of us.
Which wasn’t going to make the next few minutes any easier, I knew.
“How ’bout you, Logan? I’m guessing that ATV’ing doesn’t rev your engine, so to speak. Anything special you want to do this summer? Are you going to write that great American novel?” His questions were delivered with a smile, though he kept his eyes firmly on the Massachusetts traffic. We can’t have a good vacation if we don’t survive the car ride.
“Yeah. I want to learn how to be a girl.”
There. I’d said it. Sure as hell, I didn’t know what to expect. I knew Dad wouldn’t throw a fit, of course, even though the request was going to be a long, long way from his comfort zone. Throwing a fit would be as foreign to him as . . . I don’t know. Transcendental meditation or something.
I had a sudden vision of Dad levitating six inches above our lawn in the lotus position, and almost choked.
Aidan was giving me a “good luck” kind of look. He’d known what I was thinking, of course. No way I would have worked up the nerve to talk to Dad without talking to Aidan first. We might not be very much alike – shit, we aren’t really anything alike, inside or out – but we are fraternal twins.
We fight, like, all the time, but we don’t keep too many secrets from each other. And when it comes to big stuff . . . . Well. Like Dad always tells us – and I mean, ALWAYS tells us – “I won’t be here forever. If you don’t have each others’ backs, there’s no-one else that will.”
Near as I could tell, Aidan’s view on what I was suggesting was, “You do you, bro.” “Bro,” in this instance, being kind of loosely defined and humorously delivered.
Aidan also thinks he’s funny.
Dad continued to drive, looking as unperturbed as ever. I don’t think I’d ever seen him look surprised. Maybe he looked a touch more thoughtful, but it was hard to say. Dad’s usual range of expression stays within a pretty narrow band. He only opened his mouth to ask if either of us needed to use the facilities as we passed the Charleton Service Plaza. We didn’t, so he drove on.
It was so hard to keep quiet! I was dying to know what was going through his head! Was he angry? I didn’t think so, and I wasn’t really worried about it. But maybe – I steeled myself against the horrible possibility – he was disappointed? The thought was too hard to bear.
When we had almost reached the 290 cut-over, he said, “I assume this isn’t one of your fortunately rare attempts at humor?”
“No, Dad,” I said quietly. I wondered whether he would ask me if I was trans – Dad reads a lot; he had to be familiar with the concept. And I didn’t really have a good answer for that question. I mean, yeah . . . I didn’t feel right, as a boy. It bothered me. A lot, sometimes. Does that mean I’m trans, though? I just don’t know.
But Dad always says labels are just a lazy man’s substitute for thinking, so I didn’t get that question. Instead, he said, “Huh. Well, you’re a thinker, so I’m sure you didn’t just come up with this idea out of the clear blue summer sky. I’d kind of like to hear a bit more before I commit, one way or another.”
He didn’t sound disappointed, which was a huge weight off my shoulders. “Now?” I squeeked.
“A car ride’s a good time for talking. It’ll help keep me awake. Besides . . . Aidan should know what you’re thinking, too. You go down this path – even at camp, and even for a few days – it’s going to affect him, too.”
Aidan piped up before I could say anything. “Logan already talked to me, Dad. We’re good.”
Yay Aidan!
Dad nodded approvingly. “Good. Sensible. But you’re still going to have to explain this one to me, Logan. Being a girl isn’t like being a plumber or a doctor. It’s not something you do for a living, or even for fun. It’s not something you do, period.”
I took a deep breath, and tried to lay it out like Dad would, if our positions were reversed. Not that they would be, I mean . . . he’s such a guy! But . . . orderly. Logically. Like that. “Umm, yeah. So, I’m . . . I’m not like you, Dad. Or you, Aidan. I, ah . . . I’ve never fit in with the boys. You know that.”
Dad nodded. “Of course. Not like we haven’t discussed it.”
“Yeah, well . . . I mean. Don’t take this wrong. I know you’ve tried to help me develop strategies to fit in better, and I’ve tried them. Honest! But it always feels like so much work, and it never gets me anywhere. Kids . . . they just know, okay? They know I’m faking it. And that makes it way worse.”
Dad took the criticism in stride, with no evidence of annoyance or irritation. No visible evidence, anyhow. “You think you would fit in with the girls?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. But . . . I think so? I’ve always felt kind of like I was a girl. You remember when I used to play with Kaitlin Hunter, back when we lived in Albany?” At his nod, I continued. “It just felt really right. We’d do things together – girl things – and I felt like, this was who I was supposed to be. I’ve never felt that anywhere else.”
His right eyebrow moved up a quarter of an inch. “What sort of ‘girl’ things?”
There was no hint of disapproval in his voice. Just a simple question. He might have been asking what I wanted for dinner. Still, it made me squirm. “We, uhh. Well. Sometimes, we’d play with her stuffed animals. Or her dolls. We’d have tea parties.” My face was getting redder and redder. Finally, I got out, “And dress-up.”
Still no evidence of disapproval from the paternal visage. I shot a terrified glance at Aidan, who now had all the ammunition in the world to destroy me – not that he didn’t already, like, a trillion times over. But this went way further than the conversation the two of us had had on the subject.
Aidan came through again. “Bet you looked cute, too. I like the blush, by the way. Suits your delicate complexion.”
“Asswipe!” My response was affectionate, not angry. He was teasing me, but in a good way.
Dad ignored the byplay. “That was, what? Four years ago? Back in grade school, anyhow. Mrs. Hunter talked to me about it, of course. I didn’t see any harm, and I still don’t.”
“You knew?”
He took his eyes off the road just long enough to give me a look. “Logan, I’ve had to be your mom as well as your dad. Your mother would have known all about your friends, so I made sure I did. She probably would have known how to help you, too. I did the best I could, without her.”
My eyes stung at his words. Dad almost never mentioned Mom, who’d died from an infection she’d acquired after giving birth to me and Aidan. When he did, it was usually a backhanded apology for flaws he perceived in his parenting. “You did fine, Dad! But . . . why didn’t you say anything?”
“Within the bounds of safety, I want you to explore things on your own. Since I didn’t see any harm in it, I didn’t say anything. I figured you’d talk to me about it if you wanted my input.”
I looked over at Aidan. Judging by his expression, he agreed completely with my own assessment. There’s no figuring Dad. Ever.
“I just . . . I was too embarrassed, I guess. I knew it wasn’t the sort of thing boys did. I didn’t want you to think I was . . . .” I stopped, unable to finish the thought.
“Not manly?” Dad asked gently. But he didn’t wait for an answer. “Logan, you were nine. Even your gearhead brother wasn’t ‘manly’ at nine. Besides, what do you think it means, to be a man?”
Again, I looked to Aidan for guidance, but this time his look was pure Pontius Pilate, washing his hands. I was going to need to come up with an answer for this one myself.
“Well . . . a man’s strong, right? And . . . ah, I don’t know? Physically active? Likes sports? Outdoorsy? And, I guess, kind of takes charge? Ahhh . . . . Not, umm. Emotional?”
Dad shook his head. “You have been spending too much time filling your head with stereotypes, I think. But go on.”
“Well, but . . . I mean, come on! You’re strong. Aidan’s strong already. You don’t play sports, but you like watching them. You go hunting when we’re in Maine, and hiking and all. And . . . ah. Well. You’re always really logical, even when we’re all screaming. So, it’s not like I got my ideas from YouTube!”
“Logan. Listen to me. I’m just one guy. There are lots of different ways to be a man. Or a woman, for that matter. Just like there are lots of different ways to be strong. Your mom, now, was the strongest person I’d ever met. Carrying the two of you at the same time was no Fourth of July picnic. For whatever it’s worth, she could also out-hike and out-shoot me any day of the week.”
I was getting irritated. Not at Dad, but at myself, for not having the words to get through. I tried again. “I do know that, Dad. Honest. And, I guess I’m getting side-tracked. What I wanted to say was, when I was with Kaitlin, I felt right. Like I was able to be myself. Most of the time, I feel like I’m trying to be someone else, just to fit in. And I suck at it.”
He was nodding slowly. “Let me go at this a different way. When you’re being yourself – completely yourself – what are you like?”
I suddenly wished with all my heart that I hadn’t started this conversation. That I was somewhere else. Anywhere else, really. Sixth period math, even. Shit. It didn’t help that the question was fair. Of course it was fair – it was Dad, after all. It was still so embarrassing!
But I’d come this far. Might as well make sure my grave’s so deep no-one will even be able to find the body. “I’m . . . kind. Gentle. Supportive. I cry a lot. Shit! I’m sorry! I do, though. When I’m happy. When I’m sad. Sometimes just ‘cuz something is just so beautiful! I care about people. About how they’re feeling. Like, I’d give Kaitlin big hugs when she was feeling sad, and it helped. Helped us both, you know? I care about how I look, and how other people look. I don’t know. I’m just different!
I couldn’t go on any further.
Dad’s expression didn’t change. Did it ever? But he asked, “You don’t think you can be you – the person you just described – and still be a boy? A man?”
“I don’t know.”
But as soon as I said it, I knew that was a lie. I did know. Everyone knew! “Come on, Dad! Boys like that are despised. If they’re lucky, they just get called sick names. Sissies. Fairies. Fags. But sometimes they get the shit kicked out of them.”
Dad gave me another look, no doubt seeing the glassy sheen of my eyes as I fought to control my tears. He turned back to traffic, which — this being the 290 at some time other than 3:00 a.m. – required pretty complete attention. Eventually, he said, “Will the reactions you just mentioned change if you tell people that you’re a girl?”
“I . . . don’t know. Maybe? If I’m not trying to fit in with the guys anymore, they’ll be more likely to ignore me?”
He gave a grunt, sounding unconvinced. “I’m sure you’ve noticed that thirteen-year-old girls aren’t generally as nice – even to each other – as they were back when you were in grade school. You might not fit in with them, either.”
“Yeah, I know,” I sighed. “And maybe my time with Kaitlin’s just some great, golden memory that I can’t ever have again. I don’t know. But I’d like to try. Anyway, it’s not just about fitting in with other people. It’s about, I don’t know. Feeling right myself. Being me.” I gave up, with a disgusted noise. “Gah!!! I can’t even explain it!”
As usual, my frustration didn’t phase Dad. The sun going supernova might not phase Dad. “There are a whole lot of ‘I don’t knows’ in your answers, Logan. But it doesn’t sound like you’re presently proposing to do anything drastic, much less permanent. Do you have a plan?”
He kept his eyes on the road, but his voice was even. An invitation?
That sounded like progress, so I’d take it. “Well . . . I mean, we only see the kids at the lake in the summer, right? I thought maybe I could try being a girl this summer, just to see what it might be like. If it didn’t work, I’d just . . . well. I don’t know. Get on with it. Go back to trying to be a boy, I guess.”
“You don’t think word would get back to your friends back home?”
“What friends? Anyway . . . I don’t do Tick Tock or Instagram or any of that stuff. As long as Aidan didn’t out me, I don’t think anyone back home would know.”
Dad mulled that over, then said, “Okay. So tell me what would happen if you decided the experiment did work?”
“Well . . . I thought . . . maybe . . . if it did work all right, maybe I could, like, talk to a doctor when we got home, and see what they might recommend.”
“What kind of doctor?”
I squirmed again. “Well, I’ve been doing some research. Online. It sounds like I should talk to maybe a psychiatrist or psychologist or something. Someone who knows about gender issues. You know, just to find out what they think. Get options.” Fuck. What’s he going to think about a SHRINK!
But he just nodded. “Talking to a doctor sounds sensible, if you’ve been dealing with these feelings for a while. But you understand, since you’re a minor, I’ll have to be part of those discussions, even if I’m not in the room.”
“Of course, Dad! And . . . I’d want you to be. I’m just . . . I mean, this is kind of embarrassing, you know?”
He grunted, noncommittally. But he kept the conversation going, as we made our way up the 290, merged onto the 495, and continued up to the New Hampshire border.
He probed gently and I responded as best I could. How long had I had these feelings? Did I dislike my body? Did I think about this frequently, or just off and on? What did I think it would mean, to act like a girl for the summer? What things would I do differently? How much of a difference would it make? Was it just a question of wearing different clothes?
I felt like I was trying to explain color to someone who was blind from birth. But at least, it was like explaining it to a blind person who really wanted to understand color!
Back and forth, back and forth. I wasn’t getting any closer to my goal, but it felt good to talk it all out. And Dad was really good at getting me to think more clearly about the issues that had been bothering me for so long. I thought, I should have talked to him a long time ago.
Aidan kept quiet, but every time I looked his way, his expression made it clear that we were still good, however weird I must be sounding. Dad had been right about that, too. This was all stuff Aidan would need to understand, if I ever tried presenting as a girl. I was going to get shit, but he would, too.
As we were merging onto I-95 south of Portsmouth, Dad asked, “How do you think the kids at the lake will react, if you show up dressed like a girl?”
I started going through their faces in my mind, kids I had known for a long time. Played together, the sorts of games gangs of kids play on their own when adults are mostly in the background. “I think most of the girls will be okay. One or two might even be willing to help me some. I’m not sure about Beth Myers or Trish Silver. And . . . I might catch some shit from some of the guys. I don’t know.”
“Don’t worry about them,” Aidan said in a mock-growl.
Dad couldn’t give Aidan a look, since he was sitting directly in front of him. But he said, “Well, Aidan – I don’t much want you having to spend all summer defending Logan’s honor or whatever. What do you think about all this?”
Aidan looked thoughtful, which wasn’t exactly his resting face. I mean, don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with his gray matter, when it isn’t consumed with gears and engines and things that go “boom.” But he prefers doing to thinking. Still, I trusted him.
Mostly.
He said, “Dad, this just doesn’t seem all that weird to me. Or to most of my friends, really. We hear about trans kids all the time, and everyone knows one or two – even in our hick town. Sure, some guys are retro on all this, but they’re just assholes. Who cares what they think?”
Aidan gave me a look, challenging at first, then . . . something else. “Logan’s saved my butt a million times. I’d have flunked frickin’ fourth grade if Logan hadn’t helped me. So it’s like you’ve always said. I’ve got Logan’s back. It doesn’t matter whether Logan’s a he, a she, or a they. What matters is, it’s Logan. Okay?”
Dad didn’t say anything. He just drove. A mile passed, then five. Then ten. I could have sworn, though, that I saw . . . . No. No way was Dad crying.
No. Freaking. Way.
He didn’t say anything until we got to the Piscataqua River Bridge. Maine, and summer, and everything it would bring, were just on the other side, waiting for us. His voice didn’t sound right; it was choked up, kind of husky. “Well. We’re going to make a stop in Kittery. I need a coffee . . . and it looks like Logan’s going to need some new clothes for the summer.”
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Maximum Warp
Chapter One: First Contact
I hefted the pack on my shoulders and groaned. Seems like every year it gets harder. I told myself firmly that the first couple days were always tough, that way. By day four, I’d be fine.
Sure I would.
I tightened the straps some, cinched the waist strap in a bit more, took a mouthful of water, then checked to make sure my Subaru Forester, now coated liberally with dust from the dirt access road, was locked. I growled, “stop stallin’, old man!” Then I picked up my walking stick and stepped off. Next stop – hopefully – would be the granite and hardwoods of Sage’s Ravine.
About fifteen minutes in, I met up with the Appalachian Trail and paused to tighten laces and grumble at myself. Shoulda hit the junction in more like ten minutes, I thought. But truly, it was a mild enough grumble. It was a beautiful day in early June, I had turned in all my grades and wouldn’t have to read or listen to any students butcher the English language for almost three months. If I was really lucky, I wouldn’t have to listen to much conversation at all.
My colleague Janet Seldon, who taught generations of bored students the joys of 19th Century American Literature, always said that the students kept her young. And I suppose that they had; Janet and I were contemporaries who were hired, and even got tenure, the same year, but anyone who saw or heard us today would swear she was fifteen years younger than me. Because students didn’t keep me young. They kept me frustrated, and increasingly aware of my age.
I’m a professor of linguistics – sorry, make that “The Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics” – at Gryphon College, one of New England’s plethora of institutions of higher education devoted to the liberal arts. My special area of study is linguistic drift – how language changes over time. So I should be excited to see evidence of it doing so in “real time,” to use a modern expression. But it stopped being fun and interesting with the advent of modern communication forms like text messaging and instant messaging. Language wasn’t just drifting anymore; it was disintegrating. I shook my head. “Kids dees days,” I grumbled.
Enough of that! It was a beautiful day, summer vacation was only just beginning, and there were no other humans in sight. The gentleman whose hindquarters graced the Carter Cecil Jackson Chair was going to take a long, long walk!
* * * * *
It had taken me a bit longer than I had hoped, but the fifth night after I started my trek found me warming my hands over a small campfire a couple miles from the summit of Mount Greylock, the night sky occluded by the surrounding forest of dark spruce. I was tired and a bang I’d gotten on my right ankle ached. But, as I had hoped, I'd managed to work out the kinks that come from too many hours behind a desk every day. And, my body no longer grumbled quite so hard about the lean rations. Nine months a year to get soft, three months to work it off. A doctor would suggest I shoot for a bit more consistency – indeed, quite a few of them had, over the years – but it worked for me and I expected I’d outlive all the damned pill-pushers.
My thoughts meandered as I watched the fire. For the fourth year in a row, the dean had given the bonus money to junior colleagues whom she was trying to “bring along.” “They’re the future, James, and damn, the future’s bright!” I smiled through my gritted teeth. Always the young, the attractive . . . . My years of experience, my eminence within an (admittedly esoteric) field, carried no weight at all. I was five years out from being able to retire; no-one was going to invest in me when the bright, attractive future beckoned. It’s not like I could go off and earn a pile in the private sector.
“We really need an eminent linguist,” said no CEO ever.
Janet Seldon had been indignant for me; said I ought to fight. But I didn’t have a lot of fight left in me, and that made me think that the dean probably was right. Even at 45, James Marshall Wainwright had been a fighter. At 60, not so much. That meandering thought really weighed me down.
I heard a branch snap nearby and became instantly alert. Someone – or something – was out there. Probably some guy who got lost, but in the Northeast woods in June a black bear was a distinct possibility. I made sure that my bear spray was near at hand, cursing that my fire-gazing had completely wrecked my night vision. But what walked into the circle of my fire’s light was a whole lot stranger than a black bear.
“Howdy, old scudder,” said the man in the gray wool suit with the narrow tie. “Share your fire?”
Now, my campsite was two miles’ hike from anything; no one would come out this far wearing a suit and . . . wait. Heels? And what the hell was he saying? Also, and most immediately relevant: no-one shares a fire with strangers in the woods. No-one. I just sat and gaped.
“Cat got your tongue?” he asked, conversationally.
Finally I managed to sputter, “What?” Which probably wasn’t the most intelligent thing to say, but there were extenuating circumstances. Plus, I wondered whether I had finally picked up the wrong mushrooms to throw in tonight’s stew. I prided myself on my foraging skills, but pride goeth before . . . well, it certainly "wenteth" before whatever the hell this was.
Gray suit guy, whose fluffy hair and Burt Reynolds mustache were as much at war with his G-man suit as the red pumps, just looked at me, unperturbed. “Why what?” he asked.
A line from an old movie incongruously sprang into my head, and I muttered, “I guess I picked the wrong week to stop sniffing glue.” But I managed to pick up the bear spray, hold it with a reasonably steady hand, and say, “Not a step further. I don’t know who the hell you are or what you’re doing here, but you’d better head back to wherever you came from, RIGHT NOW!”
He looked at me owlishly for a moment. “Hold yer taters. I am just an explorer. Boldly going. I am sincere as a $5 funeral.”
I could not place his accent; it seemed like what you would get if you collected a hundred years of English variations and hit “puree.” “You take another step, and I’ll give you that funeral for free,” I growled.
He took the step anyway, and my finger went down on the bear spray. Which, it turns out, is a bad idea around a campfire. Who knew?
“Yahhhhh!” I screamed, as flames charged towards the canister in my hand. I tossed it away, frantically, shaking my slightly singed fingers. I looked up to see that the flame had also caught my unwelcome guest.
One of the arms of his suit was on fire, and his head was wreathed in smoke. Oddly, he seemed unperturbed. He looked at his arm like he wasn’t quite sure what to do.
“Drop and roll, idiot!,” I shouted.
He looked at me curiously, then calmly removed the suit jacket, rolled it up in his hands and dropped it in the fire. His dress shirt, bizarrely, had no sleeves.
Who makes a dress shirt without sleeves?
I’d had enough. “Who the hell are you?” I shouted. “Some sort of space alien?”
Of all things, that finally seemed to get his attention. He jumped across the fire in a single leap, grabbed me with one surprisingly bony hand, and shouted “Two to beam up!” I was still gaping at him as I felt my feet lift off the ground, and both of us were soaring into the night sky at an impossible rate of speed.
“Shit,” I said.
He looked at me strangely. “That would be contraindicated at this time.”
Perhaps, but it was a moot point. I literally had been scared shitless. Passing out, however, seemed like a really good idea, so I did that instead.
* * * *
When I came to, I looked around and shook my head. I had never been a fan of the series, but . . . yeah. The bridge of the starship Enterprise was pretty recognizable. The guys in the chairs weren’t. They looked human, mostly, but I had seen Galaxy Quest. I was going to go with termites.
The one in Kirk’s chair chittered something, and a disembodied voice appeared to translate. “You are restored to consciousness. Correct?”
The disembodied voice was recognizable. “Hey Siri,” I said, “Self-destruct.” I was echoed by the sound of her familiar voice chittering.
The captain figure chittered some more, and Siri’s voice said, “I am not the being, Siri. We have accessed this interface from our ship to improve communications.”
“Oh, aren’t we in for a fun time,” I said. Siri and I don’t get along. “What’s with all the nonsense? If you’re human I’m a rabbit. Why take me, and what’s your game?”
Bold words, I suppose. But I was honestly feeling pretty pissed off. These creatures could probably crush me like a bug, but they seemed like such complete doofuses that they'd probably miss if they tried.
The being chittered some more. Siri said, “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t get that.” This made me perversely happy. Maybe Siri didn’t like him either.
More chittering. “I’m sorry, Captain. I have no listing for Starbucks in Estonia.”
“What?” I asked.
“Which what?” asked a voice behind me. I turned and saw that Gray Suit Guy was here as well, sans suit jacket.
More chittering from the guy in the center seat. He appeared to be chittering at one of the other “people,” who made a show of making some adjustments to dials on his phony display panel.
Siri’s voice resumed, presumably translating again. “We are not human. We thought this image might be a useful reference point for you. We are travelers. We did not want to ‘take’ you. Our Worm erred.”
“I did not mistakes,” Gray Suit Guy said. “I carefully studied all transmissions. Maybe this human is defective?” He was looking at me in a very unfriendly way, which was strange because his face was not very expressive.
Chittering from the “Captain,” followed by Siri’s voice: “He is young and learns well. Champion. We sent him to make contact.”
I looked at Gray Suit Guy. “Exactly what did you study?” I asked him.
“The transmissions we receive in deep space. The Evening News With Walter Cronkite. The FBI. Star Trek. The Green Berets. Huntley-Brinkley. Adam-12. Bonanza. All in the Family. 60 Minutes. Dragnet. Mary Tyler Moore. The Wizard of Oz.”
He was going to go on listing them all, but I had the idea. “Oh, lordy,” I said. “I read an article about this, once. How we had been just throwing off all of this electromagnetic garbage since the 1930s, and if anyone ever picked it up, they would get the strangest view of humanity.” Sounds like they picked up a slice from the late sixties or early 70s. Talk about not catching us at our best.
The rest of the article came back to me and I added, quietly. “The authors thought anyone who saw it all would probably figure they needed to come and wipe us out. That what you’re here for?”
Gray Suit Guy digested that for a moment, then said, “Ain’t you startin’ to itch before you git bit? We ain’t threatenin’ no-one.”
“Ah . . . .” I tried to think how to say this diplomatically. “You might want to use the Siri interface, big guy. I hate to say it – you have no idea just how much it pains me to say it – but it might be better.”
Chittering from the Captain’s chair, followed by, “The Worm is our brightest Cadet. I am sure his study will have mastered your language.”
I shook my head at such naivete. “Your planet must be a whole lot older than ours,” I said.
The guy sitting at “Spock’s station” – naturally – broke in to chitter something. Siri translated, “Yes, our sensors indicate that this is the case. Our world is approximately 27.635 million solar years older than the planet we currently orbit. Why is this relevant?”
“If he’s your best and brightest,” I said, pointing to Gray Suit Guy with my chin, “I can’t imagine how you beat us into deep space. Unless you had a wicked long head start.”
Gray Suit Guy said, “Ah, Jeez. Stifle yourself!” The guy in the captain’s chair started chittering again, and waving his arms. He went on chittering for quite a while. I was regretting my snide remark; it really wasn’t fair. Language is HARD. It’s not simple rocket science.
Finally the Siri interface kicked in. In her usual, melodious voice, which failed to convey any emotional content beyond cheerful helpfulness, Siri said, “That will be enough. We want to contact someone about acquiring special materials we have detected below. Ensign Worm was conducting initial scouting. He approached you because you were not near other humans. We needed to see if his studies would allow him to communicate effectively.”
Siri went silent. Grey Suit Guy was watching me, but did not respond. I said, “If you’re asking my opinion . . . my professional opinion . . . he would not be a good choice.”
“Why am I not excellent choice?” Gray Suit Guy – Ensign Worm? – asked. The tone of his voice – which might or might not match his actual intent – was puzzled rather than angry. I decided to assume he got that part right.
“Look,” I said, “It’s not your fault. This is actually my area of expertise. Language. It sounds like you built a database out of a bunch of transmissions from, I don’t know . . . . fifty years ago? What you managed was impressive enough. But it takes human young YEARS to learn the rudiments of their own language.”
Assuming they ever do, I added to myself silently, thinking of those dismal final exams I’d just finished grading. “And someone who tries to learn a second human language – we have lots of languages – can spend years at it and make mistakes no native speaker would make. I don’t know what your language or languages are like, but chances are good they aren’t like ours at ALL. Plus, human languages drift, change, over time, and fifty years is plenty of time to have it happen, believe me.”
There was also the added problem that some of the transmissions included dialogue written by men born in the 1920s who were guessing what people in the 1960s would THINK people in the 1870s – or the 23rd century, for that matter – would sound like. And how was I supposed to explain THAT nuance?
I tried, “a person who would say ‘stifle yourself’ would never say ‘hold your taters.’ Some of your reference materials weren’t using then-standard English. They were pretending to talk like people from 150 years ago.”
Ensign Worm said, “Are you talking through your hat? Why would they do this? Were they attempting to trap rule breaking humans? Like Efram Zimbalist Junior?”
I shook my head, then realized the gesture would mean nothing to them. “No,” I said. “It’s complicated. As a species, we get bored easily. So we come up with ways to keep from being bored. We tell stories. You said, ‘Gunsmoke and Bonanza,’ right? The lines in those scripts – sorry; the things the humans in those transmissions were saying – probably no-one ever talked like that except in a story. If they did, it was so long ago no-one remembers. You’re lucky you picked up an old man like me; at least my Dad used to watch that stuff.”
Siri took a long time chittering my dialogue so that the “Captain” could hear it. Then he chittered for a bit, and Siri took up his words. “We want materials. Will you help us get them?”
“I’m not a prospector,” I replied. “If you need a professor of linguistics, I can probably be persuaded to help. But I can’t see why you would. No-one else does.”
Chitter, chitter. Siri’s voice responded, “We do not need help extracting resources. What we want has been mined and processed. We wish an exchange of value. You could arrange this?”
“An ‘exchange of value?’” I asked. “What are you looking to buy?”
Chitter, chitter. Siri’s pleasant voice responded, “The technical specifications require what you call weapons-grade uranium.”
“WHAT!!!!” I said, going from zero to petrified in 0.5 seconds. “What the hell do you want THAT shit for!!! No way! I KNEW it – You want to wipe us out!!”
Chitter, chitter. “No,” Siri’s voice said. “We are not soldiers. I do not speak for the ‘swarm leader . . . .’”
Ensign Worm interrupted the voice of Siri to say, “You don’t even speak TO the Swarm Leader.” I looked in his direction, and he said, “We are independent operators, yes? Not like Eff Bee Eye or Ell Ay Pee Dee. We do not carry badges. Or guns. Not like Green Berets.
“Okay,” I said, with what I thought was truly commendable restraint, “but what you’re trying to ‘acquire’ is more dangerous than any gun. Even all the guns in this gun-soaked country of mine.”
“Perhaps,” said Worm. “But your ‘weapons-grade uranium’ is powerful aphrodisiac for us.”
I was gaping again. Finally, I said, somewhat weakly, “and look at that shine!”
“I do not understand this ‘shine,’” said Worm.
“A joke,” I said, feeling a bit faint.
“We do not have the humor,” he replied.
“You don’t say,” I did say. “But listen, there’s no way anyone is going to sell me weapons grade uranium. I honestly doubt anyone is going to sell you that stuff, period, and it won’t matter WHAT you say you’re going to use it for.”
The ‘captain’ chittered and Siri’s voice said, “we just need someone to speak for our interests. We can give value.”
“An honest day’s wages for an honest day’s work,” said Worm. “Just like on the Ponderosa.”
“Half their workers ended up dead,” I snarled. “Besides, no-one’s going to listen to a broken down old professor of linguistics from Gryphon College. They’ll just say I’ve gone off the deep end and lock me up.”
“I’m sorry, Jim,” Siri said, chirpily. “I didn’t get that.”
“Shut up, Siri, and don’t call me Jim!,” I snapped. “James! Can’t you remember James?” And there I was, arguing with the damned AI from my phone again. God, I hate those things!
I took a deep breath and tried again. “I am not the kind of person that people listen to. If I’m your spokesman, I will not be believed. You need someone else.”
Chitter, chitter. “What kind of person should we acquire?”
“You don't . . . .” I started to say, but stopped. Probably not useful to go into the history of why talking about “acquiring” humans was “contraindicated.” I shook my head to clear it. They didn’t need someone IN government, they needed someone who could TALK to someone in government. About buying weapons-grade uranium? I dunno. A retired general? Former politician? Who were they, anyway? Just versions of me – old and useless, ready for the pasture . . . .
The absurdity of what they were asking hit me like a steam shovel. No-one who HAD weapons-grade uranium was going to sell it, period. And if they did, they weren’t going to sell it to “independent operator” space aliens! It wasn’t going to happen. But . . . We had actually been contacted by another species. A space-traveling species! Oh, that was going to change the world. It would be a whole new . . . future.
Who was the best choice, for OUR species? Hell with what the damned termites wanted. Who would have the flexibility to re-imagine the world? And be listened to when they had?
I said, “I don’t know. Try someone young. And good-looking.”
“They would listen to this young and good-looking human?,” Siri’s voice asked after a short burst of chitters.
“Prolly not,” I responded, “but it would increase your odds.” It occurred to me that a species that did not understand boredom, entertainment or humor probably wouldn’t grok gambling either. I tried, “maximize the probability of success.”
Chitter, chitter. “'Young' I understand,” Siri’s voice spoke for the captain. “You mean like Worm. Not fully-formed. Strange custom. But why is ocular acuity important?”
“No, no,” I said, irritated. “Not good vision, 'good-looking.' It means . . . Oh, Lord. Does your species understand aesthetics? Is it a concept?”
Chitter, chitter got translated, “The definition in our updating database is circular. Explain in context.”
“Uh . . . “ I said unhelpfully. Then on a whim I said, “Hey Siri, if you’re still doing your normal gig, what is the definition of aesthetics?”
Siri said, “I can help you with that, Jim. Aesthetics is the branch of philosophy that deals with the principles of beauty and artistic taste.”
Okay, I saw where that wasn’t going to help them. Besides, they needed context. I asked, “the forms you are using to, err . . . interface with me. I assume they aren’t your actual bodies?”
Ensign Worm said, “Correct. You would speak, illusion?”
“Okay,” I said, “you picked different forms, right? You don’t all look the same. How did you pick them?”
“Random image generation from human databases we are tapping,” Worm responded. “We did outstanding, yes?”
“That’s complicated,” I said. “The faces . . . look okay. I mean, everything’s where it’s supposed to be. But . . . I can’t express this very well. Your nose seems kind of large for your face. And your hands maybe seem small. Fine. It’s like . . . .” I thought about a good analogy. “The clothes you were wearing when I met you. Also random?”
“Not exactly,” Worm responded. “Transmissions indicated Walter Cronkite is much respected. Trusted. He always wears this clothes. We copied.”
“You absolutely did not see a picture of Walter Cronkite wearing heels!” I said. Before he could ask, I said, “shoes, you know? The things we wear on the appendages we use for walking.”
“No,” Worm said. “In all transmissions, he was sit behind a desk. We use different source for ‘shoes.’ It was . . .” he paused, chittered something to the “Spock station” guy, got an answer back and said, “The Mary Tyler Moore Show.” I had a hard time avoiding a laugh.
“It’s what I was saying earlier . . . aesthetics is like a language. What combinations of shapes and colors and textures look pleasing to us, look ‘right’ . . . if you aren’t a native, you’ll make mistakes. The human images you are using to talk to me – some of them are more visually pleasing to a human of my culture than others.”
“How do we determine ‘good looking’ to a human of your culture,” Worm asked, sensibly.
I thought about it. What was that magazine, the one that was filled with gossip about beautiful people . . . Oh right. “Does the database you are accessing include a periodical publication called “People Magazine?” Spock-guy fiddled with stuff and chittered.
“Affirmative, Jim,” translated Siri’s mellow voice.
I ground my teeth. Damned AI! “Fine,” I ground out. “Just analyze the images of humans in People Magazine. Those are people considered to be good-looking.”
“Should we acquire one of these people?” Chittered the captain.
“Ah . . . no,” I said. “Most of those guys are not our, ah, best and brightest. Just get someone who looks like they do. And, ah, you don’t ‘acquire’ them. You hire them. Please, just trust me on this one.”
They all started chittering at each other, the Captain, the Spock guy, Worm, and another guy who hadn’t chittered earlier. The conversation was going on for quite a bit. The fourth guy wandered off to another “station” and they kept chittering. It was getting old.
“Ah, guys?” I asked, looking at the guy in Kirk’s seat, “If you don’t need me for anything else? I’d kind of like to be getting back?”
The Captain looked at me again and chittered some more. The translation kicked in. “We have to complete our survey of this star system, and we don’t have time to find someone else who meets your design specifications. We need to ‘hire’ you.”
I opened my mouth to say something, but the Siri voice just continued, “We can alter your physical age and aesthetics to match the requirements you specified, though it will take about thirty of your days for the process to conclude. We should be back in the inner system by that time and we can discuss it further.”
I looked at the Captain incredulously and said, “Right. So you’re going to wave some magic wand and make me young and good looking? That’s the ‘plan!’”
I suddenly felt a stabbing pain in my gluteus maximus and whirled around to see Worm holding what appeared to be a truly humongous syringe. He looked at me dispassionately and said, “Dammit, Jim. I’m a doctor, not a magician.”
I decided this was another really good time to pass out.
To be continued. Prolly.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 2: Eye of the Beholder
A woodpecker woke me up. Presumably it had found a dead tree to pound its head against, but I felt somehow like it was trying out my skull. Damn, my head hurt!
I opened my eyes and wished that I hadn’t. The sun was up and bright enough to stun a bull elephant. I shut my eyes tight and vowed to never, ever forage for mushrooms again. I had fallen asleep in front of my own fire and I’d had the strangest dreams. My rear end hurt, and a tentative examination indicated that something had managed to crawl inside my jeans and bite me in the ass while I was sleeping. My dreams had been so weird I’d even managed to incorporate that sensation into them. Kind of like when you’re dreaming that you desperately need to use the facilities, only to wake up and find that your body was sending your dreaming mind a pointed reminder of reality.
Somehow, I was going to have to get up and find my supplies of Advil and coffee. Also a rock. There was a woodpecker out there somewhere that needed a lesson in manners. Possibly a fatal lesson. But this would require that I open my eyes and move my head, and neither of those things seemed like a really good idea.
Decisions, decisions. But eventually I worked up the nerve to roll over and stumble to where I’d put my backpack. Keeping my eyes open just a slit, I rummaged through the top pocket, found the Advil, and took three, dry. I sat down and put my head between my hands for 15 minutes or so, until the Advil had taken the edge off, then I worked myself up to the next item of the list. Which was coffee, because the bird, having accomplished his task, had gone off to make someone else’s morning bright.
An hour or so later, though, I had gotten both breakfast and coffee, struck the unused tent, and was packed and ready to go. It was a late start, but I was pretty much back to normal, except for the knot in my butt. Whatever had gotten at me had really taken a bite. Hopefully I would be able to simply walk it off.
* * * * *
I made it to Story Spring Shelter in Vermont over the course of a few days, taking longer than I had hoped. The knot in my nether region had, as I had hoped, disappeared as I walked, though it took a good two days before I could sit down without noticing it. It did seem to leave the entire area a bit swollen; the seat of my pants was feeling uncharacteristically tight. Still, I was sure that would go down over time as well.
As I had hoped, I was rapidly walking off the extra weight I had put on over the course of the academic year. Not that I brought a scale with me on the trail or anything, but I had already been able to cinch my belt in a full notch! That usually took longer. For all that, though, my pack was not feeling lighter as I hoisted it up onto my shoulders each morning, and that was disappointing. If anything, it felt heavier.
As usual, I stopped after ten or fifteen minutes to make adjustments. It doesn’t matter how far you’ve gone in a distance hike, you need to tweak things after a bit of walking every morning. A lace is loose, or a strap, or cinch, or whatever. This morning it was my boots, so I tightened up the laces. But they still felt off, no matter how tight the laces got. That was strange; they were well-broken in and had never given me trouble. I had to add a second pair of socks before the fit felt better.
I also noticed that the pants I had bought for the hike were a bit long in the inseam. I don’t know why I hadn’t noticed it earlier. They hung better when I rolled up the bottom, so it wasn’t the end of the world. Still, it was annoying.
But, once I had made all of my adjustments, I was enthusiastic about getting back on the trail and enjoying yet another day in paradise. I picked up my walking stick and got started.
Paradise for a distance hiker, of course, is a relative thing. Some days paradise looks better than others. In fact, some days paradise can make one wonder whether alternative options for the afterlife are at least worth a bit of investigation, and this was one of those days. The clouds started piling up in the morning and the skies opened up by 11:00 am. The downpour was so continuous and so hard that my poncho proved unequal to its task. I mean, really? It had one job.
The trail became gelatinous, visibility was poor and I was drenched. I clenched my teeth and soldiered on. But I was on a downhill section of the trail and the rain was turning it into a stream. Between the river of a trail, the visibility, and the fact that all four socks that I was wearing were soaked completely through, I was stumbling, sliding, slipping and cursing my way through what appeared to be the forest primeval.
There was no sense stopping for lunch. I would only have succeeded in getting everything in my pack just as drenched as all the rest of me was. But by 2:00 p.m., I could add “hungry” to the list of woes that already included cold, wet, sore and pissed. Alas, I didn’t even get to be pissed in the British sense of the word, I had to be pissed like a Yank. My wet socks were abrading my clammy feet, the upper strap on my pack was chafing my chest, my bedraggled hair was constantly getting in my face and I couldn’t even get a firm grip on my walking stick. The tung oil finish I had rubbed into it was hard and strong; the water just went right off of it. Which was great, but when my hands were slick with water they went right off of it as well.
It was dog shit, in the end, that did me in. Dog shit on already slick granite that I didn’t see because my wet hair was in my eyes and it was farging pouring. My right foot slid across the surface and my left ankle began to twist. I flailed my arm to get my walking stick in a position to be useful, and only succeeded in losing the thing altogether. I was down on my butt and sliding fast.
I stopped sliding after maybe ten feet, when I came fully off of the steep rocks and onto rain saturated earth, which is both a polite and long-winded way of saying “mud.” My jeans were coated. My shirt was coated. My pack. And I found that I had neither the strength nor the will to get up. Or really, to do anything at all other than lie in the mud and contemplate the perversity of life.
After a few minutes of contemplation failed to improve either my situation or my mood, I devoted an inordinate amount of concentration and effort to getting my feet underneath me. I lifted myself back into a standing position, hampered by the fact that my pack, now saturated, felt like it had doubled in weight. Then I had to go searching for my walking stick. I was so distraught, so . . . hurt? Yeah, hurt . . . that I was even momentarily tempted to leave my walking stick to its fate. But I had cut it and finished it myself, probably twenty years before, and we had seen a lot of miles together.
I was dismayed to find that it had gone over the edge and was maybe thirty feet below the trail. Not that big a deal; the slope wasn’t exactly lethal though it was certainly steep. But everything was wet and muddy, I felt shaky and my pack weighed a ton. I debated whether to take it off before going after the stick. There was no dry place to put it down, and I wasn’t all that confident that I’d be able to bring myself to put it back on again once I set it down. I debated this question for a ridiculously long time while the rain carved new estuaries through the fresh mud on my face. Finally I got sufficiently exasperated at myself to just spider crawl down the slope with the pack still on my back. I retrieved the walking stick and started crawling back towards the trail.
My bad luck for the day was not quite complete. A flash of blinding light – people say that, but this truly was blinding – was followed by a tremendous BOOM, as lightning struck some distance about the trail I was aiming for. What distance? I don’t know. Not far enough!
The special effects caused me to lose the stick, my vision and my footing. Again. This slope was steeper than the trail had been, and it was slick and gooey. I started to slide backward and the slide was picking up steam. I hugged the ground and clawed with my hands, but continued to slide as another BOOM sounded above me. I picked up more speed and lots of fresh mud
My slide ended as suddenly as it began. Both sodden boots hit solid ground and my left ankle buckled on impact. I had also caught up with my walking stick. Fortunately, the trail had a switchback in it, and I had slid down to a lower section of the same trail. I suppose I should have been thankful, but I’m not that big-hearted. The universe sucked rocks and I was damned if I’d be thankful that it didn’t suck asteroids too.
Now understand, I’m an experienced hiker, and distance hikes – especially in the Northeast – have days like this. The forecast had been for rain, but nothing like this or I would have just sat it out somewhere. Sometimes, however, the microclimate and the macroclimate don’t really line up. You just have to roll with it and console yourself with the thoughts of the great stories you’ll have someday, when you’re sitting in the faculty lounge and your rotund colleagues are discussing how they spent the summer painting their houses.
But for whatever reason, no amount of mental jujitsu was having the desired effect. I was too damned miserable, and this was my vacation, and Life was Just. Not. Fair!!! I was shocked to discover that I was weeping – bawling, really – and I couldn’t stop. I couldn’t understand it. I think the only time I had wept in the last 40 years had been at my father’s funeral.
I must have looked like the Creature from the Black Lagoon, except that no-one would ever be terrified at the sight of my mud-encrusted body crumpled at the base of the slope like a used crash dummy. Besides, I don’t remember any horror story where the swamp creature is overcome by a crying jag. What was wrong with me?
This would not do. I decided that I had to get off the trail as quickly as possible, get to civilization and find a place where I could dry off, warm up and get some clothes cleaned. I shouldn’t be far from the main road into Stratton, Vermont. If I could find it, maybe I could flag down a ride. So I picked up my troublesome walking stick and started hobbling down the trail. Hobbling, because on top of everything else, my left ankle was starting to throb. Have I mentioned that life was not fair?
* * * * *
I was starting to feel like the guy who got robbed in the good Samaritan story by the time someone pulled over to give me a ride. Car after car, SUV after SUV whizzed past me. If they changed speed at all, it was to accelerate. Nobody, it seems, is eager to give the Creature from the Black Lagoon a ride. Go figure.
But eventually a beat up old red Chevy pickup drove past, slowed down then came back towards me in reverse. I had a bad moment where I thought the driver might have decided to rid the world of a swamp creature, but he managed to get close without taking me out. He lowered the passenger window about a third, looked out at me and said, “Sorry, but the Misses’l kill me dead if I get her seat all muddy. I can get you into town if that’s what you’re aiming for, but I’m afraid you’ll need to ride in the back.”
I just said, “Thanks!,” deciding that this was no time to check on the gift horse’s orthodonture. Climbing into the back, however, proved surprisingly difficult. I couldn’t get up with my pack on, so I took it off and hoisted it over, but when I tried to grab the sides and pull myself up, I couldn’t do it. I was too tired.
My savior got out, walked to the back and lowered the tailgate. “Can you make it?” he asked, kindly enough. I was mortified, but I had no choice. I hopped up and got my butt on the tailgate, then swung myself over. He closed up, gave me a look and said, “You gonna be alright?” I nodded, hoping I was right.
The final indignity was knowing that he could get in trouble for having a passenger in the bed of the truck, so I would need to stay down. I found myself thinking, “in my day, everyone rode in the back of pickup trucks!” While this was technically true, I had promised myself that I would never say “in my day,” and here I’d gone and done it.
But, it was at least no longer raining, and if that did nothing for the state of my clothes, it did at least mean that I could operate my phone. So I found listings for motels in Stratton and managed to book something online. I hate Siri, but that doesn’t mean I hate the internet. It’s the greatest thing for introverts since solitary confinement.
Stratton is a company town. The municipality consists of just a couple hundred people, and if they don’t all work at the Stratton Mountain Ski resort, those that don’t know plenty that do. So I got dropped off at “Stratton Village,” which is a quaint, picturesque, and wholly-owned subsidiary of the resort. I had a bit of a hike to get to my motel, but nothing was all that far. I thanked my driver profusely, offered to buy him either a beer or a tank of gas, and was politely declined on both counts. “I don’t wanna be late, or the misses’l skin me,” he said. It might even have been true.
The motel should have been an easy ten minute walk from the ersatz “village;” it took me an excruciating 20. I could feel the blisters forming and popping on my heels; the straps of the pack were digging into my shoulders, the chest strap was rubbing me so raw that I unclipped it, and my sodden underwear was chafing my thighs. By the time I got to the motel, I was ready to drop.
I went to the motel office to pick up the key, worried that they’d take one look at me and whistle up some dogs. I shouldn’t have worried quite so much. The guy behind the desk wasn’t the owner and rather obviously wasn’t much concerned with appearances. He removed the cigarette that was dripping ash down his t-shirt just long enough to say, “if we gotta spend extra cleanin’ your room, it’s gonna cost you some.” He looked me over as if attempting to determine whether I was infested with something, before adding, “no pets.”
I got to the room, full of good intentions about ensuring that I wouldn’t track mud everywhere. But when I closed the door behind me, I said, “Ah, hell with it.” I dropped my pack and stripped naked, starting with my now detested boots, then hobbled to the bathroom bare-assed naked and went straight into the shower.
I probably didn’t do anything for fifteen minutes other than stand under the showerhead and watch hot water sluice a mountain of grime from my hair and my skin. It felt heavenly. Then I stirred just enough to soap up and take stock. I had a nasty rash on the inside of both thighs, blisters on both heels and more on a few toes, and my nipples were swollen and sore from the chest strap. My left ankle looked a bit puffy as well, though the right foot and ankle both looked small. Probably the effect of having been encased in sopping wet cloth for hours – everything looked shrunken. Hell, the same could be said for my reproductive organ, and for a similar reason. I decided I needed to get under covers once I was out of the bathroom and just sleep for a few hours to recover.
* * * * *
I only intended on a nap, but I slept through dinner and straight through the night. By the time I woke up, sevenish, I was ravenous and desperately needed to pee. While in the bathroom taking care of the latter problem, I looked in the mirror to see whether I needed another shower before going in search of food. Sadly, I had the worst case of bedhead I had ever seen. And, as a college professor, that was a subject in which I had a deep reservoir of observational experience. But I hadn’t really washed it yesterday; I had just rinsed out mud with hot water and then gone to bed with it damp. It was clumped, matted, none-to-clean, and pointed every which way. So I turned on the hot, stepped back into the shower and got to work.
The tangles felt fierce. I don’t wear my hair especially long, so I don’t normally have to struggle with it. Maybe I tugged a bit hard, but my hands came away with two mammoth fistfulls of hair. I shouted my surprise, sounding a bit squeaky. Understandably so: my hair may be iron gray and coarse, but I’ve got a full head of it – a fact of which I was very secretly a bit proud. Even some of my younger, better-looking colleagues couldn’t say as much. I dropped the defecting locks and reached up to make a gingerly exploration of the damage. I could tell without looking that it was extensive.
I tried to untangle the rest with the utmost care, but it was not cooperating. More hair was coming loose. I rinsed off and stepped out of the shower. The mirror was completely fogged, which was a blessing. I grabbed a towel and started drying off my hair, but the method I had used for six decades of life betrayed me utterly. The hair developed a greater attachment to the water from the shower than it had to my scalp. When I took the towel off my head, hair went everywhere. Mostly on me, of course, giving me the appearance of a geriatric ape. I dropped the towel and raised my hands for another exploration. All I could feel was a light stubble. Everywhere!
This could not be happening. I reached down, got the towel, and squeegeed off a section of the mirror. It was as bad as I could have imagined. The only good news, I guess, was that I wasn’t bald. My whole head seemed to be covered with five-o’clock shadow. But that’s all there was. Lots of fine stubble.
There are plenty of men who look good bald, though I doubt I would be one of them. But I doubt anyone looks good with a head of stubble. For the second time in less than twenty-four hours, I found myself tearing up. Standing bare-assed naked in the middle of the bathroom in a cheap motel, all of my hair plastering my wet body and my head looking like day two of a horticultural experiment, weeping?
No! I would not have it! I angrily grabbed a fresh towel and dried off the rest of me, getting rid of everything I had shed in the process. The bathroom was now a disaster area, but that would just have to wait. I stomped into the main room and went to see what I might be able to salvage from my pack that I could wear for now. It was impossible to open the thing up without getting myself dirty all over again, and my bad luck wasn’t even done. All the clothes in the pack were too damp to wear, though at least they weren’t muddy. I would need to air dry some things before I could go anywhere.
This was not the sort of motel that provided bathrobes for guests. I had absolutely nothing to wear. I couldn’t even wrap myself in a towel, since I had used up my allotted two. But I was not, not, not going to give in to my strong urge to crawl back under the covers and curl into the fetal position. Not!
“Okay, James,” I said to myself. “You need a plan. Before you can do anything about your other problems, you’ve got to have clothes you can wear.” So I pulled the clean, damp items out of the pack and hung them in the closet.
I spent the next half hour transferring mud from my pack, my poncho, my stuff-bags, and yesterday’s clothes to the walls and basin of the shower enclosure, and fifteen minutes after that coaxing all that mud to find its way into the shower drain. I used a washcloth to collect all of the hair that seemed to be everywhere, and sent it down the drain too. But now I was once again wet, and all I had to dry myself was a small hand towel. I sighed and got to work.
Which is when I discovered that, at some point in my drying and washing and scrubbing and rinsing, my body hair must have joined the hair on my head. I had no hair on my arms, under my arms, on my chest, my legs . . . not even between my legs! Without its wiry jungle for cover, my poor guy was looking small and forlorn.
That was it. I’d gritted my teeth, I’d soldiered on, been as stoic as Pliny the Elder and Junior combined, and what had it gotten me? Indignity! I was frustrated, and mad, and hungry, and scared. I decided that reality could go screw itself. I buried myself under the covers and curled into a ball of pure misery.
Unfortunately I was not sleepy, so my retreat did not provide the solace of oblivion. My mind kept working, after a distressed fashion. The only thing I’d ever heard of that could cause rapid hair loss was radiation poisoning. I couldn’t imagine where that might have happened. I’m no scientist, but even I knew that lightning isn’t radioactive. My spider bite? Now that would be just my luck. Peter Parker and I get bit by radioactive spiders; he gets ripped and I look like I volunteered for a primitive delousing.
I wasn’t in any physical pain – well, nothing but scrapes and rashes and twists and such – so it made no sense to go to any urgent care facility, much less the ER. I needed to go see my own doctor, back home. The guy who was always giving me unwelcome health and diet suggestions. Dammit.
But it clearly made no sense to try to keep marching up the trail when there was something this unusual going on with my body. With luck, I would be able to come back in a few days and pick up my hike where I had left off. I was only about an hour and a half from home by car, but of course I didn’t have a car. I was going to need to arrange something.
Almost three hours later, the clothes that had been in my pack were just barely dry enough to wear. Hanging damp appeared to have stretched everything, so I had to put a cuff in both my pants and my shirt. I had already consumed my entire supply of energy bars, but I was going to need some real food. A laundromat would have been nice, but since I was going to head home briefly I could just dump everything in the pack as is and worry about it later.
I needed my ace bandage for my weak ankle or I would have wrapped it around my abraded chest. The slightly damp shirt was only going to make things worse, so I decided to put regular bandaids over each of my nipples before donning my straight, but still damp, apparel. I picked up my walking stick and headed into “town.”
The first stop was a gas station, where I was able to purchase a baseball cap. My selection was limited to a Harley Davidson cap or blue cap with a creature that looked like a skunk wearing a turtleneck, which said “Go Badgers.” I went with the badger, even if it DID look like a skunk. The young woman behind the counter with the pierced nostril and lavender hair took one look at me and said, “‘Locks for Love,’ amirite? That’s so lit!” My blank look did not penetrate, because she went on to say that she’d never seen anyone go so far as to shave their eyebrows off as well.
“What?” I asked, startled.
“That’s committed,” she said approvingly. Then she told me it was “fire” that I was supporting the Badgers. “Does your daughter go there?,” she asked, ringing up my purchase.
“What?” I said again. She just giggled at me. I was starting to think that a Distinguished Professor of Linguistics ought to be able to come up with something more penetrating, more insightful, or at very least more likely to generate an informative response from others. Not that my use of “what” as an interrogative pronoun was in any way improper, of course. I was just surrounded by idiots.
Based on her prior statement, I had her ring up a pair of sunglasses too. I don’t normally wear sunglasses; it forces you to choose whether you want the world to look blue or orange and I wasn’t wild about either. But it was a small price to pay for fewer comments about my present appearance by well-meaning harbingers of the supposedly bright future my dean was always gushing about. “Fucking future,” I grumbled as I hit the streat.
Stratton in summer is a shadow of its winter glory, and its winter glory ain’t any great shakes. But I was able to find a place that served pub food and ordered myself a burger and fries. Not on my normal diet, you understand, but I was feeling put upon by the universe and decided that some recompense was surely due. I kept my cap and sunglasses on, but my young waiter still felt the need to throw me a goofy grin and say, “Hey, Go Badgers. Good for you!” Maybe, I thought with a mental snarl, people would leave me alone if I wore a hockey mask instead.
Still, I managed to get a real meal. Thus fortified, I returned to my hotel room, all of my aches, pains and indignities vying for my attention. Some internet searching revealed that, while it is relatively easy to get from Stratton to Northampton by car, when it came to public transit, “you can’t get there from here.” I was either going to have to spend half a day going away from where I wanted to go before heading back, pay a cabbie or Uber for an hour-and-a-half trip, or . . . call a friend.
Gulp. Now that was a thought that would sober a lush. Given my current appearance, I didn’t want anyone to see me. But I certainly didn’t want to spend a couple hundred dollars just to get home. I hemmed. I hawed. I hemmed and hawed and hawed and hemmed. Then I told myself to stop being such a baby and called my best friend.
“Woah, baby!” she exclaimed, answering the phone. “Aren’t you supposed to be ‘off the grid forever and ha ha ha to all you suckers?’”
“Hey, Janet,” I said wanly. “What are you up to?”
“Oh, you know,” she said. “Paintin’ the house, as usual. Now come on. You didn’t call to ask how my summer’s goin’. What’s up? You should be in middle Vermont by now.”
I was surprised she had my itinerary committed to memory. “I know, I know,” I said. “And I’m not far off where I’m supposed to be. But . . . something’s come up.”
Janet was suddenly all business. “Are you all right, James?”
“I got caught out in a bad storm yesterday and had to come into Stratton to dry off and warm up,” I said. “But when I got up this morning and tried to wash my hair, it started to fall out.”
“Umm . . . you’re calling me because you’re startin’ to go bald?,” she asked. “You’ve been pretty lucky, keepin’ a full head of hair past your sixtieth birthday, you know.”
“I don’t mean, ‘I lost some hair.’ I mean, all my hair came out. All of it,” I answered. I sounded a bit hysterical, even to myself.
“You’re serious?” she asked. “All of it? I’ve never heard anything like it. Have you talked to a doctor?”
“I figured I’d better see Quibble back home,” I responded, referring to Doctor Quentin Bell, my local quack.
“Huh,” she said. “Well . . . he’s probably better than whoever you’re gonna find pushin’ pills in East Buttfuck, Vermont. Not that that’s saying much. You need a ride back here?”
I was grateful beyond words. “If you can swing it, I’d really appreciate it, Janet,” I said. “I wasn’t sure you’d still be home.”
“Eh, I always leave myself a couple weeks to relax after closing the books on the year before I head out on any adventures, and I’m not relaxed yet. Where should I pick you up?”
I gave her the name of my motel and she said she’d be on the road within a half an hour. I don’t have many friends, but the ones I have are keepers. I spent the time working to make the room less of a wreck. I also put in a call to Quibble’s office and got a machine. Of course. I asked for a call back.
Janet arrived just a bit after 5:00 and wasted no time tossing my sodden pack and gear into the back of her car and getting us on the road. I kept my new hat and dark glasses firmly on, and she gave me only one lengthy appraising look before piling me into the passenger seat of her car.
“All right, James,” she said. “So what happened? You get lost in a missile silo or something?”
“Nothing I can think of,” I said. “I would have said it was a pretty normal start to the hike, up until about five nights ago. I think I did a bad job mushrooming, because something I put in my stew sure knocked me for a loop. I fell asleep in front of the fire and had super weird dreams about space aliens and . . . .” My voice petered out. I had a suddenly vivid recollection that, in my dream, the space aliens had been extremely interested in the sort of stuff you would find in a missile silo – weapons-grade uranium.
Janet did not wait for me to work my way back from that particular mental culdesac. “Okay,” she said, “you dreamed about space aliens. Then what?”
“Well,” I said, sounding a bit shaky, “I woke up, and it was daytime, and I’d never gotten back to my tent. Something had bit me in the rear end and it was sore, and my head hurt. But I took some Advil and was able to keep going. The bite hurt for a couple days, but it got better. Then I had the brush with the storm yesterday, and I got up this morning and this happened.” I pointed to my head.
“You suddenly had an uncontrollable urge to show your support for the largest girl’s high school in Vermont?” she asked.
“What?” I said. “No! I suddenly lost all my hair!”
“Sorry, James,” she said, “I couldn’t resist. But . . . Nothing else unusual happened?” I shook my head. We talked a bit more, but our conversation kind of petered out. I was tired, grumpy and puzzled; Janet’s mind was clearly worrying at the puzzle that my strange experience presented.
When we were getting close to Northampton, she pressed a button on her steering column and said, “Call Osaka.” I looked an inquiry at her and she said, “James, you need food and we need to give some thought to what’s happened. I think there’s more here than some bad mushrooms. Let’s get some take-out and we can eat it at my place. I’m not actually painting, just at the moment.”
Before I could respond, her car phone connected to the Osaka Japanese Restaurant and she ordered some sushi and sashimi to go. We swung by the restaurant. I didn’t really want to be seen at the moment, especially where anyone from the college might be present, so Janet went in and picked up the order. We drove back to her place.
I had been over to Janet’s house before. I don’t know; maybe half a dozen times over the many years we worked together. We were very firmly “just friends,” and we didn’t need the kind of gossip that so easily starts in small campuses. I had enormous respect for her, but it would never in a thousand years have occurred to me to presume upon our long friendship with any sort of romantic entanglement. I am a scholar first, a teacher second, a colleague third. Anything else is so far behind that it didn’t count.
It was still light when we got to her place, a modest Cape Cod style home on the edge of town. Inside, she set the bag of sushi on the dining room table and went to get plates, utensils and wine while I went to make myself (marginally) more presentable. When I got out of the restroom, she said, “Okay, let me see how bad bad really is.” I didn’t really want to, but it would be ridiculous to sit at her table and share a meal while I was wearing a baseball cap and shades. With a sigh, I took them off.
Surprisingly, she didn’t just look and giggle, or sound surprised. Instead, her eyes narrowed thoughtfully and she asked me to come closer to the light. She got up very close and gave my stubble a narrow inspection, putting her readers on for a better look. Finally she nodded her head and said, “Okay, that’s interesting. Let’s have a bite and we can talk about it.”
Her behavior was pretty mystifying to me, but I was again extremely hungry and I’m a big sushi fan. I snapped my chopsticks in two, mixed some wasabi and soy sauce in one of the small bowls Janet had set out, and grabbed a piece of raw tuna. I washed that down with a swallow of a perky Marlborough Sauvignon Blanc and felt better than I had in a week.
Janet had not yet moved to grab a piece of sushi for herself, however. She just sat looking at me thoughtfully, which was pretty worrisome. Finally I said, “Okay, I know. It looks weird. What’s to talk about?”
“I’m thinkin’,” she said. “‘Weird’ doesn’t begin to cover it. You may be too close to this to have noticed. But . . . you are very definitely shorter than you were two weeks ago. And the stubble on your head isn’t gray. It's not even black, like it used to be. It’s gold.”
I gaped at her and said, understandably enough, “What?!”
She speared a piece of sushi, dunked it in my dipping sauce, and said, “Mushrooms don’t do that, James. Spiders don’t do that. So . . . .” She popped the sushi in her mouth before asking, “s’pose you tell me about those crazy space aliens of yours?”
. . . . To be continued. I reckon
Maximum Warp
Chapter 3: Strange New Worlds
So, I’d lost all of my hair: top of the head stuff, body hair and pubic hair. Hell, I’d even lost my eyebrows. And my best friend Janet wanted me to talk about my dreams? What the hell! “You can’t be serious,” I sputtered.
“Try me,” she responded, spearing another piece of sushi. She was unimpressed with my look of professorial stupefaction and sheer dumbfoundedness. Admittedly, it works better on undergraduates than it does on grad students, and other full professors – like Janet – are often immune altogether.
She said, extremely calmly, “Remember what Sherlock Holmes would say.”
“Elementary?” I asked, stupidly.
“No, the other thing,” she responded. “‘When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’ So, we know spiders and mushrooms don’t cause people to get shorter, or lose all their hair, much less grow all new hair in a different color. Nothing else interesting happened to you, other than getting caught out in a thunderstorm like a Cub Scout. So what does that leave?”
“I thought your specialty was 19th Century American literature,” I grumbled. Mostly I was just buying time while I thought about what she had said.
In any event, she waved my objection away. “I read BritLit for shits and giggles. There’s some great stuff there. You should check out that Shakespeare guy. Really top notch.”
I couldn’t help it; I giggled.
“Okay,” I said. “But when I tell you about my space alien dream, I think you’ll agree that it was probably the residue of psilocybin mushrooms.”
“Like I said before,” she responded, “Try me.”
So I did. For all it was crazy, it was vivid, and I remembered even more detail as I started to relate it.
Throughout my recitation, she just continued to grab pieces of sushi, dip them, and chew them thoughtfully. She made no sound and asked no questions until I concluded.
When I had, I picked up my chopsticks and tried to catch up while she did her impersonation of Joseph and His Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
“Welllll,’ she finally said, drawing out the syllable, “I can certainly see why you were inclined towards the magic mushroom explanation. I mean, what with the bad dialogue from 60s and 70s TV, the Cronkite suit and Mary Tyler Moore shoes, the Starship Enterprise and weapons-grade uranium. But – no offense, James – I don’t think your brain could generate that much camp, even dead asleep and on psychotropic drugs.”
I found myself perversely offended. “Are you saying I lack imagination?” I asked indignantly.
“Ahhhh,” she said cautiously, “James, you are without a doubt the most linear thinker I know. It’s actually difficult to argue with you, because your thinking is always so clear and your lines of logic are always so easy to follow. But the flip side, dear man . . . .”
“Is that I’m boring?” I asked.
“That’s far too strong a word,” she responded soothingly. “And too negative as well. Try ‘dependable,’ ‘grounded,’ ‘sensible’ . . . .”
“Spare me the entire thesaurus,” I suggested dryly. “I get the picture.” I drummed my fingers on the table while Janet sat, looking a bit embarrassed. I wanted to be annoyed, but I couldn’t really manage it. Truth is, she was right. I didn’t have much use for flights of fancy. That made me very inclined to dismiss my dream, of course. But it hadn’t occurred to me that it might also decrease the likelihood that my mind would have generated such a pile of nonsense in the first place. It’s true that most dreams I was ever able to recall were pretty prosaic. In my dreams, a cigar is always just a cigar.
Finally I said, “Oh, come on, Janet. Do you really think that what happened to me was caused by space aliens?”
She shrugged. “Let’s just say I’m not ready to dismiss the possibility out of hand. When are you seeing the doctor?”
“I haven’t heard back from Quibble’s office,” I said. “But if I don’t see him tomorrow, it’s going to have to be next week. No way he's open over the weekend.”
She nodded and said, with a sentiment I thoroughly shared, “Doctors!” She thought a few more minutes. “Look, I’ll run you home now. If you want, I can take you out to the Berkshires to pick up your car on Saturday; I’ve got some commitments tomorrow. Why don’t you sleep on it, and keep monitoring to see whether anything else happens to you. I mean, if you got a shot that’s supposed to make you young and good-looking, it’s got a ways to go yet.”
The day’s indignities, it seems, were far from complete. I buried my head in my hands.
“I’m sorry, James,” she said contritely. “That didn’t come out very well, did it? But . . . just in case it is space aliens, what’s ‘young’ in this context? Thirty? Six? Or, for that matter, what’s ‘good-looking?’”
I thought about that for a minute, with my head still buried in my hands. Then I wished I hadn’t. “Oh, Lordy,” I said, raising my head. “I didn’t really say anything about how young 'young' ought to be! For ‘good-looking,’ I suggested that they check out People Magazine. They had a tap into the internet while they were here.”
Janet was looking at me funny. I mean, appalled funny, not funny funny. Not like she was about to laugh. Not at all.
“What?” I asked.
“James,” she said carefully, “most of the people who people People are . . . ahh . . . .”
This was very unlike Janet. “Young, certainly” I finished. “And also good-looking. Right?”
“Sure, sure. Of course. But also . . . ah. Girls. Women. Female . . . people. I mean, they do have pictures of men too. But it’s gotta be, three, four to one. You know that, right?”
I was thunderstruck. “No, I didn’t know that! Why would I know that?” I asked. “I don’t actually open People Magazine, for God’s sake!”
“Not even for the articles?” she asked, innocently.
“No,” I said with more force than the inquiry demanded. “I just see it on the rack at the supermarket. I knew it had lots of pictures of Hollywood types. And British royals.”
“British royals?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “You mean, like Prince Charles? Prince William?”
“Uhh . . . . I don’t remember seeing them, specifically,” I said a bit lamely.
“No?” she asked, clearly determined to make her point. “Which British Royals do you recall seeing? Specifically?”
“Ah. Kate. And Meghan. Diana, for some reason, even though she’s been gone for decades . . . .”
“Uh huh,” she said.
I just looked at her. “They wouldn’t change my gender though, would they? I mean, why go to all the trouble? Men can be young and good looking too!”
“Of course they can,” she responded. “But, aliens might not understand that it’s a big deal. I mean, if they’re rearranging your whole DNA, what’s a chromosome here or there? You might have been more specific.”
“But . . . I just thought they were going to find a good looking young person, not turn me into a good-looking young person!” I protested.
“You didn’t think it was important to suggest a specific gender for this hypothetical good looking young person they were going to pick up?” she challenged.
“Hire,” I said firmly. “And no, I didn’t. A woman is just as capable of being a go-between to a new species as a man. Maybe more . . . .” I stopped myself from finishing the sentence, but the blood drained from my face.
Janet looked at me with real compassion in her eyes.
Which, of course, made me far more terrified than I had been before. Janet was a wonderful woman with a razor-sharp wit and a virtuoso's gift for repartee. If she was feeling sorry for me – sorry enough not to deliver the coup de grâce – I must be in very deep shit indeed.
“Let me take you home now, James,” she said kindly. “Like I said. Sleep on it. Take some measurements. See if you notice any changes. And let me know about Saturday, okay?”
I nodded silently.
When we got back to my condo, she parked the car and helped me get my gear up the stairs and into my unit. When we got inside, she looked around and asked me for a pencil. When I got her one, she grabbed a book, then had me take off my boots and socks and stand against the door frame into the guest bathroom. “Stand up straight now,” she ordered. Then she put the book on my head and made a mark on the molding. “Here you go; that’s your height as of 9:30 tonight. As good a place to start as any.”
I walked her to the door, where she surprisingly turned and gave me a hug. I don’t think we had ever hugged each other. But I found myself returning the hug with an urgency I had never felt in my life.
“It’s okay,” she said softly. “I’m here for you.”
That’s when I knew I was screwed. Exactly how screwed and in what specific way . . . those were just details. Things to add to my obituary, as it were.
* * * * *
I collapsed into bed and had prosaically awful dreams which featured variations on me dying. Car crash. Drowning. Falling out of an airplane. Subtle, it was not. I got up around seven and grimly marched into the bathroom, determined to have as normal a morning as circumstances would allow.
The first thing you see in my bathroom is yourself, like it or not, since the sink and the mirror are right across from the door. I was shocked to discover that yesterday’s stubble had already given way to something that looked a bit like a military haircut, or even something that might push up against Steinbrenner’s edicts for guys who want to play for the New York Yankees. And Janet was right – it was a nimbus of spun gold. I reached up and touched it – a gentle and disbelieving motion. It didn’t even feel like my hair. It was silky soft and fine; it would probably take four of these gold hairs to approach the thickness of one of the gray hairs that had fallen out just a day ago. But there seemed to be a lot of them.
My eyebrows were growing in again too, or at least there were some hairs there. A narrower band so far. Overall, the hair change made me look significantly younger. Maybe more like mid-forties than sixty. Or, was it just the hair?
I looked at my image more closely. My skin looked better too. Tighter. Maybe not quite as weather-scoured. I looked at the back of my hands – the place it’s hardest to hide the changes of time. And, sure enough . . . the age spots which had started to appear in the last few years were flat-out gone, and my veins were not quite as prominent.
I found myself feeling a bit light-headed. To avoid passing out, I stumbled over to the porcelain throne, sat and put my head down. Janet was right. I was getting younger, my hair was changing color and growing ridiculously fast, and those changes simply could not be ascribed to known causes. But really? Corny alien smugglers?
I fished out the family jewelry and did my business. I examined them with more care than I had in years. Were they smaller, or was I imagining things? Everything seemed to be working properly . . . .
I decided I wasn’t going to think about that. I stripped, got in my shower, and started soaping up. Remarkably, my rashes appeared to be completely healed. Like they had never happened. My ankles now matched – the left was no longer swollen. Although the hair on my head was growing back quickly, I saw no sign of any other hair returning.
As the soap glided over one of my nipples, I got something like an electric shock. That was certainly weird. I decided not to think about that either.
I dried off and went to get dressed. Janet was right as far as height was concerned as well. It wasn’t just an issue with the clothes I had taken with me on the hike; every pair of pants I owned was too long. Not by all that much, but it was significant. The bottoms almost touched the ground in back when I put on a pair of sneakers. And the sneakers were loose too. I was, very definitely, shrinking.
That, too, supported Janet’s hypothesis, although it wasn’t all that significant to the gender question. Half the actors in Hollywood weren't exactly tall – even such classic heartthrobs as Paul Newman and Robert Redford had only been 5’ 10.” I didn’t know as much about the current crew, of course. But I was – or had been – 6’3.” I had a few inches to spare, if I was being turned into whatever was currently fashionable in People Magazine. Of course, shrinking was equally, if not more, consistent with the other possibility. Resolutely, I put that from my mind.
I called Quibble’s office at nine and got a machine. Again. So I spent the morning doing laundry, cleaning all my hiking gear, and worrying.
When I still hadn’t heard from the Quack’s office by one o’clock, I did a deep dive in my closet and located a pair of sweatpants I hadn’t worn in years. They fit well enough. Then I put on a sweatshirt, a pair of sandals and my new cap (“Go Badgers”). I grabbed my keys and got all the way to the garage area before I remembered that my car was in the Berkshires. Dammit. I had nothing in the condo to eat, since I had cleaned it out for the summer.
I trudged back to my unit and got my phone. “Hey Siri – call Pizza Amore.”
“I’m sorry, Jim. I didn’t get that!,” she-it responded chirpily.
“‘You’ll love it, James,’ they all said,” I grumbled. “‘It just takes a while to train it,’ they said. Bastards. Why do they torture me?”
“I can’t answer that, Jim!,” she-it said, without any apparent regret.
“Pizza Amore! Call Pizza Amore!” I shouted.
Unperturbed, Siri responded, “Would you like me to call Amore Pizza at 370 West 58th Street, New York, New York?” I ground my teeth in frustration. After a moment, she-it piped in with, “I’m sorry, Jim. I didn’t get that!”
“Do I look like I’m in New York?” I demanded.
“I couldn’t say,” she-it responded.
“Why Not? Aren’t you connected to the frickin’ GPS?” I was getting more frustrated the longer we pretended to converse. Siri’s response, predictably unhelpful, caused me to give up. “Cancel,” I ground out.
“Would you like me to cancel?”
I screamed an affirmative, and she-it said, “canceling order.”
“Hey James,” called my neighbor Rodney Dent. “Thought you were gone for the summer. You got Siri all trained up yet?” It occurred to me that my neighbors had witnessed too many of my efforts to communicate with the Borg.
I wanted to cheerfully flip Rodney off, but I could use his help. So I put on a smile instead. “Hey Rodney! I had to pop down for a couple days to deal with something. But my car’s stuck in the Berkshires. Any chance I could borrow yours for a quick run to the store?”
“Sure,” he said easily. He pulled a set of keys from his front pocket and tossed them to me. Then his eyes popped open and he said, “Wow!! Dude – You’re dyeing your hair? You? I think I may be witnessing the end of days!!!”
The urge to flip Rodney off was growing stronger by the minute, but . . . I did need his car. “It’s kind of a prank. Certainly nothing I’ll keep when classes start!”
“You better not,” he laughed. “You’d have co-eds falling all over you!”
“You know no-one uses that word anymore, right?” I growled.
“Easy, man! Just jokin,’ just jokin,’” he said. “You’re the expert on words. I’m just an accountant!”
“How could I ever forget, what with your sparkling wit?” I thought as I drove off. But I managed – just barely – to keep the thought from passing my lips.
Two hours later, I was back in my condo having some late lunch, with enough food in my fridge and pantry to last a few days. When I was done, I gave Janet a call to take her up on her offer to drive me out to get my car.
“Sure thing, James,” she said. “What time should I pick you up?”
“Whatever time causes you the least inconvenience,” I said. “I’ve got no plans for the day, as you might imagine.”
“Let’s go with 9:00,” she said. “You hear back from Quibble yet?”
“I haven’t even talked to a real person yet,” I said. “Nothing new there.”
“Anythin’ new anywhere else?” she asked.
“Ummm,” I responded. “My hair’s growing back pretty quickly. Other than that, nothing I’ve noticed.”
“Okay,” she said. “Well, I look forward to seein’ how you look with golden hair. I can’t picture it. See you tomorrow!”
We ended the call and I glowered at the world. Well, I was indoors; all I could see of the world was the inside of my condo, so I glowered at that. What had I been thinking, going off for months leaving it looking so shabby? I’d tidied it, but . . . man. It could use a good cleaning. I decided that would take my mind off of other topics, so I got my cleaning supplies out and went to work.
* * * * *
The alarm went off at 7:00. I lay in bed a few more minutes, reluctant to face the mirror. But the body has demands of its own, so eventually I hauled myself out of bed and opened the door to the bathroom, filled with trepidation.
My hair was almost as long as it had been two days ago, but it was positively bursting with golden vitality. My eyebrows were restored, but they were thin – nothing like my formerly formidable set that had intimidated generations of undergrads. How would I impress anyone with these?
I sighed heavily and trudged over to the pot to do my morning’s business. The body was more than willing, but the plumbing . . . Shit! the plumbing was GONE! I choked out a strangled-sounding “Noooooo!!!!!!” before the world went black.
The first thing that registered, as I slowly regained consciousness, was the cold of the bathroom’s smooth ceramic tile against one cheek. I blinked to clear my vision, and found that I had collapsed on the floor with my pajama bottoms around my ankles. Charming.
I maneuvered myself into a sitting position, kicking off the pajamas in the process, and leaned my back against the vanity. Inexorably, my eyes were drawn downward. There was no visible evidence of either bat or balls. With deep dread, I brought my right hand over to figure out whether they were, somehow, just playing hide-and-seek. I whispered, “Alle, alle auch sind frei.”
No joy.
If they were hiding, they had used a very convenient slit that had appeared at the base of my pubis to make their escape. A slit that had its own lips – lips which, I discovered, were absurdly sensitive to the touch. I groaned.
I brought my knees up to my chest, wrapped my arms around my legs and put my head down. Okay. It was frickin’ clueless space aliens after all. And, they had decided to make me female. How much worse could this get? That wasn’t a rhetorical question, either. I’d better prepare myself for future unpleasant surprises, or I'm going to be spending a lot of time admiring the hexagonal tiles on the floor of my bathroom.
The most obvious drum major for my personal parade of horribles was the possibility that the aliens would interpret “young” in an aggressive way. I would be useless to them as a five-year-old, but they might not know that. I’d be useless to myself as well, but they wouldn’t care.
A distant second was the possibility that they might completely screw up on the physical side. Just for example, my component parts might be perfectly fine, but their proportions might be all wrong. They were aliens and had no concepts of human aesthetics. Quite possibly no concept of aesthetics at all. But . . . ugly wasn’t the end of the world. No one had ever called me good-looking. Not that I’m bitter.
Contemplating my totally rearranged future, I discovered, was not resolving my most pressing issue. Pressing, that is, in the most literal sense.
I still needed to pee.
I glared at the toilet, as if all of this was somehow its fault. Then I sighed and got myself to my feet, moving like a man who is facing the executioner. I looked down at the bowl and cursed. That didn’t help either; I didn’t even feel better. Then I snarled something truly vile, dropped the underseat like a guillotine, then turned around and sat down with a decisive thud. “Fine,” I thought. “Now what?”
It honestly took me a bit to figure out that I needed to spread my legs apart and try to relax the urethral sphincters in order to get some action going. Relaxing, it turns out, is hard when you are as tightly wound as I am. It took time, and my bladder sent numerous signals of its growing impatience with my ineptitude. But eventually the flow started. And damn, did that feel weird.
When it finally "petered" out – not with a bang, but a whimper – I faced the next hurdle. I couldn’t exactly wag the area dry, now could I? I thought it through and decided I’d better dry the area off anyways. Damp was never pleasant, and hygiene is important. Should I use a towel? Surely women didn’t do that. There would be no end of messy towels everywhere if they did. Someone would have noticed, and said something.
Okay, it’s obvious. But it wasn’t intuitive to me, anyway. I’ve never actually lived with a woman. Not even in the same house, at least since my mother passed away when I was ten. I had to think a minute before it dawned on me that women had an additional use for toilet paper. I groaned again. I know nothing about being a woman. Less than nothing!
How was I going to do this? How could I do this? I felt tears welling up, blurring my vision, and a lump rising in my throat.
But I steeled myself against my panic. I closed my eyes tight to stifle the tears. I clenched my teeth. “Enough, old man!! You are an adult, for the love of God. A scholar. You fucking live to learn. You didn’t want to learn this? Fine. Too bad. You need to. Stop wallowing, get off your ass, and start figuring out this strange new world.”
It was a turning point, of sorts. I’d gotten old and ill-tempered. I’d allowed myself to develop bad grumbly habits, bitching and moaning as the world started to pass me by. Well, it looked like the world wasn’t quite done with me after all. It was time to revive the habits of mind that had allowed me, in earlier years, to face the world as it was and delve into its secrets. I had a very strong sense that I would need that mindset again, and soon.
I got up, went into the shower, and got cracking. This time, when contact with my nipples sent shock waves to my brain, I slowed down and repeated the experiment. Yes, my nipples were definitely sensitive as all hell. Sensitive, as it happened, in an extremely pleasant way. Okay. Good to know. File that piece of information away. Another data point.
By the time Janet arrived at 9:00, I was reasonably calm. I was going to get through this, somehow, now grimly determined to find a way. I asked Janet to come in, which surprised her. She had assumed that we would hit the road right away. I suggested we have coffee and croissants before we got underway.
She took a bite of her croissant. “Oooh, you got these from the Hungry Ghost, didn’t you?”
I confirmed it.
“Well, I certainly appreciate the effort, James. But you didn’t need to go to the trouble. I don’t need to be bribed, ya know!”
I smiled. “No, I know that. But . . . you’ve been a big help, and I’m afraid this weird journey of mine is just starting. I thought it was the least I could do.”
She gave me a thoughtful look and said, “Okay, so . . . it sounds like you are moving towards the crazy alien hypothesis after all. Did all of that fluff on your head convince you?”
My hair was pretty striking, especially to anyone who had ever known me before. But I shook my head and took a gulp of coffee. Here goes nothing!
“No, I was still in full denial until this morning. But . . . there’s no doubt at this point. There’s no other possible explanation. It’s not just the hair, you see. I’m definitely becoming female. The . . . ah . . . most important bits rearranged themselves overnight.”
She dropped her croissant on the table. “Holy macaroni, you’ve got lady parts?” Then she blushed like a tomato.
I chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, I’ve got lady parts. I’m damned if I know what to do with them, but I’m just gonna have to work on figuring all of that out. Half of the species has found a way; I suppose I can too.”
She stared at me blankly, then a chuckle bubbled up, gurgled into a stream, and developed into a full-blown river of merriment. It was funny just to watch her, and before long I was joining her in peals of laughter, though mine might have had a touch of hysteria mixed in. Still, I was very glad I had gotten up early enough to get through the worst of my emotional reaction well before Janet arrived. I could still laugh – even at my own predicament.
When we finally both subsided, she reached over with both hands and grabbed one of mine. “You’re taking this very well. Better than I ever could have imagined. But it’s . . . it’s gonna be hard, James. Harder than I think you can imagine, right now. You will need help, and . . . And I’m happy to help any way I can. I want you to know that I’m here for you, okay?”
I had gotten through the morning’s shocks, had even managed to steel myself enough to give Janet my secret, knowing that her ribald wit would be unable to resist some sharp sallies. But this, apparently . . . I had no defense against this. Against kindness. I teared up, overwhelmed with emotion, and my personal dam burst like it had been hit by a missile. “Thh-thh-thanks, J-ja-anet,” I got out between sobs.
What was worse, she did not look alarmed. She looked understanding. She got up, came ‘round the table and stooped over to give me a hug. “It’s okay, honey,” she said. “It’s okay. You’re gonna have to get used to being a bit emotional, I’m afraid. Comes with the package.”
No-one had called me "honey" in probably fifty years. I should have been indignant, but I wasn’t. It was comforting. And that, of course, was scary. What on earth was wrong with me!
“Y-y-you’re not emotional all the t-t-time!” I managed to stammer, while pouring tears into her shoulder.
“You don’t know that." She stroked my silky new hair with one hand. “Girls develop coping mechanisms, same as boys do. But they’re different ones, and you don’t have ‘em. We learn ways to hide our emotions, and around whom. Distinguished professors, just as a random example. Not every girl is super emotional. But I’m starting to think you might be. Imagine the flood of hormones that must be running through your system right now!”
“I’m gonna be crying forever?” I cried, appalled.
“No, Honey,” she soothed. “Not forever. But sure as hell, for often. Better get used to it.”
Oddly enough, that was a bigger blow to my ego than the loss of my family jewels. My equipment was hidden, private. Crying all the time? There was no way to hide that. What indignity!
“I wanna DIE!!!!” I said, forgetting both proper grammar and my stoic resolve in the misery of this new revelation.
“I know, Honey,” she said. “That’s part of the package, too.”
– To be continued. But you prolly guessed that.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 4: To Boldly Go . . . .
We had about an hour and a half drive to retrieve my car, once I had recovered sufficiently from the shocks of the morning. It’s a lovely drive, but I wasn’t in the best of moods to appreciate the joys of nature.
Nevertheless – or nonetheless, they are used, if at all, interchangeably – it was time well-spent.
Janet quizzed me carefully about everything the damned termites had said while I was in their hands. Pincers? Whatever.
Then we started trying to think through the implications. They had shot me with something that, over the course of a month, was going to make me both younger – but we didn’t know how young – and better-looking. And, as had become superabundantly clear this so very fine morning, female.
“So, if you’re about a week in, you’ve got a bit more than three weeks to go before the process is done,” Janet said. “And those weeks are gonna be weird as a tap-dancing emu, if your experience so far is any indication.”
I could only agree with that assessment. But I was also thinking about the next hurdle. “Janet, I’ve got an identity. A history. All of that will disappear – I will disappear, for all intents and purposes. I’ll still be me – at least, I hope I’ll still be me, even if I’m an emotional, weepy, not-very-rational version of me. But the rest of the world won’t believe it. As a young woman, or God help me, a young girl, I won’t have any kind of identity at all. No job, no income, no healthcare, no access to funds!”
She nodded as I spoke, pondering my words for a few minutes while she drove. Then she said, “It’s a problem, sure enough. A whole constellation of problems, I reckon. Add ‘em to the list. But . . . there’s a more fundamental problem that you’re maybe missin.’ At least I think y’are, based on what you’ve been sayin.’”
I looked at her, chewing her lip in thought, and said, “Ah? Things are even worse? Splendid. What extra catastrophe do I need to add to my burgeoning list?”
“Patience, patience,” she said, swatting away my comment. “Gotta think about how to say this right. And throwin’ those five dollar words at me isn’t gonna help.” She chewed some more as her car ate up asphalt.
Then she said, “It’s your ‘tude, James. Like I said this morning, you’re handlin’ this really well. Like a trooper. Stoic and all that. Very John Wayne. Maybe even Gary Cooper. An’ it’s better’n lyin’ on the floor cryin’ about it, I s’pose. But . . . bein’ a woman – even bein’ a girl . . . It’s not a frickin’ prison sentence. It’s not somethin’ to be endured, or conquered. It’s . . . it’s . . . “
She pounded the steering wheel in apparent frustration, then finished, “Alright, I’ll say it. It’s a privilege. Understand? Maybe bein’ a man’s a privilege too. I’ve had my doubts sometimes, that’s for sure. But you! – You have an opportunity to see the world in an entirely new way. To have experiences that James Marshall Wainwright could never have dreamed of havin’ . . . . You get to . . . I don’t know . . . .”
“Boldly go where no man has gone before?” I asked, dryly.
“YES!!!” she said. “Yes, damn it. You do! And you’ll get through all of this – and it’ll be a lot to get through, I’m sure – in a whole lot better shape, if you start appreciatin’ what a truly wonderful opportunity you’ve been given. If you march along, grimly determined to bear what must be born, you’ll damned well miss everything that makes being a woman fun and worthwhile. You’ll just be a man in a woman’s body. How’d you describe it? A weepy, not-very-rational version of yourself? Shit, James! No wonder you're grim. Who’d want to be that?”
“Janet,” I said, surprising myself by how gently it came out. “What’s this all about? I need a change of attitude. Splendid. I’ll put in an order for that. But is this really about me?”
“Yes it is,” she said forcefully. “I care about you, idiot. But . . . sure. If I’d been given the chance that you’ve been given? If I’d been crazy enough to be hiking the AT all by myself rather than sittin’ at home, thinkin’ about the kids I never had, or the grandkids I never will have, or what goddamned nursing home I’d have to settle for down the road? I’d be turnin’ cartwheels right now. I’d be turnin’ cartwheels just at the idea that I’d be able to turn cartwheels again!”
She paused, thought a moment more, and added, “And if you told me I’d have to switch genders for the privilege, why . . . I’d view that as a plus. Not ‘cuz I don’t like bein’ a woman; I do. Not ‘cuz I want to be one of you lunks! I don’t. But ‘cuz sure as hell, that's not somethin’ you get to do every day!”
I had been so wrapped in my own problems that I hadn’t really thought about what Janet would be thinking. Feeling. From where she was sitting, I was getting an incredible adventure. One she couldn’t share.
Keeping my voice gentle, I said, “You do know we’re in New England, don’t you?”
“Yeah, why?” she responded, confused by the non sequitur.
“Nothing really; it’s just that we normally drive on the right side of the road in this country,” I said warily.
“Oh, fuck you!” she said, exasperated, as she swerved us back where we belonged and dropped the speed down to within ten miles per hour of the posted limit. I relaxed my death grip on the door handle fractionally.
“Hey,” I said, “If you’re going to get weepy, or emotional, maybe I ought to take the wheel?”
“ . . . And the sorry, lice-infested excuse for a nag you rode in on!” she added. “I can cope. You don’t have a clue. Yet.”
We drove a bit in silence. I could see that Janet was still hurting and I didn’t really know how to deal with that. I tried another conversational gambit.
“What are the good parts of being a woman, Janet? What can you do, that I don’t get to do as a man?”
She decided to take the bait. “Well,” she said, “I find women tend to have better conversations than men. Deeper. More meaningful. It allows us to be closer to other women; men seem to be more emotionally isolated.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” I said in response. I like my solitude, after all.
“Too much of a good thing is a bad thing,” she said.
“Huh,” I said, before adding brightly, “Well, then, we’ve got at least forty-five minutes left to drive. Let’s have a deep and meaningful conversation! What shall we talk about?”
“The fifty different ways to dismember a distinguished professor of linguistics?” she suggested acidly, adding, “Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?”
“Not to my face,” I said thoughtfully, “though it has come up in some anonymous student evaluations. From time to time.”
“I’m surprised they didn’t put it on a goddamned billboard,” she growled. “Maybe we should hold off on meaningful conversations until you’ve had a period, lost half your ego, and filled out at least a C-cup.”
Ouch! I should have known better than to try a rubber of repartee with Janet. Might as well try to keep both ears while going three rounds with Iron Mike Tyson. Still, Janet riled up was better than Janet distressed. But it was time to throw in the towel.
“You’re right,” I said. “On all counts. But I’m scared, Janet. There is no way I can manage this alone. Will you join me on this little adventure? Share it with me?”
She kept her eyes facing forward. Firmly. She said, “I might slow you down. I’m not getting any younger, but you are.”
“You always said your students keep you young. They have, too. But it doesn’t matter. Even if I’m suddenly supplied with good looks and ‘youthful vigah,’ God help me, all I’ll be doing is falling on my increasingly plump and lovely ass. I only just figured out that women use toilet paper when they piss.”
“Seriously?” she said, incredulously. “What on earth did you think we use? Our prehensile tails?”
“I’d never given the matter any thought,” I said. “Not once. Why would I? It wasn’t germane to my research. But now I need to know it, and probably a million other seemingly obvious things just like it. Please, Janet? I can’t do this without you.”
She kept driving, but a smile slowly began to spread over her face. Not, I hasten to add, the sweetest smile I’d ever seen, either.
“Oh, Honey,” she said, “Count me in, but you may wish you hadn’t asked!”
I gulped. “Why?”
“Don’t worry your pretty golden head about that,” she said. “But just as a bit of an appetizer, before we get back to Northampton, we need to stop and get a few things. To help you learn. Think of them as educational supplies.”
“What kind of supplies?” I asked, warily.
“Oh, nothin’ much,” she said cheerily. “You’re gonna need some new clothes. Some things that have some give, in case you keep, ah . . . y’know . . . shrinkin’. Some decent underwear. A pretty dress or two. Some makeup. Some tampons, just in case. And a bra.”
“Surely it’s too soon for all that,” I protested weakly.
“You need practice, girl,” she replied. “And don’t call me ‘Shirley’!”
I didn’t want to offend Janet again, so I managed – just barely – to avoid repeating what I was thinking.
* * * * *
We stopped at the Target in Lennox after we had picked up my car. I was still getting over the fact that I had needed to adjust my seat and all of my mirrors before I had been able to drive safely. Not for the last time, I wondered just how bad this was going to get.
When we got inside, Janet got a cart and resolutely marched me to the nearest gallows: in this case, the area where the store showcased “intimates” for women. I gritted my teeth and tried to remind myself to improve what Janet – and anyone under forty – would call my ‘tude.
“Alright,” she said, neither raising her voice nor making any effort to lower it, “let’s start with some panties. What do you fancy?”
“Asphyxiation,” I replied, sotto voce. “As a way of dying, it’s far preferable to mortification. At least, that’s my assessment at this precise moment.”
“Drama much?” she asked sardonically. “If it helps, James, just tell yourself that it’s for science.”
“You could try to keep your voice down, at least,” I whispered furiously.
“I could,” she agreed. “But where’s the fun in that?”
I gave her a glower that should have reduced her to a puddle of quivering jelly.
She looked at me quizzically. “You’re gonna have to retire that look, James. Without your bushy eyebrows, your glare just looks . . . I dunno. Cute?”
I tried gritting my teeth, but she just shook her head. “Nope. Not that either.” Then she reached out and touched my arm lightly. “No-one’s paying any attention. But if they do, why should you care? We’re a long ways from home, and you’ll never see any of these people again.”
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and reminded myself, once again, about my ‘tude. Without opening them, I said, “Fine. Something basic. What’s the female equivalent of tighty-whities?”
“You are!” she retorted. “Or you will be, if you don’t get over yourself.”
I opened my eyes to see Janet just staring at me impatiently.
“Got that outta your system?” she asked.
I nodded, chagrined.
“Good,” she responded. “Now listen up. Is there a female equivalent of ‘tighty-whities? I’m sure there is. At very least, there are things that are boring, even if they don’t actually go out of their way to be grotesque. I mean, really? Tighty-whities?”
I wanted to glower, but I had been warned. It wasn’t working.
She continued, “You go down that path, though, and you will end up becoming just a double x version of yourself. Less emotionally stable, I expect, as you suggested before. Not because women are unstable, but because you won’t have learned to handle your emotions. And . . . you won’t be any more emotionally connected. Or connected to the physical world. The world of sights and sounds and smells and feeling. If you want more – and, honest to God, Honey, you do – you have to stop thinking like a man.”
“Okay, okay!” I said. “But you can’t really be suggesting that women have deep and meaningful thoughts about underwear, for God’s sake?”
“I can, and we do,” she said. “Maybe not every day, but it happens. Honestly, does that shock you? Why else would a discount store in a town of maybe five thousand people have so many options?”
I just shook my head. No clue. The question was far beyond the scope of any intellectual inquiry I had ever pursued.
She said, “Sometimes we want underwear that’s just useful or comfortable, sure. But sometimes we want to wear an outfit that requires different underwear. Other times we may want to feel sexy. Or just pretty.”
“Janet,” I said, panicked. “I’m not trying to pick up a date, for the love of all that’s holy! I just need some underwear! Why would I want to feel pretty? Much less . . . er . . . sexy?”
I was blushing so hard that all traffic would likely stop until I turned green again.
Janet gave me a pitying look. “Sure, sometimes we want to feel pretty or sexy for some guy. But other times we may just want to feel pretty or sexy for ourselves. As a reminder of that part of our existence. Feelin’ pretty, or sexy, is one of those things about being a woman that can be a very special experience. One you’ve never had. Why wouldn’t you want it?”
She gave me a look, chuckled, and said, “You might want to control your saggin’ jaw, James. You look funny with your mouth hanging open.”
As I endeavored to bring my facial expression back under control, she continued, “Remember, the main point of this exercise isn’t to get you clothes. There’s a good chance you won’t fit them for long anyways, ‘cuz you’re still shrinkin’, remember? The main point is to get you to start thinkin' differently. Women pay attention to things. Like color, texture, cut. Including when shopping for underwear. What colors do you like? Look at them. What fabrics? Touch ‘em. Use your imagination. Imagine how they would feel on you.”
“Janet!” I said, “that’s practically pornographic!”
That earned a grin. “If you say so,” she said. “Now: Look. Feel. Imagine. Choose.”
I wanted to protest, but I had asked for her help. I had to take it on faith that, while she might enjoy embarrassing me, that wasn’t why she was doing what she was doing. I had to start thinking in different ways. Women didn’t just dress for comfort? Fine. Got it.
I looked at the racks of panties. Black, white, off-white, pink, red, blue, peach. Animal prints. Why animal prints, for pity’s sake? Why would anyone want to make their ass look like a cheetah pelt? Some idiot in camo and an orange vest might just load you up with buckshot!
There were also different fabrics. Cotton, clearly, was a minority option. Most looked more like nylon of some sort. Then there were the actual shapes. Lots of fabric. Next to no fabric. The decorations. Lace. No lace. Little embroidered flowers. What was the purpose of this many choices?
Glancing furtively around and seeing no-one, I reached out and ran a finger down the front of an innocuous looking nylon pair as I had been instructed.
I almost jerked my hand away. Just the act of running a finger down the front of a pair of panties had given me a shock of pleasure, not unlike the shock I had gotten when I lathered my chest earlier in the morning. I felt something – something almost . . . squirrely? In the newest parts of my anatomy. A warm, pleasant feeling that made me want to squirm.
I stroked the front of the panties again, more thoughtfully. It’s for science! Again per Janet’s instructions, I imagined what it would feel like, to pull these panties up my legs . . . my suddenly smooth legs . . . to settle them where they belonged; feel them touching me. Cradling my new equipment . . . .
YIKES! Yeah, I hadn’t been kidding! It was practically pornographic. I felt flushed and looked up, embarrassed, to find Janet looking at me, a bit of mischief dancing in her eyes.
“He likes it! Hey Mikey!” she said playfully. “See? Bein’ a girl ain’t all bad. You like that color?”
The panties I had been fingering were a sort of light brown. I said, almost without thought, “I guess so . . . .”
“But they’re maybe a bit boring?” Janet probed.
I felt my blush growing stronger. I opened my mouth. Closed it again. And finally said, in a small voice, “Yeah, maybe they are.”
“Now you're talking,” Janet said approvingly. “Can you imagine yourself wearing something in red? With your new coloring, you could pull it off.”
I closed my eyes again, my body and senses at war with a lifetime of living, and imagined myself wearing red panties. My first mental image was me as I had been, up until a week ago. The panties looked absurd. But I forced myself to adjust my mental image. To imagine myself as female first . . . . My breath quickened, ever so slightly.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“Okay!” Janet responded. “That’s one small step for a woman – pretty much just another Saturday, really. But sure as hell, it’s one giant leap for mankind.”
She put several pairs of panties in the cart, including two in a cherry red. All of her selections appeared to use fabrics that were softer, silkier, than anything I had ever had next to my skin.
Next she took me over to where the store had arranged racks of bras. “This’ll just be for practice,” Janet said, “since we don’t know either the band or the cup size you’ll need once everything has, ah, shaken out. Although . . . .”
She appeared to have been caught by a thought she was reluctant to share with me.
I decided that if Janet thought discretion was the better part of valor, I definitely didn’t need to hear it. Whatever it was.
She shook off the thought and said, “let’s just get you something you can wear now.” She flashed me a grin. “In red, of course!”
My blush came back in full force.
“Excuse me,” a female voice said behind us. I froze. The voice continued, “I’ve got a tape measure if you need one.” I couldn’t bear to turn around. I wanted to sink into the floor. Liquidate, like the Wicked Witch of the West.
But Janet, naturally, took it completely in stride. “Do you? That’d be a big help. Thanks, love.” She reached a hand behind me and it came back with a roll of something in it.
“Lift up your arms, Hon,” she said to me.
I was flashing panic signs at her with my frantic eyes, but she ignored me and unwound the roll of measuring tape. Feeling like a circus performer, I raised my arms to the height of my shoulders.
Janet wrapped the tape around my torso and said, “Forty.” She wound the tape and handed it back to the other woman, still behind me.
I felt foreign fingers run through my hair, and the woman said, “I’m just in for some . . . supplies. But I’m always on the lookout for new subs. What do you say, Toots? Looking for a walk on the wild side!” Her voice was low and sultry.
“Great good heavens!” I barked, stepping out of her reach and spinning around, “Just what kind of a job are you subcontracting!”
Before the woman could do more than chuckle, Janet said, “Now, now, dearie. No poaching. This one’s mine. Run along, now.”
The woman – dyed red hair and fairly dramatic, er, curves, puckered her mouth in a strange expression. “Such a pity!” she said, and sautered away, chuckling.
“What the hell was that?” I asked. “Another fun part of being a woman?”
I was a bit caustic, and I was certainly louder than I intended to be. I looked around frantically, but with the woman’s departure we were again alone.
“Nah,” Janet said. “I doubt you’ll run into that kind of problem once you can pass. So we should speed the day, right?”
I felt so much better. I was hoping that the incident would lead Janet to cut short our little shopping spree, but I should have known it wouldn’t.
She just went to the rack, found what looked like a really large bra, in red, and put it in the cart. She got something else as well – something I’d seen some of the girls around campus wearing when they were jogging. It looked very different from the red bra, but the functional elements were sufficiently similar that I had to conclude the garment served a similar purpose.
“Sports bra,” Janet said in answer to my quizzical look.
I looked at it. It was a royal blue and had to have twenty criss-crossing straps in the back. “I don’t get it,” I said. “How does that help you with sports?”
Janet gave me an evil grin. “Well, now, that depends on the sport, doesn't it?”
If I got any redder, someone was going to call the paramedics.
Janet did spend less time on the other items that she wanted to get. I had the sense that I had managed to jump whatever gate she had set for me, and she was now eager to get what she needed and get out. Good by me, though . . . damn! The woman was a whirlwind of activity. Nylons. Two shirts (she called them “tops”). A short, stretchy black skirt. Something she described as a “shirt dress.” A nightgown. The thought of the nightgown gave me another shiver. A robe. Two pairs of “leggings.” A few cosmetics. Some of what she described as “feminine hygiene products.”
We brought them to the register and I got a kind of funny look from the guy who rung it up. I decided the best thing to do was tell myself, as firmly as I could, that I would never see him again, and even if he saw me . . . he probably wouldn’t recognize me. Hell, I probably wouldn’t recognize me.
In the parking lot, we loaded the purchases into the back of the Forester. Then Janet said, “James . . . Why don’t you just follow me home. Your condo isn’t the most private place in the world. I’ve got a spare bedroom you can use, and this way I can keep an eye on you. I won’t be much help when you’re at home.”
I thought about it. I like my privacy, but . . . as Janet had said, too much of a good thing is a bad thing. Right now, I found that I had a strong desire to stick to my friend like a cocklebur to a terrier. That was worrisome. Extremely worrisome, really. But I decided I wasn’t going to fight it.
* * * * *
We were back at Janet’s place by 1:00, or so. She had me bring the Target bags into her spare bedroom. The room was clearly used as her study. Desk, computer, a wall of books . . . . my own study looked pretty similar, though the book titles were of course different. There was practically an entire shelf of books on Nathaniel Hawthorne – titles like Hawthorne and Women: Engendering and Expanding the Hawthorne Tradition; Understanding The Scarlet Letter: A Student Casebook to Issues, Sources, and Historical Documents; and Student Companion to Nathaniel Hawthorne. I knew Hawthorne held pride of place in Janet’s pantheon of authors. But I have a hard time reading fiction itself. Reading articles and books about fiction . . . I think I’d prefer giving a lecture while wearing nothing but lingerie. At least the students might stay awake!
The room had a twin bed tucked against the wall that had drawers under it, as well as a narrow, deep, typically useless old New England closet. Fortunately, while it had felt like we bought an enormous amount at Target, it was actually about what one might pack for a weekend away. It didn’t look like much when we put it all away.
When we were done with that project, Janet said, “Okay, I’m gonna make us some lunch. What I want you to do is to spend some time tryin’ on your new purchases. See how you like them. Don’t worry about the mirror just now. That’s gonna be unhelpful for a bit, I expect. Just try your things on, see how they feel and how they fit. Then pick something to wear and join me in . . . forty-five minutes?”
I nodded, trying not to allow my trepidation to show. I didn’t want another sermon about my “beatitude.”
She smiled and left, closing the door behind her.
I stood for a long moment, cursing fate and termites alike. Then I sighed and stripped.
Unfortunately, my male genitalia had not seen fit to re-emerge from their hiding place over the course of the day. Instead, some peach fuzz had started to sprout in the triangle above my new equipment. Naturally, it was both fiery gold and itched like poison ivy. Figures.
I opened the drawer, and the silky red panties stared back at me. I growled, “I’m not Maria, for God’s sake! I’ve got no business feeling pretty . . . or witty . . . or effing bright!”
But I reached down anyway. I picked them up, feeling an absolute shock of . . . something. Of knowing, maybe. The logical part of my mind – which is to say, all of it, dammit! – told me to stop fussing. It was just a piece of fabric, and it was absurd to invest it with some deep meaning. It was stupid to delay putting on undergarments that had been designed for my body’s current, ah, configuration. To instead be standing bareass naked in the middle of the room holding them, like I was about to declaim an Ode to Red Panties.
But my mind, I realized with something like a thermal shock, was wrong. The panties positively screamed “girl-woman-female-feminine!” If I put them on, it would be like I was accepting my new reality. Becoming an accomplice. It wouldn’t just be something that had been done to me anymore, it would be something I was actively advancing. Could I live with that?
My mind turned to Janet’s words earlier today. I considered how I would feel if Janet was the one who had been injected with . . . with whatever. If she were the one who was growing younger, better looking. Changing genders. Would I feel horrified for her? Or would I be jealous? If I could switch with her right now, give her the big adventure and return to my old life, would I?
Yes, I would. Absolutely.
But . . . Not because I didn’t want the adventure. I’d switch because I knew how much it would mean to her. Because she was my best friend, and I wouldn’t want her to feel left behind. Or . . . old. Before her outburst today, I had never thought of her as old.
So I’d switch in a heartbeat, and inside, where no-one would ever see, I would weep. For what I might have done. What I might have been.
I found myself tearing up again, but I shook it off. No! I’d give the gift to Janet if I could, but since I couldn’t, the least I could do was try not to squander it. Resolutely, I put one foot, then the other, through the appropriate holes and pulled the panties up my legs. I settled them into place. I ran my hands down the sides. Across the bottom. They felt . . . .
No. . . . I felt.
I felt pretty. And sexy. Oh. My. God.
Before I could chicken out – or, for that matter, pass out – I bent down and grabbed the matching bra. In for a dime, in for a . . . .
How in hell does the contraption work? It was obvious where everything went, but how were you supposed to fasten it? There were no buttons or zippers. Just rows of strange hook-looking things.
After a couple minutes, I figured out how the two sets of hooky thingies connected to each other, so I did that. But now how was I supposed to get it on? It was apparent that the hooky thingies weren’t supposed to be fastened until my arms were through the straps, so I undid them and tried that. But then the things were behind me. I couldn’t see to fasten them.
I tried putting it on backwards. I was able to get everything connected, but now the parts that were supposed to hold my still non-existent breasts were over my shoulder blades. I sure as hell hoped that the termites hadn’t screwed up and put my breasts on backwards!
I tried rotating it, but the shoulder straps held it in place. What lunatic invented these things?
Finally, I managed to get my arms out of the shoulder straps, then I was able to rotate the cups to the front, then I put the straps back over my shoulders. It was crazy, and uncomfortable, and about as efficient as a Soviet-era collective farm. All of my good intentions were dissolving into intense frustration.
Janet knocked on the door and called out, “How are you doin’ in there, Hon?”
I froze. I wanted to scream my frustration. But . . . I didn’t want Janet to see me. I would cheerfully have lied, but I was strangely tongue-tied. While I wallowed in indecision like a rowboat in heavy chop, Janet walked in.
I stared at her, panicked. Feeling ridiculous. Absurd.
But she looked calm, and there was no hint of her usual sharp wit in her eyes.
“Good start, Hon,” she said in a kindly tone. “Those things are harder than they look. Let me help.” I could only stand, silent and petrified, as she walked over, reached behind and did something with one strap, then the other. Then she tugged the front of the bra lower, until the tight band was a couple inches lower than my nipples. Suddenly, it felt fine. Strange, of course, but not uncomfortable.
She put a hand on each of my shoulders. “You okay?”
I thought about it, but not for long. I’d already done my thinking. I put my hands over hers and gave them a squeeze. “Yes. I’m okay now. And I’ll be okay. Mostly. Prolly. Except when I’m not. But I won’t . . . I won’t waste the opportunity, Janet. I promise.”
She gave me a long, searching look, her eyes radiating concern and kindness both.
“Your panties are on backwards,” she said. “You know that, right?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re an asshole?” I asked, with suitable affection.
“Every day and twice on Sundays,” she replied proudly. “Do I get a medal or somethin’?”
I giggled. I’m the Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics, for God’s sake. I’m giggling?
It felt good.
She giggled with me and eventually we were laughing like loons. That felt even better.
Finally, she wiped the tears of laughter from her eyes and said, “Girl, you need a new name. James won’t work, and Janet’s taken. How ‘bout Jessica?”
To be continued. Oh, surely.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 5: Mirror, Mirror
I finally got a call back from my doctor’s office on Monday afternoon. I let it go into voicemail. At this point it was abundantly clear what was happening to me. But I needed to figure out how public I wanted that information to be.
Janet invited me to join her on her secluded back patio with its sinfully comfortable chairs. At her insistence, I was wearing a bra, panties and a light cotton dress. The unfamiliar clothes felt surprisingly nice, but I knew I looked ridiculous. My downstairs equipment may have been the first defection in my internal battle of the sexes, but it hadn’t yet convinced the rest of the team to get onboard the double X express.
“I look like a doofus in a dress, Janet,” I said as I joined her outside. “Maybe I should hold off until I can be a bit more convincing.”
“Feeling awkward and unlovely is part of almost every girl’s experience of puberty,” she responded. “No reason you should be spared entirely. We all go through years of it. Besides, maybe it’ll make you a bit more understandin’ of the rest of us when you’re a blond bombshell.”
“Keeping me humble, whether I need it or not?”
“Trust me, Honey. I’ll let you know when you don’t need it anymore!”
“Only if you outlive me.”
“Got it in one,” she said approvingly.
I could see her point about the experience. Though there was a stupid part of me that was wishing she had contradicted my disparaging words about my appearance. Vanity? Over my appearance? Really?!!! Whatever was going on was playing the limbo with my professorial dignity. How low would I go?
I quelled my inner idiot long enough to sit down. But before I could say anything, Janet had me stand up and do it again. “You have to capture the back of your skirt when you sit down in a dress, Jessica.”
When I gave her a blank stare, she stood up and demonstrated the motion, even though she was sensibly wearing shorts.
“So I run my hand over my ass, then down the backs of my thighs towards my knees?” I asked.
“Uh-huh,” she said. “It’s expected. Doesn’t even count as feeling yourself up.”
I managed the maneuver as instructed. But . . . given how sensitive everything down there seemed, I thought it kind of did count. I quelled my inner hedonist too. “I just got a call from Quibble’s office. I’m on the fence on whether to go see him.”
“I’m assumin’ this is more’n just your usual dislike of doctors, dentists and snake oil salesmen,” she said.
I nodded. “We know what’s going on now. There’s nothing he can tell us we don’t know, and he won’t believe the explanation anyway. But . . . given how much I’ve already changed, will he even believe it’s me?”
Janet looked thoughtful. “You still look enough like yourself that he might. At least today. And you’ll keep changin’, so that’ll make the story more plausible once he has baseline data . . . . “ She came to some internal conclusion, nodded her head decisively, and said, “you should go. Today, if you can.”
“You want me to create an official record, don’t you?” I could see where she was going.
“Yup. It’ll give you some chance, anyway, to keep the powers that be from declaring you – James Marshall Wainwright – a missin’ person.”
“If he actually ends up believing me, he – or maybe just my bloodwork – might end up ringing some alarm bells in officialdom. That . . . might not be a bad thing.”
“You WANT officials to pay attention?”
“Not sure,” I said. “But I think so. The termites – aliens – whatever – said they’re coming back in a couple weeks. They’ll want me to speak for them. To whom? Well. Gotta be someone official.”
Janet’s eyes were big as golf balls. “Wait – you aren’t seriously thinkin’ of trying to arrange a little purchase of weapons-grade uranium, are you?”
“Well . . . .”
“They’ll lock you up!” she exclaimed. “In an asylum, if they’re feelin’ friendly and forgivin’. Frickin’ Guantanamo if they’re not!”
“Maybe, but . . . maybe not.”
“Okay,” she said. “That girl juice IS scramblin’ your brains. You’re nuts!”
I held up a hand to forestall her outburst, just noticing that it looked . . . different. Smaller. Less palm, maybe? Nevermind. “I’m thinking that the aliens said they wanted to trade. They might have something that would peak enough interest to at least get a hearing.”
“A hearing on selling some U-235?” She sounded skeptical. Make that, “appropriately skeptical.”
“Maybe. But anyway, it’ll give me something to discuss with the termites when they get back. I can tell them it’ll take something really, really good for it to be worth even approaching our authorities. Maybe we’ll find out what’s in their goody bag.”
“More’n likely it’s a monkey’s paw,” she said darkly.
“What?” I was baffled.
She just shook her head. “You’re hopeless.”
“Look,” I said, “I’ve been thinking about this. There are undoubtedly people who would sell some enriched uranium in exchange for the secret that’s got me growing younger.”
“Not to mention purtier,” she interjected.
“Yeah,” I sighed. “That too. But I’ve got my doubts about whether that’s a good idea.”
“Huh?” She looked puzzled.
“Let’s say every old goat on earth is suddenly young . . . “
She nodded with sudden understanding. “And fecund. Yeah, I think I see where you’re headed.”
I reluctantly agreed. “Population explosion . . . today’s kids having to compete for work against people at least as healthy, but with decades of experience . . . social unrest . . . a world-wide baby-boom . . . .”
She capped it with, “followed by a Malthusian catastrophe. So . . . maybe that’s not the best thing to ask for. But you know, some people might trade U-235 for just a few shots of the stuff.”
I nodded. “Not here, I don’t think. Too many controls, and it couldn’t be kept secret. If the President showed up looking thirty-five again, someone would notice. But if we can’t think of something else . . . . Well. Put it this way. If I don’t speak for them, they’ll just find someone else. ‘Spose that someone is from, say, the less-well-lit parts of the Korean peninsula?”
She digested that thought for a minute. “Aren’t you a little ray of sunshine this morning?”
* * * * *
A wrap on the door and Quibble – Dr. Quentin Bell, as absolutely no-one called him – wandered in.
“Alright James,” he said, sounding mildly irritated in a whiny, nasal way, “what’s the emergency that you don’t want to discuss with . . . . James! What’s with the hair?!”
“I was hoping you might tell me that.” Quibble doesn’t bring out the best in me.
“I’m not a psychiatrist, James,” he said quellingly. “Though you’re a bit, ah, mature for a mid-life crisis.”
“Am I?” I asked, a bit offended. “What, do you schedule the damned things?”
“Not my department,” he replied. “Look, we squeezed you in ‘cuz you insisted, but I’m backed up. What is it?”
“Well, apart from suddenly becoming both younger and female, I guess not much. Does that fit within the narrow confines of the problems you are permitted to address?”
“There are doctors who handle gender dysphoria,” he said, “I don’t, and anyway that doesn’t seem like an emergency.”
I was getting annoyed at his attitude. I usually did, though it normally took more than half a minute. Maybe he was getting more efficiently officious? Still, I quelled my strong desire to march out. “Fine,” I said. “How’s this for an emergency?” I lifted up the stupid hospital gown to reveal my new equipment.
His irritation turned to shock. “Fuck me!” he exclaimed, forgetting to be officious. For once.
“Hard pass, doctor,” I said, repressively. “And you’d get failing marks for bedside manner if I taught the class, which, thank God, I don’t. Now, can we get on with it?” I dropped my gown.
“You had a vaginoplasty?” he asked, still sounding shocked.
“No. I was injected with magic juice by space aliens, and I’m turning into a gorgeous young woman.”
“When did you have the surgery done?” he asked, ignoring my remark.
“It wasn’t surgery. Space aliens.”
“You didn’t raise this with me when you had your physical. I don’t know that insurance . . . “
“Space aliens,” I repeated firmly, cutting him off.
“I don’t know what you think you're playing at, James, but it’s NOT amusing,” he snapped. At least he was actually responding to what I was saying.
“Look,” I said. “Don’t believe me. Be a skeptic. That’s even better. But run your tests, take blood work, and then give me your hypothesis. If you’d looked at your chart, you’d have noticed I also shrank a couple inches since I saw you in March. Did I make that up too?”
He checked his chart. Checked it again. Then looked at me more closely. “Wait a minute . . . Of course! You aren’t James Wainwright. You aren’t sixty, and you're shorter, and you have red hair . . . a daughter? What’s your game?”
I said, “Janet was right. She came along because she figured you would need convincing. She’ll confirm my identity.”
“Janet who? Wait . . . Janet Seldon? She’s here?”
Janet and I – and probably half the faculty of arts and letters, come to that – were his patients. Not because he was any good, but because the alternatives were probably worse. Though I was starting to question that conclusion. Maybe I should have taught at a university with its own medical school, I thought to myself.
“Yes, she’s in the waiting room.”
He scurried out like a rabbit, muttering something about being late.
Minutes later, I heard Janet well before I saw her. “Don’t be such a damned fool,” she was not-quite-shouting. “You’ve known him as long as you’ve had your practice!”
I didn’t hear Quibble until he opened the door, and only caught the last part of his response, which was, “Or a vagina!”
“Doctor,” I said, trying mightily to sound reasonable, “You know me. Besides, who else has my sparkling wit and pleasant demeanor?”
“Half the damned faculty,” he growled in response. “I don’t know why I deal with academics. Pack of over privileged, overeducated, assholes!”
“‘Cuz we cover your green fees?” Janet suggested, caustically.
“And try to stay out of your office as much as possible?” I added.
“Fine! Whatever! It was a rhetorical question!” he said. Intemperately, in my view.
“I’d give you low marks in rhetoric too,” I said. “And I do teach that one, when I can’t get out of it. But that’s not important right now. Look, Janet has vouched for my identity. Will that do at least to get the ball rolling, or are you going to call her a liar too?”
“Oh, come on!” he said. “Space aliens?”
“Like I said, don’t believe it. All you need to do is take measurements, make observations and get some blood work done. I don’t know what any of that will show. But I can come back in a week and you can do more tests. If this progresses the way I think it will, you’ll know then.”
“How do I know that next week, you won’t just send in someone who’s younger and prettier than you are?” he asked.
“No idea,” I responded, exasperated. “You’re the doctor. Surprise me. Think up some way to tell.”
He grumbled some more, but finally he took some measurements, snapped some photos and drew some blood.
* * * * *
“Janet,” I said warily, “this looks like a bioweapons lab.”
She gave a critical look at the tubes, vials and bottles spread out over the top of her vanity and said, “yeah, well . . . I guess maybe it IS a bit daunting.” She chewed her lip a minute before adding, “Also toxic; I’m pretty sure you’re right about that.”
“You actually use all of this . . . stuff?” I asked, incredulous.
“Not very often, these days,” she conceded. “At 60, pursuin’ glamor can be a bit like chasin’a bullet train that’s already left the station. But I make sure I look good for class, and better if I’m goin’ out to dinner or somethin.’”
“I’ve never seen you slathered in makeup!”
“Well, Honey, if you do it right, people don’t notice the cosmetics. They notice you.”
“Okaaaaay,” I said, shakily. “Chemistry was never my strong suit, and I was purely hopeless at art. Which I last took in grade school, for the record. But . . . lead on, MacDuff!”
“It’s ‘lay on,’ you Philistine,” she scolded. “And that’s probably more descriptive in this context anyways. So let’s get started.”
Moisturizers, primers, foundation, concealers (“‘Spect you won’t need these in another week’r so”), highlighters, setting powder, finishing powder, eyeshadow primer, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, eyebrow pencils and powders, lip primer, pencil, stick and gloss . . . . How could anyone even keep it all straight?
After a solid hour of demos and practice, I didn’t look like myself, and I did look female. Just not a very attractive female. Decidedly unpretty. And . . . that bothered me. Why?
“I’m ugly,” I moped.
“Keep at it,” she admonished. “They say beauty is skin care.”
“They do not!”
“How do you know? I didn’t even say who ‘they’ were.”
“Other than manufacturers of skin care products, you mean?
“Yeah. Other’n them.”
With great satisfaction, I said, “Anyway, even I know that beauty is supposed to be skin deep!”
“Oh,” she said. “It is? ‘Cuz if so . . . well . . . you’ve still got ‘miles to go before you deep.’”
“Arrrrrrrgh!!!!” I said. “This is hopeless!”
“Don’t you fuss, Jessica,” she said. “You’ll be there long before you’re ready, I ‘spect.”
* * * * *
I stared at the new mark on the doorframe. Five feet, eleven inches. I had lost another two inches of height since I moved into Janet’s spare bedroom. Just a week ago, it was. I was now two weeks into what the strange aliens had said would be a month of transition.
Once my poor overmatched testes threw in the towel, there was no big source of testosterone in my system to fight whatever I’d been injected with, and the changes were coming fast.
In the course of a week, my chest had exploded with two pert breasts. They didn’t come close to filling out the practice bra Janet had me buy a week earlier, but they were straining mightily to exceed expectations. Every morning they greeted me like a pair of hyperactive edelweiss, each time just a bit larger, a bit rounder, a bit softer and a whole lot more sensitive.
My hips were spreading, my ass was kicking, and my waist was wasting. Even my face was becoming unrecognizable. That it was framed by an effulgence of fine golden hair that came down past my increasingly narrow shoulders didn’t help. If I went to buy lingerie today, no-one would bat a false eyelash. I’d be just another woman.
I tried to maintain my professorial detachment about the changes. My body was part of a novel experiment. I had an obligation to record the changes minutely. And I did, keeping a careful log of measurements, the physical changes, the amount I was eating and – especially – sleeping. It seemed like I was sleeping a lot more than I was awake. I was hoping that was related to the process of changing, and not to what I would be like when I was “finished.” I couldn’t get much done if I only had seven hours in a day to do it. Especially if a statistically significant portion of those waking hours were taken up with primping.
But what I wasn’t writing was far more important than what I was. For example, that I was coming to actively enjoy primping. That I loved the feel of silky underwear. The mild perfume of a floral shampoo and conditioner. The way my shirtdress showed off my new curves. I was enjoying my lessons in cosmetics. And even deportment. All of it suddenly felt right. Increasingly, I found the idea that I would soon be a beautiful young woman . . . appealing. More than appealing, really. Exciting. Attractive. Even . . . hot?
Yikes!
Of course, I might just blow past all of that lambent hotness and continue shrinking until I ended up a really cute 5-year old. THAT possibility wasn’t appealing. Not at all.
To all appearances, my current age was somewhere in the mid-thirties. I could be Janet’s daughter, except that we didn’t look much alike. But my feet had shrunk to the point that her shoes would fit me, and part of today’s curriculum was learning to walk in them.
A week ago, I would have approached that prospect with absolute horror. And I’ll confess, I still wasn’t ready to dance a jig about it. Assuming, of course, that one could dance in the kind of footwear Janet was proposing I try. I mean, women do it, every day. Apparently. But I’ve never heard any of them say good things about it. Not once.
“Okay, Jessica,” said Janet. “Let’s get you started. For your first attempt, let’s go with a two-inch kitten heel.”
I shook my head and took the offered shoes. They looked . . . fun? Cute? God help me. But I had no idea why she was talking about kittens.
* * * * *
“So . . . what d’you suppose your aliens might offer, that the powers that be might want?” Janet asked.
We were in the kitchen chopping vegetables for a salad, rehashing our recurring topic of conversation: what do I do when the bugs come back?
“You mean, apart from drugs that would revolutionize medicine and exponentially increase the likelihood that our population will exceed the planet’s carrying capacity?” I asked in response.
“Yeah. Apart from that.”
“It does sort of highlight the problem, though, doesn’t it?” I asked. “It’s easy to see the benefits of superior technologies, but . . . without the infrastructure in place – biological, engineering, social, political – any change sufficiently large to be tempting to the folks who control enriched uranium could have disastrous downsides.”
“Anyone ever tell you that you think too much?”
“We’re professors. We’re paid to think too much.”
“I’m not,” Janet protested. “I’m paid to read fun stuff and chat about it with children. It’s a pretty good gig, really.” She nonetheless thought for a few minutes before offering, “How ‘bout they fix global warming for us?”
“That’s kind of amorphous, don’t you think? They might just decide to move the planet a bit further from the sun. One problem solved, a whole lot more created!”
“It worked for Larry Niven,” she replied.
“Amazing! You know someone who tried it?” I was unable to restrain the bite of sarcasm.
“A story, Jessica. Science Fiction. Really, you should branch out some!” She shook her head ruefully, apparently saddened by the hopelessly narrow focus of my intellectual endeavors.
“The key element in your description is ‘fiction,’ Janet. Not ‘science!’”
“Huh,” she said in response. “Maybe, but if I had to choose one or t’other to help us right now, I’d choose a good SciFi writer over a good scientist.”
“Absurd,” I said.
But she cut me off. “Not remotely. No-one’s ever even MET one of these aliens, apart from lucky you. So scientists would have nothin’ to work with. But SciFi writers are used to speculating’ about what aliens might be like. Thinking outside of what we know. Some of them are damned good at it, and we could use that kind of thinking. I’d give a lot to have Niven with us right now.”
I just looked at her. Literature, I decided, was a dangerous discipline. It did strange things to the human mind.
“I’m just sayin’, it’s possible that a couple of tenured professors from a liberal arts college in New England might not be the best people to deal with this problem,” Janet added.
“Ya think?” I replied. “But . . . Just at the moment, we’re all we’ve got.”
“Jesus,” she breathed. “Are YOU ever screwed!”
* * * * *
“What should I wear to see Quibble again?”
It was Monday, and I was scheduled to see the quack again. But that now presented a dilemma. We needed him to know that I was the same person he’d seen a week ago. But . . . I didn’t look much like me anymore. Not even like the ‘me’ he had seen and been skeptical about just a week prior. I couldn’t even convincingly present as male. My overachieving edelweiss alone were getting a solid C+ in advanced curvature.
“Not much sense tryin’ to look like a guy; no-one would buy it,” Janet confirmed. “I’ve got the photos and videos as well as your log. Not much else we can do.”
So we decided I’d just look like a woman going in for a doctor’s appointment. The sports bra was a better fit, so we went with that, leggings and what Janet persisted in calling a “top.” At least the word’s origins were clear and the meaning was logical. The shoes I borrowed from her were apparently called “flats.” That, too, was refreshingly logical.
This time, Janet came in with me. The nurse tried to stop her.
It didn’t go well.
Finally, Quibble joined us in the examination room. When he saw me, he said, “And you are?”
“Younger and prettier than I was a week ago, just like I warned you I would be,” I said caustically. He really brings out the worst in me.
He did a double take, then looked sharply at Janet and said, “I knew it! I knew you would bring in someone else. What’s your game, Professor Seldon? ‘Cuz I’m not playing!”
“STOP!” Janet said, full blast. “Just shut up for five minutes and look at these photos. Multiple photos, with date stamps, and time-lapse photography at one-hour intervals while she was sleeping.”
“Anyone can fake . . .”
Janet cut him off again. “Can, sure. Just like your wife can fake an orgasm, and almost certainly has to. Difference is, why the fuck would I fake this? Look at the damned photos, then tell us what your tests showed!”
Before Janet’s volcanic ire the highly credentialed rabbit quailed and deigned to look at the photos on her pad. Then he looked at them again.
Finally he looked up, sniffed, and said, “They have software that does this.”
I stood up. I might only be 5’10” today, but I could be a midget and I’d still be bigger than this little shit. “Doctor,” I snarled, making his title an epithet, “What. Did. Your. Tests. Show?”
He folded his arms, looked triumphant and said, “I don’t have to tell YOU anything. And can’t, by law. ‘Cuz you aren’t my patient!”
“If you were right about that – which you aren’t – it wouldn’t matter, because that would mean you didn’t run the tests on your patient,” I responded.
He had missed that obvious flaw in his reasoning, but he recovered quickly. “You aren’t the person I ran tests on, either!”
Janet was about to explode, but I stopped her. “We’ve completely wasted our time with this quack,” I said. “Let’s go.” I turned to Quibble and said, “Good luck trying to find the right billing code for this!”
“Just a minute!” he snarled at Janet, ignoring me altogether. “I need some answers!”
“Fine,” she snarled back. “Forty-two!”
I stormed out. Janet followed, doing a fair bit of storming in her own right. Between the two of us, we were a regular polar vortex of icy displeasure. The staff very prudently got out of our way.
“THAT could have gone better,” I sighed when we got to the car. “Forty-two?”
“Jessica,” she said, shaking her head, “I keep tellin’ you. You have got to start reading some fiction!”
* * * * *
“You should be safe ‘till a week before term starts,” Janet said. “Everyone knows you’re off the grid and on the AT somewhere. But once summer’s over, they’ll put out an APB.”
We were back at Janet’s house, and the cool of the evening was making her back patio pleasant. So long as you enjoyed the regular sound of electric shocks and the ozone-infused smell of mosquitos crisping in Janet’s big box bug killer. Which, honestly . . . I kind of did. Served the little bastards right.
I was nursing a glass of white wine. At Janet’s suggestion, I was sitting with my legs tucked under me. Full of suggestions, Janet. Pretty good ones, mostly.
“Well,” I responded, “I guess there isn’t much we can do about that. But the termites should be back well before then anyhow. Who knows what happens then? Maybe they’ll turn me into a tree frog if I can’t get them uranium.”
“If they do, I want you to promise that you’ll hop on over to Quibble’s house and keep him up all night with your chirping.”
“Frogs don’t chirp,” I asserted.
“I’m sure you’d be a chirpy frog,” she replied.
* * * * *
By the time the weekend came around, I was 5 foot nine and I looked like I was somewhere in my mid-twenties. I’d looked good before, but now . . . . The image I saw in the mirror was positively breathtaking. Blue-gray eyes in a heart-shaped face, plump, full lips, delicate nose, shapely brows, high cheek-bones and flowing hair halfway down my back. The sports bra could no longer contain my girls, and while the red underwire bra’s cups fit, its band no longer did. I was starting to see why the store had so many choices.
But in the absence of dams, levees, or usable bras, I was left with no effective containment options. For around the house that wasn’t as much of a problem as it should have been. Large as they had gotten, my bold but sensitive new friends seemed almost indecently perky. They did not sag or flop like fish. They just . . . jiggled. Spectacularly. Meanwhile, my hips, ass and waist were starting to look like the inspiration for fertility goddess icons.
At least everything appeared to be in the right place, even if the portions were, so to speak, generous. I had been worried, based on my original impression of the alien called Worm, that they might get something seriously wrong. But other than Janet’s periodic observation that they had endowed me with an extra large portion of asshole, the only anatomical abnormality I noticed was that the tendons in my ankles were uncomfortably tight when I was barefoot or wearing flats. Which, when I took time to think about it, was probably my own fault. When I thought about the People Magazine covers I had seen at supermarket checkout stands over the years, I could see why the termites might have thought that women’s feet naturally pointed.
But the exterior changes, however extraordinary, roiled me less than changes I felt inside. We had gotten a FedEx delivery – Janet, bless her, had ordered two new bras and a few extra things for me to wear, just to carry me through the transition. She was running some errands and I answered the door, only to find myself the subject of intense and hyper focused scrutiny by the man doing the delivery.
It seemed he was a fan of edelweiss. A big fan. And, until I unwrapped the package he was delivering, the thin fabric of my top was all the covering my eager blossoms would get, and it showcased, rather than concealed, them.
My face become hot. I quickly squiggled something on the pad so that he would go back to his truck.
He almost fell off the stairs, though, because he was looking back at me. Well, at the flowers. So to speak. It was his turn to blush.
I went back inside, closed the door, and leaned against it. His scrutiny had been unnerving. Not because I had felt scared or threatened, but because I had enjoyed it. Like everything else touching the core of my new femininity, I had felt a jolt of pleasure, powerful as an electric current. A tingling in my bountiful handfulls; a stirring in my curvaceous core.
Shit.
I’d never thought much about my sexuality, honestly. It was fair to say that I had been attracted to women rather than men, but the attraction had been mild. More than anything else, I guess I had been undersexed. It just hadn’t been all that important to me. My intellectual pursuits had wholly dominated my life.
In consequence, that damned FedEx guy had probably gotten more of a rise out of me than I could remember experiencing. He had looked maybe twenty-five, and although he probably wasn’t quite as callow as the typical grad student of my acquaintance – having to scratch for your own worms tends to mature people in ways that college life does not – he wouldn’t be far above the mark. Conversing with him would be, in all likelihood, downright tedious. He was certainly unlearned and, far more regrettable, he was probably even earnest.
But my body was telling me, in no uncertain terms, that conversation was not the critical dish on this particular menu. He was cute. And that, somehow, that was a matter of great, even urgent, significance to the part of my brain that's responsible for responding to stimuli.
The part of my brain that remained capable of scientific inquiry – or, at very least, of simple logic – was forced to conclude from this evidence that whatever was flowing through my bloodstream was changing both the orientation and intensity of my sexual desires.
To which the judgmental part of my brain relied, “Fucking splendid!”
When Janet came home, she could tell something was troubling me. “How’s the girl whirl goin’ for you today?”
I mumbled something. I hadn’t told Janet how much I was coming to enjoy all things feminine. I was embarrassed by it, really. But my feelings towards Janet were also becoming tangled. We were friends and colleagues. I had worked with her for decades. And, at the same time, part of me wanted to react to her like she was Mom. I wanted to confide in her.
She is also sharp as hell, so she saw lots of things I wasn’t eager to talk about. She responded to my mumble by saying, “You can keep tryin’ to fool me, I s’pose, but really, it’ll just set you back. You know you’re lovin’ it. I know you’re lovin’ it. And that’s not a bad thing. It’s not even a neutral thing. It’s great.”
“If they’d turned me into a goat, you’d cheer when I started eating grass,” I grumbled.
“I would, too,” she said cheerfully. “Goats gotta goat. Girls gotta girl. Why fight it?”
“Oh, come on, Janet!!! That’s absurd! A noun should not follow a word that’s being used as a stand-in for ‘must.’”
“I’m a literature professor,” she said archly. “We get to take liberties. And you’re changing the subject.”
“At least I’m not making the subject an object. Anyhow, will you still cheer if I turn into a bimbo?”
“Oh, I dunno. . . . It’d probably be great for enrollment. We could get the college to change the name of your endowed chair so that you could be the Bodacious Professor of Linguistics. You’d have heaps of strappin’ young men trying their very hardest to learn . . . ah . . . ya know. Words ‘n shit.”
“Janet,” I growled.
She threw up her hands. “I know, I know. But seriously . . . have you noticed any signs of cognitive decline? ‘Cuz I haven’t.”
I thought about that. I didn’t feel intellectually focused. At all. But . . . No, I wasn’t any less sharp. I shook my head. “I still seem to be okay when I’m thinking about things like the aliens and the fate of the human race.”
“Well, that’s a relief,” she responded. “Glad to know we’re still in good hands. So, s’pose you tell me what’s got you in a funk?” she asked.
I turned beet red and said, “A guy just checked me out. And . . . I . . . I”
I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t say it. Instead, I burst into tears, ran into my bedroom, slammed the door and flopped down on my bed, face down.
Seriously. I did all of those things, in the prescribed order, like a distressed debutante. God in heaven, what’s WRONG with me?
Janet left me alone for a bit and, amazingly, I fell asleep. Again. When I woke up, the shadows were long, and Janet was rubbing my back gently.
“Hey, sweetie,” she said softly.
Even she felt it. She certainly wasn’t treating me like a colleague.
It should have hurt. Instead, I had a sense of deep peace. Of security. Mom was watching out for me. “Hey,” I said back.
“You okay?”
I thought about it. Was I okay? “I just don’t feel like I’m in control. If I’m not on the verge of tears, I’m giggling. My body’s reactions to . . . any sort of stimulus. You name it. It’s overwhelming me.”
“Your emotions are stronger now, Honey,” she said, soothingly. “How much of that is female, versus all the crazy in your system? Who the hell knows? But that outburst was pretty typical of a girl in puberty, and they have less goin’ on than you do. Cut yourself some slack.”
She rubbed my back some more, not pushing. The shadows grew longer. It was nice.
“Janet?” I said, making it a question.
“Uh huh?”
“Do you read People Magazine?”
“Sometimes,” she said. “For the articles, ya know?”
I could hear the smile in her voice. “Do I look like anyone . . . anyone you’ve seen? In the magazine, I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” she assured me.
“And?”
“Do you know who Margot Robbie is?”
“Ah . . . no,” I confessed. “Movies?”
“Yeah, movies,” she agreed. “You know? Fiction, but with pictures that, well . . . move. Anyhow, you look a bit like her – more’n a bit, I guess. In the face, anyhow.”
I rolled over and looked up at her. “Anyone else?”
“No one livin’ comes to mind,” she replied, a bit warily.
“Someone who’s died?”
She shook her head. “Nooooo . . . . Not exactly.”
“That sounds pretty mysterious,” I probed. “C’mon. Give!”
She looked down at me, sprawled on the bed in all my dramatic bodaciousness, and asked, “Have you ever considered changin’ your last name to ‘Rabbit?’”
To be continued. Bodaciously.
Author’s note: One of the best things about this site is the wonderful and supportive community that hangs out here, including so many incredibly creative and talented writers who are willing to help one another be better. Rachel Moore and Angela Rasch — both far better and more accomplished writers than I am — have been extremely helpful on Maximum Warp, and I would be remiss if I did not give them both a big shout-out. With respect to this chapter, Rachel provided inspiration when I was struggling with it, as well as a critical metaphor. So it’s fair to say that she literally helped me metaphorically. :-) Thank-you!!!
Maximum Warp
Chapter 6: Transwarp Drive
“Five foot five, 37-24-36. And, at a guess, biologically, you’re around 17. Congratulations.” Janet was shaking her head and smiling. “You are, officially, the youngest, most bodacious professor in the entire history of linguistics. They’re going to have to widen your endowed chair so that it will accommodate your . . . ahhh . . . endowments.”
It was 30 days exactly since the aliens had injected my butt – then, a substantially less substantial part of my anatomy – with a compound which had transformed me into what Janet described as a mash-up between Margot Robbie and Jessica Rabbit. I had to look up both of those women (one real, one not) before I had a clue what she was talking about.
Of course, Margot Robbie is – and Jessica Rabbit always was and forever would be – rather older than 17. Seventeen was still a minor. Not good. But also . . . not five. Assuming the damned termites hadn’t fudged on the timeline, the changes triggered by their magic juice were now complete. So hopefully – hopefully!!! – I would get no younger.
I had flowing golden hair down to my ample posterior and had graduated to a 30-DD bra. Janet, of course, didn’t think “graduate” was the right term.
“Nah, ‘graduate’ doesn’t cover it, darlin’. That’s baccalaureate shit. When you are talkin’ about such a truly impressive pair of candidates, It’s more like a Ph Double-D.”
I had drained my bank account by the simple expedient of transferring everything to my checking account and writing a check to Janet for the full amount. My retirement account was inaccessible, and I might never be able to access those funds. On the other hand, I’d just been given forty or so extra years to make it back, so I refused to get bent out of shape about it. Identity was going to be a problem, and we hadn’t figured out how to resolve it yet. But at least I wasn’t destitute. So long as I didn’t piss off Janet!
We decided to celebrate the end of my 30-day transition with a day of primping and shopping. This was not as frivolous as it sounds, since I had no clothes that still fit. Which was why our first stop was an expensive lingerie boutique where I acquired suitable architectural support for my weightier concerns.
I had my hair done. Tidied, really, because the new me liked it long, however impractical. Got a mani-pedi. Had a lesson in makeup from a gen-u-ine professional. Got my ears pierced. Got clothes and shoes that suited my age and, er, pulchritude. The details do not bear repeating, though I enjoyed myself.
I had stopped pretending – to either myself or to Janet – that I wasn’t loving it. I felt strong and healthy, vibrant and – a complete novelty for me – sexy. It was still confusing to me, but there was simply no doubt that my very female body was strongly attracted to what was now the opposite sex. I found that I had to discipline myself, so that I was not following good-looking guys with my eyes. This attraction was apparently reciprocated, at least if I was understanding the signals correctly.
“Yeah, no, “ Janet said. “As a matter of fact, they aren’t staring at you because they are impressed by your academic credentials.”
Janet enjoyed herself too. She had never had the experience of shopping with a daughter (or, at this point, granddaughter), and she had fun. But it was a long day and she was flagging by the end of it.
By 4:30 we were back home and I was – finally – decently dressed in clothes and underwear that fit. The chime of the doorbell interrupted our discussion of what to make for dinner. I hopped up, disgustingly fresh and eager to spare Janet having to get out of her comfy recliner. “I’ll get it,” I told her.
“Expectin’ someone?” Janet asked, no doubt wondering at my eagerness.
I shook my head and smiled. But I prudently checked through the peephole before opening the door, only to pull myself up short.
Police.
I was still thinking through what to do when the officer hammed on the door with his fist. We were clearly at home, so I opened the door, leaving the chain in place. Mid-thirties, athletic build. Short-cropped medium brown hair, icy pale blue eyes, strong chin, straight nose, firm lips . . . .
Focus!
I had an inspiration. My eyes grew wide. Using my sweetest, most surprised voice, I said, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”
I remember a time when one of the coaches was talking with me while we were walking into a lecture, and he failed to duck under a lintel that was built in the early 19th century for a shorter race of men. The expression on the coach’s face just before he dropped was mirrored in the Officer’s face as he stood at the door. Very satisfactory!
“I, uhhh, ummm . . . .” He was stammering.
I allowed a look of concern to cross my face. “Are you alright? Do you need some water?”
He coughed. “Ah . . . no . . . no, I’m, err . . . fine. Thank you! But, ah, I was wondering whether I might speak with Professor Seldon.”
My concern deepened. “She’s resting right now,” I said sincerely. Which was easier to do because, as far as I knew, my statement was true. “She’s not in some sort of trouble, is she?” My eyes grew wider still, and the hint of distress penetrated my voice.
He was quick to reassure me. Such a gentleman! “No, no. No trouble at all! We just hoped she might be able to help us. With an investigation.”
“Really! Oh, I’m sure she’ll be happy to help! If you leave me a card, I’ll have her contact you as soon as she’s up!”
He frowned at that. “It’s really very urgent. I won’t be a moment.”
Distress was back in my face. “Oh, I can’t possibly disturb her,” I breathed. “She would be so upset with me! Please, I promise I’ll have her call!”
He glowered a moment, but my distress was clearly working. “All right,” he relented. He pulled a card from his wallet, wrote a number on it, and said, “please have her call me at this number. Tonight, if possible. May I ask what your name is?”
“Oh! I’m Jessica.”
He was still looking at me, pen poised. The ritual was rather obviously incomplete.
I thought furiously. “Jessica Lapine.” It was the best I could come up with in a crunch. “I’ll have her call you, Officer . . . “ I looked at his card. “Officer Wolf. Thank you for stopping by.”
“Thank you, Miss Lapine.” He stepped away and I closed the door.
I rested my head against it for a moment while the butterflies in my stomach settled, listening for the sounds of Officer Wolf’s departure. When I heard him drive away, I turned ‘round to see Janet regarding me sardonically.
“Was that off the cuff, or have you been practicin’?”
I flushed. “I was . . . improvising. How’d I do?”
“Well, I couldn’t see what you might be doing with your front side, but it was pretty convincin’ from the backside!”
I opened my eyes wide in innocence and said, “Is there a problem, Professor?”
She chuckled. Then guffawed. “Okay, girl! But don’t try those tricks on policewomen!”
“Perish, the thought!” I said in mock horror. But then I sobered up, fast. “I’ve only bought a bit of time, and we’d better figure out what to do with it.”
“You thinkin’ it’s that little shit doctor causin’ trouble?”
“The world is filled with little shits,” I replied, “but he still tops my list of suspects. He thinks you were trying some scam, and trying to pass me off as . . . well . . as me, I guess.”
“No way you can pass as you,” she responded.
“You know how crazy that sounds?”
She just cocked an eyebrow, her look taking in my present superabundance.
“Fine,” I said. “I don’t suppose you know a good lawyer?”
“No, but then, I’ve never seen a pink unicorn, either. I s’pose they might exist anyway. Do you?”
“I have to deal with doctors from time to time; I don’t have to put up with lawyers.”
We looked at each other.
“Google?” I suggested.
She shrugged. “Sure, why not? Works for plumbers and electricians, usually.” She went into the room I was using to sleep in, which was normally the study, and turned on her computer.
“You can do all that on your phone, you know,” I commented.
“Oh, so now that you’re sweet seventeen you know technology?” she snorted. “Your pair of double D’s was less surprising than that’d be!”
Ten minutes later she was placing a call to The Law Offices of Justin Abel. Why him? Because he was the first entry. Sometimes it pays to have the right name. Was Mr. Able available? He was.
I only heard Janet’s side of the conversation. She told him that the police had stopped by and wanted to interview her about an investigation, and she wanted legal advice. No; the situation was likely complicated, and yes, she needed legal representation. No, she didn’t want to discuss it further over the phone. Of course; she could be there in fifteen minutes.
And so, twenty minutes later, we were sharing a conference room with a lawyer. One of those hundred ways you can tell that you are most definitely not having a good day. Justin Abel was probably in his late thirties; he was a bit shorter than I had been a month ago, though he had more bulk. Bulk that was, I thought, nicely distributed . . . .
Stop that!!!
Dark hair, Clark Kent glasses, a mobile face and a booming voice completed the picture. Well almost.
“Professor Seldon! Good to meet you!” he boomed.
After two beats, Janet said, dryly, “Over here, Mr. Abel. This way? I’m the one who looks old enough to belong in front of a lecture hall.”
His mobile face may have shown the barest hint of blush as he quickly tore his gaze away from me. “I’m very sorry, Professor!”
“It’s all right,” she replied. “I expect I’d better get used to it.” As an aside to me, she said, “You were right. Malthus.”
“What?” he asked.
“That’s my line,” I said, joining the conversation. “Though in this case it’s ‘who,’ not ‘what.’”
“Never mind that now,” Janet said. “I’m here for some legal advice. Your Google ad said you do a free consultation?”
He nodded, firmly keeping his eyes fixed on Janet. “Right. You tell me what the issue is and, if I think I can help you, we can discuss fees, expenses and all that good stuff. But first . . . If you want our discussion to be privileged and confidential, we can’t have a third party present. However lovely,” he added gallantly, only flicking his dark eyes in my general direction.
“We’re both going to need representation, if that helps,” I said.
“I’d need signed conflict waivers if you want me to represent you both,” he cautioned.
But we had no trouble with that, so it wasn’t an impediment. Once that paperwork was signed, he said, “who wants to tell me what’s going on?”
I looked at Janet. She looked at me. We hadn’t really figured out what we were going to say beforehand. Awkward!
Finally, Janet looked at the lawyer – Mr. Able – and said, “Well, I think that the police want to talk to me about a missin’ person – my colleague, Professor Wainwright.”
“Why you?” he asked.
“Umm . . . Well . . . .” she fell silent.
Able was looking puzzled.
I said, “Okay, let me try. Professor Wainwright took off hiking on the Appalachian Trail after the semester ended. He isn’t scheduled to be back until August . . . .” I stopped. This was not going to be easy to explain.
“So what makes you think he’s missing?” Able inquired.
“He’s not,” Janet and I said in unison.
“Why would the police think he’s missing?”
“Doctor Bell might have suggested he was,” Janet said uneasily.
“Bell? . . . Oh wait! You mean Quibble?”
We nodded again. It’s a small community.
Able looked at us, cocked his head, and said, “we can play fifty questions, and I’m happy to. I like puzzles and all. I like ‘em better when I’m on the clock and it’s your dime, of course. But it would probably save some time if you just told me the story.”
“I’m worried you won’t believe it,” I said.
“Trust me,” he responded, “I’ve seen and heard a lot of things in this town.”
Janet clearly decided that it was better to just bite the bullet. “Okay, well, Professor Wainwright was abducted by space aliens and turned into a pretty girl.”
“Uh huh,” Able said, noncommittally. “Wouldn’t have anything to do with you, would it?” he asked, looking my direction.
“Well . . . .”
“Thought so,” he said. “And I imagine you told Quibble and he maybe didn’t buy it?”
We nodded.
“Well, I’m not seeing a problem . . . .”
But Able was interrupted by a pounding on the outside door to his suite. He said, “Excuse me a moment, ladies.”
He came back a moment later, followed by Officer Wolf. “Officer, please have a seat,” Able said briskly. “Ladies, I advise you not to say anything just now.”
Able sat at the head of the table and said, “Officer Wolf, please explain why you are here.”
I was blushing maraschino cherry red, having been caught out in my little subterfuge. And I thought I’d done so well!
“We are investigating the possible disappearance of James Wainwright, a colleague of Professor Seldon’s. We thought she might have information that would assist in our investigation.”
Able cocked his head and looked puzzled. He had a good ‘puzzled’ look that he appeared to deploy tactically. “Why would you think that?”
“I’m asking the questions here,” Officer Wolf responded. He was countering with a “I’ve got a badge and you don’t” look. It was good, but maybe not as smooth as Able’s “puzzled.” This could be fun.
“Well, of course you are,” Able responded, sounding reasonable and patient. “You asked one, then I asked one. So I guess we’re both asking questions here. How special is that? But if you want answers to your questions, you might want to work with me. Just sayin’.” He smiled seraphically.
“Alright, what do you really want to know?” Wolf growled.
“Is my client suspected of wrongdoing, and if so, why?” Able responded promptly.
The Wolf bared his teeth and said, “Not at this time.”
Able shifted his mobile features into an expression that was equal parts “delighted’ and ‘pleased as punch,’ and started to stand up. “Outstanding! Nice of you to stop by, Officer.”
Wolf watched the performance with a raised eyebrow. “I’d still like a word with your client.”
Able sat down again. “I repeat: Why?”
Wolf threw up his hands. “Fine! An informant indicated that Professor Seldon was with a person who was falsely claiming to be Professor Wainwright. Second, Professor Wainwright’s car is parked in Professor Seldon’s garage. Finally, bank records indicate that Professor Seldon cashed a large check from Professor Wainwright that essentially drained his bank accounts.”
Put that way, I guess it did sound pretty damning.
But Able said, “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?” He sounded astonished. Looked it, too.
“It’s enough for us to want to ask your client some questions.”
Able looked over at us and smiled. “Based on what you told me, I don’t see any reason why you shouldn’t answer his questions. Fire away, Officer. I’ll throw up a red light if I think you’ve crossed a line.”
It was my turn to be astonished. We’d barely spoken to him, but he was game to have us tell the story? Huh?
“Professor Seldon,” Wolf said, “Do you know the present whereabouts of your colleague, James Wainwright?”
“I do,” she responded, eyes twinkling.
“Will you tell me where he is?”
“Of course. This young lady is Professor Wainwright. Her appearance has changed as a result of an encounter with space aliens while hikin’. Shit happens when your hikin’, ya know. Pretty much why I don’t do it.”
“Professor, this is no time for jokes,” Wolf barked.
Janet gave him the basilisk glare of a full professor. “The truth, Officer, can be a funny thing. Damned funny, sometimes. No fault of mine.”
“Where did you get the check that you deposited drawn from Professor Wainwright’s bank account?”
“From Professor Wainwright, obviously.”
“The person you claim is Professor Wainwright, or the real Professor Wainwright?”
“You ever met James Wainwright, boy?” she challenged.
“That’s ‘Officer,’” he said forcefully, “and, no, I haven’t.”
“Well, Officer Boy, I’ve known James Wainwright for decades. My closest friend. So at least be open to the possibility that I know what the hell I’m talkin’ about and you don’t know Jack!”
“Or James, in this case,” I added helpfully.
“Let me try this again,” Wolf said. “Did the person who gave you the check look like Professor Wainwright?”
“Absolutely.” Janet’s face radiated sincerity.
When I’d handed her the check I had been around 5’9” with a pretty face, blond hair and breasts that, while not approaching their current peak performance, were still competitive. I was wearing proper makeup, a skirt and a “top” that Janet described as “cute.” But Officer Wolf’s question had been poorly worded, and Janet had spotted the flaw instantly. I am James Wainwright, and when I handed Janet the check, that’s what I had looked like.
“How did Professor Wainwright’s car get in your garage?”
“He drove it there. Natch. Did you have a warrant to go on my property and look in my garage?”
A bit defensively, Wolf said, “This is important! Don’t quibble!”
Janet dramatically recoiled. “Wouldn’t dream of it. I can’t stand that man!”
“What?” Wolf said, confused.
For the second time that evening, I intervened to say, “Not ‘what,’ ‘who.’”
“Who?” he said.
“Who.”
He tried again. “Who’s the who?”
Looking dangerously amused, Janet surprised me by saying, “Cindy Lou.”
“What?” I said.
“No, ‘Who.’ ‘Cindy Lou Who,’” she responded. At my blank look, she added, “Fiction. You. Need. To. Read!”
I sat up straighter, which had the unintended secondary effect of causing small adjustments to the cantilevered portions of my new anatomy. The tertiary effect was that I suddenly had the close attention of both men in the room.
Well, file that data under both “interesting” and “useful!”
I said, “Weak sallies at literary humor aside, I think my colleague was initially referring to your informant, Dr. Bell.”
Trying manfully to keep his eyes someplace where they might possibly belong, Wolf could not formulate a response beyond, “huh?”
I decided to take a shot at persuasion. I leaned forward and said, in my most reasonable voice, “Officer, based on everything you’ve said, Dr. Quentin Bell – Quibble – is obviously your informant. I can tell you what happened on both occasions that Professor Seldon met with Dr. Bell at his office in the past three weeks, because I was there. Did the doctor describe the person who claimed to be Professor Wainwright?”
I gave him my most earnest look. Tried to layer on sweet as well, but I was stretching my abilities. By nature I am never sweet and I scrupulously avoid earnestness in all its tedious forms.
“That’s . . . I’m not supposed to reveal that.” His efforts to keep his eyes on my face appeared to be taking a bit of a toll.
“If he told you the whole story,” I continued, “which I’m just sure he did, I assume you heard that the person that he described in the first encounter looked and sounded enough like Wainwright that Quibble didn’t initially question his identity. But the person was a couple inches shorter, over a decade younger, and had blonde hair.”
Looking a bit uncomfortable, Wolf said, “there was one other big difference . . . .”
“A renovation involving indoor plumbing, right?”
“Uh . . . .”
“And this person said he had been injected with a substance that was making him young and female, right?” I pressed.
“That was the story,” Wolf confirmed, slathering skepticism.
“And then just one week later, Professor Seldon arrived with someone who appeared to be a woman, and was probably in her mid-thirties, right?”
“Uhhhh . . . “
“And when you show up ten days later, you find a woman who looks a lot younger than that at Dr. Seldon’s house. Isn’t that consistent with what Quibble was told?”
“It fits the story,” he said, thereby confirming the source of his information. He added, “But the story’s an obvious fabrication – just like your name, and your claim that Dr. Seldon was resting!”
“Well, I’ve got to call myself something, since people don’t seem to be willing to call me ‘James Wainwright!’”
“You think you’re the only person who speaks French, Miss Rabbit?”
My face flushed bright red again. Oops.
Observing the dramatic shift in my coloring, Janet said, “Maybe you shoulda called yourself ‘Scarlet’ instead of ‘Lapine.’” But after a brief pause, she reconsidered. “On second thought, that would just lead our good officer to grill you about lead pipes in the conservatory.”
Ignoring my own puzzled look, Janet looked at Wolf. “And for the record, I was resting.”
“Not so hard that you weren’t both on your way here within fifteen minutes! I followed you!”
“Well obviously, I finished resting,” Janet said.
“It’s not like I said she was in a coma,” I added.
Able broke in. “Officer, the ladies have told you what they believe to be the truth. Now, I’ve got a few things for you to ponder on your way back to the station – a journey you will be taking shortly, and alone.”
Able had a pretty good glower too.
“You haven’t indicated that Professor Wainwright has lodged any sort of complaint about his money or his car. In the absence of a complaint, you don’t have any reason to disbelieve Professor Seldon when she says that Wainwright gave her the check and left his car in her garage.”
“Apart from the fact that she’s claiming that the girl over there is Professor Wainwright!” Wolf said, with some heat.
“Sure,” Able responded. “But here’s the thing. Even if she’s mistaken about that, there’s no evidence that Professor Wainwright is actually missing. He went off hiking on the Appalachian Trail. If you don’t believe the ladies’ story, then for all you know Wainwright is right where he ought to be. He’s not due back until August. If you aren’t willing to wait for him to return, you can always try to find him yourself. You know: Take a hike?”
Wolf said, “While this young . . . person . . . goes around saying she’s Wainwright?”
Able re-deployed “astonished.” He did that even better than he did “puzzled.” “You aren’t seriously suggesting that it’s a crime to impersonate a professor?”
Wolf got up, looking annoyed. “Fine. Lie. Joke. Obstruct my investigation. But I’ll be back with a warrant, and we’ll see who’s laughing then!”
“Spare us the theater,” Able said, unimpressed. “You don’t even have any evidence that a crime’s been committed, much less any evidence that either of these ladies committed one. So, what’re you gonna do? Huff and puff? Just so you know, this building’s made of brick.”
Officer Wolf gnashed his teeth. I mean, literally gnashed them. I’d only heard of the expression; I’d never seen anyone try it. It looked tough on the molars.
He managed to say, “I’ll be talking to all of you later!” before storming out.
Able leaned back in his swivel rocker, half-closed his eyes and reprised his self-satisfied smile. “Damned shame I didn’t get time to work out fees before that happened, but it was so much fun, I’m almost happy to have done it for free. Almost.”
“Thank you for your help – and for believing us,” I said. He had, objectively, been fantastic.
He opened his eyes fully, turned them on me and displayed a smile that would make a shark proud. “Oh, I think your story’s completely bonkers. But that just made my job more fun!”
Janet looked at me and said, “No pink unicorn, remember?”
“Ayup,” I concurred. “Why’d you help, if you thought we were lying?”
He shook his head. “Never said you were lying. I said your story’s bonkers, which – you’ve got to admit – it absolutely is. But I’m agnostic as to whether it’s true or false. Doesn’t affect how I deal with the police.”
Janet looked indignant. “Liars get equal treatment?”
“The guy with the badge has to have some sort of evidence that a crime’s been committed before he can just start asking a bunch of questions and acting threatening. And he should have obtained search warrants before checking out your garage or looking at bank records. He dodged your question about that. So, even if you are lying – and understand, I’m completely agnostic about that – he has to follow proper procedures, and I’ll absolutely paddle him if he doesn’t.”
I allowed my right eyebrow to float lazily to the ionosphere of my high forehead. “I might enjoy watching that.”
Well, that finally got our cool lawyer’s face to turn rhubarb red. Good!
We gave Mr. Able a retainer, signed some paperwork, and headed out. The police had been dispatched, and if we were lucky they wouldn’t be back. In which case, we would not need further Abel assistance!
But Janet was beat. We ordered some take-out, and after we had eaten she took herself off to an early bed. “See if you can keep the wolf from the door,” she said.
It had been a long day. The month was up and I now had reason to hope that whatever shot I had been given had done what it was going to do. I had gone shopping and bought real clothes, for the person I was now going to be. I had faced accusations and lawyers, and had been the focus of a lot of attention. By rights, I should have been exhausted too.
But I was too tense to go to bed, or read, or do any of the things I normally would do to relax at the end of a day. I was full of weird energy; I couldn’t sit still. Part of me wanted to go out again. Get in my car; go somewhere. Do something. If I didn’t go out, I might go crazy. The operative word, it seemed, was “GO!”
But Jessica Lapin, or Scarlet, or whatever had no driver’s license. No identity at all. I couldn’t even walk into a bar or a nightclub. I looked like I was seventeen. A well-developed seventeen, but seventeen nonetheless.
I stopped dead in my tracks – the ones that were pacing back and forth over Janet’s oatmeal-brown carpet like a caged cheetah.
What was possessing me? Why was I even thinking about going to bars or nightclubs? I was seldom inside a bar, and I’m not sure I had ever been in a club. I don’t know what they even look like inside!
I thought about the looks I got while I was shopping in the mall. From the boys. From the men. About the ones I looked at. I thought about Officer Wolf and lawyer Able, their eyes following my movements. I thought about Able’s well-built frame, his mobile face. All day, I had felt it – The warm feeling, the tense feeling . . . the rush of being desirable, of being desired.
Of desiring.
That was why I felt caged; why I wanted to go out. I’d been driving a run-down, but still-serviceable Taurus for years, and I’d suddenly been given the keys to a shiny new Maserati MC20. Something deep inside was just itching to get her on the long dark highway, put pedal to the metal and see what she had under that sleek and curvy exterior . . . .
“I am James Marshall Wainwright,” I told myself firmly. I thought it was firmly, anyway. It sounded firm? Kind of? But, maybe a little hoarse. “I’m a scholar. A respected academic . . . .”
My hips swayed. “Sure, Honey,” they cooed. “Tell us all about possessive animate nouns!”
“I have written three books . . .” Firm. Surely firm?
My breasts rearranged themselves in their lacy nests, snuggling in even more tightly. “Talk to me, sugar,” they whispered, voices low and sultry. “The alignment of case forms, right? . . . . You were saying?”
“Scores of peer-reviewed articles in prestigious journals . . . .” I was maybe not sounding quite so convincing?
My lovely, painted nails buried themselves in the waterfall of my hair, causing the silky mass to shift, caressing my back, filling the air with a clean scent, the smell of honeysuckle on a warm summer evening. Each long tendril sighed, “explain the drift towards the invariable word, old man. Do it. We love it when you talk dirty!”
I shuddered. I had no reply, firm or otherwise, to the sensations that were overwhelming me.
Who am I?
I stepped into the bathroom and faced the mirror. A mirror that now showed perfect features, Hair that cried out to be played with . . . lips almost begging to be kissed. Eyes filled with longing. With desire.
I reached up and slowly unbuttoned my sky-blue silk top, each movement revealing more and more of my ripe, full breasts, flushed and straining against the pale pink cups that held them in beds of delicate lace. I hung my top on the hook by the door, raised my arms, and in a motion that was becoming increasingly natural, unhooked my bra. The movement of soft fabric across tender flesh caused me to shiver. My black skirt followed, then the panties.
Naked, and lovely. So lovely! Me?
Who am I?
I turned on the shower and stepped in. The feel of hot water sluicing over my sensitive skin was at once sensual and electric. I just stood for a moment, head bowed, feeling the hot water penetrate my hair, massage my scalp.
I soaped up my hands. By habit, I went first to scrub my chest. As my soapy hands slid effortlessly across my breasts, I was overwhelmed by a wave of pleasure so intense that my knees felt weak. There was a bench in the shower. I sat. Safety . . . first.
I dedicated myself to ensuring that each breast was thoroughly and completely clean, sparing no effort in my hygiene. Cleanliness is next to Godliness, right? No; that’s not quite right. Next to heaven, maybe? Certainly, it was next to impossible. Keep at it!
The waves of pleasure were stronger now, more intense, pulsing like the cascade of the shower. It was all I could do not to cry out when my fingers tweaked my areolas, sending me into a spasm of pleasure. I whimpered softly.
My vagina was aching, warm. My right hand dropped down, exploring. I touched my new lips, and found myself panting. I inserted a finger. Two. Pressure built, pushed, throbbing, pulsing. I was shaking, biting my tongue to keep from groaning, from crying. My fingers moved, pushing . . . probing. Inside, I was warm and wet. My hungry fingers touched a button of . . . something? Fire! Aaaaaagh!!! From the very core of my body, an explosion of pleasure hit, pulled back, hit again. Hammering me, battering me, turning hardened defenses into liquid . . . . And again!
I might have stayed in that zone of pleasure forever, but Janet’s hot water tank was nowhere near as large as my need. The water was no longer hot, then no longer warm . . . before it went straight to frigid, I managed to get on my feet long enough to shut off the water. I was shaking; weak. I felt boneless, my limbs loose.
I stepped out of the shower and looked at the eldritch figure in the mirror, a water nymph wreathed in steamy mist, full, moist lips curled in a smile of pure triumph. “My name,” I said to the mirror, “is JESSICA. You got that, old man?”
It was a long while before I was able to sleep. Even with the aid of a blow-dryer, my hair takes forever to be dry enough for sleeping. But I loved it anyway. I slipped into a long, midnight blue nightgown in a sheer nylon fabric, held up by thin, sexy lingerie straps, and slid under the covers, the smile still on my lips.
I woke up the next morning to the ping of a text message from my phone. I no longer needed to find a pair of glasses before I could read it.
“We will reach orbit in three days. Provide meeting coordinates.”
The wry old Professor in the back of my head said, “Showtime, girlfriend!”
To be continued. With a smile.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 7: Prime Directive
“Oh, Lord. I’m totally screwed, aren't I?” Janet, who had just emerged from her shower, comfortably dressed in a sleeveless t-shirt and shorts, was looking with dismay at the coffee, toast, eggs, bacon and fresh orange juice I had laid out for our breakfast.
“What?” I said, sounding innocent, but knowing I was guilty.
“Jessica, I’ve known you for longer’n you’ve existed, remember? If you’re being this nice, I’m screwed. I just don’t know which way yet.” She sat down and took a long, fortifying pull on her industrial-strength coffee, never taking her eyes off me.
“I can’t just do something nice for you, out of simple gratitude and the goodness of my heart?” I was working on a sweet and innocent look. It hadn’t felt convincing yesterday when I tried it on Officer Wolf, and Janet lacked the biologically-motivated reasons why he might have been willing to let my subpar performance slide.
As she proceeded to demonstrate. “Can you? Sure. Would you? Well, you might, but only if you thought about it. Which you probably wouldn’t, ‘cuz you’re always noodlin’ about twenty thousand other things. So . . . why are you butterin’ me up like a bad French pastry?”
“Why a bad French pastry?”
She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. “Nekultury bumpkin! ‘Cuz good French pastries already have enough butter to kill you twice over. Now don’t try to change the subject!”
I sighed and gave up my attempt at sweet innocence. It clearly needed more work. “Okay, okay! I’m feeling guilty. I pulled you into this . . . .”
She cut me off. “Whoa, there! I didn’t get pulled into anythin.’ I jumped with both feet. I had nothin’ planned for this summer, and I’ll confess I was kinda mopin’ about that. I wouldn’t have missed this for an all-expenses paid trip to Madagascar!”
“Madagascar! Why on earth would you want to go there?”
“Lemur fetish. But let’s stay on task here, Jessica.” She took a bite of her breakfast – she’s a practical woman and there’s no sense letting a perfectly good bribe go to waste – before adding, “What’s got your panties in a wad?”
“Well, for starters,” I said, “Let’s talk about Officer Wolf. Like Abel suggested before we left, everything’s fine right now, but only because there’s nothing to show I’m missing. James. Whatever. But come August, when ‘James’ doesn’t show up, everything changes. And because I was thoughtless enough to park my car in your garage and cut you that check, you are probably the one and only suspect.”
“Don’t be borrowin’ trouble. We’ve got six weeks. Anything can happen. I mean, look at what's changed in the last six weeks!”
I thought about that. Could I ask the aliens to change me back, assuming we were somehow able to complete the mission? Did I want to?
I didn’t, and that took no thought at all. I felt better than I ever had . . . and, I thought with a touch of guilty recollection, a whole lot sexier. My new body was amazing, and if the changes went deeper than that — and they did — I was learning to adjust. I suddenly had a future again, and it looked just as bright as the damned dean was always blathering about.
Going back to my old life might be the hardest thing I've ever done. But if that’s what it took to keep Janet out of jail, it would also be the easiest decision I’ve ever made.
I decided not to raise that possibility. Instead I said, “True, though we should work on a plan to deal with it. But the other issue is the aliens themselves.” I showed her the text I had received this morning.
“Sombitch!” she said. “You know, it shoulda felt real before this, what with your turnin’ into a human Venus Flytrap an’ all. But somehow this brings it home.”
I nodded. Certainly it felt like an immediate problem now, where before it seemed like a hypothetical. “Janet, we don’t even have a good plan for how to get to talk to someone about buying uranium. I don’t know how the aliens will react to that. I want to make sure you’re not injured.”
She looked at me steadily as she finished chewing on a bite of toast. With unusual precision, she picked up her glass of juice, took a sip, and set it back down. It made a sharp, final “rap” as it hit the table top, firm as a judge’s gavel. “Well, that explains the nice breakfast. You’re thinkin’ of goin’ to meet with the termites alone, aren’t you?” She didn’t sound angry, or hurt. Really almost . . . curious? Clinical?
I wasn’t sure where she was coming from. “I just don’t want to see you get hurt. I’ve already put you in danger!”
“Jessica. Honey. You need to listen, ‘cuz I’m only gonna say this once.” Her voice was soft. Conversational. “You – James, Jessica, whatever – have been my closest friend for thirty years. Might’ve been more’n that, once, if you’d ever got your nose outta your books long enough to notice me. There is no chance – none, zero, zilch – that I’m gonna let you walk into danger while I sit at home wonderin’ what’s happenin’ to you. I’ll be damned if I play Aunt Polly to your Tom Sawyer!”
I was still trying to process what she had just said when she barked out, “YOU GOT THAT, GIRL?”
I flinched, and found to my dismay that my shoulders had involuntarily hunched, as if to ward off an attack. I tried to take a deep breath, causing my ample bust to heave, but it was too ragged to unjangle my nerves. I blurted out, “What do you mean, “might’ve been more?”
“What I said!” Now she sounded exasperated. “The supply of men who can handle a smart, opinionated woman with multiple advanced degrees is depressingly finite, and I’m a demandin’ woman.” Her face and tone softened. “You were about the only one who mighta made the cut.”
I just gaped at her. “I had no idea . . . .” All of those years. All of those long, fascinating conversations. “You might have said something!”
She looked astonished, then amused. She started to chuckle, which developed into a guffaw. Pretty soon she was laughing so hard she was holding her sides.
I was, I admit, indignant. I tried to glower, then remembered that she had said my old glower on my new face looked “cute.” Officer Wolf had gnashed his teeth – one of those beautiful Old English words whose silent, vestigial letters serve no present purpose other than to remind us of their antiquity – but that had looked foolish even with his naturally stern visage. As Jessica, I was reduced to squeaking, “What?!!!” I suppose I might have stamped my delicate foot, but I couldn’t imagine how that would help.
“I’m just imaginin’ what James Wainwright would have done if I’d sidled up to him in the faculty lounge and offered to give him a personal tutorial on the Scarlet Letter! ‘Hey big boy! Let me show you my Hawthornes!’” Her laughter continued unabated.
“What would people have thought!”
She finished chuckling and just shook her head. “Jessica-James, even I figured out that I didn’t – and shouldn’t – give a shit what other people thought about how I lead my life. I was a late bloomer, so it took me ‘til I was thirty. Why you still care is beyond me.”
I looked down, feeling the flush return to my cheeks. Remembering. Thinking hard. Finally I met her eyes again. They were no longer full of laughter, but there was, I thought, affection mixed in with the exasperation. “I don’t know what to say. I was oblivious. I was always so focused on my scholarship . . . .”
“Oh, my God! Stop the presses! Really?!!”
This time, even I had to chuckle, though more in rue than in mirth. “Yeah, I guess that was pretty obvious. But . . . there was never anyone else, Janet. Just scholarship. I thought . . . well. I thought it was enough. All I needed. Or wanted.”
“How ‘bout now?” she asked, her voice soft.
I looked down again, idly stirring my black coffee with a spoon, the deep red polish on my nails glowing softly in the morning sunlight. “Just before that alien showed up, I was staring at my campfire, feeling sorry for myself. All my ‘penetrating’ insights, my ‘brilliant’ books and ‘seminal’ articles, didn’t matter. The dean wasn’t going to kick me out, but she’d moved on. The new people were the future, I was just an old and increasingly grouchy relic.”
“Well-spoken, though,” she said with a twinkle. “Measured. Thoughtful.”
“Qualities that would be a great comfort to me in my solitary retirement, I’m sure.”
“So, you’re not gonna try to plant your lovely new rump in your old endowed chair?”
“How could I teach, looking like this?”
“Like I said before, it’d do wonders for enrollment!”
I chuckled dutifully, then said, “No. Student and teacher, I gave forty years to the academy. It’s enough. If I get to start over . . . .”
I fell silent. There were, after all, a whole lot of barriers between where I was and “starting over.”
Janet sensed my thought. “Then we’d better make sure you get another chance, Ebineezer. And one way we’re gonna boost your odds is that I’m goin’ with you!”
I moved to protest, but she cut me off.
“I’m not lookin’ forward to retirement any more’n you were. Even apart from how I feel about you, this is a great adventure. A once-in-lifetime chance to make a real difference in this world. Somethin’ neither of us has managed in sixty fucking years. Make that mostly non-fucking years, if you follow me. If you make me miss it, I’ll never forgive you!”
“But . . .”
“I’ll fix you up with Wolf!”
“Janet . . . “
“No . . . I’ll fix you up with Quibble, so you’ll really be Mrs. Rabbit!”
“Janet . . . “
“Or a Goddamned tree frog!”
“Janet!”
She finally paused her tirade long enough to say “What?” in a voice overloaded with suspicion.
“Will you come with me? I don’t think I can manage without you.”
She grinned. “Maybe if you ask nice. Use your big words!”
And that was how we found ourselves at Janet’s house three days later, waiting for the aliens to arrive.
* * * * *
“I wonder whether we had the coordinates right.” It was 7 p.m. and we still hadn’t heard from the aliens. Since they had asked for “coordinates,” we had texted back 42.34107° N, 72.66151° W, rather than a street address. But we were just trusting that would mean something to the aliens. We also had to trust Google Maps to be right about things like that. When it comes to AI, I’m not a naturally trusting soul.
“They texted you before. They know how to reach you,” Janet said, with more patience than I probably deserved. It had not been the first time I’d made a similar observation over the course of the past three hours.
“Hi, Honey, I’m home,” Ensign Worm said as he walked into the living room from the kitchen. It hadn’t even occurred to me that he wouldn’t ring the front door bell. But why would he think that made any more sense than just walking in the back door?
He was still wearing his Walter Cronkite suit, but he appeared to have repaired the jacket and acquired different footwear. Flip-flops were definitely an improvement of the red pumps he had sported when I had seen him last, but, like his greeting, it was . . . not yet ready for prime time.
I was on my feet without having even thought about it. “Ensign Worm! Uh . . . welcome back? Please come in and meet my colleague, Professor Janet Seldon.”
Worm stood his ground for a moment, looking at me carefully. “I think . . . we satisfied your design specifications, yes?”
I found myself blushing. “I can’t complain,” I demurely demurred.
“Since we talk, I study this ‘aesthetics.’ It is matter of proportion, yes?”
“That’s part of it,” I said cautiously.
“I think maybe your backside was not right proportion? Maybe large too much?”
“Wait . . . WHAT! Are you saying I have a fat ass?!!!”
Worm’s accent altered completely. “Well shucks, Ma'am. If that's all that's been botherin' you, ferget it. You're just pleasingly plump.”
“Plump!!!”
Reverting to his flatter intonation, he asked, “Do you find your breasts are maybe too large as well?”
Janet took this moment to interject. “Said no man ever.”
I tried manfully – womanfully? – to speak through gritted teeth. “We are not going to debate the aesthetic merits of my new proportions!”
Worm continued to look at me curiously, before saying, “I should like to discuss this aesthetics further. Perhaps another day. To determine if mistakes we made. ‘A wise man once said, “Great hazards accompany innovation.”’”
“Which wise man?” Janet asked.
“Pete Malloy,” Worm responded.
I was finding myself getting extremely annoyed, and platitudinous quotes from Adam-12 weren’t improving my temper. “In reference to my body, which is just fine thank you very much, what do you mean by that?”
Worm blinked twice, slowly, more like a barn owl than a human. “As a matter of fact I don't even know what it means. It's just one of those things that gets in my head and keeps rolling around in there like a marble.”
Janet was watching me closely and raised an eyebrow.
Time to sit on my annoyance. Worm’s shifting speech patterns made conversation difficult. When he was quoting something wholesale from old movies or TV shows – as he had clearly just done again – his speech was relatively fluid and colloquial (if sometimes anachronistic), but often was just a bit off the point he wanted to make. When he struck out on his own and attempted to formulate original sentences, his grammar was poor, his syntax quirky and his affect was flatter. But, he was generally easier to follow from a logical perspective.
“Ensign Worm,” I said, “It may be easier for us to communicate if you don’t try to use quotes from the transmissions you monitored. Your sentence structure and word choice aren’t perfect, but we can usually follow them and we’ll ask for clarification if we can’t. Is that acceptable?”
“My language is now much excellent, yes?” he asked. It should have sounded hopeful, and it did, a bit, but for his overall flat affect.
“You’ve made progress,” I said cautiously. “But I wouldn’t enter into any delicate negotiations on your own just yet. Remember, I’m a language expert. When it comes to your language and patterns of speech and thought, that means that I know what I don’t know. Others may make assumptions that aren’t accurate.”
He appeared to consider that answer for a moment before replying. “So, are you ready to start our negotiation?”
“Why don’t you sit down and we can discuss it,” I said.
“Humans think more easily when they are not upright?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer that one. Janet tried. “We tend to find sittin’ is more comfortable for talkin’. When we’re physically active, we prefer standin’ up.” Her eyes developed a dangerous twinkle and she added, “Or, sometimes, lyin’ down.”
Mercifully, Worm was not diverted by Janet’s innuendo. He moved to a chair and sat, hindquarters barely touching the edge, back erect. He looked about as comfortable as a felon on a witness stand. “Professor Janet Seldon, are you a seller of weapons-grade uranium?” he asked politely.
“What! No!!!” she said, horrified.
“If I may?” I said as I sat on the couch across from the ensign. “Professor Seldon is a colleague and friend. I’ve asked for her help in working to facilitate your negotiations.”
“Ah,” Worm said. “We need you, and you need her. Just like Kirk and Spock.”
“More like Abbott and Costello,” Janet growled.
“Who?” asked Worm.
“First base,” she replied.
“STOP!” I was having a hard enough time following Worm! “To bring us back to the subject at hand,” I said, throwing a glare at an unrepentant Janet, “let’s talk about your purchase, and what sorts of things you are prepared to offer in exchange, and how best to go about reaching the people who will need to make the decisions.”
“The transmissions show people selling things for ‘bucks.’ We can give you many of these ‘bucks.’”
“You plannin’ on robbin’ a few banks?” Janet asked.
“No!” Worm responded. “The transmissions show this is not right with your rules, yes? We are not rule breakers!”
“How are you planning to get the ‘bucks,’ I asked, curious.
“Oh! We can make them most easy. Manufacture . . . no, not correct. ‘Print,’ yes?”
“That's . . . also not legal,” I said. “Against our rules. And might cause our economy to collapse.” I waved my hands airily, implying all manner of dire consequences without the necessity of detail. I’m a linguist, not an economist.
Worm, mercifully, was solely focused on the part I was most confident about. “Not legal?”
“Nope. Counterfeiting. Not legal anywhere.”
“We . . . oh. We can’t do that. We are rule followers.” Worm uttered this last sentence with conviction.
Fascinating. “We were thinking more about technology, honestly,” I said.
“How would you think dishonestly about technology?” Worm inquired, sounding genuinely curious.
“Sorry,” I said. “Figure of speech. Let me rephrase. We think you need to offer know-how that you have and we don’t. You’ve managed interstellar travel. You know things we haven’t figured out yet.”
“Wouldn’t that violate the Prime Directive?”
“What?” I asked, flummoxed.
“What, what?” Worm repeated.
Janet saved me. “It’s another reference to Star Trek, Jessica.”
“I almost never saw it,” I said, exasperated. “Help me out here!”
“In the show, Star Fleet wasn’t allowed to interfere in the natural development of less advanced societies. Including by introducing advanced tech.”
“Ah. Not a problem,” I said. “We don’t actually have a ‘prime directive.’”
“No?” Worm sounded disappointed. “But we do.”
My eyes grew wide and my face flushed. Holy shit! These bastards had tech that could improve the lives of everyone on earth, but it would be withheld for our own good? I’m guessing that damned TV show never explored how “less advanced societies” felt about Starfleet’s “prime directive!”
I forced myself to swallow my indignation. What he was saying wasn’t really all that different from the conversations that Janet and I had on the subject of life-saving or life-extending tech that could bring on massive overpopulation and a complete collapse of the biosphere. The difference was, aliens were making the decisions!
I decided I had better put that issue aside for a moment and work on what I hoped would be an easier part of the problem. “I am going to need something to show people who make decisions about uranium stockpiles, to convince them that they really are dealing with an advanced extraterrestrial civilization. Some advanced tech would be very helpful for that purpose.”
Worm said, “Not a problem, if we give something you cannot copy . . . . But we did, yes? You cannot change age, shape, organs for species replenishment.”
“Won’t work,” I responded. “I can’t prove I ever looked different than I do now.”
“You did your work a bit too well,” Janet added.
“But I do have an idea,” I said. “Do you have ways of storing energy for later use?”
“Of course,” Worm responded.
I had been drinking a can of Diet Coke when Worm had walked in. I pointed at it and said, “how much energy could you store in something that size? How long would it take to charge it? How much would it weigh? And, could it be made with materials that are readily available on this planet?”
“Dammit, Jim, I’m not an engineer,” he said flatly.
“It’s ‘Jessica,’ thanks to you folks – And I’d like to discuss that sometime, by the way – but I don’t need the exact engineering specifications right now. Just a general idea.”
“We did not change the name you call yourself,” Worm said.
“No, but . . . well. Later. Anyhow. You see the vehicles we use for transportation – our ‘cars’? Some of them use stored electric power for locomotion. With a compact energy storage device like I described, how far could one of our cars go?”
“I do not know exact.”
“Roughly?”
“To the large ‘city,’ at least,” Worm said, after thinking a moment.
“Boston?” I asked.
“I do not think that name. No. Where Archie lives.”
“Archie?”
“Yes, yes. And Eedit and Glow-ria and Meathead.”
“Oh!” said Janet. “You mean Archie Bunker. All in the Family. They lived in New York.”
It was just what I was hoping for! Better confirm it. “You could drive from here to New York City with a power storage device the size of that can?”
“Yes. Possibly further. ‘Actual mileage may vary.’”
“Okay!” I said. “So, here’s my idea. Go back to the ship. See if you can manufacture a device that fits the size of that can, and can be accessed by one of our plugs.” I held up the charger plug for my iPhone. “Make it tamper-proof, so we can’t take it apart and figure out how it works.”
“How will this device help our mission?”
“We’ll take it to experts and have them test it. If it can store a lot of power and is portable, that’s going to get high-level attention fast.” Without saying it, my mind added, “I hope!”
“Why don’t we land our ship in your Capital? Get attention, yes?”
I shuddered. Visions of missiles, bombs, tanks and drones . . . . “Yes, but not the kind of attention you want! You’ve been wise to keep your presence largely secret. And . . . non-threatening. Your mission will be more likely to succeed if you keep it that way.”
Worm considered that. “All right. The Swarm Leader would not want trouble with natives. So . . . your people test this device. Then what?”
“That’ll get us a hearing with people who make decisions. Then we figure out what you’re willing to trade that they might want bad enough to give up some of the most dangerous and expensive material on the planet. I warn you now, it’s going to take something big.”
“Our rules – our ‘Prime Directive’ – must be followed,” Worm cautioned.
Janet had been deep in thought while I worked on getting a powerful battery out of the alien. Now she said, “You know, the Enterprise crew often found ways around the ‘Prime Directive . . . .”
“Rules are . . . rules,” Worm replied, sounding puzzled.
“Of course they are,” I said soothingly, following Janet’s lead. “But . . . the scope of a rule, as applied to a particular circumstance . . . that needs careful thought, doesn’t it? Or the rule might be misapplied.”
“I do not understand this thought,” Worm said, now sounding uncomfortable.
“I think I know someone who might be able to help you understand it,” I said.
Janet sat bolt upright. “You wouldn’t!”
“I don’t see why not.” Turning to Worm, I asked, “Ensign, does your society have lawyers?”
“Like Perry Mason? No. We do not understand ‘lawyers.’ Rules are obeyed.”
“I knew I liked you people,” Janet said.
Talking over her, I said, “You’re in for a real treat.”
Worm looked at me, then he looked at Janet. “I see conflict, yes? How do we forward go?”
Janet looked at me, shook her head and shrugged her shoulders.
“Can you tell me exactly what your ‘prime directive’ prohibits?” I asked.
“Not . . . I do not have right words in your language.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go back to the ship. While you’re making the battery, get me as complete and accurate a statement of your prime directive as you can in English. Then we’ll sit down with the lawyer.”
“This will work? You are not yanking on my foot?”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Maybe someone else better does?” Worm asked.
It was a shrewd negotiating move. I answered as honestly as I could. “Maybe. I don’t know. But it’ll take time, whoever you talk to. Unless you just steal what you want.”
“‘I am not a crook,’” he said with finality. My confidence level would have gone up if he’d quoted someone else.
Worm stood up. “I have concerns about plan. But will speak my elders and we decide.” Without waiting for any response, he walked purposefully to the kitchen and out the back door.
When we were certain Worm was gone, Janet said, “You sure about this, girl?”
I nodded. “Absolutely. They want weapons-grade uranium, and they're acting like the guys who bought Manhattan with some colored beads! If we can make a battery as powerful and compact as that, it’ll change the world. Maybe save it. To them, it’s just a formula!”
“You’re not worried about unintended consequences?”
“Of course I am. But inaction has unintended consequences too.”
“Okay,” she said, drawing out the word. “But . . . inflicting lawyers on an innocent, unsuspecting society? Is that fair?”
“Janet,” I said, “We don’t have a ‘Prime Directive.’ Besides, they’re the ‘advanced society’ here, right? They can bloody well look after themselves!”
“If you say so,” she said, sounding dubious.
* * * * *
We called Justin Abel’s office first thing the next morning and got an appointment for 11:30. I excused myself and started to get ready.
This was important. As Janet had said, we had a chance to really make a difference for all humanity. Finding a way around the alien’s ‘prime directive’ would be the key.
But at the same time . . . I found myself remembering Able’s muscular build, his mobile face and penetrating eyes. Eyes that had been drawn to me, time and time again. It hadn’t felt remotely creepy. To the contrary . . . .
With these conflicting thoughts in my mind, I started to get dressed. Immediately, I gravitated to a black bra and panty set that looked and felt sexy as a war-time pin-up. My breasts felt even more full, and my nipples even more sensitive, as I settled them into their satin-lined cups. I rolled black silk stockings up each leg, marveling at the sensations that rippled from my smooth and sensitive skin. No, I did not want my old life back!
My eyes lingered on the low-cut red dress that had pride of place in my closet. That would certainly get Abel’s attention! The thought of it gave me a shiver. But it was too early in the day, and I wasn’t going out clubbing, for God’s sake! The professor in me shouted, “Focus, Girl!!!”
I settled on a poly-rayon knit skirt that showed off my trim waist and rounded posterior and was just modest enough, while still showing plenty of leg. I added a white camisole and a cream-colored silk top with a deep “v” neckline. “V” for victory!
I took care with both my hair and my makeup, working to emphasize my lustrous eyes and full lips. Three inch black pumps and the barest hint of scent completed the ensemble. Jessica was ready for battle.
I left my room to find Janet in the living room, still in her sweats. She looked me over carefully and an enormous grin split her face. “The bear spray’s still with your hikin’ gear. You may want to bring it along. Just in case you run into somethin’ dangerous. You know. Wild animals . . . stray males . . . .’”
“You’re not coming?” It came out almost as a wail.
“Three’s a crowd, girl,” she smirked.
“Janet!!! This is important! I’m not going out on a date!”
She raised an eyebrow in sardonic salute. “I’m liking the uniform, workin’ girl.”
I couldn’t help it. I stamped my foot.
She giggled.
“Janet, we can’t afford to screw this up. Please!!!”
She stopped smiling and leaned forward. “No, we can’t. You can’t. Jessica, you gotta learn how to walk in those heels and still talk sense. How to be comfortable with your sexuality without becomin’ a sex object. All teasin’ aside, you look fine. Abel’s a cutie, no doubt about it. It’s okay that you notice that. But, you’ve got a job to do. Don’t forget it.”
“But you won’t back me up?”
“You don’t need trainin’ wheels, girl. Get the job done . . . and have fun doin’ it!!” She got up and gave me a hug, which I suddenly found myself returning fiercely.
Because I didn’t have a driver’s license that would convince anyone, Janet dropped me off at Abel’s office and drove off to run some errands. With some trepidation, I walked to the front door, taking the small steps that my tight skirt and heels demanded.
Abel’s assistant – I didn’t know whether she was a receptionist, a secretary, or something else altogether – showed me into the conference room where we had met with Officer Wolf. “Mr. Abel will be with you in just a moment,” she assured me. “Would you like some tea or coffee while you wait?”
Uncharacteristically, I asked for some tea. It might settle my nerves. Just after Ms. Somers dropped it off and left, Abel rapped on the door and walked in.
I rose gracefully – I thought I was graceful, anyway – and walked around the oak conference table, offering him my hand. “Good morning, Mr. Abel. Thanks for seeing me on short notice again.” Although my voice was both higher and lighter than it had ever been, it was low and resonant for a woman – a rich contralto.
Able hadn’t moved from the doorway, and his gaze fixed on my face as if it had been nailed there so as not to stray towards forbidden pastures. “Ms. . . . Lapine, is it?” He took my hand carefully, like he might break it, and shook it gently. But firmly.
“Well, prolly not,” I said. “But I haven’t come up with anything else yet. You can call me Jessica for now.”
“Please have a seat,” he said. He turned to close the door, thought better of it, and left it ajar. He sat across the table from me with his back to the open door. I could hear Ms. Somers buzzing around in the waiting area.
“If you don’t mind, I think I’d better call you by your last name. Any last name!”
I cocked my head and said, “Certainly, I can come up with something. Is the use of first names considered unprofessional?”
“If I was just talking to some sixty-year old guy who teaches at Gryphon, it probably wouldn’t matter. But when I’m in a conference room with someone who looks like she is seventeen and is . . . ah . . . easy on the eye, then . . . yes.”
“I see.” Interesting. Remembering something Janet had said the other day, I said, “Why don’t you call me James. Ms. James. If that helps you.”
“Seriously? Jesse James?”
I felt my face flush again. “Scarlett” might have been the best last name after all. But I was annoyed rather than embarrassed. “Anyone who tries to call me ‘Jesse’ is unlikely to make that mistake twice, Mr. Abel!”
Despite my youthful and innocent appearance, there was enough starch in my answer to get through to him. He looked ever so slightly abashed. “I apologize, Ms. James. That was rude of me.”
Better, I thought.
“What brings you here today,” he asked, trying to get past the awkwardness.
“We’ve encountered a bit of a problem, and we thought that you might be able to help. It might or might not come up, but if it does, it’ll happen soon, and I wanted to lay the groundwork now.”
“Charmingly mysterious.” It was very clear that I had his undivided attention, but I wasn’t confident he was focused on what I was saying. Still, he said, “Go on.”
“Well. The aliens who altered my body have come back. Professor Seldon and I met with one of them yesterday evening. They want to arrange a purchase of some rare materials. We – I – agreed to take their proposal to the appropriate authorities. But there’s a catch.”
“Isn’t there always?”
I squelched my annoyance at his pose of amused detachment. “The aliens have advanced technologies that could be very valuable – very beneficial – here on earth. I don’t want us to trade valuable materials for the equivalent of tchotchkes. But they apparently have a rule about providing advanced technologies to backwards civilizations.”
“The Prime Directive,” he said. “Naturally.”
Was I the only person who hadn’t watched that damned TV show? “Why do you say ‘naturally?’”
He paused. Thought a moment. Then said, “I withdraw the comment, and apologize. So, they have this rule. What are you looking for?”
“A way around it. Apparently they are a highly law-abiding society. As the one we spoke to yesterday put it, they are ‘rule followers.’ They . . . ah . . . don’t actually have lawyers.”
That seemed to impress him. “How original! They’ve never encountered a lawyer before? Oh my God! What an opportunity!” It was like he’d just heard a siren or something.
“Well, about that,” I said, repressively, “Professor Seldon wasn’t sure it was completely fair of me to ask that they meet with you to discuss the scope of their rule, but I figured they could look after themselves. And . . . this is important. For our whole species.”
He leaned back in his chair and studied me for a long moment. “You really do believe this,” he said. Seeing something dangerous in my expression, he said, “Please, I’m not being insulting. Or, rather, I’m not trying to be insulting, which isn’t really the same thing. People tell me stories all the time, including clients. I constantly have to evaluate people’s truthfulness. But – and I apologize for being blunt – the fact that you believe it doesn’t make it true.”
“You mean, I could be the victim of a scam.”
“Yes. Another possibility is that you’re delusional.” Seeing my expression darken again, he hastily added, “Just playing devil’s advocate, you understand.”
“Maybe you’d be a better person if you played advocate for someone else!”
“Possibly,” he acknowledged. “But I wouldn’t be a better lawyer, and you aren’t paying $300 an hour for a ‘person.’”
I reached into my purse and flipped him my drivers’ license. “That’s me,” I said. “Or was, up until a month ago. I have sixty years of memories to go with the photo. If I was scammed, the scammers are the functional equivalent of an advanced species. And there’s no way that I could ‘delude’ myself into a working knowledge of Old English, Norman French, Greek, Classical Latin, Church Latin and Hochdeutch, with a smattering of other languages besides.”
“Seriously?” His skepticism was as thick as tar on a cold morning.
Skepticism was one thing, but mulishness was something else. I lifted my chin. “Try me,” I challenged.
He regarded me for a moment, his dark eyes hooded. “What’s the first line of the Canterbury Tales?”
“Bad question,” I replied. “‘Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote / The drooghte of March hath perced to the roote . . . .’ I’m an expert in linguistics, Mr. Abel, not literature. But Chaucer is significant to both disciplines, and I co-authored a monograph on it ten years or so ago with Geoff Harrison down in Annapolis.”
“Nice,” he said, approvingly. “Though obviously not conclusive. Why was it a bad question?”
“Oh, because lots of people would know that quote. Sophomore English majors. Even money-grubbing lawyers, likely enough.”
He licked an index finger, drew a “one” in the air, and said, “Point to you, Ms. James. A very palpable hit!!”
“You want to keep trying? I can run up the score fast, but don’t you be charging me for it!”
“Curses, you're on to me!” he responded with a smile. Becoming serious, he added, “If Chaucer’s too easy, I don’t have the background to ask you hard questions. But even if lots of people know that quote, I doubt lots of seventeen-year-old girls do.”
We stared at each other for a moment.
Finally I said, “Scams and delusions don’t fit the evidence. It’s a binary solution set. Either I’m lying – and I studied my ass off to be convincing – or my story’s true.” I looked guileless. At least, I hoped I looked guileless. With a face like mine, “guileless” should be the damned default setting!
After a long moment he sighed. “I’m sorry, Ms. James. Every instinct I have tells me that I should believe you. But the male of the species who could disbelieve you when you sit there looking like that has yet to be born. An objective fact of which you are no doubt fully aware. So in this particular circumstance, I can’t trust my instinct.”
“Thank you . . . I think.” His response was extremely vexing. But also . . . kind of nice?
Focus, girl!!!
“Ms. James. Jessica. You don’t need me to believe your story – not for anything you’ve asked me to do. If you want me to review language to see if I can find a way around it I’m happy to, and the skill that I apply to that task will not be affected by whether I remain skeptical.”
“I wonder if you’re right about that,” I said slowly.
“I assure you . . . “ he began.
I held up my hand to silence him. “Bear with me, please . . . .” I thought a moment before continuing. “I asked them to give me the clearest statement of their rule in English. But it’ll be a translation. Translations are problematic even when you are going from one human language to another, and our mental processes are all generally the same. We don’t even have the first idea how these creatures think, much less how they communicate. Even the concepts behind their speech will be different from English – or any terrestrial language – in ways we can’t begin to understand yet.”
I was speaking carefully, feeling my way. I was just now starting to understand how difficult this task could be, and my focus was entirely inward.
But this seemed to impress Abel in a way that my earlier assertions, and my most guileless expression, hadn’t. “Those are . . . good points,” he said. “This won’t be like interpreting a statute passed by Congress. We’re going to need to ask them follow-up questions, to clarify the full spectrum of meanings they are attempting to convey with the English words they select. Will that be possible?”
“I don’t know. I suggested the meeting to the guy they sent to talk with me, but he had to take it back to his superiors. I’m hoping to hear back directly. But they are aliens. I don’t know what they’ll decide, or even how long they’ll take to make a decision.”
Abel looked at me. For the first time, I think, he really saw me. And the person he was seeing was not, thank God, just a seventeen-year-old ingenue. “I hope they call,” he said softly. “I’m beginning to think this could be a truly unique assignment.”
Projecting calm through a swirl of new and conflicting emotions, I met his dark eyes squarely. “Indeed,” I said.
To be continued. Indeed.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 8: What Are Little Girls Made Of?
It looked just like a can of Coke. Not, interestingly, a can of Diet Coke. Christmas red, classic white Spencerian script, vintage Seventies wave logo. But, as I discovered when Ensign Worm handed it to me, it weighed more than half again as much as a 12-ounce can.
Which is why I dropped it.
“Shit!!!” I jumped back, half expecting the device to explode on contact with the ceramic tile in Janet’s kitchen. It just landed with kind of a thud instead, then rolled towards me.
“Shit,” Janet agreed, but her undeleted expletive sounded more annoyed than surprised. She surveyed the new crack in her floor tile with a frown.
“No, no,” Worm corrected. “It is ‘battery,’ as requested. Not human waste.”
We looked at him.
“It’s the ree-all thing,” he said in his quote-y voice.
I took a knee to pick up the can – Janet had impressed upon me that simply bending down to do such things was inadvisable for someone with my ass-ets – and held it once more. It wasn’t heavy, exactly. Just heavier than I had expected. I noticed a U.S. type-A power socket and something that looked like a lightning port on the bottom of the can.
I rose and looked at Worm. “This holds as much energy as it takes to drive a car from here to New York City?”
“Yes. Unless Wrongway Feldman drives.”
“Who?” I asked.
“Never mind,” Janet urged.
Janet was right. I returned to business. “All the components are available here on this planet?”
“Yes. All common. But, device shielded, yes?”
“Right. What things should we avoid doing with it?” I asked.
“Do not open or scan battery,” Worm replied in his flatest voice.
“What will happen if we do?”
“Boom,” he said.
“Okaaay then. Anything else we need to know?” I asked him.
“This device will self-destruct in five ‘weeks.’ Good luck, Jim.”
“Jessica, dammit. Or even James! Never ‘Jim!’” I snapped.
Worm looked puzzled. “Siri calls you Jim.”
“And you don’t even want to know what I call Siri!”
“Hmmm . . . Is there something else I can help you with?” asked a familiar synthetic voice coming from my back pocket.
“I doubt it. You never have,” I snarled.
“I don’t know what that means. Would you like me to search the web for . . . .”
I cut her off. It. Whatever. “No. Cancel!”
“Siri is . . . not excellent?” Worm inquired.
I was about to give my unfiltered and very pithy view on that question but stopped myself just in time. “That depends. Its voice-recognition software needs work. Other elements of the overall program are better.”
Janet was looking at me like I had grown a second head. Or, I don’t know, turned into a busty, beautiful girl or something.
I shook my head at her fractionally, then asked Worm, “How were you planning to use Siri?”
“We accessed the language database to assist with translation of our “Rule Governing Contact with Backward Societies.”
I hope that Worm could not accurately interpret my facial expression. Backward society, indeed! “Do you have your translation finished?”
Worm reached into the pocket of his suit jacket and handed me some sort of print-out. The writing was in English, and it was brief: “The People will not do or say anything that will alter the natural development of any less advanced sentient or potentially sentient species in star systems other than our own.”
“That’s it?” I inquired, somewhat taken aback. “We have longer rules about potato chips!”
“‘Brevity is the soul of lingerie,’” Janet murmured.
Worm looked at us. “We try. Our thinking . . . our communication . . . different is very. We understand this rule . . . But to speak? Not certain.”
I nodded. That, I expected. “I want to take this to our lawyer. Like Perry Mason, but different . . . person. He – we – will want to ask you questions about the text. Maybe others from your crew too?”
“That . . . yes. We think that important is. Rule must be followed. Elder Mission Leader should here be. But he will Siri need. To speak.”
While confident that would cause its own set of problems, I agreed that it would probably be best. “Can you wait a moment, please?”
I made a call.
“Law offices, this is Jennifer Somers.”
“Hi Ms. Somers, this is Jessica James. Is Mr. Abel available?”
“He’s just about to leave for court. Is it urgent?”
“If I could have just a minute of his time, I’d appreciate it.”
“Let me check,” she said.
A few seconds later, Able’s rich baritone joined the conversation. “Ms. James. What’s up?” His voice sounded warm.
“The visitor we spoke about is back and I have the text. Is there a time you can meet with me and, ah, their representatives, at Professor Seldon’s house?”
“No shit?”
“Nope. Battery.”
“What?” he asked, confused.
“I’ll explain later. Can you come?”
“Will tonight work? After six?”
I looked at Worm. “Would you be able to meet with the lawyer here at, say, ninety of our minutes before sundown?”
Worm said yes and I confirmed with Abel. Showtime!!!
* * * * *
Janet was glum. “He’s definitely the guy. And he’ll take my call.”
I looked at her skeptically. “Then why do you look like you’ve been sucking lemons and eating cane toads?”
“Ever hear the sayin’, ‘There, but for the grace of God, goes God?’”
I didn’t recall its provenance, but I’d certainly heard the expression. Unsurprising, really, since it described a depressingly significant percentage of distinguished professors. “One of those, huh?”
“Mighta been written about him.” Janet continued to slice cheese for our sandwiches. “But . . . yeah. He’s the guy. He got the damned Nobel in Chemistry for his work on battery tech. And he’s on the President’s Science Advisory Board.”
“Wait . . . wasn’t he the one who got booted off the advisory board – he was the chair – because . . . .” Oh.
“Of an ‘inappropriate relationship’ with an intern?” Janet said. “Yep. That’s the asshole. But that was a couple administrations back, and apparently the powers that frickin’ always are decided he’s too damned valuable to toss him overboard completely for such a trivial infraction. So he’s back.”
I remembered the incident, which had taken place in the quaint old days when inappropriate relationships with subordinates had been scandals worthy of front page headlines and carried consequences. Seven, eight years ago.
My expression mustn’t have been any more cheerful than Janet’s. “But he’ll take your call?”
“For Patrice’s sake, if nothin’ else. We were close for a lot of years.”
I sighed. “Well, if you’re willing to grit your teeth and make the call, I’ll gird my loins, or whatever the hell I’ve got down there now, and do the meeting.”
“Not alone you won’t, Missy. Not unless you’re girding with kevlar and a mousetrap!”
If I’d still had a penis, it would have retracted into my body at the very thought of Janet’s notion of protection. Yikes!
“Janet, I know what I look like now. And sound like, for that matter. But do try to remember that I’m older than you are.”
She stopped making sandwiches and gave me a long look. “When it comes to language, Jessica, you’re everythin’ you ever were. More, maybe. But when it comes to ‘girl stuff’ . . . trust me. You have less experience than your apparent age, not more.”
My instinct to fight Janet’s maternalism was strong. I’m an adult, and I’ve been dispatching assholes all by myself for decades. I didn’t think of Professor Grimm as a threat to me in any physical sense.
But I was almost certainly wrong about that. Much as it lacerated my ego to admit it, I really didn’t know how to handle myself as a young woman. Janet was right. “Concedo,” I said ruefully.
I only heard Janet’s side of the call:
“Gavin, it’s Janet Seldon. . . .”
“I know, right? Too long. . . . “
“I’m good. Real good. Enjoying the summer . . . . “
“You are? Really? That sounds fantastic. . . . “
“Yeah, I’m jealous. Well . . . I would be jealous, but I’m workin’ on somethin’ even more interestin’. . . . “
“Well, that’s why I’m callin’, actually. It’s sorta in your wheelhouse, what with your Nobel an’ all. . . . “
“Nope. I’m serious. Dead serious. . . .”
“I want to show you, not tell you. Have you got time this week? . . . “
“Yeah, I mean this week! . . . . “
“Not over the phone, Gav. . . .”
“I promise. It’ll be worth your while. . . . “
“Yes, Gavin, I do have an idea how busy you are. . . . “
“No, I’m not saying more on the phone. . . . “
“A half hour only. What I’ll be askin’ for at the meeting will take more time, but you’ll be able to say ‘No’ if you don’t want the opportunity. . . . “
“No idea. . . . “
“Because I’m a literature professor, not a chemical engineer, that’s why! . . . .”
“Wednesday, 3:45 in your office? Of course. That’ll be fine.”
“No problem. You won’t regret it.”
“I know you do, but that’s only ‘cuz you don’t know what I know!”
“Fine. Wednesday. See ya!”
She ended the call, then double checked to make sure that her phone was really, truly off. “Prick!”
“But you got the meeting.”
“Yeah, I got it. ‘Scuze me while I go take a shower. ‘Do you have any idea how busy I am?’” she said, the mimicry brutal. “God! I don’t know what Patrice saw in that man.”
“A genius, maybe?”
She made a sour face. “Want a genius in your life? Hire one. For appropriate tasks – of limited duration.”
“Which is pretty much what we’re doing,” I pointed out.
She grinned. “Except for the ‘hire’ part. He should do this for free.”
* * * * *
“You're serious? This is all there is?” Justin was sitting in the living room, having taken about ten seconds to read the entirety of the aliens’ “Prime Directive.” “If it weren’t for your experience, Ms. James, this would certainly convince me that the whole thing’s a scam.”
“There is the prototype battery,” Janet pointed out.
“”Which looks like something you might find on Etsy,” he countered.
“That’s the entirety of the text they gave us,” I said. I was sitting on the couch across from him, my knees together, ankles demurely crossed, back straight, hands in my lap. I was working on wearing a skirt, showing off my nice new legs, and looking like a lady.
Justin was sitting far enough away that he could take in the whole picture without staring rudely at any particular, ah, element. He was keeping cool, but his eyes . . . they might be just a bit warmer than that.
“But . . . .?” he said, making it a question.
“But they implied that the meaning was more . . . maybe not complicated. Just . . . deeper? Fuller? It’s hard to convey. Worm did, very specifically, say that their thought processes and method of communication amongst themselves are very different from our language. “ I found my hands rising to add emphasis to my words.
“So let’s talk about loopholes,” Janet said. “Maybe we’re not a ‘less advanced species.’”
“They’ve got interstellar travel,” I argued. “You’d prolly have a better chance of convincing them that we aren’t even potentially sentient.”
“A proposition for which there is no shortage of support,” Justin allowed.
“Nonsense,” Janet said. “Maybe they’ve got spaceflight – and girl juice, don’t forget, though you skipped that one, Jessica! But they don’t have The Simpsons. Or Beowulf, for that matter, if you feel compelled to go upmarket. And don’t get me started on The Scarlet Letter!”
I said, “They may have literature, Janet. We just don’t know.”
Janet looked stubborn. “Well, they don’t have humor. Worm told you so. Havin’ met him, I believe it!”
“I had no idea Beowulf was funny,” Justin offered.
“And don’t get me started on The Scarlet Letter,” I added.
“Troglodytes! Morlocks! Hester Prynne is hysterical and Grendel is a comedic genius!” As usual, Janet refused to be deterred.
As gently as possible, I said, “Perhaps we digress?”
“Actually,” Justin said, “While I’m not sure I agree with Professor Seldon’s specific examples, her overall point is worth exploring. The aliens are apparently advanced in physical and biological sciences. Granted. But, is that the measure of the concept they’re attempting to capture? Maybe yes, maybe no. We shouldn’t assume.”
Janet stuck her tongue out at me.
“Any other phrases jump out at you?” I asked.
Justin said, “We should at least confirm that this group of aliens would be considered part of ‘the People,’ and that – again, as encompassed within the concept they are attempting to articulate – we aren’t in ‘their’ star system by virtue of the fact that this group is here. But I don’t hold out much hope that those terms will help us. The big enchilada is “will.”
“Will?” Janet repeated, puzzled.
I just nodded; I’d seen that one too. “‘Depends what the meaning of the word “is” is,’ right?”
“Something like that,” he agreed.
Janet grinned. “Good to know that the subtleties of the legal mind are still equal to the emergency!”
“Did you miss me?” Worm asked, opening the front door.
This time, I’d been expecting him to come in the back. We all stood as Worm walked into the house, followed by the figure I recognized from my nightmarish visit to their ship.
Worm had kept the Cronkite suit and flip flops; the other alien was more consistent, wearing an original series Star Trek uniform: black polyester pants, a gold tunic, and impractical boots. Why would anyone wear boots on a starship?
Of course, if I remembered right, the women had worn both the boots and a whole lot less fabric.
Worm looked at us curiously. “I thought humans sat for talk?”
“But we stand for introductions,” I explained. “Justin Abel, our attorney.”
The figure in the Star Trek uniform was holding something that looked like an iPhone but probably wasn’t. It emitted chittering noises when I stopped speaking. The figure chittered, and the “iPhone” spoke with Siri’s voice. “Is your attorney non-functional?”
“What?” asked Janet.
More chittering, quickly followed by, “What do I need to do to enable it?” The alien moved towards Justin.
He rather understandably moved back, fast. “I’m in perfect working order, thank you!”
“Wait!!!” I said. “We will have misunderstandings. This is one of them. In our language, sometimes, the same sounds have different meanings; Siri’s voice recognition software does a poor job differentiating them. ‘Just enable’ and ‘Justin Abel’ sound the same, but the second is a name, like ‘Janet Seldon’ or ‘Jessica James.’”
“Or Zsa Zsa Gabor,” Worm added helpfully.
“Yeah,” Janet agreed. “That chick.”
The leader stopped moving.
I waited while his device caught up with the translations. The features he was projecting, while human in appearance, did a poor job of expressing emotion. For all of his quirks, it was obvious that Worm had studied us much more carefully than his superior.
Finally, the leader chittered and his translator said, “I understand. The People do not have these ‘names.’”
“‘Ensign Worm’ isn’t a name?” I inquired.
“No. ‘Ensign’ for junior team member. ‘Worm’ for immature member of the People.”
“Ensign Worm” I said, indicating him, “referred to you, I think, as ‘Elder Mission Leader?’”
Chitter, chitter. “That is good enough.”
“In the alternative,” Janet said, “I s’pose we could just whistle.”
“Why don’t we sit down,” I interjected hurriedly, hoping to head off a discussion that might involve puckering up and blowing.
The humans sat; the aliens more-or-less perched on the ends of their seats.
“As I explained to Ensign Worm, we would like to explore the meaning of your rule related to other civilizations, to make sure we all have the same understanding of it. Our attorney can help.”
The iPhone chittered, then the leader chittered, then the phone translated into English. “It is difficult. The Story of the People is long. We do not think you have a similar Story. The Story is the foundation for our thoughts and our communications. We don’t use ‘words,’ we use references to parts of the Story that convey complex meaning.”
“Fascinating!” Janet and I said, simultaneously, equally awestruck at what we’d just heard, though for different reasons.
“Geeks!” Justin said, shaking his head at us with a trace of affection. Turning back to the aliens, he said, “Let me first ask, does the idea of ‘The People’ in your statement of the rule encompass, ah, ‘independent contractors’ who are far from home?”
Worm looked at the leader and chittered. The leader chittered back. Then they started going at it fast and furious. The iPhone was not translating any of it.
After over three minutes of intense conversation between the two aliens – intense, at least, judging by the number of back-and-forths; their respective affects remained flat – they turned back to us.
“Yes,” Worm replied.
“He says,’look at the camera,’” Janet quoted.
The “iPhone” didn’t catch Janet’s aside, but Worm did. “Ca- mer-a?”
“A reference to one of our stories,” Janet said pointedly. “In this context, the reference suggests that there was more to your discussion just now than your summary in English.”
The iPhone did translate this. The leader replied, in a speech that was translated, “The People are The People. The People of the Story. That any of our species could be cut off from The People is . . . ..”
Siri stopped translating and the recorded voice said, “I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t quite get that.”
Worm finished the leader’s thought. “Inconceivable.”
“I don’t think that that means what you think it means,” Janet cautioned.
After translation, the leader’s response was, “The scope of the rule on this point is clear to me. We are part of The People.”
Justin said, “Let’s move on, then. What qualifies as one of ‘your’ star systems?”
This time there was no internal discussion between the aliens. Worm said, “This concept clear. Like you, The People on one planet evolved. Circles one star. The home of the People. No ‘Prime Directive’ for home system.”
“Where’s that?” Janet asked, curious.
Worm and the leader had a brief chitter together, after which Worm said, “Not telling. But far. Your years, our ship traveled over three hundred.”
“Holy Guacamole!” Janet exclaimed.
Justin was about to move on, but I thought this could be significant. “Will others of The People follow you?”
More internal discussion, followed by chittering from the leader that got translated. “Unlikely before our return home. Your star system is . . . remote.”
“Like Green Acres,’” Worm added helpfully. “Or ‘Gilligan’s Island.’ ‘Remote’ doesn’t capture . . . .”
“East Buttfuck,” Janet growled.
“The Back-Ass of Nowhere,” I agreed. “But useful to know.” I shot her a look that said, “Later.”
Justin said, “Let me ask about your idea of ‘less advanced’ species. What criteria do you use to determine if a society is more or less advanced?”
This time the internal and untranslated dialogue easily lasted five minutes.
Finally Worm turned his attention back to us. “The reference points in the Story complex are.
In your terms, maybe science. Engineering. Culture.”
“How do you measure culture?” Justin asked.
“Everything against the Story is measured,” Worm responded. “I reviewed many, many transmissions. Bonanza. Scooby-Doo. H.R. Puffnstuff.”
“Hey, there’s some good shit there!” Janet said, sounding defensive. Unwilling to throw pop culture under the bus, she added, “And, don’t forget Sanford and Son. Classic!”
I did not share Janet’s inhibitions. “The transmissions you intercepted are not representative of the cultural achievements even of our society, much less all the societies of our species. TV is just . . . mass communication. Entertainment.”
The leader responded, through the translator. “You prove the point, Jessica James. You don’t even have ‘a’ culture. Any more than you have ‘a’ language.”
I raised my chin in challenge. “Diversity has value too.”
The leader said, “In our culture unity is an advance. Nonconformity is . . . .”
The translation paused. Siri’s voice shifted into its more accustomed channel. “I’m sorry, Captain. I didn’t get that.”
The leader tried again, with the same result.
Worm attempted to assist. “I think right word is ‘defect.’ Or ‘disease.’ ‘Plague.’”
“Jessica?” Justin drew my attention, and dampened my ire, by the simple expedient of speaking softly and using my first name. “Let this one go. For today.”
I took a deep breath, then released it. “All right. But I don’t believe either species has sufficient information at this point to evaluate which ‘culture’ is more advanced.”
Janet agreed. “‘Whadya want to bet the Story’d be rejected by ev’ry studio in Hollywood!”
Justin jumped in to forestall the translation of Janet’s comment, which – for all we knew – might have triggered an interstellar war we would certainly lose. “Let’s explore the concept of whether an action ‘will alter’ our ‘natural development.’ Does the idea encompass a mere possibility? A probability? Or only a certainty?”
Chittering cross-talk was followed by Worm saying, “we do not understand.”
Justin attempted to explain with an example. “Giving Professor . . . James . . . your injection didn’t violate your rule, right?”
The aliens confirmed that it hadn’t.
“Well, you understand that it almost certainly increased her lifespan and created the possibility that she will . . . ah . . . reproduce?” He had the grace to blush.
I hadn’t given any thought to the possibility of being pregnant sometime. Although I had to acknowledge that I’d given more than a few passing thoughts to the activities that might cause such a thing to occur. . . .
“One person matters does not,” Worm said flatly.
“That’s not necessarily true,” Justin countered. “Just those two changes might have secondary and tertiary effects which could change the course of human development.”
“Unlikely,” Worm replied.
“Any number of individuals have changed the course of human development. Humans aren’t all the same. We have different skills. Different training. And Professor James is more highly educated than over 98 percent of our species. Extending her life is more likely to affect human development than you think.”
This led to considerable back-and-forth chittering.
“Should we Professor James terminate?” Worm asked, like he was talking about flipping a light switch.
“Now just a goddamned minute!” Janet said, starting to get up.
Justin forestalled her. “That solution would be very much against the law,” our learned counsel reminded the rule-conscious visitors.
“It also wouldn’t solve the problem, since my early death is as likely to ‘alter’ the development of the human species as the artificial extension of it would.” In my personal opinion, that likelihood would be precisely zero either way. I had an ego at least equal to any tenured professor, but even I wouldn’t claim to have done more than make an important contribution to my own field of linguistics. Truth be known, few of the people who had actually changed the course of human history had a Ph.D or a tenured ivory sinecure.
I kept my doubts to myself. This was no time for modesty – not even well-deserved and wholly appropriate modesty!
The aliens went back to chittering. Finally, the leader spoke. “I understand your point. An action that might alter natural development would not violate our rule. Unless it actually did alter development.”
“But after the fact, you can’t prove something actually changed the path of development unless you can demonstrate conclusively what would have happened otherwise,” I pointed out.
That lead to more chittering. Eventually the leader agreed with my assessment.
Justin moved in for the kill. “Then suppose you gave us the formula for some technology we don’t have, but might discover on our own tomorrow even without your help. That wouldn’t violate your rule, would it? There’d be no way to prove that the invention actually altered our ‘natural’ development path.”
They chittered. They chittered some more. They kept going back and forth.
I took a break and powdered my nose. Returned and sat, once again taking care to assume a ladylike pose. This ladylike stuff took a lot of thought and attention!
Janet did the same. Then Justin (although he was able to dispense with the ladylike pose!).
Finally the leader’s translator kicked in. “You are correct, Attorney Justin Abel. But it would depend on the technology. . . . How close your species was to discovery.”
“Jessica?” Justin asked. “What are you thinking? What’s the ask?”
I was flooded with a feeling of relief. Even triumph. We might pull this off! A smile spread wide across my face. “I’d like to buy the world a Coke!”
* * * * *
Worm and the Leader had returned to their ship after agreeing to research the likelihood that providing us with the formula for their battery technology would actually alter the ‘natural’ path of human development. Courtesy of their tap into the internet, they could probably get at least some idea of the current state of our science and research on this subject.
We had followed them outside and watched as they both appeared to float away into the twilight, rising up in a way that seemed very non-terrestrial. There was no flapping of wings, no blast off. One second they were standing there, the next they were just rising into the heavens like mylar balloons.
Justin watched until he couldn’t see them any longer.
“Blessed are they that have not seen, and yet believe?” I asked softly.
He looked at me, standing so close, and chuckled ruefully. “Yeah, you got me. Hard to maintain my professional skepticism when you show me something like that.”
On an impulse, I reached out and gave his arm a brief squeeze. “I’m glad. I understand why you wanted to suspend judgment. But . . . it was hard to trust you, when you couldn't bring yourself to trust us.”
His eyes met and held mine for a moment. A few heartbeats. His eyes had things to say that his disciplined mind would not allow him to speak.
“Pizza?” asked Janet.
We both practically jumped.
“Great idea,” Justin said, recovering first. “There are a few things we should talk about.”
We went back inside and Janet put in a call to – wouldn’t it just figure? – Highbrow Pizza. Then we sat at her table to debrief.
“Damn,” said Jessica. “Can you imagine what a coup it would be, to be the first human to see a copy of the Story?”
Justin said, “I was interested in how their language is all based on references to it. It’s like lawyers referring to principles by case name. I mean, all you have to do is say “Marbury v. Madison,” and with seven syllables you evoke the entire doctrine of judges reviewing whether the actions of the political branches conform to the Constitution. But their whole language works like that!”
I shook my head. “There’s a component I think you’re both missing. Their language all is based on references to this ‘Story,’ but . . . what comprises the Story itself? It can’t be words or symbolic language – they don’t have anything like that. So how would you teach it? You know, to the young, the ‘unformed.’ The ‘Worms?’”
“You’re sayin’ the whole thing’s circular?” Janet asked, trying to puzzle it out.
“Noooo,” I said, dragging the word out. I was still figuring it out too. “But I think the Story must be some sort of collective consciousness. More like the memory of the People than the story of the People.”
“That’s . . . .” Justin began, only to fall silent. The implications of collective consciousness were far-reaching.
“Yeah,” Janet said. “We are most definitely not in Kansas anymore.”
I added, “It might also help explain why they had a hard time accepting the notion that individuals can make a difference to the development of a society.”
We sat silently for a moment, then Janet shook her head as if to dismiss speculations. “You shushed me over that thing about our bein’ a backwater, Jessica. I assume you were thinkin’ it’s damned useful that we won’t see any more termites for at least 300 years?”
“Yup,” I replied. “That can be good and bad, I suppose, but it’ll sure give us some time to get our shit together.”
“And maybe next time we meet up, they won’t be callin’ us ‘backwards!’” she agreed, sounding just as aggrieved as I felt.
“What’s the plan?” Justin asked, practically.
“We’re going to bring the prototype battery to Gavin Grimm at MIT for testing,” I responded. “If it’s as good as the aliens say, I’m hoping we can get him to open his rolodex and get us a meeting with people who will be able to talk to people who can decide whether we can make a deal.”
He looked skeptical. “What do we have that they would want?”
“Oh! Hadn’t we mentioned? They want to trade for, ah, U-235.” Janet looked as innocent as a cat bathing in a bowl of cream.
“Huh?”
“Weapons-grade uranium,” I clarified. “They say it’s an aphrodisiac.”
“Some like it hot,” Janet explained.
Justin was shifting his gaze from one of us to the other. “Seriously? Why would anyone give that . . . material . . . to aliens?”
“Lots of reasons, Justin,” I said, using his first name for the first time. “But even if it was a terrible idea, which it actually isn’t, somebody’s going to do a deal. If it’s not us, their ‘ask’ could be something we don’t like. As in, at all.”
Justin gave that a moment’s thought, and suddenly looked a bit green. “Holy shit.”
“It’ll be alright,” I said reassuringly. “We give them some of their joy juice, they go away for a couple of centuries, and maybe when we meet again we’ll have better things to trade.”
“Uh huh.”
“But,” I said, “we’re going to need you to draft some agreements . . . .”
* * * * *
“I don’t think you should say anything about uranium. Or space aliens. Or gender-bending wonder drugs.” Janet was driving us to our Grimm appointment in Boston, and – very uncharacteristically – she was fretting.
After thinking some more, she added, “Really, you probably shouldn’t say anything at all. Just back me up.”
“How? By looking nubile and innocent?” And, truth be known, I was looking pretty damned nubile. A sleeveless, form-fitting navy-blue dress that came to four fingers above my knees emphasized every one of my new curves, and my golden hair cascaded down my back in a river of loose curls.
My “innocent,” on the other hand, still needed work.
Janet said, “Pert as a school girl and filled with girlish glee? No, that’s not what I had in mind. Not with that toad.”
“What’s your plan?” I asked.
She explained it.
“Are you serious! In your backpack?“
“I don’t have the customary briefcase, Jessica. I’m a professor, not a lawyer!”
I wasn’t sure about her plan, but all I knew about Grimm, apart from my vague memory of an old scandal, was based on the research I’d done when Janet mentioned his name. Janet knew him personally.
We entered his office about forty-five minutes later, right on time. He appeared to be focused on responding to an email, and he held up a hand to ask us to wait while he finished.
Then he saw me.
The email went unfinished. “Come in, come in!” His whole manner changed from annoyance to solicitousness in a flash. “Janet, so good to see you again.”
“How can ya say that, when you aren’t even lookin’ at me?” Janet’s tone was borderline affectionate. But . . . it wasn’t a particularly open or friendly border.
He flushed, whether from embarrassment or anger.
“It’s okay, Gav,” Janet soothed. “Just a little joke. I know my colleague has a habit of turnin’ heads. Gavin, Jessica James. Jessica, Professor Grimm.”
“Pleased to meet you – but is it really Jesse James?”
“No, it’s really Jessica James,” I said firmly. “I imagine you don’t find jokes about the Brothers Grimm humorous?”
He grimaced and looked at Janet. “Your colleague?” His intonation made it a question.
“Ms. James,” Jessica said tolerantly, “is older than she looks. Now . . . I know you said you were short on time?”
He sat up straighter. “Yes, very. What’s so secret that you needed face time?”
Getting right to the point, Janet said, “A radical new battery technology. Revolutionary. Change the world kinda stuff.”
He didn’t look impressed. Actually, he looked both bored and annoyed. “I hear that at least five times a day, Janet. At least. And this isn’t your field, so someone’s using you to get to me.”
“No-one put me up to this,” she said. “Hell, Gav, Patrice died ten years ago. Can’t be more’n a handful of people who even know you know me, if you know what I mean.”
He took a moment to untangle the epistemological twists of Janet’s statement before responding. “Fine. But that still begs the question. Why you? What do you know about batteries?”
“The important things,” Janet said stoutly. “How much energy they hold. How long it takes to charge ‘em. How many times they can be charged. Whether they’re stable. Size and weight.”
“But absolutely nothing, I expect, about how to optimize any of those things?” Grimm’s summary was just short of snide.
Janet was unconcerned. “Correct. I don’t know any of that, and neither do almost any people who will actually be usin’ batteries to do useful things. Like, just for instance, powerin’ electric vehicles. Not to mention various handheld . . . ah . . . devices.”
“What’s your point, Janet?” he asked impatiently.
“I want you to test a prototype battery. Test the hell out of it. I can’t tell you where it came from, and you’ll need to agree to keep your findin’s secret for now, and not to take any action to determine how it works.”
“Uh huh. So, I’m supposed to take up my valuable time testing someone else’s pet project without even figuring out how it works? Why would I do that? I did mention that time is something I have in very short supply?”
“Once or twice, yeah. But if these design specs check out . . . well. I think you of all people will understand what it'll mean.” She pushed a piece of paper across the desk to him.
He glanced at it briefly. Did a double take and reviewed it again. In detail. “Preposterous!”
“Maybe it is,” Janet said. “I’m no engineer. But if it’s right . . . .?”
“Yeah, and if radioactive spiders make people strong I can be Iron Man.”
“Spiderman,” she corrected.
“Whatever! Janet, this is my field. I know more about the state of the science than almost anyone on earth. There’s nothing that comes close to the specifications you’re showing me. Not remotely.”
“Okay,” Janet said. “Isn’t that all the more reason to test it?”
“Janet!!! I clearly haven’t impressed this on you humanities-addled brain. I’m BUSY!”
Janet was about to bark back, but I decided it was time for my part of the drama. “Professor Grimm . . . a moment, please?”
“What?” he snapped. But when he looked at me, his expression softened. “I apologize. Your ‘colleague’ has always had a talent for getting under my skin.”
“Don’t take it personally; she does that to everyone. We really aren’t wasting your time, but I know it seems that way. I think we can make it worth your while.”
He got an unpleasant gleam in his eye. “Just how do you propose to do that, Miss James?”
I decided to ignore the innuendo. “A wager, Professor. Fifty thousand dollars, to assist in your valuable research. If the battery doesn’t meet or exceed those specifications, that’s payment for your time.”
It was half of my savings. Thirty years of thrift to accumulate that amount, and I was pushing it all onto the green felt. But I had good reasons to believe in the aliens’ technology.
Two big ones, in fact.
“And if it does meet the specifications?” Grimm asked.
“We keep the money. I think, in that case, you’d agree that we haven’t actually wasted your time?”
He looked at the spec sheet again. “Yeah, no kidding. But how do I know you even have fifty thousand dollars. Are you going to write me a personal check?”
I unzipped Janet’s backpack, which I had carried for her, and started pulling out neatly wrapped stacks of hundred dollar bills. I started stacking them on the desk. “Ten to a wrapper, so we’ll need fifty.”
“Damn, girl,” Janet drawled. “You do that math in your head?”
Grimm, on the other hand, looked positively panicked. “Professor Seldon! What on earth is going on here! I won’t be party to some sort of . . . drug deal! Where the hell did all of this cash come from? Albuquerque?”
“Relax, Gavin. It came from my account, and I’ve fortunately brought along a copy of the receipt from my bank in Northampton. It’s legitimate as a royal heir.”
“And that’s supposed to reassure me?”
Grimm still looked acutely uncomfortable. I couldn’t blame him, really. The only time Americans see that kind of cash in one place is in the movies. Movies involving illegal activity.
“What am I supposed to do with it?” he asked.
Janet said, “We’ll put it into an escrow account. You can pick the bank and we’ll set it up. You and I’ll both need to agree before the funds are released.”
He almost balked at the agreements. The simple agreement to test wasn’t a problem, and the confidentiality agreement was standard. The agreement on the wager required a bit of a haggle, since we had built in protections in case he tried to cheat by falsifying a failed test. Mostly, it appeared to piss him off.
Where he really had trouble was the notice included in the agreement not to attempt to open the device or run any kind of scan on it. “What do you mean, the thing will explode!”
“Seems pretty straightforward to me,” Janet said. “Does ‘explode’ mean differn’t things to chemists than it does to literature professors?”
“First off, I’m not a ‘chemist!’ And second, ‘explode’ can mean a whole range of things, from mildly uncomfortable to catastrophic. You’re saying this thing is dangerous? Explosive?”
“Not if you don’t open it or scan it,” Janet said.
“How the hell do you know?”
“I don’t,” she snapped. “But that’s what the manufacturers said, and they don’t have a reason to lie. Do you want me to take this somewhere else? Your cross-town rivals, maybe?”
“There’s no-one else who comes close to my expertise and you know it! No-one at Harvard, certainly!”
“I’ll settle for someone with fewer brains an’ more balls! Christ, Gavin, this tech could change the world. You KNOW what those specs mean. If you’re even willing to contemplate letting me take this somewhere else, you’re half the scientist I thought you were, and a tenth the man my friend married!”
He stood, his face nearly purple with rage. He leaned over, planted his balled fists on the top of his desk, and shouted, “Get out! Out of my office! This instant!!!”
“Fine!!!” Janet said, leaping up. “C’mon, Jessica! Let’s see what the geniuses at Harvard have to say!”
I remained seated. “No, Janet,” I said quietly. “And no, Professor Grimm. This is too important. Janet, can you give me five minutes with the Professor?”
Both of them were looking at me. Equally surprised, though for different reasons.
Janet opened her mouth to protest.
I stood and faced her. “Please. It’ll be alright. Give me a minute.”
She gave me a look that was very hard to interpret, though I fully expected to get a translation – at full volume! – when we were alone together. Then she shrugged, as if to say, “Your funeral, girl,” gave a last glare at Professor Grimm, and walked out. She closed the door behind her with something close to a slam.
“My dismissal applied to both of you,” Grimm said icily.
“I know that, Professor. But . . . you and Janet clearly have a long history. And maybe not an entirely pleasant one. I wanted an opportunity to ask you to reconsider without all of those emotions interfering.”
“Young woman, are you suggesting that I am incapable of acting rationally?” He sounded affronted.
“To the contrary. The situation is sufficiently strange to arouse entirely reasonable suspicions. We’re asking you to take a risk. I know that.”
“So you agree that the rational course is for me to have nothing to do with this . . . scheme?”
“No, sir, I don’t. There are reasons to be cautious, and I trust – and hope – that you’ll take whatever precautions you can, while still performing a comprehensive set of tests to evaluate the performance of the battery. But . . . the potential gain here far outweighs any risk.”
He stared at me for a long moment. “Potential gain for whom, Miss James? What’s your role in all this?”
“Gain for all of humanity, sir. I want this technology available to everyone, everywhere. No licensing fees. No monopoly profits.”
“Fine words!” He said, sounding skeptical. He came around the desk and stood less than two feet away, very much in my personal space. “Why are you here, Miss James? Did Professor Seldon leave you alone with me so that you could claim something improper occurred?”
“No, sir. I expect Janet’s ready to rip me a new one. I’m here because you’re the right person for this job. I know it. You know it. And I don’t want some old fight between you and Janet to get in the way.”
He took a step closer, and was literally looming over me. “Just how much older than seventeen are you, Miss James?” The question was soft. Dangerously soft.
There he was, in my face. A direct physical threat. At sixty years old, James Wainwright, Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics, would have reacted with a curled lip, scorn, and derision. At seventeen, young James would have puffed out his chest, closed the distance, and met the challenge with force.
But a seventeen-year-old Jessica couldn’t use either approach. According to Janet, the signature glower of my later years was now “cute;” God knows how a sneer would look. And as for puffing out my chest . . . yeah, no. That’d just be presenting my wares like a bargain buffet at Denny’s.
Besides, I had no surge of testosterone to fuel an aggressive response. I needed something else. Something that would allow me to stand, to meet the threat without flinching. Without cowering. All I had was belief in myself, belief in what I was doing. “Firmness in the right, as God gives us to see the right.”
It would have to do.
I raised my chin. “Old enough to know you’re just testing me. Developing an effective battery technology has been the singular focus of your entire life’s work. It’s why you’re here, rather than raking in millions at some company. And it’s why I’m here.”
He was close enough that I could smell his breath. He had nice enough breath, fortunately. His eyes bore down on mine, and his glower would have done James Wainwright proud.
Damn, I missed my ability to glower!
“Just testing you, am I?”
I refused to lower my eyes. My heart was pounding. I was hoping that none of my nervousness, none of my fear, was showing. Maybe I should have girded with kevlar. But I answered, “Yes, sir.”
“Sure about that are you, Missy?”
“It’s ‘Jessica,’ and yes, I am.” I had never felt so vulnerable before. I was wearing three-inch pumps, and still I felt tiny. But I kept my voice steady.
He smiled. “Then I guess you pass. I’ll sign it.” He walked back to the other side of the desk, leaned over, and signed his name to the remaining agreement.
My knees felt strangely weak. Janet was going to kill me. And she’d be right. But the risk had paid off.
I gathered up the agreements and put them, along with the money, into the plain black backpack that Janet had brought with us. I thanked Professor Grimm and turned to go.
“Miss James?” he said, as I reached the door.
“Professor?”
“You are planning to give me the battery, aren’t you?”
What with all the drama, I’d practically forgotten the most important thing! My face flushed my now signature scarlet. “Of course, Professor. That was thoughtless of me.”
I unzipped the front pocket of the backpack, pulled out the prototype, and gave him a Coke and a smile.
“Is this your idea of a joke?” he asked, incredulous.
As the weight of the can registered, his expression turned first to surprise, then – as he dropped it – to dismay.
“Shit!” he said.
To be continued. Conceivably.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 9: A Matter of Honor
Janet gave me a long, long look. A head-to-toe inspection, with particular attention to the state of my hair, makeup and attire, as I walked across the lobby to where she was silently fuming.
“Will wonders never cease,” she drawled. “It appears that virgins may wander unmolested. Right here — in the heart of the Stata Symbol!”
I stopped, the echo of the click-click of my heels still sounding in my ears. I found myself standing in front of her like a misbehaving schoolgirl, ankles together, knees together, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Janet.”
“What. Were. You. THINKING!!!!” She didn’t get up.
“That we were so close . . . . and I don’t like to lose.”
“Some things you only get to lose once, you idiot!” She took a deep breath and launched into a detailed, colorful, and embarrassing recitation of my many flaws, past, present and yet to come, a positively Dickensian declamation.
I didn’t say anything.
Finally, even Janet ran out of expletives, colorful metaphors and obscure references to both nineteenth century literature and fifty years of popular culture. Given her background and encyclopedic memory, that took a considerable amount of time. She gave me another long, sour, searching look before saying, “Alright. You aren’t fightin’ back. What gives?”
“Because you were right. . . . And because I was scared.”
“What?!” She sounded incredulous.
I began to understand why my overuse of that query had occasionally irritated people. My statement didn’t seem strange to me, under the circumstances. So I asked, “Why what?”
She got to her feet. “Well first, I don’t think you’ve ever admitted that I was right about anything, even though I’m generally right about everything. And second . . . ‘cuz I can’t imagine you have enough sense to be scared of me.”
I shook my head. “Not you. Him. I was scared. I’ve never been scared . . . or, not like that.”
“What did he do?” Her question positively pulsed with menace.
I hadn’t run those risks just to have it all blow up. “He signed the agreements. And he didn’t touch me. But if he had tried something, I realized — really realized — that I couldn’t possibly stop him. That I was . . . ” I forced myself to grind out the last word . . . “powerless.” I was surprised to find myself shaking.
Janet’s eyes filled with sudden understanding, and her voice was soft. “So . . . you maybe learned something?”
“Oh yes!” I lifted my chin. “I learned just how much I hate to lose!”
* * * *
It had been a stressful day and a long one; we had to deal with setting up the escrow account (the bank manager’s expression, when we pulled $50,000 in cash out of a glorified book bag, was priceless), and westbound rush-hour traffic on the Mass Pike was insane. Relations between us were still tense, so we just went straight to our respective beds when we got back to Janet’s house.
I woke to the smell of eggs, bacon and coffee. Some of the best, most wonderful smells in the world. But I couldn’t bring myself to get out of bed.
Eventually an exasperated or impatient Janet knocked on the door. “Aren’t you up yet?”
“Go ’way,” I grouched.
Instead, she poked her head in. “C’mon, Jessica,” she coaxed. “I’ll even apologize . . . for bein’ right. The most deadly of the seven deadly sins.”
I gave her a baleful stare. “Janet, I feel like shit. I can’t possibly think about food. I’ll be up in a while. Maybe. If I don’t die first.”
She came and sat on the side of my bed. Very mom-like I suppose, though my memories of my own mom were pretty hazy. “What’s wrong?”
“Told you,” I grumbled. “I feel like shit.”
“You look like shit, too,” she agreed without any noticeable sympathy. “So it’s not all in your head, if that makes you feel any better. But do you have, like, ya know . . . symptoms?”
“Head hurts, body feels weird. And I’ve got . . . I dunno . . . muscle spasms? . . . in my nether region.”
“Oh,” she said.
“No!!!” I said, as the import of her knowing look hit me.
“There’s always a bright side,” she said, soothingly.
“Don’t tell me . . . .”
“Yep. You’re not pregnant.”
It was the beginning of three fun-filled days of mystical exploration. All the joy, the mystery of being reborn as a woman! I felt so close to Janet. To every woman ever born. I was, indeed, going where no man had gone before, and it was awesome.
Alright, that’s bullshit. It was awful, and I hated literally every bloody minute of it (and every literally bloody minute of it, too!), and I cursed the damned termites that had done this to me, and cursed God above for having done this to women more generally, and cursed Janet for no longer being subject to it.
Janet said I was barely spotting.
I cursed her again.
She warned that it could be worse in later iterations; this could turn out to be nothing more than the ladypart equivalent of a throat-clearing, prefatory to a full-blown Wagnerian Opera of guts, blood and drama.
I dug into my memory and found curses in old English and Hochdeutch. They knew how to curse!
But I did get through it, somehow, and on the fourth day I even made breakfast to apologize to Janet for having been a complete and total bitch for the entire period. Pun very much intended.
“Every damned month, huh?”I asked her, without much hope.
“It’s less predictable when you’re young,” she replied philosophically. “Might be as little as three weeks or so between periods at your age.”
Go not to literature professors for counsel, for they are wicked and think they’re funny.
We had a good breakfast despite Janet’s fun at my expense. At the end of the meal, though, we had to address a sensitive subject. On the off chance that something happened to her — something like, for instance, getting arrested when James Wainwright failed to arrive for the Fall semester — Janet wanted me to be able to get access to cash. Going to multiple branches of her bank over a period of a week, she had withdrawn virtually all of the money — not just all the money I had transferred to her, but her own money too. We hadn’t discussed it in advance.
“I’m not sure what’s crazier,” I said. “The fact that you’ve got all this cash, or the fact that you’re carrying it around in a backpack!”
“Just five thousand in the backpack. I put the rest in a safe deposit box at Florence Bank. In fact, why don’t we take a little drive after we clean up.”
I thought we were going to the bank, but instead Janet drove around in circles for a while, then stopped at a McDonalds.
Janet’s very definitely not a food snob (or a snob of any sort), but this was unlike her. “You got a hankering for a happy meal? We just ate?”
“I love the smell of nuggets in the morning,” she said conspiratorially. “It reminds me of acne.” She opened the glove compartment and pulled out what appeared to be a rock. The underside had a piece that slid out to expose a key hidden in a recess. “This is a key to the safe deposit box.”
She closed the compartment then carried the rock to the base of the McDonalds sign, where she put it with a few other rocks.
“Janet,” I said as she got back in the car, “Wouldn’t that be safer at your house? I understand being a bit paranoid, but this is crazy!”
“There’s another copy at the house, in the drawer where I throw all the unidentified keys I’ve collected over the years. This is a ‘just in case’ kind of thing.”
“You used to be such a sensible woman,” I complained.
“When?” she replied, indignant.
“Yeah, good point,” I conceded.
“Better! You’re a guest in my house, don’t go insultin’ me like that!”
* * * *
Three more days passed. We were going more than a bit crazy. We hadn’t heard from the termites, we hadn’t heard from Professor Grimm, and we had nothing better to do than worry. To distract ourselves, Janet was showing me how to use a moisturizing face mask. As a result, I wasn’t fit to be seen when the doorbell rang.
Janet’s house isn’t large, so I had no trouble hearing what was going on from my bedroom.
“Officer Wolf. How nice to see you again,” Janet said dryly.
“Professor Seldon, I’m here to execute a search warrant on these premises for information relating to the disappearance of James Wainwright.”
“Ain’t you the proper Lord High Executioner? And I’m guessing you’ve got a little list, too.”
“A warrant, Ma’am. For today, you’re not on it. Interfere, and you will be.”
“But Professor Wainwright hasn’t disappeared.”
“I’m not buying it. The judge didn’t buy it. End of the day, I doubt a jury’s gonna buy it either. But if your smooth-talking lawyer wants to give it a shot, he’s welcome to try.”
“You’ve got no evidence of any crime!”
“You miss the part where I said the judge didn’t buy it? I’ve got a badge and a warrant, and all you’ve got’s an argument for another day. Stand aside, Ma’am.”
I grabbed my phone and made an urgent call.
“This is Justin Abel . . . .”
“Justin, it’s Jessica . . . .”
“I can’t take your call right now, but if you leave your name, number, and a brief message I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”
Dammit! Voicemail! “It’s Jessica James. Officer Wolf is at Professor Sheldon’s house executing a search warrant. Please call!”
“If it isn’t Miss Rabbit,” said the Wolf at my door.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing!” I hollered, started. Bad enough he was in the house, but he caught me wearing nothing but a nightie, a sweet nothing of a dressing gown, and a face full of mud. I was ripped!
“My duty,” he replied with a slow smile.
“The sacrifices you make! Will you kindly step out of my room so I can get dressed?” My tone was icy.
“And hide or destroy evidence? Mais non, petite lapine.”
French? French was nothing. Anyone could learn French! “Numpty scunner! Bawheed! Faugh!!!”
“What?”
“Leck mich am Arsch!”
He gave up. “I’m not here to trade . . . whatever you’ve been spitting at me. I’ve got a warrant and I’m going to execute it, and if you interfere I’ll arrest you and take you downtown just as you are!”
It was, under the circumstances, an effective threat. “Rummaging around in a lady’s dressing room?” I asked scornfully, mentally thanking Janet for showing me the movie. “What are you looking for, Mr. Wolf? Well, never mind. You just do your executing. Don’t mind me if I do a little recording!”
I held up the phone. But . . . I had never actually used the camera. I wasn’t sure what to do. So I just held it in what I hoped was a suitably threatening manner.
Which is when the doorbell rang a second time. “Good evening, Ma’am,” I heard from the doorway. “Wayne Knight, Treasury Department. I’m here to ask you a few questions about some recent banking activities.”
“Oh, fine! Search away!” I said, pushing past the officious Officer Wolf and going into the hallway, my useless phone still in my hand.
“Why don’t you come in,” Janet was saying to the new arrival.
“Maybe because he doesn’t have a warrant?” I suggested.
“Jessica, hon, you look a bit underdressed for entertainin’ important visitors,” Janet said.
“A bit late for that,” I growled.
From the door, Mr. Knight said, “Really, I’m just here to ask some questions.” He saw me and his eyes bugged. He found somewhere else to look with almost frantic alacrity.
“Step into my parlor,” Janet said.
Knight stepped inside hesitantly, trying desperately to keep from glancing my way. It was almost comical.
I decided not to make his job any easier. “Can I get you something, Mr. Knight? Tea? Coffee? A moisturizing mask?”
“N-n-no, thank you, ah, Miss,” he managed, moving towards the couch like he was walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
Janet watched the show with a sardonic smile. “Isn’t it your duty as a knight t’sample as much peril as you can?”
“Excuse me?” Knight asked weakly, as his buckling knees dropped him onto the couch.
But Knight had barely settled on the couch when someone hammered on the door.
“Oh, fine, I’ll get it,” I said before Janet could get up. “Modesty’s surely a lost cause tonight anyway!”
I pulled the front door open with a jerk, surprising an imposing man with a completely bald head just as he was about to hit the door again. “If you say anything about knockers, you’re a dead man!” I growled.
“What?” he replied, sounding fatuous. But he recovered quickly and added, “Earl Grant, Department of Homeland Security.”
“Mr. Grant,” I said, “it seems like it’s law enforcement appreciation day at the Seldon household today, and we’re booked up. Would you like to take a number?”
Our voices carried to the living room, and the arrival of this new visitor was apparently enough to rouse Mr. Knight from his peril-induced timidity. “What are you doing here, Grant?” he asked, getting up and moving towards the door.
“Making sure you don’t screw up a delicate situation,” Grant said repressively. He pushed past me with barely an “excuse me, Miss,” then confronted Knight. “We’re taking charge of this matter.”
“Under whose authority?” Sure enough, Knight was puffing out his chest.
“The Secretary of Homeland Security himself,” Grant replied.
“Oh, I’m so impressed! The Treasury Department has only existed for . . . I don’t know . . . a couple centuries longer than that dog’s breakfast of agencies you call a ‘department!’”
“We’re the frontline defense for national security!”
“That and a few bucks’ll buy you a latte — and guess whose department controls the bucks, buttwipe!”
“Aha!!!” cried Officer Wolf, who emerged from my room brandishing a wallet. My wallet, which unfortunately contained the only ID I possessed. The one that identifies me as James Wainwright. “What have we here?”
The federal agents looked at him.
“A wallet?” asked Grant.
“Is this a trick question?” Knight added, sounding a bit whiny.
“Who are you, and what are you doing here,” Wolf blustered. “I’ve got a warrant to search these premises!”
“Grant. Homeland Security.”
“I report to the Secretary of the Treasury — the senior service! — and he reports only to the President!” barked Knight.
Officer Wolf said, “Sweet. But I report to Sergeant Bane of the Northampton Municipal Police. He pisses on presidents and shits bigger’n both of you!”
They were almost chest-to-chest, arguing about precedents and jurisdiction and what-all, though the vocabulary seemed a bit low for such arid and esoteric subjects. My phone, still in my hand, began to buzz. When I saw who it was, I gently touched Janet’s arm and steered her through the front door that Grant hadn’t bothered to close. The sounds of the argument followed us.
“I think I’ll go for a little walk now,” Janet said under her breath.
“Ensign Worm,” I said, answering my phone as we got outside. “How nice of you to call. Would you happen to be nearby?”
“Affirmative, Jessica James,” his flat voice replied.
“Would you mind if we conducted our conversation on your ship?”
After a moment, he replied, “We can that do.”
I got a firm grip on Janet's arm. “Two to beam up!”
Our feet left the ground. Janet grinned fiercely and said, “Exit, stage . . . Fright!”
We were probably 100 yards above the house, vanishing into the evening twilight, when Officer Wolf came through the front door, followed by the two federal agents. From high above, their scurrying made them look like ants when their nest is disturbed.
Or maybe termites.
“Beamin’ worked different on Star Trek,” Janet said, as thoughtfully as is possible while being pulled effortlessly through the air.
“Is that a complaint?”
“No, no. Got no great desire to have my atoms scattered and reassembled or whatever. Besides . . . this is kinda fun. Regular E-Ticket ride.”
We were now pretty high up, and the nylon of my nightie and dressing gown did nothing to keep out the chill. But a rescue was a rescue. I wasn’t going to complain until I turned into a pulchritudinous popsicle.
Janet saw that I was still holding my phone. “Hey, girl, how ’bout a selfie, huh?”
“No photos!” I shivered, and mostly not from the cold. “The only reason I’m not losing it right now is that the termites have no conception of human aesthetics.”
“You still look pretty good . . . from the neck down.”
“Gee thanks!”
With startling suddenness, our view of Northampton vanished as a door soundlessly slid shut beneath our feet. We hovered over it for a moment before being gently lowered to a surface that felt, to my bare feet, like Velcro. A hatch of some sort opened some thirty feet in front of us.
“Shall we?” I said.
“Hell yeah. This is way more fun than Madagascar.” As we walked towards the hatch, Janet added, “‘Course, I am missin’ the lemurs.”
I smiled. Maybe she was just putting on a brave face, and inside she was as nervous as I was. But somehow I doubted it. If Janet had to go somewhere, she would, by God, go boldly!
The other side of the hatch was familiar from my prior trip to the vessel — a replica, or possibly some form of illusion, showing the bridge of the Enterprise from the original Star Trek series. All the bridge stations appeared to be occupied by people in uniforms from the TV show, though Ensign Worm, standing by the center seat, was still in his Cronkite suit and flip-flops.
I acknowledged our hosts. “Elder Mission Leader. Ensign Worm.”
Worm looked at me carefully, his face as usual impassive. “I am your aesthetics understanding not much. Did we make mistake with your face?”
“Ah . . . no. The covering is a skin treatment.” It would also, I hoped, hide my deep blush. “I apologize for our appearance — we weren’t planning on seeing anyone this evening.” Janet, at least, was wearing a bit more than my scanty pink nightie!
“Comms, at least, should be female,” Janet said, looking at the apparent composition of the bridge crew.
“Ah!” said Worm. “We this wondered. It time took to fully understanding this thing. Your species gender split.”
The Elder chittered, and Siri’s voice eventually translated. “Our species does not divide gender. All the People can produce the equivalent of your eggs and sperm. Which, is a matter of season and . . . .”
“I’m sorry Captain, I didn’t quite get that,” Siri’s voice finished.
Worm tried, as usual, to supply a word for the concept that was not translating easily. “‘Preference?’ Maybe, ‘Mood?’”
My interest was piqued. “It’s a periodic cycle?”
The Captain’s chitters translated, “Change is possible in season. Whether it happens? Random. Rare.”
“That’s gotta complicate reproduction,” Janet observed.
“Uranium helps,” Worm said.
“Puts ya in the mood, does it?”
“Oh, yes!” Worm said. His normally flat affect held the faintest note of rapture. He added, “We get no kicks from champagne.”
“You have grapes?” Janet asked.
“What?”
I cut in. “Ensign, I assume you were calling us because you completed your research. Perhaps,” I added, giving Janet a meaningful look, “you could update us on what you’ve determined?”
The guy at the science station responded, though his ‘words’, like the Elder’s, were translated using Siri’s voice. “We have an eighty-seven point three percent confidence level that your species will develop an equivalent energy storage system within a period of time corresponding to five of your terrestrial years, give or take one order of magnitude.”
We looked at them.
They looked at us.
“I was told there would be no math,” Janet said sourly.
Statistics wasn’t exactly my field either. “I think he is saying that it’s pretty likely to happen at some point in the next fifty years.”
“That correct is,” Worm agreed.
“So . . . where does this leave us?” I asked.
“We have idea,” Worm responded. “But . . . We want to Justin Abel consult.”
I rearranged his sentence in my mind. “Oh! I guess . . . I mean, I actually just tried to call him. He wasn’t available, but maybe I can try again?”
The leader interceded. “Please attempt to contact Attorney Justin Abel. We are eager to discuss our thinking with him.”
I called his cell phone but hung up when I got his voicemail again. I tried his office number and got another voicemail. While it was still playing, I got a text. “In a meeting. Can I call in 5?” I sent an affirmative response.
“We should hear back from him in a few minutes,” I told the aliens.
“We can here bring him,” offered Worm.
I blanched. “When I look like THIS!”
“Hush, Jessica, you look fine,” Janet soothed.
“Not from the neck up!”
“Given what you look like from the neck down, Hon, I kinda doubt he’ll be looking anywheres else.”
“I convinced remain we too much tissue to chest and rear added,” Worm said judiciously. “The proportions. . . .”
“STIFLE!” I shouted. Everyone was sufficiently startled to shut up. Knowing the silence was too good to last, I said, as politely as I could, “Elder Mission Leader, would it be possible to have a few minutes of privacy and some warm water? I would be embarrassed to be seen like this.”
Janet added, “Something for her to wear might be nice too.”
When Justin called me back, Janet and I were back in the hatch room. We had gotten the moisturizing mask off of my face and I had changed out of my nightie. The aliens had no difficulty fabricating something for me to wear. Their pattern, unsurprisingly, was the uniform which, Janet informed me, had been worn by a Star Trek character called “Uhuru.”
The boots were every bit as impractical as I had thought. And Roddenberry must have run out of his budget for fabric.
Still, I was delighted not to be conducting delicate negotiations in my delicates. Even if the termites were wholly uninterested.
I answered the call formally. “Good evening, Mr. Able.”
“Ms. James — I just listened to your message. Are you both alright?” He sounded very concerned, which was . . . strangely gratifying.
“We are, but there have been a few developments since I left my message. We have some . . . distant visitors who would like to confer with you. You’d need to . . . ah . . . take a short flight.”
He caught on immediately. “Would I be meeting you there?”
“We’re both with them,” I confirmed.
“Give me three minutes to get to a good location.”
“Roger,” I said. It’s so good to deal with professionals.
A few minutes later, Justin joined us both in the “Bridge” simulation. He looked around, a delighted expression on his mobile face. “You’re better than re-runs!” When he saw me, though, he looked surprised. “Have they recruited you?”
“What? Oh! The ‘uniform.’ No, I just didn’t have anything to wear.”
“Uh . . . got it.”
“Attorney Justin Abel,” Worm said. “We want consult to have. About scope of our rule.”
Justin looked at him, at the Elder, and finally at both of us. “I’m not sure I can help you,” he replied.
“What?!!” I was shocked.
The Elder chittered at him, and Siri translated. “We wish to get your opinion on application of our Rule to battery technology. Your questioning at our last meeting was helpful.”
“Justin,” I said, “this is important!”
He held my gaze long enough to quiet me, then turned his attention back to the Elder. “With respect, Elder, I was asking those questions on behalf of my clients, Professors Seldon and James. I owe them a duty, a loyalty. I can’t advise you on the same matter unless your interests are aligned with theirs. Perfectly aligned. And . . . they may not be.”
“This is no time for lawyer games,” Janet growled.
Justin shook his handsome head. “It’s exactly the time for them, Professor. Ethical rules that only apply when stakes are low aren’t worthy of the name.”
“I understand this much not,” Worm said.
“If I advise you on the application of your rule to a particular fact pattern,” Justin said, “you have to be confident that my advice is given solely with your interests in mind. Your interests, as you understand them. Otherwise my advice is meaningless.”
The Elder chittered. “We are just trying to understand the scope of a rule. It is the same, isn’t it, regardless of who is asking the question?”
“I can only say, Elder, that the contrary hypothesis forms one of the primary reasons for the existence of my profession.”
“Where you stand depends on where you sit,” Janet said, a touch sourly. “Lawyers!”
“Justin,” I said softly. “I understand. But . . . If we fired you, could you advise them?” There was a part of me that hoped he would say “no;” in a short time, I had come to rely heavily on his advice. But this was important — very important.
His eyes had widened at my question. “Is that really what you want? Both of you?” His voice was as soft as my own, and conveyed deep concern.
“Elder,” I asked, “Can Professor Seldon and I have a moment to confer privately?”
They made the hatch room available to us again, with assurances that they would not monitor or record our conversation. So far, they had given me a clear impression of being very honest about such things.
“Damn, girl,” Janet said when we were alone. “We actually find a pink unicorn and you’re gonna let him go?”
“I can’t think of another way to get past this hurdle. I’m open to any ideas you might have.”
“But we don’t even know if the technology works,” she countered.
I shook my head. “I think we do know.”
“Huh?”
“We know why Wolf showed up. We know why Knight showed up, too. But there’s only one reason DHS would have gotten involved.”
Janet thought about that a minute before her face assumed a truly murderous expression. “That WEASEL! That stupid, pompous, contemptible WEASEL!!!”
“Janet . . . “
“Patrice should never, EVER . . . “
“JANET!!!”
She paused. Looked at me. “Don’t you try to make excuses for him, Jessica!”
I took a deep breath. “I was kind of hoping for this, actually.”
“Now I’m convinced. The girl juice pickled your brain.”
I decided not to engage on that point. I didn’t think she was right about that, but by definition I wouldn’t know. “He’s on the President’s Science Advisory Board. Confidentiality agreement or no, if that battery was as good as advertised, he would tell the appropriate federal authorities. He’d almost have to.”
“First Abel. Now Grimm. I’m surrounded by ‘honorable men!’”
“Janet . . . We needed a contact inside the government. Grant’s a start.”
“Yeah. I guess. I’m still gonna strangle that weasel when I see him again. And you can bet your plush tush that I’m gonna see him.”
I decided I wasn’t going to fight that fight either. Besides, I wasn’t positive I didn’t agree with her. “So we’ve got a place to start, but we need to be able to make an offer. And they won’t give us what we’re looking for without assurances from Justin.”
“Yeah, go figure. . . . Their civilization’s survived without lawyers for longer than our species has been sentient, and within days of meetin’ one, he’s indispensable!”
“I know,” I said soothingly.
“They’re totally fucked now, you know that? Their civilization will never recover.”
“I’m confident they’ll manage,” I said. “Really, I’m more worried about you. Your legal troubles look like they're just starting.”
Janet looked thoughtful. “About that . . . . I think I’ve got an idea. You want to ask Justin to join us for a minute?”
“Okay,” I said, sounding dubious.
“Trust me,” she responded.
That didn’t give me a warm and fuzzy feeling, but I went out and brought Justin in.
“How ‘bout this,” Janet said without preamble. “We fire you with respect to anything related to trade negotiations with the aliens. But you’ll still represent me on anything related to the ‘disappearance’ of Professor Wainwright or whatever Knight was bitchin’ about?”
Justin thought a minute. “I’ll still need conflict waivers from all parties, but yes . . . I could advise the aliens on the offer and contract issues under those circumstances. Ms. James, do you want the same carve-out?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid Janet’s the suspect. I don’t even exist, officially. So let’s just have you represent Janet on the limited issues.”
“Okay,” he said. “There’s a whole lot of stuff I’ll need to memorialize in writing when we’re back on the ground, but I think we can proceed in the meantime. If you’re both sure you’re okay with it?”
Janet and I both gave him a formal, verbal okay.
He took a deep breath, then broke out in a huge, boyish grin that took years off of him. “Let me go confer with my new clients!” And off he went.
“What have we done?” Janet moaned.
It was probably an hour later before the door opened and we were invited back on the “bridge.” The Elder in the center seat spoke, and Siri’s voice calmly announced, “Trading this technology would not, we think, violate our rule, based on Attorney Able’s analysis.”
Or, I thought irreverently, on the attorney’s able analysis. Justin had come through!
“Your species is used to thinking in shorter time increments than ours, Professor Seldon. Professor James. Fifty years is nothing in the life of the People. Even Worm is older than that.”
Justin said, in a dangerously bland voice, “In three hundred years or so, no-one will be able to demonstrate whether this deal made any difference at all. So it’s entirely consistent with the Prime Directive. Properly understood, of course.”
Personally, I thought that was a strange way to read their ‘prime directive,’ but it was a damned convenient one — for both sides. Quelling the excitement that was rising up inside me and attempting to project calm, I said, “I must confirm one more time that, if we have this formula, we will have both the raw materials and the manufacturing capability needed to replicate it.”
Science guy said, “With our formula, we calculate you could commence large-scale manufacturing within four months.”
I thought about that.
Worm looked at me carefully. “Not Poker, Jim. Chess. And . . . your move.”
I got the point, if not the reference. “I understand, Ensign. Elder. But our next steps, with our own authorities, will be a bit complicated.”
Justin’s smile was predatory. “We’re gonna want a lot of U-235. A lot!”
“What have we done?” Janet moaned. Again.
. . . . To be continued. Honestly.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 10: Power Play
“Is your internet tap active?” I asked Ensign Worm. Justin, Janet and I were still on the alien’s ship, in the area they had made to look like the Bridge of Kirk’s Enterprise.
“Affirmative.” As always, his flat affect served to remind me that, appearances to the contrary notwithstanding, Worm isn’t human.
“I need to call a man who works in the U.S. Department of Homeland Security. His name is Earl Grant.”
Worm looked at my phone, then looked at me. “Your communicator works not?”
“It works; I don’t have his phone number. And you don’t want to see what happens if I try to use Siri to help me find it.”
The Spock/Bill Nye wannabe at the Science Station stopped fiddling with dials and faced me, chittering something. Siri eventually translated. “There is no record of the Department employing anyone by that name.”
I looked at Janet, confused. “I’m sure that’s what he said his name was. Did I get it wrong?”
Janet shook her head. “I heard him too. And Knight.”
Justin looked at Janet, then me. “Night?” What’s night got to do with it?”
“Not ‘night,’ ‘knight.’” As soon as I said it, I realized how unhelpful it was.
Janet, of course, was up to the task. “Ya know – as in, ‘you silly English kinniggits!’”
“Oh, right. ‘Knight.’” Justin said. “But, why knights?”
“’Cuz maidens need rescuin’?” Janet replied, puckishly.
“Maidens?” Justin was looking even more bewildered.
I decided to stop the fun before our hosts decided our species wasn’t really sentient after all. “Wayne Knight. Not a title; just a name.”
“Ah,” said Worm, nodding knowingly. “Like Freddie Mercury.”
“Yeah. Nothin’ to do with the planet,” Janet agreed.
Justin shook his head, bemused. “What was going on down there? I thought Officer Wolf was executing a search warrant.”
“Well, that too,” Janet said. “It was kinda busy there for a bit.”
“I guess,” Justin said. “Who’s Knight?”
“Treasury. Wanted to ask about my bank withdrawals.”
“Why would the feds care about your withdrawals?” Justin looked perplexed.
“Well . . . you know Treasury’s notified of cash withdrawals over $10,000?”
“Of course.”
“I took out more’n that,” Janet said.
“How much more?” Justin asked, looking concerned.
“$165,000, more’r less.” Janet was attempting to project an air of nonchalance.
“In cash?” Justin exclaimed. “That’s a bit much for a car; a bit light for a house. Are you planning a trip? Maybe a long trip?”
The Elder in the center seat chittered. Translated, he said, “We are concerned. Has Professor Seldon violated the law?”
“Hell, no!” Janet said.
“The Professor is correct,” Justin said. “You can take your money out of your bank any time – just, a certain amount will raise alarm bells.”
“And, Officer Wolf was only investigating the disappearance of James Wainwright.” I said.
“You disappeared?” Worm asked.
“Of course not,” I said. “But they don’t know that.”
The Elder chittered. “You didn’t tell them?”
“I did tell them. People don’t believe it, Elder. I don’t think even Justin believed – not until he saw you beam up to your ship.”
“In my defense,” Justin began.
His new client’s chittering cut him off. “I thought humans listened to people who were young and aesthetically correct?”
“I knew proportions wrong were,” Worm said.
“I promise you,” Justin interjected, “That isn’t the problem.”
“Why thank you, young man,” I said to Justin with a smile and a flutter of my eyelashes. Then I said to the Elder, “They might listen to me about some things, but they won’t believe that I’m James Wainwright. Your shot was far beyond our capabilities.”
Science guy started chittering again. He went on for a while before Siri translated. “We have monitored incoming and outgoing transmissions from the communications devices carried by the three individuals who were present at the location from which we initiated beam-up procedures for Jessica James and Professor Seldon. Our monitoring allows us also to determine the identifying numbers for their communications devices.”
Well that was certainly interesting! “What are the identifying numbers?”
Through Siri, he responded, “2128756921, 4132578541, and 2023742209.”
“The 413 number is obviously Wolf,” Janet said. “Isn’t 212 New York City?”
“And 202 is D.C.,” I said, agreeing. I asked the aliens, “Do you have the ability to correlate the unique identifying numbers to the names of individuals?”
“If the information available through your ‘internet,’ is, yes,” Worm replied.
“Can you try to determine the names attached to the numbers beginning with ‘212’ and ‘202’?”
Science guy fiddled with dials for a few minutes before replying. “We have no reliable information on the 212 number. The 202 number is associated with a human who is in the database of employees for the Department of Homeland Security, reporting to someone identified as the ‘Undersecretary for Science and Technology.’”
“That must be our man,” I said. “What’s his name?”
“It is listed in the database as ‘Grant, Dukkov.’”
“Well . . . close enough, I guess?” I said.
“No wonder he was so abrasive,” Janet said. “Horrible parents, givin’ him a name like that!”
That seemed a bit culturally insensitive to me. “‘Slavic’ isn’t the same as ‘cruel,’ Janet.”
“It is, if he’s goin’ around usin’ his middle name,” Janet replied.
Justin’s eyes crossed. “Oh! Yeah, that is evil. Dreadful parents!”
“We do not this understand,” Worm interjected.
“It’s unimportant,” I assured him. “Just another example of human ‘humor.’ Some of which is pretty low, honestly.”
“Humor elevation has?” he inquired. Worm is a curious creature in more ways than one.
“Difficult to explain,” I said. “But for now, I think we may have what we need to get started.” I looked at Janet. “Any thoughts, before I call him?”
“Ideas? Oh, yeah!” Janet got an evil grin on her face. “Call him ‘Dukkov!’”
She was right.
I punched in the number after asking Science Guy to repeat it. After two rings, a wary male voice answered. “Hello?”
“Is this Dukkov Grant?” I asked, in my sweetest voice.
That resulted in a moment’s hesitation. But eventually he responded, “Who is this?”
“Jessica James. Professor Janet Seldon is with me; I understand you wished to speak with her?”
“I want to speak with both of you. But . . . why does your caller ID say “James Wainwright?”
“It’s a long story. Might be relevant to your inquiry. But . . . It’s not something that we want to discuss on an unsecured line.”
He was silent for what seemed like a long time before he replied, “All right. So . . . I assume you know what I want to discuss with you.”
“Would it have something to do with a professor in the Boston area who writes fairy tales with his twin?”
“Wh . . . ah, oh! . . . right. Yes. Correct.” That shouldn’t have been hard!
“Okay. We want to talk to you, too. And to others in your, ah, chain of command. But – and this is very, very important – we will need the meeting to be conducted under the strictest security and the highest level of confidentiality. I promise you, you will want it this way as well.”
“Why?” Grant countered.
How much could I say over an open line? I thought a minute. “Because the owners wish to discuss an exchange of value.”
Another pause, then Grant, equally carefully, said, “For the item?”
“For the know-how,” I said.
Dead silence.
“You’re shitting me?”
“No, sir,” I responded. “So . . . we’ll need to talk to someone in a position to discuss . . . ah . . . something with appropriate return value.”
Another long pause, then he said, “Can I reach you at this number?”
That seemed like . . . kind of a bad idea. The last thing I wanted was for them to try to track me. Especially since I didn’t have any idea where I was likely to be. “No. But if I can reach you at this number, I’ll call back. How long do you need to set something up?”
“Tomorrow, COB,” he responded. “This number is fine.”
“Thank you,” I responded. “I’ll call then.” I ended the call and looked at Janet. “I hope he’s got enough juice to cut through the bureaucratic nonsense.”
“ ’Course he does,” she responded. “Nothing can stop the Duke of Earl!”
“I do not . . . .” Worm began.
“Low humor,” I said, “is Professor Seldon’s specialty.”
* * * * *
Justin returned back to Northampton. Whatever was going on with Officer Wolf and Mr. Knight, they didn’t have anything that would give them cause to give him trouble. Not yet, anyhow. Meantime, he promised to get us some burner phones.
I dropped my own phone from some absurd height above the Connecticut river, followed a few moments later by its SIM Card. I was cheerful as I watched them accelerate away from me at 32 feet per second, per second. “Buh-bye, Siri! So long, farewell, Auf Wiedersehn, good-bye . . . .”
Janet and I spent the night in the hold where we had first entered the ship. Our termite hosts made us reasonably comfortable by fabricating some cushions and blankets. It felt safer; Janet’s house might be watched, and at the moment we lacked resources to go elsewhere. We would need to get cash out of the safe deposit box, but without transportation we would spend a lot of time walking around Northampton, and I was looking pretty conspicuous at present.
“If we were in New York,” Janet had said, “People’d barely give your uniform a second look. Plenty of crazy people wandrin’ the streets there. In the Pioneer Valley, though . . . .”
Around 10:00 a.m., Janet got a text from Justin with coordinates for a pickup. The aliens beamed up the box Justin had put together. He sent five burner phones, $4,000 in cash and two sausage & pepper grinders from BBA.
Janet looked at the grinders and grinned. “Marry him, Hon!”
“Oh, I don’t know,” I responded thoughtfully. “He should have known that BBA is famous for their kielbasa and sauerkraut. I might hold out for someone with better . . . .”
“Sausage?” Janet interjected before I could finish.
“Janet!!!!”
“What?” She took a bite of her grinder and closed her eyes for a moment of blissful enjoyment. “Damn, I was gettin’ hungry!”
I took a bite myself. And . . . yeah. Hunger’s the best seasoning and all that.
Janet cocked an eyebrow at me. “I know I was kiddin’ and all, but . . . he is kinda cute. And don’t tell me you haven’t noticed.”
I used the excuse of chewing to put off responding to her question.
“C’mon, Jessica,” she said. “Girlfriends gotta dish. It’s one of the benefits – and duties – of bein’ in the club, so to speak.”
“But . . . there’s nothing to ‘dish’ about,” I said defensively. “He’s our lawyer.”
“No,” Janet responded with great precision. “He’s my lawyer. An’ he’s the termite's lawyer. But you kinda specifically left it so that he isn't your lawyer. Thought I missed that?”
I found myself playing with my hair, twisting a long, gold strand around the index finger of my right hand, while I avoided Janet’s scrutiny. “Well, it seemed like I didn’t need a lawyer myself . . . .”
“Uh huh,” Janet said. “Or just maybe you didn’t want him dredgin’ up some super-secret lawyer’s guild rule about non-fraternization or somethin’?”
I twisted the hair tighter, but had no other response.
“Jessica . . . You sure you’re ready for this?”
I decided that my playing stupid wasn’t going to make Janet any dumber. “I don’t know,” I answered quietly.
“Can you tell me what you’re thinkin’?”
I shook my head. “Not sure I’d characterize it as ‘thinking,’ exactly.”
She smiled and sang, “‘With the thoughts you’d be thinkin’, you could be another Lincoln . . . ‘“
I sighed. “‘If I only had a brain.’ Too right, I’m afraid. With the thoughts I'd be thinking, though, I’d be lucky to be another Roman Hruska.”
“Tell me what you’re feelin’, then,” Janet said. “I’m not just bein’ nosy. This is new to you. I might be able to help, and even if I’m not, it might help you to talk about it.”
“I . . . I know. But it’s so hard. I’ve been a guy for sixty years. Sixty years, Janet! And suddenly I’m . . . .” I was having trouble finishing the sentence.
“Not?” Janet offered.
I made an impatient gesture. “Yes. I mean, no, obviously not. But it’s not just that. It’s being . . . .”
Janet decided to be more helpful. “Attracted to guys? Sexually?”
I wanted to say “no.” It was embarrassing – so embarrassing! This was a woman who had been attracted to me, to James Wainwright, even though I’d been too blind to see it. And too timid to do anything about it. My face was burning with shame. But I nodded and whispered, “Yeah.”
I was shocked when Janet pulled me into a hug. “Jess, honey, it’s okay. It’s okay.”
Almost without my own volition, I wrapped my arms around her tightly and buried my face into her shoulder. “I’m so confused,” I confessed, suddenly in tears. “I look at Justin, and I want . . . I want . . . .”
Again, I couldn’t say it. Most immediately, I wanted him to kiss me. God, did I want it! And I wanted to kiss him back. I wanted to . . . . Even in the secret recesses of my mind, I couldn’t say the words.
“I know you do, Honey,” Janet was saying. “I know. And it’s perfectly normal. There’s nothing wrong with you.”
“But I’m . . . .”
“No, you aren’t, and you know it,” she said, stopping my protest. “I know that my old friend is still in there” – her right hand cupped the back of my head – “And you’re still sharp as New York cheddar. But where love and desire and sex are concerned, it’s been real clear from almost the start that you’re all girl. A very hetero girl, too.”
“I know,” I confessed. “But it doesn’t just feel weird . . . it feels . . .” I didn’t want to say it! But it had to be said. “It feels disloyal. To you.” I continued crying into her shoulder, afraid to look at her.
But she gently pulled back and held me at arm’s length, looking at me with eyes devoid of their usual merriment. “Honey, I’ve had to let James go. It was hard, and I didn’t expect that. After all these years, it’s not like I was expectin’ some sort of epiphany, you know? But I did it. ’Cuz I knew you couldn’t let yourself be Jessica if I was holdin’ you back. Tryin’ to keep you as James.”
“I know I can’t make it right, Janet. But I’d sure like to stop hurting you!”
Janet looked distressed. “Dear God! You’re not becoming . . . earnest?”
That got me. I cracked up.
“Better,” she said. “Listen, girl. I’m not some heartbroken teenager. You know how to make it right! Stop holdin’ on to the person you’ve always been, and let yourself be Jessica. Don’t tie yourself in knots by constantly lookin’ back!”
“But what does that even mean?” I asked, frustrated.
“You can start by understandin’ that there’s nothin’ wrong with being attracted to Justin Abel. Not sayin’ you’ve gotta go out and jump his bones just ’cuz he isn’t your lawyer anymore. In fact, I’d kinda suggest you take it slow. Just . . . stop gettin’ all weird about it. Enjoy it, even.”
I took a deep breath, then another. Slowly, reluctantly, I nodded.
She took another bite of her grinder. “For what it’s worth, I expect his sausage is above average.”
“JANET!!!!”
* * * * *
Our new phones lacked any internet capabilities, so we had to work with the aliens to do some research during the course of the day to prepare for our evening call. We also worked out a way for them to make it appear that our call was originating from another location, just in case someone tried to trace us.
“Where should it look like we’re calling from?” I asked Janet.
“Does it matter?”
I thought about that. “I suppose it might. We don’t want to arouse suspicions. Beijing might be a bad choice, for instance.”
“It’s the U.S. Government,” she responded. “They’re suspicious of everyone.”
I smiled. “How about Madagascar?”
“I like it,” she said. “Exotic, though. What location says, ‘boring?’”
“There’s always North Dakota.”
“I dunno,” she said, ever the contrarian. “They’ve got . . . .”
I waited. Eventually, I coaxed. “Yes?”
“Rushmore?”
I shook my head. “SoDak.”
She shrugged. “Damn, you got me. I can’t think of anything interesting.” To Worm, she said, “You could pick some random wheat field.”
He chittered at the Science Guy, who chittered back and was eventually translated, “Do you want us to pick a wheat field that contains structures for holding weapons-grade uranium?”
“Wait, what?! No!!!” I said.
“Oh, right!” Janet said. “FedEx.”
I looked blank.
“ICBM’s, Jessica. World-wide delivery in half an hour or less, or your next one’s free.”
“Uh huh . . . Maybe not such a good idea.”
“Lennox is cute,” Janet said. “Ya know. Quaint. Ye Olde. Definitely non-threatening.”
“Yeah,” I said, weakly. “Let’s try that. Have the call appear to come from inside the Red Lion Inn. Anyone tracks us, they should at least get some good beer.”
“Only fair,” Janet agreed.
At 5:00 sharp I made the call.
“Grant.”
“This is Jessica James.”
“Are you familiar with Theodore Roosevelt Island?” he asked.
“He had an island?”
“Named after him,” Grant said. “It’s in the middle of the Potomac River, near Georgetown.”
“Oh, okay. You want to meet there?”
“Can you be there tomorrow? Say, 7:00 a.m.?”
“A moment.” I covered the phone and asked Worm, then confirmed the place and time with Grant.
“My boss will be with me,” he said. “Dressed for a morning run. At the base of the statue.”
We ended the call.
“We’ve got a problem,” Janet said.
I was personally thinking we had a whole bunch of them. “Which one?”
“They're gonna show up looking inconspicuous. I could pass as someone about to go for a morning stroll, but . . . .”
“Are you sayin’ my mini dress and go-go boots are impractical?”
“They're practical, girl. For certain, ah, pursuits.”
“Jogging not being among them,” I agreed ruefully. “Especially since our hosts don’t understand underwear.”
Janet snorted. Then giggled. “You might catch a few eyes,” she agreed.
“While we’re listing problems . . . I really need a shower,” I said.
“Yeah, I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about that,” Janet smirked. Then she sighed. “Me, too, bein’ honest. And a change of clothes. Even if these are inconspicuous, I’ve already slept in them.”
I frowned. “We’ve got cash, and I guess we could get clothes. But we can’t get a hotel without an ID. Credit Card too, usually.”
“And won’t that ring alarm bells,” Janet responded.
I thought for a minute. “Ensign Worm,” I asked, “Are you able to determine whether anyone is watching Professor Seldon’s house?”
He looked at me strangely. Strangely even for him, that is. “Why they would watch house? Does it do things?”
“An expression, Ensign. But in this case, it’s possible that authorities might be watching it to see if Professor Seldon returns.”
“Ah. So that Danno can ‘book’ her?”
With the aliens, anything involving rule breaking was always dangerous. “More likely just ask questions that we don’t really want to answer right now. As we have explained – your lawyer, too – neither of us have broken any laws.”
Science Guy, through Siri, said “Many humans have passed near the structure from which we beamed you up. Some in vehicles, some without vehicles. Some being led by members of a quadrupedal species whose level of sentience we have not been able to assess.”
“Plenty smart, dogs,” Janet asserted.
“Not now!” I pleaded.
“So long, and thanks for all the fish!” she said, the devil’s own twinkle firmly back in her eyes.
She was right. I needed to read more, if only to understand half of what she was saying. It was maddening.
Worm looked from one of us to the other. “Should we assessments conduct on ‘dogs?’”
“No,” we both said together, though probably for different reasons.
I added, “Sentient or not, they are not technologically sophisticated, and will not have access to uranium of any kind.”
Science Guy resumed chittering. “How can we determine whether passing humans – or dogs – are ‘watching’ the house instead of just ‘seeing’ it?”
It was a good question, even though the answer would be obvious to most humans. I thought for a minute before responding. “There are a couple of things to look for. First, are any humans remaining in one place, in sight of the house, for more than, say fifteen minutes? Does the same vehicle pass by the house at regular intervals – like, once every hour or two?”
Janet picked up the theme. “Are there any cars on the street painted in a black-and-white pattern, like the one Officer Wolf drove?”
In his more animated voice, Worm said, “The black and white patrol car has an overhead valve V8 engine. It develops 325 horsepower at 4800 RPM’s. It accelerates from zero to sixty in seven seconds.”
“Ummm,” said Janet, looking a bit nonplussed.
“Actually,” I said, “it wouldn’t need most of those features and wouldn’t have them, prolly.”
Worm didn’t look discouraged. “Was not certain what meant these words.”
“Really,” I said, “if there are any cars parked within sight of the house, with humans inside of them, for more than fifteen minutes, that would be a good indication of surveillance.”
Science Guy fiddled with dials for a bit before chittering his response. “Based on analysis of sensor data using the specified criteria, the structure was being ‘watched’ last night and this morning. There was at least one vehicle parked on the street with someone inside it until approximately noon today. There has been no activity meeting your search criteria in the last five hours and thirty-six minutes, by local measurement.”
Janet and I looked at each other.
“Can’t say it gives me a warm fuzzy,” she said.
I agreed, but . . . she wasn’t the one who would have to attend a critically important meeting wearing go-go boots and a stretchy red dress that barely came to mid-thigh – without even a bra – if we didn’t take some kind of action. “Let’s risk it,” I responded.
Janet grinned. No way she was going to let me outdo her when she perceived that adventure might be involved. “That’s the spirit, girl!”
“Elder,” I asked, “I believe that it would maximize the likelihood of our mission being successful if Professor Seldon and I attended tomorrow’s meeting properly rested, cleaned and, ah, dressed. Would it be possible for you to drop us at Professor Seldon’s house, pick us up tomorrow in the early morning, and deliver us to Roosevelt Island?”
The Elder’s chittering was translated, “You are acting as our ‘agents.’ We will assist your transportation as requested.”
We waited until full dark – late, this time of year – before being lowered down to the surface, minimizing the chance that someone would see something peculiar. The aliens explained that their ship employed numerous stealth technologies, but their efficacy was improved by being at a distance. Apparently we were being raised and lowered by some form of what we would call a tractor beam.
“Somethin’ about this just makes me want to shout “Yeee-Haaaa!” Janet said as we began our swift descent. “But I’ll do it quietly, just for you!” Her wicked grin was infectious.
When we got to the house, we discovered that someone – probably Officer Wolf – had locked the doors before leaving. Janet’s keys, like her wallet, were all in her purse.
“No worries,” Janet said. “I’ve got a spare under the back door mat.”
“No-one would ever think to check there,” I teased her, as we walked around to the back of the house.
“I know, I know! Everybody tells me that . . . .” She lifted up the mat and stared blankly at the emptiness underneath it. “And . . . FUCK! I finally listened to them!”
“So, where did you put it?” I asked, reasonably.
“I’m tryin’ to remember,” she said crossly. “Why d’ya think I kept it under the mat all those years?”
She led me over to the garage, where we checked on top of window sills. To the back yard, where we checked under some loose bricks in a retaining wall. To her patio, where she searched the underside of her chairs. She was muttering and cursing the whole time.
We almost jumped out of our skins when we were caught in the beam of a flashlight.
“Who’s . . . Oh! Janet, is that you?”
Janet’s eyes briefly closed in relief. “You were expectin’ Hamlet’s ghost? Damn, Peg! You scared the crap outta me!”
“I just saw someone rummaging around, and it didn’t look like you were home. Everything okay?” A woman walked into the backyard, dimly lit by a quarter moon. She was wearing slippers and a bright yellow quilted dressing gown; her white hair was spiked, wild, and exuberantly disdainful of any notions of fashion.
“I’m fine, but I locked myself out and I don’t remember where I put my spare key,” Janet said.
“In my cookie jar, remember?” Peg said. She looked at me. “My goodness! Did you come from a costume party? I love Star Trek!”
“Just a little cosplay,” I said quickly. “There’s a group of us on campus.”
Peg giggled. “Campus? You can’t possibly be out of high school! But . . . rock on, girl! I burned my bra back in the day too!”
“Ah . . . thanks,” I said weakly, not wanting to admit that after a day of going commando, even my perpetually perky pair of peaches were eager for some architectural support.
“Peggy, would you mind very much . . . ?” Janet suggested.
“Oh! Of course! Won’t be a minute!” She trotted back into her house and emerged moments later with Janet’s spare key. “What was all that commotion about yesterday evening? Men running around, your door open. Even a police officer!” She made the presence of a police officer sound positively salacious.
“Just a bit of a misunderstandin’, and I think we’ve got it all cleared up,” Janet said.
“Oh!!! I want to hear all the details!”
“Of course, Peg, but . . . not tonight, okay?” Janet responded. “I’m pretty beat.”
“Alright, then,” her neighbor said. “I’ll let you go, but remember, I want the full story!”
“You got it, girl,” Janet responded. As Peg returned to her house, Janet sighed. “Neighbors!”
We got inside and left the lights off. Janet took a quick shower while I went into my room, stripped out of my ‘uniform,’ and selected the clothes that I wanted to wear to tomorrow’s meeting. When Janet was done, we switched up.
I was just rinsing the conditioner out of my hair when Janet burst into the bathroom. “Luke, we’re gonna have company!”
“What!” Damn, I’d promised myself I was going to stop saying that!
“Worm just called the burner phone. I guess they were monitoring communications. The police are on their way.”
“Peg?”
“I’d guess so. Wolf probably asked her to call. Damned neighbors!”
I was toweling myself off while sprinting back to my bedroom. “How long do we have?”
“Worm said five minutes, thirty seven seconds.”
I threw on a bathrobe, which was all Janet was wearing too. “Grab clothes for tomorrow . . . your purse. Anything else?”
Janet was dashing back to her own room. “Can’t think of anything!”
“Your bookbag?”
She shook her head. “Empty. Civil forfeiture, I expect.”
Three minutes later, we stepped onto the front porch then slipped around to the side of the house on the other side of Peg’s place. We each had a small duffle bag. “Two to beam up!”
“This is starting to get old,” I observed as we floated up into the night sky.
“Nonsense, Jessica,” Janet admonished. “This is effing fun!”
“Fine, great,” I groused. “But couldn’t the fun have waited until we had a decent night’s sleep?”
“We can fly, we can fly, we can fly!” Janet sang, pretty deliberately off-key.
“And maybe coffee in the morning?”
Janet stopped singing. “Damn. You had to remind me, didn’t you!”
We were back on the ship in almost no time at all, and Worm was there to greet us in the hatch. “Are now attired appropriate?” Even Worm’s flat voice sounded dubious.
In fact, we were both still in bathrobes and slippers, with towels around our heads. “No, Ensign,” I said, gently. “But we will be, for tomorrow’s meeting. Thank you for the warning.”
“I glad am,” he replied. “I was think that this clothing set was not for meeting appropriate, based on the transmissions. Correct, yes?”
“You are correct,” I assured him. “Your sense of human aesthetics and cultural expectations is improving.”
“Excellent. Then would this be the time appropriate to discuss anatomically pleasing proportions?” He inquired.
“NO!” I said.
“It’s a cultural thing,” Janet explained. “Jessica might be insulted if you suggest that portions of her anatomy are, umm, overgenerous.”
Worm thought about that for a moment. “Understand this, I do. Can we your proportions discuss instead, Professor Seldon?”
She squinted at Worm. “Do you feel lucky, punk?”
“I understand do not . . . .”
“The answer’s ‘Hell No!’ Not if you want to see your homeworld again, Sonny!”
* * * * *
We had another night sleeping in the hatch area with pillows and blankets. It worked, kind of, though Janet was pretty stiff in the morning. Like James Wainwright would be after the first couple of nights in a tent at the beginning of a long hike. My seventeen-year-old body was far less susceptible to those types of aches and pains, but I decided I wasn’t going to say anything about that. I wanted to see my homeworld again too!
Since we were supposed to blend in as people who were getting a bit of morning exercise, Janet was wearing a pair of gray sweats, with “Gryphon” and our school mascot emblazoned on them.
I didn’t have anything comparable, and it’s probably not what a girl my apparent age would wear anyhow. I went with a pair of plain black leggings and an electric blue sports bra under a sleeveless white T-Shirt. I put my long, gold hair into a high, braided ponytail. It wasn’t the most professional look, but I would certainly pass for a jogger without any problem. A little light makeup and I was as ready as I was going to be.
Janet looked me over and smiled. “I think kids your age would say that you slay, girl!”
“Then let’s go find us some dragons, shall we?”
It was still dark when the aliens lowered us down, but it was summer, and it was D.C., so the air was thick and definitely not cold. The island isn’t large, though it’s covered with trees that create the illusion of distance from civilization. We followed the path to the statue of Theodore Roosevelt and reached it within a few minutes.
Janet gave the statue a critical appraisal, since she was an academic with nothing better to do. “Damn. Looks like he’s plannin’ to exhort the masses.”
“At this hour? How uncivilized!”
“Nekulturny,” she agreed.
“He can wait ’til we’re gone,” I said. “I’m not much in the mood for speeches.”
We waited. I passed the time by doing some light stretches. I figured it would look right if casual observers happened to show up.
Janet sat on a bench and watched me, a sardonic look on her face. “When I up, down, touch the ground, puts me in the mood . . . .” she sang tunelessly. Tastelessly too, I thought.
My burner phone rang. The ID said, “Lennox, Massachusetts,” and the time read 6:45.
“Jessica James.”
“Ensign Worm is this. Patching Science Officer.”
Siri’s voice cut in. “Jessica James. Sensors indicate that persons you would consider ‘authorities’ have arrived at the end of the bridge to Theodore Roosevelt Island. Presently, they are remaining in their vehicles.”
I thought about that. “Janet, they may take us into custody. I don’t know. Maybe you should . . . .”
“Can it, girl,” she growled. “You go, I go.”
I looked at her helplessly. There was no sense arguing with Janet, and we didn’t have a lot of time anyhow. I took a breath and said, “Thank you, Ensign. Officer. We will proceed. If we are taken into custody it may be some time before we can contact you again.”
“We cannot indefinitely wait, Jessica James,” Worm warned flatly.
“If we can’t call you, talk to attorney Justin Abel,” I advised.
“Yes. Agreed.”
We signed off.
“Worm could always beam us back up if there’s trouble,” Janet suggested.
“Might be better if he didn’t, though. Even if the government types lock us up, they still need to talk to us.”
Janet thought about that and shrugged, acquiescing.
I gave up on stretches and was pacing, full of nerves. Birds were making a racket and the sounds of the city’s awakening began to penetrate through the oaks.
Three people appeared on the path, approaching us. I recognized Grant right away. To his right paced a tall, slender man with dark, straight hair, silvered temples and a distinguished look. We had seen his photo while doing our research the previous afternoon: Ranveer Singh, DHS’s Undersecretary for Science and Technology.
The woman on Grant’s left didn’t immediately look familiar. My (now diminutive) height and medium brown hair . . . but she was wearing a baseball cap and dark sunglasses. When they got close, she was the one who spoke for the group. “Professor Seldon? And . . . Jesse James, is it? Gavin’s report didn’t do you justice.”
She removed her cap and sunglasses as she spoke. With her voice and her telegenic looks, the President’s Science Advisor was a staple on the Sunday News shows. It appeared that either Grant or Grimm had plenty of juice.
I couldn’t resist. “It’s ‘Jessica,’” I said, extending a hand. “Doctor Livingston, I presume?”
. . . . To be continued. With suitably low humor.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 11: The Emissary
The President’s Science Advisor quirked a half smile at my riposte. “My parents warned me that I’d get that line a lot, when I went for my doctorate.”
“A lawyer warned me about the whole ‘Jesse James’ thing as well,” I replied.
“Well . . . honors are even, I suppose.” Her smile became more symmetrical. “Before we begin – Mr. Grant, if you would please?”
The stocky man in the center of their formation turned his fanny pack around and turned a nob that was just visible on one side. He looked at his inexpensive wrist-watch – I hadn’t seen one in a while – then looked at Dr. Averil Livingston and nodded once, sharply.
“I apologize for that,” Dr. Livingston said. “We agree with your request that this meeting be conducted secretly. I’m afraid any electronic devices in a five yard radius are no longer functional.”
Janet said, “Damn! Where can I get one of those puppies? Be pretty useful around some car radios in my neighborhood!”
Dukkov Earl Grant smiled like a shark. “It would also, I’m afraid, disable the car itself.”
“Twofer!” Janet said, delighted by the idea.
I shook my head. “I wish you’d mentioned what you were going to do first. You’ve also eliminated my ability to communicate with, ah, the owners of the technology.”
Dr. Ranveer Singh, the Undersecretary for Science and Technology for the Department of Homeland Security, interjected, “Shall we walk, please?” We began to move towards one of the paths. “This is just a preliminary discussion. You’ll have plenty of time to make calls . . . . if we get that far.”
“Maybe,” I said, “But . . . I didn’t memorize their number. Or the number for the phone you just slagged. Time’s not the only problem here.”
“That won’t be an issue, Ms. James,” Dr. Singh replied. “We obtained telephone company records for the phones you used to call Mr. Grant, as well as Dr. Seldon’s phone records, pursuant to a FISA warrant.”
“FISA?! We’re American citizens!” I was more surprised than upset. Nothing in those records worried me – in fact, it might help. But FISA is an acronym for the Foreign Intelligence Services Act.
Grant gave me a look. “You wouldn’t happen to have a passport you can show us, would you, Ms. James?”
“It’s not a great picture,” I replied, lamely.
Dr. Singh said, “The basis for the warrant was our assessment that you are not acting on behalf of American companies or citizens.”
“Just what information did you consider in your assessment?” Janet inquired. “I mean, before you decided to play Inspector Clouseau with our phone records?”
“That information is classified,” Dr. Singh said repressively.
I looked at Dr. Livingston, who had been very quiet during this back-and-forth. “Please, Doctor. Beginnings are difficult. If we know what you’ve looked at, we may be able to explain what you’re actually seeing.”
“But, if you are foreign agents, having a better idea of what we already know would help you to deceive us,” Grant said. He sounded almost apologetic.
I kept my eyes on Dr. Livingston. After a moment, she nodded. “It’s not a particularly thick file,” she conceded. “Two months ago, there was nothing remarkable about Dr. Seldon. And, as Mr. Grant just suggested, no record of a ‘Jessica James,’ at all. Our analysis was based on Dr. Grimm’s report, the records of the Northampton Police Department, an interview with a Nothampton physician, and a review of a lab report on some bloodwork.”
“Quibble, Wolf and Grimm,” Janet growled. “They sound like billboard lawyers. Act like ‘em too.”
“Not your favorite people?” Dr. Singh asked.
“We have legitimate complaints with each of them,” I said, working hard to sound reasonable. “But we can put that aside for now. When we met with Professor Grimm, he indicated that the battery specifications we provided were far beyond anything currently available. I assume that the battery passed all tests, which is the basis for your FISA analysis – and the only reason we’re having this conversation.”
“That’s . . .” Dr. Singh began.
Dr. Livingston cut him off. “Obvious,” she finished. “You’re correct. Professor Grimm confirmed that the battery exceeded all of the specs you provided by at least fifteen percent. More, for some parameters. Dr. Singh and I have personally reviewed Professor Grimm’s testing protocols and results. The tech, at least, appears to be legitimate.”
I mentally patted myself on the back for having worked that out. I was feeling hopeful. A turn in the trail gave us a beautiful view of the spire of Georgetown University across the Potomac, gleaming in the morning sunlight.
“So,” I said, “I assume you appreciate what this tech would mean. How valuable it is.”
Dr. Livingston shrugged. “I understand the ‘owners’ want to make a trade, so I suppose I should say how confident I am that we can match the battery’s performance in a few years. But that wouldn’t be very credible under the circumstances.”
“No,” I agreed.
“Let’s cut to the chase,” Dr. Singh said. “How much do ‘they’ want for the know-how?”
“They don’t want money at all,” I replied. “They want some highly processed material available to only a handful of governments.”
“Industrial-strength bullshit?” Grant guessed.
“Every government has that,” Janet countered.
Dr. Singh ignored the byplay and stopped dead, causing the rest of us to stop as well, just short of the footbridge connecting the island to the Virginia shore. “What kind of ‘highly-processed materials?’” The warning in his voice was palpable.
Janet and I looked at each other. She shrugged, as if to say, “Here goes nothing.”
“Weapons-grade uranium,” I said, striving to keep my voice even.
Three sets of eyes nailed me in place. None of them looked remotely friendly.
Janet finally broke the hostile silence. “Well, that’s put a damper on the morning, hasn’t it?”
Dr. Singh turned to look at Dr. Livingston. “You accept our conclusion now, I assume? If their wonderful wooden horse could talk, it’d say “Opa!”
“Well . . . “ she equivocated.
“Dr. Livingston – Averil – you have to see this is a scam!” The Undersecretary looked exasperated.
Dr. Livingston appeared conflicted. Uncertain.
“It is no scam,” I said, my voice urgent. “You know the tech is real. More importantly, the owners assure us that there are no impediments to commercial production . . . .”
“And with nothing more than that, we’re supposed to give away the most dangerous material in our arsenal of weapons? Probably to terrorists? Who are you people working for?” Dr. Singh was positively furious.
“Well . . . .” I said, and stopped.
“You see,” Janet tried, before also finding it hard to continue.
“Aaaaand,” Grant said, “here’s where the space aliens come in.”
My temper was starting to flare as well.
“As a matter of fact, yes! Not that this should be news to you. I told Dr. Bell, he told Officer Wolf, and I confirmed it.”
“Uh huh,” Dr. Singh said, his voice indicating deep skepticism. “Officer Wolf also wrote that you claimed to be a missing professor of something or other.”
“That’s ‘Distinguished Professor of Something-or-Other’ to you,” I said indignantly.
“Riiiiiight,” he said. “But according to the police, the ‘distinguished’ professor who’s missing is supposed to be an old guy.”
Janet was pissed. “That professor is a person, with a name – James Wainwright! A good friend of mine for thirty years! And not for nothin’, ‘sixty’ is a long, long way from ‘old.’”
Janet’s fury had no effect on the undersecretary. “Whatever,” he said, dismissively. “In case you haven’t noticed, she isn't old enough to buy beer, sure’s hell she ain’t male, and I’ve seen dachshunds that look more ‘distinguished.’”
The moment appeared to be rapidly slipping away. “The aliens are advanced in biological sciences as well as physical and materials sciences. I was given a shot which changed my physical appearance . . . .”
“Into one that just happens to be very easy on the eye,” Grant assessed.
“Very easy,” Dr. Singh agreed.
“Particularly to the male gaze,” Dr. Livingston said dryly, giving her colleagues a look. But then she sighed. “You must admit, Ms. James, that for space aliens, they seem to have a firm grasp on the finer points of human aesthetics.”
“That’s kind of my fault,” I said ruefully.
Dr. Singh snickered. “I’ll bet.”
“Actually,” Janet said sarcastically, “the aliens think they might have gone overboard on the bust and rear end. They keep carping about the proportions.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” the Undersecretary opined, thoughtfully.
“Does everybody get to have an opinion about that?” I said, exasperated. “Really?”
“It does kind of go with the territory, I’m afraid.” The Science Advisor, a very good looking woman herself, had some cause to know. “Nonetheless, gentlemen” – she gave her male colleagues another warning look – “I expect the President would prefer that we stay on task?”
“I bet he'd have an opinion,” Grant muttered.
“Did you say something, Mr. Grant?” Dr. Livingston’s tone could have lowered ambient temperatures on Neptune.
“Just thinking out loud, Ma’am,” he said with a slow smile.
“I’d certainly welcome some thinking, Mr. Grant,” she admonished. “Preferably with the head between your ears, if you get my drift.”
I decided it was time to try another tack. “You have my phone records – and my texts! You know the aliens contacted me!”
Dr. Singh looked amused. “Oh, please! Did they also give you a business card that said ‘Space Aliens?’ The texts are consistent with your story, sure. But we’d expect that from scammers.”
I tried again. “Were you able to trace my location during the times that I spoke to Mr. Grant?”
“NSA believes the signals were bounced off of satellites.” Singh’s response appeared to be addressed to Dr. Livingston rather than me.
“Should’ve tried bouncin’ you off a satellite,” Janet said. “Might have improved your analytical abilities. Where the hell did they find you, anyway? The Dim Horizons Daycare and Kennel?”
Dr. Livingston still looked conflicted. Ignoring Janet and me, she asked Dr. Singh, “What about the blood tests? Multiple DNA?”
“The lab is convinced that the sample was contaminated.”
“Why?” I asked, exasperated. “Because they’ve never seen anything like it, that’s why! Listen, you can explain away every single piece of evidence, but all of it, combined? Where’s the logic in that?”
“Very simple,” Singh replied. “It doesn’t matter whether you multiply zero by one or by fifty. The end result is still zero.”
“Then what on earth could ever possibly convince you people?” I demanded.
“On earth?” Dr. Singh smiled coldly. “I can’t imagine.”
“Why would an advanced race of aliens want our weapons anyway?” Dr. Livingston inquired.
“They don’t,” I said. “They want the material, not the weapons.”
“There’s a reason it’s described as ‘weapons grade.’” Now Dr. Singh sounded pedantic. “What the hell else is it good for? Breakfast cereal?”
“Ummm,” I said, knowing this wasn’t going to help, “Apparently the aliens use it as an aphrodisiac.”
Everyone was looking at me again. This time they didn’t look angry so much as dumbfounded.
I felt the need to add, “No, I don’t know why or how. Do I look like a xenobiologist?”
Grant said, “Ah, no. More like a cheerleader, really.”
“If only she were rooting for the home team,” Dr. Singh added. He turned to Dr. Livingston. “Averil?”
She sighed and shook her head. “I apologize. It just looked so . . . Well. Too good to be true, I guess. You were right.”
“Wait!” I said.
“Please proceed, Mr. Grant,” said Dr. Singh.
Grant stepped forward. “I regret that I need to take you both into custody for potential violations of the Espionage Act. If you'll come with me, please?” Planting a firm hand in the smalls of our backs, he began walking us both to the foot bridge.
As we were propelled onto the span, I looked back over my shoulder, desperate to salvage the situation. Dr. Livingston ignored me and continued speaking to Dr. Singh.
“Why did we even come here?” I groaned.
“All things considered, I’d rather be in Philadelphia,” Janet agreed.
“Philadelphia?” I said blankly.
“If they lock us up,” Janet said, “maybe they’ll let you do a bit of reading. You might even learn somethin.’”
But I wasn’t listening to Janet. Dr. Singh and Dr. Livingston had followed us onto the bridge, and I heard Dr. Singh tell the Science Advisor, “We’ll have the lab pull the shielding off . . . “
I spun around so fast it caught Grant by surprise and he stumbled. “No!” I cried out, urgently.
Grant grabbed for me. In desperation, I shoved him. He was off balance and fell down.
I had the senior pair’s attention. Before Grant could get up, I said, “Please! You’ll be putting people in great danger – it’ll explode!”
“But you would say that, wouldn’t you?” Doctor Singh countered. “Don’t you worry. We’ll crack it and figure out what you’re playing with – and who!”
“Whom,” I said, automatically.
“I’d be surprised if you can figure out how to put on your pants without help,” Janet said, disgusted. “Where’d you get that doctorate? Screw U?”
I opened my mouth to repeat my warning, but I was spun around and Grant locked me in a tight grip, squeezing both elbows painfully.
Grant no longer had a free hand to spare for Janet, who leaned against the bridge railing and gave him an evil look. “So I’m guessin’ you don’t mind if I wander off? Despite my bein’ a dangerous terrorist an’ all.”
“Just walk in front of me,” Grant grated.
“I don’t turn my back on jackals,” she responded. “Don’t take orders from ‘em either.”
“Get moving!” he barked.
“Get stuffed!” she replied.
“What?”
“It’s English. In England, anyway, and I suppose they oughta know. Meantime, you can assume I’m bein’ rude and generally uncooperative.”
“Resisting arrest?” Grant inquired, in a deceptively mild voice.
“I ain’t seen no stinkin’ badge. Far as I know, bein’ the Duke of Earl might – maybe – give you the right to order coffee at Starbucks. And get some, even, long as you pay for it.”
Grant ground his teeth, no doubt cursing his parents, living or dead. I would have felt some sympathy, but he was clearly unwilling to release either of my elbows. Janet was, equally clearly, not going to move on her own.
But Dr. Singh waved vigorously, and two men in dark sunglasses got out of a car in the parking lot by the end of the bridge. They quickly began crossing to where Grant, Janet and I were standing.
“Janet,” I said, “It’s no use.”
“Oh, fine!” She was completely disgusted. She turned and marched grimly towards Singh’s reinforcements.
“Tom, take this one,” one of the approaching men said, indicating Janet. “I’ll take the other.”
“Rank sure has its privileges, don’t it?” Tom replied, eyeing me wistfully while dutifully moving in Janet’s direction.
“Mr. Grant,” I said with quiet urgency as the supervisor approached, “I’m trying to prevent a disaster. Please! Don’t let them tamper with that battery!”
“Above my paygrade,” he replied.
My frustration and anger boiled over. “Then I assume you’ll be volunteering for that duty? Or are you only brave enough to face down teenage girls?”
He stiffened, but said nothing.
“Officer?” I said to the approaching security, making the word a question.
“Sergeant,” he corrected. “Sergeant Mattia Ottuso.”
“I'll be happy to cooperate, Sergeant, but I would appreciate seeing some evidence that you are a sworn law enforcement officer.”
He gave me a quizzical look, but pulled out a wallet and showed me a badge.
“Federal Protective Service?” I asked. “That’s a new one. Just for the record, I’m not feeling very protected.”
He looked uncomfortable, but said, “Will you come with me, please, Miss?”
“As soon as this Profile in Courage deigns to let me go.”
Grant released my elbows. “All yours, Sergeant.”
I stepped forward. “And where might we be going this fine morning, Sergeant?”
“The car?”
Why he made it a question was beyond me. Honestly, he didn’t look like the sharpest formaggio in the fridge. But there was nothing else I could do. I resumed walking.
Janet and “Tom” were waiting just past the end of the bridge for us to catch up. Two more men in suits and sunglasses got out of a second parked car and walked toward them. We’d almost reached the group when Sergeant Ottuso called ahead, “Keep him back, Trey.”
I looked to where Ottuso was pointing and saw a man on foot approaching the bridge from the bike path between the river and the G.W. Parkway. A man wearing an old fashioned gray pinstripe suit . . . and flip-flops. I picked up my pace and slipped past Janet and Tom.
One of the security people – Trey, I presume – walked briskly towards Ensign Worm to intercept him, saying “Sorry, sir, “ but whatever he intended to say next was moot. The Ensign made a move that was too quick to follow and was suddenly past the officer.
“Hey!” Ottuso shouted behind me.
Worm was just yards away. He stretched out his hand to give me a burner phone to replace the one Grant had destroyed. And the world, suddenly, went mad.
“Gun!!!” Ottuso shouted.
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Tom raising a weapon.
“No!” Janet screamed, bringing a hand down to knock the officer’s arm.
“No!” screamed Doctor Livingston, suddenly, and too late, sprinting down the last section of the bridge.
“No!” I screamed, lunging forward to knock Worm down.
There was a clap like thunder and my chest exploded in agony.
“Noooooo!” screamed Tom, as my world went dark.
I scream, you scream, we all scream . . . . My mind, detached, spun down a rabbit hole. The last thing I heard was Janet’s anguished wail.
“JAMES!!!”
* * * * *
My hearing returned first. What I mostly heard was Janet cursing a blue streak and keeping everyone back. “Guy says he’s a doctor, and unlike YOU highly-credentialed thumb-suckers, he might be the kind that actually helps people. Stay the fuck back!”
Another voice . . . Ottuso? “You’ve got paramedic training, don’t you, Tom?”
“Three courses . . . .” The voice sounded young – and shaky.
“You even step toward her and I’ll feed your balls to slugfish!” Janet again.
“What’s he doing?”
“What’s that?”
I didn’t recognize either voice. In the distance, I heard the sound of an approaching siren.
A low voice, near my ear, with a very flat affect said, “Move eyebrow if hear me can, Jessica James.”
I moved an eyebrow.
I felt hands on my head, moving it back and forth. There was a tug on my ear and a stinging sensation. “You say would, ‘open microphone,’” Worm said softly. “We monitor now. Your species . . . I doubt.”
I opened my eyes just a fraction – enough to see Worm’s form bending over me. I seemed to be lying on my back, though I couldn’t remember how I got there. “Worm,” I murmured, “Beginnings are difficult.”
“Ah. Like a TV pilot?”
“Well . . . sort of.” There was more to it – a lot more – but no time to explain. “Don’t judge us by the first episode, okay?”
He thought for a moment before saying, “You talk. We listen. Like E.F. Hutton.”
I would have to think about what he meant by that.
The sound of the siren was close, closer, then stopped. I heard the sound of doors opening and male voices shouting, “Move, move, move!!!”
Worm looked at me one more time, gave a very theatrical wink, and, using his more animated voice, said, “And now, for my next impression – Jesse Owens!” He disappeared from my sight.
“Hey!!!” Ottuso again. “Stop!!!”
Not again! I sat up and opened my eyes. Just then, I heard a distant splash.
Turning my head, I saw three of the four security guards at the edge of the parking lot, looking down towards the river. Mercifully, none of them had drawn a weapon.
“He won’t get far in that suit,” one of them said. The Sergeant looked back, turning his attention to Grant. “Should I pursue?”
But no-one was paying any attention to them. “Jessica!” Janet shouted, and ran to me, arriving seconds before the paramedics. Tom, looking green but relieved, was right behind her.
“Stand aside, ma’am,” a paramedic said brusquely.
“Fuck off,” Janet snarled, leaving him momentarily nonplussed. “You’re still with us?” she asked me anxiously.
“Think so. I’m a bit lightheaded. What happened?”
One of the paramedics put his hands on Janet and said, urgently, “Ma’am, she’s bleeding out!”
Was I bleeding? I didn’t feel like I was bleeding. I looked down and felt slightly faint. Not sure I’d ever seen that much blood before. But I was confident I wasn’t bleeding. “Help me up,” I said to Janet.
She tried, but the paramedic got in her way. “Ma’am – trust us, please!”
Oh, fine, I thought, as the two of them struggled. I got one leg under me, then the other. Suddenly I felt supporting hands on one arm. “Okay? Lift,” Doctor Livingston said quietly, right beside my ear.
I got to my feet.
The paramedic stopped wrangling with Janet and looked at me, stunned.
My head swam, but I closed my eyes and it got better. I felt a gentle touch near my left shoulder. My sodden shirt being pushed out of the way.
“Well?” That was the Undersecretary’s voice. Singh.
“The slightest evidence of scarring. Nothing else.” That was Livingston. “Based on her color, though, she’s lost a lot of blood.”
“Oh, you don’t say.” Janet. Not in a good mood.
I opened my eyes again. Dr. Livingston was looking around, a frown on her made-for-greenroom face.
She reached a sudden decision. “Too many people, Ranveer,” she said quietly to Doctor Singh. “Collect your team. Get them back to St. Elizabeths, and make sure they know everything that happened today is covered by official secrets, six times over. Brief the Secretary only. Let me borrow Grant.”
She turned to the paramedics. In a louder voice, she said, “I’m sorry; it was a false alarm. We saw what we thought was blood, but we were wrong.”
The paramedic she was addressing looked dubious. “But you just said . . . .”
“Obviously, I erred.” Her voice was iron.
“Honest,” I said, trying to be helpful. “I’m fine. It’s just a flesh wound . . . .”
“Teach you to run with a ketchup bottle,” Janet scolded.
The paramedic still looked dubious. I’m guessing because he’d seen ketchup before. And blood. That none of our explanations agreed with each other probably didn’t help.
Doctor Livingston’s voice suddenly took on the sharp crack of command. “You got a hearing problem, Mister?”
The paramedic looked startled and began to move. Quickly. “No Ma’am!” In extremely short order, he and his crew were back in their vehicle and moving away.
Doctor Singh hadn’t moved. “You're not in my chain of command, Doctor Livingston,” he said softly.
She gave him a hard look. “You want to have that fight right now?” Her voice was equally soft . . . but it had an edge that was undeniable. “You and your team didn’t exactly cover yourselves in glory today. This fluster chuck’s all on you.”
He swallowed. “When you make your report . . . .”
She cut him off. “You won’t be there,” she said sweetly. “Grant might be . . . if you loan him to me.”
“Look, Averil,” Dr. Singh began.
“LATER, dammit!” she hissed. “As in, ‘not now,’ and ‘not in the middle of the bloody parking lot!’”
“Literally,” Janet growled.
Dr. Singh nodded, looking unhappy. “Grant, assist Dr. Livingston.” He moved off to collect his team.
Grant, Janet, Dr. Livingston and I were alone. Dr. Livingston said, “Ms. James – or, honestly, Professor Wainwright, if you prefer – I do think you need blood. Or plasma, or something. Something other than Gatorade, anyway. Not my specialty. If we can get you to a secure facility, we can get that done discreetly. I’d like to go with you. And Mr. Grant.”
Hearing a menacing sound associated with irate watchdogs, she added, “and Professor Seldon, of course. Would that be acceptable?”
“Oh, Oysters come and walk with us, the Walrus did beseech!” Janet said darkly.
But I nodded, agreeing. I couldn’t continue to stand for much longer. Besides . . . Livingston was willing to call me Professor Wainwright? Maybe it was even worth getting shot, for that. I would need a bit more evidence of good faith before I’d go that far.
Grant drove what looked like an unmarked government SUV – black, naturally – and Dr. Livingston rode shotgun. Janet joined me in the back seat. “How’r you doin,’ Hon?” she asked as we sped into the city.
“I’ve had better days,” I admitted. “I mean, what with being called a liar, arrested, accused of espionage, getting shot . . . . “
“Worse than a curriculum committee meeting?” Janet asked.
I thought it over. “Yeah. . . . I guess so. I mean, unless Dean Devereaux is chairing it.”
Janet rolled her eyes. No-one had a higher opinion of the dean than Janet, and Janet thought the woman was coruscatingly dull – a shining example of the Peter Principle.
After a moment, I said, “I feel better than I’d expect to, somehow. Are you sure I was shot?”
Janet shuddered and looked ill. “Trust me, darlin’. You were most definitely shot.”
Dr. Livingston added, “Your shirt’s still got the holes, front and back. You should, too. But you don’t.”
“What’d I miss?” I asked.
“Worm was right there,” Janet answered. “He said, ‘Doctor, am’ in that weird way of his, and I remembered you’d said he used that old McCoy line when he gave you the shot – the one about being a doctor. So . . . well, look, Jessica. I’ll be honest. I'm not a doctor – not an MD, anyways – but even I knew you were gonna bleed out before any help could show up. So I let him try.”
Doctor Livingston nodded. “That’s what I saw too. That, plus the fact that I was further away than the officers, and even I saw he was trying to give you a frickin’ cell phone.” Her voice was thick with rage. She paused to take a calming breath. “I assume I just saw an alien, didn’t I?”
“I dunno,” Janet said sourly. “Isn’t that classified?”
“‘Official secrets, six times over,’ or something?” I added.
Dr. Livingston winced. “Touché. But I’m going to have to brief the President. What would you like me to say?”
“Tell him Birnam Wood came to Dunsinane,” Janet said, her tone still harsh.
I closed my eyes again. I seemed to be very, very tired. “No-one believed what I had to say anyway. Tell him what you saw. Maybe he’ll believe that.”
There was a long silence. Mr. Grant, surprisingly, was the one to break it. “I apologize, Professor. And Doctor Livingston. My country wasn’t well-served by my institutional paranoia today.”
“Will wonders never cease?” Janet said.
“I hope not,” I murmured. My head rolled forward.
As I slid back toward oblivion, I heard Janet’s voice, suddenly urgent. “Punch it!!!”
* * * * *
I regained consciousness in what appeared to be a hospital room. At least, I was in a hospital bed, and there was an IV attached to my arm. Janet was beside me. The room was otherwise empty.
“Hey,” I said, my voice still sounding a bit weak. “I hate to keep asking this, but . . . what happened?”
Janet cupped a hand against one of my cheeks. “You fainted, that’s all. Not too surprisin,’ under the circumstances. They brought us to some government facility in DC and got you some more blood or somethin’. That was a couple hours ago.” She pointed to the IV. “That’s just for hydration.”
“Livingston and Grant?”
“She went to see her boss. Grant’s on the other side of the door.”
“So we’re still under arrest?”
Janet waggled her fingers. “It’s a mystery. Livingston asked him to stay ’til she got back. He agreed, even though his boss seemed to want him at that meeting. Said he didn’t want to leave us unguarded.”
“Not sure how to take that,” I said.
“Lyin’ down, I hope,” Janet said. “At least for a bit longer. You had me worried there.”
“Enough to call me James,” I said softly.
“Still your last name, right?”
“Right you are.” I smiled. “Honestly, I think I’m better. And I’d rather sit up. Don’t these things adjust?”
“Uh huh,” Janet said, sounding dubious. “I’m sure they do . . . somehow.”
We spent a few minutes trying to figure out how to make the bed work. We succeeded in demonstrating that our complete lack of technical ability was negatively correlated with our mastery of the fine art of foul language. Between my compendium of foreign and ancient tongues and Janet’s literary and cultural treasures, we had a long playlist.
We failed to notice that the door had opened. “That seems like a whole lot of trash talk for a pretty straightforward task,” said a woman in a nurse’s uniform. “Isn’t one of you supposed to be some kind of a doctor?”
“Yeah,” sighed Janet. “The wrong kind, usually.”
“For anything this easy, they’re all the wrong kind,” the woman asserted as she walked briskly to the bedside. With a few quick motions, the bed began to make happy electronic noises and I was returned to my full, upright and locked position.
“Let’s see how you’re doing,” she said, beginning the process of poking, prodding and taking blood pressure that seems to be universal practice. Judging by her expression, I appeared to be doing much better. “You’re BP’s back within normal parameters,” she confirmed. “Whatever the hell you did this morning – and you’ll notice I’m not asking, ‘cuz that guy by the door with the cold fish eyes is frickin’ scary – I strongly recommend you don’t do it again.”
“Good advice,” agreed Janet. “I second it.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” I said gravely. I noticed that someone had removed my tee shirt, which had been a complete wreck when I’d last seen it. But I was still wearing my sports bra and leggings, and both items were also worse for the wear. I seemed to have gotten blood just about everywhere. “I don’t suppose I could get a change of clothes?”
“Uhhh . . . .” The nurse was thinking aloud. “We have some things, but, ah, your size is a bit . . . unusual?”
“In a good way,” Janet said, reassuringly.
“Oh, of course!” The nurse said. “The best possible way. I’d kill to have your . . . ah . . . trouble fitting into other people’s clothes.”
“Everyone,” I growled. “Literally everyone!”
Just then we heard voices at the door. “Agent Grant? We’re taking them downtown.”
I heard Grant say, “Whose orders?”
“Dr. Tsong and Trevor Agnew.”
I’d heard of Dr. Tsong; if I remembered right, she was the National Security Advisor. The second name meant nothing to me.
“Dr. Livingston intended to come back for them,” Grant temporized.
“Whatever instructions you’ve been given are no longer operative.”
“Something’s rotten in the state of Denmark,” Janet murmured.
“The District’s not smelling great either.” I looked at the nurse. “I’m good to go?”
She looked uncertain – but not, it appeared, on account of my health. “You can . . . .” She drew out the second word, as if to suggest that it might not be the best idea in the world.
But it didn’t appear that we would have a whole lot of choice. Two beefy men in suits came into the room. I would have a hard time telling them apart. Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle Dum. Tweedle Dee said, “We need to take you downtown now. If you’ll come with us?”
“Are we under arrest?” I asked.
“I don’t have anything on that,” he said. “We’re taking you to the White House.”
“Who’s Agnew?”
“The Deputy Defense Secretary. Please . . . I was told this is time-sensitive.”
I saw Grant behind them in the doorway. He shrugged, looking unconvinced.
But a plan was forming in my mind. I put a hand over Janet’s to still the protest I could see forming on her lips, and said, “All right. We’ll come.”
We trooped down a couple flights of stairs and came out into what appeared to be the lobby of a nondescript office building. Interesting in and of itself. There was another black SUV waiting outside the doors. “Does the government buy these things in job lots?” I asked.
They ignored me.
I got in and scooted over to make room for Janet. Grant opened the door on the other side to get in as well.
“Got no orders for you to come,” Tweedle Dee said to Grant.
“I’m staying with them,” he said flatly, daring them to contradict him.
“Suit yourself,” Tweedle Dee said with a shrug. He got into the driver’s seat and Tweedle Dum took shotgun.
We hadn’t been going for more than five minutes when Grant said, “I’m very familiar with the District. This is not the way to get to the White House. It’s not even a way to get to the White House.”
“We have orders, Grant,” Tweedle Dum said from the passenger’s seat. “And your boss’s chop is on them.”
Grant looked . . . dangerous. But all he said was, “Would you be so kind as to loan me a phone then? I need confirmation from the Undersecretary.”
“You’ll see him soon enough,” Tweedle Dum replied.
It looked to me like we were heading out of the District altogether, although I wasn’t nearly as familiar with the area as Grant. We were no longer driving down busy boulevards; instead, we were in a more suburban setting. I was thinking hard about what Worm had said to me – and about the possibilities inherent in tractor beam technology.
I waited until we drove into a park-like area that was surrounded by trees. There were no other cars around – or people either, as near as I could tell, though Tweedle dutifully stopped at a pedestrian crosswalk. Turning my head toward Janet, I murmured, “It would be useful if the car’s wheels no longer touched the ground.”
Janet gave me a funny look. “It’d also be useful if we had wings. Invisibility too. I’ve often wanted that one. Or X-ray vision . . . .” She stopped talking. Abruptly.
We had just started to move again, but the sound – white noise, really – of the tires moving against the roadbed stopped. We continued to glide forward in a straight line, maintaining the low speed we had achieved when the sound ceased.
The road curved. Tweedle Dee attempted to steer, but the car did not respond. We bumped into the curb gently and went backwards at an even slower speed, rotating slowly until we hit the opposite curb. The car came to a stop.
“What’r you doing?” Tweedle Dum asked Tweedle Dee.
“Nothing,” Tweedle Dee replied, puzzled. He revved the engine. It made noise, but we didn’t go anywhere. “It’s like we’re on black ice or something.”
Tweedle Dum shook his head, looking disgusted. “End of July in D.C., and you’re talking about ice? Don’t you supervisors have to pass some sort of test?”
“You know,” Janet said, “Like, ‘Person, woman, man, camera, TV?’ That kinda test.”
Tweedle Dee growled at his companion, “Laugh it up, fuzzball. Now go check it out!””
Tweedle Dum got out of the car carefully, checked his footing, then went around to the front. He bent down.
“Be a good idea if the human who just left the car weren’t able to touch the ground either,” I said softly.
Tweedle Dum reappeared in front of the car, cursing. He looked a bit taller than usual, and scared. “Jack???” he squeeked.
Tweedle Dee – Jack, I guess, though I wouldn’t be able to tell the two apart in a line-up – poked his head out the window. “What?”
“Jack! Help!!”
“What?” Tweedle Dee repeated, unhelpfully. He turned back, glared at Grant, and said, “Keep them here, you!!!” Without waiting for a response, he got out of the car and headed towards Tweedle Dum.
“I don’t recall seeing you in my chain of command.” Grant’s voice was bland – and certainly inaudible to anyone outside the car.
“One more human just left the car; he should get elevated too.” I said quietly.
Tweedle Dee’s forward motion stopped and he joined Tweedle Dum in cursing.
Janet cocked her head and considered our former captors carefully. “We’re a lot better at cursing.”
“Not very imaginative,” I agreed. “Already repeating the same words? Honestly! They haven’t even hit the thirty-second mark.”
“Kids dees days,” Janet mourned, shaking her head sorrowfully.
Grant looked at me and smiled. “Nicely done, Professor. If I may make a suggestion?”
“Of course,” I replied, warily.
“If you could ask your friends to lower the car, I’ll be happy to drive you wherever you would like to go. Those gentlemen can stay there a few minutes, until we’re clear.”
“We’re supposed to trust you?” Janet’s air of light banter was gone altogether.
“Not at all,” Grant replied. “Your friends will know if I don’t do what you ask, and as you have just demonstrated, they can, ah, correct any deficiencies in my performance.”
“Heh. Good point,” she conceded.
“Sounds like a plan,” I said.
“Excuse me just a moment,” Grant said. He stepped out of the car and went over to where Tweedle Dee was cursing and thrashing, trying to touch the ground that was just out of reach of his feet. His efforts had only succeeded in canting his body at a forty-five degree angle to the ground.
When he saw Grant, he said, “Pull me to the car, quick!”
“As I already informed you – though perhaps your attention was directed elsewhere – I don’t work for you.” Grant’s tone was pleasant, like he was discussing the weather. “I don’t even know who you are.”
“You know who I work for!”
“I wonder if I do?” Grant said thoughtfully. “You kind of skipped the part where you showed some Identification.”
“We’ve got ORDERS!” Tweedle Dee said indignantly, as if the very possibility of questioning orders had never, ever even entered his mind, much less attempted to cross such barren terrain.
“Whatever orders you’ve been given are no longer operative,” Grant said, deadpan.
“You’ll do what he says if you want to live, Dickhead!”
I turned to see that Tweedle Dum had stopped flailing and drawn a weapon while we were watching his doppelgänger. Quickly, no longer afraid to be overheard, I said, “Worm! Raise and lower both suspended humans fifteen feet at random intervals and speeds!”
The Tweedles jerked up a full forty-five feet, then back down, screaming as they went like teenagers on some demented carny ride. Up, down, up, down. Tweedle Dum’s gun discharged once as he was going up, but no-one could hit anything moving around like that.
“Yo-yo, yo-yo man,” Janet sang, sounding pleased.
“‘Worm,” I said. “I think you’re using ‘yards,’ not ‘feet.’”
Janet observed, “You can’t blame them for messing up imperial units – twelve inches to a foot, but three feet to a yard and five and a half yards to a rod? Insane, really. Metric would be so much simpler.”
“Prolly not for aliens,” I said. “Not unless they really have ten digit ‘hands,’ which is the kind of coincidence that only happens in Star Trek.”
But Worm got the message, and the next series of jumps was more restrained, distance-wise at least.
As the boys appeared to be sticking within range of his voice, Grant barked, “Drop the gun, idiot!”
It took a couple more jerks on his invisible chain before Tweedle Dum tossed his weapon over to the grass.
Grant walked over and recovered it. “Careless, leaving something like this just lying around. Bad training.”
“Keep them one foot – foot, Worm! — off the ground!” I said.
They stopped moving.
“What the FUCK! Tweedle Dee said. He was practically weeping. “God, I hate heights!”
Grant bent down, grabbed Tweedle Dee’s ankle and spun him upside down. “The beauty of an essentially frictionless object,” Grant explained, “Is that it’s relatively easy to move it – although stopping, naturally, requires an equal and opposite force.”
“What do you want, you bastard!” Tweedle Dee really appeared to be quite upset.
“All in good time, my pretty,” Grant replied equably. He gave the man a thorough – and very professional – patdown, then started shaking him up and down until items began to fall out of his pockets. Grant reached down and picked up both a phone and a set of keys. A heavy wallet appeared stuck in the billfold pocket of the man’s jacket. Grant relieved him of that too, then gave him a hard shove, sending him on a collision course with Tweedle Dum.
“FUCK!!!” Tweedle Dee shouted.
Grant followed him, making disappointed noises. “You’ve used that one already. Several times. Our guests are already lamenting the sorry state of our educational system.”
When Tweedle Dee hit Tweedle Dum, he said, “Hey, spin me back upright!”
Grant shook his head. “And they are right to lament. Doesn’t anyone take physics anymore?”
Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were now both gliding up the road and, thanks to Tweedle Dee’s less-than-brilliant suggestion, turning slow cartwheels, one clockwise, the other counterclockwise. Grant walked a few paces behind, whistling the Blue Danube waltz at a tempo corresponding to their rotations, while picking up items of interest that were falling from Tweedle Dum’s pockets.
Janet said, “Damn. I mighta been a bit hard on the Duke. Dude’s got style!”
“Or possibly just a sick sense of humor,” I replied, watching closely. “Which would certainly account for your change in attitude.”
“I said ‘might,’ Jessica. Jury’s still out.”
“Don’t you need twelve people for a jury?”
“I don’t. Just call me Judge Dredd.”
They went off the road at the turn and into a field of wildflowers. Maybe ten yards in, Grant stopped first one of them, then the other. Like Janet and me, Grant hadn’t had a chance to change since our morning “meeting.” For the second time, he pulled his fanny pack around to the front and played with a dial. He checked the phone he had confiscated from Tweedle Dee and, apparently satisfied, tossed it on the grass. Then he turned and started heading back to the car.
“I will hunt you down, swear to God!” Tweedle Dum screamed at his back.
“And your little dog, too!” Janet said, chuckling.
Grant turned back and looked at the Tweedle Twins. I couldn’t hear what he said. Maybe he didn’t say anything at all. But Tweedle Dum stopped making threats. Indeed, he finally just shut up.
I said to the ether, “Thank you, Ensign. You can lower the car now, but not the two humans.” When I felt the car’s tires take its weight again, I opened the door and went to meet Grant.
“I misjudged you earlier today,” I said quietly. “I apologize for that. And for my angry words.”
He gave me a long look. “I do my duty as I see it, Professor,” he said finally. “Sometimes I get it wrong.”
“Oops?”
He smiled. “Yeah, pretty much.”
“Works for me.”
We got in the car. I studiously ignored Janet’s questioning look.
“Where to?” Grant asked.
And that, I thought, was an excellent question. Most excellent indeed.
To be continued. All in good time.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 12: The Enemy Within
To answer Grant’s question – “where to?” – we had to make another decision first.
“Janet,” I said, “I know we had a bad start today. . . .”
Janet interrupted me. “A bad start? No, I wouldn’t say that. Maybe you’d say Henry Ford had a bad start. Bankruptcy and all that. Or Leonardo DiCaprio – I mean, his first movie was ‘Critters 3,’ if you can believe it. Those . . . those were bad starts. What WE had was a Category Five Shitstorm!”
“Well, okay. Sure. . . .”
“So I don’t suppose you’d consider goin’ someplace like Bolivia?”
“Bolivia? No! Janet . . . I’m not ready to give up yet.”
Her eyes gleamed. “Of course not. You’d give lessons in stubborn to mules, cats, and Captain Ahab.”
“But I need to know . . . .”
Again, she cut me off. “Oh, I’m in,” she said. “I’m seriously opposed to doin’ shit that gets either of us shot – or, in your case, shot again – but with that minor caveat, sure. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m actually good with not getting shot, too.”
“So glad we got that part ironed out,” she said.
I thought for a moment. “We need to find a place to stay. I need a change of clothes, since I can’t be seen like this without attracting sharks or scaring children. And . . . we need to get back in touch with Dr. Livingston. I think she’s our best hope right now.”
Grant sat silent through this exchange. Should I ask his opinion? He had been helpful with the goons, but . . .
At least, I thought, I could trust him to be honest. “Mr. Grant, I appreciate your willingness to help. But you have your own duties, your own allegiances. If you bring us somewhere, won’t you have to tell someone else where that is? I don’t want to put you in a compromising situation.”
He gave me a steady look and a half smile. “Perceptive, Professor. My only allegiance is to my country. Period. This morning, that meant that I was willing to take you into custody at the direction of the Undersecretary. This afternoon, that meant I felt compelled to assist you in escaping people who were attempting to detain you under false pretenses. But I can’t promise that I won’t arrest you later, if I conclude that duty requires it.”
Janet gave an unladylike snort. “Good work. Sleep well. I'll most likely kill you in the morning?"
“Probably nothing so drastic, Professor,” Grant’s tone was serious, though his eyes displayed a gleam of appreciation. “But I can’t disagree with the general thrust of your analysis.”
“What would you suggest we do, then, Mr. Grant?” I asked.
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said. “I suggest that you have me drop you at a metro station; the nearest one is at Bethesda. From there, you can go wherever you like. Catch a train to Philadelphia, or a flight to Bolivia. Or, find a hotel, a place to buy clothes, new burner phones . . . just about whatever you want. And, if you need to reach me again, I’ll have my normal cell phone with me within an hour of leaving you.”
He thought for a moment longer. “Ah . . . I think you are right about the Science Adviser. For whatever my opinion on that subject may be worth.”
So we took off for the metro. After a couple minutes, I suggested that our former captors should probably be released from the aliens’ tractor beam. I had no way to know whether they actually were. I couldn’t bring myself to be too concerned about it.
Just before we arrived at the station, the skies opened up and it began to pour – a very typical event in the D.C. area in the summertime. “The day just keeps getting better,” I sighed.
“No, it’s perfect!” Janet said, looking pleased. When we arrived, she looked around and spotted what she was looking for. “Gimme two minutes,” she said, jumping out and dashing to a kiosk by the entrance to the metro.
When she returned, she handed me a disposable poncho and donned one herself. “That’ll hide a multitude of sins,” she said. “Which is good, since you seem to be a walkin’ advertisement for the sacrament of confession. She cocked her head and gave me a critical look. “Even if it’s not the most stylish thing you’ve ever worn.”
“Gee, thanks!” I said in response. Then I touched Grant’s arm. “Thank you. For the ride and the advice. But mostly for being honest.”
He smiled. “Good luck . . . Jessica.”
I squeezed his arm, put up the hood of my poncho, and hopped out of the car. Janet and I raced to the Metro through the downpour and started down the escalator.
Janet was a step behind and above me. She leaned down and sang into my ear, “If you can't be with the one you love, honey, love the one you're with!”
“Janet!!! It’s not like that – at all!”
“Really?”
“Really! Honestly, I don’t know where you get your ideas.”
“Well . . . you may not intend to be flirtin’, but it’s possible – bear with me here – that guys may not see it the same way.”
“I . . . ah . . . what? Flirting?”
“It’s pretty amazing, really,” Janet responded. “Even objectively unattractive men – which our friend the Duke most definitely isn’t – often think a woman who is just being kind, or polite, or whatever, must really be signaling attraction.”
“You mean . . . “
“Yeah. As in, ‘drag him off to bed, jump his bones, shag him ragged and bear his children’ kind of attraction.”
“Horsefeathers! I have no recollection of thinking that way even once during the sixty-plus years I roamed the earth as a male!”
“Horsefeathers? Seriously? You know how ridiculous that sounds, comin’ from a seventeen-year-old girl? They’ll lock you up!” She shook her head. “Jessica, honey, I hate to break it to you, but James Wainwright was not a typical man. In too many ways to even begin to count.”
But I wasn’t focused on that. Grant? Really? “You don’t think . . . ?”
“Of course I think,” she laughed. “I’m a full professor. It’s what we do.”
We got to the bottom of the escalator and went to buy tickets. “Any idea where we should go?” Janet asked.
I looked at the schematic of the Metro system. Bethesda’s station was on the Red Line, and I looked down the names of the other stations on that line. “I’ve at least heard of Dupont Circle,” I said with a distinct lack of confidence. “I think it’s a big commercial area, right? We should be able to find places to shop and to stay.”
Janet was carrying the purse, so she got us tickets and we made our way to the platform.
“What’s the plan?” she asked.
I thought a minute. “Burner phones, then a quiet place to make calls. Preferably a hotel, but we can’t waste time. We need to find out what Livingston’s doing.”
The train was busy and the car was full. We were in a crush by the door, but I didn’t want to wait for another train. After the events of the past few hours, I felt very vulnerable. Who were all these people? Were any of them working for . . . well, whoever Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum were working for? How would I know? The space between my shoulder blades itched, just thinking about it.
As the train braked for the next station, I was thrown slightly off balance. I felt hands steady me . . . and then linger. And start to wander.
“You okay, babe?” asked a fruity voice behind me. His hands didn’t release me.
I snapped. In a loud and confrontational voice, I said, “If you don’t get those hands off me RIGHT NOW, you’re going to be picking your goddamned nose with your elbow!”
“Hey, hey, just trying to be helpful!” the voice said, sounding both offended and defensive. But the hands let go. Fast.
“Perv,” snarled Janet. “Pick on someone your own age – or at least, your own species! Yech!”
The fruity voice squeaked “Owww!”
“Oh, sorry,” said a rough, deep voice.
I managed to turn around enough to see an enormous man with a cold smile looking at a middle aged guy with a pot belly who was rubbing his head.
“I didn’t see you way down there,” the big man softly. “I hope I didn’t make you miss your stop here.”
“It’s not my . . . .“ The shorter man stopped talking, as the big man’s facial expression registered. Then he said, very quickly, “Thanks for reminding me,” and scurried out just as the doors opened.
Janet gave a derisive snort.
The big man looked at me, and his expression cleared. “Ma’am,” he said, with a nod.
I nodded back. “Thank you.” But I turned back around, purposefully limiting contact. I was happy that the horrid little man had gotten a scare, but I didn’t know who the big guy was. I wasn’t feeling very trusting. Besides . . . I was still processing Janet’s admonition about inadvertent flirting. Not for the first time, I thought, girl stuff is hard.
He got off at Tenleytown, which made me feel safer, though worse about not trusting him. Janet leaned in close to say, “He is the Brute Squad!”
We got off four stops later, fortunately without further incident.
The escalator at Dupont Circle was the longest I’d ever seen. Coupled with the eerie light and rain coming from the distant top of the massive shaft, I felt like I was being taken up to heaven. But unlike Iowa, no one would ever mistake D.C. for heaven. Ever. Especially not at the end of July. The whole damned city felt like a giant sweat gland.
“Good work back there, Jessica,” Janet said as we took the long ride.
“Really? I just blew up.”
“Bein’ a girl doesn’t mean you need to be a victim,” she responded. “There’s no reason not to call bullshit on that kind of behavior, loudly and in public. Throwin’ a bit of style into the mix – I liked the nose-pickin' line, by the way – well, that’s just addin’ bacon to a burger.”
When we finally finished our ascent from the underworld, we found that we had practically been delivered to an AT&T store. We went in and Janet got a couple phones and SIM cards. Finding a place to actually use them was more difficult. In the end, we decided that the best we could do was the middle of the traffic circle itself, keeping the hoods of our ponchos up. It was still raining, though fortunately it was no longer a suffocating deluge.
The first thing I did was to call Janet’s new phone. When she answered, I said, “Worm, I assume you are monitoring. Please call one of these two numbers when we hang up, hiding the location from which your call originated.”
Half a minute later, I received a call from “Bismarck, North Dakota.” “Good afternoon, Ensign,” I said. “Thank you for your assistance this morning – and this afternoon.”
“Shucks, Ma’am, ‘twern’t nothin’,” Worm replied in his animated voice. Losing affect like a punctured dirigible loses altitude, he continued, “We appreciate willingness your to continue.”
“It may not look like it, but I still think we made progress this morning. I need to make some calls, but I can’t have them traced. Can you make the connection, making it appear that my calls originate from different locations?”
“Affirmative, Jessica James.”
“Can you get a number for Doctor Averil Livingston, the President’s Science Advisor?”
After a moment, Worm said, “We have a number for the Office of the Science Advisor.”
“That’ll do,” I said. “Put me through . . . and have the call appear to originate from the Office of the Undersecretary for Science and Technology, Department of Homeland Security.”
Worm did not respond, but I could hear ringing, followed by a young woman’s voice. “Office of the Science Advisor, Kara McDaniels speaking.”
“Good afternoon,” I replied. “This is Jessica James; I spoke with Doctor Livingston this morning. Is she available?”
“Doctor Livingston isn’t in the office today. Can I take a message, or send you to voicemail?”
I hadn’t expected that. Janet and I shared a puzzled look, and I said, “Is there a way that I can reach her? It’s urgent.”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to leave a message.”
“Was she supposed to be in the office today?”
“We don’t give out that information,” the woman huffed. “You can leave a message, or call back another time.”
I opted for the latter, then called Worm back. “No luck there, Ensign. Any other numbers associated with Doctor Livingston?”
“I have a number associated with A. Livingston in something called ‘McLean, Virginia.’”
“Let’s try it. Have the call originate from the Science Advisor’s Office.”
It was a long shot, but – much to my surprise – a male voice answered. “Hello?”
“Good afternoon. I was wondering whether Doctor Livingston was home today. She’s not in the office.”
“She was going there as far as I know, though she had an early meeting she had to go to first. Try her cell.”
I couldn’t very well admit that I didn’t know her mobile number – not if I was calling from her office. I thanked him and rang off.
“Worm,” I said, calling him back again, “Do you have any other numbers associated with Doctor Livingston?”
“Negative.”
“Really?” I was frustrated and more than a bit concerned. “How is that possible? We know she has a cell phone.”
“Why don’t you try using two Dixie cups with a string?” Worm asked.
“What? Not helpful, Worm!” I said, surprised.
“We don’t care. We don’t have to. We’re the phone company.”
Based on his animated tone, as well as the barely relevant and not terribly helpful substance of his remarks, I assumed Worm was quoting something, though it sounded far too accurate to be from an advertisement.
Janet, at least, was amused. Very amused.
I told Worm we needed to give some thought to our next steps and ended the call.
“We need to get out of sight and out of the rain,” I said. “There’s bound to be a hotel near here.” But we were unable to discern one from where we were.
“There was a bookstore across from the phone place,” Janet said. “Looked legit, too. Someone there might know.”
“I’m supposed to let you into a legitimate bookstore? We don’t have all week!”
“Really, Jessica!” She gave my arm a pat. “I don’t know where you get your ideas!”
“Long and careful observation.”
She laughed, but despite my misgivings, we went to the bookstore and Janet was able to find someone – after three tries – who knew the area well enough to tell us where we might find a hotel. I even managed to get Janet out of the place without resorting to force or violence. I couldn’t blame her, really – it is a good bookstore. They even had a copy of . . . well. Never mind.
* * * * *
Half an hour later, we were ensconced in a hotel room. Janet had, by some alchemy, gotten the manager to buy the story that she had lost her credit card, so we paid cash and her card wasn’t run. I was eager for a shower, but I decided to let Janet take the first one. We were both soaked anyhow.
I had an ulterior motive for my magnanimity, and for once Janet didn’t pick up on it. Once she was in the shower, I called Worm. “Can you connect me to Professor Gavin Grimm? I believe Janet called him from her cell phone, and she had a direct number.”
“I record have,” Worm replied. “Where from should the call come?”
“Professor Seldon’s cell phone.” I wasn’t certain he would answer, but I figured a guilty conscience might help.
He picked up immediately. “Janet, I’ve only got a minute. I don”t have an update for you.”
“This is Jessica James,” I said coolly. “We’ve already gotten the essence of your report from Dr. Livingston and Dr. Singh.”
“What? That’s . . . I mean . . . .” His sputtering petered out.
“Professor, I don’t have time for this right now. We met with Livingston and Singh this morning. After the meeting, Dr. Livingston intended to brief the President. But we have some concern that she might have been intercepted. And detained.”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know. But she may be in danger. Do you have her cell phone number?”
“Of course; she’s the co-chair of the SAB. But I’m not giving it out!”
“Fine. Don’t. But could you please call her? Make sure she’s all right? We would like to speak with her, so if you would give her Janet’s cell phone I’d appreciate it.”
He hesitated, uncertain. “You’re sure about this?”
“Yes. I’m very worried.”
“Alright. I’ll call her.” He hung up.
“Worm,” I said, “Please track the names, numbers and locations of the people Professor Grimm calls.”
A few minutes passed. Janet was still in the bathroom, but out of the shower, when my phone rang. The caller ID – “Antananarivo” – made me smile. “What have you got, Ensign?”
“Professor Grimm a device called located physically in car parked near where you shot were.”
His word order was more tangled than usual, but I got it after a couple seconds. “A cell phone,” I surmised. “No answer, I assume?”
“Correct,” Worm said. “Professor Grim then the McLean number and Science Advisor’s Office called. Finally, Dr. Singh called. Ongoing.”
“Grimm called Singh?
“That is what said me.”
It wasn’t exactly, but it also wasn’t the best time for a grammar lesson. While I was considering the substance of what Worm had said, Janet came out of the bathroom toweling her hair. Seeing me on the phone, she raised an eyebrow in question.
“Worm,” I mouthed to her.
“Put him on speaker, would you?” Janet asked. When I did, she said, “Ensign, do you have a record of the vehicle that took us from where Jessica was shot to where she got medical treatment?”
“We identify the ‘vehicle’ can, Professor Seldon.”
“Do you have any way to locate it now?” Janet asked.
After a moment, Worm said, “Apologies. The area too large is.”
By this time, I’d figured out my next avenue of inquiry. “Did Grimm call Singh’s office number?”
“Wait . . . what does Grimm have to do with this?” Janet asked.
“In a minute,” I said. “Worm?”
“Negative,” Worm replied. “Was ‘cell phone,’ think me. Dr. Singh used this device in car he drove after you shot were.”
“Excellent! Where was Dr. Singh when Grimm called him?”
“In building,” Worm replied.
“Umm . . . where is the building located?”
“The State of Maryland, also identified as the ‘Old Line State,’ the ‘Free State,’ and the ‘Chesapeake Bay State.’”
“Old Lyme? Really? Thought that was in Connecticut,” said Janet.
“I you assure,” Worm began.
I cut him off. “Worm, Maryland is a big place . . . .”
“Affirmative. 12,407 square miles,” he agreed.
Worm’s view of relevance, like Janet's, can sometimes stray beyond the strictly practical. “Do you have location information within the Chesapeake Bay State?” I asked.
“The building on maps identified is, ‘Chevy Chase Office Park.”
“Hallelujah,” I muttered.
Janet interjected, “Worm, is the vehicle we were discussing near the ‘Chevy Chase Office Park?’”
Thirty seconds later, Worm said, “Affirmative, Dr. Seldon.”
“Hallelujah!” she echoed.
Worm said, “Professor Grimm ended call with Dr. Singh has and attempt to call Dr. Seldon’s ‘cell phone’ is. Connect should?”
“Yes!” I said, overriding Janet’s “huh?”
“Hello?” I said.
“Miss James?” It was Grimm.
“Speaking.”
“I . . . was not able to reach the Science Adviser.”
I waited, then, finally, said, “Did you learn anything, Professor? Dr. Livingston may be in danger.”
“You . . . I’m sorry. I can’t . . . you don’t . . . .” Grimm sounded at once worried, conflicted and apologetic.
Janet looked furious and drew a breath to speak.
I put a hand on her arm, got her attention, and shook my head. “Professor Grimm,” I said softly, “You know Dr. Livingston. You’ve worked with her. I believe she was prevented from making a report to the President concerning the technology you evaluated. What’s the right thing to do here?”
More silence. Finally, Grimm said, “Fuck it. This doesn’t smell right. But . . . I’m not sure where to go with it. You said she was going to brief the President?”
“That’s where she said she was going when she left us.”
“She couldn’t just show up unannounced. Luther Corbin would have cleared it.” He was thinking out loud.
“Corbin being?”
“The President’s Chief of Staff. I’ll call him, but . . . I don’t have much to go on.”
“And we don’t have much time. So . . . I’ll tell you what I know, and I’ll have to trust you with what you do with it. Dr. Seldon and I met informally with Dr. Livingston and Undersecretary Singh. At the conclusion of the meeting, Dr. Livingston appeared to be convinced that the President should be informed about the, ah, offer we were authorized to make. She took Dr. Seldon and me to a government facility and said she would come back for us after meeting with the President. Dr. Singh did not accompany us.
“Agents claiming to be working for three highly-placed officials came to collect us and falsely claimed they were taking us to the White House. We managed to escape not far from Bethesda. We have reason to believe that Dr. Singh intercepted Dr. Livingston and took her to a facility located at the Chevy Chase Office Park. We surmise we were being taken to the same place.”
“That’s bat-shit crazy. You know that.” Grimm sounded worried.
“You thought the same about our tech,” I reminded him.
“I know, I know! But . . . Why would anyone try to keep Averil from reporting to the President?” Before I could answer, he said, “Which officials are you talking about, anyway?”
“The goons identified three people; I don’t know whether they were being truthful.”
“Names, Miss James!” He was clearly impatient with my temporizing.
“Singh. Agnew. Tsong.”
“. . . unto the Lord?” asked Janet. “Yeah, not so much.”
“Janet? You’re there too?”
“Yeah, Gavin; Jessica’s tryin’ to keep me from talkin’ ’cuz she figures I’ll blow up at you or somethin.’”
“Wherever could I have gotten that idea?” I asked.
“It has been known to happen,” Grimm said, before adding, “but in fairness, I do sometimes give her cause. . . . Listen, I know Singh and this doesn’t seem like him. At all. And I can’t imagine why Defense and NSC would even be involved. At any level, much less the most senior.”
“Ah.” I knew this would need to be finessed somehow. “It likely has to do with the identity of the tech’s owners and the deal they are proposing.”
“Which is what, exactly?” Grimm asked.
I was about to answer when Janet forestalled me. “I’m sorry, Gavin. Dr. Livingston herself told us that was classified – ‘official secrets six times over,’ she said. We have to respect that – for the same sorts of reasons, I imagine, that you felt compelled to bring our data to the government’s notice without tellin’ us.” Amazingly, she managed the entire speech in a tone of regret that gave no plausible cause for offense.
Grimm may have wanted to take umbrage anyway – I expect he did, really – but he succeeded in restraining himself as well. Janet’s point was, after all, a valid one. “I . . . see,” he finally said. “But I certainly don’t want to stick my nose into this if I don’t know what’s going on.”
“Professor,” I said, “can you think of any circumstance that would justify some bureaucrats detaining the President’s Science Advisor to keep her from making a report?”
“I can’t – but that might just be a failure of imagination on my part.”
“You, Gav? Unimaginative? Whodathunk?”
I looked at Janet and shook my head. “It’s like Grant said. Institutional paranoia, pure and simple.”
“Grant? Earl Grant?” asked Grimm.
“Dukkov Earl Grant,” Janet confirmed. “Works for your buddy Singh.”
“I wouldn’t say Singh is my ‘buddy.’ I’ve just worked with him. And I’ve met Grant. He’s solid.” Grimm sounded thoughtful. “Can he corroborate what you’ve told me?”
I said, “He can’t corroborate our information about where Livingston and Singh are – at least I don’t think he can. But he was with us up to the point that we escaped from the goons. He can corroborate the rest.”
“Ask him, Gavin,” Janet said, her voice dead serious.
Surprisingly, Grimm said, “I trust you, Janet, since you’d have to assume I’d check. I’ll call Corbin.”
I said, “Thank you. Will you let us know what he says?”
“Unless he tells me not to, Miss James. But he might.”
“Understood. Good luck.”
We signed off and I said, “Worm, please continue to monitor Professor Grim’s communications. The people he calls, what number, where they are.”
Janet was giving me a very old school glower. “Thought I didn’t need to know you were talkin’ to that snake Grimm, huh?”
“We’re running out of options, Janet, and I know you’re . . . ah . . . incensed wherever he is concerned.”
“You meant to say, ‘irrational,’ didn’t you?”
“I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Only ’cuz you don’t want to get hurt,” Janet observed.
“There is that, I suppose.”
“Look, Hon, I know I sound irrational. I think I’ve got good reasons to have a bad opinion. But . . . I know our options are limited. Have a bit of faith, okay?”
“Yes, Ma’am,” I said contritely.
“Right. I’m gonna get us both a change of clothes. We passed a store getting here, so I’ll be quick and I’ll take the other phone with me in case you need to get me. Now take your phone into the bathroom and grab a quick shower.”
I nodded; it seemed very unlikely I’d hear back from anyone for a couple of minutes. In the bathroom, I practically peeled myself out of the clothes I’d worn all day and stepped into the shower. It took me considerably longer than I’d hoped to get rid of all the blood – especially the blood that had gotten into my long hair.
When I got out, I put on one of the hotel’s terry cloth robes, muttering darkly about the rank dishonesty of a “one size fits all” label. I wrapped my head in a towel and called Worm. “Can you tell me whether Professor Grimm’s been making any calls?”
“Called number listed for Office of Chief of Staff, then number for Dukkov Earl Grant. Ongoing.” Worm’s level voices gave a simulacrum of calm. It was probably just a coincidence.
“How long was the call to the Chief of Staff’s office?”
“47 seconds,” Worm replied.
That almost certainly meant he had left a message. Damn!
I was running out of ideas. I needed inspiration, but I had an idea where I might get some.
“Worm,” I said. “Connect me to Justin Abel, please.”
I heard ringing, followed by a deep, and deeply reassuring, voice. “Justin Abel.”
“Justin, it’s Jessica. Help!”
* * * * * *
There were just two entrances to the Chevy Chase Office Park. An hour and a half after I had spoken to Justin, I was watching one of them and Janet was watching another. Justin, bless him, had thought of a plan that did not require action by distracted and/or conflicted federal officials.
“Jessica,” he’d said, “Do what any good citizen would do. Call the cops.”
But not, of course, without getting good intelligence. So we knew that Singh, at least, was still in the building – or at least his cell phone was. We knew that at least three other people were with him, since their cell phones were active. And we knew that their government-issued cars were behind the building, near the exit that I was watching from a small park across the street.
It was full dark and the back door area was poorly lit – at least to the visible spectrum. But Worm’s sensors could “see” a lot better than I could.
I called Janet. “Ready?”
“Let’s kick the tires and light the fires!” she responded, with typical Seldon enthusiasm. Janet loved a little mischief and mayhem.
Showtime! “Worm, make the first call.”
“Police dispatch, how may I direct your call?”
“Dr. Livingston’s been kidnapped! We’ve located her car at the Chevy Chase Office Park. She may still be there!” I knew that the call would appear to be originating from Dr. Livingston’s office.
“Slow down, Ma’am,” said the dispatcher. “What’s your name?”
“My name’s Jessica James. I’m working with Dr. Livingston. She was kidnapped earlier today – carjacking, we think. But she doesn’t have her phone with her. We found the car she was driving and . . . Oh, please, hurry!” Okay, I was laying the “damsel in distress” vibe on a little thick, but we needed a little less talk and a lot more action.
It worked. “We’ll send officers to investigate right away. Can we reach you at this number?”
“Yes, I’ll be right here! Thank you, thank you!” Of course, if they dialed the Science Advisor’s Office, Worm would divert the call to me. That might not be legal – I suspected that it wasn’t – but they hadn’t asked and I decided that my speculation on the subject was at best uninformed. I’m a linguist, not a lawyer, I told myself. Quite firmly. Besides, the issue might never arise.
A few minutes passed and I was becoming increasingly anxious. But then I heard the sound I was waiting for – a siren. “Second call, Worm!”
The phone began ringing again. “This is Singh,” the Undersecretary said as he answered his cell phone. His caller ID should be indicating that the call originated in the National Security Advisor’s office.
I plugged my nose to disguise my voice. “Dr. Tsong directed me to tell you that your location has been discovered and that police are on their way right now. She’s been summoned to meet with the Chief of Staff.” I hung up before Singh could respond – or ask questions – then waited a bit longer.
I’d taken some convincing on this part, but Justin had been adamant. “Of course he'll be suspicious. It doesn't matter. He won’t have time to confirm it, and he’ll have to respect the threat.”
The sirens were clearly getting closer.
The back door opened and someone came out – just one person. I couldn’t tell the features, but – obviously male, and clearly alone. He walked around, looking left and right, then got into one of the cars and turned the ignition.
“Get ready, Worm,” I murmured.
Three people came out the door. One on his own, another “escorting” the third. “If you confirm the identity, Worm, execute!”
Suddenly all three figures appeared to stumble. Then the figure who had been ‘escorted’ shot into the sky almost too fast to see in the dim light. The other two figures regained their feet, looked around wildly, and began running around. I could hear them shouting, though I couldn’t make out everything they were saying. Short, blunt, very Anglo Saxon words seemed to predominate.
The sound of the sirens was very loud now.
I braced myself for what I knew was coming . . . and I shot into the sky myself. I had never moved so fast, or imagined that I even could. Wind was screaming past my hair and face, my eyes were watering, and I was very glad that Janet had gotten me a pair of pants – dressy, very fashionable pants, but pants nonetheless – rather than a skirt. In no time at all, I could see almost all of the greater Washington Metropolitan area.
I caught up with Dr. Livingston in mid-air; I assumed our proximity meant that we were close to the ship. Her eyes were screwed tight, and she was clenching her teeth to avoid screaming. We both slowed and matched speed.
It was now possible to hear something other than the sound of rushing air. “Doctor Livingston,” I said, loud enough for her to hear me.
Her eyes remained closed.
“Doctor, it’s okay. You’re safe.” I reached out with both hands and clasped her shoulders. “It’s okay. I’ve got you.”
Her eyes opened a slit. Looked at me. “You’ve got me?” Then she looked down. “Who’s got you?”
“They call themselves The People – at least, that’s the translation,” I answered.
Our view of the city disappeared – probably just in time to preserve the Science Advisor’s composure. Light came on. We were back in the hold of the aliens’ ship. Worm, still in his pinstripes and flip-flops, was waiting for us.
Dr. Livingston’s eyes fell on our host. “Oh my God,” she whispered.
“You talkin’ to me?” Worm asked, animated.
“Not exactly,” I said quickly. “Doctor Livingston, this is Ensign Worm; I guess you would say he’s the liaison officer. Ensign Worm, this is Dr. Averil Livingston, the President’s Science Advisor.”
Livingston was still looking shell-shocked. I decided this might not be the best opportunity for interspecies communications. “Worm, may we have a moment please? Also – could you connect me to Dr. Seldon?”
“Yes, Jessica James. Moment.” He departed through the side door.
I got out my phone and waited until it connected. “Janet, I’ve got Dr. Livingston safe. What’s going on down there?”
Janet said, “Singh met the police at the door and had a discussion with ’em. A rather lengthy discussion. Then they all went inside. I assume that was just delayin’ things.”
“Great,” I said. “I need to talk to Dr. Livingston and determine where we should be dropped off. Meantime, why don’t you head back to the city? I should be back in touch in fifteen minutes or so.”
“Okay, Jessica – You both okay?”
“I guess so,” I answered. “A bit shook up though.”
“Damn, girl, you're much too tense. You're young. You need to relax, learn to take some joy in your work.”
I could hear the relieved smile in Janet’s voice, and found myself smiling in return. “I’ll try.”
“Good! Now get goin.’ And hey! Let’s be careful out there!”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
Dr. Livingston was listening to the exchange, which I’d deliberately had on speaker. As I had hoped, it seemed to calm her down somewhat. After I’d ended the call, she said, “You meant what you said? They’re going to let us go?”
“Absolutely. They picked you up at my request. I thought Dr. Singh had detained you. If I was wrong, I apologize.”
“You . . . weren’t wrong. He was convinced that the . . . ah, aliens . . . posed a threat. He was afraid that I’d be able to convince the President that they aren’t . . . .”
“But . . . it’s the President’s call, isn’t it?” I asked, probably naively.
“Of course it is. But . . . well. There are folks who don’t necessarily trust him to make the right call.”
That seemed a bit presumptuous of them. “Okay. Well, the aliens would like to make a trade, as I said this morning. They want you to be able to talk to the President. I assume you would still like to?”
That seemed to put some starch back into her. “Hell, yes!”
“So, how can we make sure that you get that chance?” I asked.
She thought for a moment. “I guess I shouldn’t go back home, or to my office . . . . But I need to go somewhere I can make some calls. I need to call . . . .” she was thinking furiously. “Luther Corbin.”
“Professor Grimm has been trying to reach him for a couple of hours. No luck, I’m afraid.”
Worm's voice came through some sort of sound system. “Jessica James, I update have for you.”
I looked at Livingston.
She took a breath and nodded.
“Please come in, Ensign,” I responded.
He rejoined us. “Professor Grimm received call from Office, Chief of Staff. Ongoing. Also: Person carrying Dr. Singh cell phone left Chevy Chase Office Park with three other persons.”
“That should get Mr. Corbin up to speed – at least some.” I asked Dr. Livingston, “Do you have any idea where Singh might be headed?”
She shook her head. “I know he’s been in contact with Dr. Tsong and with Agnew over at the Pentagon off and on all day. Maybe he’s going to meet with them.”
“Will he ‘Get out of Dodge?’” Worm asked, carefully.
Again, she shook her head. “No. He can’t run. Probably wouldn’t if he could. He’ll fight.”
“Like Oh Kay Corral?” Worm’s unexpressive face nonetheless appeared to register distaste.
“No,” Livingston replied firmly. “He’ll have to try to convince the boss – my boss and his, ultimately – that what he did was justified. Or at least, that he thought he was acting in the country’s best interests.”
Worm studied her impassively, then looked back at me. “Jessica James. Your species, I doubt. Your ‘di-ver-si-ty.’ Elder must speak.” He turned abruptly and left the chamber.
Livingston looked worried. Very worried. “What did I say? What’s going on?”
“Dr. Livingston,” I said, “It’s complicated. I am convinced – completely – that The People mean no harm. But you need to understand that they aren't human. They think, reason, and communicate very differently than we do. They . . . .”
I stopped speaking when the door opened again. Worm entered, followed by the entity I had come to think of as the leader of the expedition, dressed as usual in the form and outfit of a character from Star Trek.
“Elder Mission Leader,” I said.
As before, the Elder chittered, and his voice was translated. The voice, as before, was Siri’s. “Jessica James. Doctor Livingston.”
“You’re the leader?” Livingston looked skeptical. Like Worm’s flip flops, the made-for-TV uniform didn’t exactly inspire confidence; it had been campy even back in 1968.
Siri translated the Elder's next batch of chittering, and evidently, he did not feel like answering questions. “Your people love chaos. Disorder. Even a simple trade offer creates disunity. It is distasteful. Very distasteful. Go talk to your Secretaries and Undersecretaries. Talk to your President.”
Worm added, “And his sisters and his cousins and his aunts.”
Livingston looked at me, baffled.
The leader chittered some more, and Siri’s voice resumed. “Talk to whoever you want. But understand this, Doctor Livingston. We will only deal with Jessica James.”
“But . . . Elder,” I tried to say.
“Jessica James does not represent the United States government,” Livingston pointed out.
The Elder chittered. “This is not a matter for discussion,” Siri’s cool voice translated. “We can’t deal with chaos. We can deal with Jessica James.”
“But why?” Livingston was bewildered.
Truth was, so was I.
The Elder chittered again. “We do not know whether we can work with your species. You make many many rules but do not follow them. You make solemn agreements and break them. No one language. No one culture. No single loyalty. You try to keep secrets from your swarm leader. But we have found one of you we can trust. So if you want to deal, you can talk to Jessica James. She has . . . . “
Siri’s voice stopped, then said, “I’m sorry, Captain, I didn’t get that.”
“Huge tracts of land?” Worm tried.
“Worm!!!” I growled.
“No, not correct,” Worm said. “Tracts are too large.”
I stamped my foot. Honestly, I did. "Worm!"
He ignored me and chittered at the Elder, who chittered back at length.
Finally Worm turned back to us. “Your language no equivalent has. Not sure your species has. But closest this is. Elder says, ‘Jessica James has honor.’”
The chamber was quiet.
Dr. Livingston finally broke the silence. “I don’t doubt that she does,” she said, sounding very diplomatic. “But . . . .”
Worm interrupted her. “Dr. Livingston. That’s the way it is.”
They both turned and left the chamber.
Livingston looked at me, puzzled and distressed. “What the hell just happened here?”
“Beats me,” I said, though I was starting to have an idea or two. “Let’s get you somewhere you can make calls.”
“I’ll need my phone,” she said.
“I’ll loan you one,” I assured her. “And it can’t be traced.”
That earned me a funny look. “Fine then. Have them set us down . . . in the middle of Grant Circle, so long as no-one’s there. Pretty quick walk to the Metro, but almost always deserted.”
We made those arrangements with Worm, then let Janet know where to meet us. “Better make it a fast drop, Worm,” I said, fearing inadvertent discovery. “Just catch us before we hit the dirt, okay?”
I thought Dr. Livingston would be as fearful on the way down as she had been on the way up, but I couldn't have been more wrong. Now that she knew what was going on, she positively exulted in the free fall. “Yippee Kai-Aye!” she shouted, and laughed as we plummeted to earth.
I wanted to die, and thought I was just about to get my wish.
But the tractor beam broke our fall just in time, and we landed lightly on our feet in the middle of a small, poorly-lit park.
“Damn,” said Livingston, a fierce grin on her face. “That was a rush!”
“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” I said. “Deranged, cracked, loco, kooky, certifiably crazy people. The People are the only ones who make any sense, and they sound like the Marx Brothers. But hey, don’t mind me. Make your phone calls. I’ll just sit here and scream. Quietly, of course, so I don’t disturb the neighbors.”
We found a bench and sat down. The area was busier than I expected based on Livingston’s description; traffic wasn’t heavy, but six streets connected to the circle. Mercifully, no-one was in the park itself. We sat facing the two dark churches that dominated one quadrant – one Catholic, one Methodist, both empty. Not the best argument for diversity, I thought sourly. Though, to be fair, it was late, and a weeknight.
Turning my attention to the task at hand, I said, “How are you going to reach Corbin? It seems like he’s hard to get a hold of.”
To my surprise, she smiled. “Gavin would have to go through Luther’s office, and they’re well trained to understand that everyone who wants to talk to Luther thinks they’re dealing with an emergency, and almost all of them are wrong. But I know the number for his bat phone.”
“Is that a ‘know’ kind of ‘know,’ or is it a, ‘I saved the number on my phone’ kind of know?”
She chuckled. “That’s a very good question, but in this case I actually do know the number. Up here, I mean.” She tapped her head. “So, if you’ll be so kind as to lend me your phone?”
I handed it to her, and said, “Worm, have the call Dr. Livingston makes appear to originate from . . . .” I looked a question at Doctor Livingston.
“He can hear us?” she asked, startled.
I nodded.
“Oh!” She thought for a moment, then finally shook her head, resigned. “Have the call come from my cell phone, I guess.”
Once again, I heard only half of the conversation.
“Yes, it’s me. . . . He did? . . . I’m afraid that’s true, Luther. . . . Yes, I can confirm that too. He spoke with Doctor Tsong several times, and with Deputy Secretary Agnew at least twice. . . . Yes, they were. . . . Well . . . . I don’t want to discuss that over an open line. Any line, really. . . . Yes, I know. But this part’s a lot more serious. . . . A lot, a lot! . . . . Yes, of course. . . . Yes, Jessica James is with me right now. We’re expecting Professor Seldon shortly. . . . . Of course we can. . . . Yes, sir. . . . Yes. . . . I’m sure that Grant will come too. . . . I will ask James and Seldon. . . . No, sir, I don’t think that would be a good idea. At all. But I think they’ll want to. Yes, sir. I’ll see you in an hour.”
Livingston ended the call and stared at the phone for a minute.
“Well?” I asked.
“Corbin’s going to meet with us – all of us – in the EEOB at 11:30.”
“All of us?”
“Yes. Me, Grant, you and Doctor Seldon if you’re willing. . . ." She took a breath and looked down. "And Sing, Tsong and Agnew.” She looked – and sounded – surprisingly fragile.
“Doctor Livingston?”
She didn’t respond.
“Doctor? . . . Averil? Are you all right?”
She looked at me then, and her eyes were shadowed. “Yes, I think so. I’ve . . . .” She stopped, shook her head, and said, “I’m sorry, I was about to say I’ve had a bad day. But you were shot, for God’s sake. If you can keep going, I guess I can too.”
I’d been running on pure adrenaline all day, I realized. I closed my eyes for a moment. Tasted the tired in my bones. And the fear. I didn’t want to see those people again, did I?
“Doctor,” I asked, my eyes still shut, “This battery technology. I’m right, aren’t I? It’s important?”
I felt her hand on my shoulder. “Oh, yes, Jessica. Never doubt that for an instant.”
I sat a moment longer with my eyes closed. Something my dad used to say, decades and decades ago, bubbled up into the forefront of my brain. Funny; I hadn’t thought about Dad in forever. The tough old marine – I wonder what he would have thought if he’d known his son would be filling out a double-D underwire bra? I bet he'd have an opinion.
I smiled at the memory, opened my eyes and pulled myself to my feet. Looking across at the dark churches, I said, “Fasten your seatbelts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.”
. . . To be continued. Indefatigably.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 13: The Arena
“Rococo and a bottle of rum!” Janet sounded at once bemused and appalled as she got her first look at the massive, ornate granite pile that is currently designated the “Eisenhower Executive Office Building.” “What is that thing?”
“Mark Twain called it the ugliest building in America,” Dr. Livingston replied.
I snorted. “Then it’s a good thing he didn’t live to see the FBI Building.”
“Or Kallmann Hall,” Janet added. Kallmann was, by a very wide margin, the ugliest building on the Gryphon College campus. Naturally, it housed the school of architecture.
Dr. Livingston smiled. “I’m lucky. I don’t have to look at the outside very much, since my office is on the inside.”
“Seems like an extreme solution to an aesthetic problem,” Janet commented. “Just let the ugly monster eat you!”
“It grows on you,” the Science Advisor assured us.
“So do warts,” I observed.
“What America needs,” Janet intoned sententiously, “is Preparation H.”
“And fast,” I said fervently, as we walked up to the night entrance.
“Good evening, Chester,” Dr. Livingston said to the very alert looking security guard at the desk.
“Doctor.” He gave her a respectful nod, but at least half his attention stayed on Janet and me – newcomers he did not know by sight. “Are the visitors with you?”
“They are,” Livingston replied. “Mr. Corbin asked me to invite them. . . . Actually, he was a bit more forceful than that. He scheduled a meeting for 11:30, but I don’t have the room yet.”
The guard checked a computer monitor on his desk. “Mr. Corbin’s got the conference room in the old Secretary of War’s Suite.” He gave Janet and me his full attention. “May I have your names, please?”
We gave them.
The guard checked his monitor again. “You’re on Mr. Corbin’s list. May I see a photo ID?”
“I’ll vouch for them,” Dr. Livingston told him.
He looked at her through lowered eyes. “Dr. Livingston, you know that’s not how this works.”
“Do you need me to call Mr. Corbin?” she asked. “He was most insistent that they be here. Getting him to change from ‘get them down here yesterday,’ to ‘do it by invitation if you insist – but make damned sure they come,’ took some work!”
“Ma’am, he’s also the one who said he’d saute my liver in Miller Lite if I didn’t follow protocol.”
“What’s the problem?” I asked. “It’d taste great.”
“And be less filling,” Janet added.
He just shook his head.
Livingston said, “Alright, I’ll call him!” I handed her my cell phone and she dialed.
“Hi Luther,” Livingston said. “I’m at the entrance. One of my guests doesn’t have an ID. . . . Well, yes, Chester was insistent. . . . Yes, of course.” She looked at the guard. “I’m putting him on speaker.”
“Can you hear me now?” The voice coming from the speaker was deep and rich, with the distinct cadences and of an old school Baptist Preacher.
“I can hear you, Mr. Corbin,” the guard confirmed.
“Can you indeed?” Corbin asked, lavishing a little extra love and attention on the last syllable. “Are you certain – legally, morally, and ethically certain – that the person who is addressing you in this precise and precious moment is really Luther Corbin?”
“Oh, yes sir,” Chester replied.
“Can you explain to me then, Chester, why you are keeping my guests waiting? I am extremely eager to see these fine people, this very instant!” Corbin’s voice rolled along, like a bowling ball lazily curving towards a helpless set of pins.
“You know I’ve got standards, Mr. Corbin,” Chester said, deadpan. ”I don’t hold with light beer.”
The line was silent a moment before it began to emit a deep basso rumbling noise. “Very good, Chester. Very good indeed,” Corbin chuckled. “But be so kind as to give them both badges and send ’em up here. Now would be a good time. An acceptable time, if you follow me.”
As a linguist, I was enthralled. Corbin’s accent obviously had its roots in Black Vernacular English, though he was employing more standard American English grammar and syntax. While BVE wasn’t one of my specialties, as with most linguistic variations I found it deeply fascinating. And, between his accent, his revival tent cadence, and his polished, resonant bass, he could read the tax code aloud and make it sound like the Iliad.
Chester was apparently uninterested in either linguistics or poetry – likely a common shortcoming among those whose job descriptions included multiple instances of the word “security.” His, “Yes, Mr. Corbin,” was said with practiced ease. It felt like they had this conversation fairly regularly. Turning to the Science Advisor, he said, “Room 231, Doctor Livingston. Don’t get lost, now.”
“Thank you, Chester,” she replied. Then she led Janet and I toward an ornate staircase.
As we started to climb the stairs, Janet said, “Welcome, foolish mortals, to the Haunted Mansion!”
“It does kind of feel that way,” I said, looking around. “The Connecticut State House had the same feel – I remember touring it twenty-five or thirty years ago. Almost like those fine Victorian gentlemen determined that God Himself would frown if they left so much as an inch undecorated.”
Livingston shook her head, bemused. “There’s such a disconnect between your appearance and the things you say. You look like you’re a bit older than my youngest daughter. I’ve got three, so I have a lot of recent experience relating to girls in their late teens. My mind keeps wanting to slot you into that category and treat you accordingly.”
“And then she goes and opens her mouth,” Janet finished.
“Exactly,” Livingston agreed.
“I’m working on being female,” I said. “There are things about it I like . . . . “
Janet snorted.
And well she might, I supposed. She’s been with me from the very beginning, and was well aware of just how much I had come to enjoy – even celebrate – being female over the course of my rapid transformation. When she dashed out in the afternoon to get us both something to wear, she had known to get me an outfit that was not just practical and professional, but also pretty. The sleeveless, feather-light white silk top caressed my skin and rustled against the lace appliqué of my bra; the tailored waist of the pale pink jacket flattered my curves while my practical pants were cut to show gracefully turned ankles. . . .
“Okay,” I amended. “There’s a lot about it that I love. But . . . no matter what I look like, I can never be seventeen again.”
We had apparently arrived at the right floor, and she was guiding us down an ornate corridor. But as we approached a gleaming wooden door, she slowed. Slowed some more. And then she stopped.
She looked down, at her feet. Barely perceptibly, she trembled.
“Doctor?” I said softly.
Janet gave me a quizzical look. But she hadn’t been with me in the park earlier. Something about what had happened today had really shaken the scientist.
I felt inadequate. As James Wainwright, I had no vocabulary for this. No experience. And I couldn't relate to Dr. Livingston as the older man I had been; as she had just explained, she had a hard time putting me in that category.
I had a sudden and vivid memory of how I had felt in Professor Grimm’s Office, when I had realized just how vulnerable I was. How incapable of defending myself, if he had used his greater size, bulk and strength . . . . It had surely been much worse for Dr. Livingston today: Having her education, her intellect, her hard-won position effectively stripped away, neutralized by brute force. Being reduced, in an instant, to the tiredest of tropes, a damsel in distress.
I moved close and rested a hand, gently and tentatively, on her shoulder. “Doctor Livingston. Averil. You are not powerless here. Reason matters. Logic and science and law matter. You matter. Don’t let them take that from you!”
Janet seemed to understand in an instant, and unlike me, she was able to relate to Dr. Livingston as an older woman. “And don’t let ’em see you sweat,” she growled. “Besides . . . without their goons, they’re nothin’ but a passel of rabbits anyway. You’ll see.”
Livingston touched my hand in thanks. “I’ll be okay . . . Just . . . Had a bad moment there.” She took a deep breath, then another, and then looked up, half a smile on her face. “Very well, then. Let’s be about it.”
Janet chuckled as we moved purposefully towards the door.
* * * * *
The conference room was every bit as ostentatious and ornate – which is to say, hideous – as the building’s exterior might have suggested. Heavy, dark wood, Persian rugs, a ridiculously high ceiling festooned with frescos and ‘appropriate designs’ – even a stern and formal portrait of George Washington over the fireplace, flanked by American flags that were topped by gold-gilt descendants of the eagles of Rome. Subtle, it was not.
A long narrow table dominated the room, scarred dark wood polished to a warm luster. Five people – two women, three men – sat along one side; I recognized Dr. Singh and, on his left, the redoubtable Dukkov Earl Grant.
Left of Grant was a jowly man in a dark, conservative suit. On the other side of the jowly man were a small woman with Asian features, dark, intelligent eyes, and shoulder-length, blue-black hair, and a tall woman with iron gray hair wearing a crisp olive green uniform tunic. I wasn’t terribly conversant with military insignia.
The man at the head of the table, thoroughly and effortlessly dominating the group, had to be Luther Corbin. Although it was hard to judge since he was seated, he had to be at least six and a half feet tall and 280 pounds. At a guess, he was in his mid-fifties, and not all of those pounds were muscle. But it was still evident that they had been, not so very long ago. A horseshoe of curly, pepper and salt hair edged the well-formed dome of his head.
I wondered why so many Black men looked great bald; as James Wainwright, I had feared losing my hair.
Conversation stopped when we entered the room. I felt like everyone’s eyes were on me. Whether that was because of my appearance, or because seventeen-year-old girls aren’t normal participants in high-level meetings, or because of this morning’s events, I didn’t know. Stifling a nervous urge to swallow, I forced my low-heeled pumps to click-click-click over the hardwood floor in Dr. Livingston’s wake.
“Doctor Livin’ston . . . glad you were able to get past the gate guards so you could join us,” Corbin said. “Please have a seat, all of you.”
We sat across the table from the fearsome five. Doctor Livingston sat next to Corbin and across from Singh. I was next to her, and Janet sat on my right.
“Thank you for meeting so quickly, sir,” Dr. Livingston said. “Allow me to introduce Professor Janet Seldon from Gryphon College in Massachusetts. And next to me is someone who is, and also isn’t, a woman named Jessica James.”
Corbin’s eyes rested on me. “Yeah, I have heard a bit of this story. And your extremely competent staff kindly forwarded the file you assembled prior to your meeting this morning. We’ll get to that, I reckon. I believe you all know Dr. Singh and Mr. Grant from Homeland Security. With them are Mr. Agnew from DOD, the National Security Advisor, Doctor Tsong, and Colonel Kurtz from the NSC staff.”
Janet muttered something that sounded like, “the horror,” but I was the only one that heard her.
Corbin looked back at Doctor Livingston. “Before you were able to join us, Doctor Singh here was explaining to me that there was a ‘misunderstanding,’ today. Just a healthy disagreement between dedicated civil servants, all equally trying to advance the safety and security of this great nation we are all privileged to serve. I think it is fair to say that he believes what we have here is a failure to communicate. I wonder whether you might care to comment on that characterization of today’s events?”
All eyes were on Livingston. Grant looked curious. Tsong’s expression was unreadable, but Singh, Agnew and Kurtz all showed some mix of defiance and almost pleading. Dr. Livingston must feel the weight of that collective gaze, I thought. The pressure to not make waves . . . to move on and focus on the job.
Corbin’s expression, in contrast, was sardonic.
The Science Advisor gave a long and level look at the people on the other side of the table – her colleagues that she had worked with for two years — then said to Corbin, “There was a misunderstanding, sir.”
His eyes twinkled. “Can you elucidate the nature of this ‘misunderstanding,’ Doctor?”
She responded with a tight smile. “Yes, sir. Dr. Singh, Dr. Tsong and Mr. Agnew were under the mistaken impression that they had the right and the duty to keep me from making a report to the President.”
“That’s not remotely fair!” Dr. Singh leaned forward, his face flushed. “We simply wanted to ensure that the President was presented with a complete brief.”
Corbin raised his hand and Singh stopped.
“A moment, please, Doctor Singh,” the Chief of Staff said, mildly. “Let me educate you on a few facts. Facts which might have a bearing on our discussion here. Doctor Livin’ston told me in advance about your meeting this morning. She gave me the executive summary of Dr. Grimm’s report, so I was aware something important might be coming. Though she was good enough to detail her own skepticism.
“After your meeting, she requested an urgent meeting with the President. His schedule, by some mystery of divine providence, had a bit of space on it, so I suggested that she hustle on over. She never arrived.”
Corbin turned back to Livingston. “Now. Can you explain why you failed to show up?”
“After this morning’s meeting, Mr. Grant drove me, Professor Seldon and Ms. James to the secure medical facility out near the Cathedral.”
Corbin raised an eyebrow – he may not have been informed that I had been injured – but he gestured for her to continue.
“At my request, Mr. Grant stayed with Professor Seldon and Ms. James. He gave me the keys to the pool vehicle he was using and I went downstairs to drive here. But as soon as I had the car door open, two men came up fast. They pushed me in the back seat and drove the car to some office out in Chevy Chase. They said everything would be explained when I got there, but it wasn’t. At all. Dr. Singh was inside along with a few other men who appeared to be agents of some sort. They were taking orders from Singh. When I tried to ask questions or protest, I was told to sit down and shut up. They . . . they threatened to tie me up . . . to gag me . . . if I didn’t comply.”
She was trembling, and her face was flushed. But somehow she got all of it out without a quaver in her voice.
Good for you! I thought.
“We did no such thing!” Singh said, hotly. He rose half way from his seat, hands balling into fists. “This is absurd, and I won’t stand for it. I insist that you retract those lies this instant!!!”
“Calm yourself, Doctor Singh,” Corbin said, displaying no change in his magisterial voice. “I have it on good authority – the very best authority, indeed – that fighting is not allowed in the War Room.”
Singh slowly sank back into his seat.
Corbin looked at him calmly. “Would all of the ‘gentlemen’ who were with you validate your version of events?”
“Of course they would!”
Idiot, I thought.
Corbin smiled slowly. “Just how many corroborating witnesses would that be, Doctor Singh?”
“Uhhh . . . four? Five?” He was starting to see his mistake.
“And how many hours were you and your ‘witnesses’ alone with Doctor Livin’ston out in Chevy Chase?”
“I don’t recall, exactly. It doesn’t matter! What’s important here, I think . . . .”
Corbin tapped his index finger on the table, and his expression looked decidedly less mild. “Don’t think. It can only hurt the ballclub. Since this is my meeting, Dr. Singh, s’pose you let me decide what matters . . . and what doesn’t.”
Singh swallowed, but remained visibly defiant.
“In all the time that you and your ‘witnesses’ had at your disposal, Doctor Singh – a period that extended so long you can’t even give me an estimate of its duration – did you give Doctor Livin’ston the means – cell phone, land-line, carrier pigeon, snowy owl, or any other communications device – so that she could let me know why she had played ding dong ditch with President Taryn’s schedule?”
“She never asked!”
“Indeed?” Corbin leaned back, looking incredulous. “I have known Doctor Livin’ston for some years – As you may or may not be aware, I recommended her for her current position. And what you are saying does not accord with my personal experience of the woman. It would be most out of character, Doctor Singh.”
Singh looked stubborn. “She never asked,” he repeated.
“Mr. Corbin. May I cut through this?” The voice was clipped, precise, and dispassionate, and it belonged to the National Security Advisor.
“I wish someone would, Doctor Tsong,” the Chief of Staff rumbled. “Mrs. Corbin expected me home this evening– she had good cause to do so – and I can tell you that she is not pleased – not remotely pleased – by my continued absence!”
Dr. Tsong nodded. “Shortly after sunrise, Dr. Singh informed me that a party or parties potentially hostile to the interests of the United States were attempting to acquire fissile material from our own stockpiles. In light of the severity of the issue, we deemed it imperative to take immediate action. Accordingly, and on an expedited basis, we took appropriate steps to obtain actionable intelligence that we could take to the President, while we expedited the development of a broad range of possible responses. . . .”
“Hostile?” Janet cut off Tsong with an incredulous snort. “Be serious, will you? You might as well be afraid of the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.”
“I’m always serious,” the National Security Advisor said, matching tone to words.
But she had annoyed me both personally and professionally. “Serious or not, once you run all of your jargon through a plain language translation program – and I have a few I could recommend – what you're saying is that you kept Doctor Livingston from seeing the President by force, and sent a pair of goons to kidnap Janet and me for interrogation!!”
Dr. Tsong raised a pencil-thin eyebrow, but otherwise appeared unfazed by my accusation. “You don’t just walk into a store and buy plutonium, Ms. James.”
“Uranium,” I said automatically.
“Weapons-grade uranium,” she replied precisely. “There are many differences between U-235 and plutonium. Colonel Kurtz here could give you a dissertation on the subject if you have an interest in it. Availability for purchase or exchange, however, is not a distinguishing characteristic between the two materials. Did it occur to you that your proposal to acquire some might raise a few red flags within the national security establishment?”
Corbin, who had been impassively observing the by-play, decided to intervene. “If I may bring us back to the subject at hand? Dr. Tsong, Did you attempt to detain and question Ms. James or Professor Seldon?”
Dr. Singh said, “Yes, sir," before Dr. Tsong could reply.
Singh sang ere Tsong could sing, I thought, irreverently.
Corbin turned his attention back to the Undersecretary. “Well, I do seem to remember that the Constitution had something to say about detaining people. Mr. Madison, now . . . he had a way with words. ‘The right of the people to be secure in their persons’ – you know? The Fourth Amendment. Poetry, pure and simple. Also, last I checked anyway, still the law of the land. So tell me, Doctor Singh. What was your legal authority for attempting to detain these fine people?”
“The Espionage Act.”
“Did you think to consult the Attorney General? Smart man. Very learned. Works not far from here, you know. Just down the road. In case it slipped your mind – what with all the grabbing and nabbing of people today – he’s on the same team as you and me and a question of this nature would seem to be within his purview.”
Singh said, “No, sir. We deemed the matter to be urgent.”
Corbin appeared to look thoughtful. “Huh. You deemed that, did you? Well . . . you at least seem to grasp the general idea that we don’t just get to detain folks without legal authority in this country.”
“Dilly, dilly,” said Janet.
“Just so, Professor,” Corbin said approvingly. “There may – just may mind – be hope for democracy yet.” Returning his attention to Dr. Singh, he said, “But before I break out the bubbly, perhaps you can tell me your authority for detaining the President’s Science Advisor?”
“Like I said, we were just talking to her,” Singh said.
“Doctor Singh.” Corbin's voice turned soft – and deadly. “You are not an imbecile. No less an authority than the University of Suthun California certified that you are not an imbecile. Stop acting like one.”
Singh’s handsome face flushed a deep, blood red and he stood abruptly. “I’ve sat here and taken this for half an hour. No more! I’m finished here!”
“Only half an hour? Don’t you like my meeting?” Then Corbin dropped his sardonic tone and barked an order. “Sit down, Doctor, or I will guarantee that you are finished here!”
For a long, tense moment, the Undersecretary’s angry eyes locked with the Chief of Staff’s hard ones.
Singh sighed and again sat.
Corbin nodded, and then continued in his normal tone. “The President is entitled to straight answers, and it’s my job to get them. Now: Did agents acting on your orders bring Doctor Livin’ston to your location against her will?”
“If they did, they exceeded the orders that I gave them.”
I sneezed explosively; by happy coincidence, the sound bore an uncanny resemblance to the word, “bullshit.”
The ghost of a smile crept up a corner of Corbin’s face. “Indeed. . . . Once Doctor Livin’ston arrived at the satellite office you appear to be maintaining in suburban Maryland, did she inform you that she had been abducted?”
“I don’t recall.”
“Seems like something a man would remember, don’t you think, Doctor Singh? . . . No? . . . . Well . . . was Doctor Livin’ston free to leave your new office space, once your people delivered her there?”
“We didn’t discuss it,” Singh said defensively.
“It is my understanding – I’m not an expert, you understand, though others at this table may be – that a discussion involves a verbal exchange. A sort of back-and-forth, if you follow me. And I am confident that no such exchange took place. You and Doctor Livin'ston appear to be in rare agreement on that exact point. But answer this, please. Did Doctor Livin’ston ever express – at any time – a present desire or intent to leave your satellite office?
“I don’t recall,” Singh repeated, sounding surly.
“Is that a fact? Really?” Corbin gave him a long, measuring look, then drawled out, “I calculate not.”
Before the Undersecretary could unburden his umbrage again, Corbin turned to the Deputy Defense Secretary. “Mr. Agnew, you’ve been very quiet this evening. Were you aware of these goings on?”
Agnew looked momentarily uncomfortable. “No, sir.”
“Doctor Singh did not call you today?” Corbin pressed.
Well, of course there would be phone records. Agnew said, “He did call, but it was about a procurement issue.”
“How many times today did the two of you chat about . . . ah . . . ‘procurement,’ Mr. Agnew?”
Agnew looked even more uncomfortable. “Several . . . I don’t know.”
“Do any of your friends know?” Corbin asked, sarcastically.
“What?” Agnew looked angry, confused and frightened.
“Oh what a tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive,” Janet murmured.
“Are you calling me a liar?” Agnew snarled.
“You might as well tell him the truth, Mr. Agnew,” she replied. “Once the trust goes out of a relationship, it’s really no fun lyin’ to ’em anymore.”
Corbin wrapped his knuckles on the table. “Some fine words of wisdom, Doctor Seldon. I find myself surrounded by highly educated folks tonight. More Ph.D’s than a faculty lounge!”
I smiled. “Not really. But certainly, it’s ‘Piled higher and Deeper’ in here.”
Corbin shared my smile, then turned his attention back to the other side of the table. “But what I'm finding to be in depressinly short supply are straight answers to my very simple questions. So c’mon, now! Doctor Tsong, you’re always one for cutting to the chase. Will you please enlighten me? Was the Science Advisor detained?”
Dr. Tsong looked at Doctor Livingston, then turned cool and unruffled eyes back to Corbin. “She was.”
Singh’s face turned ashen.
“Was she prevented from leaving?” Corbin asked.
“Yes,” she said again, no hint of apology in her voice.
“Prevented from communicating in any way?”
“Yes.”
“You approved this course of action?”
“I did, sir.”
“And did you discuss it with Doctor Singh and Mr. Agnew?”
“I did,” Tsong confirmed, still calm.
“No, she didn’t!” Agnew said hotly.
“She never did! Oh, lie!” Janet teased. The target, I suppose, was just too large – and moved far too slowly.
Agnew shouted, “It’s not true! I demand . . . .”
Corbin cut him off. “Mr. Agnew! You are interrupting my conversation with the President’s National Security Advisor!”
“I don’t have to sit here and listen to lies!” Agnew snarled.
“Why ever not?” Corbin asked. “I’ve had to do nothing else the entire time I've been sitting here! You don’t see me moving.”
“But it’s not true!”
Corbin gave him a hard look. “Don’t make me angry, Mr. Agnew. You wouldn’t like me when I'm angry.”
Under Corbin’s heavy glower Agnew finally subsided.
Corbin looked at Doctor Tsong again. “You’re not going’ to tell me that you suspected Doctor Livin’ston of violating the Espionage Act, are you?”
Dr. Tsong tilted her head sideways. “We thought it prudent to determine whether she had any additional contact with whoever was attempting to acquire the material.”
“You disappoint me, Doctor. We were having such a fine conversation. An intelligent conversation. You were being so singularly – so blessedly – forthright. . . . And now, evasions and temporizing. I am disconsolate, truly I am. Tell me this. Did you have any evidence – any at all – that Doctor Livin’ston was compromised? Just the facts, Ma’am.”
“Evidence? No.”
“You approved the detention of one of the President’s counselors because it was theoretically possible that she might, just maybe, be compromised?”
Dr. Tsong considered the question carefully before responding. “Yes. Under these unique circumstances, I determined that course of action was appropriate.”
“I see,” Corbin said. He looked down the table. “Colonel Kurtz, may I inquire why you are here this evening?”
“Dr. Tsong requested that I accompany her, in case you had specific questions concerning the serious nonproliferation issues raised by this . . . matter.”
Corbin gazed at her for a moment, then looked back at her supervisor. “Then you were operating under a misconception about the purpose of our meeting this evening, Doctor. The President will receive a full brief on these issues. That’s not a question. That was never a question.”
“Then, what is the point of this meeting, Mr. Corbin?” Dr. Tsong asked, the barest hint of impatience showing in her voice. “To my mind, we’ve been wasting time here. We need to find out who is targeting our nuclear arsenal, and we need to find out yesterday. Without any more nonsense about ‘space aliens’ – the elephant in the room you and everyone else appears to be ignoring.”
For the first time, Dr. Livingston broke in, exasperated. “Nonsense? How can you say that? How can you possibly explain . . . .”
Corbin’s raised hand silenced her. “A moment, please, Doctor Livin’ston.” His eyes glinted. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. My sole and exclusive purpose in summoning you all here this evening was to determine whether any of you had, as had been suggested to me, detained one of the President’s advisers.
“I will confess that when Professor Grimm informed me that this might have occurred, I greeted the idea with a certain degree of incredulity. It seemed preposterous. Ludicrous on its face. But Proffessor Grimm is not a flighty man. No, sir. Not given to fantasies, in my personal experience. In light of the importance of the accusation, I ‘deemed it imperative’ – if I may borrow your felicitous turn of phrase – to get to the bottom of the matter without delay. But now, with your help, Dr. Tsong, I ‘deem’ that my objective has been fully and completely secured.”
“Fine,” Tsong replied. “That’s resolved. Can we finally discuss the merits now?”
“Of course not,” Corbin chided. “DHS, NSC and DOD will all need to weigh in on what you are calling the ‘merits.’ But that doesn’t mean the three of you will.”
“What!” said Singh.
“Are you threatening me!” Agnew was raising his voice again.
“Mr. Corbin,” Dr. Tsong said, “You can’t fire any of us.”
Corbin slapped his heavy palm on the table with a crack, silencing the cacophony of their protests. “Unlike the three of you,” he thundered, deploying the full resonance of his deep and powerful voice, “I am not confused when I look in the mirror every morning! I know that I am not the President of these United States! I thank God that I am not the President! No one elected me to do anything. But – try to follow me here – no one elected any of you, either! And all of you forgot that today. You tried to keep information from reaching the President. You didn’t trust him to do what’s right. You thought he might go off half-cocked, before you could weigh in. Or, maybe you thought he would make a decision you wouldn’t much like.”
Under his suddenly lava-hot glare, even Dr. Tsong lowered her eyes.
The silence lingered.
Janet was staring at Corbin’s powerful hand, still holding down the conference table. Quietly, she said, “It was with this hand that Cain iced his brother.”
Corbin nodded without smiling – and without taking his eyes off the officials on the other side of the table. “Just so,” he said softly. Then, in a more normal tone, he said, “Each of you exceeded your authority, and quite probably violated the laws of the United States, the State of Maryland, and the District of Columbia. I want your letters of resignation on my desk first thing tomorrow morning. I will brief the President, and he can decide for himself whether to accept them.” As an afterthought, he said, “Not you, Colonel. Or you, Mr. Grant.”
Dr. Tsong pushed her chair back and rose. “You’ll have it, Luther.” She walked briskly to the door and left the room.
“We should be able to make our own cases to the President,” Dr. Singh objected.
“He knows where to reach you, Doctor. Assuming he has any desire to do so.” Corbin’s richly expressive voice suggested his opinion on the odds of such an event occuring.
“Mr. Corbin,” Agnew began, trying – a bit too late, in my opinion – to sound reasonable.
“You are excused, Mr. Agnew,” Corbin said, the flatness in his voice conveying a certain Old Testament finality.
Singh and Agnew looked at each other, then Singh shrugged and they both got up. Colonel Kurtz and Mr. Grant rose as well.
“Bide a moment, if you would, Mr. Grant,” Corbin said to the stocky staffer.
Ignoring the sharp look he got from his supervisor, Grant resumed his seat. The rest of them left.
Corbin looked at the three of us. “You appear to have had something of an ordeal today. For which you have my sincerest apologies. I have some idea of what went on, but not very much. If you don’t mind, I’d like to hear from Mr. Grant first.”
Dr. Livingston gave a knowing smile.
I must have looked as surprised as I felt – why wasn’t he asking Livingston? – because Corbin said, “Ms. James, this government of ours is very large. Very large indeed. Staffing it’s a nightmare. Sometimes you need to give someone a position – the reasons go from good to bad to downright tawdry – when you’re not certain they’re up to it. So you sick a watch-dog on ’em. Mr. Grant here is one of the best.” He nodded at Grant. “Fill me in, if you would be so very kind.”
Grant nodded respectfully and gave a short, concise summary of the events of the morning, ending with dropping Janet and me off at the Metro. He also described his later conversation with Gavin Grimm.
Corbin sat through the entire recitation without asking a single question. His eyebrows moved once or twice, but almost nothing else. When Grant finished, Corbin gave him a thoughtful look. “Alright, Mr. Grant. Your opinion now. Are we really dealing with space aliens?”
Grant clearly expected the question. “Yes, sir.” His voice was firm. “Or if we aren’t, we might as well be. They are too far advanced in both biological and physical sciences. I took the liberty of collecting a few pieces of evidence, if that would be of assistance to you.”
“I’ll happily play Missouri, Mr. Grant. What do you have?”
Grant pulled a briefcase from the floor by his feet. From a pocket, he pulled two pieces of metal. “I went back to the parking lot across from Roosevelt Island this afternoon. After some searching, I found both the brass casing and the slug that hit Ms. James when she interposed herself between Officer Durant and the alien.”
Reaching into the main compartment of the briefcase, he pulled out a handgun in an evidence bag. “This is the gun that Tom Durrant was carrying this morning. Ballistics confirms a match between the gun and the bullet.”
“You appear to have been busy, Mr. Grant.”
“Yes sir. But there’s more.” He pulled out the shirt that had been taken off of me at the medical facility. “I had the lab look at this as well. They confirm – based on the sample obtained from Ms. James at the lab – that the blood on the fabric is hers, and is less than a day old. You can estimate the path of the bullet from the front and back holes. The internal damage had to be extensive. Ms. James should have died within minutes.” He reached into yet another compartment and pulled out a sheaf of paper. “Copies of the lab and ballistics reports.” He gave them to Corbin.
I was having a hard time with the shirt, honestly. I was suddenly remembering the intensity of the pain . . . my absolute certainty that I was about to die . . . how the world had darkened and sound had dulled . . . Janet’s distant and despairing cry . . . the smell of the pavement against my cheek . . . .
“Jessica? Jess? Honey?” Janet’s voice sounded very far away. And the conference room was fading . . . .
I heard a sharp crack and felt a sting on my cheek. I blinked and found my sight returning.
“Sorry, Ms. James.” Doctor Livingston looked contrite. “My Granny taught me that one.”
I took a long breath and said, “No . . . thank you. I was about to lose it. Could we . . . I’m sorry. Could we please not look at that thing right now?”
“I’ll take the whole briefcase, Mr. Grant,” Corbin said. “”You can put it away for now.” Turning his attention to me, he said, “I apologize again, Ma’am. I grew up on the streets of Baltimore and I’ve seen a whole lotta clothes that look like that. Too many. But it’s good evidence, and I'm gonna need it.”
I nodded.
“Doctor Livin’ston, I should like to hear how you managed to escape from our dedicated civil servants this evening.”
Like Grant’s, her summary was concise but hit all the important points. It was abundantly clear that neither of them had ever been a member of a university faculty. They could give lessons . . . but no. Far more likely the academy would corrupt them than that they would reform it.
When she was done, Corbin said, “Under the circumstances, I guess I don’t need to inquire whether you accept the idea that we’re dealing with an alien species.”
Dr. Livingston shook her head, but she looked troubled. “No, of course not. But . . . Luther? How is it even possible that Ranveer didn’t come to the same conclusion? He was there when Ms. James was shot – and when she was healed. He must have spoken with his agents this evening after I was ripped out of their hands by a tractor beam. Agnew . . . Tsong. I guess I get them. They weren’t there. But I don’t understand Ranveer at all!”
“All lies and jests, but a man sees what he wants to see, and disregards the rest.” The comment was spoken softly. The speaker, surprisingly, was Grant.
Dr. Livingston nodded. “I get that, I guess. . . . But why would he want to see only trouble, where there is such an opportunity? Want it so bad that he would even . . . . I mean. . . .” Her face flushed, but she took a steadying breath and continued. “Look, I knew Tsong and Agnew, some. Worked with them occasionally. But Ranveer was a friend of mine. I thought he was, anyway.”
“There is some wisdom in the adage that anyone in this town who wants a friend should get a dog,” Corbin responded wryly. “I don’t know why Dr. Singh did what he did, though I expect we’ll need to find out at some point. Right now, though, all I care about is getting his hands off the machine right quick.”
“Amen to that,” Dr. Livingston said fervently.
Silence fell, each of us lost in our own thoughts.
Finally, I shook my head. “If I may inquire, Mr. Corbin, what happens now?”
“Now?” Corbin’s eyes twinkled. “Just this instant I highly recommend sleep. I need it, of a certainty. And all of you, I expect, need it even more.”
I looked at Janet and saw my own weariness magnified in her face. But . . . “I guess what I was really asking is whether the alien’s proposal will get a hearing.”
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” Janet sighed.
Corbin smiled at Janet, but responded to my question. “The short answer is, absolutely. But it may take some time. The President will need input from a number of agencies before we can even say whether we will negotiate at all. And I expect – no, I am certain – that the President will want to talk with you both before he decides that question. Could possibly be more than once.
“The fact that they will only talk to you may complicate matters, Ms. James. Though after today’s events I can’t say I fault their logic. But we can deal with that tomorrow.” Corbin smiled wearily. “After all, tomorrow is another day.”
“Except that it’s 1:00 a.m., so tomorrow really isn't another day,” Livingston replied.
“And isn’t that a cheerful thought,” Corbin sighed.
Janet said, “I hate to take a dump on the table, but . . . How long is all of this gonna take, and will we be safe while all of this ‘input’ is bein’ tossed into the Presidential cereal bowl?”
Corbin chuckled. “Professor, we could use a few like you around here. We surely could! Damn-all everyone has opinions in this building, and no one has a lick a’ sense. . . .
“As to your first question, I regret to say that it depends. The amount of time it takes to get a decision is normally equal to the amount of time we have to make it. A sad, very sad, corollary to Parkinson’s Law. I am supremely confident that your government is capable of sitting on this question until the Christ returns in glory and splendor – IF the aliens give us that long.
“Your second question, now . . . . I'd love t’say ‘Yes, of course.’ But I’d have to be an idiot to believe we’ve defanged all the snakes that’ll be lurkin’ in the tall grass . . . . I believe Mr. Grant’s description of ‘institutional paranoia' is entirely accurate. Plus, there’s plain ol’ turf wars, not to mention outside financial interests . . . . So, what with this ’n that, I do think it’d be a good idea to find y’all someplace safe to hole up. I don’t suppose any of you can identify Singh’s ‘agents.’”
Janet curled her lip. “They all look the same to me.”
“Maybe,” I said hesitantly.
Dr. Livingston shivered. “Yes. Until the day I die, likely.” She looked at Corbin. “Do I need to ‘hole up’ too, Luther? Mike and Christine are back at the house as well . . . I’m worried about them.”
“I'm not seeing the danger to you at this point, Averil,” Corbin said gently. He put a hand over hers. “Now that you’ve given me your report, they won’t be so worried about what you might say to the President.”
“They could go after you too, sir,” Grant pointed out.
“Hell-bent on demonstrating the plus side of institutional paranoia, aren’t you?” Corbin asked with a smile. “But I won’t leave here until I’ve documented everything – and folks know I work that way.”
Grant nodded, satisfied.
“Make sure your punch card reflects the OT,” Janet said.
Corbin smiled, then turned serious. “Do you two have someplace safe to stay tonight? I think I can make satisfactory arrangements by tomorrow, but it’s mighty late now.”
I said, “I think so . . . and, I think we have the ability to monitor any threats that may come our way, at least for the next few hours.”
Janet’s eyes widened, then she smiled. “Good point.”
Mr. Grant said, “I think their protection is actually pretty good, sir. At least for tonight.”
“Is it, Mr. Grant? Is it indeed? I'm truly delighted to hear that! And relieved!”
* * * * *
Mr. Grant gave us a ride back to our hotel since it was too late to catch a Metro train. At this point I was more than willing to trust Grant. And besides, as I had intimated at the end of the meeting, we could depend on a bit of assistance from our friends in the sky.
We called Worm as soon as we were in our room. I was about to give him a summary of what had happened, when I remembered. “You actually heard the whole thing, didn’t you?”
“Affirmative, Jessica James. It . . . painful was. How does survive your species?”
“We . . . manage, I guess. Somehow,” I said.
“It's what ‘humor’ is for, Worm,” said Janet. “We couldn't survive, otherwise.”
“That . . . puzzling is,” he replied.
“Yeah,” I said. “Though . . . we couldn’t imagine facing life, the universe and everything without it. As, I suppose, you must.” Changing the subject, I said, “Listen . . . I think we made a lot of progress tonight. I’m hoping we can really get the ball moving now. The President’s going to get filled in tomorrow. But . . . Mr. Corbin wants to know your deadline. How long do we have to get a deal done?”
“Six days, Jessica James.”
“Six days! What happens if we can’t get it done by then?” I was panicking.
Suddenly animated, Worm said, “Does Macy’s tell Gimbel’s?”
“Oh, shit. Really?” Janet said.
“Really, Professor Seldon,” Worm responded. “Attorney Justin Abel us advised.”
I knew it! I knew Justin was behind some of the alien’s recent moves! I thought for a moment. “Worm . . . if you need to keep secrets for negotiation, we understand. But . . . we’re going to have to have conversations on this end that you shouldn’t listen to either. Fair’s fair, right?”
“If you tell us, not listen this conversation to, we will listen not, Jessica James.” Worm affirmed.
“All right. I know I can trust you,” I said. “Just don’t let your slippery attorney suggest ways to get around that!”
“That’s a promise, Ma’am,” he said. He actually sounded reassuring.
He agreed that the ship’s sensors would monitor all approaches to our hotel and, within the hotel, to our room. He also said he would call us if there was a problem, and I was completely comfortable relying on that.
We collapsed into bed and did not wake up until after 10:00 am. We would have slept later, but my phone was ringing.
“Jessica James,” I said, answering it.
“Good morning, Ms. James,” said Luther Corbin’s voice. “I hope you had a fine night’s sleep?”
“Wouldn’t have minded a few more hours . . . but I don’t actually know what time it is.”
“I can apprecciate that sentiment, Ms James, I surely can. But, I was wondering whether you and Professor Seldon might be interested in a bit of golf today.”
“Golf?”
“Yes, indeed. Not my thing, you understand. Not what I learned on the streets of Baltimore. But the President, now . . . he enjoys a game now’n again. Gives him a bit of quiet time, if you follow me. Away from crowds and prying eyes.”
The light dawned, and I was, suddenly, Very awake. “We’d like nothing better, Mr. Corbin. What time, and where?”
“I’ll send a car around 2:00. That give you ladies enough time?”
“Yes, sir!”
He ended the call.
Janet was giving me a sour look. “We’d like nothing better than to play golf? Seriously? I’d like nothing better than to sleep another six hours. Or maybe sixteen.”
“Yeah, but, he means ‘meet with the President while he plays golf.’”
“No shit? Well . . . I guess I can haul my weary bones out of bed for that . . . . in a bit.”
“Not ‘in a bit,’ Janet. Now. I know what I’m going to say. But what are we going to wear?”
. . . . To be continued. Indeed.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 14: Man of the People
We were picked up at our hotel promptly at 2:00. The driver surprised us.
“Chauffeuring seems like kind of a strange side-gig for a Science Advisor,” Janet said with a smile.
Dr. Livingston smiled back. “But it’s a really good gig, when there’s a shortage of drivers with high-level security clearances.” She looked much better than she had in the early hours of the morning. I suspected we did, too.
“Ahh,” I said. “That makes sense. So, what super-secret, hush-hush things do you need to tell us before we meet with the President?”
“Oh, you’re not meeting with him. Not at all. He’s playing golf with me. My mom and one of my daughters are coming, too. I haven’t decided which daughter yet. The youngest, probably, though you don’t look much like her.”
I shook my head. “Sorry . . . it’s been a long couple of days. You’ve lost me.”
Janet giggled.
“I think your colleague figured it out,” Livingston said, real humor in her voice. “The President’s schedule is an open book. Mostly. So if he’s doing a round of golf, there’s a record of when, and how he got there, and who he golfed with. Right now, though, you two don’t exist and we don’t want your presence to be a matter of record. So I’m joining the President for golf today – along with a few others – and he said I could bring my mom and my daughter. One of them, anyway.”
Janet, who was in the passenger’s seat, looked over at the Science Advisor, who looked trim and athletic in pale blue shorts and a nylon top with a soft collar and capped sleeves in a pleasant shade of medium green. “You’n me could maybe be related. Maybe. If you had an off day, and I was at top form. But you and Jessica look like you came from different ends of the Anglo Saxon gene pool, if you follow me.”
Dr. Livingston laughed. “My husband’s family is old money. Perhaps the women have greater . . . . ahh . . . endowments?”
“Or, maybe it was that really cute postman’s family?” Janet grinned evilly.
“He was kind of a hunk . . . .” Livingston said playfully, before shaking her head. “It doesn’t matter, really. The story doesn’t have to be all that plausible. We just need to be able to say something.”
I looked down at the abbondanza that was causing such trouble in the plausibility department and sighed. “Perhaps we can turn to less weighty matters?” I suggested, hopefully.
“Like U-235,” Janet said, deadpan.
The President’s Science Advisor laughed uproariously.
“I’m glad you're both having a good time!” But I immediately relented. “Actually, Dr. Livingston, I am glad you're having a good time. Mostly because I was worried about you last night. But also, more selfishly, because your mood suggests that maybe you’ve had some good news?”
She nodded. “Luther Corbin called me around 10:30. The President will be announcing a reorganization of his National Security team later today. Just a routine thing; what you might expect after a couple years on the job.”
Janet smiled. “This time, the lie isn’t more interesting.”
“He accepted all of their resignations?” I asked.
“Yup. Every one. And apparently had no desire to talk to any of them, either.”
“Corbin struck me as a pretty persuasive guy,” Janet said in an admiring tone.
“Indeed,” Dr. Livingston said. “Might as well argue with the Prophet Ezekiel.”
“Doctor Livingston,” I began.
She stopped me. “Please, do me a favor. Call me Averil.”
“Really?”
“Really. Both of you – but especially you, Jessica. It’s hard for me to remember that you aren't a seventeen-year-old girl – or, at least, that you aren’t just that. We’ve all got Ph.D’s of one sort or another, and you’re closer to my mom’s age than my daughters’. When you use my first name, it reminds me.”
“Okay . . . Averil.”
“Just not when we’re around the boss!” She added.
Janet was surprised. “The President’s a stickler for formality? I never would have guessed!”
“The President? Oh, heavens, no! He’s a politician – a man of the people and all that.” She waved one hand airily. “‘Stuffy’ loses you votes. I was talking about Ezekiel.”
We laughed.
“What I was going to ask,” I said, “was whether you know who else will be with the President this afternoon. Will this be a repeat of yesterday?”
“I don’t know what it’ll be like,” she said thoughtfully. “Apart from the President, the most important player will be the SecDef, Jack Bradley.”
“Now that’s funny,” Janet said. “For the Fenway faithful, Jackie Bradley Junior is the Secretary of Defense.”
“No relation, I’m sure,” Dr. Livingston – Averil – replied. “I expect Colonel Kurtz will be there too. I’m not sure about her. Someone from Corbin’s shop, but I don’t know who. And the wild card is Stanley Aguia. The President asked for him specifically. They go way back, but I don’t know the details. Former military, I know that much.”
“Pretty weighted toward the Defense crowd again,” I said glumly. “It’d really be nice if all of us could get through the afternoon without being kidnapped, arrested or shot.”
Janet sighed. “Yeah, sometimes it’s the little things.”
Averil shuddered. “You won’t get any argument from me on that score, I promise you. But nothing’s going to happen until everyone is confident that we’re not doing anything that weakens national defense.”
“Any advice? Things we should avoid saying? Anything like that?” I felt like I was flying blind. I had sixty years of life experience, but none of it involved meeting with people like these.
None of it involved golf, either.
Averil thought for a moment. “The President takes some getting used to . . . . Hard to describe . . . . But one thing: Don’t shade the truth. He’s got an uncanny ability to sniff out lies.”
We talked as Averil drove us out into the Virginia suburbs. We knew we were getting close when we started seeing lots of unmarked black SUVs, then people wearing suits, shades and ear pieces. We were stopped by a couple fine examples of the male of the species, buff and clean cut.
Averil lowered her window. “Good morning. Averil Livingston and guests. I believe Mr. Corbin made a notation on the ID requirement?”
“Good morning, Doctor,” one of the pair said. “We’ve got you three on the list. Can you pop the hatch for us?”
His partner inspected the back. “Sweet set of sticks, Doc!”
The first guy waved us on. “Over by the pavilion, Doctor. The President’s inbound and should be here in five.”
She thanked him and drove over to the indicated area, where some more nice, discreetly armed young men helped Averil with her clubs.
I saw Colonel Kurtz over on the side and decided to take the bull by the horns. I walked in her direction, but lowered my head and said softly, “Okay, Worm, no listening until I either call you or wave both hands over my head.”
“Colonel Kurtz.” I extended my hand. “We didn’t meet under the best circumstances last night. I’m Jessica James.”
“Ms. James.” Her expression was unreadable, but she did not hesitate to shake my hand. “Mr. Corbin had me briefed in on all of yesterday’s events. I understand what happened last night – and this morning – a bit better now.”
Before I could respond, a man whose face was – like Science Advisor’s – familiar to me from television, came over to say hello. “You must be Ms. James,” he said. “Jack Bradley.” He stuck out a powerful hand.
I was a bit startled; on television, all you tended to see of the Secretary of Defense was his craggy face, bristle-brush brows and wavy silver-gray hair. The fact that he was 5’3” on a good day only registered in person. “Very pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, shaking his hand. Or, rather, taking his hand in mine so that he could do the shaking. He might be short, but I’d give him good odds of winning best of three arm wrestling a kodiak bear.
“I hear you might’ve been partly responsible for my sudden need for a new deputy,” he said.
“Well . . . ahh . . . I didn’t . . . I mean . . . .” I thought, Pull yourself together, Jessica!
He barked a laugh and gave my arm a pat that staggered me. “Don’t worry about it. The only people who’re gonna regret Trevor’s decision to spend more time with his family are related to him.”
“I . . . Oh!” I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised. Agnew had struck me as being pretty unpleasant.
“So off to work I go,” Bradley responded with a smile. “And right on cue, here comes the chief. Dum-diddy-dum-diddy-dum.”
The sound of a rapidly-approaching helicopter made any further communication impossible. A big, white-topped dual-engine Sikorsky with “United States of America” on the body came over the trees and settled lightly on a designated pad.
As the rotors began to slow, a door – hatch? – opened and people began to exit the helicopter. President Taryn came out immediately after two (more) members of his security detail, looking just like he did on television – spry, silver-haired, jaunty smile. Despite the summer heat, he wore dark pants and shoes, though his sky-blue golf shirt was less somber and paired well with his famously blue eyes. He strode towards the pavilion, exuding an eagerness he may or may not have felt.
I didn’t recognize the man who came behind Taryn. Tall, almost skeletal, coal dark eyes, a lean face and a nimbus of soft white hair. More people followed.
“Ruh roh,” the President said as he came to where everyone gathered. “Averil brought her magic clubs again. Sorry, Jack, but this time she’s on my team.”
“Not very sporting, Tom.” The SecDef had the air of someone who’s repeating a familiar ritual.
“Relax!” The President was grinning evilly. “Mr. Corbin sent Tanya along. She’ll take care of you.”
An athletic looking Latina woman standing behind the president broke into a slow smile. “Sorry, Mr. Secretary. You drew the short straw.”
“I didn’t draw anything!” he protested.
“That’s okay,” President Taryn said. “I drew for you ’cuz you weren’t around.”
“Uh huh,” Bradley said skeptically. “I don’t suppose there were witnesses?”
“Of course not,” the President said cheerfully. “There weren’t any straws either. I just decided how long each of our straws would be. Yours was shorter.”
“The whole decider thing . . . it warps a man.” Bradley sounded sorrowful.
“I like to think of it as bending the arc of the universe toward justice,” the President retorted happily. “Let’s get started, shall we? Averil, why don’t you have your mom and charming daughter come with us. And . . . Katherine? Will you join us as well?”
“Of course, Mr. President,” Colonel Kurtz murmured.
“Tom’s rules, now,” the President admonished. “Once we step onto the course, no titles, offices, honorifics or protocol. Bad enough I gotta put up with it at the ranch.” He gave Tanya a winning smile. “You’ll be so kind as to not mention this to Mr. Corbin?”
“Unless he asks, Mr. President. . . . Which, he so will.” Tanya had a really lovely smile too, and used it to good effect.
The President’s only response was, “Alright, alright, let’s get this train rolling!”
We walked away from the group by the pavilion and over to the area where golfers teed off for the first hole. In addition to the people I had heard the President invite, there were two members of the President’s detail and the older man with the white hair.
The President made a point of walking with Averil, Janet and me. “Based on my morning briefing from Mr. Corbin and Mr. Grant, you’ll be Janet Seldon and . . . Jessica James?”
“Yes, Mr. President,” Janet said, defying “Tom’s rules.”
He continued to smile, but shook his head slightly. “First names serve an extra purpose today, so let’s shift to them. Remember, neither of you are here, officially. Jessica . . . Please accept my apology, both personally and on behalf of your government, for what happened yesterday.”
“Of course, M . . . M . . .” I blushed furiously.
“‘Tom,’ he said, firmly. “For this afternoon only, I’m afraid. And don’t tell the boss!”
“Mr. Corbin?” I asked.
“Well, not him either. But I was really thinking of Marianne.” Marianne Taryn, the President’s wife, was widely reported to stand tall and firm on her husband’s dignity.
I took a steadying breath. My late father would have been appalled at the notion of calling the Commander-in-Chief by his first name, but this was the President’s show. “Okay. Well . . . apology accepted . . . Tom. So, we’re not going to get arrested or shot today?”
“Not today,” he said easily. “And with the protection you two have, I’m thinking tomorrow looks pretty safe for you, too.”
“So you, at least, accept that the aliens are real?” I asked.
“I saw your shirt,” he responded soberly. “And the rest of the evidence Grant gathered. Hard to explain it away. Although honestly” – his expression became mischievous – "it's easier to believe in aliens than to believe you were ever a sixty-year-old guy.”
“True, nonetheless,” I said.
“You’re very attractive, for a beautiful girl with a great body,” he said, eyes twinkling.
“She’s got that going for her, which is nice,” Janet agreed.
“Ha! Well played!” the President exclaimed, delighted.
I groaned. “A little birdie warned me that you’d have an opinion!”
He grinned. “No, no, Jessica. Mere mortals have opinions; presidents have positions!”
“Keep it up, and your position might be ‘supine.’” I quipped.
“Excellent!” His face was full of mirth. “This will be an interesting day!” He turned to the Defense Secretary. “Jack, why don’t you get us started.”
The Secretary stuck something in the ground, put a golf ball on top of it, and selected a club from his bag. He made a show of looking down the fairway and gauging the wind. He took a few practice swings, then got himself positioned for his shot. His club went upward then began a smooth arc toward his ball.
“Space aliens, huh?” the President said.
Bradley’s club connected with the grass just in front of his ball. “Dammit!”
“Don’t take such a negative view,” the President said. “This could be good for us.”
“Agnew was wrong about almost everything,” Bradley replied. “But even a broken clock is right sometimes.” He returned his attention to the ball. “I’m gonna just pretend you didn’t do that intentionally, Tom.”
He was just about to raise his club again when the President said, “The evidence for their existence seems pretty conclusive, Jack.”
The Secretary growled something that involved “God” and “patience” but I couldn’t follow most of it. “Tanya, why don’t you lead us off,” he said after a moment.
She nodded and moved to set up her ball.
Bradley gave Janet and me a look of apology, then turned his attention to the President. “Tom, I had a long meeting this morning and I haven’t gone through the brief in detail. . . . But . . . the whole thing just seems too incredible. There’s a hoax here. I don’t know what it is, but there’s just got to be a hoax.”
The President looked at him thoughtfully. “It’s an attitude I know we’re going to see a lot. And I honestly don’t know what it’s going to take to change it. Averil had a direct experience, and she was convinced by it – but that’s what it took. And even that wasn’t enough for Dr. Singh.”
Tanya’s swing connected with the ball solidly, and it flew high and straight. She looked pleased.
Bradley looked even more pleased. “Well . . . We might give you a game yet. I should be able to get it on the green from there!”
“Now who’s talking crazy?” The President asked. He got his ball set up for a shot. Like Bradley, he made a point of looking toward the green, judging the wind, and generally doing things that probably made sense to a golfer.
Not that I’d know anything about that.
When he appeared to have satisfied the golf gods, he took up his stance and took a steadying breath. Then he looked over at Bradley. “Don’t even think about it, Jack!”
He turned back to the ball, then swung his club up and down with surprising grace. He grunted. “Sliced it. Damn. Well, sometimes the magic works. Sometimes, it doesn't. . . . . So science – or at least a scientist – will have to save me.”
The group started to walk down the fairway, leaving their gear behind. I wasn’t sure why, but it quickly became apparent that this group of golfers, at least, had people who took care of details like that. We hadn’t gone more than thirty yards when a pair of golf carts passed us with all the gear loaded on them.
“You’ve got to give me a better reason for skepticism, Jack,” the President said. “If we aren’t alone in the universe – which you have to admit is at least possible – and if anyone ever found us, it would by definition be something we’d never encountered before.”
“Maybe that’s just two ‘ifs,’ but even you’ve got to admit that they’re big ones,” the Secretary replied. “Quality has a quantity of its own, or something like that.”
“Size matters, maybe?” Janet offered.
I paused a moment to tie one of my new sneakers. They were white with a bit of pink piping, which described the rest of my golf outfit as well. A crisp, snow-white nylon golf shirt, pink on the inside of the collar, and a matching pair of skorts. I had added a pink visor, sunglasses, and a veritable oil slick of sunscreen.
When I stood again, I stretched and muttered. We needed to get past all of the ‘do aliens exist’ folderal and feathers. We had only six days, as I’d told Corbin when I called him back late in the morning.
Janet was waiting for me up ahead, so I trotted to catch up with her. “Getting impatient?” she asked.
“More than a bit. Which is stupid, I know. We only just had our first meeting yesterday, and we’re already talking to the President of the Freakin’ United States. But . . . I’m getting pretty tired of having people look at me like I’ve lost my mind.”
“Don’t let it bother you,” she soothed. “All the best people are entirely bonkers.”
“Oh, thank you very little,” I sighed.
We caught up with the golfers. Bradley was setting up his shot, once again looking like he was contemplating a complicated problem in applied geometry or ballistics. Which, I suppose, he was.
“Alright,” Bradley said pointedly, “If I may receive from the Commander-in-Chief the same courtesy I extended to him?”
The President laughed and waved him on. “I’ll be quiet as a war memorial! As the dew! Quiet as an ant pissing on cotton! As quiet as . . . .!”
"As a corpse, if you keep it up!" Bradley glowered at him.
"Now, now, Jack. Don't make the Detail nervous. You know how they are!" But the President desisted, with a smile and a chuckle.
The Secretary set up his shot. Again, the powerful arms swung up, then down, connecting with the ball with a satisfying “crack.” The ball leapt forward and up, climbing in a smooth, parabolic arc . . . until, at its apex, it inexplicably shot straight up thirty feet or more, paused, paused a bit longer than gravity appeared to permit, then dropped straight to the ground.
“What the . . . .” The Secretary’s jaw hung open
“What did you hit?” Tanya asked, confused.
“There’s nothing there to hit! And it hovered like . . . magic.” Colonel Kurtz intervened for the first time.
The President was looking at me shrewdly. “Lucy,” he said, “You’ve got some ‘splainin’ to do.”
Bradley said, “What?” Then he saw where the President was looking. “You?”
“Not exactly,” I said. “The aliens. You might say I called in the strike, though.”
“How?” Bradley was looking at me carefully. “I mean, the mechanism.”
“The alien ship employs a tractor beam for a variety of purposes. Janet and I, and Doc . . . I mean, Averil . . . have been taken up to the ship by that method. And brought back down. I communicated with the aliens and suggested that they block your shot.”
“They can hear you? Right now?” The Secretary looked positively grim.
“They can.” I wondered whether my little demonstration might backfire. “But they don't, because I asked them not to listen.”
“And we’re supposed to take that on faith?” The Secretary was incredulous. Taking things on faith was apparently in the nature of a cardinal sin.
“I’m not sure whether there’s anything we can do about it, one way or another,” I replied. “But yes. I think you should take it on faith.”
The President decided to intervene. “Tell us why, Jessica. Why should we trust them? Why do you?” His voice was unusually serious.
I looked at them all – The President, the Secretary of Defense, all the rest of the entourage. How to convey this to them? How could I make these powerful people understand something so simple? So fundamental? “You should trust them, because they have consistently played it straight when they didn’t need to. They want weapons-grade uranium. That sounds crazy, I know. But they do. You just saw an example of what their tractor beam can do. What would stop them from just taking what they want?”
“We don’t leave that material just lying around in the open,” Bradley countered. But his voice wasn’t hostile. He was just testing my logic.
“I wouldn’t bet on that being enough to stop them. But even if they couldn’t take the material with the tractor beam alone, sure’s hell they could make us give it to them,” I said in response.
“How?” Bradley asked, curious.
Before I could say anything, the tall man with the white hair spoke. “Oh, come on Jack, I taught you all better than that. We’re at the bottom of a gravity well, they’re sitting on top of it. They can just hang out and drop rocks on us – we call ’em asteroids – until we say ‘uncle.’ And we would, right quick.”
Bradley and the President both looked thoughtful. I decided to press the advantage. “And that might be how we would be thinking, if our positions were reversed. But they don't think that way. That’s my point. They are aliens. Their minds aren’t wired like that.”
The tall man nodded to me gravely. “Exactly so, young woman – or distinguished professor, if I may violate Tom’s rules to make a point. Stanley Aguia,” he said by way of introduction. Then he turned to the President and the Secretary. “It stands to reason that a species that has attained sentience in a completely different ecosystem would reason in ways that are entirely foreign to us.”
The President said, “We need to keep talking, but for a whole host of reasons – including the benefit of pool reporters and their long-range cameras – we also need to keep playing.”
I must have looked started; the President grinned impishly. “Life in the fishbowl. Just smile and wave, Jessica. Smile and wave! Now – Averil, you’re up next.” He started walking to where the Science Advisor’s shot had fallen. The party followed him.
“I should get to redo my shot,” Bradley called over to him.
The President’ smile was feral. “Ah, no, Jack. As ye sow, so shall ye reap. Behold the wages of unbelief.”
We stood around as Averil got set to take her shot. As the others had, she carefully surveyed the lay of the land. She was much further from the green than Bradley had been, but she didn’t seem too worried about it. I know less about good golf form than Ensign Worm knows about human aesthetics, but her swing looked as smooth and polished as heirloom silver on Christmas day.
CRACK. Her shot sailed gracefully . . . gracefully . . . and landed in the heart of the green, probably ten yards from where the flag proclaimed the hole to be.
“God be praised!” The President said, appreciatively.
“Your doing again?” Bradley asked me with a glower.
“No . . . errrr . . . Jack.” I said. “I don’t think the tractor beam could do that – or at least, do it and look natural. I only asked the aliens to block your shots until I gave them the signal.”
“And have you?” he asked.
I smiled. “Not yet.”
He glowered at me some more, but then a rueful smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth. “Okay, well . . . I guess maybe I can believe I’m talking to a nasty old guy who tortured kids with linguistics!”
Now we walked toward the place where Jack’s aborted shot had landed.
The President looked at me and Janet. “What can you tell us about the aliens? What drives them . . about how do they think? You seem rock solid certain about them, even though – as you just pointed out – they’re alien and we can’t really get inside their heads.”
I thought about the question carefully. “What I know for a fact isn’t all that different from what you know, ahh . . . T-T-Tom,” I stuttered. “Oh, damn it! I’m sorry. I’ll try, sir, but it just cuts against everything I was ever taught!”
He smiled, but just waved me to continue.
“But what I have observed from their behavior, and taken from our conversations with them, is more extensive. It’s not exactly evidence, since it’s conceivable that they made up the whole thing. But, there’s just no reason for them to have done that.
“Anyhow, they don’t have separate genders; each of them has the equivalent of both sperm and eggs. Getting into mating ‘heat,’ if you will, is apparently difficult, and for reasons I certainly don’t understand, high octane uranium does it for them. Their young mature very slowly and they live for centuries. I believe, mostly based on what they have said about their language, that the species has some sort of collective memory. Possibly as a result, they place a very high value on social cohesion.”
“Ah,” said Aguia. “That’s interesting. Discord – fighting – would be difficult then, wouldn’t it?”
The President’s party was looking at Aguia oddly, but I nodded. “Exactly. Our disagreements – even our petty lawbreaking – caused them great distress. The youngest member of their team said they were ‘rule followers.’ And he wanted to make sure they weren’t breaking any of our rules, too. It simply wouldn’t have occurred to them to take the U-235, once they knew it was illegal.”
“The alien leader said they would only deal with Jessica because she had honor,” Averil added. “The rest of us, based on what they’ve seen so far, appear to be on probation.”
“Stopping my ball in mid-flight doesn’t seem very honorable,” Bradley huffed, though he softened the comment with a smile.
“Sore sport,” the President said.
“Well, I’m only human,” I said humbly.
Janet shook her head. “Truth is, I doubt the aliens would have gone along with Jessica’s demonstration if they’d known it broke the rules, even if it’s just a game.”
The President’s eyes grew wide in shock. “Just a game? Young woman! This is golf we’re talking about!”
Janet looked pleased. The advantage of hanging out with political leaders, I suppose, is that a sixty-year-old can feel young.
“Okay, a really, really important game, then!” she amended. “Either way, they don’t like breakin’ rules. I mean, at all. Upsets their chi. But our miasma of laws, rules, and the like is bafflin’ to them. Apparently they don’t have a lot of rules, but they follow the ones they have.”
“They sound like paragons,” Colonel Kurtz said, skepticism clear in her voice.
“No,” Janet corrected. “They sound like complete goofballs. Like a mash-up of Monty Python and the Muppets. But that’s just because our language is confusin’ to them.”
“They’ve actually done very well with it,” I said, “given that their own language is based on an entirely different principle, and depends on the stories – or, as they would say, The Story – in their collective consciousness. But Janet’s right. If you spoke with one of them – the youngest is the only one who tries to speak English – you would find it comical.”
“And that’s why you’re their spokesman? Woman? Whatever?” Bradley asked.
“I’m honestly not sure if that’s how they see my role,” I said slowly. “And their thinking on this may have evolved. I don’t know, at this point, whether they see me as an emissary from them, or an emissary to them.”
“I did point out that Jessica doesn’t represent our government,” Averil noted. “They didn’t care.”
“We’ve got a lot of rules about all that too,” I said. “Conflict of interest rules and such. But near as I can tell, they don’t.”
We had reached the ball, and Tanya squared up to it. “You didn’t ask your pals to hex my shot too, did you?”
I shook my head and smiled. “No. Should I?”
Janet said, “Repeat after me: ‘I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks, I do believe in spooks!’”
Tanya looked puzzled.
The President guffawed. “Damn! Tanya, tell Corbin we need a staff . . . .” He stopped, looked at Janet, and said, “I’m sorry, what’s your specialty?””
“I’m a professor of early American Literature,” she said dryly. “In high demand, as you might imagine.”
“Yeah, I can see the problem,” the President replied. “But give it a run anyway, would you T? Don’t we need a staff literature professor?”
Tanya smiled and shook her head, then got serious about her shot again. She managed to get the ball onto the green, a bit further away from the hole than Averil’s shot.
Back to walking.
“Okay,” Bradley said. “Let’s say for the sake of argument – and my golf game – that I accept that the aliens are real, and your extrapolations concerning them are correct. The essence of their proposal is that they want to trade some technical know-how for weapons-grade uranium.”
“Always after me lucky charms,” the President said, shaking his head.
“Magically delicious, after a manner of speakin,’” Janet agreed.
The Secretary eyed Janet and his superior balefully. “Allowing you two within shouting distance of each other was clearly a mistake!”
“When you lose your laugh, you lose your footing, Jack,” the President scolded.
“I’ll worry about my footing if I’m crazy enough to take up ice climbing,” Bradley retorted. “Meanwhile . . . there are some things we probably should figure out before we consider hawking our wares in the bazaar.”
“Like whether it makes any sense to give some of the most dangerous material on the planet to aliens we don’t begin to understand,” said Colonel Kurtz.
Aguia shook his head. “As we’ve just established, they don’t need nuclear weapons to destroy us.”
“Well, maybe they want to sell them to someone who does need them?” She sounded like she was playing devil’s advocate.
Aguia countered easily. “Given their technical sophistication – at least some of which they appear willing to barter – why would they need any additional trade goods?”
Bradley scratched his head. “Katherine, when was the last time we enriched any uranium to weapons grade?”
“1992,” she answered promptly. “We’re still working off our Cold War stockpile, from back when we maintained tens of thousands of warheads. Most of them were decommissioned under the START treaties.”
“And we have a program for transferring some of that stockpile to civilian use, don’t we?” the President asked.
Kurtz nodded. “Yes. After it’s been blended so that it’s no longer weapons-grade. For use in the manufacture of fuel rods for power plants.”
“That might give us the legal authority to make the transfer. Tanya, make a note to ask Toni about that.”
“Tony Stertt?” Tanya asked.
“No, wrong ‘Tony.’ I don’t want to ship this to OLC – at least not yet.”
“The downside of using first names,” Bradley drawled, “Is that your administration has more Tony's than Hamilton.”
“Do you mean Toni Shakon, in the White House Counsel’s office?” Tanya asked.
“That’s the one,” the President replied. “She’s razor sharp and very flexible . . . like a nice concertina wire. Just what we’ll need here.”
“Shakon, not Stertt. Got it.” Tanya didn’t look happy. “But . . . It doesn’t matter if you get a legal opinion, you know. This gets out, the House’ll impeach you. You know they will.”
“You talk to Mr. Corbin about that?” the President inquired with a smile.
“I did, sir.” Tanya blushed. “Tom. Sorry.”
“And what did the house Prophet have to say about it?”
She shrugged, helplessly. “That they’re going to impeach you anyway, they just hadn’t settled on an excuse. Because that's what their voters want.”
Janet said, “They're gonna nail ya no matter what you do, so you might as well have a good time?”
“That’s it, sure enough,” The President said approvingly. He gave Tanya’s shoulder a companionable squeeze. “I know politics is your job, T, but we’re going to table that part of the discussion. I worked seventy-one years for the chance to fly in the fancy plane and have the weird-shaped office. Handling hot potatoes isn’t part of the job. It is the job.”
“Yes, sir.”
“That’s Sir Tom, to you, Tanya,” the President said as he walked onto the green near where Averil’s shot had landed. “And don’t look so glum. We’ll be fine.” He looked at Aguia. “What do you think, Stanley?”
The tall man pondered the question carefully. Finally he said, “The hybrid putter with your cross-handed grip.”
“Stanley?” Bradley asked. “I’m gonna go out on a limb and say he was asking about trading uranium.”
“Really?” Aguia looked skeptical.
The President laughed. “Actually, I was asking about the shot. First things first, you know. I need to read the course.”
“And I need to read the room,” the Secretary snorted.
The President got down on the grass in an apparent effort to determine whether there were imperfections that might interfere with the trajectory of his putt. Once he was satisfied, he said, “I wonder whether there’s anything else I should do while I’m down here, since getting up and down is such a pain in the ass!”
“Or the right knee, if I remember right,” Aguia said.
“Yeah, that too.”
Tanya came over and lent him a hand.
He lined up his shot carefully, and his swing appeared to be precise. The ball made a bee-line for the hole and dropped right in. “Happy days are here again,” he said, smiling. Then he looked at me. “I’m guessing you don’t have trouble getting up and down any more, do you?”
“No. I can’t say I miss that part,” I replied honestly.
“The report I got covered what you said had happened to you, but not why. Did the aliens explain it?”
I felt the blood rush to my face. “It’s a bit embarrassing. Actually, it’s very embarrassing. But . . . the aliens found me while I was hiking the Appalachian Trail, just after the semester ended. I was . . . honestly. I was feeling kind of sorry for myself. Used up. Our dean is always promoting the younger faculty. Particularly the young, good-looking ones. I didn’t fit the profile. So when the aliens asked if I’d speak for them, I said no one would listen. I suggested they find someone who was young and good-looking. But they apparently were short on time, so instead they just shot me with something that turned me into what I’d described.”
“And changed your gender?” Colonel Kurtz sounded curious.
Janet decided to spare me the indignity of having to explain.
Well. Sort of spare me, anyway.
“That’s where it gets really funny,” she said. “The aliens – bein’ alien an’ all – wouldn’t know an attractive variant of homo sapiens from a sock puppet. So they ask her – him, at the time – and he tells ’em to check out People Magazine!”
“People!” Averil exclaimed.
Colonel Kurt had both hands attempting to cover her surprised – and amused – expression. Unsuccessfully.
Tanya was gaping. “But that’s just a . . . Oh!!!”
“Right,” Janet said. “Oh.”
The laughter was widespread; even the ascetic Aguia joined in. But he recovered first. “I assume, based on what you said, that they simply didn’t have any reason to think a gender shift would be significant?”
I nodded, relieved to be able to move the conversation away from my own circumstances. “Right. It’s a shift they must make numerous times over their long lifespans. And because each of them performs both biological roles at different times, the cultural freight surrounding gender probably doesn't exist – or if it does, it’s transitory.”
“I expect wisecracks about PMS would be rarer, and a whole lot funnier, if everyone had to deal with it,” Janet observed.
Averil was smiling slightly. “I was thinking the same thing, Janet, but I wasn’t going to say it.”
Janet grinned back. “There are some advantages to bein’ a free agent!”
“The pay kinda sucks, though,” the President responded.
“Point,” Janet said. “But what else is new?”
Bradley lined up his putt, then gave me a look. “Do I get a fair shot?”
“Now, how could I prevent you, standing over here and all?”
He glowered.
I gave him my most innocent smile. I’d been practicing it.
“Witch!” he said. “Fine! I frickin’ do believe in spooks!”
I dramatically held my delicately upturned nose with the thumb and forefinger of my right hand and shook it back and forth.
“There’s s’posed to be a sound effect when you twitch your nose,” Janet said, then demonstrated.
“Yeah, but remember – the aliens aren’t listening right now.” I looked at the Defense Secretary. “Try it now.”
He was as careful as the President had been, and his shot was straight and unobstructed.
He still missed.
“Rat farts!” he exclaimed, disgusted.
We were still discussing the merits and demerits of providing aliens with U-235 when we got to the seventh hole. I noticed that Dr. Livingston had gotten more and more quiet as the discussion went on. During a lull as Tanya was lining up a drive, I asked her if something was wrong.
“I’m just starting to wonder,” she replied sotto voce, “whether we’re ever going to get around to talking about the other side of the equation.”
The President turned back to where we were standing. “I figured we’d better pander to the Praetorians first. They get titchy if you don’t.”
“You must have acute hearing,” I said to him.
“I’m not big on jewelry,” he replied. “Though to all things, Marianne is the exception.”
“Score one for Tom,” Janet said with a smile.
“Why thank you, Janet!” The President smiled like he’d just killed an eagle.
Or whatever they call it when you get the golf ball to go into the hole by the pole with one shot.
Tanya hit her ball squarely and it flew down the fairway. She seemed pleased, though no eagles were slain.
As we began to walk to where the balls had landed, the President said, “So what about it? Have we finished with our consideration of the security concerns, for now at least?”
Bradley chewed on his lip for a bit before nodding reluctantly. “I tell you, Tom, I was pretty skeptical. But I’m convinced” – he looked at me – “that the aliens exist. And Old Brains here,” he nodded at Aguia, “has convinced me that the acquisition of U-235 wouldn’t actually increase their capacity to hurt us. Those are the big-ticket items, from my perspective.”
Colonel Kurtz cautioned, “There’s still the possibility that they’ll want us to give them so much of our stockpile that it would adversely affect our deterrence posture with respect to our traditional, terrestrial, adversaries.”
“Possible,” said Aguia, “and we’ll have to find out. But honestly, I think that’s unlikely.”
“Because?” Again, Bradley mostly sounded curious.
“From everything Jessica and Janet have told us, they’re very technologically advanced. But, physics is still physics. The '235' in weapons-grade uranium refers to its nuclear mass. If they intend to load it aboard their spaceship – or tow it, or attach it to the hull – it won’t take a whole lot of it to add substantial mass. Which will affect both their acceleration and deceleration, possibly create asymmetrical stress points on the hull, maybe other engineering or navigational complications as well. Perhaps they’ve developed fixes for all of that, or maybe their ship is incredibly large. But my guess is that the ask will be something we can live with.”
Colonel Kurtz was smiling. “Old Brains,” she said fondly.
“Why Old Brains?” I asked. The gentleman seemed to inspire both affection and deference.
“Because it turned out I was better at analyzing improbable threats than fighting actual wars,” Aguia responded with a self-deprecating smile.
“Stanley’s too modest,” the President said. “Jack and Katherine are both West Pointers. So was my son Declan. Stanley was the hardest instructor there. But for the good students, he was also their favorite. Taught them all how to think. When he retired three years ago, he was probably the least decorated – but most admired – two-star in any branch of the military.”
“So – the very model of a modern major general.” Janet, naturally.
The President beamed. “I let that ball catch a ridiculous amount of the strike zone. I’d have been disappointed if you whiffed it, Janet!”
She performed an exaggerated curtsy, looking insufferably pleased with herself.
The President looked at each of his advisors and was apparently satisfied. “Alright,” he said, “Let me see if I can match Tanya’s drive, here, then let’s talk about what Averil is calling the other side of the equation.”
He actually managed to power the ball further than Tanya – indeed, it even made it to the green. “Best shot I’ve had all day!” he said.
Back to walking.
“Alright Averil,” the President said. “I’m in a good mood now. So tell me. I assume it cost the taxpayers of this great nation a bit of lucre to enrich uranium. No doubt I’ll get the exact numbers later, but I’ll assume for the sake of our discussion that it falls somewhere between a stinking heap and a crapload. Is what the aliens are offering really worth it?”
The Science Advisor nodded thoughtfully. “With a few important caveats, yes. In fact, it would be the best deal since colonists allegedly acquired Manhattan for beads.”
“I had an instructor who used to advise putting the caveats before the horseshit,” Bradley said, pointedly looking up at the sky. “Not that his saying applies in the present instance, of course.”
“Oh, of course not!” Aguia said with a smile.
Averil laughed. “I’ll start with the caveats then, but they’re straightforward. We don’t know the materials that are used in the battery, whether they are readily available, or what they cost, nor do we know whether we can manufacture it. The aliens have given us their assurances on each of those points. But, however much Jessica – or even you, Tom – would like to simply take all that on faith, it would be better to have confirmation before transferring anything valuable.”
“Trust, but verify?” the President asked.
“Right,” she answered. “I mean, listen, we’d probably learn a tremendous amount even if those caveats weren't met. But no question, it’d be a different deal.”
“Jessica, did the aliens say anything about sequencing the transaction?” the President inquired.
“We didn’t really get to the negotiating stage,” I said. “Since I had to get to the right people before we could.”
“Looks like it’s your lucky day.” The President looked at his advisors. “Anything else on the caveats? No? Alright then. Why do we care about a new and improved Energizer Bunny?”
“The case for it is compelling just as a matter of economics,” the Science Advisor said. “The amount of energy that is lost just through the process of transmission is enormous. But what takes this from being simply an incredibly big deal to being a complete game changer is climate change.”
“You’ve still got to generate all the power you’ll be storing,” Bradley cautioned. “So you still get the greenhouse gas emissions, don’t you?”
“The ramp-up to renewables is much, much faster with an efficient power storage tech, though,” Averil countered. “Clean energy technology is cost competitive right now in many parts of the country, but it’s uneven. Solar arrays in desert areas are more efficient than in, say, Minnesota. And even in the desert, the sun doesn’t always shine. The wind doesn’t always blow. But if we could harvest solar and wind power where and when it was most efficient, then store and transport it safely, efficiently and easily . . . . You see what a difference that makes? And that’s not even getting into the fact that this technology would solve one of the toughest nuts to crack, which is accelerating the transition to clean transportation.”
“Okay,” the President said. “But why that technology? Shouldn’t we shoot for, I don’t know? Fusion power? Or maybe something in the biomedical line.”
“I’ll have what she’s having,” Kurtz said, pointing a thumb in my direction and smiling.
“Exactly!” Taryn replied. “It seems we’re kind of going down this track in a hurry. Shouldn’t we think a bit more about our ask?”
One by one, I found all eyes were on me.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “When they showed up, a few weeks ago, it was just Janet and me, okay? A couple old humanities professors at a small college. No one else believed what had happened. My own damned doctor wouldn’t believe it. I mean, to the point where he called the police. We needed something that would get us a hearing, that they would be willing to make. So . . . I came up with the battery idea.”
They were all still looking at me, and I couldn’t read their expressions. “We thought about the type of shot I got . . . but even if they’d give us that, which I doubt, widespread use would cause tremendous population problems. . . . Dammit. I’m a linguist, not a scientist! We did the best we could!”
The President held up a hand to stop me. “Jessica, you did fine. Averil here thinks you did better than fine. I’m really just trying to determine whether it’s worth considering other alternatives.”
Don't shade the truth, I thought, remembering Averil’s admonition.
“I don’t know,” I said. “But what they’ve told me is that we’ve got six days to work out a deal. And . . . they won’t trade just anything. They have something like the Prime Directive from the old Star Trek show. We had to convince them that we might get something like the battery tech sometime in the next fifty years before they would put that on the table.”
“The Prime Directive? Really?” The President looked both surprised and displeased.
“Fascinating,” said Aguia.
“What happens if we can’t get it done in six days?” Bradley asked. “Do they just go home? Do they try to deal with someone else?”
“That’s the problem,” I said. “They won’t tell me. And I expect Justin Abel is behind that.”
“Just enable what?” Kurtz looked puzzled.
“Sorry. Abel’s their lawyer. He’s advising them on the negotiations. And, I have no doubt, telling them they should leave us guessing what they’ll do if we can’t get it done.”
“Where did they find a lawyer?” Kurtz asked.
“How could they avoid it?” Bradley responded. “From what I’ve seen, you can’t take a leak in this town without pissing on one. If you’ll excuse my French.”
“I’m afraid that’s our fault, too,” I said. “We asked a lawyer to analyze the scope of their Prime Directive. They took a shine to him.”
“Lawyers and aliens?” Bradley shook his head sadly. “That’s got to be even worse than Cowboys and Aliens.”
“Nothing could be worse than Cowboys and Aliens!” Tanya shuddered in horror.
The President grinned. “Nothing? Oh, Tanya! You forgot that our story has politicians, too.”
“Shysters and termites and crooks, oh my!” Janet quipped.
When the laughter subsided, Averil said, “Whether the lawyer’s behind it or not, I guess we should assume the deadline’s real.”
Bradley nodded. “Of my options, I’m sure we’d rather have them leave altogether than work out some shady deal with Russia . . . or some even less savory operators, if you can imagine such a thing. But that wouldn’t be in our control.”
“Then it sounds to me like uranium for the battery tech is the only deal that can be done in the time we’ve got,” the President mused. “Go or no go? What do you think, Stanley?”
“The Fairway Wood. Definitely.”
To be continued. Definitely.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 15: The Menagerie
Another morning, another unfamiliar bed. I took a minute getting myself oriented to person, place and time. I was in a bedroom, in a safehouse, somewhere in Northern Virginia. It was . . . 7:00 am.
But who the hell am I today?
I’m Jessica James, née Wainwright, formerly a distinguished professor. Currently moonlighting as a cross between Henry Kissenger (but without the war crimes!) and Emma Watson (without the talent). Job description includes talking with space aliens, getting shot and meeting with the President.
Try putting that on a resume.
I wasn’t sure when they would want us today, so I knew I should get up. Get myself ready . . . for whatever. The flurry of orders the President had issued at the end of yesterday’s golf game set the wheels turning. A handful of high-level aides would meet today to hash out a proposal that I could take to the aliens. They might want us there. Prolly.
I should be energetic, but I found myself dreading another day of battle with the leviathan bureaucracy. It seemed like each new person brought into the mix had to be individually convinced that the aliens are real and that their desire to acquire weapons-grade uranium was not a threat. It was like trying to cross a tar pit using the breast stroke.
But whoever had selected the finishings in the bedroom had chosen a greige-on-greige color scheme that was guaranteed to make me want to be elsewhere. Almost any else-where. So I hauled myself out of bed, wrapped myself in a bathrobe I purchased from our DC hotel before we checked out, and went in search of coffee.
Turning into the kitchen doorway, I had a collision with a large, solid, very male body that was coming out. “Ooof!!!” I rocked back, teetering.
“So sorry, Miss!” He had a deep voice and his hands were quick enough to steady me before I fell.
“Th-thanks,” I stuttered. I had completely forgotten that our safe house not only came with very up-to-date security features – it had the most old-fashioned sort as well. “My fault!”
“Are you alright?” He had nice eyes, kind of a golden brown.
“I’m fine, thanks . . . Mr. Walters, isn’t it?” I said. “Really, just surprised. I forgot we weren’t alone.”
He smiled, releasing my arm. “Please, call me Mitt. Let me get you a cup of coffee, anyhow. . . . I just made a fresh pot.”
“That would be fabulous, thanks!” I watched as he moved across the kitchen with a kind of cat-like grace. “Quiet night, I hope?” I asked.
He answered while he was pouring. “Quiet here; quiet out there. All good, I think. Got a nice quiet day planned?”
“You weren’t told?” I was surprised.
“Nope. I almost never am. I assume they figure it’s all ‘need to know,’ and I don’t, or something. My boss says ‘guard’ and I guard, she says ‘drive’ and I drive.”
“That sounds . . . frustrating.” I said, sympathetically.
Surprisingly, he broke into a broad smile. “Not remotely. After a few jobs, I realized that I could make up my own stories about the people I was guarding, and they’d almost certainly be more interesting than the truth.
“Like one guy I was protecting here – same house – for six weeks. Almost never said a word. Scary looking, you know what I’m saying? Right down to the patch over one eye. I told myself he was a mob enforcer turned whistleblower, whose testimony had brought down someone like Gotti, and the family was out for blood. I found out later he was an accountant being questioned in a wire fraud case. Not bad, see, but my story was a lot better.”
“And the eye patch?” I asked, intrigued.
“He’d had cataract surgery and had complications with the recovery.”
We laughed.
I liked his imaginative approach. “So what story have you made up for me and Janet? Why do we need a four-person security detail?”
“You are the beautiful daughter and sole heir of the beloved King of Erewhon, who was done in by his dastardly brother. Your colleague is the King’s sister. You escaped your evil uncle by disguising yourselves as ugly American tourists, which immediately caused you to be packed away on the first flight out of the country . . . .”
I dissolved into a fit of laughter.
“But wait, there’s more!” He grinned. “Anyway – you’ve got to admit, it makes a good story. And almost certainly more interesting, more dangerous, and stranger than the truth!”
“Oh certainly.” Janet stood in the doorway, a sardonic smile on her lips. “You got any of that coffee for the late King’s distraught sister?”
“You don’t really look all that distraught,” I observed.
“’Course I am,” she responded indignantly. “Just not about my royal brother. He was a prick. Well, both of ’em were, I guess. But I’m definitely distraught – or, at least distressed – that you have coffee and I don’t.”
I stuck my nose in the air. “Hey, being a princess has its privileges!”
“Don’t get your tiara in a wad, highness,” she warned. “It'll literally mess up your head.”
Mitt got Janet some coffee.
She opened the fridge and lightened her cup with a little milk. “I heard you askin’ Jessica about the plan for the day. After we’ve gotten showered and dressed, I think they’re gonna want us back downtown.”
“So what’s happening today?” Mitt asked. “Are you doing the grand jury thing? Federal court?”
I shook my head. “No, no court. I’m not sure, but I’m guessing we’ll have to go to the EEOB.”
Mitt said, “No worries. Just give us twenty minutes’ notice or so; there’s a protocol for getting in and getting out safely.”
I assured him that we would, then Janet and I went to get ourselves ready for the day.
The trip back to D.C. was a very different experience. Janet and I were in the back seat of yet another black SUV with darkly tinted windows. Mitt was driving and his partner Vic was riding shotgun. Vic was responsible for communicating with the rest of the security team. It was a duty he evidently took very seriously, because they never stopped talking.
“We’re in motion, over,” Vic said into his microphone.
“In the pipe, five by five, Vic.”
“What’s your twenty, Gordo?” Vic responded.
“Five klicks out, where the access road hits the Bobby Lee,” Gordo’s voice responded.
“You mean, the Langston?” a new voice interjected.
Vic responded, “Rog, good of you to join us. Don’t go confusing the Good Ol’ Boy, now! You in place?”
“I hear ya Vic,” Rog responded. “At the garage, per the mission brief.”
“Well, un-ass, bro. Mitty here wants you half a klick back on our six once we’re on the Lee. Confirm.”
“Roger.”
“No, Doombass, I’m Vic. You’re Roger!”
“What’s your vector, Victor?” Janet asked, rhetorically.
It was a long trip into the City. A mere grammarian would have been appalled. As a linguist, I found it all rather charming.
* * * * *
Another day, another meeting.
We were, as expected, back in the EEOB. The conference room was larger, but less ornate, than the one we had been in the night before last. It even had a sideboard stocked with coffee, a few beverages, and the sort of snacks institutions offer to keep employees working, without making them feel in the least coddled, comfortable, or irreplaceable. I passed.
Luther Corbin was presiding, and most of the senior leadership of the Department of Energy, including the Secretary himself, were present. Secretary Britt was flanked by DOE General Counsel Gillian Dunlop on his left, and two undersecretaries – Mrs. Hix (Nuclear Security) and Mr. Squires (Science and Innovation) on his right. Near as I could tell, they got along like a big family.
The Plantagenets, maybe. Or possibly the Donners.
The President’s Science Advisor, Dr. Livingston, gave us a smile as we entered. Colonel Kurtz was also present for the NSA staff, along with Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland, who had partnered the Secretary of Defense during the President’s golf game. The final attendee was the woman President Taryn had compared to concertina wire: Assistant White House Counsel Toni Shakon.
“Ms. James. Professor Seldon. Thank you for joining us,” Corbin rumbled, waving us to a pair of empty seats. He made the introductions, which is how I ended up knowing last names and titles for the DOE contingent, but (with one exception), not their first names. One of the few things the bureaucracy appeared to agree on was that Corbin liked his formality.
“What we are trying to determine, if I may cut through the last few minutes of spirited discussion,” he continued, “is how much U-235 to offer in exchange for the battery technology. Mr. Squires, could you give us a brief – and, if you would, please, invective-free – summary of your view?”
Squires was average in every physical dimension: height, weight, hair color, eye color. He would make a good spy: no one would remember anything distinctive about him.
Until he started talking, of course. He was extremely intense and spoke unusually fast, with an accent that stamped him as a native of New York City. No Langley for you after all, I thought.
“We had our Chief Economist look at this last night; all of you should’ve received his preliminary report. From a pure value perspective, we could trade away the whole frickin’ stockpile and still come out ahead. A battery technology that hits the metrics Professor Grimm certified is literally priceless. We’re not talking ‘billions with a b,’ we’re talking trillions.”
“‘Trillions’ is still a price,” the Secretary said in a repressive tone.
“What?” Squires’ reply was, I thought, a masterful use of the word as an interjection – in this case, an interjection that none-too-subtly suggested that his superior was a moron.
The Secretary was probably the only person in the room to miss the implication and treat the Undersecretary’s usage as a genuine question in which the only voiced element is a pronoun. “I said,” he explained patiently, “that trillions is a price, so it’s not literally priceless.”
I decided I wasn’t going to be a potted plant for yet another meeting where people felt compelled, for whatever reason, to act like idiots. “In the absence of a limiting modifier, ‘trillions’ is inherently indeterminate, which makes it potentially infinite. Thus, literally priceless could be correct.”
“Don’t argue semantics with me, young woman!” the Secretary snapped.
“At the risk of sounding pompous,” I replied, “I’m the Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics at Gryphon College. While semantics, as a sub-field, has never interested me much, I’ve got more expertise than almost anyone who didn't devote their postgraduate work to it. Trust me on this one.”
Janet broke the brief silence that followed my pronouncement. “Don’t imagine a book can’t be instructive, just ’cuz the dust jacket looks like a Harlequin Romance.”
Kurtz tried, but she couldn’t keep from laughing. Which proved to be almost as contagious as vomiting on a plane.
Even Corbin smiled. But he was shrewd enough to use the tension-breaker to advantage. Rapping his knuckles on the table, he said, “Thank you for that reminder. Looks are certainly deceptive, at least in this particular instance. Now, Mr. Secretary, even if you disagree that the technology is literally priceless, do you take issue with your Chief Economist's view that the value is, at the very least, extremely high – multiple trillions?”
“To the world economy, and over a period of years,” the Secretary responded. “But on the other side of the ledger, we have an asset with a present value that belongs to the United States government. Apples and oranges.”
“I see,” Corbin said. “Mrs. Hix, what’s the commercial value of our U-235 stockpile?”
“We, ah, don’t actually think of it in those terms, Mr. Corbin.”
“What’s ‘we?’” Secretary Britt complained. “I think of it in those terms. Don’t I count? Last I checked, I’m in charge of the agency!”
“No one’s questioning that, Mr. Secretary,” Corbin said, “but the economist’s view . . . .”
Britt did not allow him to finish. “I assure you, Mr Corbin, that you can’t run a large law firm, as I did for many years, without understanding economics!”
“Indeed,” Corbin responded, noncommittally. “Mrs. Hix . . . .”
Britt interrupted again. “I’m the Secretary, Mr. Corbin. You know – the boss. The guy in charge. When I’m in the room, I speak for the Department!”
“Have you read your Chief Economist’s report, Mister Secretary?” Corben’s voice remained pleasant, but his expression was dangerous.
“Yes! I mean, not every detail. It dropped on my desk at 7:00 a.m. But the Executive Summary, fully, and the detail as required. You want more, you need to provide a reasonable timeframe. All of this is being rushed in a ridiculous way.”
“Ask me for anything but time, Mr. Secretary. Appendix C, if my memory has not failed me completely, summarized the economics of the Blended Low Enrichment Uranium Program. Did you review it?” Corbin’s eyes were growing more narrow.
“No, I didn’t read appendices to a report I was given just hours ago! I’m the Secretary, not a secretary, for Chrissake!”
“Mrs. Hix, did you, by any chance, review Appendix C?” Corbin asked.
Britt leaned forward, his face red. “What part of ‘I speak for the Department’ don’t you understand, Corbin?”
“Perhaps it was the part where you assumed that I gave a damn!” Corbin barked. “I’m running this meeting, Mister Secretary, and I will call on those who have read enough to have something useful to contribute!” He gave Tanya a meaningful look, and she slipped out of the conference room.
Britt folded his arms across his chest and looked petulantly rebellious. On anyone over twelve, the expression was absurd.
Without ceasing to glare at Britt, Corbin said, “Colonel Kurtz, since the Energy Secretary has silenced his estimable subordinates, perhaps you could discuss Appendix C?”
“Of course, Mr. Corbin,” the NSA staffer responded smoothly. “The Department spends billions on the BLEU program, and considers it a huge success, from both a security standpoint and a budgetary standpoint.”
“We spend billions, and consider it a budgetary success? That does sound like Washington, D.C. logic, if ever I have heard it! Could you elaborate on the reasoning behind that startling conclusion, Colonel?” Corbin’s incredulity was theatrical.
“Because every pound of U-235 that’s down-blended into low-enriched uranium is a pound that we aren’t paying to store, monitor and guard. All of which are very expensive. The BLEU program saves us about two dollars for each dollar spent.”
“But suppose, Colonel, that instead of having to spend billions to down-blend it, we were able to send it out of the solar system, permanently and at no cost to the taxpayers?”
“That would be ideal, from a fiscal perspective,” Kurtz responded.
“That’s all very well,” Britt snapped, “but . . . .”
“Mr. Secretary?” Tanya poked her head back in the Conference Room. “The President is on a secure line for you.”
“We’ll take a few minutes,” Britt said, standing and striding toward the door. “I should be right back.” The door closed behind him.
“I am, sadly, a bit pressed for time today,” Corbin said with a regretful shake of his head. “Though it surely pains me to do so, I think we shall have to proceed without the Secretary. Mrs. Hix, anything to add to Colonel Kurtz’s summary? Since Secretary Britt is no longer in the room to speak for the Department?”
“I don’t disagree with Colonel Kurtz or the Chief Economist, Mr. Corbin,” the woman said carefully. “But I would note, as a counterpoint, that the stockpile represents potential value, and it cost the taxpayers in years past a great deal of money to create it.”
“Mr. Corbin? May I ask a question of the Undersecretary?” I felt all eyes on me, the outsider.
“Go ahead . . . Professor,” Corbin said, stressing my qualifications.
Which weren’t really relevant to our present discussion, but . . . what the hell. I was in the room. “Mrs. Hix, don’t you think the people of the United States got what they paid for?”
“I’m afraid I’m not following you, Professor James,” she replied, taking her cue from Corbin on the honorific.
“I know it doesn’t look like it, but I grew up during the Cold War. Looking around the table, I’d guess that’s true of most of you, to one degree or another. I memorized parts of President Kennedy’s inaugural address when I was in high school. I bet some of you did too. Do you remember? ‘We shall pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.’” I looked around the room. Looked at each face.
They remembered.
“All the money we spent enriching uranium to make tens of thousands of warheads . . . that was just part of the price we decided . . . we resolved . . . to bear,” I said quietly. “And we got exactly what we paid for. We’re still here, we’re still free, and those weapons are now surplus. A Cold War dream come true. My opinion, as one of the citizens who paid some of those taxes . . . . That was a pretty damned good return on our investment.”
The room was quiet.
“So say we all,” Janet said softly.
Mrs. Hix sat up straight. “Thank you for that, Professor. Your point’s well-taken – though I warn you, not everyone will see it that way.”
“Honestly,” Mr. Squires added, “Even putting the Professor’s excellent point aside, the tax revenue from increased economic activity and efficiency this new technology will unlock will dwarf any economic value we might assign to the government’s U-235 stockpile.”
“So what would you offer, Mr. Squires?” Corbin inquired.
“Me? I’d give ’em the whole steaming pile. Put a frickin’ bow on it. Save us money and effort.”
Mrs. Hix looked ill. “That’s nuts!”
Corbin looked at Hix. “How much is in the stockpile, anyway?”
“Almost six hundred metric tons are technically surplus,” she responded. “Most is reserved for the power plants of the nuclear navy, and another chunk is reserved for NASA. But we have around ninety tons that could go into the BLEU Program at some point.”
“So give ’em that!” Squires exclaimed.
“Mr. Squires?” Colonel Kurtz gave him a cool look as she leaned forward. “The amount of fissile material used in a nuclear weapon varies, but you can make one with as little as 32 pounds of HEU. You could make well over two thousand nuclear weapons with ninety tons – more than every country in the world combined, if you take us and Russia out of the equation.”
“But Colonel, no one will be making bombs out of this material,” Squires said, frustrated. “Our adversaries won’t be able to, and we don’t intend to. We’re paying billions – literally billions, and I frickin’ do mean literally – to have it diluted and sent to the TVA to power frickin’ toasters in frickin’ Chattanooga!”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” Mrs. Hix said with a smile.
Corbin wrapped his knuckles on the table . . . again. “All right, Mrs. Hix . . . Colonel Kurtz . . . How much would you put on the table?”
“Don’t we need to decide whether we have authority to put anything on the table?” This question came from DOE’s General Counsel. “I have real doubts about that, let me tell you!”
“And I’ve got real doubts about your doubts,” Toni Shakon said. “But . . . and I hate to do this . . . I think we need to ask our visiting professors to step out if we’re going to discuss legal advice.”
“We can talk about our nuclear stockpile around them, but God forbid we touch upon legal advice?” Dr. Livingston looked amused.
“Truth is, we haven’t covered anything you couldn’t find on Wikipedia,” Colonel Kurtz responded. “Though, I do think Ms. Shakon raises a valid question.” Kurtz looked at me directly. “Who do you represent, Professor James?”
“Legally? Damned if I know,” I responded. “I’m not a lawyer, for which I’m quite grateful – no offense to anyone present. I’m just trying to facilitate a deal that will greatly benefit both sides.”
“But you would agree, would you not, that you do not represent the U.S. government?” Shakon pressed.
I shrugged. “Except that the aliens have said they’ll only talk to me, so I guess I’ll need to present the government’s offer to them – assuming you ever decide to make one. Won’t I be representing you in that circumstance?”
Shakon shook her head in the negative. “No more than a neutral mediator does, when she passes along proposals and counter proposals.”
“Jessica,” Dr. Livingston said, pointedly breaching Corbin’s preference for formality, “‘neutral’ isn’t quite right either, is it? I had the sense that the aliens expect something more from you than that. Don’t they?”
“You were there when they said they’d only talk to me. I haven’t heard more than that.” But my words, while true, didn’t sound convincing, even to me.
“They said they have doubts about humanity – about our species. But they trust you. Do they expect you to represent . . . all of us?” Livingston asked.
“I don’t know any more than you do. Really. . . . But . . . yes. That’s my sense, too.”
“Do you view yourself as representing humanity in general?” Shakon asked, her eyes sharp.
I tried to come up with a response that didn’t sound fatuous.
Ms. Dunlop drawled, “I’m not a linguist, for which I’m quite grateful. No offense to anyone present. But I did kind of think they’d be quicker with, you know . . . words.”
Corbin intervened. “Let’s keep it civil, people.” He gave me a look that was at once kindly, but measuring. “I’m sorry, Professor, but we do need to know who you, at least, think you’re representing.”
I sighed. “It’s a fair question. And I know it sounds crazy and puffed up. And, God help me, earnest. I didn’t ask for it, but given how the aliens have structured the discussion, I do feel a responsibility to do this right, for all of humanity. Not just for my own country.”
“Oh, so you’re here to save the world? That’s nice.” Dunlop’s sarcasm stung. “Just excuse us while we try to protect our country – and yours!”
Corbin removed his glasses and began polishing them. “Enough, counselor.”
“But . . . .”
He stopped her with a raised hand. “I said, enough.” He turned his attention to me. “I understand your position, Professor. And I apreciate your honesty. But I think Ms. Shakon is right. We’ll need to have some internal discussions that you aren’t part of – either of you – to formulate the USG’s negotiating stance. You understand?”
Janet smiled. “You mean we won’t get to sit in on all of these meetin’s? Well, damn. Throw me into that briar patch!”
I smiled. “I understand, sir . . . and I agree with you. But I’ll probably need to get a pretty in-depth briefing on your offer – if you make one – before I take it to the aliens.”
“Of course,” Corbin assured. “And we may have questions for you while we’re meeting, too. If you’ll stick around, we can find an office to park you in while we continue our discussions.”
I looked at Janet.
She shrugged. “Sure. Might give us a deck of cards, though. I’m guessin’ that you’re gonna be a while.”
“I’ve got a spare office in my suite,” Dr. Livingston offered.
Corbin nodded his thanks and looked at Tanya. “Can you help them find Dr. Livingston’s suite?”
She agreed.
We stood and moved to the door. It opened before we got there and Secretary Britt swept in. “Sorry, that took longer than I expected. We can resume.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Secretary,” I said. “We were just leaving.”
“Hasta la vista, ba-be,” Janet intoned.
“Leaving?” he asked, befuddled. “What’d I miss?”
* * * * *
“Oh, my God!” I exclaimed as we got ourselves out of the conference room and moving toward Averil’s office. “Where did they dredge up that . . . person, and how did he become a Cabinet Secretary?”
It was Tanya’s turn to sigh. “I’m sorry. It’s an old story. A rich lawyer gets involved in politics, runs a state organization, then gets involved nationally . . . and soon he’s sitting on a heap of IOUs. Everyone figured he’d be harmless . . . if he had a good deputy and a solid team. But . . . well . . . .”
Janet snorted. “An old story, for sure. ‘Stick close to your desks and never go to sea . . .’” Janet had a nice singing voice.
Tanya joined her light alto voice with Janet’s: “And you all may be the rulers of the Queen’s Navy!” Fortunately, they kept their voices low enough that the entire building didn’t turn out to see what was going on.
Tanya giggled. “You're not the first person to sing the First Lord’s Song after meeting Britt!”
“I’d say great minds think alike,” Janet replied, “but in this case the comparison doesn’t require much discernment. Maybe we could ask the aliens if they’ve got a pill for dingbat.”
We came to another door in another corridor, looking pretty much like all the rest of them. Tanya moved to open it.
I was hopelessly lost. “Anyone ever consider putting name plates on doors in this place?”
“No! That’s just what they’ll be expecting us to do!” Tanya said with a laugh.
“Bazinga!!! You are too young to know that one!” Janet was clearly both surprised and pleased.
“My folks were fans,” she said. “But truth is, I think it’s really just a way to separate the insiders from the outsiders. The people in the know, know. So if you don’t know, you don’t need to know, ya know?”
“No,” I said. “That’s . . . messed up.”
“I know,” Tanya grinned. “Ain’t it grand?”
Kara McDaniels, Dr. Livingston’s assistant, decided to park us in the Science Advisor’s conference room. I was starting to develop a real antipathy for conference rooms, even though this particular one was blissfully uninfected with squabbling bureaucrats.
“Can I get you anything?” she asked us. “Tea? Coffee?”
“Advil?” Janet said, hopefully.
“A few tons of weapons-grade uranium?” I said.
“I’ll see what I can do – for one of you, anyway!” She left.
Janet took a seat at the table. “Whoda thunk you'd be the one to get us kicked out of the meeting!”
“Sorry about that,” I offered.
She waved it off. “Don’t be. Can you believe I used to think, when we were listenin’ to all the windbags go at it durin’ faculty meetings all those years, that out in the real world, where decisions actually mattered, people were reasonable and rational?”
I laughed. “Me, too. Hearing Britt this morning, all I could think of was ‘Stump’ Peterson, back when he was still dean.”
“Yeah . . . and it always boils down to the same thing, doesn’t it?” Dropping her voice, she asked, “‘Am I the leader of the SweatHogs? Is the bear Catholic? Does a Pope live in the woods?’ I just thought – maybe wished – that things would be better here.”
McDaniels returned with a glass of water and a couple Advil. “Here you are,” she said, then slipped back out. Janet downed the pills and about half the glass of water.
“Headache?” I asked.
She nodded. “Had a bad night last night, I guess. And hearing all the bickering this morning didn’t help. I mean, look. Early American literature is my specialty, right? You don’t walk away from Hawthorne, Melville and Poe with a cheery view of human nature. But somehow, I’m still surprised.”
“So, are you looking forward to wrapping this up and going back? I asked.
“S’posed to be back a week from Monday. I’ve got a light semester – just one survey course and one advanced seminar – but . . . it’s not gonna happen, is it?”
I’d been looking out the window into the courtyard, which was, sadly, just as butt-ugly as the rest of the building. At least the architects of New Brutalism were trying to create something unattractive. Whoever designed this place just had no clue.
Janet’s response brought me quickly back to the present moment. “I keep hoping we’ll find a way to clear up suspicion about the disappearance of James Wainwright. I mean, this is all going to go public at some point, right?”
“I don’t know,” she responded. “And, I’ll be honest with you. I’m not sure I want to go back. These meetings have been frustratin’ as all hell, but . . . I feel like we’re makin’ a difference. Or at least, we’re tryin’ to. It’s like I suddenly woke up and remembered the great big world again. Turns out I missed it.”
“The academy looks a bit small when you step away from it, doesn’t it?” I asked, with sympathy.
She nodded, smiling ruefully. “It’s all right there in Hawthorne, natch. Like I’ve been teachin’ the yoots all these years. When you leave your own circle, you find out how truly insignificant your supposed achievements are.”
“Maybe it’s time for something else?” I suggested.
There was a rap on the door and McDaniels opened it again. Stanley Aguia stood behind her. “There’s someone here to see you,” she said.
“General Aguia! Please come in,” I said.
“I would be happy to,” he replied gravely. “But I hoped I might persuade you both to join me for a different sort of meeting.”
“‘Different’ would be good, I kid you not,” Janet said, with feeling. “Though, honestly, you kinda lost me at ‘meeting.’”
He smiled. “Would it help if I told you that two of the people at the meeting are Dave Grillo and Troi Harris?”
“Really!!?” The names appeared to revive Janet completely. “Hot damn, maybe somebody’s usin’ the brains they were born with! Come on, Jessica, I want to go to there! Wherever ‘there’ is.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “I’m not familiar with either name. Up ‘till a week or so ago, I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about politics.”
Janet was shaking her head, a huge smile on her face. “Neither did they. They’re two of the most thoughtful writers of hard science fiction currently living!”
Aguia nodded. “Quite so. And we’ve also got a couple other experts who want to pick your brains too. Think of us as the President’s Council on the Unexpected. An informal group, naturally.”
Janet was practically shoving me out the door. “Finally, someone’s looking past the immediate decision!” she said.
I was happy to see her animated again;. And, I was curious about Aguia’s group. “You’ll let Dr. Livingston know where we are?” I asked her assistant.
Aguia took my elbow. “She knows, Doctor. She knows,” he said. “Averil texted me that you were available. She’d be in our meeting, if her presence wasn’t critical to the meeting you left.”
“If meetings generated energy rather than sucking it up like a big black hole, this building could supply power for the whole planet!” I groused.
We walked down yet another corridor of black-and-white marble tile, past more unlabeled doors, and up a staircase. I couldn’t tell one floor from the other.
As Aguia led us around the maze, he explained, “Most of Washington focuses on the needs of the moment. The problems we all know about. A small portion focuses on known unknowns – problems, or even opportunities, we know are possible and may come up, someday. There’s no structure for dealing with ‘unknown unknowns.’
“But they happen all the time. The world – or, today, the universe – is full of surprises. So we often bring in small groups of people with different backgrounds and expertise, who can look at issues from perspectives that official Washington won’t have. They are vetted and cleared in advance, so we don’t have to waste time with red tape. We don’t call on most of them often, but when we do we’re in a hurry.”
“And you’re in charge of this . . . network?” I asked.
He laughed. “‘In charge’ is too strong a term where these characters are involved. They don’t fit any mold. But, at the President’s request, I play a coordinating role.”
“Still generaling, I guess,” Janet said.
“Generals give orders, Professor,” he demurred. “I assure you, a catherd can, at most, suggest.”
“So what is today’s group focused on?” I asked. “Uranium, energy, or both?”
“Nothing so prosaic as U-235,” Aguia said. “The bigger point, as the President understood immediately, was the First Contact itself. For the first time in recorded history, we have confirmed contact with representatives of an extraterrestrial civilization. And based on what you’ve told us, we may have just days before they leave, and it could be centuries before any of their species return.”
We had reached the right place, and Aguia led us into a suite. Rather than another conference room, we were in a library. Like the rest of the building, it was overdone, over-decorated, and completely over-the-top – marble and wrought iron and rugs and chandeliers that shed a diffuse, golden light . . . But it was still a library, with books and comfortable chairs. For an academic, the sights and even smells of a library are at once comfortable and familiar.
I felt my whole body relax.
People were getting up from deep leather chairs set in a conversation area. Aguia said, “Please allow me to introduce our team. This imposing gentleman is Dave Grillo.” Imposing was right: Grillo was probably close to my old height, but must have weighed 300 pounds. Deep, dark eyes in a lively face.
Aguia continued his introductions “Professor Daichi Kurokawa, from the Sociology Department of the University of California at Los Angeles.” Younger than I would have expected – thirties, maybe. Bright, excited eyes under a shock of straight, blue-black hair.
“Kayla Cormier, Professor Emeritus of Biology, Johns Hopkins.” Immaculately coiffed snow white hair, porcelain skin and inquisitive cornflower blue eyes.
“And Troi Harris, author, adventurer and shameless self-promoter,” Aguia finished, prompting the short, athletic brunette woman in question to stick her tongue out at the tall general.
Then Aguia said, “Everyone, this is Professor Janet Seldon and Jessica James, formerly Professor James Wainwright, both of the Humanities Department of Gryphon College in Northampton, Massachusetts.” He waved everyone to their seats. “There are more people who should be here, and I dearly wish they could join us, given the subject matter of this particular unexpected event. But we’re operating on extremely short notice.”
“Gentlemen in England, now abed, shall think themselves accurs’d they were not here,” Harris said with a smile.
“King Henry shoulda left it there,” Janet replied, “’Cuz cheap or pricey, I’ve always thought the guys who missed out shouldn’t have to stand around holding their manhoods. I mean, really, guys?”
“Hadn’t thought of that,” Harris laughed. “Good point!”
“Never mind all that!” Grillo’s voice was surprisingly high for someone so vast. “Tell us about the aliens!!!”
“How is their society organized!” Kurokawa was almost jumping out of his seat.
“What do they even look like?” Cormier inquired.
Aguia smiled. “Cats, you see? All in good time, everyone! If you could, Professor James. Tell us how all of this started. From the beginning.”
“Alright, Jessica,” said Janet. “Here’s your ‘call me Ishmael’ moment.”
“Like I need yet another name!” I took a deep breath. “Well, a few weeks ago, I was hiking the Appalachian Trail . . . .”
. . . To be continued. Literally.
Maximum Warp,
Chapter 16: In Theory
I didn’t get very far in my story before the questions and comments started flying; I couldn’t even keep up with who was saying what.
“I get Cronkite, but why Mary Tyler Moore’s shoes?”
“Not hers, necessarily. Mighta been Rhoda’s. Or even Phyllis!”
“I vote for Phyllis. Cloris Leachman was brilliant!”
“Wait – wasn’t Betty White on that show too?”
. . . .
“Holy shit, if I wrote that, all the reality police on my blog would explode. I mean, megaton explode!!!”
“Worse than they did after you wrote that EVA scene in “Covenant Ark?”
“Much worse!!!”
“So hit ’em. Worked for Bradbury.”
“He was only dealing with one punk kid - I’ve got an army of them!”
“Let me get my violin!”
. . . .
“‘Ah Jeez’ and ‘Old Scudder?’”
“Yes . . . impossible – but only an alien or a machine would use both. Unironically, at least.”
“You did!”
“When?”
“Just now!”
. . . .
“The Enterprise? Seriously? Like in Galaxy Quest?”
“We did think of that. But, no, they seem to understand that Star Trek wasn’t real.”
“What do you mean, not real!”
“Heretic!”
. . . .
“SIRI? And they got it to work?”
“They could earn a Nobel for that all by itself!”
“And a lawsuit from Apple.”
“Good luck serving that writ of summons!”
. . . .
“Millions of years older than Earth? That’s . . . wow. I can’t overstate how significant that could be.”
“Or not; the creation of life forms might have taken longer.”
Grillo and Kurowkawa were the most animated; Cormier asked numerous questions about alien biology that I could not answer, and was frustrated that I had no idea what the aliens actually looked like. Harris was very engaged during my description of my first meeting with the aliens aboard their ship, but kind of dropped out of the conversation when we turned to the discussion of my idea for a trade. She appeared to be lost in thought.
“So whatever their battery tech is, they’re confident enough that we’ll get it within fifty years even if they don’t give it to us?” Grillo asked.
“Right,” I responded. “They took several days to reach that conclusion, and they devoted a chunk of resources to figuring out the state of all of our scientific studies on the issue, based on publicly-available data.”
“Suggests to me that we’re a lot closer to the theoretical limits on energy storage than I would have guessed – or might have liked,” he mused.
“But Professor Grimm indicated that this was a very significant advance, didn’t he?” Kurokawa countered.
“And that boy’s got a rep for significant advances,” Janet growled darkly.
“Sure, it’s a big advance,” Grillo said, “but I would have expected a spacefaring civilization to be – no joke – light years ahead of us on energy storage. Not fifty years.”
“Maybe their society doesn’t have the same drive towards ever-greater efficiency?” Kurokawa speculated. “Technological advances are always destabilizing. If their culture prizes stability . . . .”
“I should hate you, you know.” Harris was looking at me strangely. She clearly had not been paying attention to the conversation at all.
“Excuse me?” I asked, puzzled.
“Troi . . . .” Aguia began.
She waved him off. “I should. Really. You got it all. The full package. Not just female, but young . . . gorgeous. Hell, you can probably even have kids the old fashioned way. And all it took was one shot, and a thirty day transition. God!!! . . . I’da killed for that. A tenth of it.”
“Troi,” Aguia repeated, “It’s not her fault. She didn’t ask for it.”
“Makes it worse, in a way,” she replied. “I had to beg my parents to let me take the blockers, so I didn’t have to go through male puberty. Had to convince a host of doctors and shrinks. Fight every step of the way . . . she didn’t even have to ask.” Her voice had sunk to a whisper.
I didn’t know what to say. I had known several transgender students at Gryphon, at least one of whom had been an absolute delight – a gifted scholar in the making with a love of language that even surpassed my own. But none of them had ever opened up to me about their struggles, and it never occurred to me that they ought to. I wasn’t a very likely confidante, nor, I suppose, had I been very approachable. “I am so very sorry,” I said.
The silence in the room was deafening, especially in contrast to the cacophony of spirited free-for-all that preceded it. Aguia, in particular, looked pained. As well he might, I thought. He had to have known Troi Harris was trans; it should have occurred to him to think of how my story – and, more, my over-the-top appearance – would affect her.
“Oh, boo hoo! Life ain’t fair. Really? Shit girl, you think that’s breakin’ news?” Janet’s eyes were bright and uncharacteristically fierce.
“Janet!” I exclaimed, shocked and startled.
“Professor,” Aguia said diplomatically, “that was . . .”
“A direct quote,” Harris finished, sourly. “From Quentin’s Rangers. Like Richelieu said, ‘one should be careful what one writes.’”
“‘And to whom one gives it,’ if I remember the line right,” Janet said. “In this case, me. I loved that whole series. Especially tough-as-nails, spare the pity-party Sergeant Hart. Didn’t hurt that you named her Janet. I always thought she was your voice in that book. But maybe I was wrong.”
“They were all my voices,” Harris shot back. “But, okay. Yeah . . . Hart was the one I wanted to be like. There were others who might have been closer to who I am . . . when it’s maybe not my best day.”
Grillo intervened, his surprisingly high voice gentle. “Troi. Honey. Stanley didn’t invite you here to torture you. More than anyone, you’ve put real thought into what aliens and alien cultures might be like. I don’t have a tenth of your imagination that way. We have a short window here, and it may never come again in our lifetimes. We really need your ‘best day!’”
“You can always hate me later,” I offered. “Seriously. I think you’ve got every right to.”
She closed her eyes, and her face went through a startling number of complex expressions. After a minute, she opened her deep brown eyes and looked at me directly. “Did they actually say they were giving us their current battery tech?”
Crisis averted? Maybe?
I got my mind in gear. “Not directly. I asked how much energy they could store in a device the size of a twelve ounce Coke can. The implication was that it was their current tech.”
Harris puffed her cheeks in and out, visibly thinking. “Maybe. Probably, even. But, it may be that their most advanced tech isn’t optimized for the specified size constraints.”
Grillo was nodding slowly. “Yeah, that’s certainly possible.”
Mercifully, we moved on. Whatever Troi might be feeling, she did not let it affect her further.
The scientists really got engaged when it came to the issue of language and the possibility of collective consciousness. Kurokawa was particularly enthused. “This would dramatically affect every aspect of their society. Everything! The balance between the communitarian impulse and the individual. The raising of offspring. The concept of 'other.' I mean – wouldn’t the very concept of race, as we know it on earth, be impossible for a species that had a collective memory?”
Cormier shook her head. “Maybe, but I don’t think it would necessarily follow. Consider Carl Jung’s view that even our species has a vestigial collective memory, manifested in shared archetypes in our collective unconscious. Even if Jung was right – and it’s just a theory – we obviously have layers of non-collective memory.”
“Yes!” Kurokawa exclaimed. “So, in theory, you could have a collective consciousness and memory at a species level, with an overlay of a distinct group consciousness and individual consciousness.”
“That would be a pretty volatile mix, I’d think,” Grillo said.
Harris frowned. “Yeah – you could have group consciousness-infused racism that would be even worse than what we have.”
Aguia shook his head. “That doesn’t seem to fit what Jessica and Janet have reported. They were particularly unimpressed with our lack of a unified culture and language.”
“Even turned up their noses at Scooby Doo, if you can believe it,” Janet growled.
“Did they indeed?” Aguia shook his head. “Well. Even Philistines have their good points, I’m sure. But, the value the aliens place on species unity seems incompatible with sub-group consciousness as you’re describing it, Troi.”
“Unless they had intraspecies diversity at one time, and their current monoculture is the result of one faction dominating and either absorbing or destroying the rest,” Harris said. “That would actually tend to reinforce a visceral rejection of diversity.”
“It would, absolutely,” Kurokawa confirmed.
“Count on Troi Harris to see the dark side!” Grillo grinned.
“No pie-in-the-sky in my stories, big boy,” she joked. “Not like Apotheosis!”
“I thought you liked Apotheosis,’” Grillo said, wide-eyed.
“Oh, I did! Ate it up. Best characters you’ve ever written, and you write better characters than anyone I know – very much including me. But even you’ve gotta admit, Dave, the ending was pretty . . . ah . . . fairy-tale perfect.” Harris’ smile was broad and affectionate; it was apparent that the two authors knew – and liked – each other well.
“You certainly see the dark side,” Janet observed, “but you never joined it. Or valorized it.”
Harris gave her a thoughtful look. “No,” she said quietly. “I might have, once.” Then she smiled, changing the mood. “But I’d need Luther Corbin’s pipe-organ bass to really pull it off, and I had several medical interventions to make good and certain that never happened!”
We laughed.
Aguia had arranged to have lunch brought in – blandwiches and bottled water – and that was perfect. We were too engrossed in our discussion to do anything more than top off the fuel tank. I did finally come to the end of my story, sort of, but the discussion rolled on, with each of the participants throwing out theories and caveats and alternative possibilities.
We talked about how the aliens might look. “Troi covered the theory in The Unicorn Factor,” Grillo said. “There are good reasons to believe that the aliens’ bodies aren’t dramatically larger or smaller than our own.”
Troi nodded. “The Twitter summary is that the square cube law restricts plausible maximum size and the need for a large enough neural net to support advanced sentience restricts plausible minimum size.”
“Is there anything we can deduce about their physical forms from Jessica and Janet’s interactions with them, that might support or undermine the theory?” Aguia asked.
“Maybe not,” Kurokawa said. “The professors could have been interacting with pure projections, right?”
“That doesn’t feel right,” Harris replied. “First, ‘Ensign Worm’ felt the need to grab Jessica – well, James – when they first met, leaping over the fire to do it. James felt the touch physically. And, Worm handed Jessica the battery later . . . and performed a medical operation. I mean, maybe a projection could do all of that, but it seems like a lot.”
“What can you recall about that leap, Jessica?” Cormier asked.
I thought for a minute. “There was a lot going on, but . . . it wasn’t a human leap. Worm was on the other side of the fire. Twelve feet away, prolly. He didn’t get a running start, like a person would. He just bent a bit at the knees and jumped. High enough to clear the fire easily, but no more’n that.”
“Huh.” It was Cormier’s turn to think. “Of course, if it was a really big creature that could just step over the fire, it could cover with an illusion of a human jumping. But that seems like a lot to process in the spur of the moment.”
“Agreed,” Grillo said. “If I were creating a dynamic illusion, I would simply program the illusion to link to whatever part of my anatomy most closely corresponded to the human equivalent. So, I would link the “leg” illusion to the motion of whatever appendages I use for locomotion. That way, most of the illusion could be programmed in advance and wouldn’t require actual decisions that could distract me.”
“That would also suggest that elements of the human anatomy that had no alien counterpart would appear more static than you would expect if you were interacting with another human,” Cormier said.
“Worm and the boys all have pretty wooden faces, that’s for sure,” Janet noted.
“Although,” Kurokawa cautioned, “that could just as easily be because their corresponding features don’t move anything like ours, or carry any communicative significance. Let’s say they had both an eye and an eyebrow. They might not be able to raise their eyebrow. And even if they did, it almost certainly wouldn’t signify surprise, or communicate a question.”
“Spock will be so disappointed,” Janet murmured.
“You know he’s dead, right?” I asked her.
“Only in the Kelvin Timeline,” Grillo said.
“No, no,” Kurokawa said. “That’s . . . ”
“ . . . a bit off topic,” Aguia said firmly. “If I may throw out a question, what – if anything – can we deduce about the alien’s home world?”
“Were the colors on their Star Trek uniforms accurate?” Cormier inquired.
“Kayla,” Aguia warned.
She smiled. “Not a digression, Stanley. Bear with me.”
“I think so,” I answered, “though I’m not exactly a big fan of the show.”
“Too lowbrow for my ‘distinguished’ colleague,” Janet joked. “Not for me, of course, ’cuz I’m just a full professor. Yeah, they were accurate. Command gold for the Elder, science blue for the guy at Spock’s station, expendable red for the guy at comms. The tints and shades looked right. Does it matter?”
Cormier nodded. “I think so. I would say it makes it more likely that their home system’s star, like ours, is a golden G-type. And that they have some form of ocular sense that is at least as capable of reading fine gradations in what we think of as the visible light spectrum as the human eye.”
“Unless they were just smart enough to figure out how someone with a human mark-one eyeball would perceive the colors in the transmissions they reviewed,” Harris argued.
“Possible, but . . . it seems like quite a leap. Our brain is heavily involved in ‘reading’ the raw feed from our optic nerves,” Cormier countered. “Think of the mistakes they were making with the English language. The likelihood they would make similar mistakes with a wholly foreign system of color differentiation seems pretty high.”
Janet shook her head, a look of wonder on her face. “Sometimes it pays to be a nerd, guys!”
“It just doesn’t necessarily pay well,” Kurokawa added with a laugh.
Anatomy, physiology, sociology, culture, and geography . . . . Everyone had ideas and comments. There were times it felt like we had more devil’s advocates than a meeting of the ABA. But Aguia guided the discussion masterfully, keeping us from going too far down any particular rabbit hole and showing a genuine appreciation for everyone’s contributions. I could see why the President put him in charge of his irregulars. In short in matters vegetable, animal, and mineral . . . .
The eager, open speculation made a convivial conversation for any academic, so Janet and I felt right at home. But we ended with more questions than answers. A lot more.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “All of these things we’ve been talking about . . . I didn’t have the first idea. We didn’t know what to ask. It would have been so much better – for all of mankind, really – if Worm had dropped in on one of you.”
Harris gave me a complicated look. “I think everyone here would have given the world to be the one. . . . Especially me,” she said quietly. “But I can honestly say, I don’t know that anyone could have done any better than you did. And I’m pretty confident that I wouldn’t have done as well.”
Grillo smiled. “You get extra points for your tractor beam tricks. Damn! I wish I could have seen that!” He whistled a few bars of The Blue Danube.
That got a laugh.
“Things tend to happen for a reason,” Cormier said philosophically.
I shook my head. “No, sometimes things happen randomly. Stupidly. It’s blind luck, and sometimes it’s bad luck.”
“Don’t beat up on yourself, Jessica,” Aguia admonished. “You’ve managed to accomplish the most important thing. The People trust you.”
“Amen!” Kurokawa said, with great feeling. “Relations between societies need some level of trust to be productive. You may be the only bridge we have.”
“But . . . that’s not a good thing,” I said. “They can’t begin to understand our species just by talking to one of us. We aren’t the People. Whether they like it or not, diversity defines us. And all they’ve seen is its bad side.”
“All we can do is what they’ll permit,” Aguia pointed out. “We can’t make them talk with us.”
It was 6:30, and we still hadn’t heard anything from Dr. Livingston or Corbin. Aguia sent Livingston a message and got back, “Send them home for the night. We’ll be at it for hours more. But have them back by 8:00 a.m.”
Aguia looked around at all the participants in the day’s discussions. “I don’t know whether we’ll get much time with Jessica and Janet tomorrow, but we might. We can reconvene here at 8:00 a.m., if you're game.”
Everyone was.
Janet and I headed back towards Livingston’s Office; we needed to check in with someone to get connected with our security detail.
Surprisingly, Troi Harris walked with us. “I’m sorry, Jessica. I didn’t mean what I said, about hating you. That’s not who I am – not anymore, anyway. I’ve been in a good place for a while now, and any time that happens, I convince myself I’m all good. As soon as I do, boom. Just like that. My emotions jump up out of the black pit and drag me back.”
“I really am so very sorry. Whatever Stoneheart over there may say,” I nodded at Janet, “I think you’d be perfectly justified in wanting to rip this pretty face right off me. But . . . I’m glad you didn’t.”
“Grown accustomed to your face, have you?” she asked, with a smile.
“I have. It’s weird. I was a man for sixty years. I’ve been a woman for just a few weeks. But this just feels so much more real . . . like everything else was just a dream. Not a bad dream, by any stretch. But . . . Not real, in some sense.”
“Recency bias?” Troi asked.
I thought about it. “Yes. Undoubtedly that’s a big part of it. Present reality is the only reality, and all of time is now, right? But it’s more than that. Being a woman . . . suits me, somehow. I can’t put it any more clearly than that.”
“You like it, then?” she asked.
I nodded. “I do.”
Janet cracked up. “She likes it! Hey Mikey!!! Don’t believe her, Troi. Jessica ‘likes’ bein’ a woman like Gollum ‘liked’ Sauron’s ring. She loves the shit out of it. God’s truth. Took to it like a cat to a sun patch!”
I blushed raspberry red, but nodded again. “Guilty, I’m afraid. I mean, the period purely sucked, but even that’s just proof, like you said, that my systems all work.”
“Behind every silver lining is a big, black cloud,” Janet quipped.
Troi smiled at our byplay. “I’m glad. It would have been worse if you were moping around about having to be female, or missing your dangley bits, when there are so many of us who would have given everything we had, and everything we could get, for what they gave you gratis.”
“After our session today, I understand why Stanley wanted you to come – your insights were amazing.” I paused, trying to find the right way to say what I was thinking. I gave up. “I just wish there had been a way to avoid causing you so much grief.”
She shook her head. “I wouldn’t have missed that session for anything. It’s part of why I get so frustrated with myself, sometimes. I’m given a chance like this, by Stanley Aguia of all people, and I almost blow it because of old emotions and bad memories. You’d think I was still twelve or something!”
We reached Livingston’s suite. On impulse, I said, “Troi” – we’d all been using first names in the discussion – “I don’t know what the limitations are on our movement. I’ve got to check with the security team. They can’t just bring us back to the safe house; we’ve worn these outfits twice in ninety degree weather with ninety percent humidity. But we could both use some real food, too. If the security team allows it, could I talk you into joining us for dinner somewhere?”
She hesitated for just a moment, but then her features cleared. “Yes. I’d like that.”
“Great. Let me check,” I said.
Mitt Walters was amenable, so long as certain precautions were taken. They were familiar with a restaurant in Arlington where they thought we could eat while being inconspicuous, and they made pains to keep clear lines of retreat and exit options in case things went south. It all seemed like a lot of bother, now that Singh, Agnew and Tsong were out of the picture. But I hadn’t forgotten what getting shot felt like, so I let them do their thing.
They also agreed they could take Janet and me to Pentagon City afterward for some shopping. “You’ll need to be quick about it,” Mitt said, blanching at the thought of escorting us on a shopping expedition. “Security first, you understand?”
I grinned at him. “Oh, naturally! We won’t linger in the lingerie.”
“Too much peril?” Janet teased.
“Way too much peril!!!” Mitt said, panic showing in his face.
We had a delightful dinner with Troi. Great Cuban food . . . candle light and crisp white linens . . . a good Rioja vintage . . . quiet, understated service. Because we were in a public place, we made no mention of aliens, energy storage or weapons-grade uranium. Instead, we mostly talked about Troi’s books. Janet was not only a real fan of her work, as a literature professor she was probably one of the most educated fans Troi might have.
“I was surprised so few people picked up on how closely I based Adhya Khan’s character on Ahab,” Troi said.
Janet shook her head in disbelief. “The way she so single-mindedly pursued vengeance – destroying her whole life to achieve it – how could anyone miss the parallel?
“Maybe they just don’t associate wrath with female characters,” Troi offered.
“Which only goes to show that I and my colleagues have failed – completely failed – to hammer the rudiments of knowledge into young skulls!”
“Maybe you can’t put in what God left out,” Troi said, then dissolved into laughter. “I know – it should make no sense for me to say that!”
When Janet stopped laughing, she said, “Maybe if you’d made her first name “Abha” instead, people might have figured it out.”
“Believe it or not, I thought about it,” Troi confessed. “That was too much even for me. I suppose anyone who can’t figure out the parallel will just think I’m an original genius!”
There were lots of exchanges like that. I mostly sat back and listened while they geeked out. Janet was right, I decided. I really did need to read more. But tonight was right out, and tomorrow didn’t look so good either.
I did eventually steer the conversation to Troi’s life, which turned out to be a litany of overachievement. If she was, as Stanley Aguia jokingly suggested, a ‘shameless self-promoter,’ she at least had some pretty amazing things to promote.
“So,” I summarized after drawing her out, “by the time you were twenty-seven, you had graduated from Carleton College, written – and published! – two short novels and one four-book series, cycled across the country, hiked the full Appalachian Trail, and transitioned from male to female. And you have a pilot’s license for fixed wing and rotary. You’ve traveled on six continents and base jumped in a squirrel suit. I mean . . . damn!!!”
“I bet she leaps tall buildings with a single bound, too!” Janet’s tone, like mine, was full of admiration.
“My brain just never stops spinning,” she said. “I can’t turn it off. So I hike, or cycle, or jump, or whatever, just to get a little peace. And even then, half the time, I’m thinking up a new story.”
“Why science fiction?” I asked.
“Why linguistics?” she countered, but immediately relented. “I’m sorry. That was defensive. Truth is, SciFi comes naturally to me. As a trans woman, I’ve always felt like I was living in an alien world. Our culture’s rules and norms feel foreign to me, in a way that they just don’t for most cisgendered people I know. It’s easy for me to write about alien worlds. Alien cultures. It’s all I’ve ever known.”
“A Stranger in a Strange Land?” Janet asked.
“Not one of my faves, honestly – not even one of my favorites by Heinlein – but . . . yeah. That’s the idea.”
“How young were you, when you realized you were trans?” I asked.
“Before I had the words to explain it,” she replied. “Before I started school, for sure. The older I got, the clearer it became. I hit the point where I couldn’t live with it anymore.”
We talked for an hour and a half. I learned things that maybe I should have made a point of finding out, back when I was a “distinguished” professor and had trans kids in my lectures and seminars, trying to find their way. But Troi probably wouldn’t have confided in James Wainwright, however well intentioned he might have been. That she was willing to tell me her story now was just a side benefit the aliens had given me, along with my young and female form.
Our security folks were getting pretty antsy, so we passed on dessert. I walked Troi to her car where, surprisingly, she turned and gave me a hug.
“Today could have been bad,” she said. “I was sure my black devils were going to come for me tonight. I don’t think they will, now.”
I hugged her back, hard. And, strangely, found myself fighting tears, and reluctant to let her go. “It should have been you, Troi. It should have been!”
Life really is unfair.
We were back in our safehouse ninety minutes later after a short stop at the Pentagon City mall. We would not have to embarrass ourselves if we had two more days of meetings.
Mitt had posted Vic outside on a rise that had a good overall view of the house and brought Gordon and Roger inside. “Alright you two, grab some rack time. I’ll wake you up at 0200 to spell us.” They all went downstairs, where both bunks and the command center were located.
I had some additional arrangements to make. Janet made some tea and joined me in the living room. I placed a call.
“How was your day, dear?” Worm asked when we connected.
“Productive – I think. I’m hopeful I’ll have an offer to bring to you tomorrow morning.”
“We prepared are,” Worm responded.
“Worm . . . . I know that Elder Mission Leader said you would only ‘deal’ with me. But – apart from our negotiations – would you at least be willing to talk with more of us?”
“I do not understanding what for is this,” Worm replied, mechanically.
“This isn’t just our first contact with your species. It’s our first contact with any non-earth species. There are better representatives of our species than me – at least some of them should talk to you, and you to them.”
“This will our negotiations help?” he asked.
Be honest, I thought. “No. I’m pretty confident we’ll be able to reach a mutually satisfactory deal in the timeframe you’ve set. This request is purely personal. I think it would be good. For our species – and for yours. You should meet some of our best.”
“Jessica James . . . We are, you say, maybe, ‘shy’. . . . Elder Mission Leader decide will.”
I couldn’t ask for more than that. “Alright. Thank you.”
We ended the call and I sat back in the chair, thinking. We were quiet for a bit, finishing our tea.
“Jessica?” Janet’s voice was soft. Far away.
“Umm hmm?” I responded.
“You’ll be fine.”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely,” I said. “Someday.”
“Stop frettin’. You’re gonna change the world in a way that usually only war and fluoride can.”
“What?”
Even her laugh was sleepy. “You keep sayin’ that like it means somethin’.”
“I’m not half the woman Troi is, and I never will be. It should have been her, Janet!”
“We don’t need perfect, girl. We need you. Have some faith. And get some rest.”
We turned in.
* * * * *
Diddle-loo-do, diddle-loo-do, diddle-loo-do, my phone sang, waking me up from a disturbing dream. Still half asleep, I scrambled for the unit, trying to recall where I’d plugged it in. I grabbed it and managed “hello?”
“Worm this is,” replied the Ensign’s wooden voice. “Two male humans approaching house are. Walking strange.”
“Strange in what way?”
“Your species normal walk on your long two appendages, yes?” He asked.
“Uhhh . . . yeah.” For the last few millennia, I thought.
“These on all appendages four walk. Slow.”
“Can you tell whether they are carrying weapons?” I asked.
Siri’s melodious soprano voice kicked in. “This is Elder Specialist. Sensors indicate each human is carrying over three pounds of metal alloys, mostly iron infused with carbon, chromium and manganese. These results are consistent with items you call ‘guns,’ though other explanations are possible.”
“Communications equipment?” I asked.
“Affirmative,” Siri’s voice responded.
“Do you have the ability to block the signals going to or from their communications equipment?” I was thinking quickly.
“Affirmative,” the Elder Specialist repeated.
“How far are they from either the house or the human guard stationed outside?” I asked.
“247 feet from your current location,” Elder Specialist responded, “and 316 feet from the location of the other human in your party.” He gave me the directional information as well, which was helpful.
I was fully awake now. What to do? At very least, I needed to alert Mitt and his team. They wouldn't know where I got the information, but they would certainly spot the intruders if they knew where to look . . . .
But then what? If they tried to stop the intruders, in the dark of the night, there was a good chance gunfire might ensue. Someone could get hurt . . . or killed.
Not on MY watch!
I came to a decision. “Okay . . . keep the line open. Worm, if they make any rapid moves, please use the tractor beam to repeat the quick, random up-and-down motion you used the other day on the people who were driving Janet, Mr. Grant and me. I want to make sure no one gets hurt.”
“Affirmative, Jessica James,” Worm replied.
I got up and slipped downstairs. Roger was at the communications station.
His eyes bugged out. I picked the wrong night not to grab a boring bathrobe, I thought, just a little late to be useful.
“Roger. I got a call from a source. We’ve got two armed people attempting to sneak up on the house.”
He started to rise, looking grim. “What kind of source?”
I waved him back down. “I think we can immobilize them until morning, and that’s what I’d like to do. But I want to make sure that Gordon stays safe out there. Can you put me through to him?”
“Miss, let us handle this. Taking care of bogeys is what we do. What you need to do is let us do our jobs, okay?” Roger sounded strong, chivalrous, kind . . . .
Just what I don't need right now! I had to remind myself that, as far as he was concerned, I was just a seventeen-year-old girl he was supposed to protect. “Please. Trust me on this. It really is need-to-know.”
“’Course it is, Honey. But this is my field, and we’ve got protocols for this. You and the Prof’ll be perfectly safe, I promise. If there’s something out there, we’ll find it, and we’ll do it to them before they do it to us, if you follow me. Don’t be frightened.”
I took a deep breath, trying to stay calm. This action had the unfortunate effect of rearranging the more . . . ah . . . prominent parts of my new equipment, pushing them against the light fabric of my nightie.
Roger’s eyes wandered . . . .
My frustration boiled over. For the love of all that’s holy!!! I'm just BREATHING!!! It’s NOT a come-on!!!
“Roger,” I said sweetly, “I’m not frightened in the least. What I am is seriously frustrated, because you’re wasting time and we don’t have much of it. If you don’t give me that microphone I’m going to start screaming.”
His eyes snapped back to my face – yay! – and he looked annoyed. But he managed to get himself mostly under control. “Alright, girl. Make Gordo’s day, then!” He thrust the mike into my hands.
I took the mike and opened the line. “Gordon, this is Jessica James down at the house. Please respond by two clicks on your microphone, without making any sound.”
A couple seconds went by, then I heard a distinct “click click.”
“I have information that two” – I looked at Roger – “‘bogies’ are inbound, on foot, probably keeping low as they move. Two minutes ago, they would have been approximately 100 yards from your location, north-by-northwest. If you can confirm that information, double click.”
Almost a minute went by, then I heard another double click.
Roger looked shocked.
Call ME 'Honey,' will you? I thought.
“Okay,” I said. “Listen closely. The bogies will not move from their location until morning. If they make any noises, you are to ignore them and stay out of sight at all times. This is important. Please confirm with two clicks.”
Silence.
After a minute, Roger said, “Surprise, surprise, surprise! Ol’ Gordo just sent me a text, asking what the fuck is going on. And I can’t tell him, ’cuz I don’t know myself.” He took a steadying breath himself, then continued. “Now look, your intel was good, and I surely do appreciate it. Really. But you need to let us do our jobs now. Please. We’re trained for this. You’re not.”
“Please confirm my instructions, Roger. I really do know what I’m doing.”
“I can’t do that,” he said, sounding earnest. “You’re asking me to leave a known threat active, and you won’t even give me a reason. Final point. You don’t give ‘instructions.’”
“But I do.” Mitt Walters stood in the doorway, wearing nothing but an olive T-shirt and boxer shorts. It did nothing to diminish his aura of command. “Confirm Miss James’ instructions, Roger, but tell Gordon to report immediately if the bogies are in motion.”
Roger looked at him, shook his head, and said, “Okay, boss.” He typed furiously on his phone for a moment, then hit send.
Click click, went the speaker.
“Alright. Thank you. I need to make a call,” I said, and turned to go upstairs.
“If I could have a moment when you’re done?” Mitt asked.
“Of course. Just meet me in the living room.” I dashed upstairs. As soon as I was out of earshot, I said, “Okay. Worm, if you could, please block the two human intruders’ communications transmissions, incoming or outgoing, and lift them up so that they can’t touch the ground. No further than that.” I got to my room, closed the door, and put the phone to my ear.
“Acknowledged . . . and, done.” he replied.
I headed back into the living room. Mitt was standing in the middle of the floor, waiting.
“Thank you,” I said. “I don’t know why you were able to trust me, but I’m very glad you did.”
“My employer said I should, within reason. You pushed the envelope pretty far just now. Farther than you should’ve with Rog, for sure.”
I felt like a child, called to task for misbehavior. But . . . he had a point. Based on what the team knew about Janet and me – essentially, nothing – Roger’s actions were reasonable. “I’m sorry . . . Really I am. I am trying, very hard, to keep anyone from getting hurt.”
He gave me a long, thoughtful look. “I understand there are some things you can’t tell me. But . . . my job, and my team’s job, will be a lot easier – and safer – if you tell us as much as you can.”
He was very close, and very solid. My heart beat faster, and I felt a shiver go through me.
I suppressed it. “The two people who were coming this way won’t move. But, they can still draw weapons and use them, and we have to assume they’re armed. I’m going to call the officials in DC we’ve been dealing with – the same ones that brought your team in – and they can decide how to handle it.”
“And the bad guys are just going to sit out there in the field until someone comes?” He sounded skeptical.
“That’s the idea,” I said.
“They may have other ideas, you know. People have been known to.”
I expect my smile was as tired as I was. “They might. But they’ll keep for now.”
He smiled back at me. “Long as they do, we’ll play by your rules. But I’m starting to think that this time, the truth might actually be stranger than my story.”
“I liked your story better.”
“Okay . . . Highness.” He sketched an ironic bow and went back downstairs.
I went back to my bedroom, pausing only to listen at Janet’s door. The sound of soft snoring reassured me. Janet had looked incredibly weary when we turned in; she needed some real sleep.
I shut my door, sat on my bed, and thought for a couple of minutes. Then I placed a call.
“Jessica?” Dukkov Grant sounded both surprised and, surprisingly, very awake.
“It’s me. I’m sorry to call you at this ungodly hour.”
“What’s up?”
I explained the situation. “I don’t know how we should handle them. The security detail assigned to us doesn’t know anything, and I assume – so do they – that was deliberate. But they’ll start putting two and two together in a hurry if they see a couple goons hanging around in the field with no visible means of support.”
“Hardly. Most goons don't have any visible means of support,” he said absently. “But I take your point. I’ll come on over and take care of them, alright? I should be there in forty-five minutes or so.”
“You’ll have backup? They’re armed.”
“Leave that to me,” he said.
I put on a robe, went down and told Mitt that the cavalry was on its way, then went back upstairs to wait in the living room. I couldn’t sleep. Until, suddenly, I couldn’t stay awake.
Diddle-loo-do, diddle-loo-do, diddle-loo-do.
“Shit,” I snarled. Then woke up and grabbed my phone. “Yes?”
“Jessica James, Mr. Grant has from human intruders removed metal weapons. Should release them, yes?” Worm’s voice was, as usual, neutral.
“Wait just a minute. Let me confirm.” I called Grant.
“You’ll be so surprised at what the cat dragged in,” he said when he answered.
I could hear indistinct and unimaginative cursing in the background.
“Can it, motormouth. I’m talking here. . . . No? Fine. Have a shutthefuckupcake.” Grant’s voice was muffled, like he was trying to block the mic.
“Do you have them secure? Should the aliens shut down the tractor beam?” I asked him.
“Yeah, be a good idea. They’re cuffed. I’ll frog-march ’em to my car.”
“Okay. I’ll meet you there.” I made the arrangements with Worm, cinched my robe a bit tighter, then went outside. A couple minutes later, the pale crescent moon revealed three figures approaching the house, two stumbling ahead, covered in camo gear and face paint.
As they got closer, I felt a presence at my side. “Son of a hamster!” Janet said. “If it isn’t Thing One and Thing Two.”
I hadn’t noticed, what with all the cosplay warrior gear, but it was, indeed, the Brothers Tweedle – the same pair who had tried to whisk Janet and me off to join Averil Livingston in polite captivity. “Slow learners, aren’t you?” I asked them.
“Fuck you! Fuck you both!” snarled Tweedle Dee. Or Dum. I really couldn’t tell them apart.
“Yeah, yeah, we know,” said Janet. “And our parents, siblings and pet rodents, too. Gotta say, you’re busy little fuckers.”
“You really should have taken the hint last time,” I said. “If you’d just started running once your feet hit the ground, you might have gotten clean away. Now you’d better start cooperating, or I expect you’ll be spending a long time away from your families.”
“I got nothin’ to say,” Tweedle Dum said defiantly. Or maybe it was Dee. But Dee was the smart one, so that couldn’t be right.
“I see nothing! I know nothing!” Janet snarked, putting on an accent.
Grant pushed them into the back seat of his car. “Damn,” he said. “I thought you guys smelled bad outside.”
“What’s your guess?” I asked him. “Were they freelancing?”
“I calculate not,” he responded. “That’s a lot of pricey gear they’ve got there. But I doubt they’ll keep us guessing for long.”
It wasn’t cold – even at night, summers in the D.C. area are warm and thick – but I shivered. “Thank you. You do sleep sometimes, don’t you?”
He smiled, tipped an imaginary hat, and said, “Ladies.” Then he drove off.
Mitt was waiting when we came back inside. “Crisis averted?”
“This one, anyway,” I said.
“Well, I’ll give you this, Highness. You may be an exile from Erehwon, but you’ve got good intel and some high-octane juice. . . . The boys’ll have some good stories.” He was looking at me closely.
“It would be better if you could make up a story for them,” I said. “Something really good.”
“A Mitty special,” Janet agreed.
He smiled. “I’ll do that. You’ve got about ninety minutes before you’ve got to get up again; better rack out.”
“Thanks, Mr. Walters.”
“G’night again, Prof. . . . Princess.”
We laughed and went back to bed.
* * * * *
We were almost back at the EEOB when Worm’s call came in. “Good morning,” I said, answering.
“Jessica James,” Worm replied. “Elder Mission Leader willing is for people two more to accompany you today. They will not with you be during negotiations.”
Only two!!! But . . . it was better than just me. Or even, just me, Janet and Justin. There are people in this world, I thought, whose names DON'T begin with a "J."
“Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be in touch as soon as I know where we are this morning.”
“We know ‘where you are.’” Worm said, apparently puzzled.
“Sorry; figure of speech again. I mean, I will communicate with you when I know whether I’ve been given clearance to make an offer to you. I will need you to not listen in for a while, okay?”
“Affirmative, Jessica James.”
When we arrived, we were taken straight to the Science Advisor’s suite, where an exhausted-looking Dr. Livingston was waiting for us. “Good morning,” she said with a weak smile. “Grant tells me you had a fun night, too.”
“I’d take it over sittin’ in an all-day meeting with Mr. Secretary Britt,” Janet said. “You okay, Averil?”
“I’ll do,” she responded.
“Has Grant learned anything from them?” I asked.
Livingston shook her head. “Not yet. For now, it’s enough to know there are still threats out there, so we can take appropriate measures. But we’ll take care of that. You’ve got more important things to think about. We’ve got an offer to put on the table, and Corbin will be here in half an hour to brief you personally.”
“Outstanding!” My spirits lifted immeasurably. Real progress! But . . . “Averil, I need to talk with General Aguia and his group for a couple minutes before Mr. Corbin gets here. Are they in the building?”
“Yes, back in the library. Do you need help finding it?”
I wanted to say yes, but the poor woman was dead on her feet. “We’ll manage. Honest. Get some sleep!”
She nodded her thanks, and we headed down the hall. Made a turn. Another . . . .
“Shit. We’re lost,” I said.
“We could start randomly opening doors,” Janet suggested. “Or maybe yodeling.”
“You know how to yodel?” I was surprised. But Janet was always full of surprises.
“Can’t say I've ever tried it,” she responded, “but this looks like as good a place as any to learn, don’t ya think?”
I did not have time to be lost! “Every time we come here, I feel like we’re trapped inside a CucKoo Clock!”
“A Cuckoo Clockwork Orange, maybe,” Janet said.
A door opened ahead of us, and Stanley Aguia’s head popped out. “Ah! I’ve spotted them!”
When we rejoined the group, I said, “This is going to sound like the set-up for a bad joke, but I’ve got good news and bad news. Heartbreaking news.”
Aguia raised an eyebrow, which fortunately is a readily interpreted query between humans.
“I can bring two of you with me today when I meet with the aliens. . . . But only two. I’m so sorry. It’s all they were willing to do.”
Aguia glanced at his colleagues, then turned back to me, an easy smile on his face. “It’s all good news, Jessica. Really. Who do you want to go with you and Janet?”
Janet shook her head. “I’ve met ’em and they’ve met me. This is your shot, guys.”
“You’re certain?” Aguia asked.
Janet nodded. “Honestly, I could use a bit more of what our security boys charmingly call ‘rack time.’”
I said, “Janet wouldn’t be able to help me negotiate, anyway. They’re insisting I do that alone. This is just for, I guess you’d say, cultural exchange.”
“So, who gets Wonka’s golden tickets?” Aguia asked.
“Your choice,” I said. “If I do the picking, my biases will inform the choice. And the point is to increase the alien’s exposure to diverse viewpoints.”
Aguia looked at his colleagues.
They looked at each other. Then back at Aguia.
And shook their heads.
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” the general said gently. “This is your mission. The aliens trust you. . . . And so do we.”
I wanted to protest, but there was no time. I knew who I thought the best choices were, I just didn’t trust myself to be right. “I’m so very sorry,” I said. “I wish I could bring all of you. Troi, Daichi . . . . we should leave as soon as Mr. Corbin’s done giving me the offer.”
Aguia’s face showed nothing but compassion. “Why don’t you head back to Averil’s office,” he suggested. “Janet, can you stay here? We should caucus with the ‘Away Team’ before they go.”
I left, feeling like a complete heel. I didn't want to see the hurt in Dave Grillo’s eyes, or Kayla Cormier’s. But I was soon in a solitary office with Luther Corbin, and I had to focus, fast.
“Good morning, Professor,” he said, standing and reaching out to shake my hand. “How’s your poker game?”
* * * * *
An hour later, Janet and I were sharing a car with Harris and Kurokawa. Mr. Grant had the wheel, and he was taking us away from the capital, where our unorthodox “beam up” would be less likely to attract attention.
“You’ll be fine, Jessica.” Janet said. “I mean, unless you start an interstellar war or something. That would be genuinely bad.”
“Would not recommend,” Troi agreed.
“I’ll try to bear that in mind,” I said, “though whether I can manage it without Janet along to keep me . . . humble? Well, we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”
Janet looked pleased. “Continuity is so important. Thank you for always being a jerk!”
“My pleasure, I assure you,” I assured her.
Grant stopped at a grassy knoll inside a small grove of hardwoods, probably forty minutes south and east of the Capitol. It felt like more.
We walked up to the top. “Great view from here,” Grant said.
“Keep her out of trouble, will you?” I asked him.
He looked up and squinted in the bright sunlight. “A man’s got to know his limitations.” His voice was gravelly.
Janet giggled, then said, “Game on, girl!”
I looked at my two companions. “Ready?”
They nodded, anticipation palpable.
“Three to beam up.”
We shot into the air – no gentle drift this time. I had the sense that the aliens intended to take the ship lower to further reduce our exposed time in the air.
“WaHOOOOO!” Troi squealed.
Daichi looked surprised, then exultant. “Banzai!!!!”
We stopped almost as quickly, then the view beneath us disappeared. We landed gently on our feet in what I thought of as the hold of the aliens’ ship.
“Superhero landing!” Troi exclaimed.
Worm was waiting for us. “Welcome, Ms. Harris. Kurokawa-hakase.” Astonishingly, he executed a short, fairly stiff, bow.
I recovered quickly enough to say, “Troi, Daichi, this is Ensign Worm.”
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” Daichi said, returning the bow.
Troi was staring at Worm intently. After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I am deeply honored.”
“Please to me follow,” Worm said. “I introduce you to crew will now.”
I moved to follow them, but a voice behind me said, “Not you, Ms. James. I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
I spun around. “Justin!”
He grinned. “In the flesh. Ready to do some horse trading?”
. . . . To be continued. In Theory.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 17: A Piece of the Action
“Horse trading?” I asked. “I thought you were advising the aliens, not representing them!”
Justin smiled, slow and easy. “It’s an evolving relationship . . . they’re comfortable having me do this part. Come on in, we’ve got space that’s more comfortable and private than the ‘foyer.’”
Damn, I’d missed him the last few days! Strange, given how short a time I had known him. He looked good, in a fresh white dress shirt, a navy blazer and light gray wool pants. “If it’s a conference room, they’re in trouble. I’ve had enough of those!”
“Well, actually . . . .” He sounded embarrassed.
It was a bedroom. “Okay, they aren’t in trouble,” I said, “but you are!”
“Not my fault! Honest! They needed to clear a bit of space for me to set up, and I’ve been sleeping here for the past couple of nights. You’ll note I also have a desk and two comfortable chairs. I thought we might use those?”
“We could move them to the other room,” I suggested.
“We can’t, really. They look like chairs, but that’s partly an illusion.”
I was intrigued despite myself. “What do you mean, ‘partly illusion?’”
He shrugged. “It looks and feels like something from home – the leather in the chairs feels like leather; the wood looks, feels, and even smells like oak with a lemon-based furniture polish. That’s not real, I gather. But there is a chair there, or at least, there is a physical object that supports your back and . . . ah . . . rear when you sit in it. But I can’t even move it across the room, much less out of it.”
“So they cleared some space for you, huh?”
“You’d think spaceships might have plenty of space, but I assure you they don’t, Ms. James,” he responded.
My smile was lopsided, and a touch rueful. “Back to ‘Ms. James,’ am I?”
“Sorry about that,” he said with what I thought was real regret. “I need to keep my lawyer hat on today. Firmly.”
“We could use staples, I suppose. Or Gorilla Glue. I don’t bite, you know. Unless it’s called for.”
“You’re a sketch, Ms. James,” he said with a smile.
I smiled back. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
We smiled at each other for perhaps half a trice longer than the punctilio of diplomatic protocol demanded. Maybe even an entire trice. It’s hard to be exact, with trices.
“Well, let’s get started then – ‘Mr. Abel’!” I crossed over to one of the chairs and sat. It was, I thought, a comfortable enough illusion, and Lord knows, we could use a few of those. I sat up straight, crossed my legs at the knees, and rested my hands in my lap.
Justin grabbed a legal pad and a pen from his desk and took the opposite seat, looking attentive. “Alrighty, then. What’s the U.S. government willing to offer in exchange for the formula for making the type of battery Professor Grim tested?”
I thought his word choices were careful, deliberate, and very telling. The U.S. government, not me. The technology Grimm tested, not “the alien’s current generation battery technology.” But I didn’t disagree with the nice, lawyerly way that he’d phrased things.
I needed to convey the offer with equal precision. “Let me start with detailing the government’s requirements with respect to the battery tech. First, they want to confirm that it doesn’t use any materials that are not readily available, and that the processes required for manufacture are within our current capabilities. I believe the People represented that we’d be able to begin commercial-scale production within four months. The government wants to review the formula to be satisfied that these representations are correct before turning over the fissile material.
“Second, the government requires that it be given the full intellectual property rights to the formula. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, the formula will have been developed by the Department of Energy’s Advanced Research Project Agency, Energy.”
Abel’s eyebrow rose at that stipulation. “Ballsy, I’ll give ’em that. Any other requirements?”
I shook my head. “No. In exchange for the technology, provided in accordance with those stipulations, the government is prepared to offer 650 pounds of weapons-grade uranium, the quality of which is guaranteed to meet or exceed ninety percent U-235.”
“650 pounds?” Both of Abel’s eyebrows were sky-high. “That’s it? For a technology that will revolutionize energy storage?” Even his eyes appeared to bug out.
I cocked my head. “Has anyone ever told you that you do ‘astonished’ astonishingly well?”
“Wait ’til you’ve seen my ‘disappointed,’” he mock-growled.
“Theatrics aside,” I responded, “I gather that amount is sufficient to manufacture almost twenty nuclear warheads. About as many as the government estimates North Korea has produced.”
“That’s a really good point.” He made a note on his pad, but the hand motion was inconsistent with writing letters; he was just doodling. Then he looked up, like he’d just had a thought. “Or it would be, if either the People or the U.S. government intended to use it for that purpose. But they don’t, or we wouldn’t even be having this delightful chat, would we?”
“Prolly not,” I agreed. “But your clients have a great deal of information – publicly available information – about what the government has to offer, while the government knows next to nothing about the People’s requirements or capacity. For all they knew, your clients might not need – or want – as much HEU as they’ve offered. They had to measure the offer against something.”
“They could measure it against their stockpiles – which are about a thousand times larger,” he countered.
“I so appreciate a man who does his homework,” I said approvingly. “They could look at it that way, of course, but why would they? That’s no way to measure value. Or Elon Musk would pay a million bucks for the same toaster we could buy for $29.95.”
He shook his head. “You are talking about the guy who just offered $44 billion for a company that was worth half that much, and then tried to back out of the deal after signing the papers. You know that, right?”
“Okay, maybe not the best example,” I conceded. “But for all its flaws, the U.S. government isn’t eccentric, it doesn’t have an ego as such, and it doesn’t try to use reproductive organs for problem solving. It may be crazy, but it’s not stupid!”
He scribbled on his pad some more.
“Would you like a pipe instead of a pad?” I asked him innocently.
“No,” he said, sounding puzzled. “I don’t smoke. Why do you ask?”
“I never used one myself, but in academic circles it’s well known that a pipe gives a wise man time to think.”
“Shucks, Ma’am, I’m just a humble country lawyer, trying to do the best I can against this brilliant . . . linguist.” Nonetheless, he looked mildly pleased.
“That’s okay; it also gives a fool something to stick in his mouth.” I smiled to take the sting out of my comment and leaned forward. “Come on, Justin. Time to flip some cards. How much weapons grade uranium do the People want? How much can they even carry? Until the government knows that, they’re just firing grapeshot downrange and hoping they get lucky.”
He leaned back in the apparent leather of his chair and chuckled. “Well played, Ma’am! Okay. They can carry just over twenty tons, and they want to go home with a full cargo. Does that change the offer?”
“See? Was that so hard?” I smiled encouragingly. “They did give me an alternative proposal. They’re willing to provide three and a half tons of the specified quality of HEU if, in addition to the battery technology formula, the People were willing to describe a process for safely and efficiently generating power through nuclear fusion.”
His eyebrows shot back up. “Fusion? Seriously? That’s never been on the table!”
“Codswallop!” I retorted. “We’re only just setting the table right now. You and me. Knives, plates, forks. Napkins, if you’re feeling all fancy. Wine glasses might be nice.”
“Codswallop? Seriously?”
“Forgive me. I’m an old-fashioned type. Substitute, if you prefer, bunkum, piffle, tommyrot, flapdoodle or blatherskite.”
“I do love it when you talk dirty!” He grinned, then shook his head. “I very much doubt my clients will see it that way. They’re going to feel sandbagged.”
I shrugged my shoulders.
Justin, bless him, kept his eyes riveted on my face.
“I suggested the battery technology,” I said. “Me. Jessica. You know, even if the People don’t, that the U.S. government isn’t required to conform its offer to the suggestions of a linguistics professor!”
“Not even a distinguished linguistics professor who has demonstrably perfect . . . grammar?” His eyes had a nice twinkle.
“Nope,” I said, returning his smile.
“Okay, point taken. Let me go and talk to the client, if I can pry him away from your fascinating associates. Where did you find them, by the way? Interesting choices!”
“One of the President’s advisors called them in to provide thoughts and advice on the first meeting with an alien civilization,” I told him. “The rest of the group was . . . equally impressive.”
“I’m sorry about that . . . but glad the People were willing to allow these two to come up, anyway.” He started to rise.
“You gave Worm comportment lessons, didn’t you?” I wished I could have watched that!
“Of course! All in a day’s work.” His eyes went back to twinkling. “I don’t think I’ll be too long. Feel free to hang out here. If you need to use the facilities, they rigged up something in the entry room, behind a curtain.”
I inclined my head, but remained seated. I liked the chair, honestly.
He left.
The last few days had been incredibly busy, and I had about as far from a good night’s sleep as you can get the prior night, what with the Brothers Tweedle and all. Justin’s bed was practically singing me a lullaby. But it wouldn’t do, it really wouldn’t, to be caught sleeping when he returned.
My mind suddenly called up a mental image of Justin waking me in his bed . . . . I let my eyes drift shut.
I pulled myself up short. What was I thinking? My body picked the strangest times to assert its – alright, my – suddenly strong attraction to men. Probably all the stronger in that it was a wholly new sensation, something I had never experienced in six decades of being male. James Marshall Wainwright would never have looked at Justin Abel and seen anything other than “some guy,” a designation that would have been wholly secondary to the toxic label, “lawyer.”
But Jessica James saw Justin in a completely different light. He had a sharp and – strange to an academic – highly focused intelligence that infused his mobile and expressive face. He was handsome and well-built, and while he was probably a bit shorter than I had been when I was male, he was eight or nine inches taller than me now. I felt petite when I stood next to him . . . but that didn’t feel strange at all. It felt nice. I wanted . . . .
I wanted.
Oh yes, I surely did! But . . . I needed to get my shit together. I'm such an unholy mess of a girl, I thought. With a sigh, I opened my eyes and decided I’d better stand. Walk around. Do something to keep awake. I took to pacing.
Seven steps, wall to wall. Not tiny, constrained steps; I had worn a nice pair of dress slacks today (knowing I would have a bit of flying to do), in a warm tawny brown. My white sandals were firmly attached at the ankle so as not to fly off, and had enough of a heel to be comfortable. (I thought, absently, that when all of the excitement was over, I would need to work on stretching my tendons so I was equally comfortable in flats. Damn People Magazine, anyway!). So my steps were easy and regular, though my thoughts were very much “un” and “ir.”
Back and forth, back and forth. I thought the government was being short-sided and was trying to play a long game when time was not on its side. I had said as much to Luther Corbin when he briefed me. He had told me, in his inimitable fashion, that Stanley Aguia wasn’t the only person whose primary duty consisted of coaxing feral cats into playing Mozart on the saxophone.
Back and forth, back and forth. The offer didn’t come close to twenty tons. Were the People really going to insist on getting that much U-235? The government seemed almost absurdly attached to the deadly stuff. Why couldn’t the aliens get off on nuclear waste, for the love of all that’s holy?
Back and forth. Justin has really attractive eyes. Especially when he smiles. Even more especially, when he smiles at me . . . .
Back and forth. Fusion!!! For all that I was not an expert in energy, there was one thing I knew about all the work that had been done to generate controlled fusion reactions: it required an enormous upfront expense. Massive lasers aimed with incredible precision. If the output was great enough, it would more than justify the expense. But countries that could not afford the upfront cost would – once again – be left in the cold, literally. Just dandy.
After walking for forty-five minutes and getting precisely nowhere, I got tired of pacing and returned to my seat. There was so much a stake here! How's your poker game, Professor? Luther Corbin’s jest sat in the pit of my stomach like mine tailings.
Justin returned. I started to get up, but he waved me back and sat down himself. His expression was humorous. “They said, in essence, ‘fusion? Why do you want to fuck with that shit?’”
“Well, because . . . .” I started.
He cut me off. “Don’t bother. Apparently they don’t use it, and never really have. In their collective memory, it was always the energy source of tomorrow, just like it is for us, and tomorrow is always a day away. By the time they discovered a way to generate it somewhat efficiently, they had already moved on to other, better, power sources. They assure me that neither the fusion methodology they finally developed, nor the power technology they currently use, could be turned over without violating their Prime Directive.”
“Oh,” I said. “And . . . you agreed with their interpretation of the Prime Directive?”
His eyes went soft. “I’m sorry . . . I can’t tell you what advice I gave my client, Ms. James. That has to stay confidential.”
Dammit!!! Your own fault, Jessica, I said to myself. Thought you were so clever, releasing him as your lawyer so he could advise the aliens. Now you're all alone!!
“I see,” I said. “Well . . . do you have a counter-offer I can take back to the government?
“They want 20 tons of HEU, at least 90 percent U-235, delivered and loaded before they provide the battery formula. They are willing to discuss intellectual property rights. That’s it, and they believe it’s fair. But, Elder Technical Specialist told me to pass along an additional piece of information that might sweeten the pot. The formula and processes used for the battery technology in the demo model do have other applications as well. One of them, they believe, can easily be used to boost the efficiency of photovoltaic cells by approximately 68 percent.”
“That . . . sounds good, certainly,” I said. And it did. Really, really good. But what do I know? I’m a linguist, for God’s sake, not an engineer! “Any idea what it means?”
His smile was sardonic. “No more than you do. But I assume the government’s got folks who can evaluate what that side benefit is worth.”
“Fair point.” I got to my feet. “Well, let me make a call. Please tell the People I will need them not to listen to my communications with the government. . . . And . . . not to be rude. You haven’t set any listening devices yourself, have you?”
His facial expression was a complicated mix of hurt and admiration. He rose and faced me, no more than two feet away. “No, Ms. James. I haven’t, and I won’t. That would violate professional ethics, and I take that as seriously as my clients take their honor.”
Was it wrong for me to notice that he smelled nice? A good, clean, almost spicy smell . . . . “Okay. Sorry. I had to check. You know what they say about lawyers.” The real apology was in my eyes.
“I know almost everything they say about lawyers,” he responded. “We make up most of the jokes ourselves. But what do they say about linguists?”
The only joke I knew about linguists involved their cunning, and I certainly wasn’t going to share it with Justin. . . . so I struck a pose and tried out my best attempt at a sultry voice. “Actually, people don’t often talk about linguists. But when they do . . . they use big words!”
He laughed and left.
I called the number Luther Corbin had given me.
He answered right away, his deep bass reverberating through the speaker of my cheap phone. “Professor James! Please tell me you have some good news to impart this fine day! It would be, I assure you, a welcome change. A delightful change. I should sing rhapsodies, indeed. How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of one who bringeth glad tidings!” Count on the Chief of Staff to turn a simple greeting into free-form poetry.
“Hello, Mr. Corbin,” I replied. “I’m afraid my feet haven’t improved much since our morning meeting.”
“Let not your heart be troubled, Professor! It is too soon – far too soon, indeed, for me to complain about your talus and calcaneus. What news do you have for me?”
“Well, first, and probably most important: The aliens can take 20 tons of HEU, and that’s their counter, in terms of the amount. They want it loaded before they provide the formula. They’re willing to discuss the IP issue. When I raised the fusion option, I was told that they don’t have anything they can give us in that line that wouldn’t violate their ‘prime directive’ rule. But, they did say that the battery tech has other applications, and that one of those applications would boost the efficiency of photovoltaic cells by sixty eight percent.”
“Would it indeed? Corbin replied in a thoughtful voice. “Well, isn’t that interesting? I thought the fusion gambit was a long shot. . . .” He lapsed into silence, thinking.
After a few moments had passed I said, “Mr. Corbin . . . do you have any new information about last night’s attempted attack on our safehouse?”
He was silent a moment more before responding. “We do, Professor. It appears they were still working for Mr. Singh. The more important question, however, is who Mr. Singh might be working for. He appears to have vanished.”
“How did they know where to find us?” I asked.
“I’m sorry – extremely sorry – to say that I don’t have an answer to that excellent question at this time. But you may rest assured that we are working on obtaining it.”
“I . . . see,” I said. This sounded serious. “If that’s so, where’s Janet?”
Corbin said, “We parked her over at the Hay-Adams in a two-bedroom suite. I gather she’s sleeping, and the redoubtable Mr. Grant’s keeping watch.”
That response left me worried for a different reason. “You don’t trust our security detail?”
“They have always been reliable, Professor. Always. Or I would not have used them. But, until we know how your location was discovered, we need to be extra careful.”
I thought about that for a minute, but I couldn’t come up with anything else to do.
“We are doing everything in our power to get answers quickly, Professor,” Corbin assured me. “In the meantime, let me work on getting a counterproposal to take to your friends. It will take some time, but not as long as last time, I’m certain. Very certain!” He rang off.
I sat for a bit, stewing. Someone was stalking us, and I had no idea who – or how, or why. And I knew that, down in Washington, Corbin was trying to extract answers from the leviathan, and that it would take time. But the clock was ticking. How long would that popinjay Britt hold things up this time?
I went to the adjoining room to use the facilities and saw the enclosure Justin had mentioned. When I started to open the curtain, I heard Daichi Kurokawa squawk in surprise.
Behind me, Troi Harris said, “Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.”
“Yes! Please don’t!” Daichi agreed.
I laughed, and felt some of my tension lift. “How’s it going?” I asked.
I heard a strange noise, followed by Daichi’s startled, “SUGOI!!” He came out a moment later, looking startled. “It goes well, Jessica,” he said warmly. “The history of their species – we have only begun to touch on it. The barest outline. But . . . Fascinating! Extraordinary!”
Troi nodded. “Their collective memory goes back an incredibly long time. They weren’t even the first sentient species on their homeworld. Or the second, or the third.”
“Each dominant species had their day, with civilizations rising and falling . . . all the while regarding the People as barely more intelligent than we would regard mice, or dolphins,” Daichi added.
“So long, and thanks for all the fish.” Troi smiled wistfully. “Although, in their case, it was the formerly dominant species that left the scene, one after the other.”
I was incredibly relieved. It would have been criminal – and criminally stupid – if we had allowed the aliens to depart with only a commercial exchange concluded. These discussions would ultimately be more important, and they appeared to be in the best of hands. “It sounds like you’re learning a tremendous amount. God, I’m so glad you were able to come!”
“It’s enough to make me cry, thinking how short our time with them will be,” Troi said. “But . . . How’s your work going, Jessica?”
I waggled my fingers. “We’re still at the ‘feeling out positions’ stage. I’m hopeful we’ll get there, but it’s slow sledding.”
I heard Janet’s voice in the back of my mind, as clear as if she had been standing right next to me. “Tryin’ out positions, are you? How truly exhaustin’!”
Hush, woman! I thought, exasperated. Even when you aren’t with me, you’re with me!
They wished me well and went back to their session. I pushed the curtain aside to find a device that clearly functioned as a toilet, though it had no knobs or buttons that I could see. I dropped my slacks and panties and sat down gratefully. I’d gotten used to the sensation of urinating while female, but it was still less efficient. And . . . well. What was I to do for paper? I didn’t see any.
But I had no sooner finished my business than my nether region was hit with tepid, mildly fragrant liquid, followed by warm, dry air. It tickled . . . in a ridiculously sensual way. It didn’t help – or it did, depending – that I had just been thinking some wicked thoughts about a certain lawyer! But I managed to keep myself in place, and the device certainly did the job. When I got up, everything was dry and comfortable, and whatever had been discharged had disappeared. That was different.
I got my clothing back in place and went back to the room where I had been meeting with Justin. His bedroom. I wanted to call Janet, but decided to let her sleep. Sleep!
There was no way I would get any answer, despite Corbin’s best efforts, for a couple of hours. I could really use a bit of rest. Get my mind sharp again . . . .
The bed beckoned.
I sat down on it. Whether it was real, an illusion, or some combination, it was seriously comfortable. Even sinfully comfortable. But not a mortal sin, certainly. Just an itsy bitsy, teeny weenie, yellow polka dot . . . venial sin. Besides, wasn’t I an atheist? Surely . . . .
“Oh, stop dithering,” I said out loud. I reached down and unbuckled the delicate straps on each of my sandals. Nothing wrong with my feet, I thought. Though I’m not sure I’d write psalms about them. I stretched out on top of the covers, making sure to set my phone down on the table with the ringer on its highest setting. Amazingly, in a moment’s time, I was dead to the world. Maybe even the universe.
I don’t know how long I slept. It felt like it was a while, and it was deep. I was awakened, not by my phone, but by the gentle pressure of a hand against one check, and the sound of Justin’s voice.
“Jessica.” He had a very nice voice.
I opened my eyes, and there he was, perched on the edge of the bed, cradling my cheek in his fine, capable palm. Like a dream. A really good dream, too – the type that makes you feel all warm and safe. But, fuzzy as my brain seemed, I was pretty sure I wasn’t still dreaming.
I smiled up at him. “Justin. Sorry about borrowing your bed.”
“How you doin’?” His voice was even nicer when it was low and a bit husky.
“A bit groggy,” I replied.
“Resting's the sort of thing you've got to work up to gradually . . . very dangerous to rest all of a sudden.” His expression was, for once, very hard to read.
Too much going on in that noggin of yours, Boyo? Well, GOOD! Welcome to my world!
Time seemed to hold its breath . . . .
“I’m sorry, Jessica,” he said finally. “I’d have let you sleep if I could. But there’s a new . . . development . . . you need to know about.”
I touched his hand lightly. In gratitude. Surely it was just gratitude? “Okay,” I said softly. “Can you give me two minutes to shake the sleep off?”
“Absolutely.” He smiled and left.
I rose, stretched, and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. Pulling a pocket mirror from my purse, I touched up my hair and lipstick before sitting down in “my” chair again. I was worried about what was coming, but very glad to have what was clearly, at the least, a couple additional hours of sleep with which to face it. The manner of my waking . . . well. I’d think about that later.
Justin came back in, his lawyer face firmly back in place.
I waved him in. “Let’s hear it, Mr. Abel.” I figured I should do my part to set the tone.
He resumed his seat, looking serious. And seriously like Gregory Peck.
“Half an hour ago, someone left a message on my office voicemail,” he explained. “In light of the message, I returned the call. The long and short of it is that another government has made an offer to supply the People with weapons-grade uranium. It appears they want a piece of the action.”
I could not hide my shock. Who would know that the aliens were even here, much less that Justin was representing them? I took a deep breath, thinking hard. “What can you tell me about this offer? Did the People solicit it in some way? What country is involved, and what are they offering?”
He cocked his head. “My clients won’t entertain the offer unless you clear it. ‘We deal with Jessica James only,’ they said. They didn’t even let me tell them what the offer was.”
“Okay,” I said. That was . . . not exactly surprising. They’d suggested something like that before, but it hadn’t been tested up ’til now. But it was certainly sobering. “Best let me know what the offer is.”
His dark eyes appraised me carefully. “Why? I told you, they won’t consider the offer unless you bring it forward. You can just ignore it if you want.”
Averil Livingston’s words from yesterday morning came back to me. Do they expect you to represent ALL of us?
And my response. Yes. I think that’s exactly what the aliens are expecting.
“I need to know what it is before I make that decision,” I told him.
There was a glimmer of . . . something? . . . in his eye. “Okay. There are things I’m going to tell you that can be shared with the U.S. government, but other things are for your ears only. Can you live with that?”
I thought about that, but didn’t see a lot of choice. “Yes.”
“Okay. What you can pass along to the U.S. government is that the People did not solicit the offer, directly or indirectly. They haven’t communicated with any humans since their arrival, other than you, me, Janet and – briefly, with you present – Dr. Livingston. Now, with Professor Kurokawa and Ms. Harris too – at your specific request. But neither of them has had any outside communications since they came aboard. So the People don’t know how the other country found out about their presence. Much less my own involvement.”
“I . . . Okay,” I said, thinking fast but not very coherently. “I’ll certainly pass that along. And I’ll need to think who I might have told about your involvement. And when. But let’s put that aside for now. What else can you tell me?”
“The rest is just for you. And only because the People trust you, personally. A foreign government is offering to provide four tons of weapons-grade HEU in exchange for one hundred shots like the one you were given, but without the gender change component.”
We looked at each other for a long, long moment. Here it was, the very nightmare scenario I had dreamed up back at Janet’s house, when we were first thinking about whether we could help the aliens. What ghoul thought up this offer? President for life – but a long, long life indeed! My mind was whirling, whirling . . . .
And, like that, I knew what I had to do. “I will bring this proposal to the People. But I need to go back to Washington before I do. What . . . what time is it, down there?”
“Five fifteen in the afternoon,” he replied.
My brain was racing. “Ask the aliens if they can drop me somewhere safely that’s close to a metro station.”
“What’s your plan?”
“I need to see the President. Right away. We need to get a last, best offer, and I think the existence of a little competition gives me what I need to get one.” I found myself standing, suddenly impatient to be gone.
“Let me see what I can do,” he said. “Meantime, I’m guessing you need to make a call or two.” He left.
I called Corbin. “Mr. Corbin – there’s been a leak. Somewhere. But the People have now received a trade offer from another country. I think – I strongly, strongly think – the U.S. needs to cut to Hecuba and put a final offer on the table. I would like an opportunity to meet with the President personally to discuss it.”
“You don’t exist, Ms. James. That’s no less true now than it was two days ago,” he cautioned.
I hadn’t thought of that! But . . . wait! “Mr. Corbin, the People seem to be able to create realistic illusions. They may be able to make me look like someone who actually does exist. Someone who might just be able to walk in to see the President.”
The line was silent for a moment. Then, suddenly, Corbin began to chuckle. “That’s a very interesting idea, Professor! Very interesting indeed! If you could come looking like, say, Dr. Ranveer Singh, I am sure the President would be available to meet with you at 7:00. He has urgent business to discuss with Dr. Singh. Is that satisfactory?”
I was calling to practically demand a meeting with the President of the United States? Had the world gone completely mad? “Entirely satisfactory, Mr. Corbin. How do I get in?”
“I will personally meet you outside the EEOB and bring you in,” he replied. “I’ll see you at, say, ten minutes to seven?”
“Yes, sir,” I replied. “I’ll be there . . . or, Mr. Singh will be. Sort of. You know what I mean.”
He rang off, and I went to make the arrangements. When they were complete, I went back to the entry room.
Justin came to see me off. His hand came up, almost like it had a mind of its own – and his fingers brushed my cheek again. “You’ll be careful?”
“You mean, apart from when I jump out of an invisible spaceship and plunge to earth, relying on some alien technology no human understands to keep me from pancaking in a kinetic strike?”
He laughed. “Well, when you put it that way . . . .”
“I do.” I touched his cheek as well. Our eyes locked. Probably a trice and a half, this time. Might even have been more. I wish Justin would kiss me.
Oh, but there are so many reasons why that would be a terrible idea! “Open the pod bay door, Worm,” I sighed.
As I began to fall backward, Justin called, “Have fun storming the castle!”
And, once again, I was falling to earth, a warm wind whipping my long, braided hair.
This was . . . nuts.
If buttercups buzzed after the bees,
If ships were on land, and churches at sea . . . .
* * * * *
It was 6:45 and I was almost at the EEOB. The illusion that the People had provided for me was purely visual. I didn’t feel like I was male again, or tall, or even like I was wearing a suit. But that was the image the world would see.
There were a fair number of people on the sidewalks . . . office workers and government types and tourists from Iowa. No one gave me a second glance, which was both disconcertingly strange and strangely disconcerting. In the few weeks I had been Jessica, I’d grown accustomed to being a focus of attention. But a guy walking around in a suit looked pretty inconspicuous. Plenty of suits in this town, despite the steamy weather. If I'd been in the "Room Where it Happened," I thought, the Capitol wouldn't have been located in a malarial swamp!
I turned right on Pennsylvania Avenue and headed toward the place where I had arranged to meet Corbin. When I spotted his distinctive 6’6” frame at the guard station I picked up my pace. There were, unsurprisingly, more people around the closer you got to the White House. Pedestrians only; that section of the street has long been closed to traffic. But that meant that I had to dodge around them to proceed.
One man, comically, went to dodge left around me just as I moved right to dodge around him. We bumped together, and while we bounced apart consistent with Newton’s Third Law of Motion, our relative backward velocities appeared inconsistent with any of the laws of physics I’d ever heard of.
I opened my mouth to apologize, but found myself looking at a pair of the hardest, coldest eyes I had ever seen outside of a nightmare . . . . Despite myself, I stepped back another half pace.
Without warning or change of expression, he raised his right hand and fired a pistol right over my head, inches away from my face. That close to my ears, the sound was excruciating. What on earth was going on?
His hard expression suddenly disappeared, replaced by a look of pure bewilderment. He was still looking shocked when he was tackled from behind. I barely managed to avoid being hit as he flew forward, then went down, his handgun spinning away. A furious Presidential Chief of Staff landed on top of him.
If ponies rode men and if grass ate the cows,
If cats should be chased into holes by the mouse . . . .
Additional men were right behind Corbin. I recognized Chester, the gate guard who had been on duty the first day I’d gone inside the EEOB. He helped Corbin get up, while two others kept the gunman down. Not that I thought he would get up on his own. Corbin had the bulk and muscle to go with his height. Anyone he took down would stay down, probably for a long time.
Back on his feet, Corbin barked orders, telling some of the guards to grab the gun and haul the gunman away for questioning. Then he said, “Tyrone, Chester, cover us. We’re going to the White House, Right now! Move, move, move!!!” Putting his hand in the small of my back, he propelled me forward at a very rapid pace.
I could hear sirens coming, but Corbin ignored them. We passed the end of the EEOB and the White House complex was ahead. Corbin swerved, and we were going through a guard gate, fast. Down a path . . . up some stairs . . . through a door . . . and finally, we were under cover.
Corbin slowed, then stopped. He was breathing hard as he let me go.
I felt a bit faint. Moving to a wall, I leaned against it, finding myself gulping for breath. I looked at Corbin.
He gave me a strange look and chuckled through his labored breathing. “You didn’t see Lefors out there, did you?”
I had no idea what he was talking about. I just shook my head.
“Oh good. For a moment there I thought we were in trouble. . . .” He paused before continuing. “I’ve never seen anyone look so good after they’ve been shot between the eyes at point blank range. Not that I have much experience with that. Even Baltimore wasn’t that bad. Most nights.” His breathing sounded better.
I shook my head. “He was pointing over my head,” I explained. “He just . . . .”
I stopped. Realization hit me, and I started to laugh, just a little hysterically. I couldn’t quite stop myself.
If Mamas sold their babes to Gypsies
for half a crown . . . .
Corbin looked concerned. “Professor?”
The expression on his face made me laugh higher and harder.
His brows came together. “Jessica!”
I got myself under control enough to say, “The thing is, I’m not six feet tall any more, Mr. Corbin. Not really. It’s an illusion. You might say I’m just drawn this way.”
I heard the sound of women’s heels clicking on tile, coming fast. Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland came spinning around a corner. When she saw Corbin, she broke into a run. “Are you all right?”
He turned just in time to catch her, and gave her a somewhat awkward hug as she sobbed. “I’m fine, Ms. Tolland. Don’t you fret, now!”
She hugged him, crying, but the moment was brief. She pulled away, her eyes still bright. “What on earth were you doing?" she scolded. “Mamie will kill you, you know she will!”
“I expect you’re entirely correct about that,” he said with a smile. “But maybe we can squeeze in just a bit of work before she finishes me off. What do you think?”
She wasn’t impressed with his effort at levity. “What do I think? I think you’re insane! Work? You could have been killed!"
“But I wasn’t,” he said. “Instead – far worse – I have been delayed. I purely detest being late for appointments. It's disrespectful!”
“The late Mr. Corbin!” she replied, vexed.
“It didn’t happen, Ms. Tolland.” His deep voice was surprisingly gentle. “Not today. But the President needs to know what just happened, and why, and he is waiting.” He gave her a long, careful look. “Assuming he doesn’t have a problem with it, will you join us?”
That got her attention. “Yes, sir!”
Corbin smiled. “Then lead on, please. He’s still in the Oval.”
We went back the way Tanya had come, and the twists and turns were bad enough to make me think I’d been too hard on the architect of the EEOB. But it was not long, really, before we were being ushered into one of the most famous rooms in the world.
If summer were spring, and the other way ’round,
then all the world would be upside down . . . .
To be continued . . . . madly.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 18: Indiscretion
There were five people in the room, and I was shocked to discover that I knew them all. President Taryn was sitting in an occasional chair with its back to the Resolute Desk. Energy Secretary Britt and Defense Secretary Bradley shared a couch on the President's left, while General Aguia and Dr. Livingston, the Science Advisor, shared the facing couch on the President’s right, a garish version of the Presidential Seal marring the carpet between them.
As the door closed behind me, I said, “You can drop the illusion, Worm. And stop listening until I contact you.”
Nothing seemed to change as far as I was concerned – except that everyone else seemed startled. I looked at my hands and saw that the illusion had been lifted.
“Shadows avaunt, Jessica’s herself again,” the President said, a smile of child-like wonder on his face.
“Mr. President,” I said.
“Come in, come in,” Taryn waved us forward. “I gather you think it’s time to wrap all of this up. Such a shame. I was having so much fun.”
I sat next to Averil Livingston, Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland sat next to Secretary Bradley, and Luther Corbin took an arm chair opposite the President, situated at the other end of the two couches. What am I doing in this room? I thought.
“Before Professor James begins,” Corbin said, “You should know that someone just attempted to shoot her. Right outside the EEOB. He only failed because she isn’t as tall as the man she was impersonating.”
There were a babble of questions that newsmen asked back in the day – Who? How? Why? – but we obviously had no answers.
The President raised a hand. “Enough, everyone. Mr. Corbin, can you tell us what happened?”
He did, and his explanation was pithy. He managed to refrain from profanity, which was more than I could have done. I was profoundly tired of being shot at.
“Thoughts?” the President asked the group.
Averil looked puzzled. “Is it possible someone was trying to kill Ranveer? I mean . . . that illusion was very good.”
Aguia shook his head. “There would be no reason to expect that Dr. Singh would be there. So unless it was just a random act of violence, I’d say ‘no.’”
Remembering the killer’s eyes, I shivered. “It wasn’t random. He was focused. And his gun was loaded, safety off, and in his hand. He just pulled it from his windbreaker, aimed and fired. I didn’t have time to think.”
“Who else knew that you were meeting, and knew about the disguise?” Aguia asked.
“The aliens, of course. And their lawyer. That’s it on my end,” I responded.
“I only told the President the full story,” Corbin said. “At his request, I informed the rest of you that we would be meeting with Ms. James and why. Except for Mr. Britt, whom I was unable to reach, as I informed the President.”
The President looked sheepish. “I was a bit more loquacious when I talked to you, Grady.”
Britt bristled. “Well, I certainly didn’t tell anybody about the disguise or anything! It was obviously confidential!”
Everyone was looking at him with various degrees of skepticism. Methinks that Grady protesteth too much.
He had the grace to blush. “I mean, no one except the Department’s lawyer, whom I was meeting with when you called!”
“You weren’t in the office when I called you,” Corbin observed. “And you didn’t answer your cell phone.”
Britt flushed. “Are you accusing me of something, Corbin? Because if you are . . . .”
The President intervened. “Grady, stop. No one cares where you were meeting with Gillian, or why. What we need to know is what you told her, and when.”
“That’s confidential!” Britt sputtered.
“Not from me it isn’t,” the President said – mildly enough, under the circumstances. “As you well know. What and when, Grady?”
The two men glared at each other, but a stare-down between the President and someone who serves at his pleasure only ends one way. “Everything, and as soon as I got off the phone,” Britt said. Sounding incredibly defensive, he added, “She needed to know. She’s my lawyer! The alien’s lawyer knew about it, too!”
“Mine didn’t,” the Defense Secretary commented.
“None of mine did, either,” the President said. “’Course, I’ve got so many I can’t keep ’em all straight.”
“Call her now,” Corbin urged Britt. “Have her join us. If you can’t function without her counsel, however can we?”
“See here, Corbin!” Britt began.
“Where?” Corbin asked, rhetorically. Britt’s bluster didn’t appear to impress him much.
The President intervened again. “Go ahead and call her. We need to check each potential leak, stat.”
Looking furious, Britt pulled out his phone and hit speed-dial. After a moment, he said, “No answer. Happy?”
“Pookie?” Bradley, sitting to Britt’s left, was looking over the Energy Secretary’s shoulder.
“Hey! That’s private!!” Britt went from dull iron red to candy-apple red.
“Did you dial the right person, Grady?” Bradley asked, innocently.
“Yes!” Britt snapped. He looked around the room. “What? It’s a joke, okay? Humor, you know? Ha ha?”
“Gillian Dunlop is a ‘Pookie?’ Wow. I did not see that coming!” Bradley’s voice held a note of awe.
“It’s a private joke!” Britt replied hastily. “Very . . . ummm . . . I mean . . . God, don’t tell her!”
“A very inside joke,” Averil said with a slight grin.
“As in, ‘inside your own mind,’ perhaps?” I asked.
“When and where did you leave Ms. Dunlop, Mr. Secretary?” Aguia, clearly, was having no trouble restraining any urge to laugh.
Britt glared at him. “What is this, the Spanish Inquisition?”
“Portuguese,” Aguia corrected.
“And surely no one ever expects the Portuguese Inquisition,” the President observed.
“This is complete bullshit!” Britt barked.
For once I agreed with what Britt was saying, though my reasons differed. And I was tired of it. Happily, unlike everyone else in the room, I was not constrained by the Fourth Amendment. I pulled out my phone and hit my own speed dial, pausing only to say “excuse me.”
No doubt this was a major breach of Oval Office protocol. Everyone else in the room suddenly stopped and stared at me. Good!
“Jessica James,” Worm’s voice answered.
“Ensign,” I responded, “One of the people in this room just placed a call to a mobile communications device. Can you determine its current location?”
“Affirmative.”
“Where is it?”
“5.3 miles from your present location, in a political subdivision labeled Commonwealth of Virginia. Old Dominion, the Cavalier State, and the Mother of states, statesmen and Presidents, all alternative names are.”
“Is there a building nearby?” I’d gotten lucky last time.
“Affirmative. The person carrying the device in a building identified as Terminal C, in a complex called the Washington-Reagan National Airport, currently is.”
I thanked the Ensign and ended the call. “She’s in Terminal C at Reagan. Was she planning a trip, Mr. Secretary?”
His ashen face was all the answer anyone needed.
“If you’ll excuse me a moment, Mr. President?” Mr. Corbin asked. At the President’s nod, he stalked over to a side door near the Resolute Desk, growling, “I’ll be back.”
“I’m not entirely sure that was legal,” Bradley said. “But hell, what do I know?”
“Sue me,” I said. “Someone just tried to shoot me – again, for the record, and I’m absolutely keeping track! I’m not waiting around until they figure out what they’re doing wrong.”
“If anyone complains, we’ll have someone look into it,” the President said easily. “In the meantime, is there anything else we should discuss about the attack, or the security leak, at this meeting?” He looked around the room.
“I’m still puzzled by three things,” I said. “How did the other bidder know to contact Mr. Abel? It wasn’t widely-known he was involved. How did Dr. Singh’s agents know where Janet and I were staying? Finally, what’s the connection between Singh, Dunlop, and the other bidder?”
Averil said, “I can answer the first one, I think. You mentioned Mr. Abel when we were playing golf. It came up during yesterday’s meeting – I don’t remember why – but Ms. Dunlop was there when it did.”
Tanya nodded. “I remember that, too. It was close to when we wrapped up – 3:30, 4:00 this morning.”
“The second issue is harder,” the President said. “Mr. Corbin is certain that the only people who knew where you were staying were the members of your security team and their immediate supervisor, Major Case. Nobody else, and they all check out clean as a pack of brand-new golf balls. Luther himself didn’t know.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President – I’ve got an update on that,” Tanya interjected. “Someone planted a tracking device on one of the security detail’s vehicles. Mr Corbin got the report just before he went to meet Ms. James.”
“Ah!” Aguia said. “That’s interesting.”
Britt was chewing on the end of a pen. “I . . . ah . . . don’t know if it helps. But certainly Gillian and Singh know each other. Professionally. There’s a fair bit of overlap between my department and DHS on the science and technology side.”
“Not unexpected, certainly,” the President said. “As for the connection between Singh and the bidder . . . We do have something on that, but I’m afraid it’s classified. At least, it gives us a strong suspicion who the bidder is likely to be.” Looking at me, he added, “But perhaps you already know?”
I shook my head. “I’m sorry, I don’t. I was just told that it’s another government.”
“What can you tell us about the offer?” he inquired.
“Very little, I’m afraid,” I responded. “Whoever made it knew enough about what was going on to contact Mr. Abel. That was around 4:30 this afternoon. Apparently, the aliens didn’t solicit the offer; the only humans they’ve spoken to are me and Janet, Justin, Averil, and now Troi Harris and Daichi Kurokawa.”
“Do you know the contents of the offer?” Taryn asked.
“Yes – but I was given that information on the condition that I not share it.”
Secretary Bradley gave a grunt; Britt looked like he’d inadvertently sucked on a grapefruit.
Averil sighed. “So you’ve got what, we’ve got who, and neither of us can share information!”
“But at least we’ve got third base covered,” Bradley said.
“Life’s a bitch, sure enough,” the President said, philosophically. “But – to take nothing from your overall assessment, Jack – there’s plenty that we do know. For starters, we know they know we know they know about the aliens.”
“Tom, don’t do that. My brain hurts!” Bradley moaned.
“Nonsense, Jack!” Aguia said. “You were my top student in logic.” Looking at the President, he added, “By now, they know we know that, too.”
Britt looked lost. “Of course they know about the aliens; they made an offer. And we know that, because Ms. James told us. They know we know, because I stupidly told Gillian. We can surmise she passed it on, since she’s trying to run, but how would they . . . .” He paused, looking a bit green.
Aguia said. “Gillian being the conduit might explain how they know we know about their offer. But their sending a hit man to stop Jessica from attending this meeting establishes the fact of their knowledge, irrespective of how they found out. And by now they have to know we’re aware they made the attempt – and that it failed.”
The President continued, “I think we can also assume that the other bidder knew what our offer was, since Gillian was in the conference where it was hammered out.”
“Arguing against the proposal the entire time,” Dr. Livingston added. “Mercifully, Toni Shakon was there to keep her in line.”
Britt looked miserable.
“Did you tell her about the aliens’ counter-offer from earlier in the day?” Aguia asked Britt.
The Secretary thought about the question carefully. “I didn’t right away. She was in another meeting when I got the word, so I met first with Hix and Squires. I told Gillian later – and I was with her from the time I told her until I got the President’s call about this meeting.”
“What’s the earliest time she would have known that the aliens could carry twenty tons?” Aguia pressed.
“A bit after 5:00 pm, I think.”
“So, it’s likely that they structured their bid to be better than ours in some way, but they probably had no reason to overshoot our offer by too much,” the President suggested.
Aguia shook his head. “That’s probably true with respect to the quantity of U-235, but there’s no reason to suppose that their offer focused on either battery tech or fusion.”
“Now there’s a charming thought.” The President looked thoughtful. “Well . . . I can see why you suggested we make a last best offer, Jessica. But you didn’t need to come here for that. Was there something else you wanted to say?”
I nodded. “Mr. President, I want to urge you to end all of this bidding, right now. The aliens made a counter-offer. The battery tech – with the possible benefit of boosting the efficiency of photovoltaics - in exchange for twenty tons of weapons-grade HEU. You should just accept the offer, sir. Even if they’d take less, you don’t want them to. If you agree, they have no more space to take anyone else’s material. They’ll have no reason to even consider other bids.”
Secretary Britt bristled like a toilet-bowl brush. “Twenty tons!!! That’s . . . .”
“Twenty tons we don’t have to store, guard, and down-blend,” Livingston finished. “It’s waste, Mr. Britt! Just waste! It’s like they offered to pay us for the privilege of cleaning our septic tank, and instead of saying ‘thank you very much,’ we’re worried sick that someday – just maybe! – we might have a craving for a shit sandwich!”
Britt snapped, “Well, we have to consider the possibility! We’re fiduciaries!”
“Oh, that word!” murmured Bradley.
“Okay, Grady. Averil. We’re just rehashing now,” the President said. “I’ve heard both arguments already and you may rest assured I understand them.”
“What about the other conditions, Jessica?” the Defense Secretary asked.
“I recommend you drop both of them,” I responded. “You know you can trust the aliens. They’ve shown it time and time again. And, while I’m not an economist, if I understand the analysis done by the Energy Department, the U.S. government still comes out ahead even if it doesn’t keep the Intellectual Property rights.”
The President looked like a hound dog that had caught a scent. “Didn’t the aliens indicate they were flexible on the intellectual property issue?” His blue eyes were bright, clear, and very focused. On me.
Don’t shade the truth, Averil had warned.
“They said they were open to discussing it,” I admitted.
Britt leapt back into the fray. “We absolutely should stick to our guns on this point. There’s no reason they should care, and the value to the U.S. Government is incalculable. Who knows? Maybe we won’t even need taxes anymore! I mean . . . .” His excited ramblings stopped and he looked, puzzled, at his boss, who was ignoring him.
The President was just looking at me levelly. The silence stretched.
“Tell me,” he said.
“Two points, sir. If you have a proposal on that, then you’re still negotiating. If you drop it, you're just accepting their counter-offer, without any other conditions. There’s nothing more to discuss.” I paused, looking to see if that made an impression.
President Taryn’s expression didn’t change. “And the second point?”
I took a deep breath. “Maybe they don’t care, Mr. President, although they didn’t say that. But I do. I have to go back there and I want to tell them that they shouldn’t bother negotiating with anyone else. What's my argument? American exceptionalism? The whole concept would be meaningless to them. That it’s my country, and I like it best? Pure self-dealing. Because we gave the world Scooby Doo?
“Now you’re talking!” said Bradley.
I shook my head. “What is it with that show? Anyway, they don’t care about any of that. They’re aliens! I want to tell them you have asked for something that will be used to benefit all of our species, not just our own country. That you aren’t looking for a parochial or sectarian advantage, much less a personal one. I want you to give me the ammunition to make that argument, and make it stick!”
“But why shouldn’t we make money off the formula? We’re buying it with our uranium!” Britt looked exasperated. “This isn’t effing Charles Dickens World!”
“Better that than Westworld!” Livingston rejoined.
The President just looked at me, saying nothing. Weighing my words.
“Is this about them, Jessica? Or, is it about you?” The President’s voice was soft.
“I don’t know if it will matter to them,” I replied. “I think it will – they prize unity, and one of the things that makes them distrust us so much is that we are divided among ourselves. I want to change their minds – at least, give them something to think about. You have to admit, they haven’t exactly seen us at our best.”
Every eyeball in the room was on me. I could almost feel them, burning into me. Urging me to let it go. It’s a private crusade . . . . Besides, everything I’d seen suggested that the President is a good man. A fair man. He wouldn’t price the IP out of range of normal people!
But then I thought about what Britt had said. He might be a voice in the wilderness right now, but today’s crazy Uncle could easily become tomorrow’s catastrophe. We might not even have to pay taxes anymore! Who could resist the urge to maximize revenue from the formula? And what a powerful rallying cry it would make, for a demagogue!
We would get the technology sooner or later; the aliens were convinced of that. But we needed it now, not in fifty years – or even ten. It would be decisive in the race to decarbonize our energy sources, but only if it got widespread market penetration worldwide, and in near-record time. The people who understood this area – Livingston, Grimm, even Singh – understood that.
“Mr. President,” I said finally. “The aliens will ask my view. I’ll give it to them, just as I’ve given it to you. I can’t say what they’ll do with it.”
To my immense surprise, Taryn smiled. Not the child-like smile of a moment before; it was something softer, kinder, more understanding. The look of a man who’d been around the block a few times, but hadn’t let its ugly side stain his soul. “Honesty! That’s one hell of a dirty trick, Jessica!”
“Who can find a virtuous woman? She is far more precious than rubies,” Aguia quoted.
I dropped my eyes. The day I thought, is getting mighty strange.
“Don’t let it go to your head,’ the President said in a lighter tone. “My friend Mr. Corbin has another quote he likes to trot out from time to time that also fits.”
Bradley snorted. “Indeed, he does! ‘I beseech thee, in the very bowels of Christ, think it possible that you may be mistaken.’”
I smiled. “That’s singing from my songsheet, Mr. Secretary, even if Cromwell wasn’t one to follow his own advice. I’ve spent decades second-guessing every thought, testing every word I write. It’s the habit of a lifetime – sort of a factory setting for any academic. I’ll do it here, too . . . but I’ll still give them the best advice I can.”
“I understand,” the President said. “Let me talk with my team, and we’ll get you an answer. Realistically, it’s going to take a couple hours, though. We might not be done until tomorrow. Do you want to stay in the building?”
Before I could reply, Aguia caught the President’s eye. “If I may make a suggestion?”
Taryn nodded.
“I honestly think Jessica would be safer if she was back on the aliens’ ship, or else someplace we didn’t know about. We can’t be sure that Singh and Dunlop don’t have other allies. The less anyone on earth knows about where Jessica goes after she leaves this office, the better.”
“The fact that I can’t ensure the security of a guest makes me very, very unhappy, Stanley,” the President growled. “We are, by God, going to get to the bottom of these conspiracies!”
Aguia withstood the President’s ire with complacency and a raised eyebrow.
In the end, it was Taryn, not Aguia, who looked away. “Until we’re confident that we’ve done that, though – and count me among the skeptics – Stanley’s probably right, Jessica. I’m so sorry. It seems like you’ve really put your head in the lion’s jaws. But I think you’re safer right now without whatever ‘protection’ we might provide.”
I was surprised to feel both relieved and ready to be gone. I was missing something important. I could feel it, percolating right on the edge of consciousness. If I could just have some time to think! “That’s quite all right, Mr. President. Perhaps if someone could show me to an empty office where I might make a few private calls, then direct me how to get out of this maze, I’d appreciate it.”
“I can do that,” Tanya volunteered.
The President stood and walked me to the door. “‘When life itself seems lunatic, who knows where madness lies?’ You know it?”
I smiled. “Of course. Cervantes at his best.”
“Take care of yourself, will you? The world needs your kind of madness – in small doses!”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
Tanya led me out, past the presently deserted anteroom where the President’s assistant normally sits, then down a hallway. We turned a corner. In the middle of another hallway, an old and once-familiar sight made me pause. Into a nearby phone booth . . . .
“Hold on, Tanya,” I said. “This will do nicely. Just tell me how to get out when I’m done, and I’ll let you get back to your meeting.”
She looked a bit conflicted – she was supposed to escort me out – but she saw the sense of what I was asking and gave me the information I needed. Then she turned and walked briskly back the way she came.
As soon as she rounded a corner, I stepped into the wooden enclosure, closed the door, and placed a call.
* * * * *
Five minutes later, Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland left for the day and walked with her customary briskness across LaFayette Square to the imposing Renaissance facade of the Hay-Adams Hotel. But upon entering, she hesitated, looked around, and found an unoccupied arm chair amid the arches, coffered ceilings and mahogany of the lobby.
“What’s the matter with this town,” she grumbled to herself before settling into the chair. She crossed her legs, rested her hands in her lap, and stared across the room, lost in thought . . . .
* * * * *
“If Manet painted you, he’d have called it The Brown Study.” The young man was poised, well-dressed, well-spoken, and very much blocking my view of nothing in particular.
I focused on him. “He did, you know. It’s in an art gallery somewhere. It’s a masterpiece, and you should definitely go see it. This very instant – waste not a moment!”
He chuckled. “That obvious, was I?”
I smiled, but declined to engage further. Instead I made shooing motions with both hands.
He laughed and left.
A voice behind me said, “You should get a pair of earbuds. And maybe pretend to read. The combo usually works.” The speaker was a young woman, fairly attractive, and evidently experienced in the fine art of shooing.
I thanked her with a smile, then turned back to my thinking. Maybe I should have asked Worm to make me look like someone inconspicuous. Like James Marshall Wainwright, I thought with a smile, though he would have had no business wandering around the White House. But apparently Tanya was too attractive to be left alone to think.
Diddle loo do, diddle loo do, diddle loo do.
I groaned. Fifteen minutes! I just needed fifteen minutes! “Hello?”
“This is Jessica James, no?” The voice was heavily – almost comically – accented.
I responded ironically. “Nyet. Is Natasha. What can I do for you, Boris?”
The voice chuckled. “‘Boris’ will do. You have humor, wit, and, I hear . . . .”
“ . . . . Very little patience,” I finished for him, in my normal voice. “I repeat: What can I do for you?”
“My government would like to make offer to your friends. All twenty tons, you understand? All we ask is one youthening shot – just one! – and the secret of either their stealth technology or their tractor beam. You see? Much better than either of other offers.”
“Ah . . . so, you represent a new bidder?” Then who was the bidder that contacted Justin?
“Correct, correct. New – and improved!”
I snorted. “Now with real leprechaun parts? Well, alright, ‘Boris.’ Whatever. I’ll pass your offer along to . . . to my friends. Can I reach you at this number?”
“Wait, my Natasha. Not so fast! We do not want you to simply pass along offer. We want you to recommend it. Strongly, yes? If offer is accepted, my government will pay you thirty million American dollars. For your efforts”
“Let me guess . . . if I act now, you’ll also provide me with six Ginzu knives and a comprehensive dental plan?”
“Please, Natasha. Is not kiddie show. Thirty million dollars.”
“Is every day a no-brainer for you?” I asked caustically. “I told you I’ll pass along your offer, and I will. But forget about the bribe. You can’t buy me.”
“Everyone can be bought, my Natasha. For some, it takes carrot. For others, it takes fear of sticks. For your own sake – and for sake of those you care about – take carrot.”
My blood ran cold. That was the answer, and it had been staring me in the face the whole time. I hadn’t seen it, because I hadn’t wanted to see it. I could hear his voice now, quoting Paul Simon – “All lies and jests, still a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest.” It applied to women too, I guess.
“Natasha, my dahlink? You are still there, no?”
Singh’s goons found our safehouse with a tracking device. When I called Grant for help, I hadn’t bothered to give him directions. I’d simply assumed he would know. But Corbin, who’d set it up, had even kept himself out of the loop. Grant hadn’t been told.
And now he had Janet.
“Natasha . . . I’m waiting. I apologize for fright, but these are, you say, ‘big leagues,’ yes? When stakes are high, games get rough.”
“I’ll pass along your ‘offer,’” I ground out. “But you will fucking eat your threats!”
“Do you have any idea who you’re talking to?” His voice lost most of its exaggerated accent. It was soft. Dangerous.
But I was boiling mad and filled with hot-blooded, youthful recklessness. “Mne póhuj, shakal!”
He refused to respond to my insult. “If you really don’t know who I am, then maybe your best course would be to tread lightly.”
“Oh, now you’re giving personal advice? Well get this through your thick, swollen head, ‘Dear Abby!’ Back off the threats, or no deal. Oh . . . and you can shove your frickin’ bribe so far up that tight ass of yours that your ears shit greenbacks!!! Got it?” I was hard-pressed to keep my voice low, and I was afraid I would be shouting soon. I ended the call.
“Worm,” I said, “Urgent! Please block all communications to or from Mr. Grant, and let me know who just called me, and whom he calls next!” I got up and went straight to the elevators. I hadn’t reached them before Worm called.
“Jessica James. We have Dukkov Grant’s communications blocked. Caller ‘Yuri Raskolnikov’ identified is. ‘Trade Specialist’ for embassy of Russian Federation is listed. Attempting to call Dukkov Grant, he is currently.”
“Thank you, Worm!” I said fervently. I stepped into an empty elevator and hit the button for the third floor, where I knew Janet and Grant were staying. “Drop the illusion, please. I need to get Janet away. Can you make a call to Grant’s phone a minute after I go in, making it appear to come from Raskolnikov?”
“Affirmative.”
“Great. If Janet and I leave the room, please disguise us as a random male and female couple. But . . . if we jump out the window together, will you catch us?”
“Strange species you are, Jessica James. We will – but better would be not to make pick-up visible so much.”
“Understood. It’s a last resort, I promise!”
The doors opened and I stepped out, looking like myself again. I walked down the hallway quickly, my strappy sandals barely slowing me down.
Down a long hallway, turn . . . and there it was. I took a steadying breath and knocked.
“Go away.” Grant’s voice, as full of gravel as a cement-mixer.
“It’s Jessica.”
“Prove it,” he replied. Was that . . . humor?
Despite myself, I smiled. “Wyrd oft nered unfaegne, eorl, ponne his ellen deah.”
“Yep, that would be Jessica,” he responded, opening the door. “Come on in.”
Janet was leaning against the doorway to one of the bedrooms, looking . . . Holy shit! Yes, she was looking! With Grant?!!!
“Can’t you go a day or two without gettin’ shot, or shot at?” she asked, sounding exasperated. “I leave you safe and sound with a bunch of crazy aliens on an invisible spaceship, and you still manage it!”
“How did you hear about that?” I was starting to lose track of who should know what and when.
“A little birdie told me,” she said. “Come on, have a seat. Tell us what you’ve been up to.”
This was going to be harder than I had thought! My whirling brain came up with no better options than she was suggesting. I took an upholstered chair in the sitting area, and Janet sat on the couch across from me.
Grant sat next to her.
“Well . . .” What could I say, safely? The Russians already knew about the other offers. And about the alien ship’s maximum capacity. “Another country made a trade offer to the aliens. I arranged to go to the White House to urge them to make a final offer. But before I got to the building, someone tried to shoot me. Corbin took him down, personally.”
“I wouldn’t want to get tackled by Luther Corbin,” Grant said, with real feeling.
“I don’t think he got up on his own steam afterward,” I agreed.
“Did you just go straight from almost getting shot into another meetin’?” Janet asked.
“Well, it seemed a shame to go to all that trouble just to turn back,” I demurred. Demurely, of course.
Grant’s phone chose that moment to go off. Mentally, I tensed, getting ready for action.
He pulled it out, looked at the screen, and declined the call without comment. “You were saying?”
Shit! I’d been counting on him taking the call in one of the bedrooms! Now what? “Actually, Janet . . . I was wondering whether I might talk with you privately.” I gave Grant an apologetic smile. “Female problem, I’m afraid.”
Janet looked at me fondly. “There’s no need for that, Jess.”
I gaped at her.
Grant chuckled. “You should see yourself, Jessica! Honest. Whatever crazy, daring escape you’ve got planned, you don’t need to do it. You're safe, Janet’s safe, you can both leave here as soon as we’re done talking – and we won’t be long. Okay?”
“Uh huh,” I said. “Forgive me if I don’t seem very trusting just at the moment. As Janet just pointed out, I seem to be living in someone else’s bad first-person shooter game.”
Grant nodded. “Understood. But that was Singh’s gang, and he’s working for the ChiComs. Has been for a while. That’s why I got assigned to watch him – it was a counterintelligence op. I know a lot about what they’re up to, but I don’t always find out in real time. I only heard about the hit after it had failed.”
“But you work for the Russians!” I accused.
“Them too,” he agreed. Like he was commenting on the weather. “I have, all my life. It’s why I joined the CIA to begin with. And I’ve spent twenty years building my reputation, doing my day job perfectly while sending back critical information.”
“Well, isn’t that special?” I looked at Janet. “How can you just sit there?”
“’Cuz I’ve heard the rest an’ you haven’t. Hear him out!”
“Try to understand,” he said softly. “In my own way, I’m a patriot. And I like to think I’ve done good work for both my countries, over the years. I never worked the Russia desk. My goal, always, was to help Russia – not to hurt America. Here, I was able to make sure that Russia had an opportunity to bid for alien technology. And why shouldn’t it? Why should America alone get the chance?”
“The content of their offer should suggest an answer to that question,” I retorted.
He shook his head. “Countries often squander the best opportunities. It doesn’t mean they shouldn’t have them. If, despite my advice, the Kremlin fumbles this chance, they are fools. But . . . what they choose to do with any of the information I provide is not my responsibility.”
“‘Once ze rockets go up, who knows where zey come down? It’s not my department,’ says Werner von Braun,” I quoted.
“Touché,” Grant said. “Except this time that jackass Yuri Timofeyevitch decided I should play field officer and hold Janet hostage to create leverage. On a whim. Just blow twenty years of cover for something that was sure to backfire . . . and threaten harm to people I had come to care about. That made it my responsibility.”
“What did you tell him?” I asked.
He gave me a strange look. “Raskolnikov is a full Colonel in the FIS. He can sound like a buffoon when it suits his purposes – it often does – but trust me, he’s a very dangerous man. I just said, ‘give the word.’ That bought time, I hope. And, after I got off the call, I told Janet. Did you allow him to believe you were interested in the more conventional bribe?”
My face flushed scarlet.
“Told him where to stick it, dincha?” Janet crowed. Looking at Grant, she said, “Pay up!”
“Oh, behave!” he said.
Janet smirked. “Not if I can help it!”
“I would certainly pay, had I been so foolish as to take your wager,” he said. “But Jessica’s refusal means Raskolnikov will move soon – the more so in that he was unable to reach me just now. You should go. If you would be so kind, though, hit me over the head with something before you leave.”
I looked at Janet.
She looked at me.
We looked helpless.
“Never mind,” he said, chuckling. He stood. “Whatever self-inflicted wound I concoct will look more convincing than anything a pair of eminent humanities professors can manage. Probably why I like you both so much. Now, scoot!”
Janet rose and faced him with her trademark grin. “You say anythin’ about how it was a business doin’ pleasure with me, and I’ll give you a dent that even the old KGB would credit!”
He gave her a look of such tenderness I could scarcely believe it of him. “You know better than that,” he chided. “Being around you . . . pleases me.”
I said, “Mr. Grant . . . Earl. I’m sorry. I’ll have to tell Corbin. There’s nothing left for you here.”
He smiled. “I knew that when I told Janet. It’s okay. Past time I went home.” He pulled Janet in, gave her a gentle kiss, and said, “Go now. Be safe, Zharptitsa!”
She grabbed her purse and we both walked out, leaving Grant behind.
We were halfway down the hallway before I said, “He calls you ‘Firebird?’”
“Don’t even start, you . . . .” She looked at me and stumbled.
“Keep walking. Some illusions, courtesy of Worm.” I continued walking.
To all appearances, a darkly attractive, bearded man, more-or-less my prior age, quickly caught up with me. Looking down, I could see that my own disguise was female. Worm’s sense of humor? Nah. He didn’t have one.
We got into an elevator heading down, with a woman, maybe forty, shepherding a couple teenagers. She did a double-take when she saw us. “Oh my God!!! Keanu Reeve and Carrie-Anne Moss! I can’t believe this is happening to me!”
“Mommmm!” hissed her son.
“Soooo embarrassing!” her daughter said, disgusted.
The woman looked at once angry, mortified, and incredulous. “You kids have no idea!!”
I felt her pain, in so very many ways. I reached out and gave her arm a squeeze. “It’s okay,” I said.
“Keanu” looked sympathetic, but wisely stayed silent. Worm’s illusion didn’t affect our voices.
As we stepped into the lobby, I murmured “Just keeping moving!”
Our arrival seemed to deaden every noise and attract every eyeball – exactly what I wanted to avoid! Then the hubbub began.
“Is that who I think it is?”
“He’s even wearing the duster!”
“Do you see who he’s with?”
“There is no spoon!”
“Maybe they’re making another movie together!”
“Wasn’t wild about their last one . . . .”
“Hush; I’d watch Keanu even if he was just sweeping a floor!”
“Damn! She’s still fire!”
“You know that road!”
Two men in suits at a table near the front entrance barely gave us a look before going back to their papers, but everyone else thought we were just fascinating.
Fortunately, our purposeful stride discouraged people from coming up to us. The doorman practically simpered as he let us out. I saw a cab discharging an irate fare and flagged it. I tried desperately to remember something about Washington, D.C., but all I could think of in that instant was an old scandal. “The Watergate, please,” I said.
We were soon driving up Pennsylvania Avenue, too petrified about being recognized to say anything. But as we started to drive through a small park, I had the driver stop and let us out. I paid cash. When he drove off, we walked over to a tree that provided a bit of shade.
“Worm . . . those faces were a bit too recognizable. Please – don’t take images from People Magazine! Make us look like . . .” my mind spun . . . “uh . . . Troi Harris and Colonel Kurtz.”
The change was so fast as to startle me, even though I expected it.
“Neat trick,” Janet replied. “But, Worm. The uniform will attract attention. Could you put me in blue jeans, sneakers and a light cotton shirt?”
Worm adjusted. I wouldn’t have picked that particular shade of coral, but it wasn’t worth arguing about.
“That looks like part of G.W. across the street,” Janet said. “I gave a lecture there, years ago. I know there’s a metro stop. Let’s put a few more miles between us and all this!”
A few minutes later, we got on an orange line train. We kept quiet, since there were still plenty of riders. Randomly, we got off at Ballston.
“I could sure use some food,” I said, suddenly aware that I hadn’t eaten in what felt like forever. My body was young, healthy, and seventeen, but I was abusing it terribly. And that didn’t even count getting shot.
It was 9:30 and the area didn’t look promising. But we found a place that was still open with a little searching.
“Rus-Uz?” I asked, dubiously.
“Any port in a storm, girl. You need somethin’,” Colonel Janet admonished.
They had a quiet table outdoors that was perfect. The hostess seated us and vanished.
I looked at the menu and grimaced. “Not much in the mood for Russian food!”
“I am.” Janet grinned. “But suit yourself: the ‘Uz’ is for Uzbekistan. I think they were nomads, so they probably eat goat.”
When the waiter came, I opted for a “Kazan Kabob,” and hoped I would recognize the meat.
Janet, perhaps just to get my goat, went with blini and borsch. “No soup for you!” she said.
“What?”
“Okay,” she grinned at me. “Spit it out now. You’ve been stewin’ so long even your carrots are mush!”
“You and Grant?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, girl!” The grin didn’t leave her face, but it did soften. “Look, I’m not crazy enough to believe he was besotted or overwhelmed by my sex appeal. He’s a strong, good lookin’ man in his mid-forties and I’ve got fifteen years on him. But we appreciated each other – a lot – and it was a pretty damned stressful day for both of us. One thing kinda led to another.”
“I . . . honestly. I don’t know what to say.” I thought I managed a pretty neutral tone. Making allowances for circumstances, of course.
“If you’re lookin’ for a recommendation, how ’bout, ‘Oh, darlin’, I’m so happy for you. That’s great. I really am. You finally got laid properly. That’s so sweet.’”
I was incredulous. It wasn’t her age. Janet wasn’t “good looking for sixty,” she was good looking, period. And whether it was her students, her temperament, or some combination of the two, she looked only a couple years older than Grant – and acted younger still. They were just so very unlike each other . . . not to mention the minor fact that he was a Russian double agent! “Was it before, or after . . . ?”
“Before or after he told me?”
I nodded.
“As a matter of fact, it was!” The grin was back. “Look, we were in bed when he got the call. He went into the other room to take it. Came back, fifteen minutes later, absolutely spittin’ ground glass mad, and told me the whole story. I was pretty ripped myself, at first. But we sort of kissed and made up.”
I smiled. “And in the role of Pussy Galore . . . .”
She laughed. “Hey, I’ll take it! . . . . Look, Jess, he didn’t seduce me from my allegiance and I didn’t seduce him from his. I can ‘hate the game without hatin’ the playa.’ We had a moment, and I had a most excellent adventure, with the added bonus of not havin’ to worry about gettin’ pregnant. So, yay. No regrets, and back to work we go.”
“Just don’t start singing ‘Hi Ho,” I warned her.
“Long as you don’t start usin’ it as a greetin’,” she growled in return.
My eyes crossed and I giggled. Janet was still very much Janet.
The waiter brought food, which was either excellent or seemed so just because I was so hungry.
I turned the conversation back to Grant. “So, he’s been spying on Singh, whom the government suspected of working for China?”
“Right,” Janet replied. “He’s got so many bugs on Singh that a DDT bath wouldn’t make a dent. So he knew about Singh and Dunlop, and about Singh and the Chinese. He knew about our offer, and he found out about the alien’s counteroffer and the Chinese offer around 5:30 or so. He had that feed goin’ to that Yuri guy as well, so that’s why he got the call that had him so worked up. But the boys over in the Kremlin must have been primed, since they were able to get an offer out within a couple hours of gettin’ the news.”
“Dictatorships can move quickly, when they want to,” I said pointedly.
“I haven’t forgotten what Russia is,” Janet said tartly.
“I know you haven’t . . . and look. I’m sorry. I don’t know why it hit me like this. I should be delighted. I am delighted. But . . . Janet, I was so worried. Scared shitless. I thought . . . I thought we might have to throw ourselves out of a window to get away from him. And there you were in his bed!”
“Technically, I’m pretty sure he was in mine. I think. But never mind.” She smiled and her eyes sparkled with mischief. “Have I finally succeeded in making James Marshall Wainwright jealous? Now that he’s over-the-top in both the ‘female’ and ‘heterosexual’ departments?”
“Janet! It’s not that!”
“Isn’t it?” She cocked her head and gave me a skeptical look. “I’m a bit rusty, for certain, but I think I recognize that green tinge.”
I took a look under my hood, and found I was maybe a bit less sure than I would like to be. “Umm. I don’t think it’s that. Really, I don’t. But . . . I don’t know. I’m kind of twisted in emotional knots today.”
“Well, I can see that.” She continued to give me a measuring look, until finally she said, “What’s your plan? Now that we’ve got you fed?”
“I’ve got to call Corbin.” I gave her an apologetic look. “I’m sorry.”
She waved away my apology. “I know that. So does Grant. ‘The Colonel’s got to know,’ and all that. Honestly, I appreciate your doin’ it, since I’d have to tell him if you didn’t. But I meant, after that?”
“I’ve got to head back to the ship. I’ve got an idea to propose to the aliens, which will hopefully stop the nonsense from our various bidders.”
“Who’s doin’ the negotiatin’? Worm, or the big man?” she asked.
“Neither – they’re having Justin negotiate for them. He’s been with them a couple days – he even has a room on the ship.”
“No shit!” Janet looked first surprised, then pleased. “That was pretty clever of them, you ask me.”
She grew quiet and the silence stretched, broken only by the background sounds of traffic, cutlery on stoneware, and cicadas masticating local vegetation, their red eyes gleaming evilly in the reflected light. We were lost in our own thoughts when the waiter cleared our plates.
She set her wine glass down. “So. You’re going back up there, huh?”
“Yeah, I think I’d better,” I sighed.
“For the night?”
“Yeah?” I wasn’t sure where she was going with this.
“And Justin’s got himself a room on board?”
“Yeah . . . JANET!”
She grinned. “Did I ever tell you about the trouble with tribbles?”
. . . . To be continued. Decisively.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 19: Profit and Loss
“Come on, Janet! You love flying!” The note of desperation in my voice was not, I thought, helping my case.
“Not this time. I’ve had a hard day, ya know?” She grinned wickedly, no doubt reflecting on her strenuous afternoon exercise. “Troi’s offer of a genuine bed is too good to pass up, and Worm and company’ll keep watch for us. We’ll be fine ’til morning. . . . Besides. Three’s a crowd and you know it!”
“You, Troi and Daichi are all staying at her place in Sterling. Correct me if I’m wrong, but that’s three people!”
She just shook her head, shit-eating grin firmly affixed to her face. “Nice try, girl. Now stop. You just faced down the KGB – well, the FIS, but whatever. Met with the freakin’ President of the United States. Again. Oh, and survived bein’ shot at. Also again. You can handle Justin Abel.”
“That’s different! You know it is!”
“You mean that a Prof so calm in battle, even her armor doesn’t rattle, faces a lawyer petrified with fright?” Janet’s singing was surprisingly tuneful.
Also, annoying. “Janet!”
“Right!” she replied. “But, not good, Jess. I know you’re confused and conflicted about your feelings, but the last thing you need is training wheels or a chaperone. You’ve spent enough time in that new body of yours that it won’t completely overwhelm your sixty-year-old brain – unless you want it to. Which you might. And if that happens . . . well, that’s why I got you supplies.”
I turned scarlet. She’d insisted that we walk into a CVS in Ballston that was open late, and she’d shocked me by buying several packets of condoms. I had at least succeeded in steering her to the self-checkout area!
It was getting on toward midnight now and we were both hound-dog tired. On top of everything else, I’d spent half an hour on the phone with Luther Corbin, filling him in on the situation with Grant and the odious sonabavich Raskolnikov (though, consistent with how the People had asked me to treat the Chinese offer, I did not divulge the Russian trade proposal). Not only that, I still had work to do when I got to the ship. It was time to stop stalling. “Okay. I’ll go. But I’ll get you back for this, Janet Seldon!”
“That sounds like fun!” She gave me a hug and whispered in my ear, “Go on now. Get the job done, and have fun doin’ it!”
I stepped back and took a deep breath. “Beam me up, Worm. And drop the illusion.” As I floated up into the sky, I thought, I will never get used to this!
Moments later, I was back in what Justin called the “foyer” of the alien ship, though I thought of it as the hold. My strappy sandals had no sooner hit the deck than I was wrapped in a powerful embrace.
“Jessica! Damn it! Would you stop trying to get yourself killed!” Justin’s voice was deep and, in the moment, husky.
I was, finally, in his arms! All of my resolve melted in a heartbeat. I rested my head on his shoulder and wrapped my arms around his chest, splaying my hands across his broad back. He felt so good. Warm and solid and strong . . . . I felt myself shaking as the events of the day caught up with me.
He stroked my hair with his right hand while his left, motionless, rested low on my back, holding me anchored in place.
Not that I wanted to go anywhere.
He moved first, placing a strong, capable hand on each of my now slender shoulders and moving me back gently. Just far enough that he could look into my eyes.
We were separated by inches. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. See the care and concern in his dark eyes. The longing that he had tried so hard to bury. That we both had. Finally – finally! – he bent, his lips parting . . . .
“Excuse interruption, Attorney Justin Abel. Jessica James. Elder Mission Leader to you speak wishes. But . . . perhaps . . . you require first time to ‘vody-oh-doh-doh?’”
GODDAMMIT!!!!!!! Couldn’t we at least vody-oh?
We both leaped back, startled and – at least in my case – a bit embarrassed. “No, no. That’s quite all right, Ensign,” I said, hurriedly. “Ah . . . interesting choice of phrase. Archaic, in 2022.”
“Says the woman who quotes Chaucer.” Justin lips – which I had come that close to kissing! – quirked into an ironic smile.
“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked, innocently. With a sigh, I turned back to Worm. “Anyhow – yes. I very much want to talk to the Elder.”
Sounding suddenly animated, Worm said, “Come, we must bustle!”
Justin snorted. “Oh good. I like bustling.” Sounding resigned, he added, “Lead on, Ensign.”
“Walk this way,” Worm said.
I followed Worm out, heading to the area of the ship that the aliens had given the appearance of the bridge from the original Star Trek. I was very conscious of Justin’s presence at my back.
“Looks like the gang’s all here,” I said when we entered. “Don’t you guys ever rest?”
“Sleep we do,” Worm said. “Perchance to dream, we do not.”
The Elder in the Captain's chair began to speak, and I waited for the Siri translation to kick in. Eventually, the speakers in the cabin began. “Jessica James. We grow ever more concerned. In the brief time you have been gone, another human attempted to terminate your sentient state and you and Professor Seldon required numerous optical illusions just to survive. Is the irrationality of your species contagious?”
After the day I’d had, I could see his point, though I had no intention of saying so. “No, sir. It is simply that your arrival, with the potential advantages trade with you might secure, exacerbates existing tensions among different sub-groups of our species.”
Behind me, Justin said, “People don’t really talk that way, you know.”
“No.” My syntax tended to slip into “distinguished professor” mode when I was tired. “But they think that way.”
“Uhhh . . . the ideas . . . maybe?” Justin responded. “But I don’t imagine most people use those words even in their heads!”
I returned my attention to the Elder, who was listening as Siri translated our words into what sounded like clicks. “If you have spent time with Ms. Harris and Professor Kurokawa, you will know there is more to our species than the foolishness you’ve witnessed from us concerning your trade proposal.”
Siri translated his reply. “The members of your species are most unlike each other. It gives us concern . . . but . . . also, as you suggest, some scope for individual excellence. We must consider this, during our rest time.”
Rest time! Just hearing the words made me want to lie down. Instead, I said, “I think I have a strategy to bring our negotiations to a close quickly and without further . . . ah . . . unpleasantness.”
“Sock it to me,” Worm said brightly.
“That would be a most welcome change,” the Elder added. If he were being ironic, Siri’s bland cheerfulness masked it.
“We have offers now from representatives of three countries,” I explained. “Two were provided by telephone, one to me and one to Mr. Abel. I also have a telephone number for Mr. Corbin, representing the United States. I want to send a text to all three contacts, setting out conditions for finalizing their bids.”
“I do not understand ‘conditions,’” said the Elder.
“I can help with that, Elder,” Justin said. “What did you have in mind, Jessica?”
I sketched out my idea.
Justin thought for a moment before saying, “I like it. Give me a minute with my client, okay?”
I turned to go, but he stopped me. “No need for that. Guess what? They have a high-tech ‘Cone of Silence!”
“A what?”
He just shook his head, smiling. Then he started speaking, head turned toward the Elder in the Captain’s chair, but I couldn’t hear any sound. They spoke back and forth several times. With every passing moment, I felt my eyelids grow heavier and heavier.
“Jessica?”
I blinked my eyes back open. “Yup. Here!”
Justin looked concerned. “The Elder is good with the idea. Do you want to draft it in the morning when you’re fresh?”
I shook my head. “Not if we want their bids by noon. Let’s get it done now.”
“Okaaaay . . . if you’re sure.” He sounded dubious.
The Elder Mission Leader began to speak again. Siri’s voice took up the translation. “Your idea pleases us. When you get the bids, we will need you to evaluate them.”
Worm elaborated. “Justin Abel our interests guards. You must your own kind protect. Capisce?”
It was what I had expected, but it was good to have it out in the open. “Capisco,” I replied.
“I do not this understand,” Worm replied.
“I understand,” I translated.
“Of course. You it said. But I did not you understand.”
I nodded, forgetting that the nonverbal communication probably didn’t help much. “I understand that you didn’t understand when I said I understood, but . . . .”
Worm cut me off. “But that is what you said not.”
Justin intervened. “Nevermind, Ensign. I’ll explain later. All that matters is that we both understand who we are representing.”
“Whom,” I muttered, futilely.
Justin and I left the “Bridge” and went back to the room the aliens had set aside for him.
“I’m an idiot,” I said. “Of course, Worm doesn’t speak Italian.”
Justin laughed. “But I bet he watched The Godfather!”
“Where, no doubt, there was lots of telling other people to understand things, and very little understanding, right?”
He thought a minute. “Sounds about right.”
I shook my head. “We sent all of that out into space. On purpose. Like advertising for humanity. It’s a wonder they decided to stop by.”
He sat at the desk and fired up a laptop. “Okay,” he said. “Give me a minute to set up an email account for the return messages, then we can get down to business.”
I smiled. “Is that a proposition?”
“More of a sly suggestion,” he responded, with a rakish grin.
I sat in the other chair and got my thoughts together, battling exhaustion to at least a draw. When he was ready, we kicked ideas back and forth, then language. After the better part of an hour, I had a series of group texts. I was confident, for once, that they would not generate any “reply all” responses, since the recipients were Yuri Raskolnikov, Luther Corbin, and Chen Yǔháng, the Chinese official who had contacted Justin.
“Gentlemen:
You have each submitted proposals for trade with The People on behalf of your governments. To ensure that the process is fair to all parties, the People ask that each government that wishes to have an offer considered take the following two steps, by the specified deadlines:
(1) Submit the offer in writing by no later than August 2, 2022 at 1700 hours UTC, to [email protected]. Specify, in your offer, the following:
(a) The amount and quality of the HEU you intend to offer and the coordinates for the location where The People will take delivery;
(b) As precisely as possible, what you are asking the People to provide in exchange.
(c) Any conditions attached to your bid.
(2) Move the amount of HEU specified in your bid to a location that is open to the air by no later than August 2, 2022 at 2330 hours UTC, and leave it there for twenty-four hours. The People will inspect the materials using remote sensors to ensure compliance with quality and quantity specifications in your bid.
IMPORTANT ADDITIONAL NOTES:
First, understand that the People can transport twenty metric tons of HEU and prefer to depart fully loaded.
Second, I have been asked to evaluate the bids and make a recommendation to the People for their consideration. My recommendation will be based on the greatest good for the greatest number. Bidders may contact me at this number with any questions concerning the bidding process between 1300 and 1700 UTC. Bidders may, but need not, include narrative with their bid explaining any elements.
Finally, and most importantly: ANY attempt to affect the bidding by bribery, violence, threats of violence or any other improper or unconscionable means will result, not only in disqualification, but in forfeiture of your bid, without warning or compensation. Please note: This is NOT an invitation to get creative.
Jessica James
Emissary
I was so tired my fingers were fumbling the keystrokes. Justin took pity on me and handled the transcription to my phone and out, breaking up the message into eight texts. I saw him send the first . . . the second . . .
* * * * *
Diddle loo-do, diddle loo-do, diddle-loo-do!
The hated noise woke me from a deep sleep. I was lying on top of the bed – Justin’s bed! He was nowhere to be seen.
Diddle loo-do, diddle loo-do, diddle-loo-do!
What effing time was it? I appeared to be wearing yesterday’s clothes – sans shoes – but I didn’t even remember getting into bed!
Diddle loo-do, diddle loo-do, diddle-loo-do!
The phone, unfortunately, was on Justin’s desk. I stumbled out of bed and grabbed it. “Hello?”
“Good morning, Professor,” Luther Corbin greeted me.
“If you say so,” I replied grumpily.
“Oh, I do. I do indeed!” He sounded disgustingly cheerful. “We received your text and will give you a timely response, I assure you. But I wanted to let you know that both Ms. Dunlop and Dr. Singh have been apprehended.”
That woke me up. “Really?”
“Ms. Dunlop took a flight from National to Denver and met up with Mr. Singh in the Denver airport. They had made arrangements to take separate flights out of the country from that hub, but we were there in time.” He sounded very pleased.
“And . . . Mr. Grant?” I asked, almost afraid to find out.
“No news on that score,” he replied. “And, I will be honest with you, Professor. I’d be surprised if we apprehend him. He is far, far more capable than Singh or Dunlop. So capable that we never suspected him. I never suspected him. But we have informed the Russian ambassador that Mr. Raskolnikov has been ‘pinged.’”
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked.
He chuckled. “My fault, Professor. My fault entirely. That’s diplomat-speak for ‘persona non grata.’ We know he was a recipient of your text, so he can stay until the bidding is resolved. But he needs to be on a flight home by the end of the week.”
“Thank you for letting me know, Mr. Corbin. It’s a huge relief,” I said gratefully.
“To me as well,” he replied. “Nonetheless . . . I still recommend that you remain hidden, or with the aliens, until this is resolved. We have dealt with the known threats, but it’s the other sort that tend to get you.”
“Roger that,” I said with feeling.
“Well, you'll be hearing from me in a few hours. The President asked me to tell you that he thought your text message was inspired, and has every confidence in your integrity and judgment.”
I thanked him and rang off. I was finally able to look at the clock on my phone. 8:15 a.m. D-Day, H-Hour minus 3.75.
I needed a change of clothes, but once again – dammit all! – they were elsewhere. Either still at the safehouse, or else at the Hay-Adams. But not here. At least I had my purse, so I was able to fix my face and do something with my hair. My sandals were by the bed, so I slipped them on and went back to the hold in search of the bathroom.
As I stepped into the next chamber, I was startled to see Janet, Troi Harris and Daichi Kurokawa rise up, apparently from the floor, then settle gently on their feet. I wondered how the People managed that!
Janet spotted me right away. “Morning, Jessica. How’d ya sleep?” She was grinning, sure enough, but looked . . . off.
“Very much like a goddamned baby, if you follow me,” I growled.
She snorted and shook her head. “Damn, girl!”
“And as for it being a good morning,” I added, “I’ll note there’s no coffee!”
“That’s where you’re wrong, woman!” Troi walked over, and I saw she had a YETI mug with her. “I was going to make espresso. But Janet said you’d want more liquid.”
“All generations shall call you blessed,” I said fervently. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”
“You might want to save a few of those blessings for Averil Livingston,” Janet said. “She had your things collected and dropped at the site where they picked all of you up yesterday morning. So all you have to do is give your friend Worm the word, and you should have a change of clothes.”
Relief!!! “Oh, thank God!”
“Yeah, well. Him, too, I guess,” Janet replied.
Dr. Kurokowa had been looking at me shyly. “Janet told us about what happened yesterday. She said you took no hurt, but . . . getting shot at is no joke, even when they miss. Are you all right?”
“I am,” I said. “I was just tired and grumpy, but the three of you have cured me of that.”
“Where’s Justin?” Janet asked.
“I assume he’s with the People,” I responded. “I haven’t seen him since we sent out our communique last night.”
Janet patted my arm. “Well, sleep’s a fine thing, too. I s’pose. I hear it keeps you healthy’n all. And if you haven’t got your health, then you haven’t got anything.”
I growled at her, then turned to Troi and Daichi. “What’s on your agenda today? More discussions?”
“That’s the plan,” Daichi said. “Ensign Worm indicated that they were very interested in continuing our conversations while we still can. And of course, we’ll take whatever we can get.”
“There are a couple things you should know, too.” Troi was frowning slightly. “The whole crew has been awake from the time that they first came into our star system and confirmed that the source of the transmissions they had detected in deep space were still active. Probably ten weeks or so. The Elders will need to rest soon, which I think means they need to start sometime in the next three days. The sleep will last for weeks. That’s the reason for the compressed time table. The Mission Leader wants to wrap up everything and leave orbit before turning things over to Worm and his two contemporaries.”
That explained a lot, certainly. “That’s very helpful,” I said. “Anything else?”
Just then Worm came in and greeted us all. “Kurokawa-hakase, Troi Harris. The Elders ready are. Professor Seldon, welcome to join as well are you.”
Janet shook her head. “Thank you, Ensign. I’ll stay with Jessica. I’ve got something I need to discuss with her.”
“Of course,” Worm said.
“Ensign,” I said. “I hate to ask, but apparently Dr. Livingston was kind enough to pack some clothing for me and leave it on the hilltop where you picked us up yesterday morning. Would it be possible to retrieve it?”
He pondered for a moment. “We move the ship will need. Recovery fifteen minutes believe I.”
“Thank you, Ensign. Thank you very much. Is Mr. Abel with the Elder Mission leader?”
“Affirmative. Join you soon will.”
Worm, Daichi and Troi went off, leaving Janet and me by ourselves. “What’s up, Janet? You sounded pretty strange, there.”
“You mean, apart from bein’ on an alien space ship, and boppin’ a Russian spy, and havin’ you shot at all the time?”
“Yeah. Apart from all that. But give me a minute, would you? I need to take care of some business.” I stepped behind the curtain and sat on the ship’s version of a toilet. At least this time I was prepared for the rush of warm liquid and air that hit my extremely sensitive private parts when I was finished. Of course, tickling my nether regions reminded me of some business that had been left very much unfinished last night . . . .
Just as I was finishing up, Justin came into the hold and greeted Janet. “Good morning, Professor. How are you?”
“Well, no one’s tried to arrest me this week. ’Course, it’s only Tuesday,” she replied.
I pulled back the curtain. “Good morning,” I said, leaving off names. I wasn’t sure whether he was Mr. Abel or Justin this morning. I wasn’t so sure who I was either. I just knew that my name was spelled f-r-u-s-t-r-a-t-e-d!
He looked more awkward than I had seen him before, but he managed a “good morning” that was cheerful enough. “We’re short a chair in my room, but it’s probably still better than here,” he offered. “Shall we?”
So we went back into his room. Janet took a chair and, while Justin offered me the other, I declined. “I’m more flexible than either of you, these days.” I sat cross-legged on the bed, grateful that I’d had enough sense to wear pants. I looked at Janet. “Okay. Out with it!”
“Troi let me borrow her computer last night,” Janet replied. “I checked my email for the first time since I dumped my normal phone . . . . There was a message from the President.”
That made no sense. “Why would President Taryn send an email?”
She shook her head, a smile playing on her lips. “No. Ain’t you gotten all high ’n mighty! President Coleridge.”
At Justin’s inquisitive look, I said, “The guy who replaced Joy Grey as President of Gryphon. Appointed just after the end of the academic year.”
“Right,” Janet said. “Well . . . apparently he wasn’t appointed to find a way to solve all of our problems. The Board hired him to close us down.”
“What!” I was stunned. Sure, we’d been warned. But, the powers that be on the Board of Regents had been giving those sorts of warnings every few years for almost as far back as I could remember. I always figured it was just another way to soak a few extra dollars out of wealthy alumni.
“The College won’t even be reopening for the fall term.” Janet sounded as shaken as I was, and she’d had time to digest the news. “Last year’s enrollment drive fell too far short of goals. Again. And projections for the future look worse, ’cuz so many kids held off havin’ babies durin’ the Great Recession. So they’re refundin’ everyone’s money . . . and lettin’ all of the staff go. Everyone!”
Gryphon College had been our home for thirty years. Our colleagues, our community . . . wiped out in a heartbeat. Our students, left without a place to go, less than two weeks before classes were set to resume. Some of them just a couple credit-hours from their degree.
I found myself remembering graduation day, just ten weeks ago. The faculty leading the procession in full academic regalia. The splash of crimson from the Harvard alums and blue from the Yale mixed with the ranks of black robes, the hoods, the piping. Flags snapping in a stiff May breeze . . . Pomp and Circumstance . . . . President Grey, as always, feisty, principled, funny – “all Irish and half fey,” as she liked to say – giving her last commencement speech . . . .
All of those bright, young scholars that Dean Deveroux was always babbling about would probably find another place. Might take a while – it was a tough market – but they would survive if they were half as good as she thought they were. For now.
But people like me, like Janet, like Deveroux herself? No. There would be no other pastures for us. Teri “The Dream” Weaver, poet and philosopher . . . Walt Byron, the historian, who might know more about the age of Diocletian than anyone on earth . . . Janson Davies, the George and Clara Michaels Distinguished Professor of Art History, who made a point of attending every faculty meeting high as a jumbo jet . . . and on, and on, and on. Eminent scholars, mostly in their sixties and seventies. All their learning couldn’t protect them from demographic changes. Who would hire them now?
No one.
“I suppose everyone can go work at Sears,” I said bitterly.
“’fraid not,” Justin said. “They went belly-up years ago. Where’ve you been living?”
“Bastards,” I snarked.
“Sears sucked anyway,” Janet replied. “Nasty, nasty work.”
“Kodak, then,” I suggested.
Justin looked pained. “Uhhh . . . .”
Diddle loo-do, diddle loo-do, diddle-loo-do!
Screw them! I thought savagely. All of them! I needed a moment with my friend.
Diddle loo-do, diddle loo-do, diddle-loo-do!
Dammit I had made a commitment, and it was, I reminded myself, important. I found my phone and looked at it.
Janet looked at me and nodded.
“Mr. Chen.” I wanted to snap and snarl like a coyote deprived of a kill. To let this man know what I thought of his schemes and his confederates, his thugs and assassins. But I bit back on the bile that wanted to escape. I had set the terms of this call. I needed, one way or another, to honor them.
“Emissary Jessica James. I am speaking on behalf of my country. Of my people. We are preparing a response to your message from last night. You said you would base your recommendations on the ‘greatest good for the greatest number.’ What do you mean by that?”
“Mr. Chen, I am sure you are familiar with the utilitarian principle, and I doubt you called to discuss philosophy.” And tough shit if I’m wrong about that, because I’m not gonna do it anyway!
“But your response hints at the crux of our dilemma,” Chen replied smoothly. “You are a follower of a different philosophical tradition. A western tradition. Why should that tradition have pride of place here? By what right do you sit in judgment over a country that has both the largest number of people, and the oldest civilization, on earth?”
I thought about that. It didn’t take long. “Pure blind luck, Mr. Chen. The aliens ran into me, and for whatever reason they’ve decided to trust me. I can’t claim to be a Confucian scholar, but I expect I’m capable of evaluating a simple trading proposal.”
“Yes, in your arrogance, you ‘expect’ that. But you have no idea of what is important in the civilization and culture of my country!” My, my. Chen was getting testy.
But I wasn’t in a terribly good mood myself. “Prolly not. You’ll need to do the best you can, Mr. Chen. The instructions did specifically permit you to add narrative explaining any elements of your bid that you think will warrant it. I’ll be sure to pass it along if I can’t follow it. Or even if I can.”
“You couldn’t understand us unless you learned our language, studied our culture and history, read our scholars!”
“Really?” My resolve to be good was wavering. “Gee, I’m sorry to hear that. I’m a bit pressed for time today. Tomorrow’s not looking much better.”
“You make jokes?” His voice radiated incredulity.
“The aliens have a hard deadline, Mr. Chen,” I said. “We’re all going to have to do the best we can in the limited time we have available.”
My comment did nothing to calm his anger. “Unacceptable! The matter should be referred to the U.N. Security Council! And this notion that we have to put our HEU out in the open, where the alien devils can simply take it! Absurd!!”
“Stop whining.” I was done coddling him and my voice was cold. “Yesterday you tried to have me killed. You considered that ‘acceptable.’ Before that your spy tried to have me arrested for espionage. You didn’t think that was ‘absurd.’ Well guess what? The aliens use a different rule book, and they’re in a position to enforce it. Sometimes you have to roll the hard six . . . without loading the dice.”
“You see! So much for your pretense of being even handed!”
I laughed at him. “It’s not fair unless you get to cheat? Please. I’ve told you the rules and the standard. I will follow them, scrupulously. The aliens, as well, are honorable. But you don’t have to believe any of that. If you don’t like the game, don’t play.”
He hung up on me. Boring conversation anyway.
Justin was giving me a sardonic look. “Having a little fun there?”
I shook my head. “Not really. All of them, though – the Chinese, the Russians, the Americans most of all – aren’t used to hearing ‘take it or leave it” from someone who can make it stick. I’m really hoping that all of us learn from the experience. We need to wake up and get our shit together.”
He smiled. “That sounds like a rationalization. You enjoyed telling him to fuck off.”
“Hey, don’t knock rationalizations,” Janet said. “I need two or three juicy ones to make it through an average day. Most people do.”
“I’m with you,” he responded. “Lawyers need closer to a baker’s dozen, and that’s on a good day. As in, ‘a day they are trying to be good.’ Happens almost every February 29th.”
“Okay, I did enjoy it. A bit. But he reminded me of a Gryphon Don, Justin.” I looked at Janet, and unexpectedly felt tears blur my vision. “Of all of us, really. So full of our own importance. Heaping titles and honors on ourselves. Distinguished professor of this, or eminent scholar of that. Vivat academia! Vivant professores! Semper sint in flore! Rulers of our own little kingdom, oblivious to how dependent we all were on the indulgence of the whole damned world. And how little it would take, to bring it all down.”
Janet nodded. “I see what you’re sayin’. However important we all think we are, the People could make our civilization disappear tomorrow just by droppin’ rocks on us from space, and there’s nothin’ we could do to stop them.”
“You know they aren’t like that,” Justin argued.
“Of course not,” I said. “But don’t you see? We’re just relying on the kindness of strangers. This time, we lucked out. The People aren’t like that. Next time we might not be so lucky.”
Janet, bless her, had brought tissues. “Better get your voice back under control,” she warned. “I somehow doubt the Russians’ll be any happier than the Chinese.”
Nor was she wrong. I did, indeed, get a call from Yuri Raskolnikov, who – unsurprisingly – spoke perfectly unaccented English when he wanted to. He blithely pretended that he hadn’t offered to bribe me or injure Janet half a day earlier, and instead treated me to a lecture on the importance of Russia to world civilization, how it was a bulwark against godlessness, beset on all sides by the predations of the decadent and feckless West. I even heard the part about the Third Rome.
I’m SUCH a lucky girl.
By the end, my monosyllabic responses finally convinced him that he was no Willie Lohman. He ended the call.
At some point while I was enduring Raskolnikov’s Russian Rhapsodies, Janet went back into the hold and got the package that Averil had put together for me. Justin took off for a bit, promising to find a way to get us all some food.
I got changed.
D-Day, H-Hour minus one.
Janet and I talked about the end of Gryphon, after a hundred twenty-three years. But whatever might be said about the hole that abrupt ending had torn from our lives, it made our immediate futures simpler.
“Poor Officer Wolf – Now how will he know whether James Wainwright disappeared?” Janet said.
I nodded. “Which will complicate his efforts to claim you killed me. I think.”
“Hopefully he won’t go all Inspector Javert on me.”
I smiled. “How did you get pigeon-holed in early American Literature? It’s like you’ve read every book, seen every movie, heard every song.”
“They had to put me somewhere.” She shrugged. “No such thing as a Professor Without Portfolio!”
“Well . . . There was Dr. Grey,” I replied. And it was true. A polymath with the heart of a lion and the soul of a poet, she’d held our crazy, brilliant, bickering faculty, our rambunctious students, and our dyspeptic alumni together for two decades. Over the occasional grumblings of various regents and deans, she had also taught classes on an eclectic and unpredictable range of subjects whenever the whimsy had taken her.
“Nobody puts baby in a corner,” Janet said fondly, recalling a quote Grey had occasionally used to squelch her detractors.
“The Irish Rover,” I agreed. It was a nickname some long– (and easily) forgotten dean had intended to be derogatory, but which she’d made a badge of honor. “They should’ve asked you to fill her shoes.”
Janet laughed. “As if! Teachin’ kept me young. Dialin’ for dollars woulda sucked the life outta me.”
“Come on!” I teased. “You couldn’t sell wealthy donors on the glories of supporting institutions of learning?”
She shook her head. “It was a damned good gig, Jessica – for me, anyway. Comfortable. But we’ve done more in the past two months than we did in the last thirty years. Maybe we should have been out here all along.”
“Well . . . I won’t miss curriculum committee meetings, that’s for sure,” I said, looking for the silver lining. “Or Dean Deveroux.”
“Parents’ weekend!” Janet shivered in horror.
“Quants,” I contributed.
“In linguistics? Seriously?
I nodded. “Those killjoys are everywhere. Like termites.”
“There’s a place for ’em. I guess.” Janet sounded dubious.
“Then they should find it . . . and stay there!”
Janet chuckled. “It was an illusion, wasn’t it? Had its moments, though.”
“It surely did.” I smiled, remembering.
The first offer came at seven minutes before the deadline, from the Chinese. Russia’s offer came two minutes later. At 11:59:25 I got the email from Corbin.
“What’ve we got?” Janet asked.
“China increased their offer to six metric tons and decreased their demand to twenty-five youthening shots. It looks like there’s a lengthy explanation of how this will permit the continuity of leadership that is essential to ensure China’s stability through its period of development. As well as a shorter explanation for why China’s stability is critical to the world as a whole.”
“If China ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy?” Janet sounded skeptical. “I’m guessing the Russians stood pat?”
I shook my head. “Interestingly, they dropped the demand for the one youthening shot. But it’s otherwise the same: Twenty tons of weapons-grade uranium for either the stealth tech or the tractor-beam tech. Oh . . . and a dissertation on Russia’s valiant struggle against secularism and the decadent West. I think they might have left out the part about . . . wait. Nope. They didn’t. Yeah. Russia as the Third Rome.”
Janet guffawed. “Read the room, bitches!” She saw me hesitating. “What are you waitin’ for? What’d Corbin say?”
“I’m almost afraid to find out.”
“Come on, even their original offer was better than what China and Russia put on the table!”
“I know,” I said. “That’s what I’m afraid of. Is that really the best humanity can do?” Only one way to find out. Quit stalling! I opened the email and scanned it. My shoulders sagged.
“Well?!!!” Janet was practically hopping out of her seat.
“They’ve done it, Janet. They’ve done it! Twenty metric tons for the battery tech. They get the intellectual property rights, but subject to the condition that the formula and process must be shared, free of any charge, fee, or royalty, with all people. And, every human is expressly recognized as a third-party beneficiary of the agreement. The only hold-back is that they want to announce all of it at the Conference of the Parties of the Rio Climate Convention in November.”
Janet looked stunned. “I’ll be dipped in shit and slow-roasted. You did it, Jessica.”
”We did it.”
She shook her head. “No. This was all you. Your idea. Your crusade. I was just along for the ride – Water Rat to your Mr. Toad. I’ve never had so much fun.”
“Wait – I remember that story,” I said. “Wasn’t Water Rat the sensible one?”
“I’m plenty sensible!” she replied stoutly.
“No, you’re bat scat crazy, as your star-turn in The Spy Who Shagged Me demonstrated.” I was overwhelmed by a flood of emotions. Relief . . . joy . . . wonder . . . lingering sadness . . . and under all of it, through all of it, deep affection for this incredible person who had found me, stupidly trembling at the idea of becoming a woman, and had pushed me out of myself, then insisted on sharing every step of the journey. I crushed her in a hug as tears flooded down my face. “But you’re also pretty amazing. For a water rat.”
“”You say the sweetest things.”
Enter Justin, with food. He looked at us both and shook his head. “Either the news is really, really good, or very, very bad!”
“It’s good. It’s good!” I said, pulling myself together. “And I’ll even tell you about it – if you feed me first!”
He laughed, and handed each of us a sandwich, with a small flourish. “A little pulled pork. Now . . . tell me!”
Around mouthfuls of food (damn, that place was good!), I summarized the three proposals. When I was done, I said, “I’ll encourage the People to read all three proposals themselves, including the narratives. But my own recommendation isn’t hard.”
Justin smiled. “Yeah, no suspense on this one. Not when the alternatives are the ‘Third Rome’ and ‘Long, Long, Long Live the Son of Heaven!’”
“I’ve worn dresses with higher IQs,” Janet said. “Why’d they even bother?”
“I kind of wonder why neither of them tried for the battery tech,” I said. “They knew – courtesy of my conversation with Singh and Livingston, which Grant was around to hear – that I thought it was a big deal for humanity. It met the criteria in a way that their proposals didn’t.”
“Not much downside,” Justin said. “They knew the Americans were bidding for the battery tech, and based on the initial proposal they knew the U.S. government would try to license it if they were successful. Neither country hesitates to violate our IP rights when it suits them. So why not take a shot at getting what they really wanted instead? No sense giving up their HEU for something that they could steal if we won the bidding.”
I thought about that. “Damn, that’s devious. You’re good at this!”
“‘J.D.’ stands for ‘just devious,’ actually.” He grinned. “Normally we don’t advertise that.”
“Whyever not?” I asked.
“I think Taryn’s pretty smart to give it away,” Janet said. “Between the downsides of trying to enforce a patent and the public relations coup it’ll be when he gets to announce the whole thing at that international conference”
I shrugged. “It’s a benefit, certainly. But not the sort I’d make a fuss about. Do the right thing, and you ought to get some kudos.”
“Be a nice change,” Janet agreed. “Normally, it just gets you crucified. Or flooded with solicitations from worthy charities.”
“Or disbarred, of course,” Justin added.
“That goes without sayin’.” Janet’s smile was tigershark wide.
I forwarded the emails to Justin, who took them to his client for review.
* * * * *
An hour later, Justin, Janet and I met with Elder Mission Leader and Ensign Worm. As usual, the leader used Siri to translate, while Worm continued his efforts to either master the English language or strangle it.
“Jessica James . . . I have reviewed the proposals. Even after running them through our translation protocols several times and discussing them with Worm and Attorney Justin Abel, there is much I don’t understand.”
“Yeah, welcome to earth,” Janet said. “But it’s not your fault, Elder.”
I interjected, “Although I might phrase the matter more diplomatically, I agree with my colleague.”
“What is ‘Confucius?’” the Elder asked.
“In this context, ‘confu-zing,’” Janet responded.
I shook my head. “Again, Janet’s essentially right. Confucius was a profoundly influential Chinese philosopher. But you don’t need to understand him to evaluate the Chinese proposal. Their proposal would directly benefit a handful of people who rule – who govern – a country where over a billion people live, by extending the rulers’ lifespans, like you’ve extended mine. The remainder of their submission consists of arguments about possible indirect benefits of doing so, some of which are loosely based on Confucian ideas. There is no way to verify these claims, and the arguments are inherently self-serving.”
“Anyone who tells you differently is selling somethin’,” Janet added.
“Psst, Janet,” I stage whispered. “They’re all selling something.”
“Yeah, good point,” she laughed.
“Ah,” said Worm. “They are ‘diabolical masterminds.’”
“Uh . . . I don’t know about that,” I said cautiously.
We waited while the translation caught up. The Elder chittered for a bit, then Siri’s voice kicked in. “This, I understand. But the Chinese did not know what they asked for.”
Justin elaborated. “The shot you got, Jessica, was apparently manufactured on the spot after the People did a detailed scan of your body down to the cellular level. A generic shot probably wouldn’t work at all. Or might produce results that were essentially random. The Chinese would probably be pretty put out if President Xi had to be decanted in amniotic fluid because he had regressed to a zygote.”
“Or else they’d throw a party,” Janet said. “Lord knows, everyone else would.”
“They could offer to allow a scan,” I said, trying Justin’s practice of advocating for Satan.
“This would be possible,” the Elder said. “Do you recommend it?”
Before I could answer, Justin shook his head. “Remember when we first discussed the Prime Directive, Elder? I said there were individuals whose extended life might well change the course of human development. The Chinese offer is premised on the idea that extending the lifespans of their current leadership would change our history. They claim the change would be for the better, which I would personally dispute. But I agree it would change it.”
“Our rule must be followed,” Worm said solemnly.
“I would also not recommend their proposal as a policy matter,” I added. “Every leader of humans is tempted to believe they are indispensable. But, as one leader wisely said, the graveyards are filled with indispensable men.”
“This ‘graveyard’ – I understand do not even,” Worm said.
I went into lecturer mode. “It is a custom among some of our people to bury the remains of dead humans in the ground. Areas set aside for this purpose are called ‘graveyards.’”
Worm looked at Elder, who gazed back, seemingly impassively. Finally, Worm said, “Ewwwww!”
Elder chittered and Worm subsided. “Moving right along,” Siri translated. “Please discuss the proposal from the Russian Federation.”
“The Russian proposal is more straightforward,” I said. “The Russian Federation offered more uranium than China because they have more, left over from a period when Russia was larger and more powerful. The President of Russia is currently fighting a war to make his country more powerful again, and seeks to obtain technologies that will aid his war efforts. The direct benefits of the trade would flow to the Russian state. Indirect effects would be substantial, and would adversely affect countries that would prefer not to be dominated by Russia.”
“Including your own?” Elder asked, rather pointedly.
“Correct, Elder,” I said without hesitation. “Very much including my own.”
“I understand do not about ‘Third Rome,’” Worm said plaintively.
“You don’t need to,” I promised. “Truly. Trust me on this one.”
Janet added, “It makes about as much sense as ‘Toga! Toga! Toga!’”
“The Russian proposal is technically feasible,” the Elder said, steering the discussion in a more practical direction. “Not our stealth technologies; they are far beyond your current technological reach. But the tractor beam is not complicated.”
“Also useless is to any current earth civilization,” Worm said. “It requires power too much.”
“You mean, you could accept their offer, give ’em exactly what they ask for, and it would be useless?” Janet asked.
“That’s exactly what he means,” Justin said.
I looked at Elder. At Worm. I couldn’t tell what they were thinking. I thought I knew them, but . . . . “I do not recommend that course.”
“Explain,” the Elder invited.
“’Cuz it’s a dirty trick,” Janet explained with her usual pith.
I nodded. “Exactly. You’ve asked me to protect the interests of my species. It would be a terrible thing for you to provide nothing of any practical value. Especially when you had a good offer that you turned down.”
“Wouldn’t be so good for your species either,” Janet observed. “We certainly wouldn’t welcome your kind back.”
“We may never pass this way again,” Worm observed, his syntax and intonation suggesting a quote.
“Nonetheless, Ensign Worm,” I said. “Nonetheless. When I was here with Doctor Livingston, you wondered whether our species had honor. Does yours?”
The Elder chittered. “Enough. I was interested to see whether your reasoning matched ours on this. I am satisfied. Moreover . . . even if the Russia Federation could use the technology, we would not intervene in an an intraspecies dispute. It is not our way.”
I nodded. “So you see why I recommend the American proposal. It’s not because I’m an American myself, though I am and I’ve never been prouder to be one. I begged the U.S. government to make a proposal like this. One that would, unequivocally, benefit all of our species, right now. Accept it, and this first meeting between our species will . . . .”
“ . . . live in ‘famy,’” Janet finished. “‘’Cuz that’s gotta be the exact opposite of infamy. English bein’ logical and all.”
“I do not this understand,” Worm said.
“Nevermind,” I laughed. “Low humor. Again. We would remember your species well, and with honor.”
The Elder and Worm chittered at each other for a moment, and Siri did not translate their words. Finally, though, the leader returned his attention to me. “On behalf of this Mission, I accept the American proposal.”
I felt tears welling up again. We did it! We really did.
Justin said, “There are some details that will need to be worked out. If this agreement is going to be kept under wraps for a couple months, I’ll want it all in writing with multiple originals that can be securely stored in undisclosed locations.”
I nodded. “Makes sense to me. I’ll contact Corbin and let him know. But it might be good if you talked to their lawyers directly on the legal stuff. I’d just be in the way. With your permission, Elder?”
“Make it so,” he replied.
I pulled out my phone and called Corbin.
“How are your feet this fine day, Professor?” he answered.
“What?” Then I remembered our earlier conversation. “Oh! Right! . . . They’re beautiful, Mr. Corbin. Just beautiful!”
There was a pause on the line, followed by a deep rumbling noise in basso profondo. Corbin was laughing. “Well done, indeed, Professor.”
I said, “The leader of the mission accepted your proposal verbally just a moment ago. Their lawyer would like to have a formal agreement drawn up, though. Just to dot the i’s and cross the t’s.”
“Understood,” he replied. “And agreed. We’ve actually got Ms. Shakon working on a draft right now. She is . . . very good.”
We agreed that Shakon would work directly within Justin to finalize the text, and ended the call cordially. Corbin sounded almost jovial.
I relayed my conversation to the people – and The People – in the cabin, ending with: “They’re on board, and Mr. Corbin sounds delighted. He put Shakon on drafting the agreement.
“What’s Shakon?” asked Worm.
”Standing at the Crossroads!” Janet exclaimed.
“What?” I asked, startled.
“Huh?” Justin was equally stumped.
“I do not . . . “ Worm began.
I stopped him. “A misunderstanding. Toni Shakon is a “who,” not a “what.” She is one of President Taryn’s lawyers.”
“He more than one has?” Worm asked, inquisitive as always.
“More than a brigade, I think,” Justin answered.
“But she’s very good,” I said, hoping to return to the issue at hand. “I think it’ll move fast.”
Justin smiled and shook his head. “There’s ‘fast,’ and there’s ‘lawyer fast.’ They aren’t too closely related to each other.”
“Lollygaggers!” Janet shook her head ruefully.
“We do not much time have,” Worm warned.
“It’ll be done in time. I can promise you that much,” Justin replied.
The Elder was looking at me and chittering. Eventually Siri kicked in. “Jessica James . . . we are almost finished, and, it appears, almost successful. Assuming that the agreement is finalized and the exchange timely effectuated, have you given thought to your payment?”
“A fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work, just like the Ponderosa,” Worm added, remembering our earlier words.
“Wait – hired hands got killed on that show,” Janet said.
I seemed to recall having the same thought.
“I observed that did,” Worm said. “Strange it was. We would not that practice follow.”
“I’m so glad,” I said dryly. Then I smiled. “From the day I really accepted what had happened to me, and decided to try to take on this mission, there’s only been one thing I wanted. Just one more shot.” I looked at Janet. “For the best friend anyone ever had.”
Janet was – for once – speechless.
But the Elder was not. “No, Jessica James.”
I spun to face him, angry words forming on my lips. No? After everything we’ve done? Everything we’ve been through? NO?
But Siri continued to translate the Elder’s words. “There is no need. Professor Janet Seldon has done ample service herself. If she desires a shot such as we gave you, she may have one.”
Janet finally squeaked out, “What???”!!!”
Caught completely by surprise, I laughed, and laughed, and laughed some more as tears of joy streamed down my damned-near perfect face. “Which what?” I asked her. “Do you intend that as an adverb, an adjective, a pronoun? An interjection, perhaps?”
She growled at me, “Have I ever mentioned that you use your tongue purtier than a $20 whore?”
It didn’t matter. I just laughed harder. “Yeah. I think you have mentioned that before. Once or twice.”
Elder chittered again. “Do you have any other thought for how we might repay you, Jessica James? We acknowledge that, should this deal be successful, our debt to you is great.”
That was enough to still my laughter, though the smile on my face lingered. I hadn’t ever thought beyond asking for a shot for Janet. But . . . .
Just like that, I had the answer.
To be continued. Conclusively.
Maximum Warp
Chapter 20: Endgame
“I’ll get you an answer on that, Elder Mission Leader,” I said. “But there’s someone I need to talk to first.” I was pretty sure I knew what reward I should request.
“Of course,” he responded through the Siri-based interface. “There is time for you to decide. Ample – but not unlimited.”
“I understand,” I replied.
Janet, Justin and I made our way back toward the cabin Justin had been using as a bedroom. But before we reached it, Justin got a call from Toni Shakon from the White House counsel’s office.
“You two use the room,” he urged us. “I’ll take it in the foyer.”
“Thanks, Justin,” I said. “But you’re going to need your computer – and privacy. You go ahead. Janet and I can talk out here.”
He saw the sense in that and left us.
Janet – Janet Seldon! – was actually teary-eyed. “Jessica . . . I can’t believe you would do that. I mean, yeah. I s’pose I can believe it of you. You’re a really great person an’ all. For a linguist, anyway. But . . . of all things you could have asked for?”
I wrapped her in a big hug. “Worth it just to see your face,” I murmured. “Told you I’d get you back for sending me up here all by myself!”
“Oughta piss you off more often,” she sniffed.
“Is that even possible?” I smiled.
She broke my embrace and held me loosely. “That’s gotta be the nicest thing anyone’s done, ever. Let alone, for me. But . . . you get a freebie now. What are you thinking? Some scheme to save Gryphon?”
I shook my head. “I don’t have the first idea how to do that. I’m sure there’s something I could ask for that would be worth some money. I guess. But I know next to nothing about money. And money’s not Gryphon’s real problem anyway.”
She looked at me closely, then sighed. “Yeah, I know. I’d like to just blame greed and tight-fisted moneymen. But the real problem is us – all of us. Not enough people want what we’re offering.”
I nodded. “And it’ll only get worse as the total applicant pool for all colleges shrinks.”
She chewed on her lip, thinking. “If the college had money, it could lower tuition. Might bring numbers up.”
A waggled my fingers. “Tough to say. But . . . This is going to sound weird. I feel like I’ve got a different kind of debt to pay. A personal one.”
She raised an eyebrow in question. “So . . . who was it that you needed to talk to, before you made your decision?”
“Troi Harris.”
* * * * *
An hour later, Justin had left to go to the EEOB to meet directly with Toni Shakon, figuring that it would speed the process of finalizing the text of the agreement. I was using his cabin.
“I’m sorry. What?” Troi sounded like she’d been hit over the head with a long two by four.
“The People promised to reward me if I managed to get this deal done. It’s not why I did it . . . and really, there’s no reward they could ever give me, personally, that would matter more than becoming Jessica James. I’ve been paid. But the offer is still there, and . . . well. Troi, I know how much you’ve dreamed of this. I want you to have it. All of it.”
She sat down on the bed, like someone had cut her strings. “Oh. My. God . . . Jessica, you have no idea . . . .” She started to cry. Softly at first, then in great, gasping sobs.
I was dumbfounded. There was a young(ish) woman sitting on the bed, her emotions tearing her apart. Whatever did one do about that? Offer her tea? But a voice in my head said, Oh, go back to sleep, James. You’re hopeless! I’ve got this.
My voice.
I sat beside Troi and gathered her in my arms, holding her tight to quell her shaking. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”
Through her sobs, she said, “All those years . . . Oh, God! I almost ended it, so many times, the pain was so great. I lost friends . . . family . . . I thought I was a freak. I hated my body . . . my life. Everything. Totally ratchet. I finally found a way to keep going. To shove open doors and walk through them. Build a life that had meaning. And now that I’ve finally – finally! – got my shit together . . . You offer me the chance to start over, all normie . . . Hearth and home, husband and child . . . maybe a white picket fence and a couple dogs? For free, like some fairy tale? Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo?”
“For free?” I hugged her harder. “Oh, no, honey. I got it for free. You earned it, a thousand times over.”
She closed her eyes and buried her head against my shoulder.
I closed my eyes as well and just held her, extending my other senses to feel the calming of her body. Her shaking gradually stilled; her breathing became more even. The flow of hot, salty tears slowed, paused, and then stopped.
She took a deep, deep, calming breath and released it slowly. “I don’t even have the words to thank you. I can’t believe you’d do that, for someone you barely know.” Her voice was raw, but calm.
I opened my eyes, gave her shoulders a final squeeze and released her. “It was pure dumb-ass luck I met Worm that night on the trail. It could have been anyone. It should have been you.”
She looked bewildered. “Why me?”
“Look at the things you accomplished! And at little more than half my age. An adventurer, explorer, a writer of original works . . . and all that while dealing with severe gender dysphoria. You’re a marvel, Troi. Who better to represent our species?”
Her eyes were still bright. “And to think I wanted to hate you! You offer me the thing I’ve wanted most my whole life. . . . God, it’s so tempting! But . . . it’d be wasted, Jessica.”
What was she saying? “Wasted? Why?”
“The People already offered me a shot – as an inducement to accompanying them when they leave.”
I was dumbfounded. Part of me was hurt that I hadn’t been offered a berth as well. But . . . would I really have taken it if they had? It’s not about you, Jessica! “But now you don’t have to go, Troi. You can have what you always wanted, right here. The whole package.”
“No.” She shook her head, a gesture that seemed both sorrowful and final. “I can’t unsee what I’ve seen, and I wouldn’t want to. How would it feel, walking around the city all quiche . . . you know, serious sizzle? Watching men come at me, thirsty as fuck . . . when I know in my heart they’d probably dis the person I’ve always been, as well as all of my trans friends? This world’s always been an alien place to me. It always will be.”
“You’re talking about sailing away with real aliens. As in, alien aliens. You don’t even know what they look like! How’s that going to be better?” I asked.
“I don’t care what the People look like. They accept me the way I am – the Mission Leader thinks I’m ‘whole.’ Go figure! The shot’s for my benefit, not theirs. They’ve decided they want to learn more about us and I want to learn all about them. That’s a life worth living, don’t you think?”
I thought about that. As an academic, I could understand and respect it. But . . . “I held you while you wept, just now. Are you sure?”
She gave me a sweet smile. “Told you before. Old memories, old pain. They rise up and get me, sometimes. Probably always will. It’s part of me.”
“Then why not . . . .” I began.
Anticipating the question, she stopped me. “Because it’s not the best part of me,” she said gently.
She touched my check and then, to my surprise, kissed me lightly on the lips. “Thank you, Jessica James Marshall Wainwright. I’m sure you were a good man; I know you’re a fantastic woman. Whatever you might think, no one could have done a better job. No one! So take your reward and stop feeling guilty about it. Whatever debt you thought you owed me – believe me, you’ve paid it. I will never forget it. Or you.”
She got up and walked to the door. At the threshold, she turned to say something more, then thought better of it. She shook her head, smiled, and was gone.
Janet came in moments later. “That girl had a most peculiar expression on her face when she left just now. How’d she take it?”
“She turned me down, Janet. Decided she was too scarred to have a ‘normal life.’”
“Seriously?” Janet looked stricken. “Damn. The poor woman! I thought she’d kill for that shot. . . . It breaks my heart. Really, it does.” She slumped in a chair.
I shook my head. “She’s going to get the shot, but not because I offered it. The aliens are going to give her one, because she’s decided to go with them.”
Janet’s face drained of color, then turned a vivid red. “She’s gonna do what!!!
This wasn’t the reaction I expected at all. “I know. Sure shocked me . . . and I guess, made me sad, too. But I thought you’d understand her better – after all, she’s signing up for one hell of an adventure!”
“Screw that!” Janet said. “She hasn’t finished Orion’s Shadow! Her fans have been waitin’ – I’ve been waitin’ – a year and a half for the last book! We’ve followed her characters – wept over them! And we don't get to find out if they make it home safe? Are you kidding me! She can’t do this to us!”
Who was this woman? “Janet . . . .”
But she was out of her seat in a second and out the door in two, a most determined look on her face. Hell hath no fury like a reader scorned!
But while I’d known Janet for thirty years and had only known Troi for days, I doubted even the formidable Seldon temper would prevail in this case. That young woman would not be budged.
It seemed like I couldn’t give away youth and good looks today. I needed a different answer, and I was feeling stumped. I got up and started to pace. Seven steps, wall to wall. Back and forth . . . back and forth. What could I ask for, that wouldn’t violate the Prime Directive, and might do some good?
Back and forth . . . back and forth. A lifetime on this ship would get pretty old.
Back and forth . . . .
“Jessica James.” Worm was at the door.
“Yes, Ensign?”
“Elder Mission Leader speak with you wishes.”
I had a sudden spike of worry. “Is everything alright? Did something happen . . . ?”
“All is groovy,” he replied. “Has cargo to do with.”
Whipsawed between his Sixties quotes and his attempts to freelance, it took me a minute. “Uhh . . . I don’t know what I can do to help with that, but I’ll certainly talk to him about it.”
We trooped to another small chamber, where the leader of the mission was waiting. “What can I do for you, Elder?” I asked.
He began chittering, and Siri translated. “I understand you offered to give your payment to Troi Harris, in the form of a shot.”
Siri didn’t make it sound like a question, but I thought it polite to respond. “I did, sir. She declined.”
“You do not ask for something for yourself?”
I shrugged. “I’ve always led a simple life. You’ve given me back forty years. I don’t know how I’m going to spend it yet.”
“When we spoke earlier, you told me that we could not make “bucks,” correct?” he asked, through Siri.
From habit, I nodded. “Yes, sir. It would break lots of rules. That’s why I tried to think of a technology you could trade for the uranium.”
“I understand. But . . . there is no time to come up with another technology that would work as payment for you – something that would be valuable but still within our rules. We have to break orbit in two days.”
Damn! “I . . . was afraid that might be the case.”
“We have a proposition for you to consider. It may solve a problem for us as well.” Even Siri’s translation sounded somewhat tentative.
“I’m happy to help, Elder,” I assured him.
“Before we found your star system, we had been collecting other materials that had some limited value in our home system. The weapons-grade uranium is substantially more valuable to the People, so we decided to clear our cargo holds of these other materials. It was our intent to simply dump the existing cargo in orbit around your system’s star. But Worm thinks it might have value to humans as well. He suggested it might be used as at least partial payment for your service.”
“Oh,” I said. “Well . . . I don’t know much about minerals and such, but I can certainly look into it. What are you carrying?”
Worm responded. “English language terms I think are rhodium, iridium and palladium.”
I thought for a moment. “Ummm, okay. Again, not my field, but I’m sure there are uses for them. How much are you carrying?”
Worm’s face had a perpetually owlish expression. “Sixteen tons.”
“Goodness! That sounds like a lot! I . . . ahh. I think I’ll need to talk with the government people to see where we could take delivery of that much material. Can’t just leave it in Janet’s backyard.” Just great. Now I’ve got responsibility for getting rid of a bunch of rocks.
The Elder said, “That would be appreciated. It took us some time to collect.”
I went back to Justin’s cabin. Who should I call? Corbin? No. He’s the President’s Chief of Staff. He’s got better things to worry about than my problems. Maybe Dr. Livingston?
Janet was back in the cabin . . . and she looked like the cat that found the clotted cream. “I was wonderin’ where you wandered off to.”
I said, “The Elder wanted to find out if I’d take some space rocks in payment. Stuff they’d been collecting to take back home, before finding out we had alien catnip.”
“Huh,” she said. “I guess it’s worth checking out.”
“Prolly,” I said. “I said I’d look into it, anyway. Why are you looking so pleased? You left spitting bullets.”
She positively bounced out of her chair. “She’s already got the last book of Orion’s Shadow written! It’s at the publisher for the final round of edits! And here’s the best part: She was gonna ask Dave Grillo if he’d make the final decisions on the editor’s suggestions. But she said she’d also ask him to let me help!”
“Congratulations . . . I guess? I mean, that’s good, right?” I wasn’t quite seeing why this was a cause for such excitement, but it clearly was.
“Are you kidding me! I’m gonna get to find out what happens months before the rest of the world! And I get to work with Dave freakin’ Grillo!!! You have no idea!
I smiled. “Well, I’m really happy for you. And I’m glad that you aren’t planning to kill Troi. I kind of like her.”
“Oh, up your nose with a rubber hose,” she said, affectionately. “Anyhow . . . what are you gonna do to check out the Elder’s offer?”
“I was trying to decide who I should contact about it. I mean, I don’t want to bother Luther Corbin or Averil Livingston with personal questions, but I’m not sure what to do with a pile of rocks.”
Janet’s eyes twinkled. “I’m not great at advice. Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?”
I snorted. “Why should today be different from any other day?”
“Take ’em to a jeweler?” she suggested.
“I don’t think that’s going to work – they’ve got a lot of the stuff.”
“A ‘lot’.” She looked at me. “Is that a technical term?”
I laughed. “Smartass. Worm said they’ve got sixteen tons.”
“Yeah, that’s a lot, alright. . . . I know! Why don’t you talk to Aguia? He’s not involved in the contract stuff and I think he’s kinda sorta hemi-demi-semi- retired. Freelancin’, like. Maybe he’d give you some advice.”
That seemed like a good idea. I’d gotten his number when we’d met at the EEOB, so I tried it.
“Stanley Aguia,” he answered.
“Good afternoon, General. Or evening, I guess. It’s Jessica James and Janet Seldon. Do you have a minute for a sort-of unofficial question?”
“I think I can make time,” he said with a chuckle. “Between games of Jetpack Joyride 2.”
“The People are getting rid of their current cargo – space rocks, I guess – so they can max out on our uranium. They asked if I could take some or all of it as partial payment for my work. It’s a lot of material, though – sixteen tons – and I’m not sure what I’d do with it or where I’d store it. I don’t know whether the government might have interest in it, or if not, maybe industry. Or, hell, a museum. I’m embarrassed to say I’m a bit out of my depth.”
“Any idea what kind of materials?” he asked. “There’s some valuable stuff floating around in space – as well as plenty of junk.”
“Yeah – Worm said it was . . . palladium, I think, and, ah . . . iridium. And . . . ” I paused. It was on the tip of my tongue! What was it!
Finally, I had to give up. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember the third thing. . . . Oops!”
Worm’s voice came from the speakers. “Jessica James. The third mineral is rhodium.”
I almost jumped out of my skin. “Great good heavens! Worm, I’m sorry. I forgot you were listening! Thank you for the information. Perhaps you could turn off the microphone for a while?”
“I will this do,” he replied.
“Did you catch that, General?” I asked.
There was a moment of silence on the phone before Aguia answered. “Let me be sure I’ve got this right. The People have offered you sixteen tons of rhodium, iridium and palladium as partial payment for your efforts?” He was speaking carefully and precisely.
“Yeah,” I said. “I think they might have felt bad that there wasn’t any time to really explore other technology options.”
“They might have felt bad?” He started to chuckle.
I was embarrassed. Probably shouldn’t have taken up his time. “I’m sorry, General. What am I missing?”
Janet, bless her, looked equally confused.
Aguia replied, “If I hadn’t observed what both of you are capable of these past few days, I’d say you shouldn’t be allowed to buy donuts without supervision. Jessica, palladium – which is by far the least valuable of those three metals – is worth about $2000 per Troy Ounce.”
“Oh.” Math again. And, ah . . . “What's a Troy Ounce?”
“About fourteen and a half Troy Ounces in a pound,” he responded as if everyone would know that. “And, to spare you looking it up, 2000 pounds per ton. At today’s prices – not a fair measure, but still – 16 tons of palladium would be worth close to a billion dollars.”
I looked at Janet.
She looked at me. “Well, butter my butt and call me a biscuit. How ’bout that? And . . . the other things – the iriddy thingy and the rhododendron – they’re worth more’n palladium?”
“You could say that.” Aguia’ voice contained affection, mirth and exasperation in equal measure. “Iridium is worth twice as much. And a Troy Ounce of rhodium sells for $15,000.”
“Holy shit, Batman!” Janet said.
I shook my head. “What on earth would we do with that much money?”
Janet laughed. “Whadya mean ‘we,’ girlfriend? This responsibility’s all yours!”
General Aguia said, “Jessica, I believe the technical answer to your question is, ‘anything – almost literally anything – you might possibly want.’ Pretty much for the rest of your life. A better answer might be, ‘a very great deal.’”
He was trying to tell me something with that second formulation of his answer, but I didn’t even want to figure it out. I buried my head in my hands. “I don’t know anything about money. I don’t want to know anything about money!”
“You two have spent entirely too long in ivory towers,” Aguia admonished, gently but sternly. “Money is the currency of the world, and its temptations and dangers are easy to see. But at the end of the day, having it enhances your power to do good in the world as well, if that’s what’s in your heart. If you don’t have any good ideas for how to use it – and Lord knows, as long as you’ve both walked the earth, you ought to – loan or give it to someone who does. As for the actual cargo – I am absolutely certain that the U.S. government will be ecstatic to buy it from you and take delivery. All three metals are extremely rare and strategically important. If you want, I’ll confirm that.”
I conferred with Janet silently, then said, “Of course, General. That would be a huge relief.”
We ended the call.
“A billion dollars. Damn.” Janet looked bemused.
“Yeah.” I was stunned. I thought some more about what the old General had said. “I could save Gryphon, I suppose.”
“Hell, girl, you could buy Gryphon. With pocket change.”
I thought about it. “I imagine it’d go at a fire sale price just now.”
We sat in silence, lost in our own thoughts. How did I want to spend my life, when all of this was over? How could I live a life that did not squander the gifts that had been heaped on me – youth . . . beauty . . . wealth?
“Janet,” I said. “I don’t want to run a college. Not even our college.”
She quirked a half smile. “Maybe especially not our college.”
“It’d be pretty stupid, anyway – a college owned by a couple teenagers. Leastwise, that’s what we’d look like.”
“Maybe we could set up a trust or somethin’.” She waved her hand airily. “Get someone else to do it.”
I thought about that. “Yeah – that might work. . . . But Gryphon’s got to change course if it’s going to survive. Or else it won’t deserve to survive.”
She nodded. “But . . . it’d be good if all our colleagues could go to work in a week – and if the students could show up. Changin’ direction takes time when you’re steerin’ a glacier.”
Diddle-loo-do, diddle-loo-do, diddle-loo do!
“Hey, Justin,” I answered.
“Hey, Jessica! I think we’ve got everything ironed out. It was faster than I thought it’d be – Shakon rocks! Anyhow, I’m bringing the draft back to the ship. I’ll go over it with you, then the client. Toni’s going to brief her team. Assuming everything’s good, we can get it signed first thing tomorrow.”
“Fantastic!” I said. “I’ll see you soon!”
“Yeah . . . I can’t wait!” He sounded . . . how had Troi said it? Thirsty! A good word, in my professional opinion.
We ended our call and Janet and I continued our discussion. It became increasingly clear that, while we didn’t want Gryphon to fail, we knew it needed not only money, but a whole new vision. A vision that we were too close to the place to give. On top of which . . . .
“I want a new life, Janet. Even assuming I could be the most bodacious professor in the history of linguistics, I don’t want to do that all over again.”
“And now, for something completely different?” She put verbal air quotes around the question.
As usual, the reference escaped me. “For one thing, maybe it’s time I paid a bit more attention to my own culture. So I’d at least know what the hell you’re talking about most of the time.”
She chuckled. “Most of the time? Girl, you got some catchin’ up to do before you can get past ‘occasionally’! If it helps, that reference wasn’t from your culture. Not exactly, anyway.”
“Just don’t make me read Hawthorne. Or watch Puffinstuff.”
“Those two things do not belong in the same sentence. Please tell me you know that!” she begged.
I just smiled. “What about you, Janet? What do you want to do when you grow . . . down, I guess.”
“God, I don’t know!” She laughed. “Just to be able to contemplate it is amazin’. I’ll be able to do cartwheels again. Cartwheels! Maybe I’ll just become a professional cartwheeler!”
“That’s . . . not a thing. I’m certain that’s not a thing.”
“Who knows?” Her grin was broad. “I sure don’t. But – Aguia’s right. I’ve spent enough time in an ivory tower. I wouldn’t mind livin’ Troi Harris’ life, now that she seems to be done with it. Explorin’ . . . adventurin’ . . . writin’. My own work, for a change. I’m tired of just analyzin’ other people’s writin’ – even stuff I love.”
At some point, we got a call back from General Aguia. “The U.S. government is absolutely interested in buying whatever palladium, iridium and rhodium the People gift you with. We’ll have to work out a price once we’ve had a chance to analyze the material. Probably would involve payments over time, too. I spoke with Luther Corbin. His thought is that the material could be dropped off at the Oak Ridge site where we’ve got the uranium. Does that make sense?”
“I . . . yes? I think . . . I mean, we’re probably going to need a lawyer, aren’t we?” The idea of that much money left me feeling stupid.
“A deal this big? Yes, I would advise you to get a lawyer. But I’ll get something drawn up on this end if you want.”
After that call was done, the phone told me it was 11:00 pm. Speaking of lawyers, Justin should have been back quite a while before. Janet decided to rest a bit, and I went out in search of Worm.
He was in the hold, having just escorted Troi and Daichi out for the night. “Jessica James. We are moving the ship for a few hours, to inspect the uranium offered as payment.”
“You’re moving the ship? What about Justin?” I asked.
“Attorney Justin Abel is aboard. He meets with Elder Mission Leader.”
“Oh . . . I . . . ummm.” I was surprised; Justin had said he was going to talk with me first. It wasn’t really that important, though. I didn’t have much to add concerning the wording of the legal documents. “I guess I’ll go back and wait.”
“Join them,” Worm suggested.
“That’s alright,” I said. “I don’t need to be in for this.”
“Jessica James.” His voice stopped me. “I have been – and shall always be –your friend.” Worm’s expressionless face gave his surprising words an added seriousness. “Join them. You should.”
I have a bad feeling about this. “Okay, Ensign. Lead on.”
We went back to the cabin where we had met earlier in the day. Justin was there already, sitting down, head bowed. The Elder Mission Leader was standing.
Justin jumped when the door opened. “Jessica!”
I eyed them both. “What’s going on, Justin? Elder? Is the agreement good?”
The Elder chittered and Siri took up the translation. “The agreement language is acceptable. I will ‘sign’ it. We were discussing something else. Troi Harris will accompany the mission when we leave. We have the capacity to take one more human, and we believe it would be good for us to do so. Justin Abel thinks we should ask you.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it again. I looked at him, head lowered, eyes down. Finally, I managed to ask, “Justin . . . do you want me to go?”
He looked up and met my eyes. Then he rose and came over, but made no effort to touch me. “No . . . I just think that you should. No one would do a better job representing humanity. And that’s . . . it’s more important than what I want. It just has to be. ‘The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few . . . or the one.’”
“How about the two?” I asked. I shook my head, then looked at the Elder. “You said Justin thought you should ask me. I notice you didn’t say you agreed.”
“You are correct,” he said through Siri. “But it is not because we doubt your ability to represent your species. We have been very pleased with your efforts.”
“Then why?” Despite myself, I wanted to know.
“We assess that however valuable your attributes might be to us, they are more needed on your home world. You have honor, Jessica James. Your species . . . has need of honor.” Siri’s words stopped.
Worm and the Elder looked at each other, a silent communication.
The Elder continued chittering, and Siri’s bland voice added, “Your species cannot spare you . . . but we believe it can spare a lawyer. Justin Abel has impressed us. We have determined that the People might profit from his knowledge.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. “We do have other lawyers.” But I was stalling. I knew better. How many lawyers would you trust with this mission?
“Are they interchangeable?” the leader asked, as if he could read my thoughts.
Janet and I had called Justin a “pink unicorn.” “No,” I conceded. “They most definitely aren’t.” My voice barely reached a whisper. “Justin?”
He looked at me, love and pain mixed in his face. “I’m just able, Jessica, not noble. But even I can see that our lives – yours and mine – don’t amount to a hill of beans in this crazy situation. You’d do the job better. But I’ll do it, if you don’t want to.”
“Want it? I wanted . . . .” My throat closed, silencing me.
“Believe me, I wanted that too.”
I turned my face from his so I could regain my composure, battling to keep the tears from my eyes. You’re not a love-struck seventeen year old, Jessica – even if you look like one! “Elder, I don’t know that my species needs me – or even wants me. But I think my place is here.”
“That is well, Jessica James,” he responded.
I couldn’t last much longer. “If all of you will excuse me . . . .” Without waiting for permission, I turned and oh, so bravely, fled. Once the door shut behind me, I raced back the way we had come. When I got back to the room, the tears finally began to flow.
Did I love him? God, I sure thought so. And I wanted him so badly! Everything had been going so well today. Singh and Dunlop getting arrested (but not Grant!) . . . the U.S. agreeing to supply all 20 tons of U-235 and give the battery technology away for free . . . Janet getting a free shot . . . No one trying to kill me. All good things! And now, suddenly, I’d lost my chance at love, and gotten saddled with a billion dollars or so. Behind every silver lining . . . .
I looked at Janet’s face, so peaceful in sleep, and exhaustion overwhelmed me. Again. I kicked off my shoes, spooned against her back, and pulled a blanket over us both. Damn Justin, and his honor, too! He could find someplace else to crash!
* * * * *
I woke to find Janet giving me a very close appraisal indeed. I blinked rapidly to clear the sleep from my eyes.
“Seem to remember sayin’ that you had to wash and moisturize before going to bed,” she said.
Fine way to start the day . . . . “Uhhhhn,” I responded.
“You look like a raccoon who tried to rob a mouse trap. What happened?”
“Go ’way,” I moaned.
“Right.” She sat up, rubbed her face, and left. I didn’t mean that literally.
But she was back just a couple minutes later with a damp washcloth. “On your back, Jessica. Let me get you cleaned up.”
I did as I was told, and she went to work with the washcloth. I didn’t know what it did for my face, but it certainly succeeded in waking me up. “Thanks, Janet.”
“Our intrepid lawyer is sleepin’ in the hold on some cushions, like we did the first time we were here. Want to tell me about it?”
“He’s going with them. When they leave.”
“Ah. Yep, that’d do it.” She didn’t seem all that upset.
Maybe if he’d written some fiction, she’d be more worked up about it! “That’s it? Nothing more to say?”
“It’s terrible, for sure,” she said promptly. “Might destroy their entire civilization!”
I made a face. “Not funny, Janet!”
She put a hand on my cheek. “I know, Hon. Though I do worry about it. But look, I know this purely sucks. He’s a good man, an’ I thought you two were good together. It was easy to ‘ship’ you, as the girls in my classes would say. But I don’t really know him all that well . . . and truth to tell, neither do you. I know it’s not much comfort, but I guarantee this isn’t your last chance for romance.”
I thought about that for a few minutes. Then a few more. I put a hand on top of Janet’s and squeezed. “You’re right. I mean, I’m beyond frustrated. But I lived for sixty years, even if I’m not sixty any more. I’m old enough to know that life goes on.”
“‘Long after the thrill of livin’ is gone?’” she asked. “Don’t worry . . . it’ll be back.”
I closed my eyes and got my brain in gear. Thought of everything that had to happen today. “Right,” I sighed, sitting up. “Hi ho, hi ho.”
“Told you not to talk to me like that,” she scolded.
Remembering the conversation – and what had sparked it – I smiled. “I’ll try to be better about it, you brazen strumpet!”
I got up, found the bag Averil Livingston had packed for us, and got out a change of clothes. Quickly and efficiently, I stripped, then put on blessedly fresh underwear and a clean top and pants. It occurred to me, as I was finishing, that I was no longer remotely self-conscious stripping naked in front of Janet. Two months ago, I’d have been mortified. Two months ago, I’d have been male.
Janet padded over and got changed as well (Averil had included all the clothes we’d left behind at the hotel). I decided I was not going to face Justin looking less than my best – or at least, the best I could manage on short provisions. I took a moment to brush my hair and put on some light morning makeup.
Janet smiled. “Ready for battle?”
I nodded. “Ready as I’ll ever be.” My phone said it was just after 7:00.
“Come back with your shield. Or on it.”
I took a deep breath and went into the hold. I expected that Justin would be up, but he was still sleeping in the far corner.
I walked over and looked down at him. He really was a beautiful man. A good man. Such a shame! On impulse, I knelt down, bent, and kissed his sleeping lips, touching his cheek lightly with my right hand.
His eyes opened. “Hello, Gorgeous.” His voice was soft, warm . . . and sad.
“None of that, now,” I admonished. “Let’s not waste the time we’ve got left with tears and regrets. Now get yourself up, and let’s face the day . . . together.”
His eyes held mine. “I love you.”
I rose and looked down at him. “I know.” I smiled and left, looking for Ensign Worm.
I found him in the “Bridge” with the rest of the crew that I had come to know. “Good morning,” I said, entering.
“Jessica James,” he said in greeting. “We are almost back over your nation’s capital.”
“Where have you been, while I was sleeping?” I asked.
The Elder Mission Leader in the Captain’s chair chittered, and Siri translated. “Around the world.”
Worm added. “Better time we made than David Niven.”
The Elder continued. “We went to the site designated by the United States, confirmed the presence of twenty tons of 90% U-235 uranium, and dropped wards to guard the material. We also traveled to sites designated by the People’s Republic of China and the Russian Federation to determine whether they had met the terms of their bids.”
I was confused. “Why? You don’t have room for more HEU, do you?”
“We do not,” he confirmed. “We wanted to learn more about these peoples.”
“Pure curiosity? Well, I can certainly respect that.” I smiled. “What did you find?”
“There was no material at the coordinates specified in the Chinese communication. The Russian Federation had assembled the twenty tons in its bid. Purity was someone less than specified in their bid, though still in the acceptable range.”
“Interesting,” I said. “China must have decided to withdraw from the bidding – or at least, not hazard their HEU.”
“Why would do that they?” Worm inquired.
I shrugged. “Hard to know for sure. Lack of trust, maybe. They had to know that the thing they requested was a poor fit for evaluation under a “greatest good” standard. And, they didn’t have enough spare HEU to satisfy your request in full.”
“You will inform them both that their bids were not accepted?” the Elder asked.
I nodded. “Yes, sir . . . But not until we have a signed agreement with the U.S. government.”
“Attorney Justin Abel said the same,” he replied.
Unexpectedly, Worm said, “Jessica James . . . we are sorry to you part from Justin Abel. You would have human worms created?”
I was about to throw out my usual query, but stopped myself. “Thank you, Ensign. We were . . . assessing our compatibility. I will miss him.” I smiled, thinking of Janet. Finally, I had the right allusion! “But a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”
I took my leave and went back to the sleeping cabin, where I found both Justin and Janet.
Janet looked concerned . . . but not, it turned out, for the reason that I had thought. “I got a call this morning . . . from Grant, if you can believe it.”
“No shit!” I was shocked. “Isn’t he supposed to be on the run?”
“Oh, he is,” she answered. “But he called to warn me – to warn us both. He’s still got contacts in the PRC from his spy activity. Apparently they aren’t real happy with you. They’ll wait ’til the aliens are gone, but after that . . . the gloves are coming off.”
“They weren’t exactly a barrel of laughs when the gloves were on,” I said, remembering the eyes of their assassin. I thought furiously for a moment. I didn’t want to spend all my time looking over my shoulder! We needed to throw them off our tracks. Disappear . . . hmmm. “What’s the plan today, Justin?”
“Meeting at the White House at 9:00 for the signing,” he answered. The President wants all of us there – he wants a photo, for the record, for when they tell the world in November.”
Janet snickered. “Pics, or it didn’t happen? I thought we didn’t exist.”
“We’re slipping in as a couple of Aguia’s irregulars to talk about energy issues. Got some fake names, IDs and everything. Anyhow, Elder won’t risk any of his people around us crazy humans again, so he’s signing here. In fact, he already has. So we’ll bring the agreements – and the formula – to the White House. Tonight, they’re going to pick up the uranium at Oak Ridge.”
“We’re bringin’ the formula with us this morning but they aren’t pickin’ up the uranium ’til tonight?” Janet shook her head. “Decided to trust us after all?”
Justin chuckled. “Not exactly. They put some sort of warding device on the U-235 stockpile after they scanned it last night. The government couldn’t move the material right now if they wanted to.”
It was fascinating, but I was only half listening, my mind whirling in a completely different direction. “I need to talk to Worm,” I said. “I’ve got the perfect disguise to wear today.”
Janet looked at me. “Not Singh, I hope!”
I laughed, and decided to find out if my new voice could carry a tune. “From Singh-ing I’ll refrain!” Hey, girl! . . . that wasn’t half bad! I explained my idea and we talked about it. Made some refinements. Then called Luther Corbin.
* * * * *
At 8:50 am, a tall, spare man with iron gray hair and ferocious eyebrows stepped into the Roosevelt Room across from the Oval Office in the West Wing of the White House. He was wearing a coal gray suit and a light gray tie, and looked like a well-dressed version of the scholar he had always been. One last hurrah for James Marshall Wainwright, the Carter Cecil Jackson Distinguished Professor of Linguistics.
There were quite a few people in the room, milling around. The Secretaries of Defense and Energy were there, along with the President’s Science Advisor, Deputy Chief of Staff Tanya Rodriguez-Tolland, Assistant White House Counsel Toni Shakon, Acting National Security Advisor Katherine Kurtz, General Stanley Aguia, Dave Grillo, Professor Kayla Cormier, and – to my surprise (and, no doubt, Janet’s dismay) – Gavin Grimm. We’d picked up Troi Harris and Daichi Kurokawa on our way in, and they entered with Janet, Justin and me.
Talk stopped momentarily when we entered. Averil Livingston’s face lit up with a smile and she began to clap. In moments, the whole room joined her, causing me to blush cardinal red. The atmosphere was completely different from any of my earlier meetings. Excited, almost electric. People come to Washington to be part of history, but Washington had never seen anything like this.
As the applause mercifully subsided, Averil came over and, surprisingly, held out both hands. I took them in mine. Unlike the other illusions the aliens had created for me, this one extended to both touch and voice. Apparently the energy budget for the enhanced illusion was enough to power a small city. But I needed it for now.
“Well . . . you look very distinguished,” she said, smiling.
I smiled back. “I bet Grant would have an opinion.”
She shook her head. “I couldn’t believe it, when I heard. Earl Grant!”
“I know, right? Listen . . . Thank you. For everything. You’ve been amazing.”
“Apart from having you arrested and getting you shot,” she said ruefully.
“Not a highlight, for sure,” I chuckled. “But really. None of this would have happened without you pushing it on the inside.”
“You got that right!” The diminutive Secretary of Defense joined us, and was looking up at me. “Liked you better when you were a normal height, Professor!” His broad grin was infectious.
Stanley Aguia drifted behind Secretary Bradley. “Now, now, Jack. We offered you the rack, back at the Academy. I distinctly recall that you declined.” He gave me a quick appraisal and a slow smile. “Professor Wainwright. It’s good to see you.” He placed just the slightest additional weight on the penultimate word of his sentence.
“Never mind that!” Gavin Grimm was practically hopping up and down. “The formula! Do you have the formula!!!”
Just then the door opened to admit a young man, well-built and ruggedly handsome – yep, despite my illusion, I still noticed! – who was clearly a member of the President’s security detail. His eyes swept the room before he moved forward. President Taryn followed him, accompanied by Chief of Staff Luther Corbin. A photographer trailed in their wake.
“Good morning, everyone,” the President said briskly. “Let’s take care of business first. Adam, call the shot.”
It took a few minutes, but the photographer had everyone where he wanted them. The President was seated, naturally, with multiple originals of the agreement, each already signed by the Elder Mission Leader, in front of him. Janet and I stood on either side of him, flanked by Cabinet members, General Aguia, and the rest of the group.
“I’m standin’ on his right side, and you know what that means!” Janet joked.
I grinned. “I think so – You’re a sheep and I’m the G.O.A.T., right?”
She stuck her tongue out at me. Hopefully, Adam caught that on film. Or pixels, or . . . . whatever.
Once Adam was done with the stills, he put his camera on a tripod and rolled video as the President signed six originals.
I expected Taryn to say a few words, but he kept quiet. When he was done with signing, he smiled for the camera, then said, “Thank you all for coming.” He rose. “Professor Wainwright, Professor Seldon, will you join me for a moment in the Oval Office? Mr. Corbin? Dr. Livingston? General Aguia?”
We all nodded – naturally, that’s not one of those occasions when you say, “Gee, sorry, I’ve got to wash my hair.”
“Oh, Professor Wainwright . . . I almost forgot. You’ve got something else for me, right?” Taryn was smiling.
“Yes sir,” I said, and handed him a folder.
He opened it, glanced at the contents briefly, and chuckled. “Professor Grimm, would you take a look at this for me, please?”
Gavin practically fell over himself getting possession of the folder.
The President led everyone he’d invited across the hall, and this time, no one followed us in. Not even the Detail.
Once more, as soon as the door closed behind us, I said, “You can drop the illusion now, Worm.” As James Wainwright, I’d been a little shorter than Stanley Aguia and a few inches shorter than the imposing Luther Corbin, but with the illusion gone I was once again the shortest person in the room, though Averil didn’t have me by much.
“It’s good to have you back, Jessica,” the President said, a twinkle in his eye. “And if you’re still listening, ‘Ensign Worm,’ on behalf of the government and people of the United States of America, I want to applaud your mastery of human aesthetics.”
I blushed furiously. “Perhaps you should stop listening for a bit, Ensign,” I murmured.
“Not that you didn’t cut a very nice figure as a man,” Averil said.
“Yeah, well . . . he could clean up okay,” Janet said, critically. “When he took the time. Which, he seldom did.”
“Thanks, Janet!” I laughed.
Janet and I took one couch, opposite Livingston and Aguia. The President took his customary chair near the Resolute Desk, and Corbin once again completed the circle, taking a chair at the other end of the couch arrangement.
“I want to thank you both for everything you’ve done,” Taryn said. “Luther and Stanley filled me in on the issue of your payment from The People last night.” He looked at his Chief of Staff apologetically. “If you’ll forgive the informality just this once.”
Corbin chuckled his deep, bass rumble. “Mr. President, you can call people whatever you like. Just don’t be surprised if none of your guests call you by your first name!” A linguist could listen to Corbin talk forever.
I smiled and shook my head. “Not in this room . . . Mr. President.”
The President grinned, then looked at General Aguia expectantly.
Aguia leaned forward. “I think we’ve got some interlocking problems here, and hopefully we can get them sorted out. First, in light of the information that you received from a questionable source, you both may – may – be in danger from Chinese agents once the alien ship leaves. Maybe Russian too, for all we know.
“Second, while we intend to reveal the existence of the aliens and the source of the battery technology in November, there’s no way to explain what’s happened to you before then. And . . . it may be better not to discuss the youthening drugs until people have gotten comfortable with the idea that we aren’t alone in the universe. It could cause bad feelings. The Russians and Chinese know about them, of course – but they each have good reasons to keep the information from getting out.
“Third, James Marshall Wainwright’s apparent disappearance has already caused a criminal investigation in Massachusetts. That’s likely to go nowhere, since – based on what Mr. Corbin learned from you this morning, Professor Seldon is also going to be unrecognizable in a month’s time. But still . . . .
“And finally, we have the problem of sixteen tons of incredibly precious metals being dropped on our doorstep. Not a bad problem to have, obviously . . . but absolutely, it’s something that creates a few complications.”
He looked around. “Am I missing anything?”
I said, “Identification. I don’t have any, and, as you just pointed out, Janet won’t either. None that will work, anyway. And, ahh . . . we may want access to at least some of the payment fast. The college where we’ve taught for the past thirty years just announced that it’s closing its doors. We’d like to do something about that, but students and faculty will already be scrambling for alternatives.”
Aguia nodded. “I assumed the first. The second . . . well, that is a complication. Let’s talk about it.”
The President said, “I’ve been in politics for fifty years, give or take, and I’ve never encountered a set of problems quite like these. But I’m sure you’ve got some ideas, Stanley. You always do.”
“Jessica proposed the first solution this morning,” Aguia replied, “and it makes a lot of sense. Give every appearance, to anyone who knows about the aliens, that Jessica and Janet – or, more specifically, Janet and a miraculously restored James – left with the aliens. Let that leak out to the Chinese and Russians. If they think they’re no longer on earth, they’ll drop it.”
I chimed in, “Even if they aren’t sure about that, they might well believe that Jessica went back to being James. This morning’s photoshoot should help, when you release the picture.”
Aguia concurred. “If they think the People reversed James Wainwright’s transformation, they won’t recognize Jessica as the same person. There really aren’t too many people who actually know what she looks like anyway.”
“Though I imagine the descriptions fairly pop,” the President observed.
Corbin coughed. Whether repressively or from humor, I couldn’t tell.
“Meanwhile, we get new identifications for the Professors. The best. Birth Certificates . . . medical records. The works. We can do Jessica’s now and Janet’s in a month. Let them vanish for a while. We don’t need to know where, and it’s better that we don’t.”
The President said, “We’re not talking about a long time, though, right? I mean, it would be awkward for either of them to claim their old identities before we go public with the news in November. But after that . . . Well, I’d think that even the Russians and the Chinese will calm down. Once we actually provide the technology to the whole world for free, they’ll at least know that they weren’t cheated. They’ll get the same thing we’re getting – without having to surrender their ‘precious’ uranium stockpiles.”
“Except they won’t get the international PR boost that we will,” Averil said, smugly.
“Yeah, there’s that.” The President looked a bit smug himself.
Aguia nodded. “I think you’re probably right, Mr. President. I would expect that the fuss will die down by next spring and the rest of the story can be told.” Looking at Janet and me, he added, “To the extent there are any lingering threats, by spring you should also be in a better position to protect yourselves. You will certainly have the resources to do so effectively.”
“I don’t want to have 24/7 security all my life!” I protested.
“Welcome to my world,” the President said dryly. “You get used to it, I hate to say. But it’s something you’ll have to deal with, whether or not the Chinese and Russians know who you are. Security is part of the package when you’re as rich as you’re about to be.”
I shook my head. I’d been right all along. Money’s a curse!
Corbin said, “We’ll need to set up some corporations for you – probably a couple of shells, so that your identities are protected – and then the proceeds from the sale of the materials to the U.S. government can be put in the corporate accounts.”
Averil interjected, “We’ll need to assay the materials, but . . . if it’s what the People told you, it’ll be worth billions of dollars.”
Aguia nodded cautiously. “Of course, the amount of material we’re talking about is a sizable percentage of the world’s known supply of the three metals. If it was dropped on the market all at once, it would significantly change the world price.”
Taryn waved the point away. “We’ll deal with it. Naturally, whatever amount we agree on, we’ll pay you, Jessica – and then you’ll pay almost half of it back in the form of federal taxes. Sucks to be you!”
“The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away,” Corbin intoned.
“Blessed be the name of the Lord!” I laughed. “So I’ll be only half as rich as I never wanted to be.”
“Something like that,” the President said. “You are an unusual person, Jessica James. . . . Most people would be happy to be rich.”
I shrugged. “I never wanted to worry about money. Or think about it, really. But this kind of wealth . . . mostly, it just seems like a big responsibility. I don’t need anything like that, so I’ll have to spend my life figuring out how to do something worthwhile with it.” I looked at Aguia and said, apologetically, “And I promise, General. I will try.
Luther Corbin chuckled. “I wish The People could turn you into a virus, so we could use you to infect the whole world.”
“Don’t give ’em ideas,” Janet warned. “For all we know, they could!”
I thought about my conversation with the Elder. They might have something like that in mind – metaphorically, praise be!
Averil said, “I understand where you’re coming from, Jessica. And I admire it, even. But . . . Saving Gryphon College, while a worthy goal, is just the first good thing you can do. You can have an amazingly impactful life.”
“Think about it, Jess,” Janet urged. “You know the sayin’, “Be yourself . . . unless you can be Batman?’ You actually can be Batman!”
I looked at my petite, curvaceous form and laughed. “No, actually, I think that one’s out.”
Her gurgling laugh joined mine. “Well, damn. Woulda been cool if you could.”
Corbin chimed in. “As far as an advance payment is concerned, we can probably do something just as soon as we’ve done a preliminary assay. Maybe around $100 million, assuming the material matches the aliens’ description.”
I shook my head. “And then we’ve got to somehow negotiate with the President and the Regents. God . . . I don’t know how to do this. Any of it!”
President Taryn gave me a kindly look. “We’ve got confidence in you, Emissary. You’ve been amazingly resourceful to date.”
Aguia was looking thoughtful. “I expect you’ll figure out how to really use your resources in less time than you think. But I can probably help with your immediate problem, if you’d like. I’ve got a lot of contacts in academia, and I’m a known quantity there in a way that you two aren’t – or at least, won’t be just at the moment.”
“Really!” I brightened. “Oh, my God! Yes, yes, yes!!! Any help you could provide would be an absolute godsend!”
“She’ll even pay you – real well, too, I bet!” Janet added.
I nodded enthusiastically.
Our conversation was interrupted by the sound of a loud buzz. The President turned his head and said, “What is it, Lilly?”
A voice responded from the intercom. “Professor Gavin Grimm asked to join your meeting, Mr. President. He said you might be expecting him.”
“Send him in,” the President replied.
Janet looked rebellious, but for once held her peace.
The door opened to admit Professor Grimm. Man, I thought, Don’t ever play poker!
Before the President could say anything, he practically danced into the room and stopped beside Corbin’s chair. “It’s all materials we’ve got, Mr. President – the base is silicon, not surprisingly, but the reagents are a surprise. And the manufacturing process is absolutely straightforward. I could do test-runs on this at my lab within a week.”
“Silicon,” Aguia said. “That’s interesting.”
The President laughed. “Well, how ’bout that? The Saudis are gonna purely hate this revolution, of course. But on the bright side – for them – it’s not like they’ve got a shortage of sand!”
Janet chuckled. “There it is . . . your moment of zen.”
We wrapped up our meeting soon thereafter. The President rose and shook my hand, then Janet’s. “I wish I could pin some medals on you, right now, today. But I hope you feel safe enough to reclaim your old identities, along with your new ones, in a few months. You’ve got all the time in the world – but the world can’t wait!”
“Thank you, Mr. President,” I said, feeling suddenly shy. “I never imagined I’d get closer to you than a television set. And now . . . I hope I get the chance to meet you again.”
I contacted Worm and asked him to restore the illusion of my former physique. As I turned to shut the door behind me, I heard Taryn say to Corbin, “Alright. What’s next?”
* * * * *
Half an hour later, Janet, Justin, Troi and Daichi were headed back to Troi’s house in Sterling, where the People would pick us up. General Aguia had arranged cars for us. Justin, Janet and Daichi were in one; Troi grabbed me and pulled me into the other.
“What’s up?” I asked her.
“Janet talked to me on the ride in,” she responded. “Told me . . . Jessica. James. Damn, it’s hard to think of you right when you look like an old guy. Anyhow. You have to believe me, I had no idea!”
I looked at her, trying to figure out what had her so upset. “I’m sorry, Troi. Maybe I’m just too overwhelmed to be thinking straight. What are you talking about?”
“The lawyer. Justin Abel. I had no idea the People were going to ask him to come. Not to mention, that he was your boyfriend!” She was actually wringing her hands. I’d never seen anyone do that.
I put a hand over hers, just to still them. “I didn’t think you did, Troi. The People clearly sprang it on Justin yesterday night – well after you’d accepted. And anyway . . . he was never my boyfriend.”
“That’s not what Janet told me,” she said.
“Janet,” I responded with some asperity, “Is a marvelous woman and an incurable busybody!” I softened my tone. “There was something there. I think there was. But we never had a chance to explore it.”
She bit her lip. “Jessica. Will you do something for me?”
“Of course!” I said.
“Take my place.”
“Hell, no!!!” I blurted out without even thinking.
“Well, that was a quick reversal,” she said with a quirky smile that vanished almost at once. “I’m serious. You are the best envoy we could have – and you would get your chance with this guy. Justin. The lawyer. You know who I mean! Please, Jessica. I don’t want to take this from you!”
The car was quiet, but for the white noise of tires against the asphalt. Finally, I started to laugh.
“I’m dead serious,” she repeated.
I shook my head and brought my perverse sense of humor back under control. “You’ve repaid me for the temptation I offered you yesterday. A lifetime with Justin!”
I smiled, and patted her hand. “No, Troi. He really is a wonderful man . . . as I hope you’ll discover. But I told you already, you’re the envoy we always should have had. I have – or had, at least! – a well-ordered mind. But yours is original. You have no idea how rare that is. You are unique in the best possible way. Besides . . . .”
I fell silent.
She let it go for a minute, then prodded me. “Besides?”
I looked at my hands – an old man’s hands, once again. The hands of a man who had let life slip away from him, once. An incongruously feminine smile curled my lips upward. “And besides. I would never be happy without Janet Seldon in my life. We’ve never been lovers, but she’s been the best friend I could ever have. No way – none, zero, zip – would I go off to the back of wherever and leave her behind.”
Troi looked at me carefully. “You mean that?”
“With all my heart.”
“Then you are incredibly lucky. And you’re right . . . you should never walk away from your bae.” Her eyes were bright with tears.
“I won’t,” I promised. I wasn’t familiar with the term she used, but its connotation was reasonably clear from context. “One way or another, I won’t.”
She came to a sudden decision and nodded sharply. Then she pressed the intercom button to speak with the driver, who was separated from the passenger compartment by a plexiglass partition. “Excuse me,” she said. “Could you do me a favor? We need to stop by Tysons Corner.”
“Whatever you like, Ma’am,” he replied. “I’m paid by the hour.”
“What’s at Tysons Corner?” I asked.
“You’ll see!” she replied, cryptically. She sent Janet a text to let her know what we were doing so she wouldn’t worry that we’d been kidnapped, shot, dumped in a river or something similarly unpleasant and final.
We got out of the car at a large shopping mall and she marched me inside. “Where are we going?” I asked.
“Bloomingdales,” she said, in a voice of iron.
“Because?”
“You won’t have forever. But as God is my witness, you will have now. C’mon!”
Her words suddenly got through to me and I understood just what she was proposing. I stopped dead in the middle of the mall.
She turned back towards me and gave me a look, but then thought better about saying anything.
I thought for a moment, and reached an instant decision.
Damn if she isn’t right!
“Lead on!” I ordered.
She grinned. “That’s the spirit! She grabbed my arm and propelled me forward.
As we were passing another shop, I said, “Some nice things there, Troi. Should we look?”
She looked and laughed. “Ann Taylor? Be serious! With your build? I mean, your real build . . . or, your new real build . . . Fuck! You know what I mean! Anyway. Hard no. Ann Taylor is for gals like me that need to look sleek, ’cuz we don’t have all that much by way of curves.”
“Uhh . . . yeah. That would not be my problem!” I let her lead me to Bloomingdales.
But once we got inside, I took control, and marched us straight to the lingerie section. “Let’s start with something fun,” I said, getting into it. Soon we were checking out the offerings, commenting on colors, cuts and fabrics.
I saw a woman looking at me strangely. Her expression was puzzled and more than a bit hostile.
I looked her straight in the eye and – for the last time – furrowed my mighty Wainwright brows into the trademark glower that had cowed generations of students. Without breaking eye contact, I said in an aside to Troi, “for my money, the Natori bra has the best combination of comfort and style. I love how it feels – and just adore how it makes me feel!” Allowing my brows to return to parade rest, I gave our interloper a smile and a wink.
Her eyes bugged out and she fled.
Troi managed to hold in her laughter until the woman had left, but then she exploded. “Oh, dear God! You have no idea how much I enjoyed that. If I’d only had that kind of confidence the first time I snuck into a department store to buy a bra, back before I transitioned!”
I chuckled. “Well, Janet could tell you . . . my first time wasn’t pretty. At all!”
We got lingerie. And shoes. A bit of naughty sleepwear. And, finally, a dress. I had one like it, hanging in the closet in Janet’s spare bedroom, but this one was even better. Scarlet red, silky, strapless, a slit practically up to the thigh . . . . Oh, yeah. That was my dress! I couldn’t try it on, but I knew my sizes by now. All of them.
Troi insisted on paying. “I’m not going to have any use for my money where I’m going,” she said when I protested. “Don’t worry about it.”
So I didn’t. We had quite a few bags with us when we got to Troi’s house and sent the driver off. Twenty minutes later, my wing-tipped oxfords were hitting the deck of the alien’s ship.
Janet was there to meet us. When she saw the bags, she smiled. “Nice work, Troi.” She looked at me. “You sure?”
I felt butterflies in my stomach, but ruthlessly slew them all. One, two, one two, and through and through, her vorpal sword went snicker-snack! “Hell, yes!”
“Then let us help you.” She looked at Troi. “Justin’s in his cabin . . . doin’ some work to transition his clients. I talked to Worm and got us a changin’ area.”
I was astonished. “What was in your text, Troi? Jesus!!!”
“Well, not Him,” she answered. “But enough information to go on. Janet’s no dummy.”
They led me into the cabin where I’d met with the Elder . . . and where I’d learned that Justin would be leaving. I set down the bags and looked at my hands, one more time. Goodbye, James. “Worm, you can drop my illusion now.”
It took Janet and Troi a surprisingly long time to get me prepared. The dress . . . the heels . . . the stockings . . . the hair . . . the makeup. A hint of jasmine behind each ear, and in the hollow between my breasts. But finally, I was ready. Wasn’t I? Snicker snack!
“So much as breathe, and you’re gonna pop right outta that,” Troi giggled.
Janet smirked. “This look ain’t designed to last.” She looked at the ceiling. “Worm – When Jessica enters Justin’s cabin, give them ten seconds. Then I want you to play music through the speakers. And shut off all your damned microphones!”
Worm’s voice came through the intercom in our cabin. “Is not for science?”
“Ah, no,” she replied. “It most assuredly isn’t!”
“Acknowledged, Professor Seldon.”
“Okay, girl,” she said. She flicked up the slit in my skirt, and tucked something into the top of my stockings. “Supplies. Don’t forget them!”
“Yes, Mom!” I said.
Troi hugged me – carefully! “Damn, gurl! You slay!”
Thanks to my shortened tendons, I had no trouble with the five-inch heels of my footwear, which – Troi had helpfully informed me – are colloquially known as “fuck-me” shoes. I should have been embarrassed.
I wasn’t.
Justin looked up when I came into the room. His eyes bulged and he stood up slowly, a look of awe on his mobile face.
Very satisfactory.
An eternity passed, motionless and silent. Then the intercom began to play a classic, and I walked to where he stood. Slowly. Teasingly. Keeping perfect time with the music.
Ravel’s Bolero.
* * * * *
“It’s time, love.” I gave Justin a smile.
He shrugged his coat on. “Okay. I mean; wouldn’t miss it. Except . . . .”
I grinned. “Yeah. Except.”
We’d spent the afternoon and evening together, taking a brief break for some dinner. But it was now 11:00 p.m., and the ship had been brought to rest over the Y-12 complex in Oak Ridge, Tennessee. Justin and I joined Janet, Troi and Worm in the hold, and the People made the bottom hull transparent so that we could watch.
The first thing we observed were objects, dimly lit by the pale light of a waning crescent moon, descended towards the ground.
My palladium prison.
Sensing my thoughts, Justin gave me a squeeze.
When the last of the objects had settled onto the ground in the middle of the complex, other objects broke loose from earth’s gravity and floated gracefully towards the ship, guided by the tractor beam that the Russian Federation would never get.
Worm watched their progress avidly. “My, oh my . . . what a wonderful day!” he murmured.
They passed below and then behind us; the cargo area was apparently far back in the ship. We felt, more than heard, the closing of the cargo bay door.
A sense of power, of energy, of purpose, seemed to surge through the ship. Worm shuddered, threw back his head, and practically howled, Stelllllllllaaaa!!!
We looked at him, startled and nonplussed.
Janet drawled, “is that a ten-gallon hat, or are you just enjoying the show?”
He lowered his head and said, “Gonna rock around the clock tonight!”
It was done.
The ship returned to its resting point over Sterling, Virginia less than an hour later. All of us terrestrials were going to be staying at Troi’s house for the remainder of the night.
Troi gave Janet her bedroom. “I’ve got stuff to do,” she said. “And not really enough time to get it done. I’ll have plenty of time for sleeping, soon!” She disappeared into her study.
Justin and I took the guest bedroom. I figured he’d have plenty of time to sleep later, too, so he didn’t get much. But he fell asleep around 4:00 a.m.
For a half hour, I lay beside him, propped on one arm, memorizing the lines of his face. The texture of his dark hair. The warmth of his body and timing of his breathing, of the slow rise and fall of his chest. His scent, so unlike my own, elusive, hints of sandalwood and musk. I lovingly recalled every touch . . . every caress . . . each sweet and tender kiss . . . .
I realized, lying there in the predawn darkness, that I had completed my personal passage into womanhood and my new life. The love I felt for this good and decent man had allowed me to breach the last psychological barriers my former self retained and sweep them away. I had held a man’s sex with wonder in my eyes and longing in my heart, feeling no strangeness. I had fondled it, kissed it, and welcomed it home. He had buried himself deep inside me, and I had opened myself to him – completely, willingly, joyously. An instant of sharp pain, and wave after wave of pleasure so intense it made me cry out in astonishment. Just remembering brought tears.
“You are so very beautiful,” I whispered.
Even in his sleep, he heard my voice. He smiled.
With a sigh, I pulled myself out of bed and padded to the attached bathroom. I did my business without thinking. At least the toilet didn’t see fit to bathe and warm me! Then I slipped into the nightgown and peignoir that Troi bought me at Bloomingdales, and went into the kitchen.
Troi was there, sitting at her kitchen table, a mug of tea in her hands.
“Can I join you?” I asked, not wanting to disturb her.
“Please. Want some tea?”
“Don’t go to any trouble.”
“I made a pot.” She grabbed a mug and poured me some. “Earl Grey, hot.”
We sat in companionable silence. Dawn was still some time away.
Almost simultaneously, we asked, “Any regrets?”
I giggled. “You first.”
She looked at me over the rim of her mug. “No. I’ll miss this place . . . I’ll miss writing. Well, I still can write. I’ll miss the feedback I get from the readers, though. If I write more now, I don’t know that anyone will ever see it. But with all that said . . . I’m Gucci. Life here was hard for me and I coped by making it all an adventure. This is the greatest adventure anyone’s ever had. To infinity, and beyond!”
“Wait . . . you can’t go further than . . . .”
She stopped me with a smile. “I know. Janet mentioned you were like this. You need to get out more!” Putting down her cup, she said, “Now your turn.”
I shook my head. “No regrets – and that’s largely thanks to you. I wouldn’t have had the guts to approach Justin, knowing he was leaving, unless you’d pushed me. And what a memory!”
“You’ll always have Paris?” Her smile was a touch rueful.
I laughed. “Well, Sterling, anyway. The setting doesn’t matter. We didn’t get out much.”
That made her chuckle. “Yeah, I noticed. But . . . you’re sure you don’t want to go in my place?”
“More certain than ever. Which is no knock on Justin, believe me. But if he’d left – if we hadn’t had yesterday, and last night – I’d have had regrets for the rest of my life. It’s hard to let him go, but . . . I can, now. He’s an adventurer at heart, like you. Like Janet too, I guess. I’m . . . I’m something else. I don’t know what yet.”
“You da bomb, girl, that’s what you are! I wish I had a bit longer to get to know you. I really do.” She fell silent, drinking her tea.
In the distance, a rooster misread the time.
“Jessica . . . Do you think . . . I mean. Damn. I don’t know how to ask this. But . . . .”
I smiled, understanding at once. “You’ll be okay, Troi. You’re an amazing woman – an amazing human. And Justin is a fine, fine man. Give each other a chance. Please. For both your sakes . . . and for my sake too.”
We talked for a bit longer. I wished I could have gotten to know her better too. But I had enough time with her to know that Justin would be in the very best of hands.
Janet joined us as the sun was coming up. Seeing us together, she smiled. “Told you she was special, Jessica! Don’t worry, Troi. I’ll get her to read your books. Every one of them!”
“Well, I’ll need something to do, while we’re getting through your transition time!” I replied.
“When are you getting your shot, Janet?” Troi asked.
“Worm’s bringing it tonight when they come back from the shake-down cruise.” They were taking the ship on a ‘short hop’ toward lunar orbit just to test the trim of the cargo hold.
I shook my head. “I hope to God they don’t crash. Worm seemed positively high last night!”
Troi followed up with the one question I’d lacked the nerve to ask Janet. “So . . . are you just going to get younger, or did you opt to change your gender, too?”
Janet smiled and poured herself some coffee – we’d just made a pot. “I couldn’t decide,” she said casually, sitting down with us. “I told him to surprise me.”
* * * * *
The sun had set, and the four of us were together on a golf course, far from prying eyes.
We’d had a good day. Justin and Troi both had a lot to do to tie up the loose ends of their lives. Leaving all of their money behind complicated things, but also made them simpler. Justin’s clients in civil cases were more than willing to just take his money rather than fight in court for their adversaries’.
But it hadn’t been all work, and I’d made sure there was time for Troi and Justin to get to know each other better while there were still other people around to provide a bit of a buffer. It was just a beginning, but it had been a good beginning.
Justin and I had our memories. And we’d said our good-byes, quietly and tenderly, before coming out to the site.
Worm descended from the sky at a leisurely pace and landed lightly beside us. He still had an air of excitement, of anticipation, about him – an energy he had lacked in our earlier encounters. But his voice seemed under control. “Are ready, Janet Seldon?”
Her grin split her face. “Boo-yeah, Ensign! Hit me!”
He jabbed a large needle into her gluteus maximus. He removed it, looked at her with his owl eyes, and said, “Nanu, Nanu, Professor.”
“Nanu, nanu to you too, Worm,” she said, the wince from the shot modulating her grin. Maybe “grincing” should be a word?
“Justin Abel . . . Troi Harris. You prepared are?”
They looked at Janet and me.
Janet’s grin conquered the remains of her wince. “Smiles, everyone! Smiles! You two represent the whole damned human race. No pressure. But, ya know . . . DFU!”
I smiled at them both. Bravely.
They smiled back, and then gave Worm the nod.
The Ensign turned to me last, his face, as always, largely devoid of human expression. He raised his right hand and splayed his fingers. “Live long and prosper, Jessica James.”
I touched my hand to my heart. “Godspeed you home . . . my friend.”
“Three to beam up.”
They drifted skyward. Janet and I watched until they were gone from sight.
“Damn. I’m going to miss all of them,” I said.
“My butt hurts,” Janet replied, prosaically. “Did your butt hurt like this?”
We returned to Troi’s house for the night, intent on leaving at first light for the most obscure locale we could think of. But as we walked into the house, my phone rang. I didn’t recognize the number, but the ID indicated that the call originated in “Orion’s Shadow.”
I put it on speaker. “Hello?”
“Jessica James,” Siri’s voice responded. “We are secured and ready for departure. When we reach our destination, your name will live forever in the Story of the People.”
All I could manage was a hoarse, but heart-felt, “thank you.”
“Ensign Worm, the uranium is secured?”
“Boo-yeah!” the Ensign replied, echoing Janet.
“Set course for home. Maximum Warp.”
Worm’s response was an enthusiastic, “Yabba Dabba Doo!!”
The last thing we heard from them was music that made Janet first chuckle, then laugh out loud. I didn’t recognize it initially, but as soon as the refrain pounded through the phone’s speaker, beautiful, healing laughter bubbled up from the very depths of my soul.
Worm had a sense of humor after all.
Lookin' for some hot stuff baby this evenin'
I need some hot stuff baby tonight
I want some hot stuff baby this evenin'
Gotta have some hot stuff
Gotta have some love tonight!
* * * * *
Epilogue: All Good Things
November 8, 2022
Aberdeen, South Dakota
We had just finished breakfast and were looking forward to another busy day of doing good while still remaining unobtrusive.
“You have to do the cleanup, ’cuz you borrowed my blue dress!” To emphasize her point, Janet poured herself a second cup of coffee.
Her transition had gone far more easily than mine, largely because she had not, in the end, changed genders. President’s Taryn’s compliments must have finally convinced Ensign Worm that there was nothing wrong with my proportions, because Janet shared every luscious curve of them, coupled with a face that would melt the hardest heart. Kind of a cross between the two Hepburns, I thought.
It was nice being able to share clothes.
The first thing on our agenda for the morning was reviewing the most recent update from the President of Gryphon College. He had been good about sparing us details concerning current operations, which were largely unchanged. The college’s sudden decision to close, followed by its even more sudden reversal of that decision less than a week later, meant that the student body was considerably smaller than it was already going to be, but the only people who had lost their jobs so far were President Colerage and the entire Board of Regents.
The only professors that hadn’t returned were James Wainwright and Janet Seldon. They’d disappeared. It was a scandal, and – as Janet said – woomers were wunning wampant. Though none, for once, was stranger than the truth.
What we were really interested in were the new directions the President was planning to take the college, aided by the ad hoc and extremely unconventional group of advisors he had assembled for that purpose. He was proving himself, in this setting as in every other, to be a master at herding cats and marshaling resources. Major generals are good at that.
At least the more modern ones.
One of the “first fruits” of his new administration was the creation of a new institute, the focus of which had not yet been announced. But the college was abuzz with the news that he had managed to recruit Professor Daichi Kurokawa, currently on leave from UCLA, to head it up. Gryphon seldom managed to lure away tenured professors at top-twenty universities. What the faculty did not yet realize was that they had landed one of the foremost experts in the world on the first alien civilization to visit earth.
Kurokawa was in Sharm el-Sheik at present, though that was not widely known. Janet and I knew that he was there, unofficially, as an advisor to the President, who was leading the U.S. delegation at the Climate Conference. Kurokawa’s presence – and the reason for it – would be made clear later in the day, when President Taryn gave his speech to the delegates. Amazingly, news of the alien’s visit had not leaked, and today was the big reveal.
The President’s decision to lead the U.S. delegation personally had thrown the international order into disarray and scrambled the schedules of innumerable heads of state. But his team had promised a substantive discussion of technology transfer, and that had been a real draw. We were eagerly awaiting his speech.
But in the words of one of those poets Janet had me read, “the best laid schemes o’ Mice an’ Men Gang aft agley.” Sometimes in the strangest possible way. The doorbell rang, and, after our security cameras revealed nothing more sinister than a middle-age guy with a bored expression and a pot-belly, I opened the door to the cold November air. Maybe we should have gone to Bolivia instead. “Can I help you?”
He looked a bit taken aback.
I’d gotten used to my appearance having that effect on unprepared men, though I did not take as much overt delight in it as Janet did.
But he set his shoulders and said, “I expect you can, young lady.” As Janet joined me at the door, he added, “And your sister, too.”
I looked at him expectantly. “Yes? And?”
“Miss, you’re supposed to be in school.”
Absurd! “What’s it to you?” I challenged.
“What’s it to me? Well, it’s my job. I’m the truancy officer. Come on now, you both need to come with me.”
Janet and I looked at each other and began to laugh, and once we started we couldn’t stop. We laughed until we howled, tears were streaming down both of our faces, our makeup was a disaster and the truancy officer was looking acutely uncomfortable.
“Holy hand grenade of Antioch!” Janet gasped. “How did we not see that coming?”
The End.
* * * * *
Author’s Note: Joy Be With You All
If everyone will indulge – and Erin forgive – me, I’d like to take just a moment to break the Third Rule.
This is about you. It’s all about you.
Starting a serial is like volunteering to pilot a ship without knowing how big it is, how long the voyage will be or how many stops you’ll take, while having only the vaguest notion of the final destination. The only thing that prevents disaster, week after week, episode after episode, is the people who are crazy enough to get on the boat with you.
To everyone who read the story, thank you. And an extra thank-you if you left a kudo or two along the way. Unless you’ve posted a story, you can’t know how much that means.
This is the third story I’ve posted in serial form and it was by far the hardest to write. But the comments I received for every installment kept me powering through, when my brain was fried and my so-called muse was swirling her hips at some hotter chicks in a writer’s bar somewhere in Orion’s Shadow. (Aside: muses are hussies. My advice: make ‘em welcome when they stop by, but don’t wait for ’em).
I read every comment, I thought about them, and I took joy, energy, and sometimes direction from them. You made me think, and think again, and come up with answers to problems that hadn’t even occurred to me, and better answers to ones that had.
So let me name names. A special thank you to Catherd, Kimmie and Guest Reader (the amazing trio who always kept the discussions lively), to that courtly, sweet and thoughtful gentleman Robert Louis, to Dee Sylvan (truly the kindest, most affirming commenter on the site, and a genuine, warm, and wonderful woman), BelfastCity (whose relevant knowledge base left me trembling), Rachel Moore (about whom more later), Dot (“DorothyColleen,” the queen of huggles), Joanne (“Joannebarbarella,” a font of wit and wisdom), Jill (“Angela Rasch;” see infra paragraph 7), Karen J (who helped keep the story from going too far down the rabbit-hole of silliness), Barb (“BarbieLee,” that crazy cowgirl), Bru-of-the-razor-wit, AlisonP (who welcomed me to BCTS and always reads my scribblings), Julia Miller, Dreamweaver, Erin Halfelven, Dave (the wonderfully empathetic “Outsider”), Dallas (“D. Eden”), Maxkm70 (I wish I could have given you more Italian humor!), Terrynaut-of-the-eight-parakeets, Syldrak, Patricia Marie Allen, Eric, D_2008, Ricky, Withheld, Ellipsis, Diana (“Geekydee”), Polly (“Intrigue75”), Sarah Selveg, Stacy, Byteback (I did finally allude to your joke!), Cbee, Court, Emily 63, Erisian, Gwen Brown, Hypatia Littlewings, Iolanthe Portmanteau, Jeri Elaine, Joreymay, Ronni (“Laika”), Lisa Danielle, Leona MacMurchie, Marina (“Md”), Meadow Greene, Mondial88, Oz1eye, SamStarlight, Sara_J, ShadowCat: 12, Siteseer, Speaker, Tmf and Winter Cark. This story would not have been written – or at least, it might not have been finished, without your input and encouragement.
Beyond the comments, which everyone has seen and appreciated, Catherd gave me frequent proofreading catches (and humorous asides) on the QT and Jill Rasch gave me a thorough edit of the first several chapters, providing me with a template for writing more effective dialogue (where I’ve fallen short, it’s on me). Jill also helped me with some key cultural references and frequently boosted this story in blog comments. Every time she did, readership spiked. Jill, you are the E.F. Hutton of BC/TS.
A very special thanks to Rachel Moore, who’s had to “listen” to me freaking out more Tuesdays than not, when the weekly installment resisted my increasingly panicked efforts to come together. She beta tested some difficult chapters, encouraged me to have faith in my writing when faith was warranted, and gently talked me out of some of my crazier ideas. Rachel is a brilliant writer who knows how to keep it real. She’s an even better friend. Rachel, as Troi Harris would say (quoting you), “you da bomb, girl!
And a final note of appreciation to Erin/Joyce for creating and sustaining this incredible space for writers and readers of trans stories. You are an inspiration to me. As a writer, because I aspire to your light and deft touch with characters, dialogue and humor, and as a person, because of your dedication to this amazing community. One of the characters I sketched in this story is an homage of sorts. I left you plenty of clues. ;-)
Dee likened our comments group to the Cheers bar, so let me leave you with this.
But since it falls unto my lot
That I should rise and you should not
I'll gently rise and softly call
Good night and joy be with you all.
Emma Anne Tate
3rd March, 2023
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
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The house was perfect. Perfect for me, anyway; I don’t need a lot of space. The single bedroom and full bath were upstairs; The downstairs held only a small kitchen, a half bath and an all-purpose room. The old guy who had owned it before — Richard Kelly, according to the tax records — had allowed trees and shrubs to grow between the house and its nearest neighbor, so it had the privacy I craved.
What really sold the house was the view. The back of the house faced the Atlantic, and a narrow path wound through massive slabs of lichen-encumbered granite to a narrow and rocky beach, some fifty yards below the ridge where the house was located.
The day I went to see the house was perfect, too. Brilliant white clouds scattered across a cobalt blue sky; crispness in the air that would not last long into the summer morning. From the ridge, I could see whitecaps stretching far out into the Gulf of Maine.
“You won’t find many places like this,” the guy from Century 21 said. Bill Davis. That was his name. For some reason I had trouble remembering it. Or him, really. Might have something to do with his penchant for stating the obvious, the completely obvious, and nothing but the obvious.
Blah, blah, blah. It was just a conversation about value, about offer and acceptance. I understood those. How they worked; the rhythm of them. The dynamics. “It’s a tear-down,” I countered without having to give it any thought. I had no intention of taking a wrecking ball to the house, of course, but any other buyer almost certainly would. In an age of McMansions, a modest structure would not long survive on such a perfect piece of property.
“Location, location,” chided Bill. “You can’t beat it — or even match it.”
I was eager to be rid of Boring Bill. “Look. You said the family wants a quick sale, no fuss no muss. Fine. Four seventy-five, cash, no Hubbard, no inspection, if we close by the end of the month. They can take whatever’s inside, or leave it. I don’t care which.”
“That’s way below what they’re asking,” he warned, precisely as if I was unaware of that fact despite having looked at the listing online.
“That’s my offer. Tell them it’s a last best, too.”
“I don’t know how well that’ll go down, Phil.”
I was annoyed at his use of my first name. I hadn’t asked him to call me that, and it irked me that he just presumed. Everyone just assumes you’re good with it, and I’m not. I’m afraid my response was a bit sharper than usual. “Then why don’t you find out for me?”
* * * * *
Ten years, I’d lived in New York. Ten years. And I was able to take all my worldly possessions with me in a rented SUV. My rented furniture went back to the company.
There were no tearful goodbyes. No stops at a favorite watering hole, buying one last round for my buds. I didn’t have any of that — watering holes, friends, whatever. I was a workaholic, completely useless in any environment that required skills that were social rather than technical. I’d done well, financially, but when I was offered the big step up on the ladder, I decided it was time to walk away instead.
My life sucked, and I couldn’t even say why. I just needed to figure myself out, and a tiny, secluded house on the rocky New England coast seemed like as good a place as any, and better than most.
After three days, it was almost habitable. The family that I’d bought it from lived down in Georgia; near as I could tell, they had no use for old man Kelly and even less for his stuff. No one came up to sort through it. So I’d taken a lot of trips to the local dump, clearing out his oddities. He’d died at home, in his own bed, so I did feel compelled to get a new mattress. The rest of his furniture was fine, though. Worn and dated, but I didn’t care about that.
I thought the old man must have been a lot like me. He hadn’t had a lot of things. Not even a lot of clothes; the closet and bureau were almost empty, and what was there wasn’t even worth giving to the Goodwill. The kitchen was spartan, and I didn’t need much more than what he had. It was fine.
But he’d passed away half a year ago or so, and everything needed a thorough cleaning. It felt good, really. Simple tasks that I could perform, that gave immediate results. And I was making a running list of the things I would need to take care of. Electric outlets that didn’t work; a bit of a leak in the toilet; a few warped boards on the stairs that creaked excessively. That sort of thing.
I nearly jumped out of my skin when the doorbell jangled. I hadn’t expected any visitors and honestly didn’t want any. Probably some salesman. I made my way to the front door from the kitchen, drying my hands.
The door was solid, with no peephole, so I had to open it to find out who rang the bell. Something to add to my “fixit list,” I thought. With a sigh, I school my features not to scowl — no use getting off on the wrong foot — and swung the door inward.
A middle-aged woman with a plump figure and a pleasant smile stood on the stoop holding some sort of baking dish. “Good afternoon!” she said. “I’m Sue Gallagher, from next door. Welcome to the neighborhood!”
“Uh, thank you.” I was about to extend a hand in greeting, but realized she didn’t have a free one. My mind momentarily froze. What am I supposed to say to strangers who show up unexpectedly, being friendly? “I’m, uh, Philip Beauchamp.” Something more, right? “Won’t you come in?”
The pleasant smile never left her face; if anything, it got deeper. “Maybe just for a minute. Pa’s sleeping, but I don’t like to leave him alone very long. Alzheimer’s, you know.”
I stepped aside to let her in, thinking of what she had said. “No, I didn’t know. I’m . . . sorry?” I should be sorry about something like that, right?
“That’s all right,” she said. “We get on. Here, I baked you a pie — my apple’s the best in the whole county. People say it’s to die for!”
I took the pie from her, uncertain whether I was supposed to offer her some. The whole “neighbors dropping by” thing was not part of my experience, and I was feeling tense. “Well, thank you again,” I said, figuring that was always safe. “I’m afraid I haven’t really gotten settled yet, or I’d, ah, offer you something.”
“Don’t you fuss about that. I’m just glad to have someone living here again— and it’s a big plus that it’s someone closer to my age.”
She looked like she was in her mid forties, give or take. “I’m thirty-two,” I said, maybe a bit abruptly.
The smile never wavered. “That’s great,” she said cheerfully. “Though you might find it’s a bit dull in this neck of the woods! Now listen. You need anything — cup of sugar, whatever — I’m just next door, and I’m home most of the time.” She looked around. “Nice cleaning job you’re doing!”
Something about the way she said it made me ask, “You’ve been over before?”
“Me? No. Old man Kelly, he kept to himself.”
“Okay. Well . . . thanks again,” I said, unsure where to go with the conversation. “I’m sure I’ll be seeing you around.”
“Right. Philip, then? See you around.”
Philip! But . . . neighbors, right? Neighbors call each other by their first names. Be stupid for her to call me “Mr. Beauchamp,” wouldn’t it? I saw her to the door and breathed a sigh of relief when I’d closed it behind her.
I brought the pie into the kitchen, set it on the counter top and stared at it. Do you keep pies in the refrigerator? On the counter? Do you cover them? There were easily six slices in the pie. I could push it to eight. What would I do with all that pie?
I googled it. Pie dome? Yeah, no. Didn’t have anything like that. Who am I, Martha Stewart? Fridge, then. Fine. Plenty of room there.
I’d gotten some supplies at the Wal-Mart in Portland when I passed through and it was just about dinner time. A can of Manhattan Clam Chowder and some saltines. Afterward, I hemmed and hawed, but figured I ought to have a slice of pie, too. It was just sitting there.
By 9:00 pm I was tired enough from the day that I decided I could go to bed a bit early. I went upstairs and brushed my teeth, making sure that my electric toothbrush ran the full four minutes, and I hit each quadrant front and back. “Keep good habits,” Mom used to say to me, when I was small. “You keep them, they’ll keep you.” That’s me, a kept man.
When I turned to go back to the bedroom, I noticed something hanging from a hook on the back of the bathroom door. I examined it closely, but there was no doubt at all what it was, and a very expensive specimen of the type: a woman’s nightgown. Ivory, plain except for lace at the bust and the hem, long, narrow shoulder straps like that pasta dish I liked at Olive Garden. Linguine, I thought. How had I missed it before?
I ran my finger down the fabric. It was smooth, silky smooth, cool to the touch. I couldn’t imagine what it was doing here. The old guy had lived alone, and everything about the place had screamed “bachelor.” My apartment in New York had the same feel to it. Sue Gallagher said he kept to himself.
Well . . . Nothing I needed to figure out. I would just have to toss it, along with his clothes, when I made the next dump run. To ensure that I didn’t forget about it — or forget again, since this wasn’t the first time I’d used the bathroom — I took it off the hook, folded it over, and set it on top of the narrow desk with the weird mirror that faced the big picture window in the bedroom. I was surprised at how heavy the fabric was, especially since it had looked so insubstantial.
The moon was low on the horizon, but bright enough to cast shadows in the room when I shut off the lights. In the quiet, I could hear the Atlantic thrusting against the boulders, down on the strand below the house. It was a soothing sound, and I floated down into a deep sleep.
My eyes fluttered open sometime later; I could tell because the moon was now higher in the sky, seemingly smaller and much, much brighter. Its silver light illuminated the room, allowing me to see everything clear and sharp.
I was not alone in the room!
A woman was sitting at the desk, her back to me, rhythmically brushing her long, black hair. I could only see the back of her head and her shoulders, pale and white in the moonlight, a very recognizable set of linguine-shaped straps bisecting each shoulder blade.
“What are you doing here!” I intended it as a bark, but it came out more like a frightened squeak.
She ignored me. The rise and fall of her hand as she guided the brush through her thick mane was hypnotic. I stared at it for twenty strokes, then thirty, my heart pounding, trying to work up the courage to confront her again. To say something— anything— to break the spell.
My eyelids felt heavy and I fought to keep my eyes open. Despite my best efforts, I blinked, and blinked again. It was harder to get them open the second time, and harder still the third. But with a supreme effort of will, I managed it.
The morning sunlight was streaming into the room, and I was alone. I had always been alone. I lay still for a moment, shaking off the strange dream. Then I checked my phone and found it was already 7:45.
Time to be up and doing. I got dressed, grabbed the inexplicable nightgown from the back of the chair by the desk, went downstairs and put it with the rest of the old man’s clothes.
To be continued
.
The weeks passed. I didn’t really have anything to do, for the first time that I could remember. No work to fret over, no need to study. But strangely or not, I didn’t miss it and felt no need to be doing. If I wanted to tackle one of the items on my “fixit” list, I did it, but often I was more than content to let it be. I got myself a used car down in Portland. Out in the middle of nowhere, Ubers are as scarce as subways. Mostly it sat in the garage.
There was a path along the top of the ridge; Sue Gallagher told me all the residents used it, and no-one fussed about the trespassing so long as people kept to the path. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. But my house was at the end of the path anyway and few people came all the way out. I was more than happy to use the walk myself, though. Heading west and south, I was able to take it all the way to a state park, some five miles away.
I had lived in New York a long time. It was strange to take the walk and see no people, or very few. To hear no traffic. No noise at all, really, except the cry of seagulls, the occasional crash of wave on granite, and that deep sound, like breathing, as the ocean advances and retreats, advances and retreats.
Equally unfamiliar were the smells. The ocean smell and the smell of pine. The smell of wood fires in the early morning, when smoke would curl up from fireplaces, sharp against the crystal air.
So I walked, and wandered. I got up the energy to sand and restain the Adirondack chairs on the blue slate patio off the back door of the house, and the small trestle table between them. After the job was finished I would spend hours there, just watching the ocean and feeling what little warmth the sun could still provide as the calendar moved deep into October.
Sue and I had gotten better acquainted. I was still awkward; I’m always that way, though, when I have to deal with people in an unstructured situation. But it no longer bothered me when she called me Philip, and I didn’t stutter when I called her Sue.
So it wasn’t too strange, in my new existence, that I helped her bag up all the leaves from the big red maple in the front of her yard. She invited me in afterwards for some breakfast, just the two of us.
“Pa doesn’t come downstairs anymore,” she told me. “I bring everything up to him.” She dished pancakes with fresh blueberries, sausage and two eggs onto an enormous plate and passed it to me. “There you go.”
I thanked her and brought the plate to the farm table in the kitchen, which had a view out the back. She made herself a more modestly portioned plate and joined me, plopping a small pitcher of warm maple syrup between us, an area of the table that was dark with rings from decades of meals — coffee rings and syrup rings and who knows what all. I had a strangely whimsical thought — strange for me, anyhow — that the table would probably have a lot of stories to tell, if it could talk.
“This is more food than I usually eat before dinner time,” I observed.
“I can tell,” she laughed. “Why, you’ve got no flesh on your bones at all!”
She was smiling and laughing, so I was pretty sure that was not intended to be a criticism. I probably still sounded a bit defensive, though, when I explained that food had just never been a big priority for me. “My dad used to tell me that food was fuel. I guess that’s how I’ve always thought about it.”
“Did your Mom feel that way, too?” She was smiling, still. The tone of her voice was, what? Teasing? But, not a mean sort of teasing. I didn’t think it was mean, anyway.
I shook my head. “No. Mom would spend some time on it. Like you, I guess. You kind of remind me of her, some.”
Her expression changed briefly. Maybe that had been the wrong thing to say?
I plunged on, hoping to recover. “I think it bothered her, that Dad and I would just gulp it down, then do the clean-up.”
Her smile was back. “Well, I can certainly understand that! Where do they live, your parents?”
“They’re both dead.” The phone call had come when I was in my dorm room, studying for my finance exam. The woman from the police department, telling me about the jackknifed tractor-trailer that hit their car. The following week had been a nightmare that never seemed to end. Identifying the bodies. Trying to figure out what to even do with them. Doctors and lawyers and accountants and the people from the funeral home . . . .
People from here, people from there. People, people, and more people. But the only people I’d ever been able to talk to, the only people who’d ever given a good goddamn about me, were gone and I was all alone and always would be. Always and always and always . . . .
“Philip? Philip?” A touch on my wrist jolted me out of my daymare.
“I’m sorry,” I said abruptly, starting to stand. “I should – ”
“No, you shouldn’t,” she said, overriding me. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have pried. Please . . . finish your breakfast.” She rose quickly. “Do you like coffee, or tea?”
I sank back into the chair, feeling lost and a bit confused. “Tea?”
“You just sit still and eat a bit more, then. I’ll get you a cup.”
She fussed about the kitchen without saying anything, for which I was grateful. After a minute, I started picking at the food, figuring that I should be polite. It was fine, I suppose. I really didn’t think much about food. Maybe if I ate more of it, I’d be set until dinner time.
By the time she returned to the table with a tea pot and a couple of cups, I had myself back under control. We talked about the weather, which even I knew to be a safe topic. I talked about some of the projects on my fixit list and asked if she could recommend a handyman for a couple that were a bit much for me.
“Hmmm? No,” she said. “I don’t know anyone like that. Pa might have had a guy, but of course he wouldn’t remember now.”
We talked long enough to be polite, and I made a point of washing up all the dishes. Just like old times, when Mom used to cook. But I was still feeling unsettled when I went back to my place, and I didn’t get much done the rest of the day. I made it to my normal bedtime by force of habit and will alone.
After several weeks of living in the house, I had its sounds committed to subconscious memory. The sound that the wind made when it came up from the south and sliced against the loose shutter on the side window. The sound of the ocean when it was rough, and when it was calm. The normal creaks the house made, settling and shifting. The rattle of the water pipes when I used the shower. The sound of the fourth step in the staircase, when you hit the tread in the middle.
It was the fourth stair’s distinctive creak that roused me from my trouble sleep, my eyes popping open with a start. They darted toward the doorway, panicked, but then darted right back again, opening to their widest aperture.
The dark-haired woman had been sitting at the desk again, but she was rising and moving toward the door, towards the sound that had broken my sleep. The ivory nightgown clung to her lean body, the lace at the hem of the skirt swirling around her bare ankles.
Before I could say a word, a man appeared at the open door to the bedroom. Tall – very tall – with hair as dark as the woman’s. Coal-black and thick and curling, framing a strong face with dark, smoldering eyes under heavy, bushy brows.
The woman flung herself at him, clutching him as if he were about to disappear. Her head barely came up to his chin. Strong arms encircled her, powerful hands on her back, and the man bent to plant a kiss on top of her head.
There were no words. No sound. I wanted to jump up. To demand answers. But I felt unable to move, or to speak. My eyelids felt heavy – felt heavy again?
No!!! Not this time! I pushed myself to try to get up, to try to scream. All that came out was a croak. “How . . . ?”
They were gone.
Gone as suddenly as a light flees a room when you shut off the lamp at night time. Slowly, carefully, I sat up and got out of bed. There was no one there. No one at all. The desk was empty. I walked down the stairs and turned on the light. No one was below, either.
I felt a terrible headache coming on, so I took a couple Advil then grudgingly went back upstairs. The fourth stair creaked, as it always did. The same noise that had gotten me out of bed. Exactly the same, the only sound I had heard the entire time. But I had no answers and no better idea than to return to bed and try to go back to sleep. I didn’t hold out much hope that sleep would come, but I surprised myself. I was out almost as soon as my head hit the pillow.
With the coming of daylight, I had to dismiss the whole thing as just another bad dream. A bizarre one, certainly, but my sleeping brain had been serving up some doozies from time to time as far back as I could remember. And I’d been unsettled all day yesterday. A shrink would probably say there was a connection. Not that I would ever go see one.
I felt much better after a good hot shower – thank goodness the old man had installed a decent-sized water heater, and the regulator on the shower provided lots and lots of pressure. Good enough that I might even tackle something else on my fixit list today. I started going over it in my head, deciding on a project for the day.
I froze. The ivory nightgown was hanging on the hook behind the door. The same nightgown I had put in a plastic bag with Dick Kelly’s old jeans and flannel shirts, and taken to the dump.
The same one the woman had worn, just last night.
I knew I’d gotten rid of that nightgown. Knew it. I had a distinct memory of taking it off the hook weeks before; of putting it in a plastic bag. To say that I was shaken by its reappearance was putting it mildly. Either my mind was playing tricks on me and I wasn’t remembering things I had done . . . or my mind was playing different sorts of tricks on me.
Neither alternative was working for me, I decided.
I got dressed in some work clothes, and had a go at silencing that damned fourth stair. First I tried hammering some more nails in, along the sides. That did nothing. I decided to try screws instead, on the theory that they would grip better than nails.
No luck. The stair still squeaked. Maybe the tone was just a little sharper, but nothing more than that. I pulled out my phone and did a search on YouTube. That’s when I moved “fix the stair” to that part of the list that was going to require outside help. It was apparently a very involved job. Who knew? Well, not this city boy, that’s for sure.
One thing I could do today, and damned well would, was to put some extra locks on the doors, front and back. Before I went off to the hardware store, I made a list of what I needed from the grocery store as well. No need to make two trips. Then I locked up the house as best I could, got in the car and drove into town.
The hardware store was an intimidating place. It was old, for starters. The kind of place that has bins of nails and bolts, where the floorboards are broad old pine planks, polished and blackened over decades and decades of use, and old men in checkered shirts and suspenders are the only ones who know where anything can be found.
I’d been in several times already. The old guys were helpful, and they’d guided me to good options as I started to purchase basic tools for the first time in my life. As an apartment dweller in New York City, I hadn’t needed them much. A good hammer; a set of screwdrivers; a rake, a shovel, clippers. They told me I’d want a chainsaw sooner or later; I decided “later” sounded better. I hadn’t needed one yet, and I was A-okay with that.
“Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp.” The guy behind the counter smiled toothily. Cartwright, his name was, and he was from a generation that did not take liberties with first names unless invited. “What brings you in today? Time for the chainsaw?”
I smiled back, but I feared it was a nervous and distracted smile. “No, thank you, Mr. Cartwright. Just need to get something for the doors. Chains, bolts, something.”
His face assumed an expression which seemed consistent with concern. “Everything alright out there? No break-in or anything?” Of course, Mr. Cartwright knew where I lived. It was a small town; the fact that there was a new resident in “the Kelly house” out on Ridge Road was a matter of communal knowledge almost instantly. Another thing it had taken a while for me to get used to.
“Ah . . . no. No. Nothing like that,” I said. “Just, you know. Old habits die hard, I guess.”
“That’s right,” he said, nodding knowingly. “You came from New York CIty.” I could hear the capital letters in his voice. “I expect you’re used to locks and deadbolts and all that. ‘Course, out here, you have to worry about the animals that go on four feet, if you take my meaning.”
“Well, maybe,” I said, happy to use the explanation that seemed natural to the old guy, though I’d felt a lot less safe since I left the city. “I just feel happier knowing I’ve got something solid on the doors.”
“Right, right,” he said. “Better safe than sorry. Now, your best bet would be a genuine deadbolt. You’ll need some more advanced tools for those, though. Got to drill through the doors, if you follow me. Straight through, no wobbles, or it won’t line up proper, like.”
“Ah . . . do you have anything a bit more, basic, maybe?”
“Sure. Let’s see what we’ve got.” He walked me back to an aisle that was indistinguishable from any other area in the store, which would have taken me half an hour to find on my own. He talked as we walked. “If you’re just looking for something that you use when you’re home, there are lots of easy to install choices. Chain bolts, barrel bolt latches, that sort of thing. They’re easy, because you don’t need to be able to open them from the outside. So you don’t need to drill through the door.”
I nodded. “Yeah, that’s really all I’m looking for, I think. I don’t much care if someone breaks in when I’m not around. I don’t have a lot to steal.”
“Premises protected by poverty? Yeah, I get that, Mr. Beauchamp. I surely do.”
It wasn’t really what I’d meant, but I didn’t see any reason to argue the point. Plenty of poverty in rural Maine; I didn’t need to make trouble by telling people I was well off.
We arrived in the designated area, and he helped me pick out a couple of latches that could be installed with just a screwdriver. “Be a lot easier if you bought a proper drill, Mr. Beauchamp. Make a pilot hole first. The cordless ones are real easy, like.”
The screws didn’t look all that big to me, so I figured I could do without the drill for now. Like the chainsaw, I found them all a bit intimidating. While he was ringing me up, I asked if he knew someone who could do odd jobs – plumbing, carpentry, basic electrical.
“Oh, sure,” he said easily. “Everyone ‘round here calls Dave Micklewaithe. He’s my son-in-law, so you know, but he’s good and reliable and don’t gouge no-one. He’s alright. Even if he did go and steal my favorite daughter!” His eyes twinkled at the memory.
I got the number for his reliable, but thieving, son-in-law, went off to the grocery to restock the larder, and returned home. Once there, I popped my hatchback, grabbed the groceries first, and carried them to the door to the kitchen.
But I was overcome by a completely irrational urge. Cursing myself for an idiot, I put down the groceries, and opened up the black garbage bag, just to make sure that the nightgown was still where I had placed it. The creamy silk shimmered in the low light. Almost without volition, I reached a finger down and stroked it gently, again feeling a jolt of electricity.
Shaking my head to clear it, I closed up the garbage bag, brought in the groceries and put them away. Then I started my project. It quickly became apparent why Mr. Cartwright had tried to sell me a drill, as it proved far harder than I had thought to push the screws into the very solid front door. By the time I was finished, my hands were red and sore and I was sweating despite the autumn chill in the air.
Lunch, certainly, before I tried to do the back door! Anything to give my poor aching hands a break. PBJ on white, some water to wash it down. Nothing exciting; exciting is overrated anyway. I lingered over the icewater, my eyes turned to the sea. A gull was riding the ridge thermal, doing a lazy 180 as it hit the outcropping just north of my house and heading back the way it came.
I got up to clear my plate and hesitated, then slipped out the garage door. The bag was where I had left it. The nightgown was still in the bag . . . still silky smooth, charged with electricity. Slowly, gently, I pulled it from the bag and lifted it to my cheek, feeling the cool of the fabric, breathing in a faint, elusive scent. I stood for a moment, mesmerized, my eyes closed, just somehow soaking in the experience of the garment, before shaking my head, thrusting it back into the bag, and getting back to work.
Once I had new locks on the doors, I kept myself busy by taking a long walk, striding quickly along the ridge path, watching the whitecaps as the wind picked up from the south, allowing the sounds of the sea to soothe my troubled spirit. I hadn’t felt right since remembering my parent’s death yesterday. It had been twelve years. Surely I should be over all of that after twelve years!
At the end of the day, I added to my night time ritual by going around and locking each of the new locks that I had installed. I washed, brushed my teeth, and made sure that the nightgown was not hanging on the door. Once I was satisfied, I stripped down to my T-shirt and boxers and slipped into bed.
I felt like I was barely asleep when a loud “thump” got my attention – the south wind had pulled a shutter loose and it whacked loud against the clapboard. Something else I would need to deal with . . . later. I turned my attention back to the mirror to finish removing my makeup, when the “thump” sounded again.
I sighed and rose, smoothing my nightgown against my thighs as I moved toward the window. But movement outside caught my eye. A man stood on my patio, looking up at me, and our eyes met. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a look that could burn the frost off of any heart.
A man? No. My man.
I walked to the closet and slipped a long, fleece robe over my thin nightie, belting it tightly, then slid my bare feet into my warmest pair of slippers. Then I was down the stairs and at the back door. It took me a moment to figure out why the door refused to open, but once I did I slipped the new bolt back and walked down the two steps to where he waited for me.
I crossed to where he stood and put my head against his broad chest, waiting until I felt the warmth of his encircling arms. The feeling of one-ness that happened whenever he touched me. The feeling that I was whole and complete, loved, understood, and cherished.
We spoke no words. None even occurred to me. It was enough that he was here, with me. I felt his kiss on the top of my head, then he turned to stand by my side, one arm holding me tight against him at the waist. He walked me down toward the ridge and when we reached it we stood, arm in arm, watching the waves crash in the light of the moon, as the south wind lifted my long black hair.
I don’t know how long we stood there, he and I, content to be together, enjoying the closeness we always felt in each others’ company. Hours, maybe. I should have been cold, chilled to the bone, but I was warm instead. Warm and content.
At the first hint of pale light in the east, he pulled me around and escorted me back to the house . . . my house. By the back steps, he took me in his arms again and kissed me deeply, sweetly, and I returned the kiss in a way that left no doubt as to my own feelings. He stepped back, holding both my hands. Then he lifted them, kissing first one, then the other, before letting me go, and walking away down to the path.
I stayed where I was, watching my love until he was gone from sight. Finally feeling the cold, I went inside and back to my bedroom. After finishing my toilette and returning to bed, I fell at once into a deep and dreamless sleep, a smile on my lips.
I felt unusually refreshed. Maybe I had slept better, deeper than usual. I sat up and popped out of bed to get the alarm, but tumbled to the ground an instant later with my legs all tangled, confused and off-balance. Glaring at the treacherous sheets, only to discover their complete innocence.
My legs were tangled up in the nightgown!
To be continued
.
My dream came back to me as I lay on the floor, trying to make sense of my suddenly crazy world. I remembered every detail. Every feeling. I didn’t know the man from Adam. Didn’t know his name; hadn’t seen him before as far as I could recall. But I had known him. I had . . . loved him. And he loved me. The feeling, when he held me, had been indescribably beautiful and perfect.
And completely, totally foreign to me. No one had ever loved me, other than my parents. And their love had been nothing like what I had felt last night. Felt in a dream. The unfairness of it hit me like a freight train and I found myself doing something I hadn’t done in over a decade. I wasn’t crying, I was sobbing. Lying on the floor of my bedroom in a nightgown, bawling my heart out.
The need to stop my stupid phone’s noise finally galvanized me to get off the floor. My phone was on the desk. It hadn’t occurred to me before that the purpose of the weird mirror behind the desk was to allow it to be used as . . . what was the term? A vanity? A place where a woman would do her makeup. I had a sudden recollection of the desktop covered with tubes and pots and atomizers, none of which meant anything to me at all.
My image in the mirror stopped me cold. I should have looked ridiculous, but somehow I didn’t. For once, I didn’t look “skinny” or “scrawny” or any of those other terms people had used over the years. I looked slender. My narrow shoulders looked attractive rather than absurd; my long neck was graceful rather than geeky.
What?
My face was still very much my face, and my sandy brown hair was short and unkempt. But even so, dressed as I was, I looked more like a woman than a man. I’d never seen myself that way before; now, I wasn’t sure how I’d missed it. I noticed a bulge where one did not belong and felt a crazy desire to tuck it away, to hide it, so that the long, silky nightgown hung properly.
Okay, Philip. Get a goddamned grip! I stopped the phone alarm and turned purposefully away from the mirror. I had a dream. It was vivid. And I . . . what? Sleepwalked? Downstairs to retrieve the nightgown from the trash bag. All of which was . . . just super weird. Freaking, super, weird.
I slipped the straps of the nightie off my shoulders, and the fabric slid down my body, causing me to shiver, before it pooled at my feet. Why do I feel such regret?
I took refuge in habit. Routine. I marched into the bathroom, took my five-minute shower, brushed my teeth and got dressed. Leaving the nightie in its liquid state on the floor of the bedroom – I was afraid to touch it – I went downstairs and had my bran flakes and skim milk.
Mentally, I pulled up my fixit list and thought about what needed doing, resolving to keep myself fully occupied. I gave a call to the number Mr. Cartwright provided for his son-in-law.
“This is Dave,” the man answered after a single ring.
“Good morning, Mr. Micklewaithe,” I responded. My name is Beauchamp. Philip Beauchamp. Mr. Cartwright at Donegal’s Hardware said you did some handyman work?”
“Pays to marry right,” he responded, sounding jovial. “I sure do. You're the guy that bought the Kelly place, right?”
I sighed. Small towns. “Yes, that’s me. I’ve got some creaking stairs – really just one that’s bad, but a couple could use some help. And it looks harder than I’m comfortable trying.”
“Yeah, that job’s a lot harder’n most people think, for sure. I can come by, have a look and give you a price. That suit?”
“Yes. Absolutely. What time works for you?
“I might be able to stop by the end of the day, or maybe tomorrow morning. Either of those work for you?”
“Either would be fine,” I replied. “I can be here whenever.”
“Tell you what,” he said. “I’ll shoot you a text if I can make it today, maybe a half hour in advance. You let me know then whether it works.”
We agreed on that and ended the call. I sat for a bit longer, trying to settle my nerves and figure out how to spend the rest of the day. It was pleasant out, so I decided to clear some of the deadwood and brambles from the wild area between my house and Sue’s.
I put on work gloves, thick canvass things that I hoped would provide some protection from brambles and thorns, and plunged into the task. It was hot work, and occasionally nasty. There were plenty of things growing up there that looked ratty, not to mention deadfall from some of the trees. I had to watch for poison ivy while I was at it, checking my phone to make sure I had identified it properly. I had bought some special pesticide to kill the harmless looking vines.
Sometime in the early afternoon, I heard Sue calling my name from next door. “Hey, neighbor!” she said, walking over. “A fine day’s work you’ve been putting in. I brought you a Gatorade.”
She couldn’t have picked a better time, or a better present. “Thank you, you’re a life saver,” I said. I took down the entire bottle of Gatorade in one go, and I don’t think I’d ever tasted anything so good before.
“If food’s fuel, that there must be rocket propellant,” she joked.
“That’s the truth,” I replied. A smile seemed appropriate, so I did that. “Thanks so much. I, ah . . . .” I stopped, embarrassed. “I was just about to invite you to come over for some lunch, but I realized that I only have the makings for PBJs.”
She returned my smile. I expect hers looked more natural; I could never trust my own not to look gruesome. She said, “That’s so sweet of you. But listen, I actually made up some meatloaf just this morning. Why don’t you come over to my place instead, and we can share it?”
“I don’t want to impose, really!” I was still embarrassed; I should be able to entertain people, I guess. Pick up some stuff at the store, just in case. It was a foreign concept, but I could suddenly see the utility of it.
“No imposition. Pa doesn’t eat much, and I don’t need half of what I made. Besides, it’ll be nice to have this area cleaned up like you’re doing. I didn’t want to say anything, your being new and all, but Mr. Kelly kind of let it grow wild.”
“Well, if you’re sure,” I said hesitantly. When she nodded with apparent enthusiasm, I said, “Let me just tidy up. I’ll be over in maybe twenty minutes?”
I brought the tools and the yard waste back to my garage, dropped off my gloves, and went upstairs to get cleaned up. It took a lot of scrubbing to get the dirt off of my hands, and I felt so gritty that I popped into the shower for a minute afterwards. As I toweled off, I noticed the nightgown on the door peg.
I had not moved it. I had very deliberately left it on the floor of the bedroom when I went downstairs. If I moved it after that, I had zero recollection of doing so. Either my mind was going, or it moved itself. I snorted. Or else someone snuck into the house while I was gardening to tidy up my lingerie.
My lingerie? Seriously?
But I said I would join Sue, and I do what I say I’ll do. Cursing at my crazy brain, I stormed into the bedroom and grabbed some clean things from my nearly bare closet and bureau. Shorts. Socks. Jeans. Hoodie. Sneakers. I ran a comb through my short hair as I tore down the stairs and out the front door.
Sue noticed my flustered state right away. “Philip? Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. I mean, I’m fine. Just, well . . . .” I couldn’t think of a way to end the sentence without sounding like a dangerous lunatic. Lamely, I added. “Fine. Just fine.”
She had a peculiar expression on her face. A searching look, maybe? I couldn’t be certain. But she reached out, touched my arm lightly, and said, “Well, that’s great then. Come on in, let’s eat.”
I managed to restrain my impulse to flinch when she touched me. I’m really not good with touching; never had been. But as I followed her back to the kitchen table, I thought, I didn’t have any trouble when HE touched me, did I? But, was that me?
The meatloaf was fine. I liked the fact that it was easy to chew. Mostly I don’t have meat very often because it takes so long to get it to a state where I’m comfortable swallowing. Which isn’t very efficient, and I’ve always thought food shouldn’t be complicated.
She pressed me to take a second portion and I did, mostly to be polite. She was still working on her first slice.
“Sue,” I asked, feeling a bit reckless, “do you believe in ghosts?”
She laughed. “No. I figure all that’s for the tourists.” I must have given her a blank look; she patted my hand.
I flinched.
“You know, they organize “haunted happenings” tours all over the place. Especially this time of year.” She shook her head at my still-blank expression. “You know, Halloween? Anyway, they get old timers to take the tourists around graveyards and big ol’ houses, and tell tall tales. Down in the city, they charge ten, maybe twenty bucks a head. A good hustle, you ask me.”
“I wasn’t thinking about that sort of thing,” I said uncomfortably.
“You mean, like, for real?” Her tone was registering as incredulous. Unbelieving. Maybe even . . . scornful? Maybe? I seriously wasn’t sure.
“It’s nothing,” I assured her. “Just saw . . . um . . . a light out towards the water, late at night.” It was the first thing that came into my head, and I immediately flushed, both at the lie and at the clumsiness of it. Lights . . . that would be UFO’s, right? Not ghosts.
She didn’t seem to notice. “Prob’ly just a neighbor on the path after dark. Mostly folks stay in at night, but some people don’t have the brains of a newborn kitten.”
“I’m sure you're right,” I assured her. “Some things are really strange to me, coming from the city.”
“I’d think you would be used to lights at all hours!” She smiled in a way that seemed kind of friendly. Inviting? Something nice, anyway.
“Lights? Absolutely. It’s the dark that surprises me. I had no idea that anyplace could be as dark as this place, when there’s no moon. So when I saw lights — like back home — they spooked me.”
“Literally!” she snorted.
“Yeah,” I said, embarrassed. I started to get up. “Let me take care of clean up.”
She was about to answer when there was a loud “thump” from upstairs. She jumped up, her face suddenly white. “I’ll get that later. Don’t you worry none. Let . . . let me go look after Pa.”
I should do something, right? Say something? “Can I help?”
“No!!! No! Pa — Pa’s not good with strangers now. I’ll see you later, okay?” She started herding me to the front door, an expression on her face I had not seen before. I couldn’t place it.
Before I knew it, I was back outside, feeling more than a bit unsettled. I couldn’t say that Sue’s behavior had been strange, exactly. It didn’t seem to fit with what I had experienced of her to date, though. I decided it wasn’t unreasonable to describe that as odd.
But I’d never had to deal with an aging parent, and never would. Never had any personal experience with dementia of any kind. What little I did know suggested that it was hard – very hard – for the people who took on the job of caregivers.
I made my way back to the house, changed back into my work clothes, and went back into the garden, having no desire to sit with my thoughts. For similar reasons, I stayed out of the bathroom, not wanting to encounter the confounding nightgown.
Which isn’t to say I didn’t think about it.
Sue did not re-emerge. I kept working until around 4:30, when I got a text from Dave Micklewaithe asking if this was still a good time for him to come around. I responded affirmatively and he said he’d be by around five.
I tidied up my work area, put the tools back in the garage, and bagged up all of the yard waste. I had to figure out what to do with all the deadfall branches – since I didn’t have a chainsaw – but for now I just made a neatish pile on the far side of the house from Sue’s place. No reason she should have to look at them while I worked out disposal options.
At 5:00 on the button (which button? I’ve always wondered), a big, beat-up F-350 bounced up the driveway. It probably was red, once upon a time, but between the sun bleaching, the effects of winter road salt and a liberal amount of mud, it was hard to be sure. It seemed to me like the suspension had seen better days, but it wasn’t my truck.
The driver bounced as well. At least, he kind of bounced out of the truck, then bounced up to the garage door where I was standing. “You must be . . . .” he checked himself, then finished, “Mr. Beauchamp. I’m Dave Micklewaithe.”
I looked him in the eye and met his hand firmly. I always did that when I met someone. Always.
Good habits, Philip. My mother’s voice.
“Good to meet you, Mr. Micklewaithe,” I responded. I guess I sounded kind of formal. I wasn’t sure how to do this without sounding formal. “Thanks for coming out so late.”
“No worries, no worries at all!” He was standing still – perfectly still – but managed, somehow, to give the impression that he was still bouncing. “Been a while since I was here last. Do you like my patio?”
“You did the slate patio out back?”
He smiled, big, happy and almost dog-like. “Yup. Sure did. Hot work, hauling that rock!”
“You did a great job,” I said, meaning every word. “I spend a lot of time out there.”
His smile just got bigger. “Wonderful! Well, I won’t take much of your time, Mr. Beauchamp. Let me see what you’ve got.”
“Of course.” I brought him in through the front door, which was just steps from the base of the staircase. I walked up to the fourth stair and tread on the center of the step, eliciting the usual loud creak. “That’s the bad one.” I walked up the rest of the way, noting the other three that made some noise.
Dave bounced up the stairs, taking a closer look at the problem areas, and chuckling a bit at my efforts with nails and screws. “Ayup, that seems logical, but it don’t always work.” He stood on the step, shifting his weight back and forth and side to side. “Loose at the front riser, not the stringers,” he concluded. “Is it open underneath?”
“Uh . . . yeah. There’s a closet under the stairs. Kind of tight in there.”
“Oh, like Harry Potter, right? Let me see.” He popped down the stairs and into the closet. It didn’t have a light, and I had to confess that I hadn’t acquired a flashlight. He gave me a look. “No worries, I got my phone. But . . . you should get a real flashlight, you know? We get some monster storms boiling up from the south, knock out power four, five times a year. Safety first, know what I mean?”
He spent a bit of time in the closet before emerging and dusting himself off. “Yeah, I can do it. Couple hour job, tops. Maybe the end of next week? How’s ninety-five dollars sound? The work’s guaranteed.”
“That would be fine.” Truth is, I thought it would be more. In Manhattan, it would have been a lot more, and the estimate probably wouldn’t have been free. But I wasn’t going to say anything about that. In fact . . . . “You know, if you have a day open, there are a few other projects I could use some help with. I could pay you for the day, and we could get as much done as time permits?”
“Yeah, I can make that work. Get it done before winter, whatever it is.” He looked around with curious eyes. “Looks like you haven’t made many changes. Any chance I can have a look at that patio? I’d like to see if it settled okay.”
“Sure,” I said, and led him out through the kitchen.
He looked closely at the patio, bending down to run his hands over a few of the rocks, getting a feel for how even it all was. “I like the moss that’s grown up between the slabs. Makes it look like it’s been here forever.”
“When did you install it?”
He thought for a minute. “Must be fourteen, fifteen years back. It was after Carson was born, but before Stacy, I think.” He suddenly smiled, a funny kind of smile. Maybe . . . mischievous? “Tell you a story? Probably shouldn’t, but the old man’s gone now, so no harm, right?”
Normally I had no patience for anything that smacks of gossip. It’s . . . unproductive. But after the weird experiences I’d had in this house, I was uncharacteristically curious about its prior owner. “Of course.”
“Well,” he said, drawing the word out. “I finished the job up on a Wednesday, and Dick — that’s Mr. Kelly, you understand — he paid me straight off. Cash, like always; he knew what’s what. Anyhow, I’m off at a job Friday morning, and I realize that I left my four-foot level here. Seeing as how I was close, I figured I’d just drop by and grab it — no need to bother Dick again. So I park the truck and walk around the side. I hear them talking just as I come ‘round the corner here, and there they are sitting in these same Adirondacks — Big Bill Gallagher and Dick. But — here’s the funny part — Dick’s all dressed up like a girl!”
Somehow, I knew what he was about to say before he said it. I could picture it, too, just like I was standing where Micklewaithe had been. Gallagher, in a work shirt with an open collar; Kelly in a pale yellow sundress with a scooping neckline, covered in a floral pattern of greens, pinks and roses.
“Dick now, he just stopped talking and blushed deep, like my little girl does when I catch her out. But Bill! You’d have to have known him to really get the picture. He lowered those big ol’ bushy brows of his, and fixed me with them fiery black eyes. And he growls out, “boy, you want to go on living’ you just forget you were ever here today. You got that straight?”
I could picture that, too. And something about the image gave me a warm feeling inside. A feeling I couldn’t quite place.
“Anyhow . . . I’d done plenty of work for Bill — been in and out of his place a dozen times, fixing this and that around that big house of his. He paid well and on time, and besides, Gallaghers go way back ‘round here. I knew if he said my name was mud I could kiss off half my business. So I hides my smile an’ I apologize like crazy, and never say a word to nobody. But it was something to see, I’ll tell you that. Dick — he didn’t actually look half bad.”
“You’re not worried about Gallagher anymore?”
He shrugged. “You know how it is. He’s got dementia now, I hear. Been a couple years since I seen him, about the time Susan came back from Boston. She’d been gone so long, she wanted to pay with a credit card!” He shook his head, bemused. “I mean, I took it, right? But I charged her more, acting all like an outsider or something. Local girl like Susan? Went to high school with my older sister Becky! Shoulda known better.” He remembered who he was talking to, quirked a smile, and added, “No offense.”
“That’s alright,” I assured him, though my mind was far from his concerns. “I’ll stop by the bank next week before you come.”
“Ah, you’re alright for a New Yorker, Mr. Beauchamp!” He gave me a smile that showed lots of even teeth.
He took off, but I stayed on the patio, the fine stone patio he had built. I had a lot to think about, sitting in one of the Adirondack chairs, watching the last rays of the setting sun turn the undersides of the clouds a boiling blood red.
To be continued
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
Hamlet, Act I, Scene 5
Conclusion
I was still sitting on the patio an hour or so later, watching a harvest moon creep above the surging Atlantic, when I was startled by a rare mechanical noise. The crump of a car door shutting, the sound of the engine turning over, the crunch of tires on packed gravel. I went to the side of the house and saw Sue’s car turn onto the road and head toward town.
The cold had seeped into my bones as I sat motionless. I decided I would try to make a fire tonight. I lived in Maine; it’s what Mainers do when it’s cold. YouTube, as usual, had some good tips. Make a tipi out of small twigs — lots and lots of them — and once that gets going, start adding more.
Well, I had plenty of small stuff from my gardening endeavors, so I gave it a go. Twigs. Tipi. Small sticks. But I couldn’t get anything to catch; even the twigs just smoldered. And the flywheel on the lighter got really warm while I held it sideways to get to the twigs, and I dropped it because my fingers were getting burned. Then I noticed that the smoke from the smoldering twigs wasn’t going up the chimney like it was supposed to; it was curling lazily into the house.
My eyes were stinging, my thumb was sore, and I was still cold. “Fuck this boy scout shit,” I growled. I got a full cup of water from the kitchen and doused the whole stupid thing. Once I was sure it wasn’t going to do anything else to annoy me, I shoveled the mess into a plastic pail and put it outside.
The weather was definitely worsening, and a cold wind sliced through my too-thin shirt. I got myself back inside in a hurry, closed the door tight and cranked the temperature on the thermostat. I’m thrifty by nature, but I needed to warm up.
Hot soup seemed like a good choice for dinner. I had a couple cans left, and chicken noodle called to me. Mom sometimes made chicken noodle soup with leftovers, back when I lived with my parents. Back when I had people I could talk to, who didn’t make me feel awkward or embarrassed. Did the canned soup taste like what Mom used to make?
I couldn’t remember.
The soup did help to warm me up, and the furnace was definitely starting to make its presence felt, but it was slow. There was an old soaker tub in the bathroom; I’d never used it. I had grown up taking showers, and that’s all I’d had in my New York apartment. I didn’t really trust baths, I guess, which was silly. Maybe I’d have better luck with it than I’d had with the stupid fire.
I went upstairs, put the plug in the tub, and started running the water before returning to the bedroom to strip off my clothes. That only took a few seconds, and the tub was a quarter full at best. I felt stupid standing there, bare-assed naked, watching the water inch up the enameled surface of the tub.
The nightgown was still there, on the peg by the door, hanging by those thin shoulder straps. In the soft light, it almost seemed to glow, like . . . like . . . abalone in the surf, on a moonlit night. I shook my head. Where had that image come from?
I was standing in front of the nightgown, though I didn’t recall moving. Remembering how it had felt this morning, when I was wearing it. Remembering how I had felt. I reached up and stroked the silky fabric, feeling that electric charge once again. Knowing, suddenly, that I would most certainly wear it again.
Right now, in fact.
Slowly, carefully, I raised it from the hook. I wasn’t sure how to do it, but pulling it over my head, bottom hem first, seemed right somehow. It settled over my body, and I was overcome by a feeling of peace. How could such a small thing matter so much? I looked in the mirror over the sink, and smiled at what I saw. It was a soft smile . . . a gentle and welcoming smile. I had no difficulty interpreting it. No difficulty at all.
I stood there, looking at myself in the mirror, like I was getting acquainted, until the bath was ready. The smile never left my face. I lowered one delicate shoulder strap, then the other, stepped out of my nightie and hung it back on its peg. Then I sank down into the blissfully warm water, feeling warmth seep into my bones.
Baths, I thought lazily after maybe fifteen minutes had passed, are truly wonderful things. I pulled my right leg from the water, lathered it up, and started to work with the razor. Careless of me, to let the grass grow like that! Long, straight rows, slicing through the foam. I paused when I was finished, checked my work with both eyes and hands, and shaved again where I saw or felt any sign of remaining hair. Then I switched to my left leg.
By the time I’d gotten the hair off of my legs, arms, chest, and pits, I’d had to drain some cool water out and renew it with the hot twice. I felt a thousand times better. Ready to face what the night would bring. Or nearly ready, anyhow.
I got out of the wonderful, beautiful, blessed tub and patted myself dry. The skin moisturizer was in the big drawer under the sink, of course, and I used it liberally all over. After wrapping the towel around my body and tucking it at the chest, I shaved my face extra close, plucked a few wayward eyebrow hairs, and applied my moisturizing cream.
I wandered back to the bedroom, considering carefully what I should wear. Slender as I’d always been, I still needed a corset to give me any real shape. The ivory one would be best, I decided, and pulled it from the upper right-hand drawer of my bureau. After settling it in place, I wrestled with the laces until I was satisfied. My silicone breast forms filled the corsets’ cups perfectly, and I spent some time hiding the seams with makeup.
Stockings were next. Real silk stockings, that attached to the corset with garter straps. I shivered at the feel of the sheer material against my freshly shaved legs. Once that pleasant step was complete, I tucked into a gaff and covered with high-cut panties that matched the corset.
My wig sat proudly on the edge of the vanity. With practiced ease, I put it in place, checked it carefully, then gave it a few strokes with the brush, more because I loved the feeling than from any need. The long, full, black tresses looked as good as the day I had bought it at that delightful shop in Portland, from the woman who had been so very helpful. Once I was confident that it was perfect, I sat and did my makeup. I knew he was coming, and I wanted to look my very best.
Stepping into the closet, I flipped through dress after dress, shaking my head as I considered each. Too summery. Too formal. Too frumpy. The calf-length, long-sleeved wool dress caught my eye, and I considered it carefully. It was warm, certainly, and the tight sleeves and bodice would emphasize my assets — both natural and artificial — while the full skirt would add some flare. Paired with my black leather boots, it would do nicely.
I was all ready, just trying to decide: hat, or no hat. I did love a cute hat. I was still going back and forth on that question when I heard his step on the creaky stair and smiled.
He had dressed more formally today. Gray wool pants, a dark blue dress shirt, his black blazer that just drew attention to his height, to the breadth of his shoulders, the coal black of his hair, and his dark, smoldering eyes. Damn, he looked fine!
We kissed, we embraced, and I was, once again, whole and complete. But we had things to do tonight, I knew, so I made no protest when he led me downstairs and out the back door. Crossing the patio where we had spent so many lovely evenings, we made our way down to the path along the ridge. A cold wind was gathering the storm clouds, herding them like cattle, but the sky around the moon was clear and the path was bathed in silver sheen.
We walked arm-in-arm, my head as always nestled to his shoulder. There were stones, of course. No place on the Maine coast is free of them. But the path was old, old, smoothed by time and the passage of many feet. People lived here when the land belonged to the Massachusetts Bay Colony. In the glory days of the Wabanabi, the People of the Dawnland, there were people living here. We walked in their footsteps, safe and silent.
We left the path, and the ridge, the coast and the song of the pounding surf, and made our way across the gentle slope that led up to Bill’s house. The Gallagher place, that had been in his family for three generations before it passed to him. The blink of an eye, really.
We were halfway across the field when I felt it, a stabbing pain, a throbbing, cascading wave of grief. I cried out — the first sound I had made — and almost fell. A patch of barren earth, nearly indistinguishable from any other in the pale silver light. But the grief, the pain, the shocking wrongness, came from there.
He held me upright, and the warmth of his body and the force of his love poured into me, giving me strength to go on. Gently, carefully, he led me forward, up to the back of his house, softly lit by moonlight alone. The night was silent; even the ocean seemed to pause as he pulled a worn keychain from his pocket, unlocked the back door, and led me inside.
The Gallagher house is older and much larger than mine. The farm kitchen with its big old table dominates the rear of the structure, but there is also a formal dining room, a study, and a parlor on the first floor. We passed these to go to the base of the stairs, and there he left me, giving me a kiss and a look of such love and longing that my heart wanted to stop.
I climbed the stairs alone, knowing somehow that this was what I had to do. Strangely, as I ascended, the light began to change. Silver moonlight gave way to watery sun while the temperature dropped, then dropped still more. From the window off the landing at the top of the stairs, I looked out on patchy snow and a cold, gray, heavy ocean. Late afternoon, I thought. Maybe March.
I should have been filled with confusion, and a part of my mind was gibbering at this bizarre turn of events. But I had come here — I had been brought here — for some purpose. I needed to find out what it was.
I knew where the master bedroom was located. How could I not know? I smiled at the memories of waking in that enormous bed, four feet off the floor, a tall canopy framed in curly maple above our heads.
When I opened the door my heartbeat skipped. It was the same room, but it wasn’t Bill’s. The heavy leather chair was gone, and the dark mahogany table and the burnt orange wool rug. They had all been replaced by lighter things, softer things in spring and summer colors. The massive wardrobe still stood against the wall, its doors open, revealing clothes for someone younger, shorter . . . and female. It was her room now.
A sound reached me and I spun around. It was unmistakable, unforgettable once you’ve heard it. The sound of retching.
I was less familiar with the rest of the second floor, but I followed the sound, racing across the landing and down a short hallway. Before I reached the end, a door opened and a man staggered out. Iron-gray hair, long and unkempt, framed a face grown thin, and eyes that were wild with pain.
I tried to move. I tried to cry out. But I couldn’t. Literally couldn’t. It was, I realized, something that had already happened. A different day in a different year. A memory that could not be changed, could not be fixed. I could do nothing but watch, powerless.
Watch as Bill Gallagher died.
He staggered against the door across from the bathroom. Unlatched, the door spun open, leaving him unbalanced. He fell, hitting the wooden floor like a sandbag dropped from a height. The sound was heavy, hard, and very final.
It was, I realized, the exact same sound I had heard earlier in the day. The sound that had caused Sue to turn white. I hadn’t been able to interpret her expression then, but I understood it now: Fear. Terror. The face of someone who has lived too long with ghosts.
Bill lay on the floor, his face frozen in a rictus of pain, dark eyes screwed tightly shut, never to light a room again. His once-large frame was shrunken, diminished, and the room where he had died — the room where he had ended his days — was mean and small. A twin bed on a metal trestle. A folding chair, unpadded, by the narrow window. His half-eaten dinner — his last supper, I suppose — was on a tray on the floorboards; the room had no table to set them on. A chunk of bread, a bowl of stew, barely touched. The remains of a slice of pie.
It’s to die for. Sue’s words came back to me like a thunderclap, and I knew. I didn’t guess, I knew.
I stood there, frozen by horror, and the seasons swirled around me. The room was bare, baking in summer heat, unrelieved by so much as an open window; Bill’s body, and the bed, and the chair, were gone. Long gone. Autumn’s crispness, winter’s cold, day and night, night and day, spun and tumbled, one into another, as I stood still, shaking.
It was night again, and late winter’s chill hung in the air. My breath would frost, I thought, if I could find it in me to breathe. I heard heavy steps on the stairs and found I was able to move again. Retreating into the bedroom where Bill had died, I moved to the window and turned to face the open door, my heart pounding hard in my chest.
The heavy steps continued to approach, and whoever it was must be out of shape. Lots of huffing and puffing.
Sue appeared in the doorway, carrying two enormous plastic bags. I opened my mouth. Maybe to scream . . . or shout . . . or possibly plead. I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. I made no sound.
She ignored me, tossing one bag down, followed by the other. The second bag landed on the first, toppled, and spilled its contents right at my feet. Sue cursed, made a half-hearted move to pick it up, then just shook her head in disgust and left, to all appearances oblivious to my presence in the room.
In the moonlight, the colors appeared subdued, like old photos seen in sepia. With daylight, I’m sure, they would have been positively riotous. Emerald green, royal blue, pale yellow with floral green, pink and rose. Rich wool, the color of claret. Dresses, skirts, tops . . . .
The contents of my closet.
Time spun again. Spring came, and summer. The bags vanished and a fine, almost imperceptible layer of dust lay on the surfaces, the floor and the windowsill. The chill of autumn returned, and the silver sheen of a harvest moon bathed the front yard and the black ribbon of the road beyond.
A pair of headlights slewed and aimed themselves at the house. I was barely able to move before I heard a car door slam, and unsteady feet sound on the walkway outside.
I moved as quickly as I could, but I was only halfway down the stairs when the front door burst open and a figure staggered into the foyer, swaying unsteadily. I stood stock still, hoping I would once again be invisible to her.
But this was no memory. It was here, and now. Sue closed the door behind her and sagged against it, looking a bit green. She shut her eyes for a moment, but when she reopened them, she was looking straight up the staircase. Straight at me. She screamed.
But as soon as the instant of surprise passed, she began to shout. “No! Fucking No!!! Got that, you tranny bitch? You can’t have it! It’s mine!”
She pulled herself erect and began to advance on the foot of the stairs, moving deliberately. It was apparent to me that she was drunk as a skunk, and trying desperately to hold herself together. “I don’t fucking believe in ghosts, and it wouldn’t fucking matter if I did, ‘cuz I’m not scared of you. Hear that, you pervert!”
She put her first foot on the stair, then the other, advancing right into my own long shadow, the full moon shining bright through the window directly behind me at the top of the stairs.
“You can’t hurt me! You’re nothing!” She was panting, her face contorted by exertion and alcohol and fear-fueled rage. “Your sicko body is feeding worms — and it’s probably killing them, too, with all the arsenic I gave you! You’re nothing but moonbeams, bitch!” She got up another step, then another.
I thought of Bill. This was his daughter, this dangerous, crazy woman. She’d shut him up in a room that was little more than a closet, let him waste away to nothing, then poisoned him. That wonderful, magnificent man. A cold fury was building within me, a rage so powerful, so demanding, that it blotted out every other thought, every human feeling, every consideration.
She pulled herself up one more step. “Beat it, you hear me? You got no business here. It’s my house now, all mine, and you’re fucking dead!”
My boot took her hard, right in the solar plexus.
She flew back down the stairs and landed in a heap by the front door. “Maybe you don’t know everything about ghosts after all,” I said cattily as I came down the stairs. “Whoever would have guessed?”
I wondered if I’d killed her, and was relieved — mildly relieved, but relieved — to see that I hadn’t. She was still breathing. I gave it a bit of thought as I stood looking over her, and a plan began to form. Something better than my primal instinct to beat her head in with the nearest blunt instrument.
I went back to the kitchen and grabbed a dish towel from the drying rack. Returning to the front of the house, I wrapped the towel over her left forearm, then dragged her into the parlor. Still using the towel to keep from leaving any prints, I unhooked the long strap from her purse and used it to tie her upper arms together, with a loop going around a leg of one of Bill’s ridiculously heavy chairs.
She was groaning by this point, so I decided to have a seat in the same chair and wait her out.
The groans started to morph into words. “Help . . . help me!”
She had clearly believed I was the ghost of Dick Kelly, which . . . seemed to be both true and not true, since I was also, at the same time, Philip Beauchamp. It was complicated. But her belief was an asset, and she didn’t need to sweat the details, anyway. I was more than willing to work with her existing belief structure. “How could I possibly? I’m dead, remember? Oh, and seeing as how you’re the one who killed me, why would I?”
Her eyes began to flutter open, so I crossed my legs, blocking her view of my face.
“I’m hurt,” she whimpered.
“Cry me a river,” I said drily.
“I’m gonna be sick.”
“Face right, then, or you’ll have to lick your vomit off my boot. I’m fond of it.”
She somehow managed to hold it in. “Go away, you bitch.”
I use the toe of my boot to give a gentle tap to the side of her head. “Manners, Miss Susan. Manners. I'll leave, but I've got things to do first. Like avenge myself . . . and my lover!”
“Don’t call him that, you —”
Another, slightly firmer rap from my boot.
“Stop it! Stop it! You did it! You! Turned my father into some kind of fairy, chasing after a guy in a skirt! My father! Big Bill Gallagher!”
“Whereas you turned him into a wreck, before you turned him into a corpse. Somehow that seems worse, don’t you think?”
“Fuck you! Fuck you!”
“As arguments go, not very persuasive. Besides, you’re not my type.”
She was sobbing now. “I just wanted my daddy back. Someone who was a real man. Everyone respected him. Everyone respected us! We were Gallaghers, and that meant something!”
“Oh I assure you, your father was very much a real man!” I practically purred that sentence, knowing it would burn her diseased soul like battery acid.
“Noooo! Stop it! Stop it!”
“Tell me,” I asked, “Did your father turn you away? Deny you his love?”
“What? No! I don’t want his love! Not once . . . not after . . . .” She shuddered. “Not after you!”
Something wasn’t adding up. “Why kill him, then? You had your life. Why not let him have his?”
“I wouldn't have any life anymore! Not here. Not where I belong. People guessed. I’m sure they guessed. That smarmy handyman, for one, with his sly smiles. Our name would be ruined! And besides . . . .” She stopped, cold, perhaps thinking she’d said too much.
“Oh, don’t stop now, pet. The night’s young. Long as you keep talking, you might see it get older.”
“Fuck! What do you want!”
“I told you. Vengeance, for a preference.” I kept my voice conversational. “I have a bottle of pills that could give you the same quietus you gave me and Bill. You are in no position to resist. Seems only fair, don’t you think?”
She whimpered. It was a piteous enough sound, truth be known, but all I had to do was remember her father’s face, frozen in the extreme pain he suffered at the moment of his death. The rage which had seized me left no room for pity. Not for her. “I’ll give you an alternative, though, if you really want one. I want the truth. All of it. When, where, why, with what. I know it, but I want to hear you say it. All of it.”
She whined, and she pleaded, and she swore, but eventually I got it all. Everything I wanted, and a whole lot I didn’t. I kept her at it for two solid hours, coming back at her with question after question, pushing past each half-truth, each attempted justification. She broke down in the end, babbling details and pleading — pleading just to be allowed to sleep. That mercy, finally, I gave her. Not for her sake, but for mine.
I found her phone in her purse, and she hadn’t even put a passcode on it. I drafted a lengthy email, confessing everything and providing all of the confirmatory details. When she had done it. Which poison she had used, and where she stored it (yep, it was still under the kitchen sink). Most critically, the exact location in the back yard where she had buried her father’s body, that April night an hour after the moon had set.
I wrote out the motive as well; Bill hadn’t been ashamed of his love. Indeed, he’d kind of proclaimed it, when he’d written a superseding will that left the big house to his “tranny bitch,” to use Sue’s charming expression. When she found the copy in his safe and figured out that the house wouldn’t pass to her, she’d decided to pretend Bill was still living.
But of course, I — that part of me that was Dick Kelly — hadn’t forgotten him, and my increasingly strident demands to see him eventually drove her to bake another one of her “special” pies. She knew there would be no inquest. Just an old man, dying alone in his bed as the winter finally began to release its grip. Nothing to see there.
I sent the email off to the police, then carefully wiped the phone of all prints using soap and water before dropping it in the toilet. It’s probably the first thing she’d see when she woke up.
She was snoring loudly, as people do sometimes when they are sleeping it off. I untied her, put the strap back on her purse, then went out the back door, taking my handy dish towel with me and using it to avoid leaving any prints.
The night was getting on, and the moon was gone — either set, or wholly obscured by cloud. I decided to take the longer route, using the winding brick path rather than risk walking on the uneven ground we crossed earlier. I hadn’t gone ten feet when the first heavy raindrop hit, and the wind swirled. The darkness made it harder to stick to the path — but even more essential. More drops fell, a staccato patter on the hard brick.
A gust of wind struck suddenly, viciously, and I lost my footing, stumbling, spinning, and going down on one knee. I was blind — the night was inky, and the rain came fast and furious, pelting me hard. For the first time since the anger had overwhelmed me and I kicked Sue down the stairs, I was frightened.
I had to get up. I had to get home. But . . . I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. The lightning flashed, so close it raised the fine hairs on the back of my neck, and the thunder came just seconds behind, a wall of sound. A sob escaped my throat.
“Kelly.”
I heard his voice. It must have been in my head, for the thunder and screaming wind would have blocked anything but the loudest shout, and his voice had been steady and calm.
He was standing in front of me, hand outstretched, looking as dapper as he had when he picked me up hours earlier, wholly unaffected by the storm that was finally unleashing its wild demons on us. His smile was warm, and there was love in his eyes. “Come on, Kelly. Let me walk you home.”
I seized his hand and stood, buffeted by wind and rain. Then his arm was around my waist, and I felt safe once more.
The lightning came again and I saw the Gallagher house, fifty yards away. I must have gotten turned around when I fell. The flash of light illuminated the kitchen windows, an open door, and a figure on the stoop, a pale, crazed face glaring out into the night. Her shriek made it to us above the storm, or through it. ““Damn you! Damn you both to hell!”
The darkness came again, and Bill took me in hand, guiding me down the path as surely as if it were still broad daylight. The brick path ended at the ridge walk, and we turned left to head for my place. Though the storm raged around us, though the surf came in so hard that splashes of salt water spun all the way up the ridge, in Bill’s arms I was calm and safe.
We had no more words. I guess we didn’t need them. I had seen what had to be seen, and done what had to be done. At my back door, we kissed goodnight like teenagers after their first date. It wasn’t goodbye, not at all. Everything that had ever been between us, the hopes and joys and heartaches and desperate loss, were only prologue, after all. We were bound together by love.
Against that, death itself is only a speed bump.
Spring had come early this year. As always, it started tentatively — a few crocuses daring to flash some color; light green buds beginning to show on the maples; new growth appearing on the forsythia — growth that would turn into yellow flame in maybe another week.
I wouldn’t be here to see it. I had been happy to sell the house to the same family that had purchased the Gallagher place. Miguel and Anita Hermosa had a large, sprawling family — six kids, aged twenty-two down to nine — and the eldest, improbably named Washington, would be moving into my house with his new bride, a raven-haired, doe-eyed beauty named Theresa. Miguel and Anita wanted to keep them close.
As I thought of the couple who would be living here in a few days’ time, I smiled to myself. They would bring love back into this house, as Miguel and Anita and their boisterous offspring would restore it to Bill’s place. The strong, deep, wondrous love that would wash away the sins of the past, and heal the old wounds of fear and anger . . . and wrath. Wrath that had, at least in part, been mine.
The police had found Sue the morning after the storm, clammy, cold, and incoherent, sprawled in the middle of the field behind her house. In the fury of the storm, the confusion of rain and wind and lightning, she appeared to have fallen on her father’s unmarked grave. Investigation had confirmed the facts that had been in her email, but she might never go to trial. Unless and until her wits returned, she would be closely held in a mental institution.
It was enough. The rage that had seared my heart that night passed with the coming of the storm, and I was human once again. I had no need to hear a judge or jury proclaim her guilt and render judgment. She had lost her freedom, her good name, and the house of which she had been so sinfully proud. I had the satisfaction of knowing that the proceeds from the sale went to Kelly’s heirs down in Georgia. No doubt they had been stunned at the windfall.
Kelly. That was how I thought of her, now. Bill had said her name in the heart of the storm, and I had known it to be right. I had woken the next morning once again caressed by her beautiful nightgown, but nothing else of hers remained.
Nothing physical, at any rate. My vivid sense of her presence was gone and I hadn’t had any more visitations. Yet the memories we had shared stayed with me, and my intimate experience of her open and passionate heart affected me deeply, in ways I was only just beginning to process. I knew, now, what life could be.
What it should be.
I had sought out this remote place like a rabbit seeking the safety of the deepest burrow. After twelve years completely on my own, I was running from a world that seemed to offer nothing but work, money, and canned soup in a cold apartment at the end of a long day. What I had discovered, instead, was that the solitude I had sought could only provide a respite. Life needs more, demands more, and, ultimately, gives more. Kelly and Bill had understood that.
I had visited both their graves, of course, and felt nothing there but peace. Bill’s remains had been exhumed, and once the Medical Examiner had completed an exhaustive investigation that confirmed the cause of death, his body was reinterred in the family plot. The last of the Gallaghers, save one. But Kelly wasn’t far away, really. It was a small town, after all, and even with the passage of years, the cemetery wasn’t all that large.
A straight path led between their respective resting places, and roughly at the midway point there was a granite bench under a tall, gnarled oak, a hoary veteran of two hundred winters. I liked to think of the two of them sitting there together, sharing their wordless communion. The warmth, the love, the sense of completeness I had felt, when Kelly was within me, and Bill was at my side. I imagined her head resting on his broad shoulder as he bent to kiss the long, dark hair that was, at last, all her own.
It was time to go. The car was packed and the gas tank full. I had brought little with me when I came, and would leave with even less. But I was ready to return to my own world, eager to start life anew. I checked my makeup, grabbed my purse, and walked out the door, shutting it softly behind me.
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Alyssa closed her eyes, lost in the pure joy of Alex’s ministrations. She had surprised Alyssa today, showing up right after school with some truly decadent lingerie for her birthday, which actually wasn’t for three more days. Alex – actually Alexa, but bastard Bezos had kind of ruined that – was her girlfriend.
Just not the way Alyssa’s parents might think. Her parents – well, her mom and step-dad – were both under the impression that Alyssa was a boy named Brody, and that Brody and Alex were involved romantically. But there was nothing romantic between them. They were simply girlfriends. As close as sisters, best friends forever. All of that.
“Keep your eyes closed,” Alex murmured. “I want to try blending these eyeshadow colors. Hold still.”
Alyssa just smiled, tilting her head so that Alex would have a better angle. “I love the presents. You are so sweet!.”
Alex giggled. “Right now, you’re the one who looks sweet. I knew that baby blue would work with your skin tone. And all that lace is just so you.”
“I know,” Alyssa sighed, oozing contentment. In her new bra, panties and camisole, she felt perfect. Complete. And Alex always did such a good job on her face and her hair. She wasn’t bad herself, but Alex had the touch. “Come on now, Alex,” she wheedled. “You gotta dish. Is Perry going to ask you to the prom, or isn’t he?”
It was Alex’s turn to sigh. “I don’t know. But I’d be a whole lot happier if he seemed just the tiniest bit thirsty!”
Alyssa reached out, blind, to find something to give a squeeze to, settling on Alex’s hip. “Sorry, Chicka. But you know, if all else fails, Brody will take you.”
“Thanks, kitten.” Alex gave Alyssa a peck on the nose. “We prob’ly should anyway, just to keep your cover. I was just . . . well, you know.”
“Think I don’t know you’re pining for Perry? He is awfully cute!”
“You got eyes on my target, girl?” Alex’s mock growl was entirely too full of humor to be a source of worry.
Alyssa smiled wistfully. “No. I’m not seeing how that’ll ever be in the cards.”
“It could be in the cards right now, if you put your chips on the table!” Alex shook her head, then gave her friend’s shoulders a squeeze. “Sorry. I know we’ve been through this.”
Feeling confident that Alex wasn’t presently about to stick something sharp in the vicinity of her eyes, Alyssa opened them again to look at her. “If it was just Mom, maybe. But Dad . . . you know, he’s got the whole Christian thing going. Church every Sunday, Bible study. The full catastrophe.”
“You’ll be eighteen in two years. After that, you can do what you want.”
Alyssa shrugged. “Maybe.” She decided that was more than enough time spent on things she had no power to change. “Have you picked out a dress yet?”
Alex immediately picked up on Alyssa’s desire to think about more pleasant things. “Oh my God! You’ll won’t believe what I found! It’s perfect! Just perfect! Teal satin, spaghetti straps, almost backless. And get this! It’s got . . . .”
Alex never finished the description of her prom dress. There was a sharp knock on the door to the bedroom. “Brody? What are you still doing here?”
Before Alyssa or Alex could so much as say a word, the door opened and Alyssa’s – Brody’s – stepfather stuck his head in. “You’re supposed to be at work in . . . .” He suddenly ran out of words as his brain took in the entire scene in front of him.
“Dad . . . I can . . . explain . . . .” Alyssa’s voice was just above a whisper. “We were just . . . .” But somehow, she couldn’t think of anything that would finish off the sentence. Her mind, chittering in terror, thought, What is Dad doing home? How come I didn’t hear him?
Jules’ brain froze momentarily, but it was brief. He was a disciplined man, and his mind went down disciplined paths. He stepped into the room, leaving the door open. “Brody, you’re supposed to be at work in five minutes, and you’re going to be late as it is. You don’t have time to undo all of your girlfriend’s hard work, and I don’t recommend showing up in lingerie. So put on something appropriate and let’s go.”
“But . . . Dad . . . I can’t —”
“Should have thought of that earlier. No time now.”
“I can call in sick! I”ll just —”
“Lie? To save yourself embarrassment? You told us you were old enough to take the job, Brody. You made a commitment.”
“Honest, Dad, I just forgot. When . . . .” Alyssa almost said, “when Alex surprised me by showing up with presents,” but stopped herself just in time. It was true, but Alex hadn’t known she was working this afternoon. Alyssa knew it was no-one’s fault but her own.
Jules shook his head sharply. “Doesn’t matter. No excuses now. You’re down to three minutes. I’ll drive you.” He turned and walked down the hall, leaving the bedroom door open.
Alex was as white as a sheet. “Jesus! What’ll you do? Alys, I’m so sorry!”
Alyssa sat frozen as she watched her stepfather walk away. Then she shook her head sharply and said, “Fuck! I don’t know! Alex, help me find something – fast!” She jumped up and charged over to her closet. Her male wardrobe would be useless, since there was no time to remove makeup and nail polish. Even getting her hair to look remotely boyish would take more time than she had.
She pushed over a pile of binders and paperback books – mostly Manga from when she was younger – to expose the top of an opaque plastic bin.
Alex was incredulous. “You’re gonna . . . ?”
“I don’t have any choice! He’ll roast me if I’m not out there in two minutes!”
Alyssa didn’t have very many clothes in her stash, and Alex knew all of them well. “Fine. Fine. Go with the skinny jeans, the peach top and your flats. It’ll work!”
“O . . . okay!” Alyssa started pulling things out of the bin, spotting the three items quickly. Grabbing the jeans, she rolled onto her back on her bed and pulled them up. The stretchy material hugged her legs, and something about the pair even made it look like she had a bit of a butt. Then she rolled off the bed and pulled the top on. It was nothing special, but nice – a crew neck and capped sleeves, with a fair bit of flare at the bottom. Enough to cover the tops of her jeans.
As Alyssa was putting on her flats, Alex pulled up her own top and pulled two pieces of padding from her bra. “Here – these’ll help!” She slipped them into the cups of Alyssa’s bra, then checked out the look. “It’ll do, Alys. You look good, okay?”
Alyssa nodded distractedly. “Thanks, Alex! I’ll . . . I’ll text. Okay?” Not waiting for a response, she turned and ran down the hall. But just as she got to the kitchen, the front door opened and her mom walked in. Alyssa thought, what the fuck is everyone doing today? Why are they here?
“What the . . . “ Her mom stood in the hallway, staring at her. Her mouth was hanging open.
“Mom . . . sorry. I’ve gotta go. We’ll talk —”
“Go? Are you out of your mind!”
“Mom – Dad said —”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass what your father . . . .”
Of course, Jules chose that moment to open the door to the garage.
Alyssa thought, because, of course he did.
Jules leaned against the doorframe, his relaxed pose a complete fraud. The tension was palpable, but he kept his voice almost icy calm. “Cindy. Brody is supposed to be at work. Right now. A minute ago, actually.”
“I don’t know what you think you're doing, but my son isn’t going out of the house looking like that! What are you thinking!”
As terrified as Alyssa was at having her secret in the open, she was more terrified – far more terrified – of any strife between her parents. It had been eight years since her biological father had left them in one of his frequent drunken rages. Half a lifetime . . . but she hadn’t forgotten. She still had nightmares. “Mom . . . it’s not what you think. Dad didn’t do this, I did.”
Her mother turned furious eyes on her. “I know that! Your father knows less about makeup than he knows about astrophysics. That doesn’t change the fact that you aren’t leaving this house – much less going to work! – dressed like that!”
“Cindy.”
“No! Goddam it, Jules. No! He’ll be crucified! There – school – everywhere!”
“Cindy. I was the one on deck.”
That stopped her. They had made a rule – a hard and fast rule – when they’d gotten married, and they had taken joint responsibility for raising the children from their separate, earlier marriages. Jule’s two daughters had been fifteen and seventeen, and Brody had been ten. Six years ago. But they’d agreed to raise them as one family. To treat all the kids as their own. And part of the rule was, whichever parent was home – whichever one was on deck – made the calls. And the parent that wasn’t, would back him or her up.
They had never – not once – broken that rule. They were a team. And there had been plenty of times when Jules had backed her play when his daughters — their daughters! — had been in their rebellious stages.
“Jules . . . .” Cindy said, her voice catching. “Jules – this is different! Can’t you see!”
He looked at his wife and said, “Is it?” His voice was very soft. As Cindy knew, that was a sign – a sure sign – that he was very, very serious.
She closed her eyes, holding back tears, and said, “Fine. Go. Just . . . go.” She didn’t open her eyes again until the back door closed behind them. Then, and only then, the tears began to flow. “Oh, God! My poor boy!”
It was at this moment that Alex decided she needed to make her escape. She came into the kitchen area from the hallway and said, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Mason. I was just visiting with Brody. I’ll . . . I’ll go on home now.”
Cindy’s eyes fixed on the girl – the person she had thought was so good for Brody! “Just a minute, young lady! I want to know what the hell just happened. Did you dress my son up like . . . like some kind of tart?”
“It’s not like that!”
“Bullshit it isn’t! And now God knows what’s going to happen to him! He’ll be a laughingstock at work, at school – his life ruined!”
Alex was in over her head – so far over her head, she couldn’t even see the surface of the water. She wanted to help, but had no earthly idea how she could. “I’m telling you, it’s not like that. Brody is . . . .”
But Cindy was in no mood to be lectured by a 16-year-old girl who had betrayed her trust. She shook her head angrily and said, “Enough. Go home. Get out, and stay out!”
“Fine, don’t listen to me! You don’t have a frickin’ clue!” Alex stormed out and slammed the door behind her. But her rage quickly dissipated, and as she walked home, she began to cry. Alyssa had been her best friend for two years now. Would she ever even be allowed to see her again?
Jules saw her walking as he returned from dropping Brody off at the coffee shop where he worked part-time, but decided not to stop. He could see that she was crying, but he knew he would have troubles enough of his own when he got home. Consequences for his own choices.
Cindy went right at him as soon as he stepped through the door. “Alright. I backed you up. Kept our bargain. But honest to God, Jules! You’d better have a good explanation for how you chose to punish Brody, and it better not have anything to do with your religion!”
Jules was puzzled. “Punish?”
“What would you call it? Forcing him to go to work looking like that. Okay, so he and his girlfriend decided to have some kind of kinky fun. So what? It’s just a bit of makeup, and clothes are clothes. Big deal! Is that a reason to ruin his life?”
“Brody was supposed to be at work.”
“Don’t give me that. He works at goddamned Starbucks, Jules! Who cares if he gets fired! Admit it – you were punishing him, because you think it's wrong for a boy to dress like a girl. Don’t you!”
Jules looked at his wife thoughtfully. She didn’t understand his faith, and he’d never tried to explain it to her. Or to their son, for that matter. Maybe he should have, but didn’t want them to think he was forcing his beliefs on them. “Can we sit and talk about this?”
“I’m too angry to sit right now!”
He nodded slowly. Without really thinking about it, he folded his arms across his chest. “Okay, we’ll do it your way. Do I think boys should dress like girls? Honestly, no. But . . . what did you see, when you came in the door?”
“Uhhh . . . Hello? I saw my son, in a cute top, made up like a cheerleader on the first day of school.”
Jules’ eyes became dark at her use of the first-person possessive pronoun, but he decided to let it go. “I didn’t see that, Cindy. I saw a girl.”
Her mouth hung open. “You . . . what? Are you kidding me?”
“Please. Think about everything you saw, in the brief time you were here. If you didn’t know it was Brody, would you have thought you were seeing a girl or a boy? Not just the makeup, the hair or the clothes. Think about how Brody moved, spoke, interacted with you.”
“That’s ridiculous!”
Again he asked, “Is it?”
“Jules, he’s a guy. He has a girlfriend. He’s not . . . I mean, no way . . . he can’t possibly be . . . .”
“Trans?” he asked.
She didn’t answer, but her eyes were wide as saucers.
“I can’t claim to be an expert, but as far as I know, anyone can be trans. No reason why Brody can’t be. And, not for nothing, but during the car ride . . . . Well. Let’s just say, Brody thinks he’s trans. Not that he'd say that, exactly.”
She shook her head, disbelieving. “What would he say – 'exactly?'”
“He wouldn’t say anything. . . . But Alyssa would say she’s trans.”
She stared at him, hard. “You’re shitting me. You don’t even believe in trans. This is all some sort of sick punishment —”
“Stop. Right. There.”
His voice was still soft, but it nonetheless stopped her. Jules had never used such a cold tone when speaking to his wife — or really, to anyone else. She gaped at him.
“Think about what you’re about to say, Cindy. Think really, really, carefully. Some words can’t be taken back. We’re on a tightrope. Right now. You and me. And there’s no net.”
He wasn’t yelling; if anything, he was speaking even more softly. But the warning chilled her blood. She took a deep breath and wasn’t surprised to find it ragged. “Okay,” she managed to say. “Okay.” Her legs felt weak, and she sank into a chair. “Just . . . Jules, please! Tell me what the fuck is going on!”
He lowered himself into the chair opposite hers, perching at the edge, his back still ramrod straight. With an effort, he lowered his arms to rest on his thighs. “I was working from home today because the guy was supposed to come by this afternoon to fix the washing machine. I guess Brody didn’t know. Alex came by, and because I had my headphones on, I didn’t know.”
His lips twitched into a rueful smile that at least made him look more like himself, but Cindy stayed silent.
“I took a bathroom break, and that’s when I heard them talking. I had assumed that Brody’d already left for work. I poked my head in to remind him, and got to meet Alyssa instead.”
“Alyssa?” she asked.
“Apparently that’s the name he — sorry, “she” has used for a couple years, when she’s alone or with Alex. She was dolled up in what I’d have to guess was some pretty expensive lingerie, and Alex was working on her makeup. I told her to get dressed and I’d drive her to work.”
“And you couldn’t just let Brody — Alyssa — whatever! — call in sick, until we could at least discuss it? The three of us, together?” She tried to keep her voice level, to keep her question from sounding like an accusation.
It wasn’t easy.
He grimaced. “Okay, Cindy. That’s fair. And I’m sorry there wasn’t time for a conversation. But lying isn’t acceptable, and commitments matter. Yes — that’s my faith tradition. My religion. But that’s what we’ve taught all the kids. What both of us taught them.”
She couldn't’ deny that. “But . . . the consequences —”
“Are the direct result of Brody’s choices. Of Alyssa’s choices.”
She closed her eyes, haunted by the thought of everything that Brody would be subjected to for having gone to work looking like a girl. Or . . . was it, being a girl? God, wouldn’t that be a million times harder? “Is Brody driving this, or is Alex? Should we, you know, keep them apart?”
“It’s real clear this has been going on a long time. In retrospect, I’m surprised we didn’t see it sooner. We’ll need to have a long talk when she gets home, of course, but my gut tells me that Alyssa’s doing the driving. Alex is just supporting her friend.”
“He could have talked to us. Why didn’t he just . . . tell us? We’ve always been here for him!”
Jules looked down at the floor. It was a question he’d asked himself, and he hadn’t much liked the answer he’d come to. “Maybe he didn’t trust us. . . . Or at least, didn’t trust me.”
Jules’ self condemnation galvanized Cindy’s protective instincts. “That’s not right, Jules! You’ve always listened to him. Never pushed him away. You’re kind, and understanding, and —”
“Deeply religious,” he said quietly, cutting her off. “He assumed he knew what that meant. So did you, just now. No one’s fault but mine, that he didn’t know any better.”
“But . . . I mean . . . don’t Christians believe . . . .” she couldn’t bring herself to finish the sentence. Don’t they believe that LGBTQ people are evil? That they’re all going to hell?
He chuckled, but there wasn’t any joy in it. “Might as well make a list of what ‘Americans’ believe, honey. Christians are all over the map in what we believe. I can only speak for me, for what I believe. And . . . I didn’t. Which left both of you to assume the worst.”
“So you’re . . . okay with this?” She was having trouble processing the thought.
“Probably about as ‘okay’ as you are," he said, sounding resigned. "It scares me. I don’t have the first idea what to do for him. For her. I’m worried about what’ll happen at work, and at school. About what kind of life she’s buying.”
Cindy stared at her husband and shook her head. “You’re serious. This is really happening, isn’t it?”
“I’d say it’s really happened, actually.”
She felt a flood of terror, of indecision. How can I protect my child? “What are we going to do, Jules?”
He got up, came to her chair and knelt by her side, holding her right hand in both of his. “Have faith, Cindy. We’ll figure it out. Like we always have. You, me, and Alyssa. But first off, I think there’s a girl who’s hurting who needs a quick phone call.”
“I can’t call . . . Alyssa . . . at work!”
“No. But you can call Alex. And you should.”
Cindy squeezed her eyes shut. “Oh, God! I fucked that up, didn’t I?”
“Then don’t let it fester, okay? She’s been there for Alyssa when we weren’t.”
She opened her eyes again and looked at Jules. “I need to apologize to you first.”
He squeezed her hand. “No more than I need to apologize to you. Now if you’ll excuse me a minute, I’ll let you make your call.”
“What’re you going to do?”
“Me?” He gave her a half smile and a shrug. “I’m going to pray.”
Stepping out onto the pavement, though, the feeling of strangeness returned. It was only a fifteen-minute walk home, but she’d wondered whether one of her parents would pick her up, to avoid having her be seen like this in their own neighborhood. No-one was there, so she shrugged and started to walk.
The evening was cool enough that she wished she’d brought something to wear over her top. But the goosebumps that formed on her arms probably had less to do with the light breeze and the flimsy fabric that floated over her lingerie than it did with the fear that was flooding back as she walked. Her parents knew. They knew. Dad didn’t freak out, exactly, she thought, but he sure didn’t say much. And Mom!
She was so engrossed in her own thoughts that she stepped into a cross-street without looking and got honked at by an annoyed driver. They’re going to freaking kill me!
She took a left on her street and started walking the last five blocks. Every step seemed harder than the last, as her dread rose higher and higher. Crossing her arms under her padded bra, she chaffed her forearms with her hands, trying to bring some warmth into them.
Past Tag’s house. She used to play with Tag, years ago when they were both kids. Before Tag had become “cool,” and had no time for a runt like Brody. It had hurt so much, when Tag joined the other jocks in tormenting his former friend. The thought of being seen by Tag made Alyssa pick up the pace again. Even what was waiting at home wouldn’t be as bad as that.
Two blocks from home, she passed what she would always think of as Tiffany Warren’s house. Tiff had been Brody’s babysitter when he was little. She’d always been so sweet. For years, he’d wanted to be Tiffany when he grew up. Kind and smart and pretty. He’d wept for days when she’d gone off to college. Her folks had moved away a couple years later, and he’d never seen her again.
Down to the last block. Fifty yards, then thirty. Ten. There were moths circling the porch light, incapable of doing anything else. Even when it hurt them, as it always did.
She took a deep breath, put her hand on the knob, and opened the door. Her parents were in the living room talking – with . . . Alex!
Her mother rose, smiled, and said, “Hi Alyssa. How was work?”
She looked from her mom to her step-dad, caught between fear and hope that suddenly blossomed inside. “I thought you guys were going to kill me!”
Her dad reached her first and folded her into a hug like she had never had from him before. “Have a little faith, girl! We love you.”
Somehow, she found herself being hugged by her best friend in all the world and both parents. “Oh my God!” she said, overwhelmed. “This is the best birthday ever!!!”
The end.
“Oh, thank heavens you’re here!” Jenny looked both relieved and embarrassed as she greeted the short, bookish woman who stood on her front stoop, balancing homemade pies in each hand. “Come in, come in!”
“Things have got to be pretty bad if I’m getting that kind of welcome,” Sarah quipped as she followed Jenny into the spacious kitchen. “Where do you want the pies?”
“Deserts go on the sideboard in the dining room,” Jenny said automatically, then flushed. “I mean, it’s where we always had them, when . . . .”
Sarah gave her friend a sharp look as her voice trailed off. “If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, Jenny. Just do things the way you always would.” The dining room was visible through the large pass-through Jenny had made over one of the granite counters years before. Sarah moved purposefully through the swinging door, found the sideboard and set her burdens down.
It was a big room with a high ceiling and a long table ran down the middle. Eleven chairs — five to a side and one on the end — and still there was ample space all around. The table clearly could have accommodated additional leaves; in the past, Sarah knew, it often had. But the table was bare, dark cherry gleaming dully in the morning light that streamed through the sliding glass windows leading to a weathered brick patio.
Jenny leaned against the doorframe looking tired and ashamed. “I’m so sorry. I just got overwhelmed by it all, yesterday. Too many memories. I just . . . .” She stopped and shrugged.
Sarah folded her arms. “Jenny. You’ve got nine more people showing up in two hours. Tell me you got the turkey in this morning!”
Jenny straightened. “Yes. Yes, the turkey went in. And I did get the stuffing done yesterday, so that’s all good. It’s just, you know . . . .” Again her voice tailed off and her shoulders slumped.
Sarah relented. “I know, woman. Honest. I do. But it’ll be alright. It won’t be like you remember, but it’ll be wonderful in its own way. You’ll see.” Sarah held her friend’s gaze until Jenny nodded, somewhat reluctantly. “Okay. I’m going to give Marta and Hope a call and see if they can come early to help set up. Then we’re going to get this thing organized, okay?”
Jenny finally managed a tired smile. “Yes, Sergeant Sarah. Tell you what, I’ll give Hope a ring if you call Marta, okay?” They made their calls, with Jenny’s taking rather longer. But both women agreed they would come as quickly as they could.
Sarah worked her usual magic, pulling Jenny out of the spiral of grief and self-loathing that had overtaken her best intentions and focusing her on practical matters. What was on the menu, other than turkey? What still needed to be diced, chopped, mashed, whipped, or puréed? Where, for the love of God, was the butter? The tablecloth and napkins? Silverware? Pretty soon, Sarah had a little list, and she was sequencing its items rapidly.
Hope was the first to arrive. While Jenny was tall and skinny, Hope was shorter than Sarah and round as a cabbage. Cheerful to the point of bubbly, she bounded into the house without knocking, set a large covered dish on the kitchen island, and gave Jenny a bone-cracking hug. “I knew I should have called you yesterday! I could have made my Kapusta z grzybami here, and kept you company!”
Jenny laid her cheek against the top of her diminutive friend’s head. “Thank you. I know, I should have called.”
Hope pushed Jenny back to hold her at arm’s length, the better to look her in the eye. “Yes, you should have. You know I’d be here for you. Any day, any time. Just like you’ve been there for me, about a billion times. So next time, will you please?”
“Yes, Mom,” Jenny said meekly.
Hope smiled. “Better!”
“I hate to be the one to bring this up, what with all your overflowing sentiment and all,” Sarah drawled. “But time’s a wasting, girls. Tick tock!”
“There’s the voice of the real mom,” Hope chuckled.
“If I’d raised you, you’d already be peeling potatoes without my having to ask,” Sarah rejoined, tossing a big russet specimen toward Hope on a lazy arc.
Hope caught it with a smile. “On it! Honest!” With Jenny’s help, she found a peeler and a big bowl, then she sat on one of the stools on the back half of the island and set to work on the bag of potatoes.
Jenny kept her company, trimming green beans to forestall Sarah’s intervention. “How’ve you been, sweetie?”
“Pretty good,” Hope replied. “I had a call with Brad last night. It was already ‘Thanksgiving’ in Busan, so he and Melissa gave me a call. She thinks she’s about ready to pop, but the doctor tells her it’ll be at least a week, ten days.”
Jenny suppressed her twinge of jealousy and made sure her voice was cheerful. “You must be so excited! Imagine – you, a grandma!”
Hope knew how hard it was for Jenny to hear about Brad and Melissa, who supported Hope fiercely and would have insisted that she spend Thanksgiving with them, if Brad hadn’t been deployed overseas. But they had been over this before, with Jenny insisting that she would not want Hope to self-censor just to spare her – Jenny’s – feelings. So Hope put a smile on her face and kidded in response. “I know, right? They’ll let anyone into the club, won’t they?”
They talked companionably as they worked on food prep. They had known each other for years, and they knew where all the landmines lay. When Hope was maybe a third of the way through the mound of potatoes, the door chimes sounded.
“I got it,” Sarah called out from the dining room.
Hope snorted. “Girl, even your doorbell sounds like a million bucks!”
“We got it years ago, when we brought Chewy home. The old chime set him off every time, barking his idiot head off. So I went online and got this one. Supposed to be more dog friendly. Funny thing was, it actually worked.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine Chewy being any sort of trouble,” Hope said, remembering the sleepy old Golden she met years ago, one eye clouded over and snout gone completely white.
“I know,” Jenny said fondly. “But damn, he was a terror when he was little! He earned his name, I kid you not!”
“Hi Jenny! Hi Hope!” The young woman poking her head into the kitchen was in her early twenties. Slender where Jenny was skinny, with wavy, shoulder-length brown hair, both the newcomer’s voice and her elfin features conveyed a certain diffidence that even years of friendship hadn’t completely dispelled.
“Marta! Thank you so much for coming early!” Jenny moved quickly to greet her young friend with a hug, seeing an echo of her own sadness in Marta’s eyes. Marta, too, knew what it was like to spend holidays isolated from family.
“I’m happy to help, really. Thank you – thank you so much – for inviting me!” Marta felt the prick of tears and fought to hold them back. For the first time in years, she knew she had a lot to be thankful for, and she was determined to celebrate rather than waste empty tears on the lifeless moonscape of her family relationships.
“Can you handle the cranberry sauce, hon? The recipe and ingredients are right there.” Jenny pointed to a corner of the island devoted to that sub-project.
“Sure,” Marta said hesitantly. “I don’t know much about cooking, though.”
“We’ll help you, love,” Hope assured her with a smile. “The advantage of having done a few laps around the speedway already.”
“Okay.” Marta smiled shyly and went to review the recipe.
“JENNY!” Sarah’s holler came from the next room. “Where do you hide the plates?”
“Hold tight,” Jenny hollered back as she dried her hands quickly with a dish towel before rushing out to pull things together for Sarah.
A few moments after she had bustled out of the kitchen, Marta looked at Hope. “Is she okay?”
Hope paused before grabbing another potato and fluttered her hand side to side. “I don’t know,” she said quietly. “Sounds like the blue devils really hit yesterday. Bad sleep and not much of it, and then feeling completely overwhelmed and inadequate this morning.”
“Been there, done that,” Marta said sympathetically. “More times than I can count.”
“The holidays are really hard for her. Especially this one. I managed to talk her into joining me back in 2019 — that was the last Thanksgiving before COVID. Brad was still at home, and Deb was still with me.” As Marta knew, Hope’s wife hadn’t survived the pandemic. “She came, and it was good she wasn’t alone. But . . . Thanksgiving had been all this.” Hope’s gesture encompassed the house and all the craziness— the food prep and getting the house ready, and above all, lots and lots of guests. “She was the host, you know? The center of a big, bustling family.”
Marta nodded. “That sure sounds like Jenny, alright.”
“Just . . . let’s keep her engaged, okay?” Hope started on the last potato.
“Yeah. Abso-frickin’-lutely.”
When Jenny returned, the three friends worked on the food while Sarah got the dining room in order and the table set. All three women determinedly kept the tone of the conversation light and pleasant.
But it wasn’t all that long before Hope steered the conversation to the subject she really wanted to hear about. “Okay, Marta! You have to dish, girl! Who’s this guy who’s joining you today?”
Marta couldn’t suppress a giggle at her friends’ salacious interest in her “love life,” but then reflected that maybe — just maybe — it was time to drop her mental scare quotes when thinking of that phrase. “Well . . . his name’s Gordon. We met at AACC; he’s doing night classes to become an EMT. And . . . yeah.” She smiled, trying to put the last couple of wonderful months into words.
Hope cackled. “Good start, hon, but no way you’re getting off with just that!”
Marta started stirring sugar into water heating in a saucepan. “He’s nice,” she said, her voice filled with wonder that such a thing could ever be directed her way. “We started just meeting for coffee, you know . . . and he was so sweet. Wanted to know all about . . . .” She skipped a beat, then shook her head. “All about me. My life. He even wanted to know what it’s been like for me, being trans. And . . . and he cared, you know? He actually cared.”
She began to pour the fresh cranberries into the simple syrup. Keeping her attention on the pot to hide her feelings, she said, “One night, he was walking me back to my car, and he asked if he could kiss me.” She looked up at her older friends, her eyes bright. “I mean, I used to dream about someone kissing me. I’d given up believing it would ever really happen. And here was this really sweet guy, asking!”
“I’m going out on a limb and guessing you let him,” Hope said with a smile.
“Fuck, yeah, I let him!” Marta giggled, then immediately apologized. “I’m sorry, it’s just . . . I couldn’t believe it was happening, and it was so fantastic! I didn’t want him to stop, ever.” Her smile was as big as a double-wide.
Jenny couldn’t resist pulling her in for a hug. “I’m so happy for you, Marta. Gordon’s one lucky guy.”
Sarah naturally chose that moment to come in. She shook her head in mock disgust and said, “lollygaggers! Less touchy-touchy, more worky-worky!”
Jenny smiled at Sarah’s sardonic expression, which fooled no-one there, and declined to release her hug. “It’ll be pretty confusing if you start going all Martha on us, Sarah, since Marta here is channeling Mary!”
“Don’t be playing scripture games with me, Jenny,” Sarah warned with a gleam in her eye. “I bet Jesus would have felt differently about Mary sitting on her butt and listening to his stories, if he hadn’t been confident that Martha would see to the food!”
“For everything there is a season,” Hope said philosophically.
“Exactly!” Sarah pronounced. “A time for hugging, and a time for, you know, cooking!”
Laughing, they all got back to work, with Sarah joining them since the dining room was now set. Many hands made light work, and companionship and joint activity seemed to keep Jenny’s demons at bay.
By the time the doorbell rang, at about ten of one, the appetizers were all set, the side dishes were either finished or ready to be quickly steamed, and the bread was out of the oven. The turkey was resting on the island, a fine gleaming golden brown specimen that looked and smelled perfect, and Jenny was reducing the drippings to make gravy.
“Hope, can you keep stirring this?” As soon as Hope took the spatula, Jenny wiped her hands on her patterned apron and went to welcome her guests. A mother and daughter, both rail-thin. Jeans and T-shirts that were as clean as they could make them, and deer-in-the-headlights looks in their eyes.
Jenny enveloped the mother in a huge hug. “Hey, Tanya. Thank you so much for coming.” She looked down at the daughter, catching her big eyes and saying, “and thank you too, Opal. Please, come on in, both of you. I want you to meet some of my friends.”
“O . . . Okay,” Tanya said. She looked around the house very quickly, then decided she was better off focusing on Jenny. Jenny had always been so kind. Not like so many people at the soup kitchen, who seemed so very pleased with their own generosity. When Jenny invited her and Opal to Thanksgiving dinner, Tanya knew without a doubt that she really wanted them to come. That it mattered to her. That they mattered to her.
They made their way into the kitchen, which was a stormwind of last-minute hustle and bustle. “Everyone!” Jenny said, “this is my friend Tanya, and this princess is Opal. Tanya, Opal, the lady over there who looks like she’s in charge — because she is — is Sarah, and these are my soul-sisters, Hope and Marta.”
Everyone exchanged hellos – some cheerful, some shy, but all, in a sense, hopeful. Jenny said, “Okay, so apps are all on the table by the window and drinks are on the passthrough. Everyone help yourself; we’re going to be in here for the nibblies, then move to the dining room when everyone’s here and the Turkey’s carved.”
There were nuts and cheeses, cut vegetables and dips, tortilla chips and three different salsas, sparkling water, juices, iced tea and more. It took a few minutes, but very shortly Tanya and Opal were swept into the conversation that had already been swirling.
It didn’t take any great intuition to see that Tanya and Opal were feeling a bit overwhelmed. Marta pulled Opal into a quiet conversation, sitting with her in the big bay window that looked out over the backyard. Meanwhile, Hope and Jenny worked to ease Tanya’s feeling of being out of place. Hope’s good cheer and Jenny’s gentle empathy worked wonders, and Tanya started to open up.
“We’re good, really,” Tanya told them. “Things got bad, with Martine. That’s Opal’s dad.” She looked over at her daughter, saw she was in good hands, and turned back to Hope. “Opal and me, we were in the shelter for a piece and I wasn’t sure we’d make it. But we’re staying with one of my girlfriends now, and I got the job with Amazon. We’ll be okay.”
Sarah, who had buzzed back into the kitchen while Tanya was speaking, nodded sharply. “Tough place to work, but the healthcare’s solid.”
“Yeah,” Tanya agreed. “And Opal . . . well, she needed that, you know? She got . . . well. It was bad there. Had to get an order from the court, keep him away.”
“Oh, honey!” Hope’s round face was full of concern. “That’s so tough, for both of you!”
“Well, my momma warned me, back when. But if I’da listened to her, I wouldn’t have Opal, and I can’t imagine life without her.”
“She’s beautiful,” Jenny said. “And such a sweetheart!”
“And sassy and stubborn, and she gives me gray hairs every day.” Tanya smiled fondly at her daughter and raised her voice. “Don’t you, pumpkin?”
Opal looked over and grinned. “Whatevs, momma!”
The doorbell rang again, and Jenny excused herself. At the door, Pyotr and his teenage sons Dmitri and Ilych looked ill-at-ease. They were cleaned, scrubbed, and dressed in button-down shirts and pants a step up from blue jeans.
Jenny gave them all a warm smile. “Please come in, Pyotr, boys. I’m so glad you could join us for our most American holiday.”
Pyotr took her hand in both of his. “Jennifer. Thank you for your so kind invitation. We do not know this holiday. But we are ready to give thanks. Very ready!”
“Come on back to the kitchen,” she said. “The party’s already started.” She had barely made introductions when the doorbell chimed again. Sarah took charge of getting Pyotr and his boys settled while Jenny got the door.
“Ralph! So good of you to come!”
He was short and bent, bald but for a few tufts of hair that absolutely refused to quit. His cane had a four-point end to increase stability, but he had walked all of his eighty-two years, and didn’t intend to stop now. “Thank you, Miss Jenny,” he said, his voice harsh from years of smoking. He’d quit ten years back when he had the health scare, but some damage was permanent. “Haven’t had a real Thanksgiving since my Betty joined the Lord.”
She was about to usher him in when a car pulled up and a young man hopped out, nervously combing his unruly mop of hair with his right hand. Jenny’s smile got bigger. “You must be Gordon,” she called out. “Come on in, Marta’s been telling us all about you!”
Gordon’s face turned crimson and he smiled in a kind of bashful way as he hustled up the paved walkway. “I hope she’s been saying good things!”
“The very best,” she assured him. “I’m Jenny, and this spry young gentleman is Ralph.”
“Good to meet you, young man,” Ralph wheezed.
Not knowing quite what to do, given Ralph’s firm right-handed grip on his cane, Gordon extended his left hand, somewhat awkwardly. “Good to meet you, sir.”
“Ralph. I’m too old for that ‘sir’ nonsense.” He gave Jenny a mock glare. “And too ornery to be any sort of ‘gentleman,’ thank you very much!”
“Oh, come on in, both of you!” Jenny led them into the kitchen. “Ding, ding, ding, everyone! Our last two guests have arrived. Listen up, ‘cuz this’ll be on the test! This young man is Ralph, and this still younger one is Gordon. Gordon, Ralph, this is Hope, the woman dashing off into the dining room is Sarah, that’s Tanya, and her daughter Opal is in the window with Marta. Then Pyotr with his sons Dmitri and Ilych.”
More hellos. Gordon moved to Marta like iron shavings to an electromagnet while Ralph made his way to where Pyotr was pouring drinks.
“Pyotr, is it? If there’s ginger ale there, that’ll be a blessing.”
Pyotr’s smile was not broad, but it was real. “Yes, I think . . . this is it, yes?” He held a two-liter bottle for Ralph’s inspection and began to pour when the old man indicated his approval.
“Hope, honey, could you grab me the two platters for the turkey?” Jenny asked.
“Oh, that’s right,” Hope chortled. “Pick on the shortest person in the room!”
Jenny laughed. “Sorry, hon, I wasn’t thinking.” She smiled at Dmitri, who was still looking a bit lost. “Dmitri, Hope here isn’t tall enough to get the big platters over the fridge. Could you lend a hand?”
Pretty soon Jenny had what she needed and started carving the turkey while her guests nibbled on apps and got to know each other. Starting with the white meat, she sliced both breasts off the bird entirely and began to cut them in long, thin strips with a knife she’d had sharpened just a week before. The conversation swirled and she dipped in here and there, while keeping to her task.
Gordon had captured Marta’s attention as only a young man can, and Opal had wandered over to talk with Ilych. “I know you,” she said, sounding pleased.
Ilych dipped his head in acknowledgement. He was maybe 15 to Opal’s 13, but he was tall for his age while Opal was petite. “You have lunch at the soup place, yes? I have seen you there, with your mother.”
Pyotr, meanwhile, was telling Tanya and Ralph a bit of his story. “We got out just after the war started, through Tbilisi. I knew it would suck the boys in . . . if it keeps going like it has been, they’d even be looking for the ancients like me, yes? It is not . . . It is not what we want for our boys, my Ilya and me.”
“Your wife?” Ralph tone gave the question a double meaning that Pyotr picked up right away.
“Yes. She is in St. Petersburg with her mother. The old woman is, how do you say? Frail, yes? We think, this may be her last winter. Her last Christmas. Ilya needs to be with her.”
Ralph laid a comforting hand on Pyotr’s arm. “I’m so sorry. That must be brutal on all of you.”
“It is a catastrophe, yes?” He pronounced it carefully. CatasTRO-fa. “For Ukraine, but also for Russia too. Every day, we try to get news from back home. What we hear . . . God! Boys that Dmitri grew up with . . . gone. And everywhere, police. It is like the bad old days, when I was young.”
Greatly daring, Tanya asked, “How’d you manage to get here?”
“It was crazy time,” Pyotr explained. “We were in Tbilisi for a few weeks, then we got to Rome. Weeks there, in a hostel. We took a chance to fly to Mexico City, then we walked. At the border, we applied for asylum here.”
Jenny was far enough along on the carving to break into the different conversations that were going on. “Okay, everyone! Let’s get the side dishes on the table, then everyone refill your glasses. The turkey’ll be ready to go by the time you’re done.”
Sarah, naturally, organized the logistics and Jenny was happy to let her. Then Dmitri and Tanya grabbed the platters with the light and dark meat and brought them out.
Jenny washed her turkey-juiced hands quickly, removed her apron and went to join her guests in the dining room. “Sarah!” she admonished. “You were supposed to sit at the head of the table.”
“You snooze, you lose, Chica,” Sarah responded with a laugh. “Come on, woman! You’re the hostess here!”
Jenny took her seat, feeling self-conscious. She had sat here so many times. So many Thanksgivings. She had led her family in giving heartfelt thanks for the blessings of home, of heath, of family. But they were all gone, now. The thought rose in her mind, bitter and crippling. Who am I, to sit here? “Will you do the honors, at least, Sarah? Lead us in grace?”
Sarah was tempted to reply with one of her trademark smart remarks, but when she saw the pain and doubt in her friend’s eyes she couldn’t bring herself to do it. “Jenny,” she said softly, “you are full of grace, today and every day. You lead us.”
Jenny was taken aback. It wasn’t that surprising that Sarah had declined to lead the prayer. Despite her years as a nun — or more likely, because of them — she was a firm believer in fewer words and more actions. But the gentleness of her response was wholly out of her crusty character.
After a heartbeat or two, Jenny bobbed her head, took a steadying breath, then held out her hands. Ralph took one, and Hope the other. “Sisters and brothers, will you pray with me?” She waited until the circle was complete and everyone was holding hands together.
“It is a hard world for so many. So very many! And all of you have known your share of it, I know. But just for this moment we’ve been given, let us pause to remember the many, many blessings we have been given.” She looked at Tanya, so brave, so determined to make a life for herself and her young daughter. “For work, when it was needed most.” She looked at Pyotr and his boys. “For life, when it was threatened.” Turning her gaze to Ralph on her left, she said, “for health.” She smiled, looking down the table at Gordon and Marta. “For love, unlooked for.” To Sarah she said, “for faith and friendship.” Finally, she looked at her best friend in all the world and said, “And for hope. Always Hope! Thank you for this time together, for the food we share and the many hands that made it. Thank you.”
Before anyone released their hands, Pyotr spoke, and his cheeks were wet with tears. “Let me add my own thanks for you, Jennifer, on behalf of me and my boys. And ask that you all pray with me, today. For peace. Please, friends, pray for peace!”
Everyone joined Pyotr’s prayer, then the food began to go around the table and the somber tone faded. Many were trying new dishes for the first time; turkey itself was a new experience for the Russians and they sampled it carefully. Dmitri was delighted with Hope’s contribution, a traditional Polish dish of cabbage and mushrooms that reminded him of his Grandmother’s cooking. Tanya looked at it like it might be dangerous, but Opal dived in and told her momma not to be silly.
Before long, good food and goodwill broke down any shyness and reservations, and the conversation flowed easily. Even joyously, and why not? There were stories to be shared, with people who — wonder of wonders! — hadn’t already heard them twenty times before.
Everyone at the table understood how hard life could be, but that only heightened their appreciation for the moments when love and life and joy break through. And those, of course, made the very best stories.
Always.
“Bless us, oh Lord, and these thy gifts, which we are about to receive from thy bounty, through Christ our Lord Amen.” Everyone said the words together, with the same practiced cadence.
“Okay, everyone. Dig in,” Mark said from the head of the table. “If we don’t linger too long, we’ll have a bit of time for touch football before the Cowboys kickoff at 4:30.”
Rita shot her brother a quick look, but decided to let it go. He was a good guy, if a bit stubborn and set in his ways. His three boys were well-behaved, mostly – certainly more straight-laced than Mark had been, at their age! Rita didn’t really get their whole family dynamic, but it worked for them, so she wasn’t going to be the one to make waves. Besides, Mark had given her a place to spend Thanksgiving, and that wasn’t nothing.
So instead, she turned to her sister-in-law, sitting at the other end of the small table. “It looks wonderful, Alice. You’ve outdone yourself.”
Alice gave Rita a smile, and couldn’t help the fact that it was a bit tired. Truth to tell, she really hated Thanksgiving. She spent hours getting the house ready and cooking an elaborate meal, and her husband and sons would go through it like a wood chipper processing pine saplings. Twenty minutes and they would almost certainly be out the door. But it was Thanksgiving and she didn’t want to complain. “Thanks, Reet. I saw a new recipe for stuffing that I decided to try this year. Let me know what you think.”
When her plate was filled, Rita tried the stuffing first. “This is really good! What’s in it?” She listened as Alice explained, making comments that were appropriately interested and enthusiastic. But for her, the only stuffing that ever tasted right was her dad’s. It wasn’t really better, but it said “Thanksgiving” in a way that nothing else ever did.
“So, how’s your season going?” she asked MJ, her oldest nephew.
He shook his head in disgust, paused to swallow and said, “gruesome. We’re one and three — and the one was BS.”
“Mark,” his father warned sternly.
“Uh, sorry!” His face turned red. “I mean, the Panthers really should have won. Don’t tell anyone I said so! But the ref’s call was, uh . . . .” he shot a look at his father before adding, “wrong.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge,” the elder Mark chided. “It’s a tough job, and he might have seen things you missed.”
“Uh, Mom?” Bill, the youngest of the three brothers, interrupted the football discussion. “Where’s the cranberry sauce?”
“In the covered dish there, honey,” Alice replied. “Right by your left elbow.”
He looked befuddled. “No, I mean the cranberry sauce. You know, the stuff you slice?”
“I decided to make it fresh this year. Try it and see what you think.”
Bill gave the covered dish a dubious look, then spooned a small amount onto his plate. A very small amount. He was always a picky eater, reluctant to try new things.
Fourteen-year-old Matt had no such inhibitions. He had smothered his whole plate in gravy — turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes and peas, all coated. “Gravy’s great, Mom,” he said enthusiastically, before taking an oversized forkful of almost everything on his plate. “Stuffing’s a bit weird, though.”
Before Alice could respond either way, Mark Senior said, “What do you think, Reets? Everyone was talking up the Commanders, but I think my Cowboys are gonna do it this year.”
Rita enjoyed football and was looking forward to the afternoon game, though she’d always made fun of Mark’s fanaticism where Dallas was concerned. “I’m living in DC; I’ll back my home team.”
“The Commanders suuu . . . .” Young Mark corrected himself just in time. “Stink!”
“Maybe,” Bill said, being contrary. “But Dallas always ‘stinks.’”
His father took the bait. “That’s what you know! I remember when —”
“Dinosaurs roamed the earth,” Bill finished with a grin. “Seriously, Dad. Roger Staubach retired decades ago!”
“Even I’m not that old,” Mark senior protested.
The discussion lasted a couple more rounds before the male members of the family were scraping their plates. “Okay, boys, get this all cleared to the kitchen. We’ve got time for our little scrimmage. Matt and I against you two!”
“Tradition!” MJ sang out.
“Tradition!” his brothers responded, on the beat. “Nyah, nah. Tradition!”
The kids cleared the table cheerfully enough, ribbing each other gently as they progressed. Alice watched, amused, a smile playing on her face.
“What’s that for,” Rita asked, looking at her sister-in-law’s expression.
“Just good memories,” Alice said. “They grow so quickly. Remember that time at your parent’s house, when MJ and Sally were horsing around and knocked over the whole gravy boat?”
“Oh, God! Ashley was so mortified! Her perfect little girl, all covered with gravy!”
“You have to admit, Sally was adorable.”
“Oh, sure. I’ll even say she’s still adorable.” Rita chuckled. “But damn, Ashley needs to lighten up.”
“Then, or now?” Alice asked, with a wicked twinkle in her eye.
But Rita sobered up a bit. “I want to say ‘both, of course.’ But Sal’s seventeen now, just like MJ. And, between you me and the wall, with the looks she’s grown into . . . .”
Alice nodded, understanding. “Not the best time for Ash to be lightening up.”
“Wish us luck,” Mark senior called from the door. They could scrimmage in the back yard, but the park at the end of the street was much better, given how far Mark and at least the older two boys could throw these days.
“Luck,” Rita and Alice called out as the door slammed shut.
Alice took a deep drink from her wine glass. “Well, best go face the disaster in the kitchen.”
“Not alone, you won’t!” Rita said sternly.
Alice gave her sister-in-law a fond look. “Thanks. You know, I never had a clue, all those years when your parents were hosting all of us, just how much work all of this is.”
Rita nodded. “Yeah. With Ashley and her four, Sam and his two, Trevor and Carol, and all of us . . . I don’t know how they managed.”
“They didn’t, mostly,” Alice said, matter-of-factly.
Dangerous territory, Rita thought. Still, fair’s fair. “I know it was Dad,” she said grudgingly. “Two-thirds of it, anyway.”
Alice looked at Rita thoughtfully. Should she push? At all? Was it her place? “More like ninety percent, Reet. The shopping – Dad. The cooking – Dad. The clean-up – Dad.”
“Mom worked really long hours,” Rita replied, sounding defensive even to herself. “She needed some serious downtime, whenever there was a holiday.”
Alice decided not to point out that Tom had worked as well – had, in fact, built his own business. But it was his company, and he’d always made sure that he and his employees had real time off around the holidays. She got to her feet. “Can you get the tupperware from the garage?”
“Sure.” Rita rose to help. “Of course. On the shelving units?”
“Right.”
The two women spent the next hour working to capture all the leftovers, pack the dishwasher, and clean pots and pans. About half-way through, Rita said, “This is so wrong, Alice. I mean, c’mon! The only women in the household, and we’re busting our butts while the guys play outside?” She was only half-kidding.
Alice shook her head. “I don’t mind all that much. It’s not every night, by any means. Or even most nights. But for Mark and the boys, Thanksgiving’s all about football, and I like to give them that. Besides . . . don’t whisper a word of this, but I’ve never liked football.”
Rita laughed. “You don’t like football, and you married Mark?”
Alice laughed along. “I know, right? He makes good babies, though, you brother. And honestly, he does a good job raising them, too. I just wish . . . .” She stopped herself. No. Don’t do it, Alice!
Rita gave Alice a look as she dried the roasting pan. “You wish what?”
“A million things,” Alice said lightly. “Depending on the day. So, tell me what’s up with your job? Last time we talked, you were seriously thinking about leaving.”
Rita was very tempted to go with the deliberate change of subject. She had a strong sense that she would regret it if she didn’t. But she loved her sister-in-law and knew for a fact that she was the best thing that ever could have happened to her stuffy older brother. So instead she touched her gently and said, “No, really. What do you wish, Alice?”
Alice became very still. Her eyes were turned to the window over the sink, and the view of the half-bare trees swaying in a gentle breeze, but she was seeing other days in her memory. “I wish we were all together, like we used to be.”
“Alice,” Rita said, her voice a mix of sorrow and caution.
Alice looked at her briefly, then looked away again. “You don’t understand. I was a lonely only, not like you guys. And after my Mom died, I had no family. And then I met Mark, and suddenly I had all of you, too. You, and up-tight Ashley, big Sam, clever Trevor . . . spouses, kids, all descending on that big house, and . . . and your Dad there, being so wonderful . . . .”
“Well, it turns out he wasn’t so wonderful,” Rita said, anger finally coming through.
Alice stopped herself, cold. It wasn’t her place. Families are great, until they aren’t. She had only the vaguest memory of her own father, who had walked out when she was very small. She remembered a big voice, and ice cream cones on hot summer days in the heart of Baltimore . . . and lots of arguments that she never understood. She’d cried when her father-in-law had asked her to call him “Dad.”
But whatever she had felt, Mark and his siblings were blood, and she wasn’t. “You’re right, of course,” she said, apologetically. “Forget I said anything . . . and please don’t say anything to Mark! He’s . . . well. I won’t say he’s not rational on the subject. But he’s got very firm views.”
“I won’t say anything, Alice. You know that,” Rita said quietly. “Listen, I . . . I know it’s hard. Losing all that, for you. But you understand, don’t you? I mean, think what a slap in the face it would be to Mom, if we just pretended everything was fine?”
Alice was more than familiar with the arguments; she had heard them all. As far as she could see, her mother-in-law had a good life with her new husband and his family, and had no good reason to begrudge her children a relationship with her former spouse. But the issue was still explosive after five long and silent years, and Alice wasn’t going to get in the line of fire. She simply said, “Of course I do, Rita. Don’t mind me.”
Before Rita could continue the conversation, Alice said, “We’re all set here. Why don’t you catch the pre-game show until the guys get back. If you don’t mind, I’m going to steal a minute to lie down – this took a lot of work!”
Rita felt like she had failed her sister-in-law, but this time she decided not to press. I knew I would regret it if I asked her, she thought. Instead, she said, “Of course! By all means, take a break! I’ll send Mark up when they get back, okay?”
“Don’t bother; I’ll just set an alarm on my phone. I’ll be down in forty-five minutes or so.” Alice threw Rita a smile and went upstairs to her bedroom.
Rita took her glass of Chardonnay into the family room, dominated by a truly enormous big-screen TV. But she couldn’t bring herself to power it up. Much as she enjoyed football, she couldn’t get into the mood. Her conversation with Alice kept going through her head in a loop.
Her mother had been right to leave. Of that, Rita had no doubt. And she had a right to have her kid’s unwavering support. They had all been incredulous when she had announced the divorce, but when she had explained the reason they had all backed her to the hilt. Seriously? After thirty-four years of marriage and five kids, Dad decided he was a woman? Of course Mom left!
They always planned to get together for Thanksgiving anyway, but somehow it had never happened. Mom had kind of folded into a new family. Ashley was living in Phoenix, Sam was in Seattle doing the tech thing, and Trevor was down in North Carolina. Making Thanksgiving happen for everyone was a lot of work. Maybe there were just too many memories to fight.
So they all did their own thing, now. She had joined Mark this year, but the rest of her siblings were making their own, separate traditions. Of course, Dad had invited them all, every year. Just like every few months, he sent each of them letters. They were funny, clever. Sweet, even. Same old Dad. But she’d never answered any of them. Mark, she knew, always made a point of sending his back unopened. For all she knew, Ashley, Sam and Trevor all did the same.
She sat alone with her memories as the minutes ticked on, struggling with her thoughts. She set her wine glass down, surprised to find it empty . . . again. Finally, she said, “Damn you! Damn you! Why can’t I get through one damned holiday without thinking of you!”
But her eyes inexplicably filled with tears, as memories of her father overwhelmed her. He had been the kindest, most understanding person she had ever known. She had loved him with all her heart, and he’d broken it. Shattered it into a million pieces. And even then, even after all that, it hurt to imagine him – she would not think of her dad as a “her!” – sitting in that big house, all alone on Thanksgiving.
“Fuck!” She got up and stormed into the kitchen. “Alright, God damn it. Fine. I’ll make sure you have some turkey and stuffing on frickin’ Thanksgiving!” She pulled together some of the tupperware containers, put them into a shopping bag, and grabbed her coat. Three minutes later, she was driving past the park, seeing her brother and nephews deep in their holiday competition, looking happy. They didn’t look up.
It wasn’t far away. Eight miles, maybe. Across a couple municipal lines, but everything kind of blurred together in suburban Maryland. She drove carefully, aware that she might have had enough wine to spike on a breathalizer. Not that she felt buzzed. Mostly, she just felt pissed off.
It had been years since she had made the drive, but it was still a setting on her personal autopilot. The right turn onto the pike, the left by the gas station. The streets that became more narrow as the houses grew larger.
And there it was, looking exactly the same as it had the last time she had been here. Whitewashed brick on the first floor, creamy clapboard on the second, double-hung windows with forest green shutters. The winding walkway to the front door . . . The walkway she had last run down in shocked and bitter tears. How COULD you! How COULD you? Her voice echoed in her memory, bewildered. Distraught. Shattered.
She parked her car and sat for a moment, undecided. Finally, she repeated, “Fuck it,” and grabbed her bag of left-overs. She stood a little unsteadily, then shut the car door with a firm “thud.”
The walkway had been cleared of the leaves and the lawn looked well-cared for. A turkey banner hung in its usual holiday place to the left of the door, causing an involuntary lump in her throat.
Halfway up the walkway she stopped, startled by the sound of laughter coming from inside. Not just a laugh, either – a lot of laughter. Dad is having a party?
She paused for a moment, indecisive, then turned back towards her car. I’m an idiot. Why did I think Dad of all people would be spending Thanksgiving alone, just because . . .
Just because WE wouldn’t come?
She got to the end of the walkway and stopped again, her curiosity growing. Who was here? Who did he invite?
She turned back. Should I go? Should I just wish him a happy Thanksgiving? FUCK!!!
Sarah was coming back down from the upstairs restroom (the downstairs one being otherwise occupied) when she spied the woman standing undecided at the end of the walkway through the transom above the front door. One glance was all she needed. It looked like she was about to leave, so there was no time to go back to the dining room to get Jenny.
Slipping out the door, Sarah locked eyes with the younger woman and walked towards her purposefully.
Rita had a moment of panic. “I . . . I’m sorry. I’m lost,” she stammered.
“Well, congratulations,” Sarah replied. “‘Cuz now you’re found. Lucky you. Rita, isn’t it?”
Rita recoiled. “How . . . I mean . . . .”
“Because Jenny’s my friend, and she’s got pictures of you five all over that house.”
At the use of her dad’s feminine name, Rita flinched. “I’m sorry . . . I thought . . . I didn’t want . . .”
Sarah looked up at her; Rita had her dad’s height. “You didn’t want your dad to do without Thanksgiving dinner, so you brought her a doggy bag?”
Sarah’s tone was no more diplomatic than usual, and Rita felt her hackles rise. “Now just a minute! Who the hell do you think you are?”
“I told you. I’m her friend. Someone who helped to put her back together after you and your siblings wouldn’t even answer a letter. Or an email. Or even a text!”
“You don’t have any idea —”
“Bullshit I don’t! I was here. You weren’t. And as for being clueless, let me tell you something. I’ve seen people like your dad – fucking dozens of them! – take their own lives, because the people they loved reject them like you did. I’ve been to every funeral. Shoveled dirt on every grave. Looked at the faces of the people who killed them – people just like you – and kept it all inside. Do YOU have any idea – any at all – what that does to me?”
Rita took an involuntary step back, completely bowled over by Sarah’s sudden and incandescent fury. “Look,” she said, bewildered that she was even having this conversation with a complete stranger, “you don’t know what he did to my Mom.”
Sarah cut her off again. “Yes, I do, and that’s between them. We’re not talking about your Mom here, Rita. We’re talking about you. Have you hurt your dad enough, or are you still looking to get in a few more licks?”
Rita was at sea, completely unprepared for what felt like a full frontal attack. She blurted out, “What do you want from me, anyway?”
Sarah grinned unpleasantly. “It’s pick your parable day, girl. What’s your preference? Do you want to be the prodigal daughter? Or one of the invited guests at the Great Banquet?”
“What?”
Sarah stepped closer, glaring up at the taller woman. “You were invited. You. Your sisters and brothers, their spouses and kids. Year after year. Didn’t even bother to respond. Well, Jenny invited others in. People who were a lot less fortunate than all of you. People who appreciate friendship, love, warmth and hospitality. So door number one? You get in your car and go home, and at least let your dad be with people who appreciate her.”
Seeing her conduct through Sarah’s eyes was uncomfortable in the extreme, and Rita wanted to lash out. But it echoed enough of her own thoughts that she found herself starting to tear up instead. “What’s door number two?”
“You fucking stop hurting her! Accept who she is. Who she’s always been. You go in there, and tell her that you still love her. Is that so hard?”
“Yes!” Rita shouted. “Fuck yes, it’s hard! You don’t . . . you can’t . . . .”
The front door opened slowly. Rita turned her attention from Sarah and saw a tall woman standing in the doorframe, caught in the slanting rays of the late afternoon sun. Shoulder-length hair, all silver now, while in her memory it was all black. Tailored pants, sensible shoes, a flowing top with three-quarter length sleeves. The woman’s face was filled with indescribable longing tempered by guilt, shame and fear.
Sarah didn’t need to turn around. She knew what Rita was seeing. Her voice low and fierce, she said, “Well, she’s seen you. Hurt her now, and you’ll break her. I’ll try to pick up the pieces. We all will. But if we fail – and we might! – don’t fucking come to the funeral. I’ll kill you myself!”
Rita might as well not have heard her. She stood frozen in place. Unable to move. Unable to speak.
Jenny’s heart broke as she looked at her daughter, seeing the passage of the years on her face. The conflict in her eyes, the tears on her cheeks. She wanted to run to her, but couldn’t. I have no right. I did this to her. Me.
Sarah took a last look at Rita, sighed, and turned to face her friend. It’s killing her. Just killing her. And we’d almost gotten her through the hardest day. She made her way up the walkway slowly. When she reached Jenny, she murmured, “Go on. Whatever happens, I’m here for you. We’re all here for you. Okay?”
Jenny swallowed, and took the three steps down to the walkway. She hesitated again, then set her shoulders and walked forward, every step a torture. Her daughter’s eyes never left her face, but her expression was impossible to read.
She stopped when she was maybe six feet away, unable to bring herself any closer. Much as she wanted to reach out, to reassure her child, she couldn’t impose that intimacy on her. She took a breath and found it ragged. “Reets . . . Rita. You know you’re always welcome here.”
Rita bit her lip. “What . . . what am I supposed to call you?”
“Jesus, I don’t care! I always liked ‘Dad,’ but I can see where that might make you uncomfortable.”
Rita shook her head. “No . . . I mean, yeah. Of course it does. But . . . I can’t imagine calling you anything else.”
They stood immobile, staring at each other. Wondering whether there was any way to span the chasm that seemed to separate them.
Jenny spoke first. “I am so sorry. For this. For everything.”
“Did you have to do it?”
“I ask myself that question at least a dozen times a day, every day. I thought it was the right thing to do, getting it in the open.”
“Couldn’t you just . . . .” Rita stopped, trying to find a good way to end the sentence.
“Keep lying?” Jenny shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. I’d managed it for a long time. It was starting to take a lot more booze to dull the pain.” She could tell that Rita had been drinking . . . and not just today. Fun lot of presents I’ve given my children, she thought sadly.
“Was it a lie?” Rita’s question was colored in pain, not anger. She wasn’t accusing; she was trying— desperately trying — to understand.
“Was what a lie? I loved you — all of you. I still do. That wasn’t a lie. The person you knew, that helped raise you — that wasn’t a lie. I just let all of you think I was as male inside as I was outside. That? Yeah, baby girl. That was a lie.”
“Mom . . . .”
“Did what she felt she had to do,” Jenny said firmly. “None of this — none of it — is her fault.”
Rita barked a laugh that had no humor in it. “Yeah, that’s what she said, too, believe me.”
“She was right, Rita. She is right.”
“God, you haven’t changed a bit!” Rita shook her head, bemused.
Jenny raised a delicate eyebrow. “Uh huh,” she said dryly.
That caused Rita to let out a full guffaw. “Okay, yeah. You got me. You’ve definitely ‘changed.’ Just . . . maybe . . . not where it counts?”
“I love you, Rita,” Jenny replied softly. “That’s what counts. And it’ll never change.”
Rita looked at this strange and feminine woman who was, somehow, still the father she had known and loved. Trying to reconcile the two in her mind. Why is this so hard?
Jenny could see the conflict if her daughter’s eyes, and ached at the pain she had caused. Was causing. She raised both her hands, palms upward. Praying that a simple, familiar and human gesture could accomplish what her words could not.
Recognizing the offer in the gesture, Rita knew she couldn’t refuse it. Dropping her bag of leftovers, she took a tremulous step forward and covered her father’s hands with her own. So soft, now! “I do love you . . . Dad. I couldn’t bear to think of you all alone here for another Thanksgiving.” She shook her head. “I should have known better!”
“I’m so glad you didn’t, though,” Jenny said, smiling. “And now that you mention it . . . Will you come in and meet my friends? Dinner’s done, but we haven’t got to dessert yet.”
“I couldn’t . . . I don’t want to intrude.”
Jenny was having trouble keeping her hands from quivering, so overwhelmed was she just to be holding her daughter’s hands. “Don’t mind Sarah,” she said reassuringly. “Even she won’t eat you. Honest.”
Rita laughed nervously. “I’m not so sure about that. Quite the protector you have there!”
“She is,” Jenny agreed. “But they’re all good people, and they would welcome you. For your own sake, but also because . . . Well.” She choked up a bit as she added, “They’ll know how happy you’ve made me.”
“Oh, Dad!” Rita couldn’t help herself any longer. She dove in and wrapped her arms around her father, lowering her head to rest on Jenny’s shoulder. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“I know, honey. I know,” Jenny murmured, tears running down her cheeks.
Just at that moment, Rita’s phone went off. Suddenly recalling that she had left her brother’s house without letting anyone know what she was up to, she said, “Shit! That’ll be Mark!”
Jenny released her and watched as Rita grabbed the phone from her back pocket. She could see that the call was indeed coming from her eldest son. “Reet — just call him back in a minute, okay?”
Rita gave her a look, then let the call roll over into voicemail.
“You had Thanksgiving with Mark?” Jenny asked gently.
“Yeah . . . And, I kind of left for a bit without telling them where I was going, and, uh . . . .”
“And you were supposed to be staying for the Cowboys’ game, right?” Naturally, Jenny knew how Mark would spend the back half of any Thanksgiving, especially one where Dallas was playing.
Rita suddenly felt like she was fourteen. “Umm. Right.”
Jenny sighed. “Sweetie, you need to go back. The last thing I want to do is cause any friction between you and your siblings.”
“You want me to pretend this didn’t happen? That I didn’t see you?”
Jenny shrugged uncomfortably. “I’ve hurt you all too much already. At least you’ve had each other.”
Rita gave Jenny a long, long look, then slowly shook her head. “No, Dad.” When Jenny opened her mouth to argue, Rita talked over her. “Not this time. Look. We’re not children anymore. You raised us to make our own decisions and take responsibility for them. I’m not saying this won’t cause friction — it will — but we’ll get through it.”
“Rita . . . please listen to me! I know this has been hard on you. Really hard. But trust me, it’s been even harder on Mark. An eldest son, a father of boys . . . please, honey! I can’t bear to hurt him again!”
“I’m not going to let you do this,” Rita said. “I won’t. Mark and his family will have to make their own choice, and I promise I’ll respect it, just like I know you will. But they will have to respect my choice, too.”
“But,”
“No.”
“Reet,”
“No. Just, no, okay?”
Jenny closed her burning eyes, torn between joy that her daughter was with her, pride in the strong person she had become, and worry for her other children. She hadn’t raised any shrinking violets. Maybe she needed to trust them.
“Okay. But you still need to go back tonight. You said you’d be there.”
Rita smiled and slipped her arm around her father’s trim waist, turning her back toward the house. “Same old Dad. I will. Promise. But not until I’ve met your friends.”
Arm in arm, they walked back to the big house where they had made so many memories. Rita texted her brother, telling him she’d be back by half-time. They stepped inside and went back to the living room, where everyone had decamped to digest a bit. All talking stopped as they came into the room and Jenny said, “friends, we have one more guest after all. This is Rita Fisher . . . my daughter.”
They had known who the stranger was; Sarah had told them when she came in. But none of them had known how it would go, and like Jenny herself, they had been balanced between hope and fear. But the look of pure joy on Jenny’s face told her friends, old and new, everything they’d needed to know. There were tears, and laughter, and three kinds of pie and coffee for those who wanted it.
Half an hour later, Rita made her goodbyes and got back in her car. On the drive back to her brother’s house, she thought about the extraordinary people she had just met. Opal, whose father had been so abusive that Tanya had to get a court order to keep him away. Dmitry and Ilych, separated from their mother by a senseless and brutal war. Hope and Ralph, forever mourning partners they had lost to COVID and cancer. Marta, a young transwoman transformed by Gordon’s love, but rejected and cast off by her entire family.
And I lost my Dad, for five years, she thought. Not because of a war, or because he died or rejected me. But because I closed my heart like a fist. Because I insisted that, however much I grew, however much I changed, Dad was required to fit the image I formed when I was a child.
She knew she would have to have some hard conversations with her siblings. Maybe, even, with her mother. But she vowed that whatever they might choose to do, she would not live her own life that way.
Never again.
One after the other, Jenny’s guests departed, with most carrying leftovers. Ralph, Pyotr and his boys, Tanya and Opal, the little girl drooping from a day of excitement and more food than she’d seen in a very long time. Gordon and Marta, lost in their new-found love. Hope and Sarah were the last to go.
“Quite the day you’ve had, Jen,” Hope said. “You going to be okay?”
“Yeah. It won’t be easy sledding, with Rita. But it’s a start. After five years! A start!”
“Probably wasn’t any picnic for the Prodigal Son and his family, either, the morning after their big party,” Sarah added in sardonic agreement.
Jenny gave her a smile. “Jesus kind of left that part out. But . . . Sarah, whether my other kids ever come back or not, I don’t want Thanksgiving to be just about my own family any more. Today — today was amazing.”
“Good!” Sarah said firmly. “Good! If we all give thanks together, maybe we’ll all have something to give thanks for!”
They made their goodbyes, with Sarah as usual grumping about giving hugs. But she hadn’t driven more than a few blocks before she pulled over and lowered her head, and her hands clutched the steering wheel in delayed reaction. With no one there to see, she broke down, her tears flowing hot, her body wracked with sobs. “Oh, sweet Jesus! Thank you! Thank you! God, I can’t bear another funeral. I just can’t!”
The end
>
Author’s note: I would like to thank my soul sister, Dee Sylvan, for giving me both the inspiration for this story and extremely helpful feedback on it. Love ya, Sis!
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Author's Note: Consider this a present from the Ghost of New Years' Past. New Year's Present posted here, and the story from the Ghost of New Years’ Yet to Come is here. None of these stories are entries in the 2024 New Year's Writing Contest. They are just little nibblies to whet your appetites until January 1, when the REAL entries come it! I'm looking forward to reading all of YOUR takes on the theme soon!
-- Emma Anne Tate
New Year’s Eve was a tradition. I mean, this was the third year in a row that the whole island of misfit toys had gotten together in Terry’s big apartment for a “come as you really are” party. When you’re twenty-two, three years easily makes a tradition. Even a single repeat is at the very least kind of significant, you know what I mean?
Of course I was wearing a dress; that was traditional, too. I’d worn one every year since Serena had first invited me.
But this wasn’t just any dress. Now that I was Legal AF, with all caps where they are most needed, I’d gotten trained as a bartender and I’d volunteered to do the drinks tonight. My dress had a super-short, full and frilly skirt, a tight bodice, a plunging neckline that showed off my silicone assets, and flirty capped sleeves. In deference to the season, it was crushed red velvet, with white lace in the decolletage and the hem of the skirt. Black stockings and three-inch heels completed my Mrs. Santa homage.
Oh, it was classic, and I felt heavenly, but I was also way nervous. I don’t go out dressed, I’m not out to my family, at work, or college. But with Serena, and with Terry’s crew, I felt able – just able, but still! – to take a little peak outside the shell of my egg.
“Hey Reese – how ‘bout an eggnog!” Greta was tipsy. Trans like me, but she’d been out since the Jurassic Age – eight, nine years, easy – and she loved to tease me.
Since I was a cocktail waitress for the evening — taking on a role helped with the belly butterflies! — I was expected to give as good as I got. “Sure you wouldn’t want a whiskey sour, hon? Sweets to the sweet and all that.”
She gave me a big ol’ raspberry. “Sure. Fine. Whatever you’re pouring!”
I like Greta and I didn’t want to do something mean to her overloaded system, like mixing rum or whiskey of any sort with the tequila that was already sloshing around her digestive tract. I gave her a light margarita.
“Thanks, sweetie!” She did something that wasn’t exactly a chug, but it wasn’t any sip, either. “Have I mentioned you look great? I mean, like, really great. I wish I could rock that ‘fit like you do!”
I smiled shyly. For sure, I’m not used to compliments on my feminine appearance. I’m petite compared to Greta, but no-one would mistake me for a pinup girl. “Thanks, Gret. Let me get you another – maybe another six – so you’ll think I look like Margot Robbie!”
She chuckled and moved off, and Terry and Hal took her place. I’d seen Terry when I arrived, of course, but Hal had come later. He gave me a head-to-toe visual exam and said, “Lookin’ hot, girl! How’s it shakin’?” Hal is ruggedly handsome and thoroughly, completely ripped. Shredded. He could probably bench-press Terry in one hand and Greta in the other.
But he’s also gay as deck-the-halls apparel, so I was easily able to laugh off his sally. “Dude, where did you get that . . . thing?” His sweater was truly gruesome – tomato red and neon green, with “I’m a ho, ho, ho!” in big gold letters across his massive chest.
He smiled. “Would you believe it was made for me special?”
He could be a tooth model for Crest commercials or something. “Even you don’t have enemies like that!”
They both laughed. Hal took a twenty-ounce winter lager and Terry opted for a Chardonnay. Out of a box, okay. None of us are rolling in fried dough.
Probably thirty, forty people, so business was brisk and our supply of booze flowed through my fingers, allowing me to show off my nicely manicured nails. After a couple of hours (and maybe two, very small, drinks), I was a lot less nervous. There aren’t very many places in the world where I belong, but New Year’s Eve at Terry’s is absolutely one of them. I wanted it to last forever.
“Hey there, good lookin’.” Serena gave me a sleepy grin. “Can you do one of those Irish Coffee things? I gotta make it to midnight at least.” She planted her delectable tush in a tall stool by the side of my makeshift bar. “I love kinky boots, but damn . . . three hours and I’m dyin’!”
She was a vision in black leather. A tight skirt and black Merry Widow accentuated her abundant curves, and blood-red nails and lipstick made an unmistakable statement. Her normally frizzy jet-black hair was ironed out so it could flow over her shoulders in a dramatic fashion. I knew she had been hoping to catch Greta’s eye, but Greta is bi and was currently pursuing Stuart. Rather forcefully. Last I’d seen her, she was engaged in elaborate maneuvers that were, subtly but surely, herding him in the direction of the master bedroom.
“Anything for you, Mighty Mistress. Though, if you’re looking to extend your stay, you might want the coffee without the Irish part. Kinda works at cross-purposes.”
She pouted at me. “Party popper. Pooper. Whatever. I mean, you do pop out at parties, so.”
I blew her a fake kiss and gave her her coffee, putting just enough Irish in to add a little flavor, but not enough to really do much.
After taking a sip, she said, “I’ve got my New Year’s resolution. All set. Lookin’ at you, I’ve decided I need to lose ten pounds.” She gave me another look. “Maybe fifteen.”
“You’re nuts! You look spectacular!”
“Shoulda been there when Willie was tightening the corset. Jesus! Thought he was gonna cut me in two! Nope. Fifteen pounds.” Another look, head turned sideways. “Might even have to go for twenty. Fuck.” She took a deeper sip of her coffee. “How ’bout you?”
“You think I need to lose weight?”
“Shut up!!! You’d blow away in a light breeze! No. Just, ‘no,’ okay? Don’t even. I’m talkin’ about New Year’s resolutions. You got any?”
I shrugged. “Not really. Never been much into all that.”
“Well, I think you should. It’s good for you.”
“You sound like my dad, trying to talk me into chopping wood.”
She giggled. “Can I buy tickets? I mean, watching you swing an ax in your skimpy red dress, with those cute mongo titties of yours jiggling like crazy!”
“You shouldn’t be that drunk, girl,” I said. “I’ve been pouring, so I know!”
“Seriously.”
“You aren’t serious.”
“Why do you say that?”
“I don’t know. Maybe ’cuz you never are.”
“Ummm.” She tilted her head thoughtfully, squinted, and finally said, “Okay, maybe you have a point. But . . . I’m serious now, and it probably won’t last. You should listen to me.”
Given the elfin points I’d added to them for the party, I couldn’t resist saying, “I’m all ears.”
She giggled again. “Stop it! I’m trying to be serious. I have the perfect resolution for you.”
“Isn’t everyone supposed to make their own? I remember hearing that somewhere.”
“Normally true. Certainly true in my case. Someone might tell me I should resolve to be serious. I mean, not like now. Permanently. Or mostly. Anyway, not happening. BUT! It’s not true when you have a good friend like me who’s looking out for you.”
“You don’t say.”
“I do. At least, I did. Just now. And I was serious, and my serious time is almost up. You gonna listen?”
Greta was suddenly back, having no doubt discovered that the Master Bedroom was also occupied with revelers. But she was not one to let a minor setback ruin her fun. “Heya! Can I get another of those . . . whatevers. What you gave me before? They were sooooo good!” I had the distinct impression that Greta would be staying the night right here. Still, she managed to stumble back the way she came, drink in hand, so she was at least still mostly ambulatory.
Serena followed her progress with thirsty eyes, and I wondered if my own longings were as obvious to the world. If they are, I’m some kind of doomed.
I figured thoughts of Greta would drive all unrelated diabolical plans from Serena’s head, but I was wrong.
“Reese,” she said softly, “you should resolve to be courageous this year.”
“Courageous?” I poured myself a drink and, after a moment’s thought, topped up her coffee with Irish whisky.
She looked back at me and smiled as she saw the bottle in my hand. “Such a sweetie. Yeah, courageous. You’ve been hiding way too much, far too long. Just be you.”
It’s not like we’d never had this discussion before, and it always ended the same way. “You know why —”
She waved my explanation away impatiently. “I do . . . I’ve heard it all, dozens of times. It’s still bullshit. Reese, hon, it’s not gonna get any easier. If you don’t start now, you never will!”
Feeling flustered, I took a sip of my drink, only to find that I’d already downed it. I poured another. “You really think —”
“Sure I do. All the time. Think, that is. It doesn’t actually hurt, and I try not to let it bother me.”
I drank some more. “My life doesn’t suck right now. It could get a lot worse.”
“Or better. Maybe way better. But you’ll never know, will you? Unless you risk it!” Enthusiasm was overcoming her alcohol-fueled sleepiness. “Courage, Reese!”
I drank again, feeling the basement-quality liquor burn my throat going down. Then I slapped the table hard, raised my glass, and said, “Courage!” I’m afraid it came out kind of like a squeak.
Serena smiled triumphantly, clinked her glass to mine, and roared, “Courage!!!” She threw her head back and drank down everything in her glass in one practiced motion.
Her enthusiasm was infectious, just like a wicked bad virus. RSV, maybe. Or COVID. I joined her, even though I was positive I would regret it.
When I managed to refocus my vision, she was snaking her arm across the bar, snagging the Irish, and refilling her glass. I moved to retrieve the bottle and she swatted my hand away playfully.
“I got a present for you,” she said brightly. “While I was thinking, like I do.” She pointed behind the bar, where she had left her bookbag. “In there.”
I snagged her pack and handed it to her. She fished out a mid-sized purse in the same color red as my party dress. “Here you go!”
It worked with my dress, I suppose, though a clutch would have been better. But it’s not like I wore Christmas colors regularly. “Ummm . . . thanks? Why a purse?”
“That isn’t any old purse, silly.”
“No?” I looked it over carefully, and saw nothing out of the ordinary.
“No! What that is, my dear . . . it’s the Red Bag of Courage!” She gave me a wink, then spun away from the bar, got herself to her feet, and screamed, “Chrissy!!!!” to a woman who had just come in the door.
Before I could say anything, she was off and Sammy was there, asking for a Seven and Seven. My hands were, fortunately, still steady enough to manage it. “Just coke” Justin followed Sammy, and break time was over.
Ten minutes to midnight, I was lining up the cheap plastic flutes and pouring Barefoot Bubbly. That would be my last official duty as the Wine Wench. Or the Tequila Tart, as Greta preferred to call me.
The party had reached a kind of crescendo of crazy and it was hard to hear. Someone — Terry I assume — had turned the TV on so that everyone could watch the ball drop and wish they were someplace exciting like Times Square.
Not me, though. I was where I wanted to be, wearing a super cute dress, surrounded by people just as non-normie as I am. Instead, I was thinking about my New Year’s resolution. And about Serena. She was, without a doubt, my closest friend. She’d been my “in” with this crowd, my ticket to the island.
And I wanted her so bad my heart hurt.
I’d been pining for Serena since I met her, but she’s like the LA Dodgers with Shohei Ohtani and I’m first day of Little League. Hell, without my silicone enhancements, even little league is out of my league. She’s gorgeous and smart and funny and even pretty good at holding her booze, though this party is clearly straining her capacity. It was hopeless, and if I screwed up, I could lose my best friend in the whole world.
“Alright, everyone, get your glasses!” My voice is pretty high-pitched, and I managed to pierce the noise. People wandered over, or staggered, depending on the usual factors. But Serena was across the room, talking animatedly to Kirk the Turk, and it was almost midnight.
I wished and I wanted and . . . I wavered. Finally I couldn’t take it any more. Snarling “Courage!” and acting before I could chicken out, I slung my new bag over my shoulder, grabbed two full flutes, and made my way to the woman of my really embarrassing dreams.
I was half-way there when the crowd by the TV started shouting, “Ten, nine, eight . . . .” I reached her at “five” and handed her a flute, earning a smile.
At zero, everyone shouted “Happy New Year!” and downed the bad bubbly. It’s not my drink of choice, but tradition’s tradition.
I looked into Serena’s smiling eyes, stepped forward, and kissed her, using my unencumbered hand to circle her shapely waist. It took an anxious moment before she returned the kiss, and an even longer one before I felt her hand on the bare skin between my shoulder blades, where the back of my dress dipped into a deep “U” that ended just above my bra strap.
We broke the kiss and she left her hand in place, so I did the same. Leaning her forehead against mine, she said, “Courage, right?”
“Yeah,” I breathed. I managed to focus on her left eye. “You didn’t feel anything, did you?”
“Sorry, sweetie.” The eye looked sorry, too.
“Well, fuck.” Oddly, though, my voice was conversational. A little wistful, maybe. “I really hoped . . . .”
She took a half step back and her hand rested lightly on my arm, allowing her to look at me without going cross-eyed. “I know,” she sighed. “I kinda wish it would click, too. But that’s me, always chasin’ the crazies!”
“Greta?”
She giggled. “Yeah. Great example. And Greta’s chasing Stuart, who’ll probably let her catch him just for shits and giggles. But it won’t last, ’cuz he’s really chasing Justin, who’s madly in love with our pal Hal, who’s semi-permanently hooked up with our host.”
“Crazy, fucked up world.”
“True dat.” She squeezed my arm. “We still good?”
I smiled. Oh, she’d broken my heart. But she hadn’t broken our friendship, and my relief overwhelmed the sting of rejection. This had been between us for years, unspoken, unresolved. At least now I knew, and I hadn’t done any harm. “Yeah. Real good.”
She gave me a long look. “Can you drive?”
“I’m thinking, no. And I’m thinking this ‘no’ thing for both of us, Miss ‘I wanna nutha Irish.’”
“That’s ‘Mistress I wanna Nirish mutha . . . .’” Her eyes scrunched as she struggled to remember my formulation. Finally she gave up. “Whatevs. Mistress, see. At least while I’m dressed like this.”
“Okay, ‘Mistress.’ No car keys for you! Maybe we should ask Justin; I know he’s sober.”
She giggled. “Sure! It’ll keep his mind off his pecker. Tell you what — I’ll ask him while you get changed.”
It was now, officially, the new year. And I’d made a resolution, hadn’t I? Stupidly, rashly — all that. But it hadn’t killed me yet, so I said, “What? You don’t like my dress?”
“Of course I . . . Wait, what? Are you serious?”
“Yeah, I’m serious. Of course I’m serious. Always, remember? Which is why you want to jump Greta’s bones instead of mine.”
“Wow, girl!”
“Courage, right?”
She tried to keep a straight face and couldn’t. “Can I stay long enough to see the look on your parents’ faces?”
“Why not? Someone might as well enjoy the show.”
“Will they kick you out? You can crash at my place if they do.”
“Nah. They host an old farts party on New Years, so they’ll be trying to get rid of the last of the moochers. Tomorrow’s another story.”
“What kind of story? Are we talking mystery? Horror? Hallmark Holiday Special?”
I shrugged. “Don’t ask me. I’m just the plucky protagonist.”
Twenty minutes later, I was freezing my ass off, standing on the sidewalk in front of my parent’s ranch house, trying to screw up my courage again. I love my dress, but it isn’t the most practical thing to wear when it’s twenty degrees Fahrenheit. I bet it’s even colder in Celsius.
Really, really cold.
I knew I had to do it. Had to, or I would turn into a little peach Dreamsicle, stuck to the sidewalk until the spring thaw. But somehow, I couldn’t bring myself to take that first step forward.
“Heya!” Serena’s voice was just loud enough to reach me.
I looked back at the car. She had the window open and was grinning at me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I seem to have misplaced a bunch of vertebrae.”
She put her hand out, dangling her present. “A girl has to watch her purse, you know. ’Specially this one.”
I went back and retrieved it, feeling strangely better.
“Go on, hon,” she said. “Tick tock, now. We're a little chilly!” Both she and Justin were bundled up in warm winter coats.
“You’re chilly!”
She just smiled, so I turned back around. Clutching my bag like a talisman, I muttered “courage!” through gritted teeth and marched on the house like the second coming of William Tecumseh Sherman. The lights were all still on, and the sounds coming from inside were consistent with a Geritol party that’s lasted a bit too long.
I took a deep breath. Then another.
A voice behind me shouted, “Freezing, here!”
Finally, I seized both the day and the doorknob and opened wide to a smattering of surprised faces. Striking a dramatic pose, I shouted, “Happy New Year!”
Silence is a strange thing. Mostly, you don’t think of it as a thing. I mean, it’s the absence of a thing, right? Except that sometimes, it’s like a warty green ogre that sits on your chest and squeezes the life out of you. Shrek, but uglier and without the whole ‘heart-of-gold’ thing.
Anyhow, this silence sure felt kind of big and awkward, and it seemed to go on for a really long time. I couldn’t think of anything better to do than hold my pose, left hand on my out-thrust hip, right arm high and wide, wrist bent for the classic ‘ta da!’ gesture. I wondered how long I could stand there before the ground would open and swallow me whole.
Finally, my mother spoke. “I can’t believe it. I’m so disappointed in you. Really.”
“Yeah,” Dad growled. “Farging freezing out, and you’re just standing there like a lamp-post. How many times do I have to tell you to close the damned door after yourself!”
That . . . was a reasonable request. I leaped to correct my faux pas.
Mom wasn’t done. “How could you? Tonight of all nights?”
I took another deep breath. “Mom, you have to understand. This is me. Who I really am.”
“And I’m just supposed to accept that?”
I nodded, a bit shakily.
“Well, I don’t,” she snapped. “I believe I’m within my rights to expect certain standards, and you should know better! You can’t possibly wear red, it’s all wrong for you. And that outfit positively demands a clutch.”
“What?”
Mom appealed to Mrs. Grindelbock from down the street. “Tell her, Geri!”
“She’s right, hon. With your skin tones?” She shook her head sadly.
“Too right,” Mrs. Abernathy agreed.
“I don’t know,” Mr. Grindelbock said thoughtfully. “She looks pretty okay to me.”
“Do you really want to have an opinion on this issue?” His wife’s voice was sweet and cold, like triple-chocolate ice cream straight from the freezer.
Hearing that extra special tone, he beat a hasty retreat. “No, Geri. Of course not, Geri.”
“Good boy,” she approved. “Let’s get going now, before the snow starts.”
Mr. and Mrs. Abernathy made their good-byes at the same time, and soon it was just me and my parents.
“You’re not mad?” I asked, incredulous.
“A bit peeved. I thought you had more color sense,” Mom sniffed.
“Mom!!! I mean, about . . . .” I waved at myself, encompassing all of my maxed-out femininity. I’d known I was trans forever. Ten years, maybe. I’d hid in terror of what would happen if anyone found out. I remember sitting in a locked bathroom for two hours when Dad had come home early once, and I was fully dressed. I had so dreaded this day!
“I’ve known for years,” Mom said with a shrug. “Kind of figured you’d get it off your chest eventually.” She gave my cleavage a measuring look. “That might not have been the best turn of phrase.”
Dad said, “It’s all good. Maybe now you won’t give your Mom grief when she asks you to help her clean up after the party tomorrow.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously!”
“Dad, that’s so sexist!”
He smiled seraphically. “Right you are, little girl. Right you are. I’ll help your mother tomorrow instead, and you can do my job.”
“You don’t mean . . . .”
“Yup!” His shit-eating grin got even wider. “Chopping wood!”
— The End.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
SOFTWARE UPDATE
By Emma Anne Tate, continuing a story by Ricky.
Author’s note: The setting for this story, and three of the characters that appear in it, are based on Ricky’s beautiful story from 2016, Reprogramming Your Life. Ricky very kindly gave me the green light for this follow-on tale, and reviewed the manuscript before I posted.
The remaining four characters in this story are ENTIRELY fictional. Any resemblance to any person or persons in the real or virtual worlds is completely coincidental.
I’m reluctant to tell you that you don’t need to read “Reprogramming” before reading this story – even though it’s true – because I don’t want to say anything that might dissuade you from reading Ricky’s original tale. You want to read Ricky’s tale. Trust me. You DO. Treat yourself!
– Emma
CHAPTER ONE
February – April, 2023
I woke up to the sort of early morning noises you get used to, living in the countryside. They’d seemed strange and exotic the first time I’d come to this remote getaway, an out-of-work work-a-holic way closer to a breakdown than I’d had enough sense to see. Now, the birdsong and the rustling of leaves in a morning breeze just felt like the sounds of home.
Since the pandemic I work from here, mostly, and even that’s part-time. But I still go down to the city for a week every month. My boss Helene Patrickson lets me stay in her guest bedroom when I’m in town; she and her long-time partner Phyllis are also close friends.
Helene and I are nerds among nerds, programmers through and through, even though she’d gotten booted up to management and I’d avoided that fate with single-minded determination and the skill of an Artful Dodger. Helene and I can talk programming for hours and often do. Phyllis calls us the Goddesses of Geekistan.
I like it.
But Phyllis and I have some things in common, too. Specifically, a delight in being, and appearing, feminine, as well as a mildly inconvenient “y” chromosome. Phyllis passes pretty well, but at this point – after seven years of rigorous application, hormone therapy, assorted surgeries, and the gentle guidance of my lovely wife – I am effectively impossible to clock. I could piss in Ron DeSantis’ chamber pot and the skeevy bugger wouldn’t even know to call his gender gendarmes.
Not that I would. I mean, ewwwww, right? But it’s the principle of the thing.
Thoughts of my lovely wife are always sufficient to get me out of bed – unless, of course, she happens to be in it – and today was no exception. She had been asleep when I got back from the city the previous night, and I’d managed to snuggle against her toasty warm back without waking her. But she is an early riser and I am not – actually, that’s not, not, not!!! – so I’m used to waking up in an empty bed.
I found her where I usually do, most mornings: in the living room, a deep, warm robe over her nightgown, laptop open on a small table in front of her. Usually, when she’s at her work station, she’s in a creative fog, muttering bits of dialogue as she writes the romances for which, under several names, she is so famous.
Or infamous, these days. Some clowns had started a boycott of her known works when they had discovered, hiding in plain sight, that she had also been writing transgender fiction for years under (yet) another name. It hadn’t dented her sales all that much. Evangelicals devour trashy romances just like everyone else, they just don’t admit it. The present kerfuffle gave them an additional reason not to admit it, but they’d never needed more than one.
Sara being Sara, she had doubled down. She was writing more transgender fiction than ever, and attending transgender events regularly and openly. Just this past week, while I was gone, she had been off at a TG conference where she had been both a featured speaker and a panelist with other (less well known!) authors of TG fiction.
She wasn’t writing just at the moment, though. Instead, she was staring out the big windows that lined the south-facing wall of the main living area, apparently lost in thought. I typically don’t bother her when she’s working, and writers can do lots of that even when their fingers aren’t on the keyboard. But I hadn’t seen her in a week, so I decided I’d bend my rule. Her long, graceful neck was looking especially in need of a kiss, and I was not one to shirk when duty called.
“Mmmmm! I’ve missed you, too, girlfriend!” She snaked fingers into my strawberry blonde curls to hold me in place, then turned and kissed me properly.
“It’s worth going away each month, just to have you to come back to,” I said when I came up for air.
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?”
“You wrote that one? Damn, you’re good!” I teased.
“I’m old, Rosie darlin’, not antique!” Her laugh, as always, was musical.
“Classic. Timeless.”
“True. So true. Make me some coffee?”
“Your wish is my command, my queen!”
Sara’s house – well, our house, now, but she designed and built it, so I will always think of it as hers – has an open floor plan for the main living area. So it was only a matter of walking a few steps to reach the kitchen, and I never had to lose sight of my gal as I got some magic black juice going. Still trim and fit, her fall of golden hair still thick and sweet-smelling. She had more lines on her face now, but they were smile lines. No sign of weariness or disappointment, much less bitterness. Her eyes were lively, and she remained the free spirit she’d always been.
“What?”
“Sorry not sorry,” I said, with a grin. “I could look at you all day.”
“That’s certainly one way to get out of working.”
“It’s Saturday!” I slid into a teenagy whine. “Helene said I could take the whole day off!”
“She’s just your little boss, silly girl! I’m your big boss!”
“I must have missed that part . . . .”
She shook her head sadly. “It’s sad when such a fine mind starts to slip.”
“Hopefully I’m still good for some things.” I threw in a leer for good measure.
“Down, girl!” she said, but smiled warmly. “I do miss you when you’re away. Come on, let’s sit in the sun porch.”
I poured the coffee and joined her in the enclosed porch that went off at an angle from both the kitchen and the eating area. We sat in comfortable swivel rockers, facing each other at an oblique, enjoying the warmth of the wintry sun magnified by the surrounding windows.
“How are Helene and Phyllis?” she asked, taking an appreciative sip of her morning brew.
“They’re good. Phyllis is taking ballroom dance classes, if you can believe it. She’s enjoying it a lot. I . . . honestly, I think Helene is foolish not to go with her.”
“You think Phyllis needs a chaperone?”
“Noooooo . . . Not that, exactly. Just . . . I don’t know. Maybe it’s just something that’s better to do together.” Wanting to change the subject from my vague uneasiness, I asked, “How was your conference?”
“Outstanding!” She was suddenly energized. “You wouldn’t believe some of those people, Rosie. I mean, of course you would, you’ve been helping me run this little retreat for seven years now. But still . . . .”
Sara augments her writing income by hosting weekend retreats for transwomen (and, generally, their spouses or significant others). The price is wicked high, but for transwomen with means, the chance to spend a long weekend in a completely supportive and accepting environment, with an impressive selection of clothes (both intimates and, well, out-imates), and the company of other transwomen who understand their lives, is more than worth it. She suspended her operation during the pandemic, but she had cautiously reopened in the summer of 2022, and was now doing around twelve weekends a year.
“Got some new ideas for stories, did you?” I asked.
“No. I mean, yes, of course. I always do. But it’s not that. I had kind of a different idea.”
“Yeeeeees,” I said slowly, inviting her to elaborate.
“I met this complete character at the conference – one of the authors on my panel. Couldn’t pass – I mean, at all – and wouldn’t try. Just wore a fun, swishy dress and sensible shoes, and didn’t worry about the full beard. Her pen name is Tara Watt, and most of her stories are on BigCloset and Doppler. Anyhow, we really hit it off. We had dinner with a friend of hers from the BigCloset community who posts as Chris Alys. It was really, really great. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard. And I got to thinking . . . it would be really cool to do a writers’ weekend.”
“I’m kind of surprised you’ve never done one.”
“Well . . . As you know, I’ve kept this place pretty pricey, for a whole host of reasons. Money being the big one, but there are side benefits. And, I’ll be honest, I haven’t rubbed shoulders with a lot of other authors until the past year or so. I was doing my thing, they were doing theirs . . . .”
“Admit it, you’re a snob when it comes to writing.”
“Well, yeah. I am. But also . . . writers can get kind of wrapped up in their own dramas and jealousies sometimes. Much as I hate to say it.”
“Who has the biggest . . . audience?”
She snorted. “Sometimes. I mean, it happens.”
“But you’re warming to them.”
“Not as a general category, maybe. But these women . . . I think it’s different. First, because I really do play in kind of a different league than most of them do. It’s not necessarily fair, but I made my bones in a more mainstream field, so I have contacts in the publishing world that most of these authors will never have. The other part, though, is that when they write TG fiction, they’re writing what they know. Personally. First-hand. I’m always at a remove.”
I reached out to lightly caress her forearm with perfectly manicured fingers. “Not too far removed.”
“No.” She gave me a fond smile. “And of course, it’s not just you. Through my business here, I’ve met lots of transwomen and heard their stories. But, that’s still different from what these authors are doing.”
“I guess I can see that. What kind of a weekend were you thinking about?”
“I want to invite Tara and Chris, and ask them to ask two other BC authors. People they know, whose work they like. Treat them just like other guests – you know, roll out the usual red carpet, bring Debbi in to do a hair salon and makeovers, the whole deal. But it would be the authors only – no plus ones – and it would be our treat.”
“I don’t see why not. Was there anything special you wanted to do?”
“Well, yeah. I mean, it is a chance to talk about all things to do with writing. The challenges, the fun parts, how to make ourselves better . . . .”
“Well, at least that part sounds like it’ll be less work for me. I’m no help to you there.”
“Ah, but that’s where you’re wrong, my little hazelnut!”
“Okay, that one’s new. Hazelnut?”
“Just came up with it while we’re sitting here. A flash of inspiration. As a widely-read author of romance, I think it sounds cute. What do you think?”
“That you’re nuts? Anyway . . . the only writing I do is code.”
“I’ve noticed that. But . . . since I’ve sunk my claws into you, you’ve branched out quite a bit in terms of your reading. You’ve read TG fiction – mine and other people’s – as well as plenty of related non-fiction. It would be really helpful to me if you could read their stories. Give me your thoughts about how they write, from the technical to the intangible.”
“I don’t have any special insights, though.”
“I disagree. You think very differently from most of the people in my world. And, of course, you’ve transitioned. Chris clearly has, but Tara hasn’t, and I obviously don’t know about the other authors they would invite.”
“So long as I’m not looped into your ‘writers’ discussions.’ I’d feel like poor Phyllis, when Helene and I get going.”
“Hmmmm. Let’s take a closer look at that bridge when the time comes. No need to decide today. You may feel differently after you’ve done your homework!”
“Have you read and of Tara and Chris's stories?”
“No. I worry about getting ideas stuck in my subconscious, and having them bubble up into full-fledged stories without my being aware that I had leaned on someone else’s work.”
“Hell hath no fury like an author plagiarized.”
“Yeah. That.”
“But you will read them, before they come? Right?”
“Yes, I absolutely will. At least some. But that’s actually all the more reason for you to read them. If I inadvertently crib an idea from one of their stories, you’ll be in a position to catch it before I ship the manuscript.”
It’s true that, at some point over the past six years, I had started proofing her manuscripts. I did add value; a career spent working with unforgiving code made me an exceptionally good proofreader. But that’s not really why I did it. Her stories were just so damned good!
“Well, darling, it wouldn’t make my top ten list of things I’d like to do in my spare time, but sure. I will immerse myself in TG fiction. The things I do for love! See what you can arrange with your new friends, set a date, and I’ll make sure I’m prepared.”
“What did I ever do to deserve you?”
“Saved my life. But more importantly, you got me a coffee refill.”
“I did not!”
“Oh!!! Right you are!!!” I stared into the depths of my empty mug and made puppy dog eyes. “But you’re going to, aren’t you?”
She laughed.
* * * * *
“What’s got you giggling like a schoolgirl?” Sara looked at me over the tops of her readers, her fond smile on her face. She’s got a good fond smile.
“Your friend Tara. Her Dorothy Sayers fanfic is inspired.”
“Lord Peter’s Whimsey?”
“Right. She’s got the Sayers dialogue down pat, and of course Lord Peter is every bit as perfect at everything as the original version – it’s just that he’s also perfect at transforming himself into a stunningly desirable woman.”
“Oh, of course!”
“And naturally, ‘Lady Petra Peach’ is exceptionally skilled at getting foolish males to confess the crimes they were trying to hide from Lord Peter.”
“We do have certain advantages that way.”
“I’ve heard rumors. Anyhow, the characters are good, the plots are no worse than most mysteries, and the writing is solid. Not in your league, but solid.”
“You might be a bit biased?”
“If I weren’t biased towards the woman who shares my bed, you’d evict me forthwith. And rightly. But I’m a programmer. I prefer Java to C++ – that’s my bias – but that doesn’t mean I like bad Java code better than good C++.”
“Your lips are moving and you’re making noises that sound, at first blush, like human speech. But, sadly, they aren’t. Keep trying, dear!”
“Right. Ummm. You’ve said writing is part art, part science?”
“Obviously.”
“And, because you’re a famous author, I’ll take your word for it.”
“Wise.”
“Well, the ‘science’ part is objective, at least. And there, you have an objectively clear edge over Ms. Watt, what? I think you have an edge in the art department too, but that’s more subjective.”
“And might simply reflect your animalistic desire to jump my bones?”
“I should be very surprised if it didn’t.”
“Huh.”
* * * * *
Three weeks later, we were driving into town to stock up on groceries for one of our normal client weekends – which is to say, the kind of clients that pay lots of money. Sara was driving, since she loves driving and does it whether she’s behind the wheel or in the backseat. But I was poor company, staring out the window as the foggy, soggy, muggy, muddy world went by.
Sara took a turn with her usual exuberance. Once she’d gotten on the straight she shot me a look. “You ready for the weekend?”
I had to shake my head. “Sorry – I need to pull all the info together on our guests. I’ll do it when we get home.”
“You seem distracted. Work issue?”
“No. Well, yes – work from you, my BIG boss. This is all your fault!”
“You don’t care for Chris’s stories?”
“It’s not that. She’s written a ton. It’s all technically good, but I’ll confess I kept waiting for something unpleasant to happen. Story after story, it was all puppies and kittens, you know?”
“I write romance, girlfriend. Happy endings are even more obligatory than torn bodices.”
“Sure. But I’m talking happy beginning, middle and end. The protagonist is always loved and accepted.”
“I can see why that wouldn’t be your thing. Everyone knows you're a harpy.”
“Nice! . . . But that’s just it. It was fine. The stories are pleasant. Feel-good. And – my caustic reputation notwithstanding – I like feeling good as much as the next T-girl. They’re all variations on a classic TG theme, but different enough to keep me reading. Boy meets inner girl . . . they do a little shopping . . . something, something, something . . . only girl remains. And the world rejoices.”
“I sense a ‘but.’”
“With all the potholes in our road, I’m sure you do.”
“You can’t help yourself, can you? Let me try again. I had the distinct impression that your last sentence – which was a fragment, but no matter – should have ended in a semi-colon, followed – immediately followed – by the word ‘however.’”
“Writer!”
“Programmer! Now quit stalling.”
I sighed. “You’re right. I am stalling. Last night, I was close to finished with all of her stories, when I hit two that . . . well. They just tore me apart. Brutal.”
“Brutal how?”
“The stories involved a lot of abuse. Trauma. In the second one, the character is driven to suicide. In the first, she just thinks about it. Hard. They are dark, gritty . . . I can’t get them out of my head.”
“And you think that was her reality?”
“It was real as hell, Sara. The details were granular, in a way that they weren’t in her other stories. If that was coming out of her imagination, her mind travels some twisted paths.”
“I didn’t pick up on anything like that when I met her. It was just one dinner, though.”
“All I can say is, if my life had ever been like that, I might want a whole lot of puppies and kittens too. Baskets full.”
“You’d have to clean up after them.”
“You’d help, though.”
“I wouldn’t.”
I thought about that. “It’d still be worth it.”
“Huh.”
* * * * *
When we aren’t spooning, Sara tends to sleep in a sinuous ball. For warmth, I assume. We were both wearing granny flannels; she looked almost child-like as she dreamed beside me. Her face is so animated when she’s awake that she looks like another person when she sleeps. Resting angel face.
But I was propped up on a pile of pillows, too wired from work to sleep. If I was going to get any rest at all, I needed to shut down that part of my brain. I picked up my iPad, opened BigCloset and went to the authors’ index. Tara Watt told Sara that she’d gotten a confirmation from “Rowena Redmond” for our writers’ weekend. Time for me to do some more homework.
It was probably three hours later when my lovely wife said, “You’re gonna be sorry in the morning!”
“I’m always sorry in the morning. If I could just sleep past noon, everything would be fine. Every day would be perfect, and there would be peace on earth.”
“We’re washing windows tomorrow, remember?”
“No. I’m affirmatively blocking that memory. I’ve decided I don’t need that kind of negativity in my life.”
“Go to sleep, Rosie!”
She was right, of course. But . . . . “You awake?”
“No.”
“I know you have trouble getting back to sleep. I feel bad.”
“I am asleep.”
“Are not.”
“Am so!”
“I know what’ll help you.”
“You not talking?”
“Exactly . . . . I won’t say another word.”
“Good . . . Oh! . . . ah . . . Mmmmmmmm!”
Insomnia is a curse, and it’s a spouse’s clear duty to effect a cure by whatever means necessary. ’Nuf said.
* * * * *
Mercifully, we both slept in. But the work still needed to be done, so the next morning found me up on a ladder, cleaning the outside of the high windows of the main living area.
Sara, who had no great fondness for heights, was steadying the ladder. “So what were you reading ’till the wee hours?”
“Not ‘what,’ ‘who.’”
“‘Whom,’ you doofus!”
“I’d say something witty in Java, but you wouldn’t understand it. Whom, then.”
“Well? Whom?”
“Rowena Redmond.”
“Rowena . . . ? Oh, right. The woman Tara invited. I remember now. What did you think?”
I looked at the portion of window I’d just cleaned from a different angle, which, as I’d feared, exposed the fact that it was now streaky as hell. I tried again. “Ah . . . well. She’s, ahhh . . . pretty graphic.”
“I’m guessing you don’t mean that she writes about engravings, etchings, or woodcuts.”
“I’m gonna start calling you Merriam. No, that’s not what I meant.”
“You do remember that I write romance?”
My second attempt at the window was better, but every streak shows from the inside. I tried again. “Remarkably, that hasn’t escaped my notice. But, if you want an analogy for the comparison, skip the foreplay and go straight to business.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
“You might be surprised,” I muttered.
“I didn’t catch that!”
“I didn’t drop it,” I replied more audibly. “Anyhow . . . . Graphic though she is, in the sense of explicit, she’s actually damned good at it.”
“You don’t say.”
“I did say. Just now. I said it.”
“Does that explain your extreme attentiveness to my insomnia this morning?”
“Just trying to be helpful. I couldn’t think of another way to get you back to sleep.”
“You could have talked to me about C++.”
“I doubt that would have worked.”
“Because you’re so fascinating?”
“That’s me. Rosie the Riveting. You know, I could spill this bucket on you.”
“And I could tip you off the ladder. . . . Anyhow. You were saying? Rowena?”
“Her plots are well-designed to get you from one sex scene to the next, and she knows how to steam up a room!”
“Do her characters have a gender preference for their partners?”
“Plenty of both, and it’s not always a matter of preference, if you know what I mean. But the protagonist is invariably a transwoman. I’d say the lust interests are more likely to be male – I’ve never seen such detailed descriptions of schlongs, by the way. But sex with cis women probably happens at least 40 percent of the time.”
“Sounds like a fun read!”
* * * * *
Three weeks before our scheduled writers’ weekend we got the pen name of our last guest, Sharon Sheralyke. It was probably just coincidence that three out of the four had names that were deliberately clever. Looking at the list of authors on BC, it did not appear to be the norm.
Ms. Sheralkye’s corpus of work was shorter than the other authors – a couple longer works that were published in serial form on BC, and a whole bunch of short stories. She didn’t seem to specialize in any particular genre. One of her longer pieces was a western; she also wrote SciFi, magic, a thriller and something in the superhero line, as well as a bunch of “real world” solos that took no more than ten or fifteen minutes to read. I got through it all in a couple of nights.
Sara asked for my debrief the following evening as I was making dinner.
“Another pretty strong writer in the technical sense. Her dialogue could use some tightening up, but she writes a good scene. And her characters are very believable. But . . . her protagonists all seem to be pretty much the same person in different settings.”
“Mary Sue/Gary Stu?”
I looked up from chopping peppers. “You planning to translate that, or do I need to talk to your AI friend?”
“Leave Alexa out of this.”
“Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” I went back to chopping.
She stuck her tongue out at me. “It’s writers’ shorthand. When authors insert themselves into their main characters too much, they all seem very alike. And they’re all really wonderful, and everyone likes them. Except for the bad guys. You know someone is a bad guy, because they don’t care for Mary Sue. Or Gary Stu, if it’s a guy.”
“Or, in the case of trans characters, both. . . . Yeah. Could be that. I mean, if you take Constance, the Cowboy-turned-Femme Fatale Saloon Keeper and put her on the Space Cruiser Inspiration, she’d be at least a stunt double for Lieutenant Tabitha Long.”
“Hmm. Well . . . what do you think of Constance and Tabitha?”
“Great characters. Or, really, character. I like her. Smart. Caring. Desirable, but that goes without saying. There aren’t that many writers creating ugly protagonists.”
“Our sales would plummet.”
“Can’t have that – I want you to keep making more than me, for ever and ever. Makes me feel like a kept woman!”
“I’ll work on it. It’s a good thing you’re no longer useless in the kitchen. Kept women have to earn their kept!”
“I thought I was just supposed to be highly decorative and capable of entertaining visitors with witty banter?”
“Well then, you’re an All Star – you’re batting 500!”
.
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER TWO
May 26, 2023
Somehow, no matter how often we do these weekends, Sara finds herself mowing the lawn at the last minute. She loves that riding mower almost as much as she loves her snowmobile. Go figure.
As a result, and very much as usual, she was inside getting showered and cleaned up when the first of our guests arrived for the writers’ weekend. A nondescript rental car drove past the end of the driveway, slowed, reversed, and made its tentative way up the gravel. I gave a friendly wave from the front porch so the driver would know she was in the right place, then came down to meet her once she parked.
The woman who emerged was probably in her thirties, if only just. Short and petite. Unlike most transwomen, she deliberately wore her hair short, but it just made her look like Demi Moore back in the day. She was wearing form-fitting blue jeans and a sleeveless collared shirt, and none of that made her look less feminine either.
I smiled warmly and extended a hand. “Hi, I’m Rosie, Sara’s assistant.”
The woman had a nice smile, though it was a bit guarded. “Hi, Rosie. We’ve talked on the phone. I’m Chris.” Her handshake was delicate.
“Chris Alys!”
“Well . . . it’s Chris Sherman, really. But that didn’t seem like a very exciting name for a writer.” She popped her trunk and grabbed a carry-on bag and a garment bag.
“Here, let me help you with that,” I said, relieving her of the garment bag. “Come on in and let me get you settled.”
“Thank you!” Her eyes wandered as we walked to the house, taking it all in. “What an amazing place! You two live here all by yourselves . . . in the middle of the woods?”
“I’m guessing you’re a city girl?”
“Not originally, but for the past ten years. Soon as I could. It can be a scary place, I guess, but for me, it’s home. I hope I’ll be able to sleep without hearing the traffic and the el train!”
I ushered her through the front door, saying, “It’s pretty quiet at night, that’s for sure – though we can probably pipe some background city noises into your room at night if you need them to sleep. You know, gunshots, breaking glass, sirens and such.”
She laughed, light and playful. “It’s not that bad!” As soon as she got a look at the main living area, she stopped. “Oh. My. God. That’s . . . wow. I think that living room/dining room space is larger than my whole apartment!”
“But you can get take-out at 2:00 a.m.”
“Yeah, there’s that. I’m a sucker for pre-dawn Pad Thai.”
I showed her to her bedroom and gave her the standard introductory spiel, slightly modified. “Please feel free to wear any of the clothes in the closet or the drawers. They've all been cleaned and are for our guest's use. Just put anything you've used in the hamper so we can launder it for the next guest.
“I’m going to go out on a limb and guess that you aren’t going to want to use any of our breast forms or wigs, but they are available for your use. So if you want to feel extra stacked, or fancy being a long-haired blonde for the weekend, feel free. You can use any of the makeup at the table, but please take the open items with you.
"There are four of you for the weekend and we cook and socialize as a group. Tonight we have an evening of conversation and games planned; tomorrow we have a hairdresser and a makeup specialist available.
“We try to respect our guest's privacy, and you can use any name you want for the weekend. I know that you all know each other online – and that you and Tara, at least, have met in person. But not everyone may be ‘out’ to the same degree, so everyone needs to respect each others’ privacy. Naturally if anyone volunteers any details we would hope all you will keep them to yourselves.”
“Thank you,” she said warmly. “I don’t know how much, if any, of this I’ll use, but I love the fact that it’s here. I really appreciate you and Sara opening your home to us! So, what’s up next, and when?”
“You’re the first to arrive; I expect it’ll take a few hours before everyone’s here. So the next couple hours are all yours. You can rest up, or read a book – Sara’s library is impressive, as you might guess! If you’re feeling energetic, you can take a walk – the trails are extensive and really pretty. We’ll all meet for dinner at six. Because all of you have been traveling, this is one meal you don’t need to help prepare.”
“I may take a bit of a nap, if that’s okay. Dress code for dinner?”
“Casual tonight. Sara and I tend to favor skirts and fun tops. Nothing fancy, but traditionally feminine. Seems to put our guests at ease. But if you’re a jeans-and-T-shirt kind of gal, go for it!”
“Thanks, Rosie.” Her smile was tentative, but hopeful. “I think I’m going to love it here.”
“We can’t ask for more than that. I’ll get out of your really lovely natural hair for now, and see you soon!”
I heard Sara talking with someone out front and surmised that another guest had arrived. A moment later, she came through the front door with someone with a pretty androgynous look, probably mid-thirties at a guess. Medium height, medium-length medium brown hair, unremarkable eyes.
Sara made introductions. “Avery, this is Rosie, who is both my business partner and my wife; Rosie, this is Avery.”
I smiled and shook her hand; we were both pretty gentle about it. “Welcome, Avery! I’m really Sara’s assistant, so don’t let that ‘business partner’ shtick fool you!”
“It’s good to meet you,” Avery replied. Medium voice, too.
“Let me show you your room and get you settled,” Sara said to Avery. To me, she said, “Keep an eye out, would you?”
“Absolutely.” I poured myself some unsweetened iced tea and went out to the front porch. We’d just put up the mesh hanging chair, so I sat and watched the clouds go by, sipping my drink and enjoying the quiet time. My brain, typically hyperactive, seized on a programming issue that was giving me a challenge at work.
It was probably close to an hour later when our next guest arrived. I had kind of gone into a fugue state contemplating my work problem, so it took a moment to reorient myself to the sidereal universe. I rose, stretched, and walked over to the muddy SUV that just finished parking.
The driver who emerged was a tall man, probably 6’2” or so, thin but for a slight paunch. Clean-shaven, so this wasn’t Tara Watt unless he’d shaved. His hair was short and professional, the kind of pale, pale blonde that fades almost imperceptibly into equally pale silver. It had already done the preponderance of its fading.
He looked like a scared rabbit. “Umm . . . Hi. I’m looking for Sara McClure’s house? I think I might be lost.”
“You once were lost, but now you’re found,” I assured him. “I’m Rosie. I work for Sara.” And work, and work, and work! “Welcome!” I put on my brightest smile.
My normal winning manner wasn’t working; he still looked skittish. “Oh! Ah . . . that’s great. I exchanged emails with ‘Rochelle’ . . . .”
“Same chica. I only use ‘Rochelle’ for correspondence. ‘Rosie’s’ a little more wash-and-wear.”
He still stood there, looking lost and frightened. This one's going to take work. I put a hand lightly on his forearm. “It’s okay. Really. You are among friends here. You’re safe. And we’re very glad to have you.”
That seemed to penetrate, finally. He didn’t say anything, but he did look less likely to run off into the woods.
It wasn’t my first rodeo, and I knew what I was dealing with. The poor guy was in the closet – probably so deep in the closet that he ought to smell like moth balls. Keeping my voice soft, I said, “It’s just us for the weekend – me and Sara, and your friends from BigCloset. What would you like us to call you?”
He closed his eyes, as if in pain. When he opened them, I saw the gleam of unshed tears. “Could you . . . could you call me Anna?” It was barely a whisper, filled with fear and hurt and longing.
I took her elbow . . . with her name finally out, I could think of Anna as “her,” and started guiding her gently toward the house. “Of course I can, Anna. All of us will.”
“Oh . . . I should get . . . “ She looked back toward her SUV.
But I knew there would be nothing for her there. “Don’t you worry, Anna. We’ve got everything you need waiting for you. Unless you’ve got medications?”
She shook her head.
I continued guiding her to the house. “Everything you might like to wear . . . inside and out. We’re going to take good care of you, honey.”
She was trembling. As we came inside, she looked around fearfully, and only calmed when she didn’t see other people. I decided not to waste any time, and brought her straight back to her room.
I gave her the same spiel I’d given to Chris, although I took the time to explain that the breast forms had been sterilized and that the padded panty products were available for purchase, since they couldn’t be reused. I showed her the wigs and explained that we had others available. Showed her the cosmetics. Throughout, her expression was a mixture of longing and fear, of desire and frustration.
As I wound down, she finally sat on the bed heavily, like her knees had given way. She looked at me hopelessly. “Rosie . . . this is all like some kind of a dream. But . . . dear God, I don’t know the first thing about any of this! I don’t . . . I can’t . . . God! I should never have come!” She could no longer hold back the tears.
I sat next to her on the bed and put an arm around her. “Anna . . . Anna! I said we’re going to take good care of you, and we will. You don’t know how to make yourself look feminine and pretty? I didn’t either, when I first came here. But I’m damned good now – as I very much hope you’ll agree! – and I’m going to give you all the help you need!”
“You’re trans? Really?”
I nodded emphatically.
“Okay, but . . . you’re beautiful, and I’m . . . .” She made a hopeless gesture. “I’m this.”
“Sweetheart, I’ve had tougher challenges, believe me. Believe me! Now, here’s what I want you to do. I’m going to draw a bubble bath for you. I want you to soak for at least forty-five minutes, and I’m going to put a moisturizing mask on you while you’re soaking. When you’re finished, I want you to get into one of the long nightgowns in the second drawer of the dresser over there, then wrap yourself in the blue dressing gown that’s hanging on the hook in the bathroom. Okay? Once you’ve done all that, I’ll be back to get you ready.”
Anna looked dubious, but I managed to get the bath drawn and get her set with the moisturizing mask. Once I was certain she would actually get into the water, I left to find Sara.
She was in the kitchen, fussing with everything that was going to go into this evening’s stir-fry. She took one look at my expression and said, “High maintenance?”
“Yeah . . . clearly very much in the closet. I’ll need to do a lot of hand-holding. She’d like to be called ‘Anna.’”
Sara cocked an ear and said, “Hey, be useful and do some chop-chop, would you? I think I hear Tara.” She took off her apron, handed it to me, and headed for the door.
Two minutes later, I heard the sound of Sara’s voice, followed immediately by a laugh so round and joyous and full of mirth that I couldn’t help but smile myself. A man bounded into the house, a bemused Sara following in his wake. Late forties, a barrel chest and red beard that would make Hägar the Horrible proud, and a slightly simian face reminiscent of late-stage Ernest Borgnine.
“There she is! The fabled Dulcinea!” He bounced over to me and pulled me into a fierce hug.
I barely had time to drop the cleaver on the cutting board.
“You aren’t pregnant, are you, my dear?” he inquired with an infectious smile.
“Uh . . . I’m sure I’d have noticed.”
He took in my bare feet, my apron, my location and occupation prior to being swept off my feet, and said, “Well, two out of three! You can’t ask for more than that!” He released his hug but snatched both my hands. Switching gears and speaking with sudden softness, he said, “Truly, Rosie. Sara couldn’t stop talking about you, and I’ve been dying to meet you. Thanks for sharing your lovely home.”
I pressed his hands, a bit overwhelmed by it all. “I’m delighted you came. What would you like to be called?”
“Oh, call me ‘Tara’ by all means. You could call me ‘Bob,’ but this is supposed to be a fun weekend!” He . . . she? . . . released my hands, turned to my bemused bride and said, “Now come on, Sara! Show me that magic, overstuffed wardrobe you promised me! I want to drop the pants and wear something with some swish in it!”
Laughing, they took off down the hallway.
“Well, then,” I said softly in the general direction of the departing duo. “That’ll shake things up!”
By the time Sara wandered back out, all the chopping was done and I’d started the rice. “I can see why you decided this weekend would be fun,” I told her.
“She’s a hoot, isn’t she?”
“You’re going with ‘she?’”
She poured herself some water, which gave her time to consider my question. “Yeeeees. Ask Tara, and she’ll laugh and say she’s just a guy in a gown. Won’t shave, won’t try . . . well, you know. Says it’s no big deal, just an old-fashioned cross-dresser. . . . But, she wants to be called ‘Tara,’ and I can’t help thinking . . . .” She lapsed into silence.
I tried finishing her thought. “That the laugh and the beard and all the rest are just her way of coping?”
“Maybe not ‘just’ a way of coping. But . . . yeah. Maybe that’s part of it.”
“Well, far be it from me to mess with a well-functioning coping mechanism!”
“Right you are,” she said, smiling. “But let’s go with female pronouns, just the same.”
I gave a mock salute. “Roger.”
“Pleased to meet you, Roger. I’m Sara.”
“Among other things. Listen, speaking of coping, I’d best get back to Sharon-Anna. It’s going to take some time to get her ready.”
Sara’s musical laugh was low and confidential. “Anna’s not Sharon Sheralyke. That’s Avery’s pen name.”
“Avery? Oh! I just assumed . . . .” Then it hit me. “No way!”
“Oh, yes! Very much ‘way’!”
“Anna is Rowena?”
“The ‘Gräfin of Gräphic?’ Yup!”
“Wow! I would never have guessed! She’s so shy!”
“Authors are sneaky that way.”
“The things you tell me,” I said dryly. “Well, anyhow . . . I’d best get back to Gräfin Anna. I’m confident that Chris won’t need any help.”
“Tara will be fine, too,” she replied. “And I’ll check on Avery when the rice is done.”
“Great.” I gave her a peck, returned her apron, and went down the hall.
A soft knock on the door got no response, so I eased it open and peaked inside. Anna was standing by the window looking out, wearing a robins’ egg blue robe over a creamy white full-length nightie. So as not to startle her, I said softly, “Hey, Anna – safe to come in?”
She turned slowly. “I . . . .” She thought better of whatever it was she had been about to say. “Yes. Please come in.” Her voice, interestingly, sounded softer.
I came, sat on the bed, and patted the spot beside me. “Sit and chat, girlfriend.”
She gave a fleeting smile at the endearment, then moved to join me.
“How are you feeling?”
She shrugged. “Can I even describe it? I feel foolish – I know how I look.” Before I could say anything, she reached out a tentative hand to stop me. “And I feel wonderful, because I’m here wearing a silky nightie, and you’re here with me, and you aren’t laughing. You can’t know . . . I mean, maybe you can. Anyway – Rosie, no-one’s ever seen me like this in real life. No one who knows my legal name even knows I’m trans. At least, I think I’m trans. For sure, I’ve always wanted to be female . . . .”
I reached over and held her hand, sensing that she was just collecting her thoughts.
She gave my hand a grateful squeeze and took a breath. “And I’m scared. Terrified.” She looked at me, her smile crooked. “Is that enough to work with?”
“Enough to work on, I should think,” I responded. “Let’s start with the last piece. What are you afraid of?”
She dropped her eyes, looking at the hand I had captured. “Have you seen my stuff on BC?”
“Rowena Redmond? I certainly have!” She was looking down, so I made sure she could hear my smile. “You’re not worried that this crowd isn’t going to accept you because of your stories, are you?”
That got a full smile and a head shake. “No, no. Tara, Chris, even Sharon – they all know the kinds of stories I write. When I first started writing on BC, Tara kind of took me under her wing. Gave me pointers and lots of encouragement, even though my stories are about as different from hers as you can get. I’ve tried to do the same for Sharon since she came on two years ago. And Chris and I always read each others’ stuff.”
“Then . . . what is it?”
She got up suddenly, letting go of my hand, and started pacing nervously. “Did you see my profile picture?”
“The blonde bombshell? Oh, yeah!”
“That’s the only image anyone on BC has ever seen. That’s what Rowena Redmond looks like. She’s not . . . .” She stopped in front of the full-length mirror and gestured at the image with disgust. “Old, freakishly tall, and male.”
I stayed seated rather than trying to keep up with her pacing. “I saw lots of profile pics on BC; it was clear most of them weren’t the authors. I’m sure no-one here expects you to look like yours.”
She shook her head. “No; these are my peeps. They know I’m pushing sixty and they know I’ve never transitioned. So they know I can’t look like my pic. But . . . don’t you see? They don’t actually know what I do look like. When they think of Rowena, that’s the only image they’ve got. And that’s the image I want them to have. That’s what I should look like! If I go out there now, they’ll never see me like that again. When they think of me, from here on out, they’ll just see this old guy in drag. It’ll never be the same.”
“What won’t be the same?”
“I’ve been talking – well, communicating! – with Tara and Chris for seven or eight years. With Sharon, more like two. They know who I am in here.” She pointed to her heart. “That’s all they know. They communicate with me as women, to a woman. We’ve shared things . . . deep things. Personal things. Will they still see me? When they know that I’m like this?”
I rose and got in front of her, forcing her to stop. I took both of her hands in mine and looked up into her troubled eyes. “I can tell you now that with my help, you will look like a woman when you walk out there. A tall woman, sure, but I know cis women your height. You won’t look like your profile pic; neither of us are 25 any more. But I think there’s something that’s more important.”
“What?”
“No one in your ‘real’ life sees the woman inside. No one on BC sees you in the flesh. Here’s a chance – maybe one-in-a-lifetime – to just be you. Not hiding one thing or the other. I don’t think you’re likely to find a better, more accepting group. Isn’t that worth some risk?”
That made her pause. “I . . . I don’t know.”
“Think what a relief it was, when you saw that I wasn’t laughing at you. What will it mean to you, to have your friends welcome you?”
It was a good half minute before she replied, her voice a whisper. “Do you really think . . . I can at least manage to look like a woman?”
I want to spend five minutes shouting “Scooooooooooooore!” like a World Cup announcer on Telemundo. Instead, I smiled – big, relieved, and genuine – and said, “Oh, honey! You just wait and see!”
You don’t need the blow-by-blow. Once she committed to try, once she decided the risk was worthwhile, she was able to simply enjoy the experience of being pampered and treated to feminine underwear, clothes and make-up. She was adorable when she picked out a wig, finding one with full, blonde hair, close to her (original) natural color. We went with a long-sleeved top and a loose, flowing micro-pleated cotton skirt. She was not in a position to shave her arms or legs, but between her light (and not very plentiful) body hair, it was unnoticeable under medium-colored hose.
I finally let her look in the mirror. She didn’t squeal with joy, or look delirious, or all of those other great things that happen in . . . well, in Rowena’s stories, among others. But she looked herself over carefully, front, profile, and an over-the-shoulder look at her backside. Her smile was thoughtful and tentative, but she finally nodded and said, “Okay.”
She looked at me and her smile softened. “You did an amazing job, given what you had to work with. I’m no bombshell . . . but you’re right. I look okay. In good light at least, I’d pass for a woman. It’ll do.”
“So, you owe me,” I replied. “And I’m going to collect right now. When you go out there, you’re going to meet your friends – Tara and Chris and Sharon, though Sharon goes by Avery. And I want you to remember, before you step out the door, that they might be feeling just as nervous as you are. Maybe for the same reason. Maybe for different ones. I want you to think, now, before you walk out there, how you can reassure your friends that you still see them. Okay?”
The look I got this time was priceless. “I am so sorry, Rosie! I’ve been so wrapped up in my own drama! I . . . .”
Whatever she’d been about to say was interrupted by a tentative tap on the door. Sara poked her head in and said, “Dinner in ten, Rosie.” She looked at Anna and smiled. “You certainly look ready!” She let herself in and took Anna’s hand in both of hers. “Anna, I’m Sara. Thank you so much for coming!”
Anna had frozen slightly when Sara entered, but Sara’s warmth had its usual effect. She visibly relaxed. Returning Sara’s smile, she replied, “Thank you – both of you! – for inviting me. I’m sorry if I’ve been so much trouble.”
“You’ve been great, and it’s been a pleasure helping you,” I said firmly. “But now, I think it’s time to meet your friends.”
She took a steadying breath. “Okay. Ready or not!”
“You’ll be fine,” Sara promised. “Really.” Looking at me, she said, “You’ve got a couple minutes to change.”
“I will, but I’ll come with Anna for the ice breaking.”
Anna gave me a grateful look. “Thank-you! For everything.”
Tara, Chris and Avery were standing around the island in the kitchen with wine glasses in their hands. As soon as we emerged, Tara put her glass down, spread her arms wide, and positively squealed, “Roweeeeeena!” She bounded over and gave Anna a huge hug.
Anna, to her credit, looked nothing but overjoyed at being jumped by a burly, red-bearded person in a dress that could reasonably be described as “swishy.” Nor, interestingly, did Anna have any doubt who had grabbed her. “Tara! Oh, my God! I finally get to give you a hug!”
Tara released her, beaming, and dragged her to the island. I was relieved to see that both Chris and Avery looked delighted as well. Both gave greetings that were every bit as warm as Tara’s, if perhaps less bone-crushingly exuberant.
I looked at Sara, who gave me a smile and a wink and made a shoo-ing motion with both hands. All was well.
I popped back into our bedroom and changed from the capris and shirt I had been wearing. I had noticed that none of our guests were wearing pants of any sort; Chris was wearing a short, stretchy black skirt with a loose top that ended just inches above the skirt’s hemline, and Avery had chosen a denim skirt and a gauzy white shirt over a camisole. So I dressed to fit in, selecting a loose, calf-length cotton print skirt and a tight-fitting sleeveless knit top.
The discussion was already lively by the time I got back, and they were all gathered around the island watching Sara do her magic with the stir-fry. I checked the table to make sure everything was where it needed to be, then lit some candles and dimmed the lights.
“Aaaaand, we’re done!” Sara looked pleased, as she should. The stir-fry smelled heavenly. Sara tipped the wok and scooped the contents into a large ceramic serving bowl we’d picked up on a trip through Burlington, and I brought it to the table.
After everyone was seated, Sara tapped her knife against her wine glass, then said, “First, thank you for coming. I’m really excited to get to meet all of you, and I hope you enjoy the weekend as much as I’m sure I will. Second, let me give you a toast.” She raised her glass and said, “To old friends and new adventures!”
I was seated at one end of the table, with Sara at the other. Interestingly, Sara had seated everyone so that she was between the two guests I had welcomed, and I was between Avery and Tara.
They picked up a conversation they had been having just before we’d paused to get everything served. Tara asked Avery, “So . . . six months in on HRT? What do you think?”
“I guess I didn’t know what to expect. I mean, I know what I was hoping for, obviously.” Avery grinned. “Perfect skin, gorgeous hair, and an instant hourglass figure! I knew that was all fantasy, but I really didn’t know . . . . Well, anyway. My emotions have been a bit more of a rollercoaster, for sure. I definitely see improvement with my skin, and maybe a bit of improvement with my shape. Not much yet, though.”
“You look terrific,” I told her, and it was true. She had looked fairly androgynous when she arrived, but she’d done a nice job with a face-framing hairstyle and subtle but very well-done make-up. She’d almost certainly made use of the padding we made available, both top and bottom. Nuttin’ wrong with that!!!
Tara added in her own praise. “You do, Honey! That’s got to help with the day-to-day as well?”
Avery smiled shyly at the words of praise. “Work’s been okay. We’ve had unisex bathrooms for a long time in my office, so that source of friction isn’t there. Some people are still a bit uncomfortable, but my immediate supervisor has been great. He hasn’t treated me any different than he did before. We weren’t close, and we aren’t now, but he’s one hundred percent professional and focused on getting the work done. I appreciate that.”
“Are you accepted by the women in the office?” I asked.
“It’s a mixed bag. Some yes, some no. And there aren’t any patterns. Some of the secretaries have been really nice, some not; some other architects have been warm, some cold. It’s . . . well. People, right?”
Tara said, “I really admire you for transitioning in place, if you know what I mean. It must be harder, with people who already have established relationships with the ‘old’ you, and are trying to figure out how to relate to the ‘new’ you.”
“Not much choice,” Avery said. “It’s all about the insurance. Our firm’s got a good plan and they’re covering my treatment at 80 percent. There’s no way I could have swung it otherwise.”
Chris, sitting on Tara’s other side, chimed in. “Same for me, Tara, as you know. I had no choice but to stick it out at my old company, even though my boss was a stone-cold bitch about the whole thing. I just gritted my teeth for close to three years and got through it. After I was fully recovered from my last surgery, I said ‘hasta la vista!’ and was out of there like a shot.”
“Talk about golden hand-cuffs,” I said.
Anna smiled evilly. “Hand-cuffs? Hmmm. Sounds kinky!”
Tara guffawed loudly. “Gurl, your mind is never far from the gutter, is it?”
I was delighted to see that Anna wasn’t remotely distressed about the ribbing. Her grin just got wider. “Nope! Admit it – you read every single salacious word!”
“Oh, I do! I do! And, unlike the timid, I leave not only kudos, but comments with my name on them, too!”
“You all do,” Anna said, suddenly serious. “And I want you to know, I love you for it.”
“I don’t understand,” I said. “Is leaving comments a big deal or something?”
Tara raised both hands imploringly. “No! Please, no! Let’s not talk about this crazy subject – at least not on our first night!” She was clearly kidding – and also, not kidding.
Recognizing the latter, I chose to laugh and say, “I withdraw my question! Uncle! Or ‘aunt,’ or whatever!”
Tara talked a bit about her work, which was in construction. After she was done with one of her crazy tales – the process of putting up buildings is a lot more humorous than I ever thought – I shook my head and said, “You know, some people might say, ‘Wow! A foreman at a construction site is trans!’ But me . . . I say, ‘wow! A foreman at a construction site devours early twentieth century murder mysteries!’”
Tara smiled broadly. “Yup! People are just so much more interesting than their jobs. All the time, people pigeon-hole other folks on the basis of education, or job status, or religion, or whatever, and just miss all the fun parts!”
Sara leaned back. “Tell me about it – that one’s a software engineer, if you can believe it.” She pointed her wine glass at me.
“Really! I never would have guessed that!” Anna beamed at me, which I thought was strange until she added, “Now I don’t feel so bad: Respected forensic accountant by day; writer of erotic trans fiction by night!”
“Forensic accounting?” Anna was full of surprises.
“Yep. About as far from who I am inside as you can get . . . but it’s a living, and I’m good at it. I’m able to provide for my family, put the kids through college, pay for my daughter’s crazy-ass destination wedding . . . . You know. Life.”
Tara’s smile was soft. “Yeah. I know. . . . But, I can at least talk to my wife about what's inside. It made it a lot easier than you’ve had it, Anna.”
Anna shrugged, sadly. “It is what it is.” Deliberately changing the subject, she turned to Avery and said, “Hey . . . I wanted to ask you – where did you come up with the idea for your latest series? Why the 17th Century, and why Venice?”
Avery’s eyes were filled with compassion for her older friend, but she helped the only way she could. “Oh, the usual. I was watching some James Bond movie where they were having a high-speed boat chase through the canals of Venice, and I thought, ‘huh! Venice!’ Then I started doing a little research, and found that things were pretty interesting there back in the day. A lot of gender-bending around all of the old carnival traditions . . . . Anyhow, next thing you know . . . .”
“You’re off to the races,” Tara finished. “I love your versatility. I tend to stick with what I know.”
“You know a lot of people who’ve been murdered?” Chris asked innocently.
“Not to mention, minor British nobles,” Anna added.
“Oh, yes,” Tara said blithely. “Entire villages just littered with the bodies of minor nobility. . . . But seriously, it’s hard to explain what an outlet it is for me. I mean, Sayers’ characters are witty and charming. Peter Whimsy is urbane, civilized, clever . . . . I don’t get to live in that world, except when I’m writing. My company runs on blunt, Anglo-Saxon words of two syllables or less. Usually less!”
Chris nodded, and said softly, “We don’t get to live in a world where people like us are accepted, either. So I write about it. I imagine it. I write stories full of love and acceptance . . . even admiration . . . I guess it’s my candle against the darkness.”
Tara covered Chris’ hand with her own. “And thank God you do, honey. I know a lot of people in our community find comfort in your stories.”
Avery said, “I know I have, Chris. All the time. . . . I guess maybe I haven’t found my voice, that way. I’m just skipping along from rock to rock, writing about whatever strikes my fancy.”
Anna shook her head. “I disagree – as you know! I think your voice is in writing characters, so the genre’s less important.”
“You’re such a sweetheart,” Avery responded with a smile. “I’m actually concerned that I might be writing the same characters.”
“Well, your protagonists are all strong, principled people, but I wouldn’t say they were the same,” Tara countered.
Anna agreed. “Right . . . I mean, you might as well say all of my protagonists are the same, just because they are all – let’s be honest here! – smokin’ hot, and more than a bit oversexed.”
“They don’t all start out that way,” Chris objected.
“But they all get there!” Tara cackled.
They got into the weeds on the issue, with verve and good humor, and the discussion carried over until everyone was done eating. Apparently, I was the only person at the table who’d never heard of Mary Sue and Gary Stu. I learned a lot about them.
After dinner we played Apples to Apples, which Sara and I like as an ice-breaker since you win by guessing what someone else will associate with a word. This group didn’t need the ice broken – not after they got comfortable around each other's skins – but the game was an even bigger hit precisely because the four of them knew each other already and selected potential matches based on what they knew.
“Alright,” Anna said when it was her turn. “Do I have everyone’s cards?” Seeing nods all around, she said, “As a reminder, the Green Card is ‘Exciting,’ defined as ‘thrilling, breathtaking . . . arousing.’” Her voice lingered on the last word and she licked her lips. “Your suggestions are . . . . ‘High School Reunions’ – okay. Could be, I guess. ‘Leather.’ Oooh!!! Naughty, naughty! ‘The YMCA!’ Oh, now! Just because somebody read The Wanderer!! ‘Firefighters.’ You’re a devil, Tara Watt! I know you put that one in there! And . . . agggggh!!!” She dissolved into uproarious laughter. “Sorry, Tara!” she gasped. “We have a winner! ‘Power tools!’”
The room erupted and Chris waved her hand gleefully. “Mine, mine! I win that one!”
“Damn,” Tara said, laughing. “I thought I had that one in the bag!”
“Sometimes, fate gives you just the right card,” Chris replied. She brought her lips together and made a noise like a purring cat.
Or a vibrator, I suppose.
There was lots of raunchy good humor, especially directed toward Anna, who thought it was hysterical. There were plenty of sweet moments, too, though a rare somber moment occurred when Chris actually pulled “sweet” as the subject card. One of the suggested matches was “my dreams;” Chris briefly grimaced and said, “no,” putting that card down and turning to the next. Her selection for the match, appropriately, was “puppies.”
After the game, I served chocolates and a night-cap. I sent Sara off to bed with the promise that I’d join her shortly, and the girls helped me do a quick clean-up of the dishes and the kitchen. There were hugs all around, and we all called it a night.
Sara was in bed, but still awake. “What do you think?” she asked as I changed into my nightgown.
I visibly pondered as I dropped my dirties in the hamper, then slid in next to her. “I think . . . “ I paused to nibble on her earlobe. “ . . . that Java is preferable to C++.”
“I could throw things at you.”
“Decent chance I could catch them. What did you think?”
“Good people. Good women. Even Tara, who tries to pretend she isn’t.”
“Or maybe, tries to make us think she doesn’t think she’s a woman.”
She crossed her eyes, then refocused on me. “Okay, that sentence – really horribly constructed as it was – might actually make sense. And you know what that means.”
“That you married well?”
“No, silly. It means I need to sleep. Next thing you know, you’ll be babbling about Moka Java or some such and it’ll make sense to me.”
“You say the sweetest things.”
“Of course I do. I’m a professional.”
“Good night, Sara.”
“Good night, Rosie.” She rolled above me and gave me a long, lingering, kiss – the kind I feel from my curls to my cuticles. “Thank you for everything you did for this weekend. Especially for calming Anna down. I like these women.”
“Yeah. Me, too.”
* * * * *
I’m almost always a sound sleeper, but something caused me to wake up around 1:30. I lay in bed, listening for a repeat of whatever noise had disturbed me. Nothing.
I tried to go back to sleep, but my mind stubbornly refused to cooperate. Finally I gave up, slipped out of bed, put on a dressing gown and slippers, and went out into the main room.
There was a figure standing by the windows looking out, her back to me. She was completely back-lit, so all I could see was a shadow. But only one of our guests was that petite.
I walked toward her, being careful to make just enough noise that she would know I was coming. As I got closer, I could see that her hands were tightly clenched in fists, and her entire stance seemed tense. When I was maybe eight feet away, I stopped, and said softly, “Chris?”
I could almost see the effort it took her to relax the tension in her shoulders; to unball her fists. When she was ready, she turned to face me. “Rosie.” It came out quietly, a choked and distressed sound.
I closed the distance and wrapped my arms around her. For an instant she stiffened, but she immediately began to relax. Again, it was clearly an effort of will. Slowly, hesitantly, she brought her arms up and lay her palms on my back.
After five minutes, I brought a hand up and began to stroke her fine, dark hair. She relaxed further. I felt the dampness of her tears through the thin fabric of my dressing gown. Still, I didn’t say anything. I thought of her stories. Not the beautiful ones, but the others. The two I hadn’t been able to get out of my head. What did they do to you, child?
We must have stood like that for ten minutes, communicating without words. As close as we were, I could feel her breathing return to normal, the pounding of her heart slow. The tears stopped.
When her body was fully her own again, she tightened her arms to give me a grateful hug, holding it for maybe half a minute before she released and stepped back.
I kept my hands loose on her shoulders. “Will you be alright?”
Her smile was touched with heartbreaking sadness. “Somehow, I always am.”
“Would it help to talk about it?”
She shook her head. “I’ve talked it out. With friends. With therapists. But it’ll always be with me.”
“Is there anything – anything at all – we can do to help?”
This time, her smile was warm. “You already have. And I thank you for it. Go back to sleep. I’ll be okay now.”
“I can stay with you.”
“Not forever, you can’t. I’ll need to find my own Rosie! But I’ll be able to sleep now.”
“You sure?”
“Not my first episode, I’m afraid. So I know the drill.”
“Okay, Sweetie. You know where to find me, though.”
She stepped forward, kissed my cheek, and said, “I know.” Then she gave me a final smile and went back to her room, closing the door softly behind her.
I took her place at the window and stared at the stars, bright in the dark hours after the moon had set, clear and cold in an inky sky. Her stories haunted me. The Fist, and The Back of His Hand. All the torments she had endured.
I’m a programmer. A problem-solver. I had used my analytical skills and my logical mind to help lots of our guests over the years. Including my boss, Helene. I had used those same skills, coupled with my perfectionism – my OCD, as Sara sometimes called it – to reprogram my own life and become both a woman and a wife. But none of those skills could help Chris. I had nothing to give her, beyond the human warmth of a hug. And what was that, compared to the pain she held inside?
I felt the tears course down my cheeks, silent, hot, and useless.
To be continued. . . .
SOFTWARE UPDATE
By Emma Anne Tate, continuing a story by Ricky
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CHAPTER THREE
May 27, 2023
When we have company, I curb my normal desire to sleep in. Sara was still up first, but I wasn’t that far behind her. When I was dressed, I followed the sound of low conversation, and found Sara and Avery sitting on the sun porch.
“Good morning,” Sara said. “What had you up at all hours?”
“Just a touch of insomnia.” I gave her a look that said, “later.” “What are you two drinking, and would you like a refill?”
Avery rose. “I’m drinking some of your Darjeeling Tea, but don’t worry about it. I prevailed on Sara to let me get breakfast underway, so I’ll refill my own.”
Sara stood as well. “Avery says breakfast is her specialty.”
“Great! I assume you made a pot?”
“Addict,” Sara replied fondly. “Of course I did.”
I poured myself a cup of coffee and got a refill for Sara, and we chatted with Avery as she nosed around the kitchen seeing what she had to work with.
“I had a boyfriend in college who was a real foodie. Miguel. I learned a lot from him. My folks are more grab-and-go kind of people, so it was an eye-opening experience.”
“From the sounds of it, Miguel’s not in the picture anymore?” Sara put just a hint of a query in her words.
“No.” Avery shook her head, while continuing to hunt through our cupboards. “I had a series of boyfriends – Miguel was early on! – but somehow they never worked out. Peter, my last boyfriend, was the one who helped me realize that I’m not a gay man, like I’d always thought.”
“And Peter wasn’t interested in a hetero transwoman?” I surmised.
“Nope. But he was sweet about it. And honestly, I owe him a lot.” She emerged from the pantry with some cans of black beans, looking very pleased with herself. “Tell me you have tortillas.”
“We have tortillas,” I said automatically.
Sara, who knows me too well, rolled her eyes. “Let me guess. You have no idea.”
“Avery asked me to tell her something, so I did. She didn’t ask if we have tortillas.”
Sara appealed to Avery. “See what I have to live with?”
“I feel your pain!” Avery laughed.
“Humph!” I said. “Well – not that you asked or anything – but we actually do have tortillas. Which I actually do know, ’cuz I did the shopping.”
Avery started rummaging in the fridge. “Anyhow, I’ve avoided romantic entanglements for the past couple years while I sorted myself out. And I figure, I might be better off getting through transition before I try again.”
“A bit lonely,” I ventured.
“Yes . . . but it’s actually been good for me. I needed to stop hiding from my problems, or looking to other people to make them better. And besides . . . I found BC. That’s really been a game-changer for me.”
Sara looked intrigued. “Writing? The community?”
“Both, absolutely. I enjoy writing, for sure. And it helps me work out problems. Think through things. I put my characters in situations, and see how they react to them.”
“You make it sound like you're an observer, rather than the prime mover,” I said.
“Sometimes I feel like an observer. Once the characters have gotten developed a bit, they seem to have minds of their own.” She pulled the eggs and a block of cheese out of the fridge and closed the door. “Grater?”
I got the cheese grater from the drawer where it’s kept. “Let me handle this part for you.”
“By all means!” She presented me with the block of cheddar before returning to her point. “Anyway. The writing’s definitely part of it, but the community’s the real draw for me. I knew it, when I started reading the stories other people posted, and exchanging comments and messages. These are my people. I belong. I’d never felt that before. Not anywhere.”
“I definitely saw that,” I responded. “It’s a special place.”
“So, you checked it out?”
“Sara asked me to read all of your stories, so I did.”
“Ha! That explains it! I saw on the author’s tab for my stories that every one of my old posts was getting read. You didn’t leave any comments, though.”
“I don’t have an account. Didn’t seem to need it, for what I was doing.”
“Oh! Yeah, we call that ‘lurking.’ Don’t worry; I did it too after I first ran across the site. I was just enjoying reading TG fiction – it was a real revelation to me. Then one day I had this crazy idea for a story. I’d never done anything like that. So I came up with a pen name, signed up and posted it. And people were so nice to me.”
“Was that Mister Butterfly?” I asked.
“Right!” To Sara, she explained, “It was this quirky solo using Zhuangzi’s butterfly dream idea, except the man dreamed he was a woman, and couldn’t figure out which was real life and which was dream.”
She leaned her palms on the counter and smiled at the memory. “Anyhow, it hadn’t been up for more than ten minutes when I had this lovely comment, welcoming me to BC and raving about my silly story. And it was from Rowena Redmond! I’d read some of her stories when I was lurking. And, I mean . . . damn! I, um. Well. You’ve read them, so you know! They were hot! I couldn’t imagine that she would have been interested in my scribbles . . . but she was.”
Anna chose that moment to wander out, dressed in the blue dressing gown, a towel turbanned on her head. “Do I hear my pen name being taken in vain?”
Avery grinned. “Would I do such a thing, you crazy bitch!”
“You? Never!” She smiled sweetly at Avery, then looked my way. “Rosie, I hate to ask, but despite your best efforts trying to teach me yesterday, I’m lost.”
I was delighted to see that Anna was relaxed, and apparently unconcerned that any of us, including her friend Avery, were seeing her without any makeup or padding. Yesterday had clearly done wonders for her. “Of course! If I can persuade Sara to cut the cheese?”
“Oh, just grate,” Sara growled.
I laughed, came round the island and slipped an arm around Anna’s waist. “Come on, girlfriend, let’s get you ready.”
She giggled. Girlishly.
I helped her with her breast forms, her wig and her makeup, keeping the latter light since Debbi was coming to do a salon for them all later in the morning. While I had her seated at the vanity, I asked, “So . . . was it worth the risk?”
“It was the most amazing evening of my life.” Her voice was hushed, filled with wonder. “I’ve never felt so comfortable. Like I was living in one of Chris’s beautiful stories!”
“Good! Close your eyes, now.” As I applied some eye shadow, I said, “Anna? You knew Tara without any introduction. You must have known what she looks like?”
“In general terms.”
“Okay, you can open your eyes.”
She did, and she gave me a questioning look.
Thinking back to her nerves the prior evening, I said, “You never had any trouble communicating with Tara woman-to-woman, knowing what she looks like. Why were you worried that things would change when everyone saw you?”
“It’s the damned profile pic, Rosie. Chris and Avery use their own pictures. Tara doesn’t have a picture at all. Mine, though . . . mine’s just a fantasy. A wish. I planted that image in people’s minds. Meeting them all, face-to-face . . . I felt like I’d been lying to them.”
I turned her head back and forth, and decided the makeup was good. “Even though you knew that they knew that you don’t look like the picture?”
“I know,” she sighed. “Kind of messed up, isn’t it?”
“It’s been my observation, over the years, that writers think too much.”
She giggled, and the giggle burbled into a full-blown laugh. “Ya think?!”
I managed to get her to sit still long enough to get her wig on. “Okay, girl. Salon this morning, so don’t go too fancy!”
She grew quiet, then said, “Rosie . . . I’m really looking forward to the salon, but . . . I’m going to guess that Tara isn’t. I don’t want her to feel left out.”
“I think I’ve got an idea for Tara,” I assured her. “So enjoy the salon, and don’t be feeling guilty, okay?”
“Okay.” She rose and, to my surprise, gave me a tender and very heart-felt hug. “Thank you.”
I squeezed her back, then left her to get dressed. The shower was going in Chris’ room, and I heard Tara’s voice coming from the kitchen.
Debbi had arrived – we don’t ask her to do her salon magic without feeding her – and it appeared that Avery had decided to make Huevos Rancheros.
“Top o’ the marnin’ to ya, Rosie me darlin’!” Debbi said, rolling out her faux Irish brogue. “And how’r those sweet strawberry curls of yours lookin’?”
“Probably got another three weeks left in them.” I gave her a welcome hug.
“Two, girl. Trust me!”
“Two, then,” I laughed.
She patted my cheek like a mother hen – ironic, since I’ve got a few years on her. “There’s me duck!”
“I’m liking the Irish, Debbi,” Tara chimed in. “But your Spanglish was maybe more in keeping with this morning’s feast.”
“Oh, sí, sí, Señora,” Debbi purred. “You are mucho correct. Mucho wise!” Her accent was actually pretty good, though her grammar was appalling.
“Exhausted your Spanish, haven’t we?” Sara inquired sweetly.
“Nonsense, Doña Sara!”
“I thought buona sera was Italian?” I asked plaintively.
“And anyway, it’s morning,” Sara said reprovingly.
“You know, both of you entrust me with your hair. Bad things could happen . . . . Just sayin’!”
We started getting the table set for breakfast and everyone was zipping around like mosquitoes in proximity to mammals. Anna emerged, wearing a crepe top in a light turquoise and – to my surprise - skinny jeans and sandals. But with the wig, the make-up, the padding, and the bra visible through the light fabric of the top, the overall look was still very feminine. Anna would never be a model, but she looked like she’d made peace with all that.
Chris was the last to emerge. She looked fresh, with no shadow of her hard night. Her short shorts and thin, ribbed top in a stretchy fabric emphasized every one of her hard-won curves. As we made our way to the table for breakfast, she touched my arm lightly and gave me a smile that contained a whole lot more gratitude than I deserved.
Breakfast was superb, and we all badgered Avery for her recipe. “That was one hundred percent Miguel,” she said. “He told me it was his grandmother’s recipe. He might even have been telling the truth, though that was the sort of thing he liked to make up.”
“Well, wherever he got it, it’s absolutely a keeper,” I said enthusiastically. I couldn’t afford to eat anything like that very often, but as a treat – as something to make when we had a houseful of guests – it was fantastic.
As we all got up to clear away the dishes, I pulled Tara aside. “Grab your coffee,” I said. “Something I want to show you.”
I took her out the back entrance, where there was a bit of a porch with what I always thought of as a snuggling swing.
She gave me a friendly smile. “Whatcha got?”
“I wasn’t sure how you felt about the whole salon thing. Obviously, if you want to participate, Debbi can do whatever your heart desires. Or you can hang out while she does her magic on the other girls.”
“I thought I might get my nails done, just for fun, but that’s it. I have the sense you had an alternative to propose, though?”
“It’s a lovely day, and we do have some nice walking trails. I don’t need to get anything done today, so I was wondering if you might like to join me for a ramble.”
Her smile softened. “It’s sweet of you to think of me, Rosie. If you're sure you aren’t needed here, I’d love to take a walk with you.”
“Fantastic! I recommend pants or shorts rather than skirts, but sneakers are fine. That work for you?”
“Absolutely. I’ll get changed up as soon as we’re done clearing breakfast.”
We went back in and found that many hands had already taken care of the mess from breakfast, so both Tara and I went to get changed. I went with a skort, a tank top and a floppy hat, while Tara wore regular guy-style jeans, but with a peasant blouse over a camisole.
“I love to walk,” she said cheerfully, “but I’m not going to miss a moment of my girly time. And, just for the record, my panties look like something Anna would design!”
The kitchen and dining room were already smelling as bad as a munitions factory when we took off, and all of the girls were chit-chatting excitedly. It was good to see Anna looking so relaxed and happy in the midst of all of the fluffing.
Fifteen minutes later, the house was gone from sight, sound and smell. The trail wound through woods and wildflowers, sometimes climbing, sometimes slipping down into a narrow valley. I got Tara talking about her work and her life. She was good company.
“You mentioned last night you were out to your wife,” I said. “I assume not at work?”
“No. I don’t dress outside the house, except when I go to a trans conference. And those are usually both discreet and far out-of-town.”
“Maybe not too discreet, in the era of cell phones, cameras and social media.”
She shrugged. “If it happens, it happens. My life’s simpler the way it is, but I can deal with it if it gets out. Laugh it off, mostly. The advantage of being ugly that people will laugh. No-one’s going to think I was trying to pass!
“Tough humor,” I said.
“It works. Long as Sally’s with me, the rest of the world can hang if it comes to that.”
“Has she always known about your dressing?”
“Yup. She was pretty shocked when I first told her about it, twenty-five odd years ago. Needed a couple weeks to really mull it over. I don’t mean that she wasn’t speaking to me. Just . . . you know. She’d get quiet . . . thoughtful. And maybe ask a question or two, then change the subject. But after a bit, she kind of shrugged her shoulders and said she didn’t care. And, near as I can tell, she doesn’t.”
“You don’t have kids?”
She was quiet for a moment, then said softly, “We had a little boy . . . but he got a crazy childhood disease and died when he was five.”
I stopped. “Oh, my God! Tara, I’m so sorry!”
She looked away and her eyes turned inward, searching for what could only be seen in memory. “He was a sweet boy. Never got old enough to be real trouble, you know? There were times I didn’t think Sally and I would make it, after Ben died. But we did. I learned a lot about love, that year.”
“About love?” I must have sounded stupid.
“I was hurting so bad. Sally too. And we couldn’t heal ourselves, or each other. We were just spiraling down – and apart. That was me, mostly. But I learned that sometimes, love means just being there. Even when that’s all you can do. Being there, facing it together. And that’s what we did. What we still do. Every day.”
“I don’t have that kind of wisdom,” I confessed, thinking about my prior night’s vigil.
She looked at me then, and her voice was gentle. “I hope you never need it.”
We were standing in a clearing filled with tall grasses and purple flowers. I took her hand and led her to the banks of a stream bubbled through the middle of it. “I always stop here; I love to feel the stream flowing over my feet.” I slipped out of my shoes and stepped into the water. It was still, in late May, bracingly cold, but after a moment it felt soothing. “Join me?”
Tara pulled off her shoes and rolled up the bottoms of her jeans, exposing muscular legs covered with bristly red hair.
We waded into the stream and stood together, feeling the pure, clear water flow over our toes, our feet and our ankles. High up in the light air, three raptors were riding thermals, looking for their next meal. After a bit, we adjourned to the banks of the stream, where some kind soul had put a bench. We sat, plunging our toes into the sand.
“Tara,” I said finally, “You describe yourself as a crossdresser, but you just feel so female to me. Like you’re everyone’s mother. Or, sometimes, their crazy aunt!”
She wiggled her toes. “That’s a nice thing to say.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
She smiled crookedly. “I’m absolutely convinced that it’s a nice thing to say! I love women, so I think it’s a compliment.”
“Do you feel like a woman?”
“It’s hard to, when I look like this. But it’s not just the looks. Construction is a man’s world, and I’ve never felt uncomfortable in it. And when I make love to Sally, I don’t feel like I’m a lesbian. So, there’s all that. . . . On the other hand, there’s just always been a part of me that’s been drawn to feminine things. I love the feel of womens’ clothes and always have. They make me feel alive. A little naughty. Sexy.”
She gave me a wink. “And that’s why I call myself a cross-dresser, and part of the reason I just have fun with it.”
I sensed there were things she wasn’t saying, so I tried just a tiny bit of a push. “But . . . ?”
She paused, thinking about my question. “It is more than just the clothes. I love the company of women, the conversations women have among themselves. I love the way that women care . . . the way that they love. All of that – it’s what I feel inside as well. The person I am, when I’m my best self. I know in my heart that my marriage wouldn’t have survived Ben’s death, if I hadn’t learned to love like Sally loves.”
“Your friends back at the house certainly relate to you as a woman.”
That made her smile. “They’ve been such a lifeline for me. All of them. Whenever I start to get caught up in my own pain, they help pull me back. But they’ve also been through a lot. Every one of them. We’re able to be there for each other. And every time I’m there for one of them, my own soul feels lighter.”
“Anna was petrified that none of you would be able to relate to her as a woman, once you saw her in person. But she knew – generally, anyway – what you look like. It never even occurred to her not to treat you like a woman.”
“She’s a softy, that one.” Tara grinned. “For all her characters are sex-crazed vixens!”
“Earthy sorts.”
“Is that what they call it?”
“Well, I don’t know. Who’s they?”
“Good point!” Seizing the mood change, she said, “Well, come on, darlin’, let’s see what other wonders your trails have to offer!”
We put our shoes back on and rambled some more.
As we hiked, Tara got a bit of my story, and Sara’s. “Quite the second courtship you two had,” she said.
“I guess it is a bit unusual that she only wanted me back in her bed once I’d learned to let my inner woman out.”
“‘Unusual.’ That’s a good word.”
“Why, thank you.”
“Was it a relief for you?”
“Nooooo,” I said slowly. “It was a process. Once she convinced me to dress as a woman and try to connect with my feminine side, I wanted to do it right. I’m a programmer; I can’t stand half-assed jobs. So I really worked on learning how to dress properly, do my makeup right. Debbi styled my hair. When I did all that, it really started to click. It felt right. Suddenly, I was much more comfortable presenting as female than as male.”
I smiled, savoring the memory. “I didn’t want to stop. Instead, I wanted to have my own curves. I took hormones, then had a little surgery here and there. Chest. Fanny and hips. Then it was the nose . . . then the voice . . . . One day, I woke up and said, ‘Rosie, what the hell are you waiting for? You wouldn’t have gone this far if you weren’t going to finish it.’ So I did. After talking to Sara, naturally.”
“You never saw your feminine side before then?” She sounded amazed.
“I can’t say I did. Sara saw it even when we were in school, but I was oblivious, I guess.”
“No regrets?”
“None. This is who I am. Who I’m meant to be.”
“It’s just amazing to me, given how certain you are – and thoroughly feminine you are! – that you didn’t have a clue until seven years ago!”
I thought about that for a moment, and a realization struck me hard. Shook me. “God, wasn’t that a blessing. Talk about ignorance being blissful.” My voice was low, and far harsher than I intended.
Tara looked startled. “Rosie?”
“You obviously know Chris’s story.”
Her expression immediately turned bleak. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Right. I was spared all that. I didn’t have a horrible childhood; I wasn’t all that different from anyone else. My parents didn’t reject me, or torment me . . . I had plenty of geeky, nerdy friends . . . I never hated my body, or wanted to end everything.”
I found that I had stopped walking, and the world around me was reduced to a golden blur. I could barely recognize my voice. “I just came up here when I was out of work and at my wit’s end, and a wonderful woman took me by the hand and showed me a better way to be myself!”
Tara was an indistinct figure surrounded by a crystal halo. “Rosie. Don’t feel guilty for being blessed.”
“It’s just so wrong!”
“I know, honey.” She pulled me in and hugged me, and her tears joined mine. My programmer’s mind understood that our tears fixed nothing. Changed nothing.
Did they need to?
* * * * *
Eventually we resumed our hike, and talked about subjects that were less emotionally fraught. We got back to the house a couple hours later, and Debbi insisted that Tara go and wash her smelly feet, then get a mani-pedi. Tara was jovial and funny about it, and professed herself delighted with her nails.
Debbi left after joining us for a light lunch and Sara laid out the programme for the rest of the day. While Saturday afternoons are usually free time on our weekend retreats, this time they were going to talk about writing, seriously and in depth. At 5:00, everyone was going back to their rooms to rest, refresh, and get dolled up for a fancy dress dinner. “And after that, ladies, we’re going to do some dancing!”
The house is open concept, and so I necessarily heard much of their discussion about writing, since I was in the kitchen doing prep work for dinner. I even contributed an opinion here and there, when asked to. And got some gentle ribbing when I confessed to my “lurking.”
Yet the high secrets of their craft I shall not divulge, nor shall I share their thoughts about the frustrations writers face. On their own, beyond the supervision of the ever-vigilant Peredhel, they let down their hair (both natural and artificial). On one or two occasions – brief and inconsequential, to be sure – their comments might be judged to have fallen a bit short of the strictest interpretation of BC’s three golden rules.
All things considered, though, the discussion was both productive and focused on ways to improve their work. Where do you begin a story, and how do you know you picked the wrong place? How do you nail the ending without “happily ever after?” How do you prevent sag in the middle of a story? Pluses and minuses of different narrative styles. How to improve dialogue. While Sara’s expertise received a great deal of deference, she was equally keen with her own questions. The give-and-take was fascinating, and – amazingly – no-one’s ego got bent out of shape.
Dinner was coq-au-vin, and I pretty much had it all under control by 5:00 when, with great reluctance, they wrapped up. Sara spelled me in the kitchen, and I joined Anna in her room to help her get ready.
Courtesy of Debbi, Anna’s make-up was sublime and only needed minor repairs. Her nails had been painted a striking shade of royal blue, and her eye shadow brought out similar tones.
We went through the closet together and she fell in love with a full-length silver A-line gown with sheer, translucent sleeves and a crew neck. The embroidered bodice was tight and required that she use a corset. Naturally, we had a classic whale-bone style; the notion of wearing such a garment made Raunchy Rowena positively squeal with delight. She squealed again when I tightened the laces. Especially the third time.
I’m sure that was from delight, too.
After seeing how the dress looked with her narrowed waist, we swapped out her padded panties for something slightly more substantial, and changed her breast forms from a C cup to a D. The girl is 6’2” in her stocking feet; I knew she could pull it off!
We also decided to change her wig, so her hair was styled in an elaborate up-do that did a nice job accentuating her neck. Fortunately, she had a neck that could withstand scrutiny! A pair of two-inch heels (it’s the principle of the thing!), a couple sparkly rings, and she looked perfect.
She gave me a huge smile and said, “Now run along and get dressed, Rosie. I’ll just practice walking in these beautiful heels!”
“And checking yourself out in the mirror!”
“Yeah,” she said with a goofy grin. “That, too. Now scoot!”
I scooted.
Dinner was lovely. We sparkled – we really did! Sara, trim, fit, and without an ounce of sag on her, can still pull off a slip dress and look stunning. The lady in red. I wore an emerald green body con dress because, after HRT and surgery and diet and exercise, I bloody well can. Tara wore a loose-fitting gold gown with flowing sleeves, which she carried off with a devil-may-care smile. Chris styled in a backless black dress with a pencil skirt, while Avery went with a jewel-tone blue satin dress with a calf-length asymmetrical skirt. Debbi had put soft, honey-gold highlights in Avery's medium brown hair, transforming it into a wavy, curly, sensual banner.
Before we could begin, Tara tapped on her glass. “My turn to propose a toast. To Sara and Rosie, the perfect couple and the perfect hostesses.” Our guests drank our health, then they all rapped utensils on their glasses like drunken guests at a wedding, until Sara, laughing, came round to my side of the table and gave me a kiss that was worth buying tickets to see.
I fluttered my mascara-laden lashes and gave a breathy, “Oh, my!” when I finally came up for air, sounding just like Annie Davoy. At least, I tried to.
The chicken was perfect, the white burgundy paired beautifully and flowed plentifully, and the conversation was merry and bright. Tara led with Peter Whimsy’s wit and charm, Anna parried with sultry asides and double entendre, Chris was a font of kindness and Avery was a character. From the head of the table, her eyes sparkling in the warm candle light, my wife beamed with pleasure.
We cleared the dishes but left them in the kitchen, both to spare our finery and to get to the main event. We had cleared the coffee table from the living room before everyone went off to get changed, so we had ample room for dancing. Sara is, naturally, an excellent dancer and has ensured that I’m competent. Chris was the least experienced of our guests, and Avery and Tara both had somewhat more enthusiasm than skill. Anna, surprisingly, turned out to be accomplished and graceful.
Sara started us with goofy line dances – dances that are popular, in part, because women are much more willing to dance than men and thus want dances that don't require partners. Acting as the “dance motivator,” she demonstrated how the simple elements of a dance like the Macarena can be sexy as hell when they are executed with style, and with that specific intent. The way she placed one hand, then the other, on her ass cheeks would have earned at least an “R” rating from the motion picture academy!
Of course, we all followed along, feet turning, hips swaying, arms beckoning, laughing our hearts out.
After that, we did some swing dances, with Sarah, Anna and I each pairing up with one of our less experienced friends. We did the sort of fast, free-form contemporary dances that everyone knew. We did slow dances, switching up partners. We took breaks and had cake and champagne, then went back and danced some more. It was low lights and music, the swirl of colorful dresses, the percussion of heels and the rustle of skirts. It was perfume and smiles and laughter.
It was marvelous.
At 11:30, Sara stopped the music. “All of you – this has been so much fun! I want to say, like Eliza Doolittle, that I could dance all night and still beg for more. But I’m not twenty any more!”
“Here, here!” said Anna. Tara gave her two thumbs up.
Sara continued, “Here’s my suggestion. Go hang up your finery, get dressed for bed, but put on slippers and a robe, and let’s take care of the kitchen. With the six of us it’ll be quick, and we won’t have to wake up to a mess!”
There are probably few things that are more of a quintessential female bonding experience than taking care of the kitchen together, dressed for bed. Everyone was chatting happily, still excited, still filled with the magic of the evening.
On top of which, we got the kitchen spotless.
After everyone retired, I went down the hall and tapped quietly on Chris’s door. She said something indistinct, so I opened it and poked my head in. “Got a sec?”
She was already in bed, looking as tiny as a child. “Of course! Come on in.” She patted her bed.
I sat and took her hand. “Will you be okay, tonight?”
Her smile was warm. “I’d like to say ‘of course,’ but the truth is, I never know.”
“I wish I knew how to help.”
“You can’t fix this, Rosie. But I’m surrounded by love in this house.”
“And even with that, we can’t keep the darkness out.”
“Of course you can’t; I bring it with me. My shadow. But love helps me deal with it. Does that make sense?”
“Why do I feel like you're the one who’s giving comfort?”
“Because right now, you’re the one who needs it.”
I squeezed her hand and rose. “Rest you gentle, Chris.”
“Good night, Rosie.
.
.
.
.
.
CHAPTER FOUR
May 28, 2023
I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night this time, but the sound of Sara’s shower brought me back from the land of nod. I decided to start the day with a commendable spasm of virtue, so I hopped out of bed, got my dressing gown and slippers on, and went off to make my darling some coffee. I would, of course, make myself some as well, but that was just a coincidental effect. It would have been wasteful, after all, not to take advantage of efficiencies of scale.
I was surprised to find Avery awake – it was just past 6:00. She was, certainly without knowing it, sitting where Sara sits most mornings, a laptop open on a small table in front of her. I heard her muttering to herself and smiled. Her behavior was completely normal in our house, and I knew not to interrupt it.
I went into the kitchen, got the kettle going, and fished out both the ground coffee beans and the tea bags. While the kettle was heating, I put a bag of Darjeeling into a stoneware mug and put coffee into the French Press. Everything was ready in minutes.
I brought the tea to Avery and set it on the table next to her laptop, saying nothing, but touching her shoulder gently. She reached up and pressed my fingers in gratitude, but continued muttering at her screen.
I pushed the plunger on the French Press, poured mugs for Sara and me, then took them back to our bedroom. Sara was standing in the middle of our bedroom wrapped in a delightfully small towel; she beamed when I showed up appropriately encumbered.
I paused to appreciate the show. “Pretty dress!”
“Coffee first. Talky second,” she replied, grinning.
I gave her one of the mugs and got a light kiss in return. When she’d had a couple sips, she said, “Thanks, Sweetie. You’re up early!”
“Turns out not. I’m third at best, which puts me in the middle of the pack.”
“Really? Who else is up?”
“Avery. Looking and sounding suspiciously like my favorite author.”
“I hope you didn’t inadvertently rip her clothes off.”
“That’s something that pretty much has to be done advertently.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“It happens in probably sixty percent of your novels!”
“Closer to eighty percent, I’d guess. Still doesn’t mean I’ve ever tried to do it.”
“Then, you should definitely defer to my expertise. I do recall doing it on at least one occasion.”
“Really? Was I present?”
“I thought it was you. But perhaps, as you suggest, it was another author.”
“I love the sound of persiflage in the morning!” She inhaled exuberantly, straining the tuck of her towel. “It reminds me of . . . coffee!” So reminded, she took a long pull, then set her cup down on her bedside table. “So Avery is writing?”
“Open laptop, fierce concentration, muttering.”
“All the classic symptoms, certainly. I concur with your diagnosis. I assume you got her tea?”
“I did.” I set my cup down and took Sara in my arms. “Was it what you hoped for?”
“The weekend? Absolutely. I mean, the salon’s a pretty set piece – though I thought Anna was too cute for words. But the afternoon and evening were amazing.”
I kissed her lightly. “I love to dance with you.”
“Yeah.”
She was softened up enough, so I gave a sharp tug and dispensed with her little towel.
“Crazy girl.”
I ran my hands lovingly over her soft, smooth skin. “Guilty.”
She gave me another kiss, then a longer one, before breaking away. “Later, I’m afraid. Duty calls us both.”
“I’m sure it’s a wrong number.”
“Go on, now,” she said fondly. “Into the shower with you. You can fill me in on your talk with Tara while we get dressed.”
With great reluctance, I went and got cleaned up. I told her about my talk with Tara, as well as my encounter with Chris Friday night, and my discussion with her before bed Saturday.
“So you were right about those two stories,” she said.
“Yeah. I mean, not exactly autobiographical, since Andy commits suicide at the end of The Back of His Hand. But a lot of the horrid details are clearly real and personal.”
“That poor woman!” Sara put a comforting hand on my bare shoulder. “It’s really weighing on you, isn’t it?”
I nodded. “It is. Chris . . . Tara . . . even Anna, with all of her angst. They are sweet, lovely people, and they are dealing with so much.”
“And you want to help?”
“Yeah. But I’ve got nothing.”
She turned me around and hugged me gently. “I think they would disagree, Sweetie. While you were off with Tara yesterday, Anna and Chris both made a point of getting me alone to tell me how wonderful you are. I didn’t ask for details, since I figured they’d tell me what they were comfortable telling me. But whatever you did meant a lot to them.”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Sara brushed my cheek with the back of her fingers. “Rosie, my love, your programmer’s mind and fixer instinct are invaluable. I lean on you for that all the time, and you know it. . . . But under that fine mind, you have a tender, loving heart, and you need to value it. Being present, opening your heart – there are times where it’s the only thing that matters.”
“It feels useless.” My voice was barely a whisper. “And it hurts!”
“I know, Sweetie. I know.” She stroked my hair soothingly. “And I can’t fix that. But I’ll always be here for you.”
I chewed that over, trying to get my supposedly “fine mind” to help. It did matter to me – made all the difference in the world! – knowing that Sara was here and loved me. Unless my reaction was unique, and I had no reason to believe it was, it followed logically that other people derive the same comfort from a loving, caring, presence. Tara and Chris had each, in their own way, said the same thing. Moreover, all four of our guests affirmed that BC offered them a community of caring that had helped them get through dark times and difficulties. Ergo.
I was forced to conclude that the idea had merit.
It still hurt. “Software makes more sense.”
“If you say so.”
“Okay,” I sighed. “Well, I’d better get out there. If presence is all I can offer, I’d damned well better be present.”
“That’s you. A regular Christmas Present.”
“Or the ghost thereof.”
“Scarcely.” She handed me a colorful blouse. “Let’s get you properly wrapped.”
“I’d rather you finished getting me unwrapped.”
“Later. I promise.” She kissed me again and said softly, “I’ll be right there with you, girlfriend.”
“I love you.”
“Yeah. That.”
We finished getting dressed and left our sanctuary. Avery was still typing and muttering, and the kitchen had been commandeered again, this time by Tara.
“Morning, sleepyheads! Or is it lovebirds?” She gave us a cheerful grin and she swirled a whisk in a bowl of batter.
“I’ll have you know I was already in here, making coffee!” I said with mock asperity.
“Ah. So, it’s lovebirds, then. Cool!” She laughed at my blush, then shook the whisk at me. “But you didn’t leave any coffee for me, and I’m certain that whatever is in Avery’s mug is either gone or gone cold.”
“I am suitably reproved,” I said gravely. “Now scoot over and let me get at the kettle!”
Sara wandered over to where Avery was sitting and retrieved her mug. Based on how Sara was holding it, Avery had remembered to drink it. She took a brief look over Avery’s shoulder at her screen, smiled, and came back to the kitchen.
“I’m guessing a refill is in order,” she said, handing me the empty mug.
“And for you as well?”
“Well . . . yes. But not that tea stuff.”
“Why should this morning be different from every other morning?” I turned to Tara. “Coffee? Tea? A Bloody Mary?”
“Don’t tempt me, woman!” Tara replied, her eyes dancing. “Coffee, white and sweet if you would.”
“Coming up.”
Sara asked our impromptu chef if she’d heard either Anna or Chris stirring.
“Oh, they’re both awake,” Tara said. “Though they’re still in their jammies. Well, Chris is in her jammies. Anna, naturally, is in something more scandalous and less fabric-ous.” She pointed out the window that faced toward the back porch.
Sara and I went to the window and had a look. They were both sitting on the snuggle swing; the petite Chris was tucked into Anna’s shoulder, and Anna’s cheek was resting on the top of her head.
“Oh!” Sara said.
I looked at the two of them thoughtfully, considering my interactions with each of them. Chris’s PTSD; Anna’s closeted angst. “Yeah,” I said softly.
I felt Tara’s hand on my shoulder. “I thought so too,” she said. “They’ve been virtual friends for years now, and they’re good for each other. I’m glad they’re talking.”
“Well,” Sara said, smiling softly, “they can get dressed after breakfast.”
I pointed at the oblivious Avery. “That one, too. It’ll be like a sleep-over!”
“Don’t tell me you did sleep-overs!”
“Of course not,” I replied. “But I’ve read about them.”
“You. Reading! My little girl’s all grown up!”
I laughed and took care of the tea and coffee, while Sara set the table.
Tara had bacon and eggs going on the stovetop, and started pouring batter on the electric griddle. “About ten minutes,” she told me.
I gave Chris and Anna a couple minutes longer, then wandered out to get them. “Good morning, you two!” I said in a low voice as I stepped onto the porch.
Anna’s posture, her body language, and her expression all communicated a flood of love, care and tenderness. Her eyes were red and her cheeks wet with tears. Chris, her head on Anna’s chest, had her eyes closed.
Anna planted a soft kiss on the top of Chris’s head. “Come to fetch us?”
“You’re welcome to stay here,” I assured her. “But Tara’s got some lovely pancakes ready for us, and I doubt you’d want to miss them.”
Chris opened her eyes and smiled up at me without moving. “Good morning, Rosie! We’ll be right there.”
“Did you sleep okay?” I asked her.
“I did,” she confirmed. “I slept straight through, so I was able to get up early and spend some time with the crazy lady here.”
“I’m crazy?” Anna sounded amused.
“Anna,” she explained patiently, “one of your protagonists fellated the entire offensive line of her college’s varsity football team. At the same party, and very much of her own free will. Of course you’re crazy.”
Anna sighed dramatically. “Well, if you put it that way . . . .” She smiled down at Chris, kissed her feathery black hair again, and rose. “Come on, girl. Let’s see what Tara can do in the kitchen.”
Chris got herself up. “Thanks, woman. Plenty of nights, virtual hugs from you and Tara were all that kept me going. But there’s nothing like the real thing.”
Anna just smiled and nodded, clearly too choked up to speak.
Inside, Avery had finally been pried from her writing and was helping get all the food to the table.
Tara set down a plate of pancakes and waved us all over. “Come and get it!”
We complied with commendable alacrity.
“Damn! My pancakes don’t taste like this!” I said, impressed.
“I’m not really much of a cook,” Tara said apologetically. “But Sally’s not much of a morning person, and anyone in construction has to be. So I learned the basics.”
Anna leaned forward, her mischievous smile ameliorating her still-red eyes. “Okay, Avery! Dish! We all saw you were muse-bitten this morning!”
Avery giggled. “Just a little frolic. Honest!”
“Can you tell us? Or is it too soon?” Chris had a bit of a wheedle in her voice.
“Well . . . the idea is solid, I think. And you know the way my bitchy muse works. I’ll write it ’cuz I’ll get no peace otherwise. But I might not post it.”
Sara looked intrigued. “Do you do that often?”
“Never. Well, not so far! I’m usually willing to throw anything out there and see what people think.”
“But this one’s different?” I asked.
Avery’s smile was lopsided. “Yeah . . . it’s about some trans authors getting together for a weekend.”
Tara whooped. “That’s hysterical!”
Chris was laughing as hard as Tara.
Anna chuckled, then said, “Names changed to protect the innocent?”
“More like, to protect the guilty!” Tara quipped.
“Well, them, too, I suppose,” Anna said primly. “I mean, everyone knows Rowena Redmond is innocent and chaste. Can’t speak for the rest of you!”
Avery laughed along with everyone else. But she reached over and gave Anna a squeeze. “Honestly – all the characters are fictional. Completely. You won’t recognize any of them.”
“Awwww,” Tara pouted. “You’re no fun!”
“It’s right up your alley,” I said. “Characters, right?”
“Exactly!” Avery was suddenly excited, lost in her new story. “But also . . . I mean, think about it. Almost all of the characters in almost all of our stories are cisgendered and straight.”
“I’ve kind of noticed the same thing about the big, bad world,” I cautioned.
“Of course,” Avery said, nodding sharply. “But our dynamic this weekend was special. Sara’s the only one of us who is solidly cisgendered, and she’s married to a transwoman. I’ve literally never had an experience like this. So, just this once, I wanted to write about transwomen together, rather than alone. Relating to each other, not to the rest of the world.”
The table was suddenly quiet, digesting that radical idea.
Finally, though, Tara broke the silence with a chuckle. “Avery, you know I love your writing. The people, the dialog, the emotion – you really have a gift. But I am convinced that your greatest talent, bar none, is ferreting out the smallest sliver in our already tiny niche market to mine. Your whole audience might fit around this table!”
“I don’t care about that.” Avery smiled softly. “So long as it includes the five of you!”
”Awwwww!” Chris said. “Can I borrow that line?”
“You sticking with first person?” Sara asked, getting technical.
“Yeah. I mean, I tried third person. And the story was just fighting me, tooth and nail. I wasted three hours trying to write it in third person.”
“All that, huh?” Sara looked amused. Sometimes she deep-sixed months of work, though in fairness it was her day job. “When did you start this?”
“Oh, I woke up at 1:00 a.m. The idea was right there, you know?”
“Writers,” I muttered.
“So, your narrator.” Sara was smiling. “Just out of curiosity . . . is she smart? Caring? Sexy?”
Avery giggled and gave me a sideways glance. “Yeah.” Her eyes went unfocused, and she said, dreamily, “I think I’ll call her ‘Mary Sue.’”
Things kind of went downhill from there, and there were lots of suggestions, lots of ribbing, and lots of laughter. But Avery promised to let all of us beta test the story before she posted it.
“If only to scrub my character clean of all identifying traces,” Tara joked.
After we cleaned up from breakfast, Tara and Sara went out to the sun porch to chat, while the rest of our guests got dressed. I went back to give Anna a hand with her makeup and wig.
“Looked like you and Chris had quite the talk this morning,” I said as I smoothed a bit of foundation on her face.
“We did,” she agreed. “Except that we didn’t say anything.”
I remembered her red eyes – and my own, from Friday night. “Are you alright?”
She nodded. “More than alright. I’ve got my own problems, for sure, but . . . God, I’m lucky.”
“I know how you feel,” I said fervently. “I just wish . . . .” I lapsed into silence, knowing that thought just ended up in a cul-de-sac.
Anna understood. “Yeah. Me, too.”
Once her hair and make-up were set, I left her to make her own clothing selections. It was her last opportunity, and I was curious to see what she chose.
Avery came out, bringing her bag with her and setting it down by the front door before coming out to join us on the sun porch.
“I don’t want the weekend to be over,” she said, taking a seat. “Thank you both so much . . . I have never, in my whole life, felt such a sense of belonging.”
Sara smiled, warm and friendly. “I’m so glad you could come! When I had dinner with Tara and Chris back in February, I was sure that it would be a great experience. For all of us.”
Chris came out next; like Avery, she was dressed for traveling, though Chris was catching a flight and Avery had a long drive. Anna came out last, dressed in a light, flowing, floral-patterned cotton dress with a full calf-length skirt. It had three-quarter sleeves and she hadn’t bothered with tights or hose; presumably, she’d decided not to worry about her fairly sparse and extremely pale leg- and arm- hairs.
We all walked Chris and Avery out to their cars. Anna lingered with Avery a few minutes, talking quietly, while Tara wrapped Chris in a final, wordless, hug. Then they were off.
Tara put an arm around Anna’s waist and walked her back to the house, while Sara and I followed. Back in the living room, we sat and Anna said, “It’s going to be so hard, going back. But it’s a fabulous memory.”
Tara smiled at her. “You look good. Really. But even if you didn’t, did you really think we wouldn’t see the woman we’ve always known?”
Anna looked sheepish. “Is it so crazy?”
“You’re asking me?” Tara giggled.
“I wish I had your self-assurance,” Anna confessed. “You just aren’t bothered by it.”
“Oh, honey! It doesn’t work like that! Of course it bothers me. But I’m so hopeless physically, at least as far as passing is concerned, that my choices are pretty limited. Basically, I can laugh, or I can cry.”
“And so you laugh,” I said, making it a statement.
Her smile was fleeting. “I’m all cried out, Rosie. Laughing’s all I’ve got.”
Anna gave her hand a squeeze, and the conversation moved to easier topics. We sat and talked the morning away. Anna and Tara had known each other the longest of our four guests, and their friendship clearly ran deep.
They were also fiercely protective of their younger friends. And, in an odd way, in awe of them. “It’s just amazing to me,” Tara said. “They figured out who they were, and marched in and got the help they needed. It wasn’t easy, but they did it.”
I wasn’t seeing the big deal. “It seems like a pretty logical response to gender dysphoria.”
Tara laughed, uproariously. “Rosie, you are so funny! Of course it’s logical. But you know the world doesn’t see it that way.”
“Some of this is generational, too,” Anna said. “Though I’d guess you’re pretty close to Tara’s age. Still, I’ve got twelve years on all of you. The fact that those twelve years matter so much gives you an idea of how far we’ve come, and how fast.”
“Given the anti-trans hysteria we’re seeing right now, it doesn’t feel like progress,” Tara said, shaking her head.
Anna was less gloomy. “I don’t want to sound like Pollyanna. Especially not when I think of stories like Chris’s, and she’s far from alone. But change creates reaction. The bigger the change, the bigger the reaction. You’re all old enough to remember 2004, when Karl Rove had the bright idea of getting gay marriage bans on the ballots in as many states as possible, to goose conservative turnout in the election.”
Sara grimaced. “Yeah. Bastard.”
“It worked, too.” Tara said, sounding sour.
Anna nodded. “Sure, in the short term. Which is all Rove cared about. Might have put W over the top; the election was a squeaker. But my point is, the reaction didn’t last. Barely more than a decade later, the politics were completely reversed. Gay marriage is the law of the land, and it’s so popular that it wouldn’t change even if the Supreme Court changed its mind.”
“You think that will happen for transgender issues too?” Tara sounded skeptical.
“Think?” Anna waggled a hand. “That might be too strong. But I hope so. Listen, I know trans people have been around forever. You know it. But our society made them invisible. Even our language hedged us out. When I was a kid, I knew I wanted to be with the girls, not with the boys. But I had no words to even describe what I was feeling. I just thought I was a freak.”
Tara stretched out a hand and gave Anna’s arm a gentle squeeze. “Never. But I know what you mean.”
“When I was older, I learned about people like Christine Jorgensen, but . . . you had to really hunt for information . . . and I grew up before the internet. Now, it’s everywhere. People are only just starting to adjust.”
“I hope you’re right,” Sara said. “I worry that reaction does win, sometimes.”
“At least trans people don’t have to feel so alone anymore.” Anna smiled crookedly. “Think of it this way. Erin started BigCloset in, what, 2004? Something like that? Avery would have been in high school; Chris would have been in grade school. I was forty. It’s a completely different world.”
Tara touched her arm again. “Born just a bit too early, were you?”
“No regrets, Hon. I have a good life, and I love my family. And, I have a community where I can be open about my gender issues, and good friends who enjoy my raunchy sense of fun.” Anna smiled warmly.
“I’m thinking . . . .” I paused, suddenly uncertain.
“Does it hurt?” Tara asked.
“Don’t let us stop you!” Anna giggled.
Sara looked at them approvingly. “I knew I liked you two!”
“A big, beautiful raspberry to the lot of you!” I threw up my hands, laughing. “I was just thinking, maybe I should join BC too. But, I can’t write.”
Tara laughed “It’s not just for authors! Somebody has to actually read our stuff.” With a sly grin, she added, “You could even drop a comment, now and then!”
Anna rolled her eyes, then gave me a very direct look. “Seriously, Rosie. You should. Stop lurking. Be part of our community. We’d love to have you. And I think you’d like it there.”
I felt a lump in my throat. “Thank you. Thank you both.”
We had a pleasant lunch, just the four of us, then it was time for them both to change for travel. Unlike Chris and Avery, they had to depart presenting as males. I got up to help Anna, but Tara waved me off. “We both need to do some grieving in the process, and we might as well do it together.”
The better part of an hour later, they came down the hall together, the barrel-chested man with the red beard, and the tall, older man with mostly silver hair. Anna looked subdued.
Tara worked to preserve a bluff front. “Will you be in Denver for the conference in November?” she asked Sara.
“Still up in the air,” my wife replied. “How about you?”
“God willin’ and the creek don’t rise! I hope I’ll see you there – both of you.” She gave me a grin.
I said to Anna, “I wish we could see you, too.”
Even presenting as male, the smile was pure Anna. “You know where to find Rowena, you naughty girl!”
We walked them to their cars, there were hugs and kisses all around, and we waved until they were out of sight.
“What great people,” Sara said. “We should have a writers’ weekend every year!”
“I’d like that.”
“Are you really thinking of joining BC?”
“I liked the four of them . . . a lot. I want to stay in touch.”
“I’m glad to hear it – but you’ve never been much of a joiner.”
“All of you made me think about this idea of being present . . . I mean, I get it, I guess. Like, I got the packet, you know? But it conflicts with a lot of my original programming. It’ll take me a while to work out all the bugs.”
“Geek!”
“Guilty. But I’m not even sorry about it, ’cuz it’s ‘Take Your Geek to Bed’ Day.”
“I’ve never heard of that one.”
“The Goddess of Geekastan just decreed it.”
“Really? You get to do that?”
I smiled. “Remember when you promised you’d unwrap me?”
“In the middle of the day? Good heavens! I think Rowena has corrupted you!”
“I certainly hope so!”
“I love you. You know that, right?”
“Know it? Sara, I depend on it! ”
The End
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter One: The Colonel’s Got to Know
San Jose, California, June 30, 1982
The first time I met Colonel Holweard, I was twelve and very, very pleased with myself. With Father as angry as I’d ever seen him and Mom flitting around the house like a hummingbird on cocaine, trying to make our normally shambolic living space “presentable,” a perfect day beckoned bright.
With all the confusion, I’d managed to liberate a pair of Mom’s panties from her bureau and I’d been wearing them all day. Father had caught me doing that once before and almost had apoplexy, so I’d known it was an absolute no-no since I was five.
And I ask you: what could be more irresistible than that? Hmm? Anything?
While Father’s satin-induced rage on that memorable occasion had been really something to see, it had neither distressed nor deterred me. His rages tended towards commodity status. If it wasn’t one thing, it was another. He had a convert’s zeal about Catholicism and America, not necessarily in that order, and could be quite vocal in his complaints about his country of origin, especially when he started in on the hard liquor. Kentucky bourbon, naturally, since anything that came from, or was associated with, the United Kingdom was shunned.
So, yeah. He hated the monarchy. The Anglican Church. Heathens, too, though I wasn’t sure why. He hated soccer and H. Salt and beer and gin and his own accent and God knows what else. Most of all, he apparently hated his family, and he had fully intended to tell his younger brother that he wasn’t welcome to visit. Or, as he would have put it himself, to “sod off.”
Mom, the dark-haired, dark-eyed and unpretentious All American Girl Father had latched onto when he left Britain for good, pushed to allow the visit. Uncle Geoff had seen action during the Falklands conflict – something else Father despised, vocally – and wanted to stop in San Jose to visit us before returning home.
“Hank, honey,” she had said. “Don’t be like this. He’s your brother. Luigi’s never even met him. Just once?”
Mom just loved family, probably because she had more relatives living in close proximity to her than any creature on earth, maybe even including bees. I couldn’t keep track of them all. Grandparents, great aunts and even greater uncles, aunts and uncles, cousins of all manners and degrees . . . . her clan apparently migrated to this country from Calabria all at once, some eighty years earlier. In contrast, I had never met any of my father’s relatives. Not one.
Father said I hadn’t missed anything, which naturally left me intensely curious.
Mom prevailed, of course. Mom always prevailed. Father would rage and she would keep pouring bourbon into him until he either agreed or passed out, at which point she would tell him he had agreed. I never quite understood their marriage.
So it was that the three of us were sitting together in the living room, waiting for my Uncle to arrive and praying that the AC in our bungalow didn’t fail like it had already done three times since school got out. It was clearly overmatched by the kind of heat the South Bay can effortlessly generate all summer long.
Dad had already started on the bourbon, which he mixed with Coke and poured over ice. I’m pretty sure he did that just to be spiteful. “Remember now,” he told me for probably the sixtieth time. “You are to call him ‘Jeff,’ understand? Just ‘Jeff.’ If he requests that you call him something else, I expect you to decline.”
“But I call Mom’s brothers ‘Uncle,’” I said, just to be annoying. “Shouldn’t I call him ‘Uncle,’ too?”
“Your mother’s brothers have unpronounceable names.”
“‘Giulio’ and ‘Matteo’ are hardly unpronounceable,” Mom said, indignantly.
He mumbled something into his drink about foreigners. For all that he wasn’t wild about his country of origin, he didn’t seem to be all that fond of any other place either.
I didn’t get the full-on dust-up these opening salvos promised because the doorbell rang. Father struggled to get out of his chair, but Mom beat him to the punch and had the door open before he achieved homo erectus. “You must be Geoffrey,” she said warmly. “Please come in . . . Oh! I didn’t know you were bringing a friend!” She stood aside as two men entered.
The first looked a bit like my father, but substantially younger, more fit, and much, much more sober. “And you must be the lovely Sylvia,” he said smoothly. “I’m delighted – delighted! – to finally meet you! Please allow me to introduce my friend, Colonel Holweard.”
Holweard was short – shorter than Mom, anyway, though still taller than I was that day. Stocky, with dark hair, a broad, plain face, a fierce mustache and pale, curious eyes. Though my uncle was more imposing, Holweard seemed to draw attention like an injured moose draws mosquitoes.
I was so focused on our guests that I hadn’t paid any attention to Father. “You!” he said, sounding shocked and angry. “What in the name of Beelzebub are YOU doing here!” Father’s face had gone white.
But that could mean just about anything.
Holweard grinned impishly. “Hello, Grace, old boy! Just stretching my legs, you know!”
“Don’t call me that,” Father snarled. Looking at his brother, he said, “How could you have brought him?”
My uncle looked bemused. “Good to see you, too, Henry. Obviously, the Colonel and I served together, and we’re returning home together. Don’t worry – we’ll not be spending the night.”
“Oh, but you have to!” Mom said, distressed. “I have a bed all made up for you!”
“Thank you, dear lady,” Uncle Geoff said, his voice warm. “But we’ve managed to obtain a delightful hotel near the airport, and our flight tomorrow is early. We won’t impose – except, perhaps, for dinner?”
“No.” Father sounded surly.
“Yes.” Mom, of course, sounded firm. “Hank, it’s practically ready. An extra place setting is no trouble.”
“He’s trouble,” Father said, looking at the Colonel.
“I’m wounded. Truly wounded! Cut to the very quick!” But Holweard didn’t sound wounded, he sounded mildly amused. The right word, though I didn’t know it even at a precocious and obnoxious twelve, was “sardonic.” “Really, dear boy. It’s far from home, and we’re just here for the evening. What trouble could I possibly be?”
Sardonic, certainly, with maybe a side of “challenge.” His curious eyes held Father’s for what seemed like a long, long minute.
I don’t know what Father saw, looking into the Colonel’s pale eyes, but he made an abrupt gesture and said, “Fine. Whatever. We’ll feed you – then I expect you both to be on your way.”
“Hank!” Mom’s tone said “NOT happy” so clearly even a twelve-year old could understand it.
He didn’t get the message. “I said, ‘fine,’ Sylvia. Now, let’s eat.”
“Henry Grace Algernon Litton, your behavior brings shame to my house!”
Oh, sweet Jesus! When Mom used your full name, you knew you were so far in the doghouse you’d have flea bites from forehead to feet. I hadn’t even known Father had so many names.
“You will behave like a gentleman and you will treat our guests with respect, and you will start by offering them drinks!” Her glare should have turned him to stone, in which state he would have been only slightly less useless.
“Splendid idea!” My uncle said brightly. “Sherry, if you have it, Henry. Dry, preferably.”
Father looked dazed. “Sherry? No, we don’t have anything like that.”
“Well, I’m sure you’ve got something to whet the palate,” Holweard said, sounding jovial. “I’m not finicky like your brother, so anything will do.” He looked at the bourbon-and-coke on the rocks that Father was clutching like a life-preserver and winced. “Excepting that, of course.”
Father shook his head as if he were clearing it. “Wine . . . we have some wine.”
“That will do perfectly,” Uncle Geoff replied. His accent was very much like Father’s, but it seemed cleaner, somehow. Crisper. It plainly annoyed Father, and I wondered whether I could copy it.
Father wandered into the kitchen in search of the wine, and Mom finally managed to get our guests seated in the living room. “I am delighted to finally meet you,” she said to my Uncle. “I’d like to say that I’ve heard a lot about you, but the fact is, he doesn’t talk about . . . before.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Truly. I don’t think I’ve heard from Henry since he sent word of your wedding . . . after it had occurred, of course.” Uncle Geoff shrugged. “We didn’t part on the best of terms.”
I decided I’d been quiet long enough. “I’m Luigi,” I said.
“Yes. Quite,” said Uncle Geoff.
“I am confident,” Colonel Holweard pronounced, “that there has never been a ‘Luigi’ in your family.”
“Cool!” I said. “I’m number one!”
“My father’s name,” Mom said, a touch of warning in her voice.
Father came back in, carrying a bottle of something pink and three glasses. “Everyone in the family has damned silly names,” he said. “Henry. Geoffrey. Hugh. Algernon, for the love of God! Anything was better than that.” He started pouring.
“What a peculiar color,” my Uncle marveled, looking at the wine. “Whatever is that?”
Father looked at the label. “White Zinfandel,” he pronounced, sounding unconvinced. Given its color, I could see why. He handed glasses to Mom and our guests.
“You won’t be joining us?” Holweard asked, amused.
“I’ll stick to bourbon, thanks,” Father replied.
Uncle Geoff swirled the glass, looked at it in the light, then tilted it toward his nose and took a delicate sniff which left him startled.
Colonel Holweard, in contrast, just upended his glass and downed it in three mighty swallows. “Any port in a storm. Though . . . ah.” He looked pained. “Not port. Clearly, not port.”
Uncle Geoff took the smallest of sips and his face assumed a strange, pinched expression. But he was trying, so he held the glass in both hands while looking at his brother. “Thank you, Henry.”
Father said nothing, and the silence became a bit awkward.
Mom tried to make some conversation, and my Uncle and Holweard did their best to help her. My initial conversational gambit hadn’t gone all that well, so I sat and watched.
I didn’t learn much. Mom coaxed Uncle Geoff into relating something about friendly fire at some place called Two Sisters, but that was a mistake.
“Damned imperial nonsense!” The soapbox was available and apparently irresistible; Father couldn’t help but stand atop it and declaim. “Risking lives for a few lumps of rock and some sheep!”
“Don’t start, Hank, please!” Mom implored.
He ignored her. “Who does Thatcher think she is, anyway? ‘Lady’ Palmerston! We’ve no business policing the world’s sea lanes anymore!”
“We?” Now Uncle Geoff looked smug.
“You, then,” Father said, heatedly.
“Perhaps you intended the royal ‘we,’” his brother said, sticking the knife in further.
“Is royal wee different?” I knew better, of course, but it seemed like a fun way to annoy Father and baffle our guests, all at the same time.
“No! It stinks just like common wee,” my Father sneered, clearly understanding my question. Fate compelled him to spend time with a twelve-year-old – me, specifically – while neither my Uncle nor his friend appeared to have done so.
“Practically sacrilege, dear boy,” the Colonel replied. “I’m sure it’s sweet as the gentle rain from heaven.”
“Would you care for some more wine?” Mom asked, throwing the only life preserver she could think of.
“Perhaps with dinner,” Holweard demurred. “I shouldn’t like to overindulge.”
“Dinner!” Mom exclaimed, seeing an opportunity for escape. “Give me just a moment, it should be almost ready!” She hopped up, but paused to glare at Father. “Behave!” Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
Father glared at Holweard, saying nothing.
My uncle sighed, then looked at me. “So, young ‘Luigi.’ What do you know about our side of the family?”
That got Father’s attention. “More than he needs to!”
“But I don’t know anything! Are they criminals?” I thought the possibility might be cool.
Uncle Geoff chuckled. “Oh, no. Much worse than that."
"Much, much worse," Holweard agreed.
"We’re aristocrats.”
“Uhhh . . . like, dukes and princes stuff?”
“Nothing so fine as all that.” Uncle Geoff waved a dismissive hand. “Merely Viscounts, but that still ‘counts,’ if you follow me. You know what a Viscount is?”
Father interrupted, before I could respond. “Luigi – what’s more important? A viscount, a prince, a duke, an earl, or a marquess?”
Well, he’d drilled me on that one, at least, so I belted out the answer. “They’re all the same, because all men are created equal!”
“Oh, dear God,” Uncle Geoff moaned. “Henry, I expected the republicanism. But the pedantry? What’s become of you?”
“I’ve grown up,” he snapped. “I don’t need a pedigree, or a castle, or tenants. I work. Like real people do.”
Uncle looked at his companion. “Gracious, Humphrey! See what I’ve been missing, all these years!”
“Ah, yes! The glories of ‘work!’” the Colonel replied. “I’m sure I’ve read about that somewhere, but offhand I don’t recall the treatise.”
“I don’t understand, Father.” I couldn’t bear to miss out on the fun. “You hate your job. You say so all the time!”
“Of COURSE I hate my job. That’s why they call it ‘work!’”
“Well, that certainly clears it up, doesn’t it?” Uncle Geoff said with a smirk.
“Dinner’s ready!” Mom announced with a sort of desperate cheerfulness.
We all trooped into the dining room, where the table had been set for five for the first time I could remember. My mother, greatly daring, had decided to attempt roast beef in honor of our guests. She’d heard somewhere that Englishmen liked it.
It was about as successful as the rest of the meal.
Somehow, we got through it. I don’t recall all that much. The food, so much worse than Mom's normal cooking . . . Mom’s frantic efforts to get her recalcitrant and increasingly soused husband to have a ‘civilized’ conversation with his younger brother . . . Uncle Geoff’s barbed banter . . . all of that mostly washed over me.
What I remember most were Colonel Holweard’s eyes. Darting here, looking there, taking in everything. Seemingly seeing everything. He didn’t say all that much, but I never forgot his eyes. Especially when he turned them on me.
By the end of the meal, Father was barely capable of standing, much less doing anything that might be described as ‘civilized.’ Mom took it upon herself to see our guests out, struggling to maintain some semblance of normalcy. “Thank you so much for coming, Geoffrey,” she said. “I have wanted to meet you for such a long time.”
He clasped her hands in his own and said something appropriate, I’m sure.
Colonel Holweard looked at me and grinned. “If you find that ‘work’ isn’t to your taste, you could do worse than being Viscount Chingleput some day. I can promise you this – the Viscount doesn’t need to nick his Mum’s knickers!”
I must have looked blank, since it took me years to figure out what on earth he had just said.
He laughed, winked, and was gone.
To be continued . . . .
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story!
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter Two: Reconnaissance in Farce
Lyddon Hall, University of Leeds, October 15, 1990 (Eight years later)
Heather was in my room again. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
“Come on, Weejie,” she coaxed. “You can’t possibly want to wander around some old pile of rocks. Could anything be more tedious? Do you have any idea how many castles are just lying around the countryside, taking up space and gathering dust?”
“I’m sure someone’s done a count.”
“We don’t have counts. Or we do, we just call them earls.”
“Why? You don’t have earlesses. You do have countesses.”
“Oh, don’t start! It’s because we’re English. It doesn’t have to make sense. In fact, it’s not supposed to.”
“Let me guess. If it made sense, the French could figure it out.”
“Quite possibly. And imagine what a disaster that would be.” She flounced onto my bed, since I was already sitting in the only chair in the room. “Aren’t you at least going to offer me a biscuit?”
“Mi casa es su casa – near as I can tell, anyway.” It certainly seemed to be true, and I wasn’t quite sure how that had happened. “The tin’s on the shelf by your head.”
“And there you go with the Spanish again. Honestly, Weej! You are entirely capable of being good company when the mood takes you. Why are you being so difficult?”
I rolled my eyes. “Because you want to drag me down to the City for the weekend to chaperone you and Diana and Sarah. I’ll spend the entire time acting as a mobile coat-rack, hauling packages from store to store for three women.”
“Three stunning, beautiful, enchanting women . . . including moi. Really, Weejie dear. What’s not to like?”
“And there you go with the French. Though, seriously, I don’t think it’s supposed to rhyme with ‘boy.’”
“Are all Americans so pedantic?”
Now there was a question that didn’t require hours of research. “I’m gonna have to go with a big ‘no’ on that one.”
“You mean to tell me I caught the only pedant of the lot?”
“Wow, you make it sound dirty! But, yup, pretty close.” I started singing, “Don't know much about history. Don't know much biology.”
Her face assumed a pained expression and she let out a groan.
No reason to let her off that easy. “Don't know much about science book. Don't know much about the French I took.” I wiggled my eyebrows to make sure she got the connection to our conversation.
“At the risk of being rude, you don’t know much about singing, either.”
“No, no. You missed the point. As a nation – as a cultural grouping, if you will – Americans don’t know much about virtually any of those things. We are a determinedly, fiercely, and above all, proudly ignorant people. However, I am the exception.” I wagged my finger at her. “Plus, my singing could get me into the Cordon Bleu.”
“Tell me you know that’s a cooking school.”
“Yes. Of course I do. My singing is so farging amazing that they’d overlook my shortcomings in the cooking department.”
“I assume that means your cooking is execrable?”
“Oh, hell, yeah! Hey – that would make an amazing Scrabble word. Drop the “x” on a triple letter score —”
“It’s nine letters, Weej.”
“Yeah, but if you were to play ‘crab,’ or maybe ‘able’ —”
“Stop! Just stop! I will do no such thing. Now, will you get off your high horse and come with us to London?”
I chomped on a cookie. “Biscuit” my ass. These McVitties things are cookies, for crying out loud! They’re also really good. “Heather, I’m sorry. I really do want to go castle hunting this weekend.”
“Well then,” she said, “I suppose I shall have to go with, if only to make sure you don’t fall down a garderobe or something equally preposterous and fatal.” She got off the bed and stretched, looking for all the world like a martyr preparing to make the final sacrifice. “Diana and Sarah are going to be rather annoyed at you.”
I was about to say something . . . like, I don’t know, “Really, you don’t need to bother,” but she was already on her merry way.
“Ta-ta!” she said as she breezed out the door.
I shook my head. How does she do that? I really don’t understand Heather. Like, at all.
“Well . . . It’s certainly a fine example of a pile of old rocks,” Heather said, gazing at our destination. “Colorful, I suppose. If you’re fond of gray.”
“If you’re trying to tell me it’s not Harrod’s, you may rest assured that I got that.’”
“Don’t be absurd. I wouldn’t even think such a thing. But, really . . . .” she cast another practiced look at Castle Neuf before adding, “It’s not even Marks and Spencer.”
“Let’s have a look, anyhow.”
Heather threw me a doubtful glance and said, “Oh, very well. I expect they’ll have a car park by the entrance, these places always do.”
The one advantage to having Heather along was that she was generally accessorized in appropriate and useful ways, and today was no exception. One of her better accessories had five wheels, one of which was in the wrong place and allowed her to steer. She was currently using it to navigate a winding and difficult road up the small hill on which the castle was perched.
“A car park?” I asked. “How delightful! Will they have swings and teeter-totters so the cars can play while we’re out and about?”
“Behave, Weejie. It’s a long walk home.”
Sure enough, there was a parking lot by the front entrance, just as Heather had surmised. It appeared to have been designed with tourist buses in mind — the large, imposing kind that travel in flocks during the season, rather like Canadian Geese. Alas, however, this either wasn’t the season or the buses had found greener pastures. Or grayer pastures. There were only two other vehicles in the lot. At a guess, their owners worked here.
We decamped from Heather’s car – something that required a good bit of bending and twisting, on account of its, ehem, proportions. The entrance might have been imposing, I suppose, if the big drawbridge actually crossed something, but if the place had ever sported a moat, it had been filled in long since. A fussy looking woman, middle-middle in class, upper-middle in age, was sitting just inside what might once have been a guardroom. She waved us in. “It’s two pounds fifty for entrance, unless you can show student IDs. Oh, and five pounds will get you the tour.”
Heather looked dubious about the tour and I suppose I could see why. I mean, the whole place really didn’t look much larger than a decent-sized public library; it was hard to see how we might miss anything.
“Oh, the tour’s a must. An absolute must.”
I must have jumped half a foot; the voice came from behind me, and I hadn’t heard him come up. I spun around to see a young man; short and stocky with a mischievous smile and eyes that positively sparkled. “You’ll be the tour guide, won’t you, Mrs. Tibbets?”
“You will not be spoiling my tour, young man!” The woman behind the desk looked both incensed and affronted.
That decided me. “Well then, with this gentleman’s recommendation – and his company, of course – we’d be delighted to do the tour.”
“We might have a small difference of opinion,” Heather murmured in my ear, “about the meaning of ‘delighted.’”
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” the young man said, as if Heather’s aside had been offered up for general consumption and comment. “His accent notwithstanding, I’m certain your young man meant it in the classic British sense.”
“Insincerely, you mean?” Heather snarked.
“Exactly so, my dear! Oh, we’re going to have a splendid time together!”
Mrs. Tibbets crossed her formidably fleshly forearms under her well-supported and thoroughly suppressed breasts. “I will not give a tour with this . . . person in the group!”
“Oh, that’s such a pity,” he replied. “Then I shall have to give them the tour without you!”
“You will do No. Such. Thing!” No smoke came from her nose, but I half expected to see it.
“Dear Mrs. Tibbets,” he said soothingly, “If the three of us buy entrance tickets – well, if I do; they’re clearly students and will get in for free – you can scarcely keep us from wandering around together, can you? Or prevent me from making whatever observations come to my mind?”
This was nearly as much fun as baiting Father. Nothing really quite compares, of course, but the young man was tying Mrs. Bluff and Bluster into knots that would make a sailor proud. I wondered which way she would finally topple.
“All right! All right! I shall give the tour. I shall expect reasonable behavior from you, young man! No interruptions. No snide asides.”
He smiled slowly. Almost . . . dangerously. “But darling, what earthly fun would that be?”
She glowered, but in the end, she probably had no choice. She took our money, put it in the till, and gave each of us a wholly unnecessary paper ticket. “Follow me, please,” she said shortly.
Leaving the front gate area, she walked into a small courtyard. Castle yard? Whatever. Brown grass. Directly in front of us was the keep, such as it was. There really wasn’t anything else inside the walls.
“Welcome to CastleNoof,” she said woodenly, going into her spiel. The long and short of story was that it was the ninth castle built by some greedier-than-average follower of William the Bastard. It had gotten lots of upgrades in the centuries after it started as simple motte-and-bailey, but the last of them must have been around the time of Columbus.
“The lower floor of the keep is the only remaining part of the original structure,” Mrs. Tibbets explained.
“If by ‘lower floor,’ she literally means the floor itself – as in, the flagstones,” our young gentleman explained sotto voce, but it was loud enough to carry. Naturally.
Mrs. T chose to ignore the commentary. “The outer walls were built during the Second Baron’s War in the Thirteenth Century. The license to crenelate is recorded in the Patent Rolls, and was signed by King Henry III.”
“Who probably thought he was ordering an execution. Or quite possibly a bit of breckie. Not a very bright chap.”
“Mr. Deavers!” Mrs. Tibbets voice was low with menace.
He just smiled.
Heather decided it was time to do something other than simply watch tennis. “Is there any sort of view from the battlements?”
“I shouldn’t think so,” Mrs. Tibbets said repressively.
“You mean you haven’t looked?” Deavers asked, with open-eyed faux incredulity.
“As you are perfectly well aware, Mr. Deavers, the upper battlements are unsafe, and access is strictly prohibited!”
I couldn’t let Deavers have all the fun. “Are you quite sure it isn’t loosely prohibited? I mean, ‘strictly’ seems like the only adverb that’s ever attached to that word.”
“Strictly. Most strictly.” Mrs. Tibbets was both firm and severe on this point.
“I see.” I looked around. From where I was standing, there wasn’t much to see that wasn’t strictly prohibited wall. “Then it's the keep, I suppose.” It didn’t look very promising.
“The ground floor’s off limits,” Mrs. Tibbets warned, “On account of its extreme age.”
“It’s just that they haven’t gotten around to cleaning it,” Deavers supplied happily. “Good help is so hard to find.”
“Aren’t the upper floors supported by the ground floor?” I asked.
“Certainly, young man. How else would they be supported?”
“Um. Okay. Never mind.” I was looking for stairs. Perhaps around back? “How do you get to the upper floors?”
“From the battlements, naturally,” Mrs. Tibbets replied.
Heather weighed in. “But you said – “
“Strictly prohibited,” Mrs. Tibbets said triumphantly.
“But . . . .”
“Strictly.”
I looked around again. “What do we, ah . . . you know? Tour?”
Deavers was happy to explain before Mrs. Tibbets put her spin on it. “This delightful plot of grass. You stand here – right here – and dear Mrs. Tibbets will talk. Expound. Declaim. Pretty endlessly, as it happens. It’s really a question of how much of it you can stand.”
“Doesn’t anyone live here?” I asked.
Three sets of eyes looked at me, bemused. Heather was first out the gate. “Whoever would want to?”
“The castle is owned by Viscount Chingleput,” Mrs. Tibbets explained. “But the family hasn’t lived here since the sixteenth century.”
“They pinched better digs when old King Harry stole all the church land,” Mr. Deavers added.
This straightforward explanation didn’t sit well with Mrs. Tibbets. “Acquisition of the abbey property was approved by Act of Parliament!”
“Making the theft entirely legal and proper,” Deavers replied, sounding pleased with the explanation.
“Stole it fair and square, eh?” I asked.
“It is not theft if it’s approved!” our guide hissed, scandalized.
“Mrs. Tibbets,” I asked diplomatically. “How long is this tour?”
“Oh, I could talk for hours about Castlenoof,” she said. It sounded like a threat. “History . . . architecture . . . legends. Even ghost stories!”
“How ‘delighted’ are you feeling, Weej?” Heather asked.
The thought of spending endless hours standing in the cold listening to Mrs. Tibbets tell ghost stories was acutely unappealing. “Actually, I was thinking I might be reaching my tolerance level for delight.”
“If you held on to your ticket, it will also get you into the family estate,” Deavers said helpfully. “It’s just three miles away. Shingles, they call it.”
It seemed like a strange choice for a name. “Like the virus?”
“A contraction of the title, I should think,” Mrs. Tibbets sniffed. “Chingleput . . . Singles. These things happen, over centuries.”
“Don’t you believe her,” Deavers said. “It’s the virus. The old man was riddled with it.”
“Mr. Deavers! That will be quite ENOUGH!”
But we decided that Shingles was likely to be the lesser of two evils, and opted to take our leave of the basilisk of Castle Neuf. Mr. Deavers invited himself along — something he managed with a smoothness and finesse that impressed even Heather.
Still, he had been good company, and quite useful for slaying dragons and such, so I wasn’t going to object. Even though somehow he got the passenger’s seat, and I ended up crammed into what was humorously called the “back seat.”
“You sorted back there?” Heather asked. “The car is grumpy when all the seatbelts aren’t fastened.”
I tried to move my arms to locate the device and failed. “I’m just exactly as ‘sorted’ as I’m going to get,” I said shortly. “Your Playmobile Car will just have to sulk for the five minutes it’s going to take us to go three miles.”
Deavers slid his seat back, neatly kneecapping me. “Ah! Much better!”
“Do you mind?” I asked, indignant.
“Not in the slightest,” he replied cheekily. “Oh — it’s three miles as the crow flies. A bit more of a trek for us, I’m afraid.”
I groaned, but Heather didn’t hear me as she got the engine to turn over and headed us down the hill.
It took seventeen and a half excruciating minutes to travel the three miles from Castle Neuf to Shingles. Between my captive knees and the contortions required to keep my head from hitting the roof, I was acutely uncomfortable the entire time. Heather and George were chatting merrily, but I just tuned them both out. Maybe being a portable clothes rack wouldn’t have been so bad.
But I’d had a hankering to see the “family estate,” even though I’d promised Father that I’d stay away. Well . . . especially because I’d made that promise, and I knew how deeply furious he would be when I cheerfully broke it. He had no sense of humor at all, and even less where his family was concerned. What better way to get his goat? So I endured the drive without groaning more than six or seven times.
“Well! Heather said suddenly. “Looks like the thieves and brigands did well for themselves!”
With several contortions of my back and neck, I managed to see what had caught her eye. Shingles — presumably it was Shingles — was certainly impressive enough, in a dark, gloomy, gothic sort of way. Much larger than Castle Neuf, with plenty of those deep, narrow windows that have pointy-arched tops and provide almost no light. The stone appeared to have come from a very different quarry than the castle. It had probably been a delightfully toasty golden brown originally, but was now the somewhat less appealing color of industrial sludge.
We parked by an ostentatious main entrance, smack in the middle of by far the largest structure in the complex. Although it looked like someone had gone to great lengths to disguise it, the main building had clearly begun its long life as a church of some sort before aging gracelessly into something a bit more tawdry.
Getting out of the car took even more work than getting in, but eventually I accomplished it to the accompaniment of groans and swear-words more common in the Bay Area of my youth than the North of England. I’m not saying Brits are more refined; their swear words are just weird. And they don’t seem to understand that simple, one-syllable synonyms for copulation and defecation can be employed endlessly and in virtually any situation.
The gate guardian of Shingles was a woman of around Mrs. Tibbet’s age, but considerably broader in the beam and far more cheerful. “Good morning, and welcome to Shingles!” she called out, as we stepped through the massive, dark door that must have been 12 feet tall.
We were in an antechamber of some sort – a decorative lump grafted onto the older main building, like a Gamay Beaujelais head on the rootstock of a Concord Grape. The stone in the ribbed vault over our heads had lots of fussy tracery and the side windows of the anteroom were large and colorful.
We got a big smile from the gate guardian, who came out from behind her high desk, positively beaming. “Such a lovely morning! Do come in! Let me give you the orientation, then you’re free to poke around, except in the areas marked ‘No Admittance.’”
I stepped forward, returning her smile. “I’m guessing that would be ‘strictly no admittance,’ right?”
“There’s no other sort, now is there?” she said, laughing. Spotting our companion, she said, “You’ve brought a personal guide with you, I see. Good morning, young George!”
“Mrs. Gee! So good to see you in such good humor,” he replied with a smile.
“Well, not that you need it, what with George and all, but we’ve just received these delightful pamphlets in full color, so you’ll have some idea what you’re looking at.” Seeing the tickets in our hands, she added, “Oh, and you’ve been to the castle, have you? Well, it won’t have taken you very long to figure out why no-one lives there anymore!”
And that was pretty much all the orientation we got. At the other end of the antechamber from where we entered, five shallow steps lead to a deep stone arch and very solid looking doors, one of which was open. Up we went, and entered a large, dark and forbidding great hall. According to the lovely brochure, it had originally been the nave of the monastery church.
“Holy ground, hmmm?” George said as we moved past the side aisle into the main area.
“Don’t they do a deconsecration or something, when they stop using it as a church?” I asked, looking around.
“Ostensibly. But surely . . . ground is holy or it isn’t, don’t you think?” There was, as usual, mischief in his voice – but something else, too.
And I’ll confess, I sure felt something. Maybe it was holy ground, or maybe it was just plain old spooky. The stone was dark and forbidding and the lancet windows were next to useless. Seven bays of tall arches and a simple cruciform ribbed vault, barely illuminated by clerestory windows. The flagstones were smooth with age.
The proportions were all wrong, naturally. The space was incredibly high relative to either the width or length of the hall – unsurprising, since the old church had been cut in half. The pamphlet explained that the transept and quire had been converted into living quarters for the family.
My family.
I hadn’t said anything to Heather – or to anyone else, for that matter – about my connection to the family that owned this heap of stone. The university had certain cliques, like any other education establishment, and the children of the aristocracy formed one of them. It was a small and obnoxious group, and I didn’t want anyone to think I belonged there. Even though it would have been a positively stupendous way of annoying Father. Some of life’s joys, great though they most certainly are, do not justify the sacrifice.
Although the stained glass windows all depicted scenes from the Gospels, the space was otherwise pretty secular. It had been set up as a feasting hall, I suppose – a long, narrow table running down what had been the length of the nave and a raised platform with an elevated table at the end in a “T” configuration. A monstrous big chair dominated the middle of the raised table, intricately carved, upholstered in red velvet. It even had a decorative canopy over it.
I shook my head. “Okay. Was the guy, like, morbidly obese? You could fit three normal humans in that thing!”
“Important to impress the masses, Weej,” Heather snarked.
“Impress? Any regular dude sitting in that chair is going to look like a five-year-old!”
“Ah,” said Deavers. “But he’ll look like a rich five-year-old, so age won’t matter! You should try it!”
“The sign says we’re not supposed to touch the furniture.”
“So, don’t touch it. Keep your hands to yourself. Just sit in it!” Deavers was, as usual, grinning wickedly.
“Go ahead,” I invited. “Let’s see how you look!”
He shrugged. “I shall look stunning, naturally. I always look stunning!” He hopped up onto the dais, sauntered over to the semi-throne thing, and sprawled gracefully on the seat. “As you see. Now, all you little people . . . bow and scrape, why don’t you?”
Heather laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
“Naturally,” he replied. “And, of course, nobles are irresistible to the lower sorts, aren’t they? Admit it . . . You want me to throw you on the table and have my naughty, aristocratic way with you!”
Heather only laughed harder.
For myself, though . . . Deavers actually did look pretty good sprawled on the throne. Powerful, even. As if sensing my thoughts, he gave me a sardonic look.
“Now, George!” Mrs. Gee stood in the entrance, sounding like a mildly exasperated nanny. “You know you aren’t supposed to be there. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“By all means, ask away,” he said airily. “My lordship is in the mood for hearing petitions today.”
Despite herself, Mrs. Gee giggled girlishly. “All right, George. I’ll look the other way – this time – but for God’s sake don’t let the Colonel know!”
Deavers made little shooing motions with his hands, and Mrs. Gee vanished back the way she’d come.
“The Colonel?” I asked him. I had a very vivid memory of a Colonel.
Deavers confirmed it, as he rose gracefully from the oversized chair and came down off the dais. “My uncle Holweard. He looks after the place while the Viscount is off doing whatever it is he does.”
“The Viscount’s in the counting house,” Heather paraphrased, “Counting all his –”
“Vices,” I supplied.
“That should keep him occupied for a while,” Deavers said brightly. “Let’s finish looking around, while he’s tied up?”
We strolled around the courtyard, which had been a cloister back in the day. The Baptistry had been converted into a gazebo by the expedient of removing all non-load-bearing walls, and the former monks’ living quarters had been converted into guest accommodations that were, like the Viscount’s private quarters, off limits.
“The crypt is really the best part,” Deavers said.
“That’s something you don’t hear every day,” I snorted.
“Weej, it’s England,” Heather explained. “We always reserve the very best for dead people.”
“Certainly,” Deavers agreed. “It’s when they are at their finest, after all.”
The crypt was located where you would expect – under what had been the transept of the church – and was reached by a narrow stone stair to the side of the exit from the Great Hall. All of the former residents of the space, which presumably had been abbots and such, had been removed to literally greener pastures. The crypt was now reserved for Family.
Each of the Viscounts had his own niche and sarcophagus, as well as a portrait on the wall. All the portraits looked like Father, just with different facial hair and styles of dress. A dreary prospect indeed, from my perspective!
Deavers filled us in on all the gossip with respect to the former lords, and from his descriptions they were a sordid lot indeed. The first Viscount’s portrait depicted him in martial glory upon the battlements of some very foreign-looking fortress. “The battle of Chingleput,” Deavers said.
“I can’t say I’ve heard of that one,” Heather remarked.
“Why am I not surprised?” Deavers’ voice was dry. “A minor battle in the Second Carnatic War.”
I shook my head. “The second what?”
“Quite,” Deavers agreed.
“And, ah, what’s his name commanded the victorious British army?” Heather asked.
“Of course not,” Deavers said. “That was Robert Clive, and he commanded company troops.”
“Then why did . . .” She paused a moment to check the name, “Algernon Winthrop, here, get a title out of it?”
“He didn’t. He got a title out of forgiving a rather large gambling debt that embarrassed King George’s idiot brother, Cumberland. But he said he was present at Chingleput, and Clive got a nice round sum to confirm it, so it seemed like a good enough fit.” Deavers studied the picture critically. “He does look rather dashing up there on the battlement, don’t you think?”
“Moderately dashing,” I allowed.
“Positively irresistible,” Heather pronounced.
We made the circuit, with each Viscount looking less distinguished than the last. It must be a coincidence that they line up that way, I thought. Please let it be a coincidence! But the final niche was completely different.
“Weej, you’re gaping,” Heather scolded.
I ignored her. The woman in the full-sized painting almost leapt off the canvas. Long, raven-black hair, soft eyes, pale, perfect skin, a figure to die for in a dress that accentuated every curve – tight bodice showing full breasts and a trim waist, and an exuberant skirt that cascaded over wide hips like a fountain . . . .
“Weej! Wake up!”
I shook my head, as if to clear it of cobwebs. “Why would I want to?”
“Well, you do look a bit like an idiot, so there’s that.”
“Uh . . . right.” I looked at Deavers. “Who is she?”
“Well, you know what the nuns always say,” he responded.
I decided that I wanted to know who the woman in the painting was, even if I had to walk into his joke to find out. “No. I don’t really know any nuns. What do they say?”
“It’s a mystery.” He sounded smug.
“Seriously?”
“Quite. No one knows who she is, or what her painting is doing down here . . . other than livening the place up.”
“And attracting boys like honey attracts flies,” Heather added, acidly.
“Alright already,” I replied testily. “Can I help it? It’s by far the best piece of art in the whole place.”
“Your devotion to art history is an inspiration, Weej. Now, if I can pry you away from your girlfriend here, I don’t suppose you can be persuaded to find a place for lunch?”
I laughed and agreed, and we found the exit.
When we got back to the car, Deavers said his farewells. “If you want someplace local, the Victoria has a nice ploughman’s lunch and decent fish and chips. And, it’s right next to a really special shop for naughty underthings!”
Heather laughed and hopped in the driver’s seat. So she missed his broad wink and my ensuing scarlet blush.
To be continued . . . .
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter 3: Maid in America
San Jose, California, June 30, 1995 (Five years later)
Heather was seething as we left the theater. “We absolutely shouldn’t have bought tickets. I knew we’d regret it.”
“I don’t know,” I said, mostly to be oppositional. “It had its humorous moments.”
“Humor?” She looked at me, her expression a mixture of aghast and appalled. Aghalled, maybe?
“Sure. I mean, the implication that Wallace was the father of Edward III is pretty funny if you think about it, since it would have required Edward’s mom to get pregnant at age 10 and carry the baby for around seven years before giving birth.”
“What?”
“Especially since she didn’t even leave the continent until years after Wallace died. An immaculate conception, maybe?”
She shot me a still-more appalled look, which I hadn’t even thought was possible. “How can you even say such a thing! She was French.”
“Well, yeah.” I was goading her and I knew it, but it was a habit I just couldn’t bring myself to resist.
“And while we’re on the subject, where did Wallace get off sacking York?”
“Maybe he pulled a permit?”
“It absolutely did not happen.”
“Poetic license. Don’t take it personally.”
“I’m from York, you bumbling colonial! Of course I take it personally!”
I unlocked her car door and opened it for her. “Can we go back to where we were discussing the improbability of French chastity?”
“The entire movie was absurd, from start to finish,” she shot back as she got her seatbelt fastened. “Stupid idea.”
Shutting her door and walking around the car to the driver’s side gave me the time I needed to compose my response. “I didn’t suggest we see it.”
“You didn’t talk me out of it, either!”
“I assumed you were looking forward to seeing a Scotsman get hung, drawn and quartered.”
“Well . . . that part was pretty good. But the rest of it? Heroic Scots?” She made a noise that is difficult to transcribe. It sounded a bit like “Phhhhghts,” and it was about what you would expect from a Yorkshire girl, under the circumstances.
“You know, you’ve all been one happy country for a few centuries. Maybe it’s time to let it go, don’t you think?”
She glared at me. “Says the man whose country is still fighting the Civil War.”
“Yeah, but that’s just a hundred thirty-some years ago.”
“Your whole nation, such as it is, is barely more than two centuries old!”
We continued in this vein for several miles as we drove past campus and found our way to the apartment we shared. It was familiar terrain, since we’d been together for five years now.
I still wasn’t sure how that had happened.
After my year at Leeds, I’d finished my BS back home and gotten accepted at Stanford in the Electrical Engineering/Computer Sciences Laboratory PhD program. Before I knew it, Heather came over to visit and stayed with me in my apartment. Somehow, she never got around to leaving.
She was still fuming about dastardly Scots and the idiot Americans who love them when we arrived at our quite modest apartment. Upon entering, she stalked back to the bedroom to change into something more comfortable, while I went to the fridge to see what might be handy.
“Luigi Litton!!!”
The tone of her voice was enough to bring my foraging to a halt.
She stormed back from the bedroom, waving a really lovely red bra like it was the Oriflamme of St. Denis. “Haven’t I told you – haven’t I been very clear – that you are never to borrow my underwear?”
“Well, in fairness, you do get some pretty nice shit,” I said, placatingly.
“I am – you must agree – a truly remarkable woman. A thoroughly modern, exceptionally tolerant woman.” In a tone of pure menace, she added, “Wouldn’t you say so?”
“Well, sure . . . .”
“One of the rare women who would have no issue with her fiance parading around in suspenders, knickers, and a bra.”
“We aren’t actually –”
“Don’t interrupt me! What’s your band size?”
“Thirty-eight,” I confessed.
“And what, pray tell, is my band size?”
“Thirty-four.”
“The difference between the two being?”
Math, at least, was my strong suit. Well, one of them. “Four inches, technically.”
“Four inches! Do you know what happens when you stick a thirty-four inch band on a thirty-eight inch moron?”
“He looks cute?”
She made a sound like a buzzer. “Ehhhhh! Wrong! Incorrect! Not cute! Never cute!” Affecting a bad Italian accent, by way of the Nintendo bastards from Japan, she added, “Baby Weejie, Number: Not one!”
Swear to God, if I ever make it in the video game world, I’m going to create a thoroughly obnoxious, but insidiously memorable, character and name it after Nintendo’s founder. It will be so bad that no-one will give their children his name, not until fifty generations have passed!
I couldn’t let Heather know how much I detested Mario Kart or she’d use it even more. We had that kind of relationship. “I’m a weener,” I replied, mimicking the line the Luigi character uses when he, err, wins.
She gave me an arch look. “Well, about that, actually . . . .”
“Now, now, let’s not get personal.” I may not be He-Man, but my equipment is fully functional!
“A red lace La Perla bra is quite personal, don’t you think? I rather imagine it’s why they call them ‘intimates.’”
“I can think of more plausible reasons,” I smirked.
She whacked me with her delectable delicates. “Enough! I had a special prezzy for you, and now I think I shall send it back!”
Heather had a talent for finding truly naughty presents, but puppy-dog eyes weren’t going to get me out of this dog house. “I apologize.”
“Specifically?”
Yeah, she was pissed in the American sense of the word. “I’m sorry I borrowed your bra, Heather.”
“And . . . ?”
“And I won’t borrow it again?”
Whack! “Try again, Weej — you’ve already wrecked this one!”
I swallowed. “I won’t borrow your other bras?”
“Good start. And you’ll buy me a new one?”
“Well, I mean . . . I bought that one, didn’t I?” Heather didn’t have any income, far as I knew. I’d probably bought the present she was talking about, too.
Whack! “Not the point, Princess!”
“I’ll buy you another one.”
“A better one?”
“There are better ones?”
Whack. “There are always better ones, silly.”
Ah, the joys of being a woman! “Okay.”
“Okay, what?”
“Okay, I’ll buy you a better bra.”
“And you promise you won’t wear it?”
I hesitated just an instant too long, earning another whack from the lacy La Perla. “I promise I won’t wear it,” I said hastily. Maybe too hastily. A promise made under threat of physical violence isn’t enforceable, is it?
She gave me a long, skeptical look before relenting. “Fine, then. You shall have your prezzie after all — it’s laid out on the bed. You might as well have this too.” She handed me her erstwhile weapon of choice.
“Laid out on the bed” sounded promising, so I took my new bra and headed that way with a smile I was careful not to share with Heather.
Oh, she is a naughty girl, I thought, as my eyes caressed the French Maid’s outfit she’d found for me. Now I remember why I enjoy her company! In a trice — whatever the hell that is — I had divested myself of my boring male attire and fully engaged in the serious business of transforming into a sexy, submissive slut.
Black silk stockings, and a black lace garter belt . . . I ignored the black panties, though, and purloined the red pair that went with the La Perla bra. Can’t break up the set, after all. Crinolines to fluff out the micro skirt of the black dress with the tight sleeves and deeply scooped neckline, white lace at the collar and on the little square at the front of the skirt. Four-inch black patent heels and a pill-box hat . . . . I’m in heaven. Or Nirvana, or something!
It took me a bit to do something interesting with my hair and makeup, but I didn’t want to keep Heather waiting too long. God knows what she’d get up to with free time on her hands. I made my way back to the living area, schooling my walk and my expression into something suitably meek.
Heather was sitting on the couch in a pose of studied nonchalance, legs crossed at the knee, her bare right foot waving back and forth. “Oh, there you are. What took you?”
I clutched my skirt with both hands, did my best curtsy — it needed work, but I was eager to practice! — and murmured, “Sorry, ma’am. No excuses, ma’am.”
Her eyes gleamed wickedly at my little display. “I should think not. Come here, girl!”
I minced over and stood directly in front of her, keeping my eyes downcast.
“Give us a spin, now.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, mild as a newborn lamb, and gave her a slow twirl.
“Hmm,” she humphed. “A competent initial effort, I suppose. You should practice. But just at the moment, I need my toenails painted. Chop, chop, now!”
I spent the next fifteen delightful minutes on my knees, my legs tight together and my pantied butt hovering just above my silk-encased ankles, tending to Heather’s toenails — which, in all honesty, needed a bit of tending. It wasn’t a maid’s place to say “tsk, tsk,” but I surely thought it . . . when I wasn’t entertaining far more interesting thoughts and making them as welcome as a rich John in a high-priced bordello.
My unorthodox fantasies were rudely interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. “That’ll be the pizza,” Heather said. She pulled a pair of bills from her purse, made a roll, then leaned forward and tucked them into my bra, barely concealed by the bodice of the uniform. “Get that, would you?”
Frozen in disbelief, I gave her a look of pure horror. “But . . . I can’t . . . .”
She made her “phhhhghts” noise again. “My nails are still sticky. Besides, it’s just some kid you’ll never see again.”
“Palo Alto isn’t New York City!”
She raised an imperious eyebrow, which served to remind me of my current lowly state. Deliciously lowly state, for certain specific purposes, but still. “Serves you right for ruining my best bra,” she humphed. “Now handle it, missy!”
I rose from my kneeling position and reluctantly made my way to the door, steeling myself for the reaction I was sure to get from Domino Dude. Now I remember why Heather and I aren’t engaged. Witch. But she was right, really. Why should I care what a delivery boy thinks?
The bell rang again, twice, just as I reached the door and yanked it open. . . . “Mom!”
And there she was, long-suffering look and all, carrying a dish of lasagna large enough for the entire 101st Airborne. “Good evening, dear,” she said with a sigh. “Give me a hand with this, would you?”
She handed me the dish and breezed past. “Hello, Heather. Don’t you look nice tonight. I love that color on your toenails!”
A very startled Heather started to get up, but Mom waved her back. “No, no! I can see they’re still drying!” She bent over and bussed Heather’s cheeks with audible “smacks.”
“We weren’t expecting you tonight,” Heather managed, covering her discomfort at the cross-channel invasion of her English space.
“Yes, I can see that,” Mom observed, casting a look in my direction. “Luigi, darling, I’d hoped you’d outgrow all of that once your father was no longer alive to torment.”
I decided it was time to stop gaping like a beached guppy and get in the game. “The priest said he’d be looking down on us from heaven.”
Mom crossed herself piously. “He’s a holy man, Father Caspian, but don’t believe everything he says. I think he makes a lot of it up.”
I nodded in agreement. “All that stuff he told us about water getting turned into wine seemed a bit like wish-casting. That man does like him some grape.”
“Don’t be snide, dear. If you’re going to dress like that, why don’t you set the table.”
“And get your mum and I a glass of wine,” Heather added sweetly. “There’s a good girl.”
I put the lasagna pan down on the dining room table before the weight of it permanently damaged my arms and clip-clipped my way to the kitchen, grinding my teeth silently and trying to think of something witty to say. But it’s hard to pull off insouciant when dressed like a cherry tart.
Best to just roll with it.
I poured two generous glasses of Greco Bianco — Palo Alto sported some good wine shops — and put them on a tray. Might as well do it right. Then I carried the tray over and bent my knees to offer glasses to the women, now facing each other on opposite sides of the big couch like opposing duelists at dawn. “Your wine, ma’am. Ma’am.”
They selected their pistols from the proffered tray, but otherwise ignored me. “Are those horrid realtor people still bothering you, Mrs. Litton?” Heather asked.
“Nonstop! They seem to think my little bungalow will be worth something.”
“Conventional wisdom suggests God isn’t making more real estate,” Heather observed.
Mom had to think about that one before waving it off. “I’m sure that’s right. But if they think it’s going to be worth more soon, maybe I should just sit on it for a while so that I get the benefit, don’t you think?”
I thought about what the nascent tech boom was doing to housing prices in the San Jose Area – what people were starting to call the “Silicon Valley,” and opined, “good thinking, Mom.”
“Seen and not heard, missy!” Heather said sternly, before returning her attention to my mother. “It takes ages to train the help properly!”
Mom played right along, damn her. “I can certainly see that. Heavens, she didn’t even do her nails! Anyhow, as I was saying . . . I think I’ll sit tight for now. Matteo was up just last week; he agrees completely.”
Why she would listen to Uncle Matteo, who was a fine hand with the butcher’s knife he wielded at the meat department of Vons, rather than the son who actually knew something about property values in our area, was beyond me. I wobbled on my right heel and scrambled to avoid dropping the plates I’d pulled from the cabinet. Maybe not entirely beyond me, I thought with a rueful grimace.
Once I had the table set with plates, silverware, napkins, glasses of cold water, and appropriate serving utensils, I said, “all set.”
Heather gave me a look of pure disbelief.
With an internal sigh I was careful not to display, I walked the ten feet to where she was sitting and gave her another curtsy. “Dinner is served, ma’am.”
My mother rose first and smiled. “He’s much more polite this way, Heather. I can’t say I’m wild about the look, honestly, but . . . clearly there’s a plus side.”
Heather did her best to stand with feline grace, which . . . not bad, all things considered. She gave my cheek a double tap. “Still a work in progress, but we’ll get there.”
When she got to the table, however, her demeanor changed. “What’s this?” Her tone was icy.
“Dinner? Uh . . . ma’am?”
“Is there a reason – some shred of an explanation – for why you set the table for three?”
I saw my mistake and cursed myself. She’s going to play this for all it’s worth! “No ma’am. I’m sorry ma’am.”
Mom was having almost as much fun as Heather. “Clear it away this instant!” She tried to sound stern, but couldn’t suppress a giggle.
I pulled the third place setting as they seated themselves. Unsure what to do, I retrieved the wine bottle, poured a bit more into each of their glasses, and unobtrusively retreated about five steps back into the kitchen. It wasn’t a huge apartment.
Mom and Heather continued to chat — pleasantly, to all appearances. Or, make that, to most appearances. Anytime the two of them were in the same room together, a certain sparring always seemed to be taking place, just below the surface.
They were, this time, content to ignore my presence. Until, that is, the doorbell rang again, because of course it did. Heather just shot me a look.
What the hell, I thought, resigned to my fate. I’ll never live the day down anyway. I walked over to the door and opened it, to the intense amusement of the Pizza delivery guy. He was on the rugged, scruffy side and probably wasn’t any younger than me.
“Who is it, missy?” Heather called out.
Turning my now flaming red face back toward the table, I said, “Pizza delivery. Ma’am.”
“Goodness! I’d completely forgotten! We have so much food already . . . why don’t you ask if he’ll join us?”
My eyes closed briefly as I turned back to the doorway. Yep. I’ve made the guy’s list, and he’s checking me twice . . . . “We had an unexpected delivery of food. Would you care to have some lasagna before you go?” My eyes pleaded with him to say “no.”
The message failed to transmit, or — more likely — his receptors were overloaded with other stimuli. I guess the opportunity was just too good to pass up. “Sure!” he enthused. “But . . . I gotta deliver the pizza. Or at least collect for it.” He stepped past me into the room, looking around for some place to put the big square box.
I took it from him. “Right this way,” I ground out, leading him to the table.
“Hey, thanks! This smells just like my mom used to make!” He was eyeing the lasagna longingly.
Mom stood and beamed. “It’s a family recipe! Please, come in, come in!”
You’d think it was HER place.
“You’re Italian?” he asked, as if her hair, her face, and her cooking required any additional evidence to complete the picture. You expected smarts from the Pizza Boy?
“My family is from Calabria,” Mom said. Her pride in this fact was as evident as it was strange. I mean, seriously. Tens of thousands of people shook the dust of Calabria from their shoes when they fled the bad times, and they’d been assiduous ever since at obeying biblical injunctions on fruitfulness and multiplicity. Might as well have imported loaves and fishes.
“I’m Luke,” he said, sticking his hand out for my mother to pump enthusiastically. “My family’s from Naples.”
“Well,” she said, trying to come up with something polite to say.
“You poor dear,” Heather supplied, rising in turn and extending a graceful hand.
Luke took it, and seemed disinclined to let it go. “No, really, it’s great. Everything about Italy is great. Pizza! Art! History!”
“History, like ‘Caligula,’ or history like ‘Mussolini?’” I asked.
Pizza Boy looked baffled. “Huh?”
Mom gave me The Look and directed me, naturally, to set another place for our unexpected “guest.” “Sit! Sit!” she implored him.
Luke finally released Heather’s hand – the dog! – and took a seat. I bussed about getting him a place setting and bent to put it in front of him.
“Eeep!”
“You have something to say, missy?” Heather asked.
“No ma’am. Nothing, ma’am.” I was disinclined to tell them that Luke’s hand had wandered under the back of my skirt to give my rump a pinch. I scurried back to the kitchen.
Luke helped himself to an enormous slice of lasagna and dug in with a degree of relish that could not have been better calculated to win my mother’s heart. Heather and Mom kept him company, probably matching a small forkful for every three truckloads he shoveled into his face.
“Would you like a bit of wine with that?” Mom asked him.
He looked conflicted for a tenth of a second before succumbing to temptation. “Just a little one, maybe,” he said. “I still have to make deliveries tonight.”
Heather snapped her fingers, and I knew it was my cue. Another glass on the table, and I began to pour. This time, I managed to give no sign when I felt his fingers tickle my ass.
He managed to finish in five minutes flat. “Sorry; I gotta get back. But thanks for this, it’s been great.” Again, he took Heather’s hand, this time in both of his. “Really, really great!”
“Delighted,” she demurred.
At Heather’s request – well, command, really – I escorted Luke to the door. “Don’t forget to pay him, Missy,” Heather sang out.
You. Are. Such. A. Witch!
As I reached into my decolletage and pulled out the payment for the pizza, I’m sure my poor excuse for a blush — olive skin, you know — stretched to below my skimpy skirt. “Here you are, sir,” I said, desperate to have this over with.
He leaned in close to take it. “Are you free after work?” he whispered.
My eyes went wide. The guy must think he was dropped into a wet dream! “No, sir,” I said, careful to keep my voice low. “Mistress is very strict.” Damn, Weej! Just how did “low” manage to slip into “sultry?” WTF?
He looked crestfallen. “Can I have your number?”
“Forty-two,” I husked, closing the door on his puzzled face.
“Was he trying to pick you up there?” Heather inquired, dabbing her lips with a napkin.
“Umm.” There wasn’t anything wrong with Heather’s hearing. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you give him your number, then?” With charity for none, and malice toward Luigi . . . .
I decided a bit of subtle, but servile, defiance would serve her right. “Yes, ma’am,” I said brightly.
It didn’t work. “A threesome might be fun.”
The idea both surprised and unnerved me. It . . . might be?
That, however, was a bridge too far even for my Mom. “You see, Luigi? There are consequences to dressing like that! Being a woman isn’t all fun and games!”
“I might have missed something,” I responded, “but fun and games seemed to be his main area of interest.”
“Luigi!”
“Mom!”
She slapped her hand on the table. “I want you to stop the foolishness. All of it. You are my only child and I’m not getting any younger. I would like to live long enough to play with my grandchildren!”
“Mom, please. Your mother is still alive. Your grandmother is still alive. It’s not like you’re living on borrowed time!”
“You never know,” she said darkly. “There was your father, cut down in the prime of life!”
“By cirrhosis of the liver.”
“That means organ failure.”
“No, Mom, it means he handed the Angel of Death a scythe and frickin' dared him to take a swing.”
“Still.”
Heather was watching the byplay with amusement, like someone with seats at Wimbledon’s center court. Being English, she seemed disinclined to let loose with cheering when one side or the other scored a point. This was actually a tactical error on her part; regardless of the merits of her arguments, my Mom would nonetheless expect vocal — even voluble— support.
Not hearing it, Mom changed tactics. “You need to settle down. I don’t know about this woman,” she indicated Heather with the lift of her head, causing “this woman” to bridle in a most satisfactory way, “but she’ll probably do. What are you waiting for?”
“True love?” That response wasn’t going to win me any brownie points, but I was more than a little miffed with Heather anyhow.
Her expression didn’t disappoint.
Once launched, Mom tends to extend attacks across a wide and shifting front, so I wasn’t entirely surprised when she followed her first sally with something completely different. “Also, you’re being stupid about family. You know how I feel about that.”
“I do recall you were generally against stupidity.”
“You should get back to your uncle,” she said, ignoring my attempted diversion. “The, whatsits. You know, the discount.”
Heather’s eyes narrowed. “Discount?”
Mom waved her hand, annoyed at herself. “That wasn’t it, but —”
“Mom, I don’t want to talk about that.”
“Why not? He’s invited you to visit. Said you could stay for as long as you like. Read between the lines! He has no children. No heirs. You could get all of it.”
“I don’t want it.” There. I'd said it.
Mom looked baffled. Heather, interestingly, looked not only baffled, but . . . angry?
Mom was first out the gate. “You used to talk about it all the time!”
“That was just to annoy Father.”
“But you said —”
“Looking down from heaven. I know. I was just teasing, Mom.”
“It’s land. An estate. A . . . a title. Imagine!”
“As you can tell,” I said, fluffing my little black skirt, “I have a vivid imagination. But I’ve been there, Mom. It’s . . . I mean. Really. I don’t know why anyone would want it. This is where things are happening.”
She gave my modest apartment a look that spoke volumes. “Here? Really?”
“Yes, here!” I actually stamped my foot, which must have looked cute as all get out. Not exactly the tone you’re looking for, Luigi! “Here in Palo Alto! We’re remaking the world, Mom. Castles and manors and all that nonsense . . . it’s yesterday. It’s medieval. No-one in their right mind wants it!”
Mom was stunned into silence. I mean, she probably would have expected a speech like that from Father – on the rare occasions when he was sober – but not from me.
Heather, on the other hand, rose to her full height, angrier than I could ever recall seeing her. “Luigi Giovanni Litton,” she said, her voice low and bitter, “do you mean to say you were offered the Viscount’s title and turned it down?”
“What? No! I . . . .” My mind whirled. “What do you even know about that? I never said anything!”
“You are such an infant,” she scoffed. “I knew the day you insisted we visit that old castle rather than go down to London. Information on the peerage isn’t exactly secret.”
“Okay . . . so what? I’m not interested. What’s it to you?”
“Suppose I’m interested! Don’t I matter, too?”
“What?” This was so completely out of left field I couldn’t even formulate a response. We aren’t married. We aren’t even engaged!
She walked over to where I was perched in my four-inch heels and stood two inches from my face. “You will call your uncle, apologize for being rude, and accept his invitation.”
What the hell? “I will not!”
“You do as I say, ‘Missy!’”
And, deep inside, something twisted, bent, buckled . . . and snapped. “What do you think I’m going to do? Curtsy? Screw you, Heather!”
Her right hand cracked across my cheek so hard I saw stars. “Goodbye and good riddance, you little pansy!” She grabbed her purse and stormed out the front door.
Serves you right that you forgot your shoes!
“Never understood what you saw in that one,” Mom sniffed.
“Not helpful, Mom.”
“Yes, that was definitely one of her many faults. I could list a few more, if you like.”
“Mom!”
She sat back down and patted the seat recently vacated by Lucca di Napoli, the lascivious lasagnavore. “Sit.”
I sat. It seemed like a good idea.
“Despite what you currently look like, you’re my son and I love you. That girl wasn’t good for you. I knew it; you knew it.”
I looked down, unable to meet her eyes, but murmured, “we had our moments, Mom.”
“No doubt.” Mom doesn’t seek out sarcasm, but she doesn’t take heroic measures to avoid it, either. If she’d concluded that present circumstances fairly screamed for it, I couldn’t really fault her logic.
“Did you have to mention my uncle?” I couldn’t keep the whine from my voice.
“I was curious to see whether she knew . . . and how she would react.”
“Wait, what?”
“Luigi, honey. You two got along like a pair of Sicilian capos. I think I understand why you stayed.” She raised a hand to bounce one of my cute curls. “But I wasn’t sure why she did. Now I know . . . and so do you.”
“That’s nuts, Mom. That property’s not worth shit – I bet your Palo Alto bungalow will be worth more in ten years!”
“It doesn’t matter. She’s from the old world, like your father. People back there don’t see things like estates and titles the same way we do.”
“Father wasn’t like that at all.”
“He was, Luigi. He walked away from it, and he never told me why. But all that hatred, that anger . . . would he have felt all that, for all those years, if it hadn’t been important to him?”
I had to think about that. “So . . . you think she was chasing me because she wanted to be a ‘noble?’”
“You know what I think, son. What do you think?”
“I think,” I said very carefully, “that I have a killer headache, and that my feet hurt, and that I need to clean up this mess or I’ll be even more angry in the morning.”
“Okay, dear,” she said soothingly. “I’d stay to help, but . . . you make such an adorable maid, I’d just get in your way.”
“Grrrrrrrr!”
“Maids don’t growl, sweet cheeks.” She rose, kissed my forehead, and departed, pausing at the door just long enough to say, “You should hand-wash those panties. They’re far too expensive to ruin in the washing machine.”
I sat at the table, all dressed up with nowhere to go. I should have been thinking about Heather, I suppose, but I wasn’t. I was thinking about me, mostly. And about my family. It seemed like I couldn’t escape my crazy father even after he’d slipped the mortal coil.
Why DID father walk away from it all?
To be continued . . . .
Author's note: Many thanks to RobertLouis and AlisonP for their help reviewing this story. And to my dear friend Joanne – this chapter was for you!
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter Four: Camp Crypt-o-Night
Santa Cruz, California, September, 2019 (Twenty-four years later)
“You should go,” Mom said, setting down her magazine.
It was a beautiful morning and we were having breakfast on the deck high above the beach and the sparkling Pacific Ocean.
I was going through my typical dog’s vomit of morning emails – solicitations, invoices, trade press articles, more solicitations, the occasional bits of correspondence, and still more solicitations. Today, I’d received something from Colonel Holweard, which came as quite a shock. If I’d thought about him in years — and I probably hadn’t — I’d likely have assumed he’d have passed away by now.
“Whatever for?” I turned my attention away from the surf to look at her directly. “I only met the guy once.”
She took a measured sip of orange juice, apparently considering the best approach to her self-appointed task. “It’s been six months, and you're still acting like a mangy old cat who’s been dumped in a puppy farm.”
“Am not,” I retorted, trying to sound indignant but failing to put much energy into it.
“Really? You’re going with that?” Her fond smile should have been endearing.
“Okay, maybe that was a little prepubescent.”
“Just a touch.”
The girl slipped outside and discreetly started clearing our breakfast things.
“Thank you, Addie. I’ll keep the coffee for a bit,” Mom told her with a smile.
“Of course, Mrs. Litton,” the young woman murmured before retreating into the house.
“Nice girl,” Mom remarked.
I shrugged. “Seems competent.”
“See what I’m saying? The old Luigi wasn’t like that.”
I had trouble keeping my annoyance in check. “Like what?”
“Dismissive. Uncaring. ‘Competent?’ Really? She works hard, goes above and beyond, and you never give her so much as a kind word!”
“I pay top dollar.”
“Would you listen to yourself? Being kind — being decent — is more important than money!”
“That’s astonishing!” I laid it on thick as hot asphalt on an interstate. “I can’t wait to tell the staff what they’re getting in place of a bonus this year!”
She rose abruptly. “Be that way!” She followed Addie into the house, righteous indignation flowing from her like the Nile at full flood.
I returned my attention to the sparkling blue water, grimacing as I replayed the scene in my head. By the third replay of my mental Blue Ray, the conclusion was inescapable. Yeah, Weej, you really ARE turning into a dick.
I’d managed to avoid that, mostly anyhow, through twenty-plus years of non-stop work. I’d been the boy wonder without being a dick, and even the wise-assed ideas guy, and the hottest commodity in the valley of the IPOs. As time went on, partners and colleagues had left, pursuing dreams of their own, but always with regret and on good terms. They were replaced, one by one, with employees I’d selected myself, until we’d gotten too big for even that individual touch.
Then suddenly, almost overnight, I discovered I’d become the old man. The wise and understanding guy who kept the teams going. Who led by example, being the first one on in the morning and the last off at night. I learned how to bring the right people together so they could achieve creative heights. But by then the only thing I was creating was an organization so perfectly balanced and so carefully maintained, that it no longer needed me around.
So I sold it.
Now all I had was money and more time than anyone could want. Of course I was miserable. And naturally, I was taking it out on everyone else. Like I said, a dick.
I sighed, got up, and went in search of Mom.
“Go away.” Her annoyed voice was muffled by the thick bedroom door she had locked behind her.
“Can we talk?”
“I’m not speaking to you.”
“Ectually,” I said, purposefully mimicking my Uncle’s barely-remembered accent, “you are speaking to me.”
“Telling you to go away doesn’t count.”
I’m easily diverted, and couldn’t resist. “How do you figure?”
“The way that most people figure. Only you wouldn’t get it.”
“Yeah . . . but I’m the only child you have. So isn’t that your fault?”
“My fault for marrying that fool of an Englishman.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Try to keep up, Luigi. Nature, nurture, he was there for all of it. Messed you up. Papa was right; I should have found a nice Calabrian boy.”
“Mom. Do we have to shout this conversation through a solid core door?”
“You could go away.”
“But I won’t.”
“If I ask nicely?”
“But you won’t. You’re in a bad mood, remember?”
“How could I forget?” The door opened and she gave me the evil eye. “All right. I’m all ears. So. What? What do you want to say, Mr. Ex-Big Shot Master of the Universe, that is so urgent?”
“That I’m sorry?” The “ex” rankled, stupidly, but I swallowed my pride and my perfectly natural urge to swap a biting retort for my planned apology.
My restraint didn’t impress her. “That, you could have shouted. Probably should have; everyone in the house could stand to hear it.”
“Would that get me out of having to apologize to everyone individually?”
“Is that how you were raised?”
“Well, honestly, there were some times —”
“You’re not helping your case.”
I felt my shoulders slumping. “Yeah, I know. Have I really been that bad?”
“Is the Pope Italian?”
“Ummmm . . . Not exactly?”
“Nonsense! He’s as Italian as I am!”
“Your family left Italy a hundred years ago.”
“See? You’re doing it again! And you’re changing the subject. Yes. Yes, the Pope, whose family name is Bergoglio, as you know very well, is as Italian as pasta, and yes —”
“— Pasta came from China.”
“— And YES, yes, a THOUSAND times yes, you’ve been that bad! You’ve been worse. Your whole life, I’ve worried about you. Been proud of you sometimes. Questioned your sanity? Yes, occasionally. No, make that frequently! But never, until these last few months, have I been ashamed of you.”
Ouch. “Momma . . . I guess I don’t know what to say.”
“Oh, thank you, Jesus, Joseph, and Mary, Queen of the Angels! Then maybe — for once — you’ll try the listening thing!”
Time to take my medicine. “If I have to.”
“Try not to sound so enthused. Now. You’ve spent your life doing, doing, doing. You’ve forgotten how to just be. You need to get away from here, from everything that reminds you of who you’ve made yourself.”
“Go where?”
“Anywhere. Go to this funeral, if only because you’re family and that’s what families do. Then lose yourself somewhere. Find your mischief again.”
“Mischief?” I snorted. “I thought you wanted me to find a nice girl and give you grandchildren.”
“I haven’t given up yet! You aren’t even fifty, though you act like a grouchy old man! But the way you’ve been lately, no woman worthy of having my grandchildren would put up with you. Besides . . . .” She stopped scolding, and a smile played hide-and-seek across cheeks that lost their blush decades back.
“Besides?”
“Mischief comes in lots of forms, Luigi.”
* * * * *
That’s how I found myself, a week later, in a large church in the north of England, listening to a bishop in a funny hat wax rhapsodic about Geoffrey Hugh Nigel Litton, 9th Viscount Chingleput. Uncle Geoff, as I had in fact never called him.
I made it just in time for the service, having pushed my departure until the last possible moment in the vain hope that something might come up. It turns out my Silicon Valley “suit” didn’t pass for formal attire — who knew? — and I was the recipient of numerous disapproving looks from various no-doubt important personages. I hoped at least some of them were dowagers.
Getting frowned at by a dowager struck me as a good way to say, “I’ve arrived.”
The choir was probably better than they sounded. I’m not the best judge, being tone-deaf. Also, I discovered an allergic reaction to incense. After enduring two full hours of meaningless noise and eye-watering smoke, I was moved to offer my own earnest prayer of thanksgiving that Father hadn’t raised me in the High Church Anglican tradition.
I immediately recognized the man who seemed to be running everything, even though I’d only seen him once, when I was twelve. Colonel Holweard looked surprisingly sprightly, and unlike almost everyone else in the church, he had nothing but smiles for me. Sardonic smiles, to be sure, but smiles nonetheless.
“Well, there you are! Coming to the interment, aren’t you?”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly, Colonel. I mean, I barely knew him!”
He fixed me with a pale eye. “You’re family. All he had, in the end. A Litton should be there.”
And indeed, only a handful of us were there in the crypt, when Uncle Geoff was laid in the tomb that had been prepared for him. A portrait had been painted years before, in anticipation of this day, showing him in both his prime and his uniform. Remembering George’s story about the first Viscount, I thought at least Uncle Geoff had earned it.
Which reminded me . . . “What ever became of young George Deavers?” I asked the Colonel.
“Today’s not a ‘George’ day,” he replied cryptically. Which was fitting enough, I suppose, given where we were.
My eyes kept wandering to the niche that was different from all the rest. The portrait of the mysterious woman was every bit as compelling as I recalled. You haven’t aged a day, I thought. Wish I could say the same!
The churchman and his minions had followed us, and sure as God made fried green tomatoes, they’d thought to bring some incense. I barely made it through the incantations that accompanied the interment without asphyxiation, and beat a hasty retreat to fresh air at the last “amen.”
The Colonel found me there a few minutes later, my eyes still streaming, and joined me on the stone bench where I’d been quietly hacking up a lung. Well, maybe not so quietly.
He was silent for a while, to all appearances taking in the day. Holweard seemed to belong there, in a way that I couldn’t imagine belonging anywhere. “It’s yours, you know. All of it.”
A line from an old classic popped into my head. What, the curtains? But I doubted the Colonel would know the reference, and I didn’t feel up to explaining it. “Just like that?”
He waggled his fingers, still looking off into the middle distance. “Eh. Britain doesn’t have a continent’s worth of acreage, you know, so we tend to be a bit fussy when it comes to land transfers. There are formalities. Feoffment of Livery with Seisen used to be much more complicated. But it’s always something.”
I looked around, taking in the grounds. The old stone was no different than it had been the last time I was here. In Silicon Valley, thirty years is forever. Here, it’s barely yesterday. “What would I do with it?”
“Very little, I expect,” the Colonel replied promptly. “With these old historic buildings, everything that isn’t absolutely required by law is generally prohibited.”
A memory teased. “Strictly prohibited, I assume.”
“Just so.”
I sat for a bit, thinking. “It’s not my place,” I said, finally.
“It could be, though. And you wouldn’t have to stay here all the time. God knows, Geoffrey didn’t. Nor your grandfather.”
“What happens to it if I don’t take it? Does it . . . .” I ran the equivalent of a Boolean search through the midden-heap of my long term memory, and grinned when I hit paydirt. It’s amazing the shit you learn when you’re writing the lore for a video game. “Escheat?”
“To the crown? No. A third cousin twice removed is next up, I should think,” Holweard replied. “One of the McDonalds. Very much a distaff branch of the house.” He paused, then added, with evident reluctance, “Irish.”
“Would that be a bad thing?”
“I expect opinions differ,” he said diplomatically.
“Based on?”
“Whether you’ve actually met any of the McDonalds.”
The image of a clown in a yellow outfit and orange hair bubbled to the surface of my undisciplined brain. “I see.” I finally felt sufficiently recovered from airborne poisons to stand.
The Colonel rose as well. “Think it over. Why don’t you spend the night?”
The thought of sleeping in my uncle’s sick room had no appeal. “I’m booked at the Victoria.”
“Nonsense. Your uncle was remiss; he hasn’t been here in over a year. The staff got the master’s quarters ready for you.”
“Oh, honestly, they shouldn’t have!” They REALLY shouldn’t have!
“But they did.” He sounded almost smug. “You wouldn’t want to disappoint them, would you?”
I opened my mouth to suggest that somehow, I’d see my way clear to doing just that, but he beat me to it. “Splendid, splendid! Just follow me, young . . . ah . . . Luigi. I’ll send someone to retrieve your bags.”
How on earth am I expected to SLEEP?
The “master’s quarters” didn’t refer to what any normal human would think of as a “bedroom.” Located in what had originally been the Church Quire, the ornate bed stood solitary and alone, flanked on two sides by Gothic stone arches, now filled with dry-cut stone and pierced by smaller doorways. Ridiculously high above, moonlight filtered through clerestory windows, shaded by the deep blues and reds of older stained glass. The thick rugs covering the flagstone floors did little to provide any warmth.
The staff had been delighted to show me around after my talk with Colonel Holweard, giving me the “backstage” tour that I had been denied when visiting back in the 90s. But even the ones who lived on the premises stayed in one of the out-buildings at night. I had the whole main building, which could easily have housed a regiment, all to myself.
I half-expected to hear the voice of Vincent Price, or maybe Bella Lugosi. Welcome, foolish mortal, to the Haunted Mansion.
I tried sitting up in the bed and reading. But my pad was low on juice, having had almost as long a day as I’d had myself. Somehow, no-one had ever gotten around to adding amenities like, I don’t know, electrical outlets, and the expression on the guide’s face when I asked for the WiFi password had been priceless. I checked my phone only to find it was already gone.
My screens went dark. I was left in the distorted moonlight, hearing every strange sound a building several centuries old can generate. Perfectly fine rooms at the Victoria. And, a cheerful pub with seriously good beer right ‘round the corner. What the hell am I doing here?
It felt like I lay there half the night, listening to the whispers of long-gone monks. It was probably only half-an-hour or so, but it sure felt longer. Long enough, anyway. I made a disgusted noise – which, naturally, echoed back at me from every stone surface in the whole damned place – and got out of bed, wrapping myself in a thick bathrobe the staff had thoughtfully provided and stuffing my feet in my LL Bean slippers.
I took to pacing. The “bedroom” was probably on the order of eighty feet long! Back and forth. Back and forth.
My father was born here. He’d grown up in this building, somewhere. Grown up with staff looking after him, catering to his every whim. No wonder he was so messed up.
Gradually I became aware of something. It wasn’t a sound, exactly . . . or, maybe it was. But something. I felt a pull . . . an urge to move . . . a call. Wrong number, I snarled, continuing to pace.
Back and forth, back and forth. The pull became stronger, like a memory that you can’t seem to shake. Eff that! Just watch me. Control-Alt-Delete.
Back and forth, back and forth. The sense of “summons” was growing more and more insistent. I stuck my fingers in my ears and sang “la la la” as I paced. But it wasn’t really a sound, unless it was. Whatever, my efforts to drown it out didn’t work.
The door in the arch closest to the church nave wasn’t actually closed. I hadn’t noticed it before, and I was sure I’d checked. But there was a little bit of light leaking from behind it, which was strange in and of itself. I padded over and checked. Pushing the door open just a bit more, I stuck my head through the opening to see where the light was coming from.
I couldn’t tell. There was a passage ending in a staircase, and the stones themselves seemed to glow.
“Uhn uh!!!” I was surprised at the sound of my own voice. But the door resisted my increasingly urgent efforts to close it.
I heard something . . . I was sure I heard something. It sounded like a sigh. On the floor of the corridor, faint blue arrows appeared, pointing towards the staircase.
“Are you fucking kidding me! I designed ‘Jiro’s Harrowing Halloween Heist!’ I know how this game ends!”
The light from the arrows grew stronger. Okay, so the summons was coming from below.
I deliberately turned my back on the doorway, set my jaw in my best attempt at an attitude of Churchillian defiance, and resumed my pacing.
On my third pass, I noticed that there was a card on top of the bedspread which hadn’t been there before. I paused, tempted to ignore it, but finally reached down and picked it up. It was addressed to “Lord Luigi Litton.” “Lord?” Seriously? Inside the flap, in neat and precise calligraphy font, it read, “The honor of your presence in the crypt is most urgently requested.” I ran a thumb thoughtfully over the card as I pondered this new development.
Engraved. Naturally.
A nice room, a fine pub, the company of normal people, good beer . . . all of it, not ten minute’s drive back in the village. But no, I’d decided to stay here. What a moron.
I couldn’t take it anymore. Growling at myself, I tied the bathrobe tighter and stalked over to the open door. The light from the arrows in the corridor was on a loop, starting near me and progressing to the staircase. Muttering “okay, okay, I GET it,” I stomped down the corridor.
At the top of the stairs I hesitated, thinking of a line from an insurance commercial. When you’re in a horror movie, you make bad decisions. It’s what you do. But setting aside – by which I mean, “aside from the setting” – I wasn’t really in a horror movie, was I? It felt far too cheesy for that. More like the kind of camp you might expect from Star Trek. Set phasers for peanut butter! Still, I’m quite capable of making stupid mistakes in almost any genre and I knew it.
“I cannot believe I’m doing this!”
But down I went, the stone staircase spiraling into the depths. The glowing arrows continued down the stairs, on the off chance I’d miss the point again. There was another door at the base of the staircase, but it was already open. And, sure enough, it led straight into the crypt.
Unlike the corridor or the stairs, the only light in the crypt came from the painting of the mystery woman – a painting which now glowed with eldritch light. I was drawn to it like a drunk to rotgut – enough that I was even able to ignore the stale residue of incense that still permeated the space.
The light somehow emanated from within the painting, making the stunning image incredibly lifelike. I half expected her to speak . . . and desperately wished that she would. Almost without volition, my hand rose and my fingers brushed her cheek . . . .
At my touch, the image faded, becoming at first translucent, then transparent. She vanished, leaving behind yet another doorway, with another staircase descending to the depths. The walls glowed, pale as ice.
I am SUCH an idiot! But I couldn’t stop now. Taking a deep breath, I plunged through the doorway and began to descend.
After two full circles of the spiral staircase, the nature of the stonework began to change. The neat, dressed stone gave way to something rougher, darker. Older. The stairs were less even and required careful monitoring. Some steps were deeper, others more shallow.
Another circuit, and yet another. Getting back up from here is going to be SO much fun, I thought. Followed by, I should be so lucky.
I don’t know how many circuits I took. With each turn, I felt like I was leaving my world further and further behind. By the bottom, the stairs were little more than rough boulders, not shaped so much as simply placed.
But at least there was a bottom – a small, dim, rough-hewn chamber with an opening opposite the bottom of the climb, framed by a fifteen-foot high trilithon and surmounted by a lintel that had to weigh twenty tons.
I thought about turning back. Really I did. Probably would have, too, but the idea of climbing that crazy staircase was enough to deter me. Fine. Whatever. Hell of a place to die.
I walked forward and felt a chill as I passed through the entrance into a cavern. I couldn’t tell its size; darkness filled the void. The only light came from what I assumed was the center of the chamber, an area that held a massive platform.
It was a bed. Not so ornate at the monstrosity upstairs, but no less large and imposing. Rather than a bedspread, it was covered by huge animal skins. Bear, I thought. Other pelts were smaller but more sinister; I thought they might be from wolves. Damned BIG wolves, too. But a garment of some sort was artlessly draped across the pelts – something considerably more modern.
I was drawn to it, like I had been drawn to the painting in the crypt. Before I knew it, I was by the bed, touching the most amazing creamy silk I’d ever encountered. Lifting it up, I found a floor-length robe with a gathered waist, full skirt, long sleeves and a deep, rounded neckline. What was very clearly hand-stitched lacework softened the lines of the neck, hem and cuffs. I ran a finger down the shimmering fabric. Out of nowhere, I thought, I bet it would feel incredible . . . .
“You took your time.”
The voice came from behind me. I spun to find a heavy chair between me and the exit, and on the chair, wearing nothing but a bearskin robe, was Colonel Holweard.
“Why am I not surprised?” And, truth is, I wasn’t.
“I was starting to think I might have to send vestal virgins to get you.”
I grunted. “Gotta be tough to find, these days.”
“Not that you’d know it from the old tales,” he replied, “but they always were. Still, we’ve wasted half the night. There’s scarcely time to do this properly.”
“Do what, Colonel?”
“Colonel!” He laughed – a big, full-bodied laugh that lacked the restraint I would have expected from him. It should have been lost in the vastness of the cavern; instead, it filled the space. “A title of convenience. I am Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow!”
Ummm. “Okaaaay . . . . That’s . . . nice, right?”
“Nice? Nice? What do you mean, ‘nice?’”
“I’m guessing a ‘Holweard’s’ a good thing to be? Maybe? Help me out; I’m not from ‘round here.”
“You have been called to this place. Summoned. Do you think that was some sort of parlor trick?”
I thought about that. Well, not about that, exactly. I thought about how to respond without hurting the old coot’s feelings. Nope. I got nothin’.
“Yes?”
He looked flummoxed. “The lights? The sound? The secret passage?”
“Dude. You need to get out more. I’ve designed stuff that’s way more advanced than that.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“Swear to God.”
“You are referring to your ‘video games?’ Correct?”
“Well, yeah. Like, The Fall of Fus was way better. And then there was the battle scene in —”
“Have you in fact designed anything in the real world?”
“What’s ‘real?’” I looked around. “Warner Brothers could put this together in about three days.”
“Indeed?”
“Seen ‘em do it. C’mon, Colonel. What’s this all about? Some kind of scam?”
His pale eyes bored into me. “Well, I know a little something no set of brothers you know could manage.”
“You might be surprised.”
He leaned back in his heavy chair, looking extremely smug. “All you need to do is put on that delightful gown I’ve laid out for you.”
“Oh, that’s going to happen!” I scoffed.
“Humor me. I wouldn’t think it would be a problem for you.”
“Why would you say that?”
His eyes gleamed. “Remember the first time I met you, young Luigi? I assure you, I haven’t forgotten.”
“That . . . was a long time ago. I was just teasing Father.”
“Ah, yes. Your dear father. He wouldn’t do it, either.”
That certainly got my attention. “What did you say?”
“He wouldn’t complete the ceremony. Ergo, he couldn’t become Viscount Chingleput.”
I opened my mouth to blister the skin off him, but stopped myself just in time. “No. This is all bullshit. What’s your real game?”
Again, his eyes gleamed. “Put on the gown, Luigi. It will be easier to explain.”
“Try me.”
He shook his head slowly. “No, I shan’t. It’s apparent that you’re entirely too accustomed to having your own way. This is my hollow, and I am the master here! So if you’d like me to explain things, you’ll have to put on the gown.”
And just like that, all the light in the chamber vanished, plunging me into darkness.
“Hey!!!”
No response.
I tried again, sounding maybe just a little less sure of myself. I cautiously moved in the direction of his chair, fully intending to throttle him. But both Holweard and the chair appeared to be gone. He could have slipped away quietly, but that chair?
I had never experienced darkness so complete. Slowly, carefully, with much waving of my hands in front of me, I found my way back to the bed in the center of the chamber.
What to do? I didn’t want to climb that staircase at all; the notion of doing so in pitch black darkness was even less appealing. Wait for morning? I snorted. As deep underground as I was, there would never be a “morning.”
As reaction to the last few bizarre moments set in, my legs began to shake. What am I doing here? I plunked myself down on the bed, needing time to think. My hand, looking for purchase, landed on the damned gown and I felt the contact like I’d hit a high tension line.
It’s just fabric, for God’s sake, I told myself sternly, suppressing the desire to remove my hand like I’d burned it. Fabric!
Oh, but it wasn’t just fabric. It felt amazing. And . . . yeah. It had been years. A lot of years. Not since grad school. Almost a quarter century? Really?
Not since Heather.
And just like that, my memory brought me back to my old apartment, in the early morning after that long sleepless night, slowly, carefully and methodically removing every article of female clothing, every bit of makeup. Picking up the shears and raising them to my hair. Snip. Snip. Snip. No more, I had promised myself.
But that was so long ago, and I no longer had anything left to prove. Not to anyone. I could dress however I damned well pleased, and tell the world to stuff it. Couldn’t I?
The only thing holding me back in that moment was the knowledge that the crazy old man wanted me to put on the gown. But he wasn’t around, it was dark, and . . . what the hell.
I shrugged out of the heavy bathrobe, kicked off my slippers, and rapidly divested of the shorts and t-shirt I’d worn to bed. With trembling hands, I slid my arms inside the garment, found the sleeves, and pulled it over my head. I shivered as the fabric slid down my body like the most intimate of caresses. It took me just a second to adjust the bodice so that my full breasts were properly nestled in the . . . .
Wait. What??????
To be continued . . . .
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter Five: Foreplay and Byplay
Shingles Manor, Wensleydale, October, 2019 (immediately following)
In the stillness, in the all-encompassing darkness, only one sense out of five could help me.
So, yeah, I copped a feel.
And, sure enough, the flesh I encountered, everywhere on my body, was firm, female, and, errrr, sensitive. I mean, like, really sensitive. Like “sensitive as a semanticist in a seminal seminar on patriarchy.” Wow! The least touch, the barest motion of silk against skin, caused ripples and waves of . . . .
Okay, Weej. Get a grip!!!
It took all of my willpower, and probably more besides, to sit down on the bed without simply collapsing. I plunged my wandering hands firmly into some handy bear skins. Or whatever the hell they were. Into a nearby animal skin, and it’s . . . .
“Much better, don’t you think?” Holweard’s voice was low and lazy, a whisper just behind my right ear. I could feel his warm breath on my cheek.
When I spun to clock him, I came up empty.
“Now, now,” his voice purred – from a completely different direction – “behave!”
“Why should I?” My voice was as silky smooth as the gown, high and warm. It should have sounded panicked. Or maybe furious. It . . . didn’t.
“Because I wish it.” By my left ear, this time.
I felt a feather-light touch where my collar-bone met my neck, and shivered.
“I desire it.” Another touch.
My mind seemed to be freezing up, just as my body grew warmer. I tried to come up with a stinging retort, but only managed, “Ungggh . . . .”
“Yes, ‘ungggh’ indeed,” he chuckled. “And there are things you want, too. Things you desire. Aren’t there, little one?”
Little one? I felt a finger move slowly, inexorably, down the decolletage of the gown, the flesh underneath turning to flame. “Uhhh . . . . huh . . . .” My voice sounded dreamy.
The exploring finger was joined by its mates, cupping my breast and causing my breath to catch. “So perhaps we can be of service to each other, don’t you think?” Soft lips brushed my neck.
His question echoed in the empty, cavernous space that used to house my hyperactive brain. Don’t you think? Well, sure. Of course I thought. Usually I couldn’t stop thinking, in fact. I had cogent arguments with non-existent people when I was forking asleep, for God’s sake. “Don’t I think?” I asked softly, surprised that sound came from my lips. My full, moist, hungry lips. Lips that wanted . . . . Stop that!!!
“Yes,” he murmured. Another gentle kiss to the neck.
I had a sudden vivid image of vampire canines growing from Holweard’s jaw and shivered again, somewhat more violently. Weej! Think!!!
Well, that just wasn’t going to happen. The hormones held the high ground in their battle with the mind, and they fought dirty. Filthy dirty! But, maybe . . . .
With a supreme effort, I lurched to my feet, grabbed the skirt and whipped the gown back over my head, panting. The panting, at least, sounded like me. I thought I’d give it another try. “No.” Definitely my voice. “We’re going to talk, Colonel. Before anything else happens!”
His chuckle came from a distance this time. “Oh, if you insist. Talk, talk, talk, you Littons. It’s a wonder you managed to survive, all these centuries. Or at least, to reproduce.”
I carefully – almost reverently – lay the gown back on the bed, giving the silk a last, loving touch before searching about with groping hands until I found the heavy wool bathrobe I’d worn on my descent. After confirming OEM factory settings had been restored on my external plumbing, I belted up and sat a few feet from where I’d placed the gown. “You could turn the lights back on,” I complained.
“I could,” he agreed. “Though why I should escapes me. I don’t have any trouble seeing you, after all.”
I chewed on that. “Well . . . you did mention that you want something from me. So, there’s that.”
“Are you offering?”
“I don’t even know what the deal is. I’m not offering diddly until I do.”
“I could provide diddly,” he suggested, suggestively. “Without charge, even. A little bonus.”
“Lights, Colonel!”
“Oh, very well. Dreadful boy.” And just like that, I could see him, back in his bearskin robe in the big chair I had been unable to find when I went hunting, intent on throttling him. I, on the other hand, remained in darkness.
I collected my thoughts, pleased that they once again seemed amenable to an old-fashioned round-up. Yee haw. “Okay, like I said. Not from ‘round here, so I’ll need this in penny packets. What’s a ‘Holweard’?”
“What’s a ‘Luigi?’” he countered.
“Huh? Oh . . . so Holweard is your name.”
“There may be hope for you after all. I was beginning to wonder. Yes. My name is Holweard.”
“Okay. Cool. But ‘Luigi’ is the name of a person. What are you?”
“I’m a sprite.”
“Really? I’ve always been more of a Seven-Up guy myself. Father ruined me on Coke products.”
“Gods! This conversation is going to be excruciating.”
“Roger that, big guy. Feel your pain and all. But if you aren’t referring to a fizzy drink that’s ‘naturally tart and not so sweet,’ what the eff are you talking about?”
“Luigi. Concentrate. Surely your upbringing was not so impoverished that you haven’t heard of sprites. Pixies. Imps. Fairies.”
“Oh, right, right,” I said, once again accessing the part of the brain where I stored random and useless scraps information that got woven into the backstories of games. “And dryads, naiads, nymphs. Okay. Gotcha. So, you’re some kind of fairy?”
“You should talk,” he snarked. “No, I’m a sprite. I told you that.”
“Alright already. I’m tracking,” I said, allowing my annoyance to show. “So what does a sprite, you know, do?”
“What does a human do? Apart from sleep, procreate, and turn food into excrement?” He waved impatiently to cut off my response. “It depends on the sprite. Puck, to take one prominent example, was ambitious. He thought he could look after all of Britain, poor sod. I was always more sensible. I have been the sprite of this hollow since the world was young.”
“I hate to break it to you, but this is a hill.”
“It wasn’t, back when the world was young.”
“You say.”
“Well, I was there.”
“And you just go on living, like, forever?”
“Not . . . exactly. We need mana, like you need food.”
I did another dumpster dive into my memory banks. “Like, Moses in the desert stuff?”
“No. It’s simply power, I suppose. Energy.”
“Okay, I guess I get that. Like collecting Dragon Energy Balls in that game from Second Empire Apps, right?”
“Don’t start.” He looked like he’d sucked a grapefruit.
“Just trying to find a common point of reference here.”
“A commendable endeavor in which, I am sad to say, you are failing utterly.”
“Damn. You really need to get out some. So, let me try it this way. How do you get ‘mana?’”
“Different ways,” he hedged. “Sacrifices, mostly.”
Woa, Nellie! “Seriously? Like throwing first-born babies into the fiery pit of Ba’al?”
“Don’t be absurd. No-one’s done that in forever! Or, a very long time, anyway. Never cared for it myself, though I gather Inti swore by it.”
“Who?”
“Sun god. Incan variety, you understand. Foreign sort.”
“Yeah, well. We haven’t met.”
“We weren’t looking to move the earth out of its orbit or anything. Nothing that would require quite so much mana. We didn’t need more than occasional chickens, geese, foxes.” He closed his eyes, smiling. “The smell of ritual sacrifice in the morning . . . ! Ah, it was a marvelous thing!”
“Not so great for the foxes, I’m guessing.”
“Have you ever spoken to a fox?”
“Do I look like Doctor Doolittle?” I countered.
“No idea. Do you?”
“That would be ‘no.’”
“Well, I don’t know how foxes ever got a reputation for being any sort of clever. They make peers of the realm sound both sagacious and succinct, I assure you. I never felt the least pang.”
I thought about it for a bit. There seemed to be a sense to what he was saying, but I wasn’t understanding the mana . . . economy, for want of a better word. “How do you get people to sacrifice chickens and shit?”
“Be serious! You can’t generate mana by burning manure. What an idiotic notion!”
“Lighten up, dude, it’s a figure of speech! And not for nothing, but you are asking me to ‘be serious’ about ritual sacrifice. Know what I’m saying?”
“Not remotely.”
I rubbed my temples. “Okay. Let me try to get back on track. If I may rephrase, just exactly how do you convince people to kill and burn animals so that you obtain . . . whatever it is that you obtain.”
“You do things for them, obviously. Small things, for the most part. Smile on the harvest. Turn the eyes of a handsome man. Get the cow to stop its endless philosophizing and generate milk.”
“Cows philosophize?”
“Of course. They certainly haven’t anything better to do.”
I could follow the cows down their own rabbit hole, of course – it’s how my brain always works, and I share Gary Larson’s view of just how funny cows really are – but I pulled myself back from the brink. “So you can do magic?”
He shrugged. “Magic? You might call it that. For me, it’s just a matter of using my natural powers, and that requires mana.”
“I’m thinking you probably need to make sure the sacrifices generate more mana than the favor requires you to spend, right?”
“We are required to run a positive net balance in the aggregate, yes. Else we fade away. Become mere mortals. It’s happened to most of us, over the centuries. Even Puck, though I think that was just heartbreak, really.”
I didn’t want to get distracted . . . I wasn’t going to be distracted! I was going to . . .
Screw it. Can’t pass this one up! “Okay. Fine. You got me. Why was Puck heartbroken?”
“Well, he was trying to look after all of Britain, as I said. But he kept getting diverted by one silliness or another. Usually female, if you take my meaning. Then he’d look up and discover that the place had gone to hell while he was otherwise occupied. Thought he had young Godwinson settled once he took care of Hardrada, for instance, so he ambled off for a little tryst, and came back to find Normans all over the place. Frenchmen, you understand. Same thing with the Wars of the Roses.”
“There were Frenchmen?”
“Oh, heavens, Luigi, of course there were Frenchmen. Henry Tudor wasn’t English. Henry V’s French widow took a fancy to a passing Welshman. As one does, I suppose. Anyhow, the rest is history.”
“Got it. Sorry. Couldn’t resist. So Puck gave up because of the Tudors?”
“No, no. He muddled through that. He even made it through the Scots, and that was far worse. But when he settled in for a charming little threesome down in Devonshire and we ended up with Germans on the throne, the poor fellow just gave up.”
“Yeah, I guess I can see that. But, ah . . . Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was kind of under the impression people weren’t doing the whole ‘burnt offerings’ thing anymore. Right?”
“You’d be surprised at how long we managed to keep it going, really. Invaders would come, and they’d bring their own gods, naturally. The Romans, the Norsemen. We all generally got along. We’d keep our little shrines, and pay their gods a bit of mana. Or they’d put up a shrine where we were, but they’d cut us in.”
“Sounds like a protection racket.”
He smiled like a T-Rex. “Just business, young Luigi.” But his smile faded. “Things got complicated when the Christians washed up. That whole ‘your God is a jealous God’ business was not an exaggeration.”
“Thou shalt have no other gods before me,” I quoted.
“Which would have been perfectly fine,” he said, sounding testy. “No one was looking to go before Him, you know. We were quite content with ‘a little behind, and off to the side,’ if you take my meaning.”
“But no dice, huh?”
He looked momentarily puzzled at the expression, then nodded. “No deals, no cuts. When they built churches right on our nodes, we could usually siphon off enough mana to at least survive, though, so long as we were discreet. Their services aren’t old-style, but they do generate mana.”
“Sounds like what we call ‘theft of services’ in the cable industry.”
He looked pained. “Quite. But of course, even those sources of mana are drying up now. It’s a secular age.”
“So, curtains for those of you who stuck it out?”
“Nonsense, young man! Such defeatism! One just has to get inventive, that’s all. I haven’t relied on burnt offerings in ages.” He looked insufferably pleased with himself.
“What about incense?”
“What about it?”
“Are you gonna tell me that you don’t inhale?”
“One can scarcely not.”
“Tell me about it. Or maybe you don’t enjoy it?”
My snide reference went over his head. “A minor power boost. Barely worth the mention, really, and certainly insufficient.”
I decided to try being noncommittal. “Uh huh.”
“Come on, scamp. Admit you’re interested.”
“I’m almost fifty . . . hardly a ‘scamp!’”
He raised an eyebrow, wordlessly reminding me that my comment was about as absurd as . . . I don’t know. Bilbo Baggins boasting about his 111th birthday to Gandalf. Whatever. “Okay, fine. Count me as curious. But don’t read too much into that – I’m curious about everything.”
“Well, it’s actually a fascinating tale.”
I groaned internally. He sounded like a teenager who wanted to explain something earth-shatteringly clever that he’d been the very first to discover, like sexual intercourse. I could be asleep right now. In a charming inn.
“You see,” he continued in much the same tone, “I got along famously with the Norsemen when they showed up – part of the reason I was so annoyed with Puck over that whole business with Hardrada. Such a fine, sensible, people. Pragmatic, you know? Transactional view of the world.”
“Yuppers. Got it. And?”
He looked annoyed at the interruption. “Well. A bunch of Danes put a shrine to Freyia right by my hollow and started just pouring mana into it. Lots of lovely sacrifices. Sheep and cattle for the most part. Stolen, naturally, which is why they were so anxious for the favor of the gods.”
“They do sound like an upstanding bunch.”
“Don’t be so quick to judge. Anyhow, Freyia eventually made an appearance and we worked out an arrangement. She let me run the shrine, and I would designate one of the religious sorts to stand in for the Goddess for the fertility rights.”
“I’m sorry, what? You lost me.”
“The fertility rights. Surely you know, Freyia was the goddess of fertility.”
“I . . . uh. Haven’t done a deep dive on the Norse pantheon.”
“Pity, that. Freyia was an absolute peach. Had a chariot pulled by cats, if you can believe it. But the whole thing was grand, you know. Norns. Wolves and serpents. Mischievous squirrels! They were a wild lot.”
Okay, now we were really leaving the reservation. I prevented my brain from doing a Look! Mischievous squirrel! and endeavored to bring the Sprite back to the matter at hand. “You were saying?”
“Right. Well. Freyia and I cooked up a little ritual where whatever religious chap was nominally in charge of the shrine would assume her image for the fertility rights at the major festivals, while I, of course – being Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow – would do the honors on the male side. Generated plenty of mana for my operations, Freyia was pleased with her share, and the religious fellows always agreed – or they were replaced.”
“Convenient.”
“Judgy, Judgy. You haven’t engaged in any sharp practices in your business affairs? Put people in a position where they felt compelled to do what you might want, as opposed to following their own desires?”
“No! Well . . . mostly ‘no.’ I think. I mean . . . .”
“No? I think? I mean?” He gave me a knowing look. “Really, Luigi. I think I know what you mean.”
“Alright, already! I get the general picture. But the Norse haven’t been here in centuries, right?”
“A thousand years,” he sighed. “Such a shame. Good times.”
“The Vikings were ‘good times?’”
“Certainly — if you were a Viking,” he smirked. “Although they weren’t, actually. Vikings, that is. They just went a-Viking. The rest of the time they were farmers, like everybody else. Almost as tedious as foxes, farmers.”
I opened my mouth to argue and shut it. Focus, Weeji! “Okay, fine. Whatever. But they’re gone, so . . . no more visits from your girlfriend the fertility goddess, right?”
He nodded. “No more visits. But that just required me to improvise, as I said. With a few modifications, I was able to use the same basic elements to generate mana from the new, nominal masters of the shrine. Turns out that monks have the same ambitions as laymen, and I could always find one eager enough for the abbot’s chair to, shall we say, do homage for it.”
“Shut up! You seduced monks?”
“We made mutually agreeable arrangements,” he huffed. “The seduction only happened later. You know, to ‘seal the deal,’ as it were.”
I might not have the highest opinion of clergy, especially after they spent significant portions of the day trying to poison me with their horrid smoke. But still! “Alright, spell this out for me. What did you do for the corrupt monks, and what did they have to do in return?”
He gave me a long look, then shrugged. “Simple, really. I rigged the election for the monk who was willing to pay for it. He assumed Freyia’s form by donning the garment she had left with me, and submitted to my, ah, mastery.”
“None of the other monks said anything when the new abbot suddenly looked like the medieval equivalent of a pin-up girl?” My mind served up an image of Marilyn Monroe, rendered in stained glass. Color me skeptical.
“I expect even the unworldly monks would have noticed that. But no. The initiation rite simply had to be performed once before investiture. The lucky monk was his usual charming self in the morning.”
“And that one ceremony generated enough mana to keep you going?”
“Nooooooo. The arrangement was a bit more involved than that. The ritual was repeated once each calendar year, though the renewals naturally weren’t as powerful. But in exchange, I did provide continuing services. The usual, you know. Health and harvest sort of things.”
“No-one ever recanted?”
“Now and then. But without my assistance, things tended to get run-down, you know. Monks would get nostalgic for the old days and wonder if God had turned his face from them. Before long, it was nothing but grumble, grumble. Letters get written to higher-ups.” He waved his arms spaciously. “And then, well. New elections.”
I thought about everything he had said, and the pieces started to fall into place. Freyia. The monks. And, of course . . . . “So, when King Henry seized the abbey and gave it to my family, you just adapted the same formula, didn’t you?”
“More or less. No elections to rig anymore, which rather spoiled my fun. That was such good sport! But I’d known the Littons for centuries already. Plenty of their younger sons wanted to be abbots, being so close to the family seat and all. It was relatively simple to adapt the rituals.”
“And they just . . . submitted?”
“It was always their choice. If they wanted to be Lord Litton – or Viscount Chingleput, when I got them a convenient upgrade – there were things they had to do. They held their lands and titles from the King; they had to pay homage to him for it. But no-one rules in Holweard’s Hollow without also paying homage to me!”
Okay. Lots to unpack here. But . . . oooh, I can’t resist the squirrel! “You were responsible for them becoming viscounts?”
“That? Oh yes. I was there when Cumberland lost that card game to Winnie Litton.”
“You cheated at cards?”
“Nothing so sordid!” He sounded genuinely offended. “I just removed the alcohol content from Winnie’s drinks, so that he played sober for once.”
“And Cumberland didn’t?”
“Dear gods, no! He had frightful brandy breath before breakfast most days. A meal he tended to eat mid-afternoon, which is about when he got his ample Hanoverian posterior out of his poster bed.”
Okay . . . stop now, Weej! Stay on target. “So . . . ummm. Look, all the King requires for fealty is that you swear some oaths. It’s not the same, you know.”
He swatted my objection away. “Those oaths weren’t insignificant back in the day. Any number of your ancestors had to raise troops and fight when the king called in those obligations.”
“Yeah, well. Sure. But they didn’t have to sleep with some old guy!”
“Their loss, if they didn’t. I’ve had a few millennia to perfect my technique.”
I tried to repress my body’s instinctive shiver at the reminder. Yeah, he was pretty slick! But I didn’t want to talk about that. “Did any of them . . . you know . . . say ‘no?’”
“Very few. I’m quite persuasive.” He leered at me.
“Letch!”
“I prefer to think of myself as a connoisseur.”
“I’ll bet you do.”
“Besides . . . You are confusing accidents for substance. I am Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow. That is real. The form is immaterial.” And just like that, sitting in the big chair, sardonic smile lighting his features, was . . . .”
“George Deavers!”
He stood and executed an exaggerated bow. “In the flesh . . . as it were.” Striking a pose, he added, “though perhaps, with your mixed background, you might prefer something with a more Mediterranean aspect.” His shape changed again.
I couldn’t place him. But an old memory was tickling the back of my brain . , . .
“All of Italy’s great,” he said, with a completely flawless American accent. “And your Mom’s lasagna’s awesome!”
“Fuck me! It’s Pizza Boy!”
“You aren’t the only one to conduct a little reconnaissance.” He resumed his seat, along with the Colonel’s visage, though Deavers’ grin remained throughout. “You forgot your metaphysics.”
I had, and couldn’t repress either a memory or the smile that attached.
“It’s all in Plato?”
“Naturally.”
“Bless me,” I murmured. “What do they teach in those schools?”
He looked puzzled. “I beg your pardon?”
“Never mind. Slightly more contemporary reading.” Okay, Weeji. Bite the bullet.
But he must have sensed where I was going next from the darkening of my expression. “Go on. You want to ask about Grace. Yes, he declined. Rather vociferously.”
“Grace? Oh, you mean Father. Why do you call him –”
“I called him Grace to annoy him,” the sprite said bluntly, interrupting me. “Look, I don’t know how much you know about your father’s past, before he decided to pickle his internal organs like they were a Sixth Form science experiment, but he was a nasty young man.”
“Would that be before or after you sprang your little ceremony on him?” I made no attempt to hide the accusation in my voice.
“Before. Well before.” He leaned his head on one fist, giving me a sideways look. “I’m afraid your grandfather, the Eighth Viscount, was a silly man. Had no trouble with the ritual – he was the sort to look at the ceiling and think of England, or at least of Shingles, but that’s perfectly acceptable. And he did his dynastic duty by finding someone suitable and getting both an heir and a spare. But he was also one of the most notorious . . . well. His sexual preferences were considered unorthodox. And, at least at the time, illegal.”
I rolled my eyes. “So Grandfather was gay.” This is a big deal because . . . ?
“Oh, quite. Flagrantly and flamingly so, by the standards of the day. The peerage shielded him from the consequences somewhat and I did what I could, but he definitely made things difficult.”
“And you think that was ‘silly?’”
“Incautious. Great good heavens, there were gaggles of gay men gamboling about back then. Back whenever, come to that. Perfectly normal. But society at the time demanded a certain degree of discretion, and Hugh wouldn’t have it. Eventually he got so tired of the nonsense that he decided to take off to France with a gorgeous man considerably younger, to recapture the glories of his youth.”
“Sounds pretty sensible to me,” I shot back.
“Perhaps. But it put me in a bit of a pickle. Without the annual ritual, I had to be very careful of my mana reserves. I couldn’t spare any for the little things that make life easier around here – including ensuring the Viscount’s good health.”
“He’d have to be here for that?”
“Or I’d have to be there – wherever ‘there’ might be. I can’t leave my node for long, and I can’t do as much when I’m away, but I’m not completely helpless. So, yes, I went off to France and tried to convince Hugh to return, but he said he’d never set foot in England again. He didn’t.”
“Okay. I mean, not really. But I see why he felt that way. What’s that got to do with Father?”
Holweard’s voice was surprisingly gentle. “You can see, surely, why having a parent who was the laughingstock of his public school would have mortified your father? And why he might try to, shall we say, overcompensate?”
“How?” I wanted to sound incredulous, but all I managed was to sound small.
“The usual ways. For starters, by sleeping with every girl within a fifteen league radius. Pretty, ugly, tall, short, rich, poor, old, or . . . young. Too young. It didn’t matter to him. I’ll give him this much, he did take precautions, or you’d have bushel-baskets of half brothers and sisters scattered all around the countryside like sheep. Remember that Gorgon who gave you the castle tour?”
I certainly did! “You. Cannot. Be. Serious.”
“Scout’s honor.” He did a thing with his fingers.
“Get out. You were NOT a Boy Scout!”
“Well . . . no.”
“But . . . you are serious? Really?”
“Really. It wasn’t enough for him to tumble all the girls, though, he had to bully the boys as well. And they couldn’t very well fight back. He was going to be Viscount Chingleput some day, as he was very quick to remind them.”
“I’m starting to feel less bad about needling him all those years.” And starting to understand why he had to be peeled off the ceiling when he found me in Mom’s lingerie!
Surprisingly, the Sprite waggled his fingers noncommittally. “I don’t know that I’d lose any sleep over it myself – not that I actually sleep, you understand. But his father was at least partly to blame. And he paid a stiff price even before you were born.”
My look was a question; I assumed he could see it.
“He’d been so keen to be the Viscount, he could barely manage to look somber throughout the interment ceremony after Hugh’s body was brought back from France. When he found out the price, though, he was completely destroyed.”
“I guess I don’t understand. Legally, he was the heir. How could you prevent him from becoming the Viscount?”
“I couldn’t. But, you know, things just happen when my authority here is tested.”
I looked skeptical again. “The beer goes sour? The cattle start reading Kierkegaard? Come on. Why would he care?”
“Times change. Try parliamentary commissions of inquiry, on various improprieties. The powers that be – the mortal sorts – were less inclined to look the other way, after dealing with Hugh all those years. I can shield the Viscounts from this and that . . . but nothing says I have to.” In a harsh tone, he added, “I am no mortal’s servant, and I don’t work for free!”
“Blackmail?”
“Scarcely. The improprieties were real, and I wasn’t responsible for them. I wasn’t keen on cleaning up after your father’s escapades, either, but it wouldn’t be the first time. Sometimes I have to stare at the ceiling and think of England, too.”
“Or Shingles?”
“Shingles? Bah!!!” He barked. “No. Holweard’s Hollow. This is my place. I am the master here!”
I sat with that for a minute. “Uncle Geoffrey?”
“Your Father came storming up from the crypt, hunted down Geoffrey, and threatened to have him hung, drawn and quartered if he so much as spoke with me.”
“I’m guessing he didn’t listen.”
“He laughed in his face. Grace had bullied him for years, of course. When your uncle saw his chance, he took it. Your father naturally couldn’t bear to see Geoffrey elevated in his stead, so he decamped for that barren wasteland where you were born. I still ended up dealing with the messes he’d left behind, but only because Geoffrey requested it.”
“And gave you the mana.”
“Just so.”
I couldn’t bear to sit anymore. I got up and began to pace, back and forth, across the bottom of the enormous bed.
The Sprite watched me, staying silent.
I think better when I’m moving, so back and forth I went, and when that didn’t work I tried forth and back. The thinking thing still wasn’t functioning very well. Eventually I discovered that I’d stopped moving. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness enough that I could now make out the creamy sheen of Freyia’s gown, gleaming on the bearskins. I stared at it stupidly.
Holweard broke my toy train of thoughts, which was just as well. It hadn’t gotten beyond HO scale anyway.
“So there it is, Luigi. Chingleput is all yours. I think I can also assure you a long and healthy life, a decent harvest, and continued good ale at the village pubs.”
“If I yield to you.”
“Is it so much to ask? For all that?”
I closed my eyes and managed, somehow, to reboot my brain. Then I turned and looked straight at him. “Why would I want this place?”
He looked dumbfounded. “I beg your pardon?”
“Sweet Jesus!” I exploded. “I feel like I’ve been trying to tell everyone this my whole life. You. My mother. Heather.”
“Oh, yes. What did become of that delightful gold-digger?”
“I have no idea. Don’t distract me. Look, here’s the thing. What does a lord do, anyway? Sit in the House of Lords or something?”
“That’s, ahh, somewhat complicated these days.”
“I’ll bet. Okay, fine. Do I, like, hang out with other ‘lords?’”
“It’s considered good form.”
“Met ‘em when they were in their twenties, some of them. Did nothing for me.”
“Perhaps they’ve improved with age.”
“You compared them to foxes, I think.”
“I did?”
“Yerp.”
“I did, didn’t I?” He chewed on the inside of his cheek, then his expression brightened. “Well, speaking of foxes . . . the hunting in the area is exceptional.”
“Seriously?”
“I’m quite serious. It’s an absolute must!”
“And you're on, like, horses, right?”
“Naturally.”
“There’s nothing ‘natural’ about trusting your life to a brute whose brain is the size of a tomato!”
“You do them a grave injustice.”
“Plus, I’m thinking the graphics are gonna suck. I’ll stick to video games.”
He winced. “Alright. ‘Bottom line,’ as you Americans are so fond of saying. The title comes with a fair bit of land in fee simple absolute. You own the entire village — shops, hotel, pubs, the works. You also own significant acreage in crops, and a sizable herd of sheep. All of which combine to generate profit at year’s end on the order of three million pounds sterling. Three million pounds, Luigi. Every year. For doing nothing. Isn’t that worth a little bending of a knee?”
“Or two?”
“I’m not fussy about positions.”
The absurdity of the situation began to overwhelm me. Here I was, in the bowels of the earth in the dark of the night, arguing my price with a creature who had been there before the Caesars stamped the first coin that could have been rendered unto them. I snorted, trying to hold it back. Hiccupped.
But I couldn’t contain it. My laughter sounded hysterical even to me, which just made me laugh harder.
Holweard looked positively perplexed.
I laughed harder still. “You . . . you . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I was laughing so hard my sides ached and I collapsed back to sit on the bed.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to share the joke,” Holweard asked acidly.
“Do you . . . have any idea . . . what . . . I did . . . for a living?”
“Yes, your ridiculous ‘video games.’ You’ve mentioned.”
“Uh huh.” I tried to compose myself. “I was good at it.”
“No doubt.” He didn’t sound impressed.
“No, seriously. One of the best.”
“We’re not talking about games, Luigi. This is real.”
“Okay, well.” I wiped my streaming eyes. “Let me lay some ‘real’ on you then. I sold my company a few months ago.”
“Better late than never.”
“Yeah, whatevs. Might not have been my best move. Care to guess what I got for it?”
“Money, I’m sure.” The tone, as ever, was dismissive.
“You could say that. Call it six hundred eighty-nine million dollars, give or take, plus some pretty favorable stock options that might be even more valuable than the cash in five years, assuming the buyers don’t completely screw the pooch. But the cash alone I could chuck into an index fund and net thirty mill a year in passive income, easy.”
For the first time since I’d met him, Holweard seemed at a loss for words. “That’s . . . that’s . . . .”
It felt good to get some of my own back. “Real, Colonel. It’s real. Land isn’t power anymore. And that, as ‘we Americans’ like to say — that! — is the bottom line.”
“It’s obscene!”
“Judgy, judgy! Plowing unwilling monks isn’t?”
“Pfffft. They were all willing, young man!”
“Whatever. You made them whores. My family, too.”
“Everyone had a choice, and the alternative wasn’t exactly starvation.”
“Yeah, right,” I sneered.
His eyes flashed fire. “Would I have done better, do you suppose, to rot the minds of children with constant images of violence, mayhem . . . pornography?”
“What do you mean?”
“Reconnaissance. I’ve seen some of the characters in your games!”
“Hey!”
“Well? Can you deny that ‘Princess Pinata’s’ preposterous proportions are purposefully drawn to, shall we say, get a rise from your ‘target demographic?’”
“Just because –”
“Of twelve year olds!”
“Dammit, that’s not fair!”
“Isn’t it?” His rejoinder scorched the air between us.
I wanted to rage at him, but . . . Be honest, Weej. You weren’t just in those meetings, you chaired them. You know what calculations went into the decisions. I swallowed. Hard. “Okay. Point made, Colonel.”
“Good!” He rose. “Well, I see that I have nothing to offer you after all. I suppose I shall have to deal with the McDonalds, gods help me. Still, if Puck could stomach the Stewarts, I shall manage somehow. Perhaps they can at the least be taciturn!”
I took a deep breath. “I haven’t said ‘no’ yet.”
To be continued . . . .
I’m doing a long road-trip for a few days and may be slow responding to comments. But you know me: I will respond!
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter Six: Flight Risk
Shingles Manor, Wensleydale, October, 2019 (The following morning)
“Shahlah pute yer bag in’t boot, sir?”
At least, that’s what it sounded like the boy had said. I was finishing a late breakfast, and my brain appeared to be on a soft strike. “Work to rule,” as it were, and the contract apparently hadn’t specified translation services. “I’m sorry?”
“Yer bag,” he said patiently, shifting his eyes to the carryon that was my only luggage. “Would you lahk me ta pute it in’t boot of yer car?”
Slow and surly, my brain brought the memories of my decades-ago stay in this part of the world back online and the boy’s words rearranged themselves into something that made sense. “Yes, please. I’d appreciate it.” I fished the keys from my pocket and gave them to him.
The “Colonel” made no appearance this morning, and I didn’t expect him to. Holweard had been in quite the temper at the conclusion of our discussion. “Since you’ve already wasted the entire night talking,” he’d snapped, “you can bloody well come back to the hollow after moonrise if you’ve anything further to say.” Then he’d vanished, leaving me to make my tortured way back up the many, many levels of stairs to the crypt, and then back to the master bedroom, cursing a blue streak the whole way.
At least he’d left the lights on.
It had been 5:30 a.m. when I got to sleep, but after four hours or so I’d had all the “rest” I was likely to get. I threw off the covers and paced, like I was walking through everything that happened, again and again.
I’d spoken to an honest-to-gods-and-goddess immortal. Someone with first-hand knowledge of the world before Hastings . . . before the Norsemen, or even the Romans. I’m more than geek enough to eat all that up. He was utterly fascinating. Also obnoxious, conceited, opinionated, narcissistic, maddening, narrow-minded, unprincipled . . . . But still.
And, well . . . okay. The experience had been pretty amazing in other ways, too. What I had felt, in those moments that I had worn Freyia’s gown . . . . I couldn’t begin to describe it. If only . . . .
I snorted in amusement. I hadn’t gotten used to being stupid rich yet, but already I’d found that money couldn’t buy a lot of things. Both Holweard’s time and Freyia’s gown were definitely on that list. Indeed, Holweard’s sole interest in me was as the senior surviving heir of the Litton family. And I had zero desire to be Viscount Chingleput or the nominal master of Shingles. Less than zero desire. You couldn’t pay me to do it; sure as hell I wouldn’t whore myself for the “privilege!”
I’m not just a gamer, I’m a game designer. One of the best. I told myself that I had to be missing something, that it was just a matter of finding the right key. But try as I might, it wouldn’t come, and after a couple hours of pacing, I came to the reluctant conclusion that I didn’t have anything more to say to the Sprite after all.
Mom had suggested that I simply go play when I was done with my family business in the North of England, so I hadn’t actually made any plans. I could stay as long as I wanted, and I decided as I finished my beverage of someone else’s choice – which is to say, tea – that I’d more than done that.
Just slip out the back, Jack. Make a new plan, Stan.
Right. I trotted out the back door and down the steps, retrieved both keys and car from the boy who’d put my bag in the trunk, and sped off. Within a minute, a curve in the road wiped Shingles from my rear-view mirror.
Two and a half hours later, my car properly returned, I was at Leeds Bradford Airport, still with no plan, idly looking at places where all the pretty planes were scheduled to go. It might not have been the most sophisticated way to travel, but I literally had no deeds to do or promises to keep. All I had was a desire to be somewhere – anywhere – other than where I was. Get far, far away from trouble.
Or temptation.
Well, I was going to need a ticket to somewhere. So I found myself a cafe in the welcome hall, and wonder of wonders, it actually served coffee. From there, I looked at the list of departures, and tried to think what sounded like it might be interesting. Dublin sounded cool. Or possibly Dubrovnik. Maybe Czech out Prague . . . .
“Luigi Litton . . . what on earth are you doing here?”
Startled, I stopped gazing at the departures board and found a matron looking down at me, a funny sort of smile on her . . . .
Shit. Really? I mean, seriously? “It’s an airport, Heather. Is this a trick question?”
“And of all the airports in all the cities in the world, you walk into mine?”
That was . . . pretty good, actually. But . . . “Isn’t that s’posed to be my line?”
“I shouldn’t think so. Unless maybe you bought the place, which I suppose you might have done. Though, I’m not sure it’s the best investment.”
“So you’re saying I should tell them I’m not interested?”
“Definitely. One star; would not recommend.” She stood for a moment longer, then playfully said, “Aren’t you going to offer me a biscuit?”
I stood slowly, trying to regain my equilibrium. Just seeing her brought an immediate flood of memories, but not all those memories were good ones. I remember every detail. The Germans wore gray. You wore blue. I wore . . . Well, I was dressed like a French maid, so . . . very little?
After a quick and frantic search I found my manners where I keep my default settings. “Will you join me? Do you have time?”
“I’d like that.”
“Can I get you something?”
“No need.” She sat. When I still stood, irresolute, she said, “I’m fine. Sit.”
So I sat. I still couldn’t think what I was going to say to this woman, who had inadvertently shaped my life so much.
Heather being Heather, she took the initiative. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you,” she teased.
She seemed so glad to see me; I just smiled . . . .
Well, not exactly. Sure I smiled – but it probably made me look less like the happy-go-lucky student she remembered and more like a shark. “Do tell.”
Her eyes narrowed. “My boys – all three of them – couldn’t get enough of your horrid games. All day, all night. Why in heavens did you have to make such irritating characters?”
“That would be ‘Jiro. Or possibly his evil twin, Fus.”
“No! No! Don’t say the names! Never say the names! Those names are banned in my house! I can’t even hear them without their stupid, insidious laughter ringing in my ears!”
I chuckled. “All the characters, and their voices, were tested out the ying yang to ensure deep market penetration and profit maximization.”
“I can’t help thinking, somehow, that everything you just said is horse manure. Why might that be?”
“Because it is. My investors bought it, though.” I said nothing more, but my shark smile stayed firmly in place.
“Oh, come on, Weej. You know you’re going to spill!”
“Can you keep a secret?” My face, I’m sure, was wholly free of guile.
“Of course I can!”
Heather was, as I knew full well, constitutionally incapable of keeping a secret. But I didn’t mind this particular rumor getting around . . . very informally, of course. So I’d have just the right amount of plausible deniability. “I had a personal score to settle with a guy named Fusajiro.”
Her face lit up like the Rockefeller Center Christmas Tree. “Oh, that’s simply delightful! Do remind me not to make you angry!”
I tried to come up with a non-revealing response, but all of my mental search terms generated non-valid results. Error 503. Backend fetch failed.
After watching my face register the internal malfunction, she sighed. “I guess it’s a bit late for that, isn’t it?”
Dammit! Do NOT go there! Reboot on safe mode! “I wasn’t angry at you, Heather.” I tried my very best to make it sound sincere.
“You are an appalling liar, Luigi Litton!”
You have no idea. “Nonsense! I’m an accomplished liar!”
She laughed. “You will say anything to win an argument, won’t you? But you can’t win this one. If you hadn’t been angry, you wouldn’t have tossed all my shoes.”
“I gave you back everything else. Even boxed it up for you.”
“I have a distinct recollection that my feet were very sore!”
Yeah. Got me. “Sorry about that.”
“There you go again.” Her smile, broad, amused, almost wicked, was exactly what I remembered. Still crazy, after all these years. “Lies. Just atrocious!”
“Same old Heather,” I chuckled. “The best defense is a good offense.”
“It is!” she insisted. “Well. That is to say . . . it is when you don’t have a defence.”
Keep it light, dude. “You’ve always got a defense.”
“Not this time.” Her voice was low, and serious in a way I’d seldom heard from her, which naturally made me both suspicious and uncomfortable. “I was an idiot. There’s no defence. I’ve wanted to write to you, so often, to apologize for how I treated you.”
I had locked this pain away for so many years. Why is it still there? My throat was suddenly dry and I took a gulp of coffee, playing for time. Disengage!
“That’s okay,” I said. Or intended to, anyway. What actually came out was, “I wasn’t hard to find.”
“You certainly weren’t. Could have knocked me over with a feather, the first time I saw your name on the back of one of Hector’s games!”
“You could try not to sound quite so astonished.”
“I was, though . . . I never really understood what you did with all that computer Hocus Pocus. And you have to admit, Brutus would never have said you were ambitious.”
“Given his track record with ambitious guys, I’m thinking that’s a good thing.”
“Right you are. But anyhow, there you were, the picture of success. And then, of course, I couldn’t possibly write. You’d just have thought . . . .”
Apparently she couldn’t bring herself to say “gold digger.” I wasn’t going to say it either, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t thinking it. We both were. The white elephant in the room.
“Weej —“
Danger, Will Robinson! I cut her off. “You don’t have to explain anything. It’s been over a long time.”
She shook her head, hard. “I need you to know the friendship was real. And I should have left it there — we were good friends.”
I’m afraid my look was a bit skeptical.
“We were friends, and we were good at it? Had fun together?”
I smiled. “Yes, absolutely.”
“There you go. But then I let my head get all filled with rubbish dreams about becoming some sort of great lady. God! I mean really — I’d have been a complete disaster at it.”
“Nah. You’d have rocked. Thrown the whole peerage on its collective ear.”
“I’m sure it’s been tried.”
“Not by someone with your . . . skills.”
“I’d have looked ridiculous.”
“Compared to whom? You have seen the peerage, haven’t you?”
“I’d have been beastly to the staff.”
“Yeah, well. Okay. Can’t argue with you there.”
She was silent for a moment. “I feel horrible about chasing you to California.”
“The tan looked good on you.”
She brightened. “Did it?”
“Absolutely! Best shade of red I’d seen outside of a lobster pot. Must have hurt, though.”
“Bastard!”
“Nah. You wouldn’t have chased me if I had been.”
“Certainly not!” It came out with her trademark zing, but then she caught herself, and added quietly, “And that was the whole problem.”
Dammit! Damn, damn, damnedy, damn, damn! Can’t you let me blame you in peace? Why can’t you just stay properly villainous? Rub your hands together and cackle or something?
“Okay, listen.” Deep breath. “You need to stop beating yourself up about this. I let it happen, and I knew . . . I knew it wasn’t love. It was fun; I enjoyed it. But we didn’t love each other.”
Her expression was indescribable. “You might have said something!”
“Told you that you had a defense.”
“You little git! What were you playing at?” The tone was humorous— but also, not.
“Charades?”
“Really?” No humor this time.
“Well . . . kind of, yeah.” I shrugged, uncomfortably. “I mean, I’m not normal; I get that. But I thought, ‘hey, I sure look normal. I’m in school, I’m cruisin’, and I’ve got this hot English girlfriend.’”
She gawped. “‘Hot’ and ‘English.’ Together. In the same sentence. Are you quite all right?”
“Well, hot and super cool all at the same time. You know Americans swoon whenever they hear a British accent.”
“Ah, yes. The colonial cringe.”
“Hey!”
“So I was effective arm candy?”
“Yeah. And so I figured, you know, maybe I’m okay? After all, my hot English girlfriend doesn’t mind if I like to . . . .’” I stopped myself before that got even more embarrassing, and simply concluded, “Anyway. I thought maybe I could fool the world.”
She saw where I’d been going. “I noticed all my little presents to you were in my box. Even that delightful maid’s outfit.”
“Yeah.”
“You looked adorable.”
“Thanks . . . I think.”
“So you just put it behind you?”
“Yes . . . .”
She gave me a skeptical look. “Your pause says otherwise.”
Keep it concrete, Weej! “I stopped dressing. I stopped fooling around, stopped trying to be normal. I thought I’d take a shot at being extraordinary instead.”
“If you do say so yourself?”
I shook my head. “Didn’t say I succeeded. It was just a dream.”
“Based on what I read about the sale of your company, I’d say you managed a pretty fair dream.”
“I got a good price for it.”
“Your company? Or your dream?” When I didn’t answer, her look softened. “Are you happy?”
“Bad time to ask.” Attempting to lighten the mood, I added, “after all, I’m still largely pre-caffeinated. How about you?”
“I had a cuppa.” Her smile said, two can play that game, and you’re outmatched!
“Witch! Are you happy?”
“You’re not going to believe this.”
I leaned back, smiling. “Probably not.”
She stuck her tongue out. “Well, don’t believe me! But I am. Happy, that is. I have all the things I never wanted, and I’m just ecstatic. Does that make any sense?”
“Given that you used to want to be ‘Viscountess Chingleput’ of all things, I’m going with ‘yes.’”
She had the grace to giggle. “I reckon I had that coming. But it’s true. All I had to do was stop fussing about what I needed to be happy, and suddenly, I was.”
Uh huh. “Sounds like something I’d find in a fortune cookie.”
“You should be so fortunate. Anyway, you don’t eat fortune cookies.”
“I don’t. So, what made you stop worrying about being happy?”
“The usual, bougie story, I guess – the sort I’d hear from Mum, that would make me just roll my eyes.” She shrugged helplessly. “I met a great guy – Donny. Strong, quiet type. Helped me get my head screwed on straight.”
“That must have been a shock. How could anyone recognize you?”
That earned me a finger wag. “Now, now. Yeah, it was a bit of a shock. But that’s alright. Anyhow, we did the church wedding, and had three boys, and . . . God, Weej. It’s just been the most amazing ride!”
I sat back in my chair, stunned. She sounded — no, she was — completely sincere. This was Heather!
“Come on, let me show you pictures!”
No!!! “Of course. Whatcha got?”
She pulled out her phone and started whipping through a staggering large photo collection. Her husband Donny looked like he was around six three and handsome in a reedy sort of way; the boys appeared to be twenty, eighteen and fifteen, give-or-take, exhibiting various combinations of their parents’ not-all-that-dissimilar Northern English genes. There were heaps and heaps of smiles . . . and a love that was real, warm and genuine.
I would not be convicted, by a jury of my peers . . . .
After showing a recent photo of Donny and the boys right in the airport, she explained, “They just were off on holiday together in Dublin; I had to work so I couldn’t go with. But they should be landing in just a few and I should get to their gate. Would you like to meet them?”
Oh, look at the time! “I’d love to, Heather. I would, but . . . I really do have to be going.”
“You are an appalling liar, Weej.” She put her hand lightly on my wrist. “But I understand. And I’m sorry if I’ve rubbed rock salt in old wounds.” She rose, put her phone in her bag and a smile on her face. “If you do buy the airport, knock it down, would you? Piece of rubbish, if you ask me.”
I stood. “I’ll do that.”
“You’ll be alright?”
“I will. Take care of yourself. And . . . Heather?”
She raised an eyebrow.
“Thanks. I had no idea I needed this.”
“Right then. Don’t squander it!” She gave my hand a final squeeze, turned, and was off.
I watched her go, shaking my head in wonder. Heather, a doting suburban wife and mother. I didn’t see THAT coming!
I felt a familiar click in my brain . . . The feeling I get when pieces of a problem that I’ve been worrying about suddenly rearranged themselves, creating a pattern that highlighted an unexpected solution. All I had to do . . . .
My gestalt moments were famous at my company. Partly because they were responsible for some of our greatest triumphs, but mostly because I might as well be catatonic while they are rearranging my brain, which can take an embarrassingly long time. The world continues to do its thing, but I kind of check out from it for a bit, like I’ve slipped out a side door for a breath of fresh air. One of my partners had even managed to draw a mustache on me during an early episode, without my even noticing.
Click.
Click.
Clicketty-clicketty-click.
After a moment of staring blankly into space in a way that almost certainly tripped silent alarms in airport security — foreign male acting suspicious! — I downed the dregs of my coffee, picked up my bag and headed resolutely for the exit. Heather was right after all — I was an appalling liar. In fact, I was so bad at lying that I might have inadvertently told her the truth.
I did have someplace I needed to be.
To be continued . . . .
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Chapter Seven: It’s All In Plato
Holweard’s Hollow, Wensleydale, October, 2019 (After Moonrise, Same Day)
The cool, eldritch gleam of Freyia’s gown seemed to draw all the soft light in the cavern, pulling me across the rough floor to the foot of the bed. Holweard wasn’t in evidence, but I was standing right on his node of power, trembling hands reaching out to touch the key to his mana. He wouldn’t be far away.
I was just as glad he’d left me some moments of at least ostensible privacy. I undressed quickly, my usual discomfort with my body magnified. Naked and defenseless, I raised the shimmering white garment above my head, took a deep breath, and pulled it on.
I shivered, feeling the tingling of every hypersensitive nerve. Dear God, this is amazing. More amazing than I had ever dreamed.
A voice whispered through the cavern, indistinct. “Better?” Holweard.
“I don’t suppose a Sprite has any use for a mirror?”
“I don’t work for free,” the voice reminded me in an amused tone.
“Think of it as a recruiting expense.”
A full-length mirror appeared to the side of the bed — one of those massive, old-fashioned sorts in the dark mahogany frames. I stood stock-still, mesmerized. In outward appearance, I was the stunning, raven-haired fertility goddess whose picture in the crypt high overhead had captivated me at twenty-one.
“So I take it you’re applying?”
With great reluctance, I tore my eyes from the mirror. Taking another deep and steadying breath — which caused my wonderfully ripe breasts to stretch the gown’s bodice delightfully — I exhaled and said, “Please. Come and join me.”
This time, he decided to make An Appearance. A warm and inviting breeze swept through the chamber, impossibly carrying the scents of high summer in the Dales, the grasslands and ripening hay, wild marjoram and lavender. . . . It whipped around me, stirring the silken fall of the gown, caressing my skin . . . . I closed my eyes, drinking in the magical moment, smiling in wonder. Yeah, the old guy’s got some moves!
When I opened my soft blue eyes again, he stood before me, somehow combining the Colonel’s gravitas with George Deaver’s handsome and youthful visage, and even a bit of the Pizza Boy’s more rugged physique.
“I see you’ve arrived at a decision after all.” He smiled with a possessive self-assurance, but I thought there was an undertone of something else, something completely different, in his expression. “Are you prepared to do homage for the honors of Chingleput and the lands of your forefathers?”
Slowly — moving vertically in the full skirt was surprisingly difficult — I lowered myself down, bringing one knee to the cold stone floor, then the other. Keeping my body straight, I held up my hands, and he took them in his own, smiling slightly.
“No,” I said gently. “I told you I don’t want it. Not the title, not the lands, not the sheep, not the foxes. Especially not the foxes.”
“What!!!”
I pressed his hands urgently, before he could tear them away, knowing I’d only have one shot. “Wait! I am willing — in fact, I very much want — to be the Lady of the manor. But only if you will be its Lord.”
That stopped him, whether it was my words, my posture, or some mixed-up combination of the two.
I wanted him to listen, which is hard to do if you’re hurling thunderbolts. Possibly real ones. I mean, I didn’t know that thunderbolts were his thing, but I didn’t exactly know they weren’t, either. My lore on sprites was pretty sketchy, and I wasn’t willing to put money on something I read on the internet somewhere when I was facing the genuine article.
Mercifully, his expression softened. “Child . . . the ritual — the magic, if you like — doesn’t work that way.”
“I kind of guessed that.” I quirked a half smile. “I’ve designed games, too.”
“It’s not a game, Luigi. The ritual was created by a goddess. You can’t just — what’s your phrase? — hack it?”
I shook my head. “I know. Not what I was thinking.”
“Oh, dear gods! We aren’t going to spend another whole night talking again, are we? What is with you Littons!”
“Well . . . I hope not the whole night. Maybe a bit of it?”
“No!”
“But I so enjoy our little chats?”
He had a most impressive glower. “Oh, very well! Fine! Talk! It’s what you do best, apparently.”
“I don’t suppose you’d object if I sat down? I mean, these knees are really amazing — the legs, too, actually — but between them not having extra padding, and the stone floor and all . . . .”
“You’re wheedling!”
“A bit?”
There! A ghost of a smile touched a quarter of a corner of his left lip. Just a twitch, but I’d take it. Then, surprisingly gently, he raised me up. A pair of comfortable chairs appeared behind us, and he took the more impressive of the two. “Might as well be comfortable. The gods only know how long you’re going to go on this time.”
I sat, feeling a bit weak-kneed. I got a hearing, anyway!
“Alright. You clearly have some scheme. Let’s hear it.”
“Holweard . . . .” It felt strange to use the name, just like that, with no honorific. I looked at him questioningly.
“It’s alright.” He seemed to understand my hesitation. “I am Holweard. My real name. ‘Humphrey’ or ‘George,’ for that matter . . . ‘Colonel.’ That’s all just window-dressing.”
I nodded, understanding. “Substance and accidents,” I said, reminding him of our discourse on Platonic metaphysics.
“Quite.”
“Holweard, then. ‘Luigi’ is my window-dressing. Luigi is ‘accident.’ Not substance.”
He leaned back in his almost-throne, looking intrigued. “I can’t believe I’m actually saying this, and I’m quite certain I shall regret it — but would you care to expand on that assertion?”
“As surely as you are Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow, regardless of the outward form you show the world, I am a woman. The form my body displays — or has displayed, up until I put on this gown — it’s a masquerade. And I am so very, very tired of it.”
“I’d wondered about that.”
“You did?”
“Well, naturally. It’s not everyday you see a boy in his Mum’s knickers, or a young man model a maid’s outfit. Live long enough, of course, and nothing’s entirely new.”
I expect I managed a good blush. I mean, Luigi didn’t have a great blush, but I was pretty sure the body I was wearing could rock one solid, and based on the heat signature my cheeks and upper chest were throwing off, it was a fair bet . . . .
Focus, Weej!
It seemed like he was reading a bit of my thoughts. “If ‘Luigi’ is window-dressing, what should I call you, hmmm? What is your name?”
That’s . . . complicated. “I . . . well. I mean. I should have a name, shouldn’t I? Something I’ve always known. But I don’t. I’ve spent the last twenty-five years trying to tell myself that none of this matters. That my body is my reality, no matter what I know in my heart. I’ve tried and tried, and I just feel like every day a little more of me dies . . . .”
He rolled his eyes. “It was a straightforward question. I don’t need your psychological profile.”
Insufferable jerk! “Just because the question’s easy doesn’t mean the answer is! No need to be snide!”
“I’m a sprite, not a social worker. If you're looking for someone to dry your tears or wipe your bottom, you’ve come to the wrong shrine.”
“Fine!” His verbal bitch-slap caused my temper to flare — no doubt exactly the reaction the old bastard intended! I raised my chin. “Call me ‘Freyia.’”
“Well, that’s bold!”
“Sue me. Or she can, I suppose, though I’m pretty sure any copyright she might have had’s expired.”
“I do believe I would enjoy watching you take it up with her.” He smiled. “Alright, Freyia. I think we have the basis for a bargain. The ritual will provide you one night each year where you will be a woman in all ways – in body as well as soul; in accidents and in substance.”
“One night!”
“That’s one night a year more than you’ve ever had. And I think,” he added with a leer, “you’ll find I can make it memorable.”
“And spend every day and the other 364 nights as ‘Viscount Chingleput?’” I shivered. “No, thank you!”
“Well, somebody’s got to do it!”
“You do it, if you think it’s such great shakes!”
“Me? The impertinence!”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m an immortal sprite, that’s why!” He visibly brought his temper under control. “Besides, I already told you it doesn’t work that way. The ritual regenerates my mana, my power as the sprite of this node. But power flows the other way, too. The man who takes Freyia’s form for the night rises, restored to his original form, with temporal power on the site.”
“And a good time is had by all.”
“I do my best to make it pleasant for both sides. Usually. There were some scheming shits who deserved to have their noses rubbed in it, and I’ll readily admit I enjoyed doing so. Usually, though . . . .”
“It’s just . . . business?”
He shrugged.
“Don’t you ever get tired of it?”
“I should as well ask if you get tired of eating.”
I thought about that. “Is it? Isn’t it more like asking if I ever got tired of eating boiled oats? Or drinking tea, I guess, since the answer in both cases would be a resounding ‘yes.’”
“Oh, please. If you don’t eat oatmeal, you just eat something else. Kentucky Fried Chicken, no doubt, or perhaps a ‘Big Mac,’ gods preserve your digestive tract.”
“Hey, American food’s improved a lot since you visited back in the 90’s!”
“It could scarcely get worse.”
“Says the guy whose countrymen eat fried bread.”
“The point, if we could perhaps return to it,” he said bitingly, “is that you have choices among the things that sustain you, however dubious their provenance. As we discussed last night — at some tedious length, I remind you — other sources of mana have rather dried up. I can’t loiter about, idly waiting for someone to start burning foxes on a sacrificial altar.”
“I’m guessing there are laws about that these days.”
“Doubtless. But the fact remains: No ritual, and I die.”
“That’s not what you said last night.”
“Excuse me?”
“Last night, you said that if you ran out of mana, you would simply become mortal.”
“Does the English language work differently in your upstart ‘republic?’ In this country, ‘mortal’ is the root of ‘mortality!’ I think I’m on solid ground when I suggest that the end result of being mortal is being dead.”
“But we can do something else first.” I leaned forward. “We can live!”
“Just what do you suppose I’ve been doing these last few millennia, anyhow?”
“Honestly? The same thing I’ve been doing lately. Existing.”
“Well, it’s a fine existence!”
“Is it?” I couldn’t keep the incredulity from my voice. “Is it really?”
All the thoughts that had been building in my head since the prior night suddenly boiled out as I tried, desperately, to get the sprite to understand what I was telling him. “You’ve said it yourself. Bedding a bunch of skeevy climbers so desperate for a bit of status that they’ll lie on their backs and let you do it. And once you’ve rogered them, you get to be their nursemaid for the rest of their horrid little lives. Talk about drying tears and wiping bottoms! You clean up their legal and personal messes, swat viruses that might cause them a runny nose or an early death . . . . I mean, for fork’s sake, Holweard! What kind of an existence is that?”
“The continuing kind! And, not for nothing, that’s your own family you’re maligning.”
“Don’t I know it,” I muttered. “Listen, have you ever thought that maybe Puck was right?”
“If you’d ever met him, you wouldn’t ask. I believe your charming American expression is, ‘batshit crazy.’”
“Really? Puck?”
“Not without some fine qualities, naturally. He was a sprite. But he had truly dreadful judgment, sometimes. Like when he told Gloucester he could count on the Stanleys and the Percys. Can you imagine? A potted plant would have known better.”
“I thought you said he missed that war.”
“Almost all of it — but by the time he showed up, it was too late to do much good.”
“And what he did wasn’t helpful?”
“Hardly! I mean, unless you’re fond of the Tudors . . . and I suppose your family did well enough by them.”
“He was frequently unhelpful?”
“Very frequently.”
“Then suppose one day he woke up and asked himself whether what he was actually doing was, you know, useful? Helpful? Maybe he decided Britain would be no worse off without his hoof on the tiller?”
“His upper appendages were ‘hands,’ you know. Where do you get your information?”
“Wait, what? You mean there’s something wrong . . . on the internet?”
“Is that your idea of humor?”
“Mmm hmm. Occupational hazard, I’m afraid. But to return to my point, Britain was almost certainly no worse off.”
“Are you actually thinking of arguing British history with a sprite?”
“I’m an American. We do that kind of shit, like, all the time.”
“Don’t remind me. You’ll make me think kindly of the McDonalds.”
“Come on. I’m right. You reached the absolute zenith of your power and prestige after the Hanoverians took over. The greatest empire the world has ever seen.”
He waggled his fingers. “Not an unalloyed good, I think you’ll agree.”
“Alright, maybe not. But look, you had Trafalgar. And Waterloo.”
“Good moments, both. Damned Frenchmen.”
“You produced generals and statesmen like Pitt and Wellington.”
“And Cumberland, and Lord North for that matter, who did such a fine job with you lot.”
“That . . . kind of worked out? Anyhow, don’t forget John Russell, Gladstone and Disraeli, Lloyd George and Churchill! You had the Battle of Britain — England’s ‘finest hour!’”
“As well as Neville Chamberlain, who made it necessary to have that “finest hour.” Not to mention luminaries like his father Joseph, or Cecil Rhodes, or Lord Cardigan.”
“Cardigan? The sweater guy?”
“No, dolt, the ‘Charge of the Light Brigade’ fellow!”
“Oh, yeah. Great poem, though, you gotta admit!”
“I most assuredly do not!”
“And that’s another thing — you had incredible writers! Dickens and Brontë, Thackeray, Austen, Tennyson, Joyce —“
“Don’t go starting with the Irishmen! I did mention the whole imperial project was a mixed bag?”
“Wow! Parochial much?”
“I’m a sprite — Of course I’m parochial!”
“Okay, whatever. I guess being tied down to one hollow for a few thousand years might warp you.”
“Unlike being a rootless vagabond?”
“Point. But seriously . . . can you really say Britain would have done better — been better — if Puck, whom you called batshit crazy, stuck around to ‘help?’”
He opened his mouth for a retort, then snapped it abruptly shut.
“I didn’t think so,” I said, knowing I’d scored a point.
He shook his head. “Unlike Puck, however, I am decidedly not crazy, and Holweard’s Hollow is my care. I can’t exactly leave it to another sprite!”
“No, I know that.” I held his gaze, thinking, Here goes — for all the marbles! “But you could leave it to your child.”
He looked like I’d dropped a sequoia on his head. “My . . . child?”
“Yes, Holweard. Your child. And mine. Ours, if you’ll have me. Great heaps of them, maybe, if we’re blessed that way.”
“I’ve never . . . I mean, a sprite can’t, actually . . . .”
I’d wondered about that; the literature suggested sprites could, “actually,” but I’d had a hunch the human authors had been projecting. Not the time to explore that rabbit hole! “But a mortal can. And we do.”
He rose slowly, looked down at me, and took my hands. “It’s a crazy idea, Freyia. That’s why you came back?”
I nodded. “You could do it, couldn’t you? Use your powers to give me this form permanently, and give you mine?”
“Not that I would, you understand. But the thing’s theoretically possible. It would take most of what I have left. And, ahh . . . no offense, but your ‘form’ could use a few enhancements.”
“Hey!”
“For purposes of health, naturally.”
“Oh, really?”
“Well, maybe one or two of a more, ah, aesthetic nature.”
“Vanity, thy name is . . . Holweard?”
“Maybe a bit.” He smiled, and there was longing in it. “I’m sorry, Freyia. You’re asking for too much.”
I rose, keeping his hands in mine. “I’m asking for everything. I know that. But I offer everything, too. All that I have. All that I am. My life for yours, until death parts us.”
His hands trembled in mine.
Time to sweeten the pot. “If it helps . . . .”
“Yes?”
“If you do manage to give me children, I think I can ensure a really long supply of truly awesome homemade lasagna.”
He laughed, as I’d hoped he would. “Freyia . . . you tempt me. Truly you do.”
From deep within, I pulled a special smile. “I think I have a way to convince you.”
His eyebrow shot up. “Really?”
“If you think you’re the only one who’s tired of talking, buster, think again!”
“No commitment?” He eyed me warily.
“No. No commitment. I understand how much I’m asking. I do. But I will show you, Holweard of Holweard’s Hollow, the difference between bedding a man in a woman’s form, only eager for power, and bedding a woman. A woman who wants you for yourself. I will show you what living feels like — and what life can be!”
I disengaged a hand and placed it on his heart. “But no tricks or rituals. No magic. I’m no goddess, real or pretend. Come to me as a man and let me be your woman, if only for tonight. If only for a moment.”
That did it.
Finally — finally! — The fire in our eyes matched. Without being aware of motion, I was in his arms, and his urgent lips were pressed to mine. Every nerve in my body came alive all at once, and I seized him in a fierce and possessive grasp. You are mine, Sprite, and by my love I will redeem you!
My body was new to me, of course, but it was also right, in a way I had never experienced before. It needed no lessons in that most ancient of dances. Besides, Holweard had skill enough for us both.
Hours later, after we had exhausted ourselves again and again only to come back, insatiable, he pulled me close and laid my head above his heart, my hair cascading over him like smoke over a battlefield. A chuckle rumbled in his chest. “You lied to me, you know.”
“Hmmm?”
“You did. Twice, even.”
“I’m sneaky that way.”
“There was magic.”
“Ah. Yeah, you’ve got me there.”
He kissed me then, sweetly. Tenderly. With eyes full of both love and surrender, he murmured, “And, you are a goddess.”
“Momma?” George looked like he was deep in thought, which probably meant he hadn’t made it to the potty in a timely manner. Somehow, he’d managed to get Play-Doh in his hair; he was clever about those sorts of things.
“Yes, darling?”
“Why Sofa so . . . borey?”
“So-FEE-a, dear. Why do you say she’s boring?”
“She sleeps ‘n eats alla time.”
“All the time.” Holly, George’s twin, nodded in world-weary agreement. “She’s borning.”
“Well, she’s a baby. You weren’t any great shakes at that age, either.”
“Shakes?”
“Sleep, eat, poop. And repeat.”
The word ‘poop’ set them both off. Because of course it did.
My mom smiled. “Your Dad was worse. Pooped all day long. Poop, poop, poop.”
Her words had the desired effect, with George and Holly growing ever more animated with each repetition of the magic word. “Daddy pooped!” George crowed.
“Poopy head! Poopy head!”
Mom looked upon what she had wrought, and saw that it was good. “Freyia dear, where is old poopy head this morning?”
More hysterical laughter.
“Oh, he’s with the architects, of course. Says they have ‘no earthly idea’ when it comes to accurate historical restoration. At this rate, the main building won’t be back to its original Gothic Splendor until the sun runs out of hydrogen.”
“I want to see arc’tecs too,” Holly insisted.
“Arc’tecs! Arc’tecs!” George chanted.
“Poop!” said Holly.
My personal superhero intervened. “Shall I take them down to the site?”
“That would be wonderful, Addie! I don’t pay you enough!”
“I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that.” Addie’s smile was huge, and her eyes sparkled. “Come on, you lot! Let’s get you properly dressed, then bother your daddy for a while!”
“Poopy head!!!” George re-dissolved into a puddle of good humor.
A sudden look of concern crossed Holly’s face. “When we haved lunch?
“I want waSonya!”
Mom beamed. “Then you’re in luck – I made a whole tray just yesterday.”
“A tray?” My delicate eyebrow rose.
“Well, naturally I made a bit extra. Just in case.”
“Of what, the Zombie Apocalypse?”
“Could happen,” she said placidly. “Might as well be ready.”
As Addie gathered the cherubim unto herself and commenced the process of extracting them from the room where I was feeding their three-week old sister, Mom shot me a mischievous look. “I want to look after them myself,” she said, her voice in an annoying sing-song cadence that reminded me a bit of the title character in my final blockbuster, Fus and Feathers. “I don’t neeeeed any help!”
“I’m thinking of reinstating the Baron’s Court. Getting a patent that grants me high and low justice.”
“Which might worry me,” Mom replied. “If you were the baron.”
“You’d be a lot more worried if I were barren.”
“Certainly, but . . . no danger of that, huh.”
I smiled. “Call me Myrtle the Fertile Turtle.”
Addie waved and closed the door behind as she left with her squealing charges.
With the coast clear, Mom chuckled. “He’s making up for lost time . . . daughter.”
“We both are.”
She shook her head. “I look at you, sitting there with an infant at your breast – and a fairly impressive breast it is, too! – and I still can’t believe you’re my child.”
“But then I go and open my mouth –”
“— And all doubt is removed.”
Our ritual complete, she simply sat and watched me, a smile of complete contentment on her face. It was a beautiful and peaceful moment, stolen from the whirlwind our lives had become, which . . . .
“I’ve been thinking.”
. . . . wasn’t going to last. “About what, Mom?”
“Your village, dear.”
That still sounds so effing weird. “Uh huh.”
“They have pub food. And Indian food. Don’t you think they deserve Italian?”
“You can lead a horse to pasta . . . .”
“Don’t be ridiculous! It’s pasta! If you boil it, they will come.”
“That’s what you said about the EV charging station you had them put in.”
“I did not suggest boiling the charging station!”
“The gist of your argument was remarkably similar, though.” And it always was.
“Maybe. But also I said that about the walk-in clinic. And I was right, wasn’t I?”
“Given that the alternative is a twenty-five minute drive, yes.”
“So perhaps you should listen to your mother?”
There really isn’t anything more soporific than a thirteen-pound burrito happily sucking your mammary glands dry, and that provided a pretty convenient excuse to check out. I closed my eyes and retreated from my mother’s latest scheme, a smile on my lips.
But just as I was about to slip into unconsciousness, I felt sure and practiced hands rearrange Sophia’s sleeping form, resting her snugly into the crook of my arm, well supported by the recliner. Mom’s whispered words followed me on the smooth slide to sleep: “That’s some good mischief you cooked up there, daughter!”
My husband found me there some time later, and I woke to his touch on my cheek. It was still strange to see my old face whenever I looked at him. Good thing I don’t see well in the dark!
“You sicced the children on me,’ he said accusingly.
“I did. We’re up to three – gotta switch to zone defense.”
“Now I’m going to have to convince the Chief Architect that I will execute him if he calls me ‘poopy head.’”
“I’m sure he’ll call you ‘Viscount Poopy Head.’ ‘Lord Poopy Head,’ at the very least.”
Our daughter gurgled in her sleep – a fairly normal occurrence that nonetheless appeared to melt his heart. “She’s beautiful.”
I looked down at the top of her head. “Yeah. Not bad, really.”
“Amazing. You’re getting the hang of English understatement.”
“I know, right? But don’t get any ideas, buster. I’m not going native. There will be coffee, not tea, just as soon as she’s weaned, or heads will roll – starting with yours!”
“If you insist. You’re quite certain about the name?”
I nodded. “Yep. I was thinking of surprising you, and calling her ‘Heather.’”
“You wouldn’t!”
“Oh, I would have. Absolutely. Thought I owed it to the old girl, you know.”
“Tell me you’re kidding.”
“Nope. But there. I’m a mother. I get to change my mind.”
“Thank the gods! To what do your daughter and I owe our deliverance?”
“Research, as it happens.”
He looked at me warily. “Oh?”
“Yes, indeed. See, I wanted to tell Heather, too. So she’d know how much I appreciated her so-timely bit of wisdom, the day I fully intended to leave here forever.”
His look was so similar to that of his son, when caught with cookies (sorry – not biscuits!) that I was hard-pressed not to laugh. Wisely, he kept silent.
“So imagine my surprise,” I continued, “when I discovered that she hadn’t been in the U.K. in twenty years.”
He sank into the chair opposite mine. “I am closing my eyes and imagining that very thing.”
“Are you? Oh, good. My surprise continued to grow – ballooned to amazing proportions – when I learned that she’d gotten herself attached in an informal sort of way to someone from a minor branch of the Hashemites.”
“I expect it did.”
“Had a good run, too, by all accounts, before she got bored with him and moved on. But poor Heather – no children. Not one. Astonishing.”
“Truly. Though, I actually can’t imagine what that woman would have done with them. You can’t just go baking them into pies these days.”
I smiled and waited for him to peek. When he finally did, I said, “That was quite a trick.”
“It was important.”
“Was it?”
“Freyia . . . from the first time I saw you, a fey child with enough wit at twelve to demolish your father, I knew that you might be the one — maybe the only one — who could spring the trap my existence had become. But later, I realized you were in a trap, too. One that was just as intractable as my own, and probably even more cruel. When you drove off that morning, I thought we’d both missed our only chance.”
“And you figured that what I really needed was a pep talk from Heather, of all people?”
He was silent for a moment, then picked his words with very apparent care. “I was around, you know, when you two split up.”
“Pizza Boy. I haven’t forgotten the wandering hands.”
“Something broke in you, that night. I don’t know what. Changed you. I thought, perhaps, if that wound could be healed, you might find a way to recapture the spirit I’d sensed when you were young. There were things you needed to hear from her – and things you needed to say.”
“Things I needed to hear from a fake Heather?”
“Think of it as Heather as she should have been. As she might have been, if she hadn’t been so wrapped up in herself.”
“A sort of platonic ideal of Heather, you mean?”
He winced. “While I can’t argue with your description on purely philosophical grounds, I’m acutely uncomfortable putting ‘Heather’ and ‘platonic’ in the same sentence.”
“No argument here.” I cocked my head. “For what it’s worth, you were very convincing. Had me fooled, anyway.”
“Thank you, I think. She was a memorable character, at the very least.”
“You know, you could have saved a whole lot of trouble – not to mention the need to get in Heather’s skin for an hour or so – by just being honest about what you wanted. If you’d offered me this from the start, rather than my idiot forebears’ sleazy bargain, I’d have said yes.”
He leaned back in his chair, giving me a long appraisal. When he managed to convince himself that I wasn’t going to bite, he said, “It’s not that simple. The deep magic – the real magic – there’s an order to it. A structure. You had to want it. It was the only way out, for both of us, but I couldn’t tell you that. You had to see it for yourself.”
I sat, watching him. Savoring his rare look of uncertainty. When I thought he’d sweated enough, I said, “Holweard, my love . . . .”
“Yes, darling?”
“You are so full of shit.”
“I beg your pardon!”
“I’ll think about it. You honestly want me to believe that I had to put all my cards on the table first, before you said a word about what you wanted, or — something, something, something, mumble, mumble — and the magic duck wouldn’t come down?”
“Well, not precisely . . . .”
“That is pure, unadulterated handwavium and you know it!”
“That’s . . . not a word.”
“It is in my old industry. You think I can’t recognize hokum when I hear it? Dude, I made ‘Jiro’s Heroes!’”
“Technically, if I’m not mistaken, I made it.”
“Phhhhhgt. You wouldn’t have the first notion how to do that. All you got’s the pretty face.”
“And the passport, and all manner and style of identifying documents.”
“You probably think C++ is something a teacher writes on your exam sheet when he’s feeling generous. Anyhow — stop changing the subject. Your statement, remember? Booooolsheet!”
He harrumphed most impressively. “I have no idea what you’re talking about!”
“You wanted to test me first – make sure I wasn’t one of those Littons.”
“Nonsense!”
“And your ego got bruised when I told you I could buy Shingles with pocket change.”
“Well, that was a bit of a shock.”
“You just couldn’t bear to be without leverage. To be the one who had to ask.”
“You’re delusional!”
“You like it when I’m on my knees, don’t you?”
“I didn’t think you objected!”
“I don’t. Not the point.” I glared until my chuckle snuck out, and once it had, the laugh followed.
Before long, we were both holding our sides, and Sophia was protesting our antics.
“You did look adorable,” he admitted.
“Cad. Oaf. Insufferable egotist!”
“But that’s why you love me.”
“Who says I love you?”
He picked up our squealing daughter, held her close against his heart, and bent to kiss me. “I say so, naturally. Do you really think I could be wrong about something so fundamental?”
And all I’d had to do was stop fussing about what would make me happy. Amazing. “No, husband. I don’t.”
– The End
Strange Manors was, as several have noted, an odd little journey, but for those of you who followed the tortured path to its end, thank you. If you left a kudo, please know it really means a lot to me. For a story like this, it usually means I managed to make you smile, and I couldn’t ask for more than that.
Most of you know how much I love to engage with comments— it’s almost like being at a party where everyone knows you and kind of thinks you’re cool. (At least, I assume that’s a good analogy; I’ve never actually been to a party that was anything like that! :)
So an extra thanks to Joanne Barbarella (Luigi’s done with the French Maid outfit, so it’s yours if you want it!), to Catherd, to Erisian (I owe you some more cliffhangers; this story didn’t begin to even the score!), to my beautiful Calabrian sister ‘Drea DiMagio, to Dallas Eden, Rachel Moore, Suzi Auchentiber, Dee Sylvan, Dave the Outsider, Bru, Patricia Marie Allen, Kimmie (you really got in Luigi’s head), JessicaNicole, Iolanthe Portmanteau, Rebecca Anna (the fair damsel of the sunflowers), Siteseer, Francesca Walker, AvidReader59, Ricky (who taught me everything I know about writing banter), Gillian Chambers and Gillian Cairns, Guest Reader, that lovely mermaid Laika, Lucy Perkins, Jill Rasch, Eric, Bytebak, Ron Houston, Emma (“cemma”, whom I will always regard as Emma Prime), Greybeard, Taryntula, and BarbieLee. Thank you, thank you, thank you, for joining the party!!!
That list is missing four names, because I need to mention them separately. I have been here less than two years, and I feel like I am constantly “meeting” wonderful people whom everyone here has known and adored forever. I recently started a lovely correspondence with both Bronwen_Welsh (“Bronwen O Cymru!”), and Sara Keltaine, both of whom are amazing women and talented writers. Out of the blue, Bronwen offered to proofread each chapter of Strange Manors, and with her help what you read was as free of errors as I can possibly achieve. And I have to thank Sara for introducing me to the useful term “handwavium,” which Freyia was able to deploy to such good effect in the epilogue.
Finally, I cooked up the idea for this story with my Glaswegian friend RobertLouis shortly after he helped me with the later chapters of Decision Matrix. Robert knows the Dales well, and helped me with mood and setting before I even put fingers to keyboard. After that, he also gave me a beta read on each chapter, as did AlisonP, who is one of my earliest friends here on BC and the one who encouraged me to keep writing after my first story was complete. Writing lengthy bits of dialogue with British characters would have been bonkers if I didn’t have Robert and Alison there to check my work, especially since I was trying to write something I could plausibly pass off as “humorous” wherever — and however— English is spoken! Thank you two so much, both for your help, and for your constant support for my writing.
Many, many thanks, everyone. Good night, and joy be with you all!
May 3, 2024
— Emma Anne Tate
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Bagram Air Base, February 20, 2015.
Day is done, gone the sun,
From the hills, from the lake, from the skies.
All is well, safely rest.
God is nigh.
The words ran through my head as I played. Popular words, though none were official. It was comforting, of course. Always. Even though, today, I knew that all was very much not well.
The airman who usually played Taps most evenings didn’t give me any trouble when I asked to spell him. I figured even the Air Force higher-ups wouldn’t give me a hard time today. I lowered the instrument and waited until the flag lowering was complete. After the ceremony was over, I walked away, and was unsurprised when Rob fell in with me.
“Heading to the hospital?” I asked him.
“Yeah. When David was awake earlier, I told him I’d come back this evening.” He gave me a look as we continued our walk towards the base hospital. “I don’t suppose you can be persuaded to get some sleep?”
“That bad, huh?”
“You’ll scare the children, and that’s a fact,” he said honestly.
My company had gotten back just a couple hours before – those of us who had not been medevaced out. Lieutenant David Sinclair – my friend and Rob’s – had been one of those who got the free ride in the Black Hawk that everyone would prefer to skip. I’d been too busy since returning to give much of a thought to how completely exhausted I was.
“Well – keep me away from the kids’ ward then,” I said. “I want to see if David’s awake. And the rest of our team. Heath Crawford probably saved four lives today.”
“I heard it was bad. . . . Want to tell me about it?”
I tried to think of words to describe the chaos that had unfolded in that little no-name village we had been passing through. The gunfire and screaming. But Rob had been in similar spots; he didn’t need me to fill in the details. “We brushed up against some of the fundie freaks – the foreign fighters – and they’d had some time to prepare a few surprises. We had to pull back into some shit buildings and hunker down until the cavalry showed up.”
“You got everyone out alive, Kyle,” Rob said quietly, as we reached the hospital and returned the salutes of the detail posted at the entrance. “We’re not always that lucky.”
“Yeah, I know.” It wasn’t much comfort just at that moment, but Rob was right. That was the first, most important thing. It was just harder to remember, when you were in a hospital, seeing, hearing, and smelling what war does to fragile tissue and bones.
David was sitting up when we came to his bed, a bandage wrapped around his head and another running down his left calf. His fine, dark features were shadowed, but he brightened when he saw us. “Damn, Kyle, how can you possibly look worse than I do?”
“‘Cuz my baseline’s ugly, dumbass,” I wisecracked. “You always look better than I do.”
“Point. Definite point.” He clasped my forearm hard. “Still good to see you, bro.”
“Roger that, fo’ sho’.” I gave him a closer look. I’d seen a lot of trauma damage since arriving in the dustbowl and he didn’t look too bad. “What do the doctors say?”
“They’re just holding me overnight because of this,” he said, pointing to his head. “It was enough to knock me out, but they think it’s fine. And the leg looked a lot worse than it was. Just dug out some fragments of rock, I guess.” He looked momentarily embarrassed. “Kyle – I don’t remember anything that happened.”
“You remember being ambushed, right? And retreating back to the houses?”
“Sure’s hell wish I’d forget that part.” He shuddered involuntarily before his eyes refocused on mine. “But that’s about the last thing I remember.”
“Well, they hit the ASV with an RPG. I think the blast knocked you down. Deak Diamond and two ANA guys were down too. Crawford and Stevens got all four of you into the main house while we provided covering fire. Then we called in support while Crawford started patching you all up. But they had one more RPG to send our way, and that’s where your leg injury came from. Threw up a lot of rock and shit.”
“The doctors told me we didn’t lose anyone,” David said, but he almost made it a question.
I nodded. “Diamond’ll be okay, but his shoulder’s going to take some work. The two ANA guys had some serious lacerations and were bleeding bad, but Crawford got them patched up before he went down. He looked the worst when we did the dustoff. Took shrapnel in the back and the ass. I’m going to see him next.”
“Go see him now, would you?” David asked anxiously. “Tell him I said thanks?”
I gave him an ironic salute; he was my senior by a couple weeks, after all. “Yes, sir! But seriously – will do. I’ll catch you tomorrow, okay?”
I left Rob with David and went to find the bed that had been assigned to Pfc Crawford. In contrast to David, he was pretty heavily bandaged, an IV was attached to his arm, and he was lying on his stomach in the bed.
He hadn’t really impressed me before. Compared to most of the other men in my unit, he wasn’t as . . . attentive, maybe? Like his mind wasn’t 100 percent on the job, and given where we were, that was a recipe for going home in a ziplock.
But in the firefight, he’d been as cool as ice. Moved fast to get our people under cover, and seemed quick and confident when it came to all the basic elements of first aid. Total focus. It was like he was a completely different guy.
I expected that he would be sleeping, but he surprised me. “LT? Y’all got back alright?” He sounded kind of spacey from the painkillers, but he was coherent.
“Everyone got back,” I assured him. “Thanks in no small part to you. Lieutenant Sinclair specifically asked me to thank you for saving his ass . . . . You going to be okay?”
He shrugged, then winced at the movement. “They say so. Feel like stone-ground shit, though.”
“You’ve looked better,” I agreed. “You’re breathing, and I wasn’t sure you would be when they loaded you into the bird.”
“Be a shame to check out now, just when I figured out what all I’m doin’ here.”
I sat next to his bed. “You did good, is what you’re doing. There’s some guys that wouldn’t be alive today if you hadn’t been there.”
“That’s what I mean.” His eyes were unfocused and his voice was drifting, dreamy. “Joined up to be a real man, you know? Find out the world don’t revolve around me after all . . . .”
“Near’s I can tell, Crawford, that is the difference between the men and the boys.”
He found some humor in that and chuckled sleepily. “Thanks, LT.” His eyelids blinked, drooped, and finally closed.
With his injuries, he would be airlifted back to the Graf in one of the C-17s that was used as an air ambulance. Tonight, probably. I might not see him again. So I stayed for a while longer, just watching his steady breathing. Reliving those moments in the dark of the house, with the noise and the dust, the blood and the smell and the fear.
But we had made it back, I told myself. Everyone was alive, and with the right care, they would all recover. Live . . . to fight another day? Maybe. It was the job, after all. And just at this precise moment, it looks like we have all the job security in the world.
Craig Joint Theater Hospital, Bagram Air Base, July 29, 2017
It was my turn, I guess, for time in a hospital bed. Just a stupid minor leg injury that managed to get infected. By the time I’d been brought in, I’d been delirious.
I don’t like hospitals any better than the next guy, I guess, but I do have a lot of respect for the people who work there. They save a tremendous number of people. Not just our own, but also allies and noncombatants. Regular people.
I was particularly glad to see the medical technician who came over to check on my progress that morning. “Crawford! Now I know I’m gonna be fine!”
And I did know it. He’d spent a long time in Germany recovering from his wounds before rejoining the unit in Fort Drum. But he’d come back infused with a purpose that he hadn’t had before, and devoted himself to studying to be a medical technician. His certification meant more to him than either his sergeant’s stripes or the medals he had received for his conduct in that ghastly firefight.
“Morning, sir.” He smiled dutifully at my praise, but seemed strangely subdued. “How are you feeling?”
“Like an idiot,” I confessed. “I should have taken care of that damned cut a lot sooner.”
He was slowly peeling back the bandages over the wound. “I heard tell you’ve been a bit preoccupied,” he said diplomatically. “Though apart from that . . . I’d have to agree with your assessment. Sir.”
I winced as he applied some foul-smelling liquid to the wound. I stifled the noise that was threatening to escape my lips; instead, I gritted my teeth and ground out, “Yeah, noted. I will definitely not make that mistake again.”
He started the process of putting on a fresh bandage, then looked around, seemingly nervous. “Captain – can I ask you something . . . off the record?”
I was reluctant to say “yes.” When you’re in the military, is anything really off the record? But I owed it to Crawford – for what he’d done two years ago, and for what he’d made of himself since then. So I said yes.
“You heard about the President’s tweet? You know, banning transgender troops?” His voice was low, and he kept his eyes on his work.
Since he wasn’t looking at me, my nod went unnoticed. “Yeah, I heard.”
“What do you think?”
“Above my paygrade, for damned sure.”
He gave me a look and returned to his work.
He wanted something more from me; I wasn’t sure why. “I’ve known good troops who are trans. Tom Ryan, back at Fort Drum. Seth Gordon came out and transitioned, soon as the new policy went into effect.” I stopped and shook my head; that was a couple years ago. “The old new policy, I guess, now.” As gently as I could, I added, “We’re taking the government’s nickel, Sergeant. We don’t get to make these kinds of calls.”
He shot me another look before fussing with my bandage some more. After a moment, he said, “I’m trans, too.”
I wouldn’t have guessed. Certainly, he was tall and well built for someone who’d been born female. I didn’t know what to say. “Listen, I’m sure the CO’s told you, this isn’t policy yet. The SecDef is putting the brakes on. Quiet, like.”
“The CO doesn’t know.”
I shook my head. “How . . . I mean . . . there’s no way your medical records wouldn’t indicate it if you’d been born female.”
He stopped fussing with my bandage and chuckled. “Oh. Ah, no. Sorry. I wasn’t born with a female body. I’m just female inside.”
“You mean you’re a transwoman?” I managed to keep my voice as low as his. Hers?
“Yes, sir. That about sums it up. Wish I weren’t.”
“Who else knows?”
“Just you, sir.”
“Why tell me?”
He raised his hands in a gesture of resignation. “Felt like I had to tell somebody. It’s eating me, you know? Figured I could trust you.”
“So, you haven’t done anything to, ah . . . .” I stopped, trying to figure out how to finish that sentence without looking like an idiot. Even more of an idiot.
“No, sir, I haven’t done anything to transition. Not sure I will, either. If I’m taking care of me, I’m not taking care of you lot.”
Instinctively, I said, “If you don’t take care of yourself, you won’t be able to help anyone else.”
Crawford shrugged. “I get that. But . . . even though we were allowed to serve openly, I just . . . I wasn’t sure I could trust it, you know.”
“And you’re thinking now, maybe you were right?”
“Seems like, don’t it, sir? Anyhow, I don’t know whether I’m ready to transition. I want to, like, but . . . it’s complicated. I got my folks to think about . . . .” Crawford’s voice tapered away.
“If you aren’t planning to transition — or at least, you aren’t thinking about it right now — does anyone need to know? It doesn’t affect your performance.”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell, like?”
Ouch. “Yeah . . . sorry about that. I didn’t mean it that way.”
“It is kind of like that, sir. Lots of trans folks don’t transition. Doesn’t mean they aren’t trans. Keeping it bottled up — it’s just hard.”
“And the job’s already hard enough?”
“Ffff . . . uh. Sorry! Roger that, sir.”
I met his troubled eyes. “I understand. But what I said before is absolutely true. You don’t need to do anything right now. This is going to go through internal review, and I’d be pretty surprised if the courts back home don’t get involved. Just . . . hold tight, okay? We need you here.”
He smiled tiredly. “That you do, sir. ‘Specially if you keep letting wounds fester.” He wrote something on the chart at the end of my bed. “Thanks for your time, sir.” And he walked away.
We were back at Bagram, working our asses off to get everything Army-ready for our redeployment back to the States in a week. I bumped into Sergeant Crawford on my way to grab a much-needed coffee and asked him to join me. I used the male pronoun, even when I was just thinking about Crawford, since as far as I knew he’d never discussed his gender identification with anyone else, and I didn’t want to slip up.
He was agreeable, and we headed down Disney Street to Green Bean (“Honor First, Coffee Second”). Since a Taliban sleeper acting as a maintenance worker killed five Americans with a suicide vest on Veterans’ Day back in ‘16, no-one hung out in the covered walkways anymore, and the little Hajji shops were all gone. But the coffee shop itself was still bustling, a riot of uniforms from different service branches, as well as the more colorful — and often off-color — outfits of numerous contractors from all over.
We ordered our coffees — hot and black for me, cold and white for Crawford — and found a table to ourselves by the bank of windows overlooking the yard. The fire-engine red metal chairs and Formica countertops were as familiar, at this point, as a Starbucks back home.
“I hope you aren’t going to feel deserted when we pull out,” I said before taking my first long sip. The light Colonel in charge of surgery was so impressed with Crawford’s work that he managed to get special orders cut for Crawford to stay at Craig when we deployed back to Fort Drum. The Sergeant, naturally, had been ecstatic.
His smile was lopsided. “Well, sir, I reckon I might just focus better, without having to worry about all y’all when you’re outside the wire.”
“I can see that, for sure. I feel like a mother hen, most days.”
His lopsided grin got toothier, but he didn’t say anything.
“Listen, I was hoping to catch you — informally — before we go. Your time’s up in May, isn’t it?” He nodded, so I went on. “Are you still on-board for re-enlisting? It’s been a few weeks since we talked.”
He looked down at the ghastly concoction that he called coffee — I won’t drink it cold even when it's a buck twenty out — and stirred the milk around, making it ten times worse. “Pretty sure, sir. Colonel Jackson’s been pushing hard, and I know I’m needed here.”
“Getting pressure from back home?”
He shook his head. “No, sir. . . . The folks and me, we didn’t exactly see eye-to-eye about things. I think we’re all happier when I’m seven or eight thousand miles away.”
I wondered if they knew, but decided it wasn’t my place to pry. It was a sensitive subject. We were close, but I was still his superior officer. However . . . seeing there was no one who could hear us in the morning bedlam at Green Bean, I asked him if the possibility of the ban going into effect was holding him back.
“I think about it, sir. It bugs me, for sure. Near as I can tell, the Mattis Plan’ll grandfather folks who’ve got the diagnosis and have started treatment. Folks like me, though . . . I wouldn’t be breaking any rules by staying in, but I wouldn’t be allowed to transition.”
“It’s still stuck in the courts. Pretty good bet it never goes into effect.”
He made a noncommittal grunt. “Can’t bring myself to rely on a bunch of lawyers, sir. I’m not counting on that.”
“I suppose not.”
“Still and all . . . this is my place, sir. I belong here, like no place I’ve ever been. Even if it is a hellhole, and they can’t cook gumbo to save their souls.” Crawford shrugged, uncomfortable. “Anyhow . . . I’m still not ready to transition. I might never be.”
I finished my coffee. “Will you do me a favor, Sergeant? Before you make a final decision, will you give me a call? I probably won’t have five minutes before we bug out of here, but if you have any thoughts or concerns, I want to talk to you about them, okay?”
“Even if my final decision is, ‘yee haw, sign me back up?’” His toothy grin was back, but for propriety’s sake he added, “Sir?”
“Yeah even then. Just to tell me the good news, and give me the chance to rib you about it!” I rose and stuck out a hand.
He looked surprised, but stood and gave it a firm shake.
“I’m serious, Heath,” I said quietly, looking him straight in the eye. “Call me.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll surely do that.”
And off we went, back into the maelstrom of work that waited for us both.
Fort Drum, New York, April 30, 2019
“Stewart.” I’m afraid my phone voice wasn’t very welcoming. Much as I enjoyed being back in the States, the amount of my time that was spent on administrative matters always skyrocketed and tended to leave me short-tempered.
“Captain, I have an incoming call from a Sergeant Crawford at Craig Hospital in Bagram.”
“Put him through, please.”
After a series of clicks I said, “Sergeant? To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The sound wasn’t particularly crisp, but that didn’t account for the flatness of the Sergeant’s voice. “Good afternoon, sir. I, ah, promised I’d call you on the re-enlisting issue. I’ve decided I can’t do it.”
“Because of the ban?” While the courts were still chewing over the legality of it, the Supreme Court had lifted the stay, and Secretary Mattis’ modified ban had just gone into effect.
“Yes, sir.” He sounded despondent.
“But . . . we talked about this just before I left. I thought you’d decided you weren’t ready to transition. The revised policy shouldn’t affect you.”
“I understand, sir. But that was my decision. Feels different, somehow, now that I don’t have a choice. Besides . . . it affects a whole lot of people like me. I can’t just pretend that’s not happening. Like we’re still part of the team.”
“We are the team. You, me, our unit. Even the Air Force guys who back us up. Not a bunch of suits back in D.C.! There isn’t a single person you work with at Bagram — not one soldier or airman you’ve had in your care — that doesn’t want you there. Doesn’t know how much we need you there.”
“Maybe. But maybe that’s just ‘cuz they don’t know what you know. Might be different in officer country, Captain, but ‘round where I live, there are plenty of guys who are good with this.”
“I know people who wouldn’t be alive, but for your help!”
“I hear what you’ve saying, sir, and . . . and I surely do appreciate it. You’re one of the good ones. The best. This place — these people — they’re like family. What we’re doing matters. But I can’t keep quiet. And I can’t stick with a team that doesn’t want ‘my kind.’”
I tried to think of another argument, but before I could come up with anything, he said, “You heard Seth Ryan died four months back?”
“Yeah,” I said heavily. Ryan had been unlucky with an IED. One of many. By giving his life for his country, he had been spared the indignity of seeing this policy go into effect. Of knowing that the institution to which he had dedicated his life didn’t think he was fit to serve. He would have been grandfathered under the watered-down ban — but that wouldn’t have changed the message.
“Well, I just can’t. Know what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, I do. Listen . . . Coming back’s going to be rough. What are your plans?”
“I haven’t gotten that far, to be honest, sir. I haven’t been able to get past today.”
“Will you call me, when you’re back? If there’s anything I can do to help, I’d be happy to.”
He said he would, but I wasn’t sure I believed him. However firm he sounded, however certain, he also sounded completely hollowed out. “Thank you, sir. For listening. For trying to talk me out of it. It means a lot to me.”
“Sergeant — you’ll be out soon. Enough with the ‘sir’s,’ okay? I want you to call me ‘Kyle.’ I owe you the life of a brother and several friends. I won’t ever forget. Got it?”
“Yes, sir.” He stopped, then said, “Ah, shit, sir. I was born to be a lifer, you know? I’ll try, honest. After Friday, though. Not ‘til then. And . . . I’d really appreciate it if, once I’m . . . out? You’d call me ‘Heather?’”
I ended the call, but somehow couldn’t stop staring at the phone.
David — my old friend and new roommate — came and sat in the chair across from me. “Who did you lose?” He’d only heard my side of the conversation, of course. But it wasn’t the first conversation like that he’d ever heard.
I was staring right through him, seeing a village on a dusty, rocky plain, and a young man calmly treating the wounded, giving no thought to his own safety. I was seeing decorations on his chest, and tears as he was thanked by the many wounded he had saved. I was hearing his voice — her voice, dammit! — telling me that conscience had forced her to break her own heart. Deny her calling.
“It’s ‘we lose,’ this time, brother. Remember that crap village where we got bushwhacked, back in ‘15?”
“I still get nightmares. Who?”
“Crawford.”
He grimaced. “Damn. Damn! He saved my ass that day, pulling me in, patching me up . . . .”
“And catching a shitbucket of shrapnel that was headed right for you,” I agreed. God knows what would have happened to David, if Crawford hadn’t been kneeling over him when the second RPG hit.
David was trying to digest the news, wrap his head around it — and pull free from the memories that were tearing at him, pulling him back. “He was still at Craig when I got out. Wasn’t he planning to stay there?”
I’d never told David about my later conversations with Crawford, both before and after she had left the service. I hadn’t told anyone. As far as I’d known, the things she told me had been said in confidence. Not that any of that mattered now.
I shook my head. “When they put the trans ban in place, she got out.”
David’s eyes narrowed for a moment. I could see his mind going back to each interaction he had with Crawford. David being who he is, it took barely a moment before he nodded slowly. “Of course. How?”
I knew what he was asking. “Suicide.”
“Fuck!” David’s voice was lowered to a hiss.
“She promised she’d contact me when she got back — even told me what she wanted me to call her. When . . . when she didn’t call, I tried to track her down. I knew it was going to be hard for her, and she didn’t have any plans. But she just disappeared. Gone.” I was there, in our apartment, but my mind was thousands of miles away. Thinking about all the other things I could have done. Should have done. Should have tried.
With an effort, I brought myself back to the present moment. Unlike David, who had gotten out after six years and was now working for a think tank, I’d always planned to be a lifer. Like my old man. God, he’d been proud, when they’d pinned the golden oak leaves to my collar two months back. “Shit, David. There are days I don’t know if I can keep doing this.”
He went back to the kitchen, poured us both a shot of something, came back and handed me one before resuming his seat. “What was her name?”
“She asked me to call her Heather . . . but only once she was out. I never got the chance.”
“Heather Crawford,” he said quietly, and drank. I joined him.
We were quiet for a few minutes, lost in our own thoughts . . . and memories. Then David said, “remember when the President first announced the ban? 2017, wasn’t it?”
I nodded, not telling him that I had a very vivid recollection of it.
“You remember how many officers and troops were happy about it, that day?”
I shrugged. “Some, sure. I want to say, mostly guys who hadn’t served with any trans troops, but who knows. There were other things going on.”
He was quiet again. Eventually I looked at him and quirked an eyebrow. “All right, you sneaky bastard. What are you getting at?”
“What would Rob say, do you think?” he deflected.
I snorted. “You mean, after giving us a bit of The Book of Common Prayer?”
“Yeah. After that.”
I sighed. “Okay, yeah. I can hear him now, same as you can. ‘The U.S. Army is the most powerful military force in the history of the world. You can’t leave it to the crazies.’”
“That’s our man. He’s not wrong, though.”
“He left,” I objected, futilely.
“Yeah, but he’s a civilian at heart. Like me, I guess. You’re the real deal, Kyle. West Point and everything.”
I closed my eyes. They weren’t seeing the room anyway. I heard her voice, that last time. You’re one of the good ones. The best. I owed her that, didn’t I?
“I know.”
Leesburg, Virginia, United States Military Cemetery at Ball’s Bluff, later that day
The ground was hard, ready for frost or snow, and the sky was low and dirty gray. A circle of pale headstones, all but one without a name, around a lonely flagpole. The Potomac was near, the sound of its slow moving water clear in the evening stillness. Sunset was more a matter of feel than sight.
I raised the trumpet to my lips again, and a different set of words ran through my mind as I played. I hadn’t wept since I was a child and I didn’t now, but my heart was molton with grief . . . and with rage.
Soldiers die in war all the time. And the damage war does to the hearts, minds and souls of those who serve is the root cause of far too many suicides even after war is done. But this . . . this was like we’d fragged one of our own, for no good reason at all.
Heather Crawford had dedicated herself to saving lives, to serving those who served. She had deserved better. So much better. I had to hope that somehow, now, she would find it.
Good night.
We must part.
God keep watch over you through the night.
We will meet with the dawn.
Good night.
The end.
The policy directive apparently caught the military by surprise. At the direction of the President, the Secretary of Defense formulated a revised ban which grandfathered existing personnel who had already begun or completed the process of transitioning. Extensive litigation in federal district courts resulted in the enforcement of the bans being suspended pending full litigation on the merits, but the Supreme Court lifted the injunctions in early 2019. The policy went into effect that April, while litigation continued.
On January 25, 2021, within a week of his inauguration, President Biden reversed the ban by executive order.
I would like to thank Dallas Eden, Persephone, Bouncy, Dee Sylvan and Rachel Moore for reviewing a draft of this story. Any inaccuracies are solely the fault of the author.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Supply and Demand
Billy Joe looked out the window and did a double take. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he looked again. Holy crap!
He couldn’t bring himself to look away, but he hollered loud enough to wake up his friend, housemate and business partner. “Ray!!! Ray, you gotta see this!!!”
A loud and annoyed groan was all the answer he received.
“Ray – Dude! You hafta see this!!! Seriously!!”
Ray was unmoved. “Billy Joe Devereau, I will kill you dead if you don’t stop shoutin’! It’s frickin’ zero dark whatever and I’m SLEEPIN!”
Billy Joe tore himself away from the window and dashed down the hall, sticking his head in Ray’s bedroom. What with Ray’s general lack of interest in anything so mundane as tidying, much less cleaning, Billy knew not to venture any further. “Ray, dude – It’s a rabbit. Eatin’ the crop, ya know!”
Ray brought one eyelid to half mast and shot a blood-shot look of fury at his friend. “You woke me up for a RABBIT! Jesus, Billy Joe! Take the damn squirrel gun and DEAL with it!”
“It’s a big rabbit, dude . . . I mean, like, real big.”
“Then take the thirty-aught-six, doom-bass!” Angrily and decisively, Ray pulled his pillow over his head and let out noises that didn’t really resemble his actual snore all that much.
Still, Billy Joe got the point. He went to the broom closet and fetched the long gun, then eased himself out the back door.
He couldn’t see the rabbit out in the big greenhouse, so he moved toward the edge of the patio, looking in the direction he had last seen the monster.
“Damn!!! This is, like, gooooood shit!”
Billy Joe spun around, so startled that he almost dropped his rifle. The rabbit was sitting on one of the patio swivel rockers, its big furry feet propped on the fire pit. The metal table to its left was piled high with some of their finest weed, still tender and young, but potent. “Sheee-it!!!”
The rabbit just looked at him, munching contentedly. “That Santa dude, does his shit in winter. Cray, right? Cold ‘n shit, and he has to deal with all those cap . . . cap . . . Oh, eff me!” Gathering his wits, he tried again “Cap-re-O-lin-ae. Deer. Whatever. And he hasta settle for cookies. Not even brownies, for fuck’s sake. You know what I’m sayin’?”
Billy Joe was shaking. Ray keeps telling me to stay away from the supply!
The rabbit blinked his eyes and tried to focus. Finally, it managed to discern the fact that Billy Joe was holding a gun. “Oh, man,” he whined. “I purely hate those things! Why d’ya wanna bring that shit to a party?” He waved a hand – paw – that was stuffed with weed. “Now, tha’s better. Filthy things.”
Billy Joe shook his head, then looked down at his weapon, which suddenly felt very strange. It all seemed to be one piece now, a uniform, glossy, medium brown. It felt slick to the touch, so he shifted it to his left hand. His right hand was coated in the same color. Bringing it to his face, he sniffed, then licked. “Shit! What’d you go and do THAT for!”
“Told you,” the rabbit said. “I don’t like those things. Not nay-bor-lee.” Words of more than one syllable seemed to be a challenge for the rabbit, at least in its current state.
“I get that, dude, but . . . why milk chocolate, for fuck’s sake?”
The rabbit looked sheepish. Well, as sheep-ish as a rabbit could look. “Whoa. Sorry man. I fergot. Dark chocolate only for this house. Damn.” He scratched his nose. “I got a list, here. Somewhere.”
He started to pat down the pockets of his plaid vest, muttering as he searched. “Always the frickin’ plaid. Pink and green, too! Makes me look red . . . red . . . ah, fuck. Ree-dick-you-louse.”
“Louse? You got lice?” Billy Joe propped the chocolate rifle against the house so it wouldn’t melt, though he couldn’t imagine what they’d do with all that milk chocolate. Maybe there are some kids in town who don’t know any better?
“Lice? What you talkin’ ’bout, bro?” The rabbit went back to muttering. “Stupid vest!”
“If you don’t like it, why wear it?”
The rabbit stopped searching his pockets and fixed Billy Joe with a baleful, but still bleary, look. “’Cuz I’m the frickin’ Easter Bunny, dumbass! Might as well ask why the fat man wears a red suit!”
Billy Joe let out a guffaw. “I stopped believin’ in the Easter Bunny when I ‘as ten!”
The rabbit found his list and waved it like a trophy. “Yeah, good for you. I stopped believin’ in you when you started puttin’ bananas on you PBJs. But . . . a job’s a job, so here I am.”
“Yeah, here you are, eatin’ the best part of our spring crop! An’ what’s wrong with peanut butter and banana, anyshow?”
“Blech!” The rabbit’s face screwed up in an exaggerated look of disgust. But then he looked at his fist, took another big bite of the boys’ finest, and said, “But hey, you’ve got some redeeming qualities. All Gucci, right?”
“Ray’s gonna kill me!” Billy Joe wailed.
The rabbit looked at his list and cursed. He stuffed the weed that was in his other hand into his mouth and chewed loudly, while hunting through his vest some more. He came out with a piece of glass that he carefully put against one eye.
“Dude, seriously. A monocle?”
The rabbit glared at him. “See how good your eyesight is, when you hit your sixth century!”
Finding what he was looking for, the rabbit looked suddenly puzzled. “Uhhh . . . right. Eggs? I’m s’posed to give you eggs?”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Billy Joe laughed. “You’re the frickin’ Easter Bunny, right? Of course you’re s’posed to bring eggs.”
The rabbit put down the list and grabbed another fist full of weed.
“Hey!” Billy Joe raised his voice. “You’ve had enough!”
The rabbit looked vaguely surprised. “This is hay? Damn. All this time . . . thought horses an’ pigs were stupid!” Then he blinked and looked quizzically at Billy Joe. “But . . . I’m s’pose to give you eggs? Really? Y’aint built right!”
Billy Joe was still trying to puzzle that out when the rabbit said, “Well, no biggy. Easy t’a fix.” He waved a weed-filled hand. “There ya go. Eggs, a place to put ‘em, an' all the bells 'n whistles.”
Billie Jo squeaked. “Whaaaat!!!!”
– The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Tenebrae
The last sliver of the setting sun was minutes from disappearing when Alice pulled into the parking lot of the funeral home. She took a careful look and nodded, satisfied. It was deserted. Well, almost. Kay’s midnight-blue Benz was still near the door.
Just the sight of Kay’s car brought back a host of memories, of trips taken together, the four of them. Kay always drove, of course. A superb driver, but more importantly, an enthusiastic one. That was Kay – passionate, sometimes overwhelming, driven, accomplished. In a city of big personalities, she was a rule unto herself. It was hard to believe, somehow, that the world would keep spinning, all on its own, without Kay there to ensure that the thing was done properly.
Alice parked her own, very modest, metallic gray Corolla next to Kay’s power car. She stepped out and took two steps towards the front doors of the establishment before stopping, returning to her car and popping the trunk. She pulled out her rainbow-colored stole and settled it on her shoulders. This would be official, even if it was unusual.
As she expected, there was no usher to open the door when she arrived. Calling hours had ended well over an hour earlier, and the most dilatory chatty Cathies had gone home to their dinners. But the door was not locked. She entered without issue and walked across the outer greeting area and towards the interior doors to the memorial chapel.
Old Carl came out of the inner office when he heard the door open, but, seeing who it was, he relaxed. “Mr. Stafford said not to let anyone disturb him, but he did say I could make an exception if you showed up.”
She patted Carl’s arm with quiet affection. Ministers tended to be on familiar terms with the men – it was almost always men – who ran funeral homes. It was one of the few times that many people found the need for some spiritual care, after all. “Thanks, Carl. I’ll see myself in and out.”
He murmured his agreement and returned to his inner sanctum.
She faced the walnut door, took a calming breath, and turned the ornate knob.
The inner chapel was largely in shadow. The stained glass window at the other end, which avoided sectarian theological controversy by the expedient of artistic abstraction, glowed with the final light of the day, and four large candles surrounded the open casket. Those sources, however, provided ample light to see the spare figure in a widow’s formal black dress at the strategically placed kneeler.
The figure made no movement, gave no sign of awareness as she approached, even though her heels echoed against the terrazzo floor. Not until she was almost close enough to reach out a comforting hand.
“I thought you might come back.” The dry tenor would never be convincingly female, but all of the voice’s color – the subtleties that conveyed welcome, and shared grief, and mind-numbing weariness – all of those spoke the deeper truth. The truth that the body itself concealed.
“Of course I came back, Jane,” Alice said. “Sorry about the Bishop, earlier.”
Her friend got up from the kneeler, one stocking-clad leg at a time, then unbent painfully. “The spirit is willing, but Christ, the flesh is weak,” Jane said. “Don’t worry about your nominal superior. I knew he’d be the one to say the words, but in my mind, I heard you anyway.”
Alice wrapped an arm around Jane’s waist to give her some assistance. They stood together, arm in arm, looking down at Kay’s lifeless body, Jane towering above the petite minister. Carl’s crew had done what they could do, but the waxen features looked nothing like the bold, energetic and larger-than-life woman they had known for nearly five decades.
“I wish to God we could have avoided this,” Jane said. “But Kay’s instructions were very precise. Still, it did allow me my time.”
“My time,” in this case, meant “Jane’s time.” She would have had hours today already, and would have the formal funeral and burial services to get through tomorrow as well. Everybody who was anybody would be there. But in that public-facing time, she would wear a different face. Carry a different name. Paul Stafford, the deceased’s husband.
“Are you planning on doing the whole vigil on your knees?” Alice inquired, practically. “It won’t make your job tomorrow any easier.”
“I suppose not,” the tall woman replied with a sigh. “She probably would have managed it, if I’d gone first. But my old knees won’t stand it, I’m afraid.” They stood quietly for a few minutes before, in a sort of joint, silent accord, they stepped back and sat down in the first row of chairs, side by side.
“How are the kids taking it?” Alice asked after a longer pause. Jane just stared at the casket, unseeing, silent. Alice was wondering if her friend had even heard her.
Eventually, though, Jane responded, sounding as if she was unaware that it had taken her minutes to gather her thoughts. “Julie looks like someone hit her in the head with a log. She can’t imagine a world without her mother. Spencer can – but he doesn’t much like the way it looks. I think Julie will be okay; Devin will get her through it, and she’s got Dana and Tom to keep her tethered to the real world. Spense . . . I’m not so sure. I worry about him, Alice.”
“You always have,” she responded fondly. “But somehow he’s always found a way. You should trust him more.”
The shadows failed to conceal the ghost of a smile that played across Jane’s thin, rose-tinted lips. “So you’ve mentioned . . . once or twice.” The silence returned as the glow began to fade from the window, the darkling sky behind proving increasingly scant illumination.
“I can’t imagine the world without her either, Alice,” Jane whispered. “I’ve tried. I just can’t.”
Alice took Jane’s bony hand in both of her own, the dagger of grief in her own heart a pale echo of what she saw etched in Jane’s face.
All she could think to say was, “I know, honey. I know.” This was not the right time, she knew, to speak of the next world. Alice was as confident as she was of anything – as confident as she was that the sun would rise tomorrow even without Kay’s assistance – that Kay’s ebullient spirit had been welcomed into paradise to the sound of trumpets. Heaven without Kay just wouldn’t be heaven, since it wouldn’t be remotely perfect. The issue that needed to be addressed wasn’t Kay’s fate beyond the confines of this world, but her spouse’s fate within it.
“I never understood it,” Jane said. “She was beautiful, talented, full of life . . . she could have had anyone. Anyone. But she wanted me. The shy, artistic guy who sat in the back of the class. I was so alone, those days. Before I met her. And even after . . . even after she found out that Paul wasn’t just Paul, she still loved me. She even loved plain Jane. I’m passable as a man, but I’m a gargoyle as a woman. You know that. But Kay . . . Kay didn’t see it that way. Or she didn’t care.”
It hadn’t been so easy as all that, Alice knew. Kay had discovered Paul wearing lingerie after they were already married, and she had been royally, almost titanically, pissed. Mostly because of the deception, but it wasn’t only that. Kay had been a beautiful woman, certainly, but she had also been tall and strong, courageous, stubborn, charismatic . . . a born leader. There were plenty of catty girls and insecure men along the way who labeled her as “mannish.” The discovery that her own husband viewed himself as being female profoundly shook Kay’s faith in her own femininity. Alice, her contemporary and at the time new to ministry, had helped get her through it.
But Kay had found a way past her anger and past her self-doubts. She decided that she loved Paul enough to not only forgive him, but to make room for Jane as well. They had made a bargain and stayed with it. He was Paul to the outside world and to their twins. But with Kay, he had been free to be Jane.
In time, Kay had made her own peace with it, telling Alice, “In the bedroom, when the lights are out, the person I feel under my hands, between my legs, buried inside me . . . that person has a body that is male. I know it. And I need that. I need it, Alice. But . . . the heart, the soul, the mind? He . . . or she . . . says, these are the things that are female. Who am I to say? All I know is, male or female, they are why I’m in love. They are why I stay. If it gives her peace for me to call her Jane, to recognize that the things I love most about her are feminine, I will. And if it makes her happy to express her femininity in how she acts with me, how she dresses, even how she makes love, that doesn’t make me either her husband or a lesbian. It’s not about me.”
But Kay had shared those feelings in the deepest confidence, and Alice would never betray a trust. But neither would she ever forget Kay’s words. Kay had been one of the few people Alice had ever met who could see the reality beyond the direct evidence her senses presented. She had seen the incredible, beautiful person beneath the shell that Paul Stafford presented to the world, and she had loved and cherished it for decades. Allowed that spirit to blossom and flourish.
Of course, the bargain they had made created limits as well. Jane had to maintain her ability to present as Paul, and so had not transitioned. Regardless of how she dressed or did her hair, regardless of the artistic skill with which she applied her makeup, Jane would never look or sound convincingly female; that she was 6’2” in her stocking feet would have made it difficult even had their bargain been different. Jane’s social network was minute – just Kay, Alice, and Alice’s partner, Bea. But Jane had accepted those limits without hesitation. She had wanted nothing more in life than to make Kay happy.
All Alice said was, “She loved you, Jane. It’s that simple. Or that deep, depending on how you look at it.”
“I know. But how could she? It doesn’t . . . I’m . . . I’m . . . “ She couldn’t finish her thought, it distressed her too much.
Alice finished it for her. “You’re beautiful, Jane. Beautiful. Kay saw that. People say love is blind; it’s not. Love sees all the imperfections, it just knows how little they matter. Love is divine, because God is love. So when we see with love, like Kay did, we see as God sees.”
Jane was weeping. “No, Alice. God made me a freak. A woman inside, a scarecrow of a man outside. Maybe Kay pitied me.”
“That’s not a very good read on your woman,” Alice replied. “Kay didn’t think you were a freak, and while she was a truly wonderful woman, her love was always more about passion than compassion. You know that.”
The words were quiet, even gentle, but they hit home with force. Jane might be feeling sorry for herself, but . . . no, Kay would not have stayed for pity. Not Kay. She gave money out of charity, for pity; but herself? She only gave herself to her passions, and she did so wholly without stint. Her spouse had simply been the greatest, most intense, most intimate passion of her life.
Jane nodded, accepting the truth Alice had voiced. “Alright . . . I guess you’ve got me there. But I’ll never understand it. She filled my life with wonder, every day. Now I’ve got to drive her car back to that house . . . our sanctuary. And she won’t be there, ever again.”
When the twins had been small, Jane had only had time and space behind the closed doors of the master bedroom. Once Julie and Spencer were grown and had moved away, though, Jane expanded her domain to the entire house. When they went out, Jane always went as Paul, and Jane was always Paul at work.
“It’s still your place, Jane,” Alice said, her voice tentative. That was, of course, true in every material sense. But this went deeper. It wasn’t just Jane’s sanctuary; it was the sanctuary for Jane and Kay’s unique marriage. The kitchen where Jane labored to make special dishes that she knew Kay would love. The alcove where they had their morning coffee together in matching silk dressing gowns, sometimes sharing the New York Times crossword puzzle. The cozy couch by the fireplace where they would cuddle together on cold winter evenings.
Jane confirmed Alice’s intuition. “It was all for her, Alice. Every design choice I made, every color I selected . . . it was all for her. Things that would make her happy. Make her laugh that great, gurgling, goofy laugh of hers. That house without Kay . . . it’s a museum. I can’t live there. And if I can’t be there, where can I be? There’s a place in this world for ‘Paul,’ but there’s never been a place for me. Except the one that Kay made for me, at her side.”
Jane was weeping now, a flood of tears for a life that had been pointless and lonely, but had been redeemed by the powerful love of the woman whose body lay before them. The woman who had seen and known her, as God has always seen and known her: whole and pure and beautiful as the first cherry blossoms of spring.
Alice remembered the last time the four of them had gotten together for dinner and bridge, just a bit over a year ago. As usual, Jane had made something exquisite. She had based the entire dinner around the bottle of wine that she knew Bea had selected. Jane had made the stock for the soup the prior week; she had hand-dried the lettuce for the salad and had picked the tomatoes from her own garden . . . everything was always like that, with Jane. The house itself was the best example, a simple design that Jane’s artistic vision had transformed into a jewel box for the love of her life.
Jane and Kay were well-paired in bridge; Kay always daring, Jane so attuned to her spouse that she could practically read her mind. They won more often than they lost, even though Alice and Bea were keen players themselves. The four of them had sat and talked afterwards, as they had done countless times before, about life and love and the world and the kingdom. They had never imagined that this time, of all the times, would be the last. And if they had, they certainly wouldn’t have believed that Kay would be the first to depart. It really was hard to imagine the world without her spark.
Alice could understand why Jane would not want to be in that house now, all alone with her memories. “Jane, my love, there’s a place for you with Bea and I, at least for now. Until you get your feet under you. Please. We love you too. If the house is too painful, come stay with us.”
“Thanks, Rev,” Jane said through her tears. “I may have to take you up on that. At least for a bit. Until I figure out how . . . how to keep going. I can’t just give up; the kids still need me. Well, Paul. But nevermind.”
“Have you ever considered telling them?”
Jane shook her head sadly. “We considered it, from time to time. We both decided it wasn’t something they would be able to handle well. And now, with their Mom gone, I doubt they can take another shock. They’re good kids. But Paul’s all they’ve got left now. I can’t have them see him as a lie.”
“Is Paul a lie, to you?” Alice asked gently. It seemed like a harsh description. When they had gone out together, or when the other couple had visited their house, Jane had always come as Paul. That had been their rule, and Jane had always followed it, even when they went to Alice and Bea’s house. In Alice’s experience, Paul and Jane weren't radically different people. Paul Stafford was kind and thoughtful, did not put himself forward, was artistically gifted, creative and articulate in an understated way. Jane was those things, just more intensely so. Maybe more freely so. What seemed, in Paul, to be reserve, was manifested in Jane as simple shyness. As either Paul or Jane, she had always seemed well-paired with Kay, who needed a stabilizing anchor in her life.
“It felt like it, sometimes,” Jane said. “Mostly because I just wanted to be myself. To talk to people about the things that matter, the deep things, the personal things. The ways that women share, and men typically don’t. I wanted to move with grace, to speak gently, to give comfort, and not be thought less for it. I didn’t really filter myself much around you and Bea; you knew who I was. But at work, or in town, it was different. More filters, more barriers. Even with the kids, I put on the show. To make sure that they would see me as their father. Not to interfere with Kay’s role as mother. So I coached T-Ball for Spence, but Kay was the one who was always with Julie for the step dancing. I’d go to the feis; we’d all go, as a family. But all the practice, the training . . . that was mother-daughter time.”
She was silent a bit more, thinking. “I don’t suppose Paul’s really a lie. The thoughts and feelings I express as Paul are genuine. I just don’t say everything that I might say, or say it in the same way, as I might if I were free to be Jane. But, that’s probably not how the kids would see it.”
Over forty years of marriage. Two children, two grandchildren. If Jane thought it would hurt her kids to know, she’d never tell them, and Alice would not question her judgment where they were concerned. Jane and Kay – or Paul and Kay, if you wanted to look at it that way – had been superb parents.
But that meant that, in all the world, she and Bea were the only people who would ever know the beautiful woman who sat beside her this evening. The rest of the world would only see “through a glass, darkly,” through their experience of the man, Paul Stafford. And Paul without either Kay or Jane . . . he would be a pale shadow.
Alice had no answers, but Jane knew that and wasn’t expecting any. Jane was a brave woman in her own quiet and loving way. She would bear what would have to be born, for the sake of the children that she and Kay had brought into the world.
“Even God’s love can’t make this moment any easier," Alice said to her friend. "But maybe God and I can keep vigil with you, tonight. If you’ll have us?”
Jane squeezed her hand wordlessly.
The hours passed, and the two friends sat, hand in hand, bearing witness to the passing of a mighty soul, to the stilling of a passionate heart. Bearing witness, as well, to the transformative power of a truly great love.
One by one, the candles burned down, guttered, and went out, leaving them in darkness. They could have turned on a light, but the night of the soul is not so easily dismissed.
They faced the darkness together.
– The end
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Author’s note: This is a companion piece to Wittgenstein’s Illusion, which I intended to be a stand-alone story. But when it was done, I had an uncharacteristic urge to try writing it from the other PV. That was the whole premise of Duet, of course, but that was planned from the outset. This just kind of happened.
The two stories could be read as stand-alone pieces or together. Because I didn’t want to simply repeat the characters’ dialogue from Wittgenstein’s Illusion, it’s probably better to read that one first. But if someone happens to do it the other way ‘round, please let me know how well that works! – Emma T.
The Bridge
There are days when you can see your whole life in a coffee cup, I guess. I certainly could, today. Sixteen fluid ounces of reasonable effort – Sabrina was new, and not yet up Lord Kitchener’s standards of excellence. But I had no problem drinking coffee that was merely pretty good.
It was her little joke that left me feeling like I’d been kicked by a horse. Rather than spelling my name in its boring, conventional and normally masculine way, she wrote “Teri” on the cup, and added a heart above the “i” rather than a dot. Just on the off chance that I missed the gut punch line.
It was nothing new. I’d been getting jokes like that as far back as I could remember. Even when I was in grade school, a formless blob not much different from any of the other formless blobs that inhabit the youngest grades. All scrawny arms and legs and faces just losing their baby fat.
But there’s a world of difference, in those early years, between “not much different” and “no different.” Children who are ferociously learning to label and categorize everything in their small worlds pounce on every difference, however nuanced. I was different from the other boys. How much different didn’t matter; in a binary world, “different” is sufficient to sever you from the pack. To leave you open to attack. I was culled.
I didn’t know why I was different, back then. How could I? I, too, was simply processing external data, trying to come to grips with why I didn’t feel like I fit in this world I was in. That I didn’t fit had been made clear to me, but deep down I knew the other kids were right. Not in their actions; I never understood the cruelty. But in their perception. I was different, and I knew I was different.
I don’t know when it first dawned on me that the source of the difference was that, in my heart, I knew I was in the wrong pack. I wasn’t a boy at all; I was a little girl with the wrong set of equipment. But I knew that the little girl’s pack wouldn’t take me either. Whatever my heart said, I wasn’t a little girl on the outside, and that difference was a barrier I could not even conceive of breaching.
I remember trying to process that, to figure out where that left me. There were a few girls in my school who, by their words, actions and attitudes, rejected the rigidity of their assigned gender roles. They played rough and they talked tough. They gave no apparent thought to their appearance. Some kids were mean and called them dykes. I had to google that. But most kids – and adults – called them tomboys. The ones who excelled at the things that measured excellence in boys were admired. Girls, it seems, could transgress onto the playing fields of boys. Not without risk, but under certain circumscribed conditions, without loss of status. There was a place for them.
But boys who were insufficiently masculine? Oh, that was a different story. They were despised. Given a million nicknames designed to wound, to demean. Degrade. Told, in ways subtle and very much not, that they were lesser beings, outcasts. Unworthy and contemptible.
And, as we got older, as the formless blobs grew taller and stronger, as they lost their body fat and put on muscle, the ostracism became harsher, more physical. The girls grew and developed and became interested in boys, but they, too, observed the code. The boys who did not exhibit the classic markers of masculinity were pitied at best, despised at worst. To be seen with the outcasts was to risk becoming one, and there weren’t many who would do that. Altogether, it was a hard life and a cruel world.
There were ways to escape. One found meaning somehow. Most, I guess, lost themselves in video games. I knew a lot like that. Some chose drugs, and checked out. Others – the smart ones – found meaning in their mastery of academics, climbing to a perch from which they could, at least on some measures, look down on their tormentors. I wished I could do that, and I tried. But I didn’t have the horsepower. The only subject where I truly excelled was art.
I started drawing when I was young. I used pencils and crayons at first, but as I got older I graduated to colored pencils, charcoal, watercolors, oil. I did digital art too, but wasn’t really attracted to it. There’s something about the feel of a brush in your hand. The smell of oil paint. Or the resistance you feel through your fingers as charcoal pushes across the pages of a sketchpad. I could lose myself, drawing and painting.
Often I did just that.
I didn’t have the grades to go to college and I was, in any event, eager to be done with formal education. School had most definitely not been a pleasant experience. Instead, by sheer luck I got connected with an electrician who took me on as an apprentice. I did have to take classes at night to get a certificate, but most of the people there were pretty focused, as I was, on getting their certificates and getting out. The trades can be pretty rough places, but Alan was a quiet guy who didn’t give me any trouble so long as I was reliable and worked hard. Those were things I could certainly do.
Alan wasn’t based in my home city, and that was another big plus. I was as eager to leave it behind as I was eager to stop attending schools. I never wanted to see the kids I had grown up with and I hoped – with every fiber of my being, I hoped – that in a new town, I could have a fresh start. Build a new life. And I did, sort of.
School and work provide structures that can facilitate social interaction of both the positive and negative kind. For me, school had been uniformly negative. But working for a solitary guy who was older than my parents provided no real social interaction at all. After three years, the only people who even knew my name, apart from my boss, were the baristas at Lord Kitchener’s, and that’s only because they wrote it on my to-go cups.
The coffee shop provided the bulk of my human interaction, such as it was. The baristas all knew who I was and I knew all of them. Sometimes I would sit on the patio sketching people while I had my coffee. I would see a woman wearing a top that flowed just . . . so. And I would try to capture the movement of the fabric, how it gathered to showcase the swell of her breast, the narrowness of her waist. I would see a man laughing, and try to capture the sparkle of his eyes, the flash of sunlight off the pearl of his teeth.
I had sketches of the owner, Mr. Kitchener. He was hard to draw – a small, intense man who somehow filled a room with his oversized personality. How do you capture that? I had sketches of the guy everyone called Prince, the Barista who made the absolute best coffee – a tall, spare Moroccan with immense dignity. Carmen and Jen, nice girls who tended to work the lunch shifts. Carmen had amazingly fluffy black hair that was fun to draw; Jen had interesting hands with graceful, tapered fingers. Fingers are a challenge, and Jen made me better.
My favorite subject was Jack, a good-looking, sandy-haired guy with a warm smile and incredibly kind eyes. Jack was always nice to me when I came in. Sometimes we even struck up a conversation, but I made sure not to talk for too long. I didn’t want to interfere with his work, but mostly I didn’t want to let on how starved I was for human interaction of any kind. Desperation isn’t pretty.
I had fantasies about Jack from time to time. Stupid, I know. But he was nice to me, and that was so rare. There wasn’t really anything personal about it of course; Jack was genuinely nice to everyone. In my imagination, Jack knew that I was a girl inside and had no trouble accepting me. He didn’t stop being nice. Maybe . . . maybe I was even special? In my fantasies, we were even friends outside of Lord Kitchener’s. It would be so nice to have a real friend.
One positive thing about my isolation was that, in the privacy of my own apartment, I could finally let my inner woman slip out. I started to acquire my own wardrobe, with clothes that no-one ever saw me wear. I made my own breast forms with cut-off nylons stuffed with dry rice. I bought padded gaffs, some lingerie and heels, a couple skirts, tops and dresses. Not many. I wasn’t rich. But I also had no debts and few expenses. And Amazon, mercifully, allowed me to shop with a minimum of embarrassment. Someone could track my purchases, of course. But who would bother? Who cared about me? Swole Jeff Bezos? Please.
I taught myself how to use makeup from watching videos that were posted – just free for the taking! – on YouTube. And I loved it – combining my love of drawing and painting with my intense desire to look as feminine as I felt inside.
In the privacy of my apartment, I finished my sketches and I did my painting. The painting that I spent the most time on was the one that I called, “Portrait of the Artist as a Young Woman.” The name was a riff off of something I’d been forced to read in high school and hadn’t cared for, but it fit. I painted in oil, in a style that was inspired by Renoir, a self-portrait that showed me as I might be at my very best. The way that I wished nature had made me. In the painting, I was wearing something long and flowing, feminine and pretty. My hair was soft, my lips were moist and my smile welcoming. I painted, and I longed, and I dreamed.
No-one ever saw the fruits of my efforts. Not my drawings, not my paintings, and most definitely not me in my feminine style. It’s not that I thought I did a bad job. Really, I thought I did well – maybe even very well. But fear held me back. What if I were found out? What if I gave myself away? A lifetime of taunting, of mockery, held me back. No one mocked me in this town, and I didn’t want that to change. Even if that meant – as it did – that no-one knew me in this town.
But it seemed I had not been careful enough. Or maybe there just wasn’t any way to really hide who I was. Sabrina had seen it right away, and like all of the people I had left behind, she could not wait to show her scorn. As I saw the name on the cup and saw the mockery in her eyes, in her cruel smile, I could hear the playground taunts all over again. See the contempt of my classmates in high school. Feel the judgment, again and again and again: You do not belong. You are not worthy. There is no place for you.
I found myself walking rapidly down the street. Away, just as fast as I could go at a walk, without ever having made a conscious decision to leave. I needed to escape. To leave people behind. To be alone with the wind and the trees and the grasses and rocks, the things that are and were and would always be, perfect and without judgment. I had no place in a world of people.
I hadn’t gotten very many blocks when Jack caught up with me, making apologies and insisting that Sabrina would pay a price. He was outraged. I wasn’t quite sure why. I kept walking, needing – viscerally needing – to put distance between me and the coffee shop, and the town. And people.
But Jack followed. I wasn’t sure why he did that either. I didn’t want to tell him to go away; Jack was a nice guy. But it was clear that he was outraged for his boss. Didn’t want to be the kind of person who would let Sabrina-like behavior take place at his workplace and stay silent. Admirable, really. Like I say, Jack’s a nice guy. He’s nice to everyone. It’s got nothing to do with me.
I took the path that led to the footbridge over Durling Creek. I wanted to stand in the shadows, in the dappled sunlight cast by the tall oaks. To feel the wind ruffle my hair and hear the water bubbling along. To let the sounds of people fade behind me. But Jack didn’t leave. I wasn’t sure what to do about Jack.
He wanted to know why I didn’t care what happened with Sabrina. Why it didn’t have anything to do with me. I tried to explain. I don’t think he got it. But at least he was quiet for a bit, letting me think. Letting me be.
But then he wasn’t. He asked me to look at him, which, honestly, I had been avoiding. I like Jack. Everyone likes Jack, and Jack likes everyone. I didn’t want him to see that, somehow, I wanted more than that. I didn’t want him to read my daydreams on my face; catch some hint of my fantasies in my eyes. But he’d always been nice to me, and it wasn’t so very much to ask. I faced him. Forced myself to look in his eyes.
And, amazingly, Jack apologized. To me!!! For . . . for not telling me that he had come after me because I mattered. Me. Terry. That he cared about me. That was so novel I had trouble processing it. It was almost like my fantasy.
But then, he had to go and say that he cared about me because I was a “nice guy” that he “wanted to know better.” And I groaned inside, thinking, Oh, Jack! Why is it that only the vicious can see clearly? What would it take for nice guy Jack to actually see me?
I had never, in my whole life, told a single person my secret. The words had never left my mouth. I stood there on the bridge, looking at Jack, and wondering what, after all, I still had to lose. I couldn’t go back to the coffee shop now. What Sabrina had done would be common knowledge already; I couldn’t face it. And however unsatisfactory, that had been my sole connection to humanity. That and my taciturn boss, the guy who gave me a fair day’s pay for a fair day’s work, asking and giving no more than that.
I was so very tired of being alone. Tired of being ostracized. Longing for simple human warmth, for acceptance as a person and as a woman, overwhelmed me. And I knew, somehow, that I had reached the end. I would take a chance. One, last chance.
I told him.
I waited for the judgment. What would it be? Would he even believe me? Would he still want to be friends, if he knew that I was trans? Or would he reject me, like everyone else had rejected me? I tried not to care, but I failed. I could not help caring.
But what came was so unlooked for, so unexpected, that it literally took my breath. He said, “I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, and I’ve been lying to myself about that. Lying, because I’m not gay, and I thought you were a guy.”
What? Jack was attracted to me – as a woman? I had feared his judgment like I was facing Torquemada. What if it was, instead, the Judgment of Paris?
I could not believe it. Did not dare allow myself to believe it. I studied his kind face, his amazing eyes, for some hint, some clue, that might suggest that he was teasing me. That he was going to wait for my response, then destroy me more thoroughly than an entire army corps of Sabrinas ever could. Part of me wanted to run, but I was literally petrified. I couldn’t even move. And, there was a part of me . . . a tiny, battered, mustard-seed sized part, that still dared, after all these years, to hope.
He reached out a hand, slowly, carefully. Put it out there, for me to take it. But he made no other move, no other sound. Could I trust what I thought I was seeing in his eyes? What I thought I knew about him? Had I, in the end, been just as blind as he had been?
Between the pregnant now and a future barely imagined lay the chasm of my fears. Could I cross it with nothing more than faith, hope and love? Would so fragile, so vulnerable, a bridge bear the weight of my dreams? My desires?
I didn’t know. I only knew, with a sudden certainty, that I would not hold back. I would trust love, and I would give it my heart and soul and the very breath of my body.
Accepting my blindness, accepting my vulnerability, finally allowing my eyes to reveal all of my terror, my hope, my deepest longing, I reached across the chasm and took his hand.
We came together, shyly. Tentatively. And he kissed me, so softly. So sweetly. It was kind, and tender, and hinted – just hinted – at more. Maybe much more. And in that kiss, I felt a touch, at long, long last, of redemption. Of spring after a brutal winter, or morning after a sleepless night.
Maybe he would run one day. Maybe I would. But in that beautiful morning on the footbridge over Durling Creek, my heart sang with the joy of love finally seen, finally recognized, and I saw that love reflected in his matchless eyes. And the world, in that moment, was a magical place.
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
The Doorway
“What’s cooking, Zee?”
“Hey Moose,” I said with a smile, as Tag “Moose” Mussogey wandered into the kitchen. “Seafood casserole, but only if you’re good!”
Moose, 6’4” and a muscular 280 pounds, came by his nickname honestly. Of course, feeding Moose took a lot of work. Almost as much as the rest of the shift, I thought with a smile.
He wandered over and put his head over the saucepan where I was prepping the seafood, inhaling deeply. “Goddamn,” he exclaimed appreciably. “I was hoping for some chicken when I got here. Set my sights too low!”
“That’s ‘cuz you thought Freddo was on shift tonight, and that’s about the best he can do!” I chuckled.
“Ain’t it the truth!” he said, shaking his head. “I wish you were still on my regular crew, Mom!”
I threw a towel at him, but honestly, I was used to it. One of the few things that still gave me a sense of joy and accomplishment on the fire department was making sure my shift had a real meal – a good meal. Something to compensate for the insane schedules . . . the long hours . . .
The bodies.
Moose must have caught something in my expression – something that didn’t match the banter we’d just been trading. “Another OD today?”
I nodded. “Yeah. Third one this fucking month. I . . . “
I stopped myself. If I kept going, I might not be able to. It would all come out. I never should have joined the department. Never.
It was a hard job. An important job. Something worthwhile, and jobs like that weren’t so easy to come by in the aging cities of America’s Rust Belt in the glorious 21st century.
It was a man’s job, and I had been desperate, twelve years before, to prove that I was a man. So I’d pushed and pushed and pushed myself to qualify. The written exam had been easy enough, but the CPAT – the Candidate Physical Ability Test – had been a real challenge for a scrawny, undersized 20-year old kid.
But I had done it. Had scored well on the tests, gotten a pretty high placement on the hiring list, and been brought aboard back in 2011. I had been so proud of myself. Convinced that I had finally arrived.
Moose broke in on my thoughts. “Zee,” he said quietly. “I know you don’t want to do it. But . . . you need to talk to someone. Bro . . . it’s eating you up.”
I nodded. “I know, I know.” I did, too. I could feel it. “Look, I got a couple weeks coming. Gonna go down to Georgia. Get some sun, you know? Maybe do a little fishing . . . .”
Moose looked uncomfortable. He knew – like I knew – that a week or two away wasn’t going to cure what was eating me up. He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again.
It wasn’t our way.
The department was a brotherhood, in ways both amazingly good and occasionally dysfunctional. We were there for each other, on the job and off. Someone’s ex’s kid’s girlfriend needed help with her plumbing, and the guy who knew his way around pipes was there. Putting on a new roof? Guys were there. Making some home brew? You had a crew, share and share alike.
But there were lines. Important lines. Words you didn’t speak. You did not show weakness or admit it. You did not intrude when your brothers were getting their shit together. Moose had walked right up to that line, but he wouldn’t cross it.
“It’s okay,” I said, and started to reassure him.
But the loudspeaker from the central dispatch ended our conversation. "CHURCH STREET STATION, ENGINE SIX, ENGINE SEVEN, SQUAD FOXTROT: DISPATCH TO 11 MILL ROAD. FIRE AT THE THOMAS WORKS. ENGINES SIX AND SEVEN, SQUAD FOXTROT.”
I shut off the fire under the saucepan with a flick of my fingers, threw a cover on the food – not much hope, but it was what it was. Pushed it over to a free burner and shut off the oven. I was still only three steps behind Moose as we burst into the garage area and suited up with the whole rest of the shift.
Any additional ODs today will just have to wait.
Seconds later, the big doors were open and we were jumping on our Quint, siren blaring, speeding through the cold night air. The old Thomas Works would be a bitch kitty in a fire. God only knows what kind of chemicals would be on site from way back when. If we were lucky, we’d have the MSDS information by the time we got there, so we would know what fire suppressants we could actually use without making things worse.
Cars were moving, sluggishly, to get out of our way. Tank was a good driver, but he had to make liberal use of the horn to clear a lane. I found myself thinking, Go, go, go!!!! Every second could make a difference, especially when we were dealing with an old 19th Century factory. As we got closer, I could hear the sirens of engines from other stations, all converging. Oh, this one will be bad.
Still, I found myself almost relieved. Firefighting was hard work, especially in dangerous environments like this one. But it was the kind of work I’d signed up for. I’d assumed, I guess, that it would toughen me up, like my old man had always wanted, before he’d died in that stupid crash.
Make a man out of me.
It hadn’t, really, but it hadn’t broken me, either. It was the EMT work – the calls to devastated homes, to the bedrooms that had become tombs. “Deaths of despair,” they were calling them, now. The overdoses. Opioids, mostly. Men, women, young, old . . . all of them, no longer able to cope with life in a dead-end town. I couldn’t take the deaths anymore. Couldn’t look into their cold, unseeing eyes, or the tormented eyes of the ones they’d left behind.
There were two engines on site when our three vehicles arrived. Dom Napoli, the Captain from the Elm Street Station, was coordinating and we got our orders. Thank God, he had details on what materials had been stored in each of the buildings.
Place shoulda been torn down years ago, I thought.
The smoke was billowing and Building One, where the old blast furnace had been, was already as good as gone – fully engulfed, the heat pulsing, angry and intense. Gramps had been the foreman there, I recalled, back in the early sixties. Back when this town still made things, and there were good jobs for men with strong backs. . . .
But there was no time for wool-gathering. The work was now focused on making sure that the entire complex didn’t go as well. We were assigned to Building Three, and started setting up our hoses. It was going to be a long night.
Thirty minutes later, I was outside the building when we got the alert. “MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY. FIREFIGHTER DOWN!” It was our Lieutenant, Jeff Dillon – he’d led a three man-team into the building. Moose and Liam ‘Macko” McCardy were in there with him, and I felt a stab of terror.
Tank was working the hoses. “Go, Zee, Go!!!!” he shouted.
I ran to the entryway where the team had done their insertion and arrived just as Dillon and Moose emerged from the billowing smoke, dragging Macko between them. He wasn’t moving. “Over here, over here!!!” I shouted, indicating a clear area with decent light and air. “Go, go, go!!!!”
We had him on the ground in seconds. I popped open his chest clip and checked his pulse while Dillon put Mac’s SCBA between his legs and opened the bypass valve. “No pulse!” I called out. “We need an AED up here NOW!” With a nod from the Lieutenant, I started chest compression, the rhythm depressingly committed to muscle memory years and years ago.
Sirens were screaming and I heard a “voooosh!!” from the building our team had just left. Part of my mind processed that a portion of the roof must have given way. I heard shouted orders, but tuned them out. Right now, our team had one job. Only one.
Dillon removed Macko’s helmet, mask and hood while Moose took the third position and started unbuckling his Turnout jacket from the bottom up, making sure not to interfere with the rhythm of my chest compressions. The Lieutenant moved Mac’s arms over his head, loosened then grabbed his shoulder straps, and checked to make sure Moose was ready. “Pull down!” he ordered.
Moose pulled Macko’s Turnout pants from the bottom and got him out of the gear without interrupting my compressions. Push, push . . . push, push . . . push, push . . . ..
Tank arrived with the Automated External Defibrillator. When he was ready, he barked, “clear!”
My hands came off and Tank delivered the shock. Back down . . . push, push . . . push, push . . .
“Clear!”
Off. Back. Push, push . . . push, push . . . .
Dillon was administering oxygen. I couldn’t see Macko’s face.
Minutes past. Precious minutes. I kept pushing. Sweat was pouring off me, despite the cold. We were doing everything . . . everything that we could.
The ambulance pulled right up to where we were and men were racing toward us with a stretcher. “Okay . . . go, go, go!!!!” They set it down and bent over, two to a side. “On three: one, two, three!!!” They lifted him, got him on a stretcher, hustled him into the ambulance. One of the four jumped in after the stretcher and took my place . . . .
The doors closed and they raced off.
My breath was ragged. Dillon looked gray. “El Tee?”
He shook his head once, sharply. “We’ll find out, Zee. Come on now, back to it!”
And back we went . . . . Napoli was nearby, shouting. “Jeff, we’ve got people in there!”
We ran.
We were at it for five hours. The fire was contained, then beaten back, and finally put out. Our relief arrived and we retrieved our gear, putting it back where it belonged.
Dillon was by the truck, his face blank. It didn’t look like mere fatigue. Snowflakes were starting to fall, landing on his soot-blacked face. He didn’t seem to notice.
“Lieutenant?”
He didn’t respond.
I got closer, spoke more softly. “Jeff? What’s the word?”
He looked at me then and shook his head. “We lost him, Zee.”
And like that, everything that had been building up hit me like a rock slide. I wanted to puke my guts out, but there was nothing inside anyway.
It was all I could do to nod and go back to the hoses, clenching my teeth to keep my screams from escaping. I could barely see what I was doing, my eyes stinging with tears.
“Zee.” It was Moose, beside me. His voice was quiet. Urgent. “You okay?
I could only shake my head. I couldn’t speak. But I hopped on the engine, and Moose jumped up behind me. Tank backed up out, turned us around and headed back. Soon we were going too fast to hear each other talk anyway.
My hands were shaking and I was weeping uncontrollably, the bitter air digging tears into my windburned cheeks. Why’d it have to be Wacko Macko – the happy one, the joker? The one with the nice wife who helped us make the IPA for the pig roast every year, and the three great kids . . . Brooke was going to start college next year. Why’d it have to be Mack?
Why not me?
A scream of pure, primal grief and rage, an animal howl of pain, tore through my defenses, ripping my already abused throat raw. The night absorbed it, uncaring, as snowflakes continued to drift down, pure white.
We got to the station and started the routine of putting things away. The next shift was already there, but the job’s not done ’til it’s done.
Except this time, Moose said, “El Tee, let me get him outta here.”
Dillon looked at me, then back at Moose. “Do it.”
“I’m okay,” I said.
Moose ignored me. “C’mon, Zee. I’ll drive you.”
I was too tired to fight. I followed forlornly behind him, feeling like a spring that has been bent so often that it has nothing left to give. I got into the passenger seat of Moose’s big F-150 and mechanically got my seat belt on. Then I just bent my head and began to sob.
Moose drove. I didn’t know where he was going, and I didn’t care. He didn’t ask me any questions or intrude on my agony, and I was good with that for just as long as it would last. I had no strength for answering questions.
When we had gone for probably an hour and a half, Moose pulled off Route 27 and onto an old, poorly maintained gravel road. I raised my head and looked around. In the moonlight, I could see little more than the dark of pine trees surrounding us.
Still I kept quiet. Quiet is good. Quiet doesn’t ask questions that can’t be answered.
After about fifteen minutes, we came to a clearing in the woods. There was a trailer parked off to one side. Something large enough to hold a kitchen, a small sitting area, and a place to sleep.
Finally, he spoke, though all he said was, “C’mon.” He shut off the truck and walked to the trailer, his boots crunching the hard ground, making dark prints against the dusting of snow that gleamed in the moonlight.
I sighed and hopped down, following in his wake. I didn’t have a better plan.
He fished out some keys, opened the trailer, and flipped on some lights. The interior was about what I’d expected, linoleum and Formica. He pointed to a low futon couch, then went into the kitchen. A minute later he returned with a bottle of JD and a couple of shot glasses decorated with scenes of Niagara Falls.
I dropped into the couch and Moose took a well-worn chair. He put the glasses on the coffee table, poured, and then handed me a shot.
“Not sure this won’t just come back up,” I said, apologizing.
“If it does, I’ll deal with it.”
I don’t drink that much, or that often. But I took it in one and he refilled it.
I figured I’d better say something. “Your place?” It was a stupid question, but . . . it was safe.
He just looked at me. After a minute, he said, “Let’s cut the crap, Zebediah. Forget about the rules. Talk to me.”
I thought, you don’t know what you're asking. “What’s to say? We did everything we could. Macko’s still dead.”
“And you’re still alive, and you wish you weren’t,” he said quietly.
My glass smacked the table, spilling a bit. “I’m not suicidal! Shit! What the hell do you know about it?”
“I didn’t say you were suicidal,” he said evenly. “I said that you wished you were dead, and you do. Shall I go on?”
I looked at him like he had three heads. “Oh, by all means, great Swami!”
The sarcasm rolled off his back. “Every time you deal with another death, another piece of you dies. You think you’ve failed. And then you think you’re weak. Not man enough. Like you don’t measure up.”
My jaw was on the floor. “What the fuck . . . .” Angry denials were on my lips. My hands wanted to ball into fists. I knew – from hard experiences that began in childhood – the importance of squelching any questions about my manhood.
But I couldn’t say the words. Couldn’t say any of them. Everything he’d said was true, and I was just too wounded, too tired, to keep pretending. “I don't measure up, Moose,” I said quietly. “I never have.”
“You think you’re weak, just because you feel the pain so deep?” He shook his head. “You’re better than all of us. It’s only killing you because you love so much.”
I scoffed. “That’s me, Don Juan.” His words cut all the more deeply because I lived alone and had never even had a steady girlfriend. I’d been a lonely only, and my folks had both been gone for years now. Mom, when I was six. Dad had died in my arms. Thirteen years ago, it was. Love? Be serious.
But again, Moose refused to be rattled by my sarcasm. “You love us – Mac and the El Tee and Tank and me and all the rest. You try to take care of us, and you don’t want us to know. You try so hard to be tough as Tank, hard as Dillon.”
Again, I couldn’t bring myself to refute his words. He was so deep in my head that denial seemed impossible. “How . . . .” I couldn’t finish the question.
“How do I know?” He put his glass next to mine, untouched. “Because I’m not human, Zee.”
“With all your crazy talk, I’m almost ready to believe you.” I tried to make it sound like a joke, but it didn’t, somehow.
“You should,” he said, sounding serious. “I’ll prove it if you need me to, though I doubt it’ll make you feel better. People tend to freak out when I change shape.”
“Uh huh,” I said. “Well, try turning into something non-threatening, like a kitten.” I was being facetious, but again . . . it didn’t come out that way.
He shook his head, smiling. “My species can change shape – we’re metamorphs – but conservation of matter and energy is a law, not a suggestion.”
I didn’t manage anything more penetrating than, “Huh?”
He chuckled. “I can look like a kitten, but I’ll still weigh about 280 pounds, so I’d be a frickin’ big kitten. Know what I’m saying? I doubt you’d think it was ‘cute.’”
“Try me,” I said, deciding to call his bluff.
It was a mistake. “JESUS!!!!” I screamed.
When the enormous tabby vanished, leaving Moose behind, I was standing on the far end of the couch, straining to get as far away from him as the small trailer would allow.
He stood up and came over to me. “It’s okay,” he said quietly.
I was shaking. “Bull shit it's okay!!!”
But he caught my shoulders in his vice-like hands and effortlessly lifted me up, then back down to the floor. Perhaps sensing that my knees might buckle, he loosened his grip but didn’t let go entirely. “Zee . . . it’s okay. It’s still me.”
“But who are you!” I found myself crying.
“Moose is a good name. I like it,” he said softly. He took a half-step forward, then folded me into a warm, and very human, hug. “As for what I am, I guess I’d say I’m a person. Just not a human person. I’m a full empath, and a weak telepath. It is the nature of my people.”
Part of me wanted to break from his embrace. I was a man; he was a man. Right? Brothers and all that. We might embrace, in greeting or in parting. But not like this.
But he wasn’t a man; he said he was some kind of alien. And, in my heart of hearts, I knew I wasn’t a man either. I never had been.
“You can read minds?” Being held allowed me the advantage of putting my head on his shoulder, so that I wouldn’t have to see his face.
“Feelings, mostly. Some thoughts, but only strong ones . . . Zoë.”
I shuddered. He knew my name – my real name – the one that I never spoke aloud, even in private. That was even stranger than seeing my friend turn into a huge cat. But somehow, I wasn’t scared. His light embrace conveyed, in a way that no words ever could, his acceptance of my inner truth.
“So,” I said. “You’re, like, from outer space or something?”
“Something like that.” I could hear the smile in his voice. “It’s more dimensional than spatial, but ‘outer space’ will do.”
I thought about that. “Why are you here, Moose?”
“Here in this trailer?” he asked, amused.
“No, jackass, here on this planet!”
“I’m here to learn. Nothing more. It’s our way.”
“Learn what?” I asked. “You’ve been a firefighter for six years. Will that help you, where you come from?”
He chuckled. “No. I’m here to learn about people.”
“By working shifts at a firehouse?” I was incredulous.
“Why not?” he asked. “Would I learn more, living with some bigwigs? Politicians, or doctors, or lawyers? I’ve learned a lot, living and working with all of you.”
“Like what?”
“I’ve learned about love . . . and its limits. You and Tank and Macko, even the Lieutenant . . . you love each other like brothers. Would lay down your lives for each other, and I’ve seen you do it, time after time. But . . . you don’t trust them to know who you are inside.”
I thought about what he said, and had no response. None but tears. It was the reason why I felt so walled off from them, why I could never share what I was feeling, never share my horror at the deaths. My fears. They might discover who I am, and if they ever did . . . .
“It’s okay, Zee, really,” he said softly.
Inexplicably, I found myself clinging to him, wrapping my arms around his neck. I cried even harder. “No, damn it. It’s not. It’s killing me!!!”
He pulled back to look at me, his expression tender. “I know. And I’m telling you, it’s okay.”
“But I can’t do it anymore,” I sobbed, burying my face into his broad chest. “There’s just dying, and more dying, and I can’t stop it. Any of it. I’ve gotta go to that funeral now, and they’ll play the bugle, and we’ll all be in ranks, and I’ll have to face Rose, and Brooke, Kaitlin and Little Liam . . . knowing that I failed them! I failed them, and Macko’s never gonna come home. Never see his little girls graduate! Never see his boy get his first homer. . . . Oh, goddammit, Moose!!! I can’t!!!”
His arms held me tight, in bands of steel. “I know. Really, I know.”
I couldn’t stop crying, remembering them all. Every death. Every person lost, one by one, a parade of death. I felt myself fraying, slipping away . . . unraveling, like an old sweater. “Moose,” I whispered. “Say my name. . . . Please!”
“Zoë.” His deep voice held conviction.
I closed my eyes.
“I can’t even talk about it . . . . I worked with Macko for eight years, and I could never tell him . . . I knew him, but he didn't even know who I am. It’s like I’m in this bubble that no one can see, and no sound gets out. No one can hear me.”
He held me like a child . . . or a woman. “I can hear you, dear one,” he said. “I always could. No, you can’t do your job any more. You can’t. You know it. I know it. I expect even the El Tee knows that much, now. It doesn’t matter.”
He wasn’t making sense. “It doesn’t?”
“No, Zoë. It doesn’t. I want you to come with me. And go far, far from here.”
“Go where?”
“It’s time for me to go home. And I want to take you with me. Away from all of this. Away from a life you can’t bear anymore.”
I looked at his face. So tender. Was this some sort of fever dream? I felt a crazy, impossible hope stir inside me. “Could your people change my body, like yours? Could I . . .” I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. “Could I become a real woman?”
He bent down and kissed my forehead gently. “Our shapeshifting ability is genetic, not engineered. We can’t change your appearance.”
He must have felt the wave of sadness that swept through me, killing my forlorn hope. He cupped my cheek with one hand and said, “But we can offer you something else.”
My eyes were welling with tears again. “What? What can match what I’ve prayed for every day since I can remember?”
“We can offer you a home where people accept you as you are. Love you, as freely and fully as you have always loved other people. You don’t see it – and, given the society you live in, I’m not surprised – but you are beautiful and perfect, right now. Just as you are.”
I thought of my grime-encrusted and tear-streaked face, my matted hair, my clothes that stank of smoke and chemicals and death. “Beautiful and perfect, huh?”
“Yes,” he said seriously. “More so now than ever. Will you come with me?”
I thought about it.
What's holding me here? He's right . . . I can’t do the job anymore. And what else is there? A dead-end job somewhere, or worse? Will I turn to drugs to numb the pain, like so many others have? Sometime soon, will my brothers respond to a call, only to find that I am just the latest "death of despair?”
What he was offering was a fantasy . . . but that sounded pretty good right now. I allowed myself to laugh a woman’s laugh, light and laced with mischief. “Sure, Moose. Carry me off to Never-Never Land!”
He picked me up effortlessly, bringing his right arm under my knees and scooping me up. I knew that Moose was strong – I’d seen proof many, many times – but I’d never had it brought home like that.
I clung to his neck.
Walking to the door that led to the sleeping area, he pushed it open with his knee.
I looked and saw, not the small compartment I had expected, but warm, sunlit fields under a velvet sky, and trees in the distance with pale peach leaves . . . . A warm breeze caressed my damp cheeks, carrying an elusive smell, fresh and clean, like orange blossoms.
“Oh my God,” I said, wonder in my voice. “I . . . I want to go there!”
He stepped through the Doorway, carrying me like a bride.
The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Author’s note: The characters and setting for this story will be familiar to anyone who has read “An Aria for Cami.” However, I wrote it as a standalone story and I hope that readers who aren’t familiar with the longer story will be able to appreciate it as well.
The Feast of Stephen
An Opera House Story
“Cami, what’s wrong?” Nicole had emerged into the area where I had just finished a Zoom call with my faith community – a group of fellow transwomen who gathered every month for prayer and fellowship. Our gatherings had been remote for the past eight months or so, ever since the pandemic had shut down large portions of the country.
I was weeping uncontrollably. “God, why do people have to be like that? And at Christmas!”
Nicole pulled up a chair and put an arm around me. “What happened?”
“It was Marta – the youngest of our original group. Can’t be more than nineteen. She’s been estranged from her parents ever since she came out, two or three years ago. She called them two nights ago – Christmas eve. Tried to make peace. . . .” I choked up and couldn’t say more.
Nicole held me even more tightly. She called up the stairs, “Mags!!!” My friend the opera singer knows how to project when she wants to!
Maggie popped open the door to the basement and stuck her head in. “What’s up?”
“Tea, Maggie! Fast!”
Maggie took one look at the two of us, said, “On it!” and disappeared. Two minutes later she was back, three steaming earthenware mugs in her hands. She put all three down on my desk, went and grabbed the spare office chair from the synthesizer area, and joined us, giving Nicole an inquisitive look (I was clearly in no shape to fill her in).
“One of the transwomen in Cami’s community tried to reconnect with her parents on Christmas Eve. I guess it didn’t go well.”
I sipped some tea, holding the mug in my left hand. My right was clenched in a fist that I couldn’t seem to release.
Maggie rubbed my back. “Take your time, Cami. We’re here for you.”
I loved my roommates so much . . . . Here I was, surrounded by support, acceptance, love. More than anyone could ever ask for, and certainly more than I deserved. While not ten miles away, poor Marta was all alone, cut off from her family, living in a small apartment. No-one to keep her company. No-one to hug her when life was hard.
I took a longer pull from my mug and set it down carefully. Summoning my professional voice, I said, “They mocked her. Called her ‘Fred-Ex,’ and said she was a disgrace. Christ! I thought my parents were bad!”
“Holy shit!” Maggie said. “How can they do that to their own child?”
Nicole held me wordlessly. She was weeping too.
I thought, No, dammit! I’ve wept enough! “Can I borrow the car?”
“You’re going to go see her?” Maggie asked.
“Yes . . . and no,” I said, sadly. “We’ve got to keep our bubble intact – I’ve been a hardass about that, but it’s paid off for all of us. And for the guys, too. But . . . I can at least drop something off for her. See her, even it its only for a minute, and from ten feet away. Tell her that she’s special, and wish her a Merry Christmas. I’ve got to do something!”
“Of course you do,” Nicole said. “And of course we’re coming with you, Cami. The coq-au-vin will easily serve four. And we’ve got an extra loaf of fresh-baked bread.” Nicole had been giving us cooking lessons.
Maggie nodded enthusiastically, then looked suddenly shy. “I . . . bought a bottle of perfume the other day. For Kyle’s next visit. Do you think that she’d like it?”
“God, I love you two!” I hugged them both fiercely. “Give me just a minute.”
I went upstairs. Maggie went to her room to pick up the perfume; Nicole followed me into mine. “What were you thinking of bringing her?” she asked.
I took a box off of the shelf in the closet where I had set it just yesterday. It contained a stunning, three-quarter length negligée in creamy ivory-colored silk with delicate lace at the collar and sleeves. I would need to re-wrap it.
Nicole’s eyes grew wide. “Your present from Rob? Really?”
I smiled sadly. “Really. Rob won’t be here for at least a month, and hopefully I’ll figure out where he got it by then and find a way to order another one. But even if somehow I can’t . . . Rob would understand.”
Nicole looked at me carefully, thoughtfully. Not every man would understand. Maybe not many. But Nicole nodded. “Yeah, he would. David’s like that too.”
“I’ve got Rob, and you, and Maggie. And Al and Javi, for a couple more weeks. And Fiona and Henry, Liz . . . . Marta’s got nobody. Nobody at all.”
Nicole’s eyes narrowed. “What are you holding so tight, Cami?”
I looked down at my right hand, still balled tight in a fist. I willed my fingers to unclench, but it was, strangely enough, a real effort. My palm showed red marks from my nails – and from the small, inexpensive ring I had been holding, plain silver with a Celtic design.
“I went over to the salon to wish Al and Javi – and Tina – a responsible, socially distant Merry Christmas two days ago. And Tina . . . Tina gave me this.”
“A ring?” Nicole asked.
I nodded. “She said . . . she’d managed to hang on to it. Through all those years, when her family had her locked up, and were trying to ‘re-program’ the trans out of her. She hid it from them – told me I didn’t need to know how. But it was her only link to who she knew she really was. The only thing she had that was feminine.” My voice was growing horse again. “Except for her heart.”
“She gave it to you?” Nicole’s voice held a note of wonder.
“Yeah,” I managed to get out. “She said . . . she didn’t need it anymore.”
“Okay, girlfriend,” Nicole said. “You’re a wreck. Finish your tea. Wash your face and fix your makeup. Maggie and I will take care of getting everything wrapped. You know where we’re going?”
I nodded.
* * * * * *
It was full dark by the time we arrived at the tired looking apartment building where Marta was living. A clear, cold night with stars as bright as they ever get near America’s cities. Nicole and Maggie stayed on the sidewalk while I donned 2020’s version of gay apparel – a colorful facemask – and went up the walkway to Marta’s door.
I set the presents down on her stoop – the wrapped bread, the tupperware full of Nicole’s wonderful cooking, and the two wrapped packages – rang the doorbell, and stepped back.
Behind me, Maggie’s contralto and Nicole’s coloratura soprano rose together in a tight harmony which I didn't attempt to join. I was barely fit to speak, and at my best the song was beyond my ability:
Oh, Holy Night, the stars are brightly shining!
It is the night of the dear savior’s birth.
Long lay the world, in sin and error pining,
’Til He appeared, and the soul felt its worth.
The door opened, and Marta stood framed in the doorway, golden light behind her like a halo. At the sight of the presents, and the three of us, her eyes widened.
A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.
“Cami?” she said. “What . . . . ?”
Fall on your knees! Oh hear the angels voices!
“Merry Christmas, Marta,” I said. “You are such an amazing, wonderful, beautiful woman!”
She bowed her head, overcome by emotion.
I wanted so much to cross the distance between us, to give her the so-very-human comfort of a hug. But I knew I couldn’t. It wouldn’t be safe for either of us, and my heart wept at the restriction.
She looked up, her eyes, like mine, glistening with tears, and held her right palm over her heart. “Thank you, Cami. Thank you so much!”
I returned her gesture, my heart too full to allow me to speak.
Nicole and Maggies’ voices soared, blended, and joined in the decrescendo. Oh night! Oooooh night, divine!
The end
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
The Glave of Truth
Sigurd, Lord of the Western March, reined in his warhorse as it crested a modest rise, raising his hand to signal a halt. At once he saw that their last charge – the third since daybreak – had been successful, cutting deep into the ranks of their foes.
The King, his lord, had selected the field with care. A mere fortnight had passed since the sorcerer had, with a stroke, put an end to a decade of skirmish and maneuver, of battles fought on trackless paths and hidden fords through the high and snow-bound mountains that formed the realm's northern border. Summoning a mighty host, the sorcerer had taken by storm the great fortress guarding the northern entrance to the Raven Pass, a dagger pointing straight at the very heart of the kingdom.
Wide indeed was the high Raven Pass, but here, at the least, it narrowed, and for three leagues or more the rocky walls to their left and right were separated by little more than a rôst. The space between was flat withhal, and little grew in its dry and wind-swept soil to hinder the swift passage of man or beast. For the heavy cavalry favored by the men of the lush southern plains, it was an ideal place for battle, a veritable killing field.
Only in the narrows could Thorfinn, Lord of the Raven Lands, commanding the leftmost battle, and Ivar Hilmir, commanding the right, protect the flanks of the larger host. In the center the men of Westmarch stood, for Jarl Sigurd alone was able to bring his full host in answer to the King’s urgent summons.
Yet from the slight eminence where he paused, the peril borne of their successful charge was manifest, and the King’s decision to command the vanguard seemed rash indeed. For Sigurd could see, as the King could not, that spaces had begun to open between the host’s separate commands. Thorfinn’s men, and Ivar’s as well, were too far behind, while the vanguard, the King at its head, was too far advanced. And the host arrayed against them was vast – demons and trolls, imps and goblins in the thousands and tens of thousands, creatures of night and frost, shackled to the sorcerer’s implacable will.
The Jarl’s own men – the thegns of his household and the fyrd of Westmarch – had become scattered, too disbursed to provide the mutually reinforcing hammer-blows needed to break the foe. Worse, foul creatures now stood in the space that had opened between his troops and the vanguard.
But undismayed was Sigurd, son of bold Sigurdar. Young though he might be in years, the darkness of these latter days had made him, perforce, old in the ways of battle, and the demands of the moment were clear enough. He had no need to look to the left or the right to know that his herald and his standard bearer were beside him. To the former did he speak, urgent yet calm, commanding the call to regroup.
Swordthegn Trygve, son of Toresten, herald to the Jarl, raised his great horn and blew three mighty blasts. Responding to their lord’s command, the men of Westmarch began to disengage and rally to the standard, ever amongst the most difficult of evolutions when close engaged in the heat of battle.
Their task was made the easier that day, for the horrors who contested the ground on which they fought had learned to fear the men of Westmarch. Less than eager were they to maintain contact when respite was offered, and in their dark hearts they held the hope that the host of the West was retreating in truth.
Leif Tora stood at the Jarl’s right hand. Less tall he was than Sigurd his lord, but broad as a hay bale and powerfully built. Lightly did he hold the great ash shaft from which the Jarl’s banner rippled in the light breeze, a Cygnet on a field of green. As Sigurd removed his great helm, the better to see the field, the Thegn of Tora shared a look with the herald, long his closest friend and companion at arms.
Out of place in that stalwart gathering might Trygve have appeared, neither tall nor broad, smooth cheeked while both Tora and their lord, like most of his men, favored short-cropped beards. Yet none who had faced Toresten’s heir on the practice field, nor seen his skill in battle, would contest his place beside the Jarl. Lythe and swift, a deadly swordsman whose horsemanship was unmatched.
Neither land thegn nor sword thegn marveled at the tears that streaked Jarl Sigurd’s cheeks, for they had marked how his keen eyes were drawn to the gaps in the forming ranks. To the places where companions and friends should have ridden, as always they had before.
Ragnar the Tall would never return to his father’s high-beamed hall, nor would they hear again Ulf Oedgar’s bellowing laughter, renowned in the field and in the feasting hall. Alder of the Eagle Eye, the brothers Skarde and Garold, Ubba, the great bear. . . . So many gone. Most grievous of all, Njal the Justiciar, under whose command the Jarl had placed the men of the fyrd.
Another lord might have found comfort in the sure knowledge that the skaalds, sitting before hearthfires in the long nights of winter, would keep their names forever bright. With voices rich and sonorous, they would sing the tales of this fated day – of the scores brought low by Alder’s fell spear, or of Njal’s bold rescue of a company a fyrdmen, farmers and yeomen all, beset by a wave of shrieking goblins. Thus – ever thus – would the sons of the fallen hear of their mighty deeds. And, perhaps, those tales would lend courage to their heirs on some distant day, when fate called them to stand as strong, as valiant, and as steadfast, as their fathers who would not return.
But Jarl Sigurd, as Leif Tora and Trygve Torestenson knew full well, would find cold comfort in such thoughts of glory. He would honor their deeds, of course. Yet for him these men would never be names on a list, howsoever exalted. Boy and man they had been with him, through years of training, of shield work and spear work, sword work and horsemanship . . . always horsemanship. Heart of his heart, flesh of his flesh.
And he had brought them here this day. Led them to the place where a giant of a troll had snapped Alder’s bright spear like a twig and crushed his skull with an iron mace. Led Skarde and Garold to the ground where they perished in a hail of arrows. Led Ragnar, Ulf, Ubba and all the rest. And the goblins had hewn Njal’s body even as he lay in death, surrounded by scores he had brought low.
Each and every death Sigurd felt, like nails through his heart or a dark stain upon his very soul. So deeply was he wounded, his friends did fear that the darkness of that day would never leave him.
But the Jarl’s seeming weakness was also his greatest strength. Though the might of his right arm was already legend, it was not by battle prowess that Sigurd held his men steady in the face of a boiling sea of fearsome creatures, of horrors that would freeze the blood of the most bold. Nor yet was it by his skill in tactics, the cunning of his battle craft, renowned though he was among the liegemen of the King.
No, it was love. Always love. Love poured out from that great heart, and love returned a thousand-fold. Every companion, every thegn, every warrior, down to the lowliest spear-wielding yeoman of the fyrd, would follow him through the gates of the underworld itself.
As, indeed, they had.
While he had life within him, the Jarl would not turn from his duty, nor permit the sacrifice of his friends and comrades to have been in vain. He raised a hand in summons, and to his side rode Hakon Sigurdarson, red beard bristling under the sun at its zenith. Clasping the thegn’s sword arm, strength to strength, vambrace to vambrace, Jarl Sigurd said, “Njal is numbered among the fallen. Brother, you must look to the fyrd.”
Hakon saw in his brother’s eyes the pain of that loss, for Njal the Wise had ever been his right hand, the best, most trusted of his companions. A level head in the maelstrom of battle, a sage counselor in the rare days of peace, a friend closer than blood itself. Yet of none of this did he speak, for urgent were the needs of the present moment. “Aye, Lord,” Hakon replied, inclining his head in acceptance of the charge.
But Sigurd pulled him close, and spoke words for his brother’s ears alone. “If I am fated this day to fall, you must bring them home, Hakon. Save the fyrd . . . save our people.”
Hakon was by these words much distressed, for dearly did he love his brother. Most urgently did he plead, “Lord, if we lose the field this day, there can be no place of safety. I would stand with you. Yea, to the very end, if that is your wyrd.”
Yet to his brother Sigurd replied, “Hope abides while life remains. The morrow may surprise, but one of us, at the least, must needs live to see it!”
Hakon bowed his head, the weight of his brother’s command heavy on his heart. “I will bring them safe home, my lord. . . . My brother!”
Thegn Trygve called to where the brothers held counsel. “My lord, the household stands ready, but the fyrd is yet too scattered, and the King is sore beset!”
And verily, the herald’s words were sooth. From the ground on which they gathered, they could see the vanguard forging ahead behind the royal standard, but with progress ever slowing, encircled by thickening ranks of dark spears. Perilous indeed was the King’s position, for deprived of speed, heavy cavalry may with far greater ease be overborne.
Sigurd surveyed the field, and stern now was his countenance, old beyond his years. Soon they must go, or their charge would fail of its purpose, reaching the King’s position too late to save him. Yet, to advance the household thegns alone, without the weight of the fyrd behind them, would be folly, and worse than folly – no better than throwing a shaftless spearhead at an armored foe. “Make haste!” he urged his brother. “I will not need all, but numbers enough we must have!”
Hakon galloped back to assist the muster.
Cantering once again to the center of his men, Sigurd gave his commands. “Form a wedge, on me. Look to the standard! Brave Tora, cleave you tight unto my left as we advance, that all may follow!” His gaze shifted to the rear, and he waited anxious minutes until he saw his brother signal that the fyrd was at the ready.
Stormwind, his warhorse, reared and screamed challenge, and Truth, his blade, sang again in his strong right hand. Raising his voice in a mighty shout, Jarl Sigurd cried, “To the King! To the King!”
And all the host shouted in response, “The King!”
The herald’s great horn sounded the advance, and slowly, at first, the horses stepped forward.
At the horn’s blast the sorcerer's legions blanched, knowing that the earlier withdrawal had indeed been no retreat. On their brutal and twisted features fear blossomed bright, fear renewed and thrice compounded. Too late they realized the deadly fruits of their delay.
The horses began to trot, then canter, the thunder of their massed ranks a terror all its own.
Close on, the foul multitude saw the charge take shape. Their own numbers were overwhelming; to a dispassionate observer – to the vultures, kites and crows that circled overhead, awaiting their time of feasting – the charge would seem to pose no threat to the vast army the sorcerer had called to himself.
Yet the creatures of the netherworld, like the sons of men, are in no wise dispassionate, and to any who stood in the path of the charge, certain doom was close at hand. Those nearest danger, fated to stand before the Cygnet standard that streamed bravely at the apex of the wedge, were first to edge sideways, pushing against their evil brethren. Harder and harder did they push as the cavalry drew ever closer. Though they cleared a path for their foes, yet they hoped to themselves survive that fearsome, initial hammer’s blow.
Thirty yards out, the mighty horses hit a full gallop, a tidal wave of bone and sinew, muscle, iron, leather and kinetic force. The shock of their impact shattered what remained of the enemies’ formations, and caused the waiting birds to fly higher, searching in vain for calmer airs.
The charge rolled on, scattering foes like so much chaff. Truth swung left and right, the Jarl in haste to win through to where the King’s banner floated, barely moving, isolated behind a hedge of spears.
Closer and closer they came, their inexorable charge barely slowing. Foes who stood were swept aside; those who fled were ground under the weight of horses they could not outrun. The fyrd finished those who might remain.
Unharmed was Sigurd, charmed that day. His wyrd was upon him, and no weariness did he feel as he cleaved a path to his lord through a host of foes. Stormwind and the Jarl fought as one, their years together forging a single weapon, potent and deadly. Few indeed of the sorcerer’s minions dared to contest their passage, such was their puissance on that day of wrath.
Spears parted before him, and his heart sang as he beheld King Gorm, old but doughty still, fighting beneath his standard of the Sun on an azure field. About the King, the men of his household – such of them as survived – cheered and found new strength as they saw that rescue was at hand. Their blows rang out the stronger, and the sorcerer’s creatures in confusion backed away.
Jarl Sigurd signaled the wedge to fan out, while he himself slowed, herald and standard bearer close by his side. They cantered to where the King had made his stand amidst his sword thegns.
“Well met, kinsman!” the King sang out, the hope of triumph, of victory, lighting his face, making it youthful once again.
But lo! In the moment of their triumph, the sun’s brightness was blighted. From the sky, a creature plummeted, huge and terrible, carrion wings pulsing a foul and noisome stench. Shrieking vengeance and ruin, down it drove, down and down, full upon the place where the King stood, blotting out the glory of his banner.
No horse living, not even the best trained, could withstand the terror of the creature’s approach. The cries of men and screams of horses filled the air. Wild-eyed, the King’s white stallion reared and stumbled.
Thegn Trygve, herald of Westmarch and finest of horsemen, stretched out and clasped the King to him, seaking to pull him clear of his falling steed. Yet even bold Trygve’s vaunted skill could not suffice, for his own horse bolted beneath him, madness overcoming it.
King and herald, both they fell. Full upon the king his thrashing steed landed, crushing him utterly. Trygve son of Toresten, valiant and true, tumbled wildly, hit the hard ground with bone-crushing force, and moved no more.
Stormwind alone for love of his lord held fast for a time, but even he could not long abide the fell creature’s coming. Sigurd lept free, landing lightly beside the fallen king. The Jarl’s noble warhorse, overmatched at the last, followed the path of Sun and Cygnet both.
And Sigurd stood alone, his household men and companions either borne away, or, like his herald, among the fallen.
The creature landed and thrust its scaly head toward Sigurd, flame in its eyes and fury in its screaming challenge. Raising scythe-sharp claws, it leapt.
Sigurd stood steadfast in the face of that charge. With his sword the Jarl smote the rushing creature full on its head, and so powerful was his arm that day, so fueled by rage and loss and grief, that he clove its skull asunder and it collapsed, its reeking frame raising a cloud of dust from the dry and barren ground.
Yet worse was to come, for the creature had that day been a mere beast of burden. From its back a rider rose like a thundercloud against the sun. Immense, dark, crowned with a helm of black iron, its face shrouded in impenetrable shadow. There could be no doubt that the dread sorcerer stood before him, the master of the host against which he fought.
Upon the Lord of Westmarch did the sorcerer bend his gaze. “Who dares stand between me and what is mine?” The voice was thin and low, cold as the ice storms of January.
Tall and proud stood the Jarl in that hour, his shield tight to his left arm, sword at the ready. “I am Sigurd Sigurdarson, and by my sword and my life will I defend my kinsman and my King. Begone!”
A harsh laugh sounded from the sorcerer, and with an arm of adamant he raised a dark flail, links of night and a spiked ball, heavy with malice and black enchantment. The weapon of evil magic arced forward, swinging hard and fast toward the place where the Jarl stood his ground.
Sigurd, wily veteran of a hundred battles, dodged and brought up his shield. Yet so powerful was that sorcerous blow that the shield shattered in a flash of red flame and his forearm snapped, the bone jaggedly broken. The Jarl staggered, and almost he fell. Yet his wyrd drove him still, and standing straight once more he again raised his bright blade in defiance.
At the crash of the dred flail, Trygve the herald, stunned and injured by his fall, yet still among the living, made effort to rise once more. The thegn’s eyes lifted to where Sigurd still stood, wounded, bleeding, yet resolute.
The sorcerer laughed again, and raised his flail for the killing strike.
Sigurd knew, indeed, that he could not withstand a second blow. Summoning the last of his strength, and holding in his heart the names of Njal and Alder, Ragnar, Ubba and all of the slain, he leapt beneath the swinging flail and closed with his enemy. Then with a mighty cry he rammed Truth, swift and sure, straight into the sorcerer’s broad chest.
No sword forged by man could pierce the enchantments with which the sorcerer clothed his form, howsoever mighty the hand that held it. Yet Truth, the Jarl’s bright blade, was spoken into being by the gods themselves when the world was new, long ages ere the sorcerer arose to darken the dreams of men. Thus did Sigurd’s desperate strike penetrate both hauberk and gambison, passing through completely.
Trygve Torestenson, watching, was amazed that the Jarl had managed such a blow. Driven by love and will alone, the herald staggered up, fell, and sought again to rise.
For a long moment Jarl and sorcerer stood motionless, chest to chest. But the sorcerer's helm lowered, and once more was his fell voice heard. “Fool! I have no heart to weaken me. Did you not know that no mortal man may cause me harm?” And with his mailed fist he dealt Sigurd a buffet so powerful that the Jarl’s helm was struck from his head, and blood flowed out from his ears. The light of Truth, sheathed to the hilt in the sorcerer’s dark and evil chest, flickered and grew dim, the blade itself turning black.
At this Thegn Trygve cried out and staggered forward, desperate to come to the lord’s aid.
Yet far from quailing at the sorcerer’s words, the Jarl was filled with wonder, knowing with sudden clarity what must be done. Holding fast to the glave’s great hilt, Sigurd cried out, and gave voice at last to the deepest truth of that great and noble heart.
“I am not a man!”
It was for this moment that Sigurd Sigurdarson had been born into the world of grief. As the Jarl cast off all doubt, all deception and secrecy, resolving at last to live and die in the utmost light of truth, the argent flame of the gods-forged blade burst forth anew. That flash of surpassing brilliance severed the vile web that knit the sorcerer’s sinews to his will, and the very form he had crafted for himself exploded outward, sending a shock wave rolling across the stricken field.
The servants of the sorcerer cried out in sudden despair, freed from the will that had driven them to this place of doom. They scattered, an army no longer, each looking to preserve himself alone.
For a moment longer the Jarl stood, bright star against the fading darkness, unbending and unbowed. Then like a mighty oak did Sigurd fall, wyrd at last complete, clutching Truth to a heart that beat no more.
Yet the loyal herald was there at the last. Injured though he was, yet strength enough did he find to lower Sigurd’s body, tenderly and gently, to rest upon the ground. Alone of the household had Trygve heard the Jarl’s words, and it was as though scales fell from his eyes. Understanding flooded his heart, and he wept.
There the thegns of the Jarl’s household found them, when at last their steeds had mastered fear and returned. With an anguished cry Leif Tora rammed the heel of the Jarl’s standard hard into the earth, where it stood quivering. He jumped down and knelt beside the place where the herald his friend held Sigurd’s body in a final embrace.
Trygve son of Toresten raised his anguished face at last, seeing the Lord of Tora through a veil of tears. “Leif,” he cried, “May the gods forgive us! How is it we could not see – how is it we did not know! – that a woman’s great and loving heart beat within the body of this man?”
It was victory. Victory after a decade of war, and a victory so complete, so unlooked for, that the realm rejoiced. Yet somber was the host as it descended from the high mountain pass, for heavy indeed was the price paid upon that field. So numerous were their dead that they buried them in ranks where they had fallen. And in later days it was held the greatest of honors, to be descended from one who had his final resting place in the narrows of the Raven Lands.
King Gorm, called Frode, was laid upon a bier of lashed spears. Iver Hildir, King upon the death of his valliant sire, gave to the house thegns of the Western March, Hakon Sigurdarson at their head, the honor of carrying the late king’s body, leading the host on the journey home.
For the men of Westmarch, thegn and yeomen alike, would not suffer the body of their Jarl to be taken from the field where comrades and companions lay in death. In the midst of the narrows they built a high barrow, and in the barrow they made a fair bed of alder. There they laid the body of Sigurd Sigurdarson, greatest of champions.
But while the deeds of the man would ever be remembered, it was the woman’s heart and soul that they honored most, and thus it is that in the sagas of skaalds she is renamed Sigrid, Greatheart and Lifegiver, Lady of the Western Vales. Upon the Jarl’s body they laid the great Cygnet standard, and the Glave of Truth shone bright upon her breast.
– The end
Author’s note: To anyone who has read the books or even just seen the movie, the inspiration for this scene will be clear, though it is a story from another age and another folk. I have changed it enough, perhaps, that the original author, watching from above, might be mollified. To his memory, and to his work, I mean nothing but respect.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Dear friends -- this came to me this morning and I had to write it. But it's a tough story, and it left me crying in any number of places. Take the caution seriously. I deal with the closet, and love, regret and suicide. If you aren't ready, or in the mood, don't.
The Mulligan
The pain had been excruciating – a tsunami of agony. But it had just . . . stopped. Gone. The noise, too . . . And it had been night. A dark and stormy night, appropriately. My eyes were still screwed shut, but I could tell it was light out.
Tentatively, fearfully, I opened one eye, just a peep. Definitely light out, though the light felt strange.
Somewhere behind me, I heard a sound that seemed natural, harmless . . . tantalizingly familiar, though I couldn’t quite place it. A swooooosh followed by a sharp crack. Slowly, I opened my eye more, then the other one. I blinked several times.
What am I doing in a . . . pasture?
I heard the sound again and looked around. A guy was teeing up golf balls. Looked to be in his fifties. Dude could spend a profitable hour at the barber shop – his hair and beard were a bit wild. But he looked like he was in pretty good shape for a guy my own age.
Swoosh . . . crack!
“Shit!” He shook his head.
“Might want to work on your grip,” I offered. Then stopped. I mean, first, why am I talking to this guy? Why am I even here? And . . . what’s wrong with my voice? It seemed thin, reedy. Insubstantial.
I looked down and noticed that my body, too, was wrong. I had always longed to be a woman, but I wasn't that. My body was thin, seemingly as insubstantial as my voice. Sexless, to all appearances, though I was wearing something that reminded me of one of those robes I wore, decades ago, when I was an altar server.
“Ah! You're with us.” He looked my way briefly, to confirm my “with-ness.”
I guess I passed.
He bent down and placed another ball. “Your old man says the same thing. About my grip.”
Huh? Pops had been dead now for . . . oh, wait a minute!
Swoosh . . . crack! He grunted, noncommittal. He gave me another look, this one kind of sour. “That’s why I owed him a mulligan.”
I was sitting, and didn’t think getting up was a good idea. “Pops is long gone. So I’m either dreaming, or . . . .”
He placed another ball and resumed his stance. “'Or.' Yeah, pretty much.”
Swoosh . . . crack!
“Pig farts!” He shook his head with disgust and turned to face me, resting the club against his left shoulder. “Well that was quite the clusterfuck you just managed, wasn’t it?”
“I . . . uh . . . what?” My brain seemed to be having some trouble tracking. “What do you mean? Where am I?”
“Look, I owe Karl a mulligan, not a morning of babysitting. You aren’t. That’s the point. Your little physics experiment with the bridge abutment at ninety miles an hour saw to that.”
I felt my face flush. The memory came back, hard. “Yeah . . . I . . . yeah. So . . . Not heaven?”
“This?” He sounded derisive. “Get real. Look, like I said, I owe your dad one. Go talk to him, and see me when you’re done.”
“Wait . . . Pops is here?”
“Thataways.” He waved his hand behind me. “Down by the crick. Probably trying to catch something.” He shook his head. “Stubborn bastard.”
“Holy shit!” I jumped up.
“Not really,” he said. “Leastwise, not here. Anyhow, take as long as you want . . . time don’t matter here. But stay inside the fence.”
I ran.
My legs ate up distance, but somehow I had no sense of exertion. No increase in my heart rate, no change in my breathing. No burn in my muscles – but also, no dopamine rush. I willed movement, and I moved. It was strangely bloodless.
I found him by the muddy banks of a sluggish creek, and sure enough, he had some sort of jury-rigged fishing pole and line. At the sight of his shapeless hat and his compact form in all of its dad-bod glory, I slowed, then stopped. I wanted to see him, so bad, but . . . . Can I face him? After . . . .
A beloved, but long-gone head rose from the grass, and a voice I still heard in my dreams said, “Wooof!”
“Trent?” My voice broke as the hound rose, stretched, and made a ponderous charge in my direction. “Oh, sweet Jesus, I don’t care what that old fart said!” I knelt, taking his sloppy kisses and wrapping my arms around his powerful body. “Fuckin’ A, this is heaven.” I was bawling, lost in the wonder of seeing my dog again, feeling him wriggle, smelling his houndy smell.
“I thought it might go easier, if I brought him.”
Through the blur of my tears, I could see my father’s form above me. “Oh, Pops!” My tears flowed even harder, and my throat was so tight I could barely speak. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry! I made such a mess of everything!”
He squatted down by me. “It’s okay, Jilly. Let’s talk. Maybe I can help.”
The improbability that there was any hope for fixing what golf man back there had called my clusterfuck went on the back burner. “Jilly?”
“Well, you call yourself Jill, in your head anyways. I figure a dad should have a nickname for his daughter. How’d I do?”
“You know?” It came out as an appalled whisper. “I was always so careful . . . there’s no way!”
Trent’s hammer head came up to butt my chest, reminding me that whatever I was doing with my gums, my hands could be put to use giving belly scritches.
With a sob, I burrowed my face into his bull-like neck and complied.
His tail went into overdrive, and he “wooorf’ed” happily into my ear.
I felt a gentle hand on my shoulder. “You see? Ol’ Trent knows better’n we do. Always did. Love and affection – that’s what counts.”
My tears just wouldn’t stop.
The hand on my shoulder gave a squeeze. “We didn’t see it, Jilly. Leastwise, I didn’t, and I’m sure Maura would’ve told me, if she had. But . . . I see things now I didn’t, then.”
I was quiet, drawing strength from the happy beast in my arms. Strength enough to ask the question that burned inside. “Do you hate me?” I couldn’t look up.
He sat and put an arm around me. “Oh, Jilly . . . it kills me, that you have to ask. I mean, I’m dead already. But . . . you know.”
His dad humor caused a spasm – some mix of a gasp, a snort . . . and a sob – to escape my lips.
“Wooorf,” Trent replied.
“Things look different, from before,” Pops said gently. “Eternity does that to you. You see what’s important, like that fool hound there. . . . And what’s not. If you’d told me, back when you were little, that you were a girl? I wouldn’t have been there for you. I know it. You knew it. Why you had to hide, I guess . . . .”
He sat silently for a minute, collecting his thoughts. Rubbing my back with a slow, circular motion. “I’m sorry, kid. My head was full of nonsense. Everything I’d been taught, everything I thought I knew. Don’t think I’m making excuses; it’s on me. . . . But I love you, Jill. Always have, always will.”
I shook my head, managing to sit up again, while still giving Trent the attention he deserved. “I didn’t know what I was, Pops. Other than different . . . some kind of wrong.” I stared at the trees by the creek, dark against an oddly pale gray sky. Stared away, so I didn’t have to see his face. “I’d sneak into Meaghan’s room and wear her clothes, and imagine . . . But I was so ashamed. So afraid. And I knew . . . I knew I looked ridiculous. That I wasn’t . . . that I couldn’t be . . . .”
He kissed the top of my head as I wept. “I know, honey. I know.”
“You do?" Something deep and dark welled up inside. "Do you know why . . . Why I wasn’t . . . born the way I should have been? Why I was such a Goddamned freak!” I shocked myself with the savagery of the question, as it tore through me. I pulled back, appalled at myself. “I’m . . . I’m sorry! I didn’t mean . . . .”
He shushed me and held me close. “Yes, you did, and it’s okay. But . . . remember how I used to tell you that the mysteries of the universe . . . “
“. . . are above your paygrade?” I finished for him. “Yeah. You mentioned it, once or twice.”
“They still are, kid. I’m just your father, all’s said. Probably a better version of him – maybe even the best version – but it’s still just me.”
I didn’t know how I still had tears left. “I’ve missed you so much!”
“I know. But, Jilly . . . I was always there.”
“Were you? Then you know . . . . You know I messed up. And how bad.”
“Sure. But I’d like to hear you tell me. Besides . . . Sometimes it helps to talk it out.
Where to even begin? I’d messed up so many times . . . so many ways.
I loved my sister’s room . . . Everything was so tidy . . . so soft. I padded across the thick carpet, making no sound. Drawn to her chest of drawers, off-white with an antique glaze . . . . her panties were always neatly rolled up in the top left drawer . . . . on the right, her bras and a couple of camisoles . . . . I reached out, trembling . . . .
* * * *
Meaghan had her own apartment, and I was alone. Her old room – her beautiful room, that I had loved so much – was Pop’s study, now. Filled with books and papers and smelling all wrong. But I was standing in the middle of it anyway . . . At least the carpet felt the same against my stocking feet, my purloined dress reaching my knees . . . I felt a familiar stab of terror, as I heard the garage door open . . . .
* * * *
My college dorm . . . I was a junior, and I had my own room, finally . . . . I was ready for bed, but I stood in front of the full-length mirror that was the closet door. The silky nightgown felt wonderful. But . . . I looked absurd. Ridiculous. I screamed in silence – always in silence – What are you doing?
* * * *
“Hey, Caroline – you up for a coffee?” I was standing nonchalantly – I hoped it was nonchalantly, anyway – in the door to her office. We’d worked together for a while, but we weren’t on the same team . . . .
She looked up, sun catching her flowing, golden hair, the sparkle of her eyes. “Sure, Jack! Just give me half a minute!”
* * * *
Classic Americana . . . a porch . . . a pool of light around an incandescent bulb . . . . “I had a great time, tonight, Jack.” Her voice was soft. Shy, almost. “Thank you.” She looked up at me, so close.
I took the half step, folded her into my arms, and kissed her. Softly, gently . . . like she might vanish, disappear like a soap bubble.
* * * *
The bag was almost full, I grabbed the last item, and stuffed it in – a crisp, white full slip. I checked my drawers. My closet. I had it all. It wasn’t the first time in my life that I’d done a purge.
But it would be the last! The last. No more! There will be no more ‘Jill!’ Enough!
* * * *
She was so beautiful, sitting there in the moonlight. She made me want to be the best, the boldest, the wisest and smartest man the world has ever known. I wanted to be everything she could ever want, and more besides. I would never be worthy of her. But I would try!
“Caroline Jones, will you marry me?”
* * * *
Light pooled in rich colors on the polished stone floor, filtered through acres of stained glass. The church was full – family, friends, all there for us. All happy for us. I looked into those amazing eyes . . . the eyes that always took my breath. Almost, they took my nerve as well.
But I took a deep, steadying breath. It helped. “I, John, take you, Caroline, to my lawful wife, to have and to hold from this day forward . . . .”
* * * *
“Oh my God, Caroline – he’s beautiful! So beautiful!”
“Isn’t he, though?” She looked down at his sleeping face, framed by wispy tendrils of spun-gold silk, every plane, every curve, every line of her body a symphony of infinite tenderness. “Karl.”
“You sure?”
She looked at me and smiled. “Of course I’m sure. I’d go with John, but you won’t let me.”
I looked at my tiny son. Rested a finger against his impossibly smooth cheek. “You’d better like golf, boyo.”
* * * *
“He did it! He did it!”
Caroline dropped down to her haunches and spread her arms. “You did?”
Karl ran to her, his ruddy face one enormous smile. “Mummy!! I made it halfway down the block. No training wheels or ANYTHING!”
She crushed him in a hug, looking up at me, her eyes brilliant.
* * * *
My finger traced the satiny smoothness of the nightgown that hung, tantalizingly, from the hook behind the door. I ached, as I always ached.
“Dammit, Jill. No!!!”
* * * *
“Do you think it’s ADD? ADHD?”
“I’m not a doctor, Caroline. How should I know? Let’s get him tested.
“I don’t want him all doped up!”
“I’m not wild about it, either. But that’s a later decision point.” I looked into her worried eyes. “If there’s an issue, we should find out about it.”
“There’s an issue,” she said, with a certainty I shared. “I’m not sure putting a label on it’s going to help, but . . . . okay. Let’s look into it.”
* * * *
“You’ll make a golfer, yet, boyo!”
Karl the younger looked at Pops and laughed. “Says the guy I beat last weekend!”
Pops waved away the comment like the irrelevancy it was. “You win one game, and suddenly you’re Tiger Woods?”
“You gotta admit, that was a hell of a shot, Pops,” I said. He was already as good as me.
Pops grinned. “I do! I did! Now, do it again. A hundred times!”
* * * *
My image in the mirror looked no better than it ever had. The light, flowing dress felt wonderful, but my waist now bulged a bit where it should have tucked, my hips were still skinny, and the slight flab at my pecs was in no way sufficient to fill the bra I was wearing.
“I don’t care,” I said, my jaw clenched. I brought the tube of lipstick to my lips, and applied it defiantly.
* * * *
“I’m worried about him, Jack.”
“I know, Sweetie,” I sighed. “But he’s never been . . . .”
“Smart?” Her voice was sharp with challenge.
“No, he’s plenty smart. Just not . . . book smart. Academically inclined.”
“The way he’s going, no college will take him!” She was worried. Afraid.
“Maybe . . . maybe it’s not for him?”
“Jack!! He’ll never get ahead if he doesn’t go to college!”
Same argument . . . the stage differed, but the issue didn’t. “I understand. Maybe he just needs more time to mature.”
“At his age, I was getting good grades AND working twenty hours a week!”
“I know, Sweetie.”
“You know. Fine. But what are we going to DO about it?”
* * * *
I opened the bottom drawer of my dresser and slid my hand under the pile of jeans that were, just at the moment, a bit too tight. Time to get serious about the elliptical that was collecting dust in the basement.
My hand encountered the chemise and I pulled it out. I ran my hand over the fabric, feeling the sense of longing that was always there, just below the surface. I had a couple hours, and nothing to do but bills. Why not be comfortable?
I started to get undressed.
* * * *
“Can you believe it? Twenty-five years?”
“Every time I look into those perfect eyes of yours . . . It seems like yesterday.”
“I love you, Jack,” she said softly. “As much as that first kiss. More.”
She was still beautiful. She’d cut her hair to something sensible and she’d started coloring it. There were worry lines around her eyes and mouth. Some had Karl’s fingerprints on them; others, I knew, had mine. But she was still pretty trim, and her face lit with inner light when she laughed. Her laugh was always magic, even if it was rarer, now.
“I love you, Caroline. All the way to the moon and back.”
* * * *
“It’s an Associate’s degree, for God’s sake! Why do they even HAVE a graduation ceremony?”
“It’s important to him, Sweetie.”
She sighed. “I know. And I know how hard it was for him, too. I’ll be there, and I’ll be proud as a momma grizzly. But . . . ah, Jack, it just kills me!” Her perfect eyes were red with tears.
“I know, love. But what else can we do?”
* * * *
“Jack . . . ?”
“What is it?” I was in the study, doing the bills.
I heard her steps coming from the bedroom. “I was cleaning old stuff out of your drawers and found this.”
I turned, knowing what I would see in her hands as she walked across the hall. Readying the lie I had worried I might need, some day. But I looked in her eyes, and the lie wouldn’t come. After a lifetime, I was done hiding it.
“It’s mine, Caroline. I like to wear it, sometimes.”
She stopped dead, the blood draining from her face. That beautiful face. “What?” Her voice was quiet. Laced with disbelief, touches of fear, and spreading frost around the edges.
“I like to wear it sometimes,” I repeated, as evenly as I could. “There’s a part of me that’s always felt a bit . . . feminine, I guess. So, occasionally . . . .”
“What are you saying? That you’re some kind of transvestite?” The fear was stronger, the ice harder, the disbelief giving way to anger.
“I’m not sure about the label, honestly. But I’m still me. Does it really matter?”
She leaned against the door, her face a hard mask. “Does it MATTER? We’ve been married for twenty-seven YEARS, Jack! And, oh, by the way, you're some kind of girl inside, and you like to wear women’s clothes, and that wasn’t worth MENTIONING to me?”
“I’m sorry, Sweetie . . . .”
“Don’t CALL me that!”
* * * *
The living room looked clean. Almost antiseptic. Stepping back into it, I felt like I was in a stranger’s house. I suppose I was. It felt as foreign as the hotel room where I’d spent the last three weeks. The worst three weeks of my life.
“Sit down, Jack.” She was dressed in slacks and a nice top, and she sounded calm. But her posture, when she sat in the chair across from me, was formal.
Judgment day.
“I want a divorce,” she said. Still calm.
“Sw . . . Caroline. Please. I’m sorry I hurt you, and it won’t happen again!”
She shook her head. “Jack, don’t. You hid part of who you are from me. It’s not going to be any better if you try to bury it again.”
“It’s not that important to me . . . .”
“Bullshit!” she said, cutting me off with an impatient gesture. “Just bullshit! No more lies, Jack! I went around the house; I think I’ve found all your little stashes. It IS important to you! It’s who you ARE.”
“But it’s not ALL of who I am,” I pleaded, “And you’re MORE important!”
She looked at me sadly, the anger suddenly gone. “Thank you for that, Jack. It means something. I don’t know what, yet. But something.”
Her anger had been easier to take than her grief. I made a motion, involuntary, but she stopped me.
“It doesn’t change anything. You are who you are. And, Jack . . . I’m sorry. Really I am. But that’s just not what I signed up for. I . . . I just can’t.”
I struggled to control my own tears. I’d done enough harm, without that. Pulling myself together, I said, “Of course, Caroline. I’ll do whatever you want. It’s . . .”
I looked around, wordlessly. The house. The books. The photos. The stupid, but important stuff . . . the accounts, the 401ks, the insurance policies that covered every possible disaster. Except, of course, this one.
“It’s all yours. I won’t fight you.”
“Dammit, Jack, I don’t want your money!” She was angry. Affronted.
“Well. Whatever, then.” I stood, suddenly unable to take any more. “Just have your guy draw up the papers. However you want. I’ll sign.”
She rose and followed me to the door, her face hard once again. “Just once in your life, would you FIGHT?”
I turned to her, studying her precious face a final time. Every line. “Would it change anything? Really?”
“You might go out like . . . .” She stopped herself, but it was too late.
“Like a man? But that’s just the problem, isn’t it?”
Her faced eased, and the sadness returned, a katana through the center of my soul. “Yeah,” she sighed. “I guess so.”
At the door, she handed me a bag that she’d put, appropriately enough, in the closet. “Please take these with you.”
“Of course.” There was no need to look at what was in the bag. “Goodbye, Caroline.”
Her eyes – her perfect eyes – were filled with tears she refused to shed. “Goodbye, Jack.”
As the door closed behind me, the sky opened up and rain drenched me in an instant. I whispered into the storm, “Goodbye, my sweet love!”
* * * *
The parking lot was deserted, the lights pale and dim. I drove to the place where a metal bin was located, a place for the well-to-do to donate clothing. I’d heard they were scams.
I didn’t care.
The rain pelted me as I opened the bin and dropped the bag; it didn’t sound like it fell far. Probably be picked up, soon. Definitely the last purge.
Good bye, Jill.
I drove around. Past the house where I had grown up . . . . I didn’t know the family that was living there now. Past the office where I’d met Caroline. The restaurant where I’d proposed was long gone; there was a Walgreens there now. Past the church . . . Karl’s grade school . . . . the park where we’d take him to the playscape . . . the golf course where Pops had taught me how to play. And, later, Karl.
I didn’t want to think about Karl. But he’d still have Caroline. A Mom who was really a Mom.
It was 2:00 a.m. before I got on the highway. Not a car to be seen. In a flash of lightning, I saw the overpass, a mile in the distance, and began to accelerate. Sporty, my little Nissan wasn’t.
Goodbye, Jack.
* * * *
I don’t know how long I sat there, in that place between places, Pop’s arm around me, Trent’s head now on my lap. Trying to sort it all out, explain how I’d gone wrong. But I finally recovered enough to say, “I thought it was just, I don’t know. A fetish, maybe. Something that would fade, if I was strong enough. If . . . If I loved Caroline enough.”
He hugged me, wordless. Letting me talk it out.
“But it never did,” I said, staring at trees that never felt the touch of a breeze. “It was always there. That awareness that I was wrong . . . . That the face I showed the world – even to Caroline and Karl – was a lie. I kept wanting to be Jill. The person I thought I was, inside. It never got easier.”
I sniffed, but forced myself to finish. “There were so many times I gathered up my things and tossed them, promising myself that Jill was done. But they were just clothes, and sooner or later, I’d get more. Because Jill was always there.”
I shrugged, remembering. “Other times, I almost told Caroline everything. But . . . I didn’t . . . I couldn’t do it. I knew that the truth would hurt her so much.”
I finally looked at him, but I still saw only love and understanding. I went on. “Then she found a chemise, and I suddenly couldn’t keep it in any more. I told her . . . and it was every bit as bad as I’d thought it would be. Worse. She wanted a divorce. Naturally. But that wasn’t the worst. It was just seeing how deep she was wounded . . . . I couldn’t cope, any more. You know the rest.”
“You don’t think you’d hurt her worse, driving into that bridge abutment?” His question contained no undertones of disapproval.
I shrugged again. “Pops, I don’t know. I hope not. Maybe she’d feel liberated . . . .”
He looked skeptical. “You really think so?”
I looked back at the motionless trees and sighed. “Probably not. But she’s done with me, anyway. She’d move on.”
“And Karl?”
I looked down at the hound, now drooling contentedly as he slept. Hopefully the robe doesn't need to be dry cleaned. “Karl’s grown up now. Has a job, roommates. I think, even, a girlfriend, though he’s being cagey about that. This day would come, sooner or later.”
I looked back at him. “I lost you when I was forty-two. Wasn’t any easier then, you know.”
“If you knew you were wrong – wrong about how this would affect them – would it change your thinking?”
I sat up abruptly, earning disgruntled “rooof!” from Trent. “What do you mean?”
Compassion filled his eyes, and he spoke as gently as I’d ever heard him. “I’m sorry, Jilly. There’s no way to sugar-coat this. Caroline was livid at you, as you’d expect. But she was even angrier at herself. She felt she’d failed you, when you’d needed her love the most. She convinced herself it was all her fault.”
“No!!! It wasn’t!” I was trembling. Pops was suddenly the ghost of Christmas yet to come, and I knew it would only get worse.
“She tried to dull the pain, the usual ways. Alcohol. Drugs. She died about two years after you did. Overdose.”
“Nooooooooo!” My scream split the heavens. How could the pain be this great? Damn it, I’d died to stop the pain!
“It didn’t work out so well for Karl, either, Jill.”
“Stop! Stop! I don’t . . . I can’t . . . “ I bolted up, causing the hound to yelp, and ran.
His voice followed me, effortlessly. Like it was in my ear. “Jill, honey. You’ve got to stop running sometime.”
I stopped, defeated. The old man with the bad swing had been right. What a complete clusterfuck I’d made of everything. Oh, my sweet love!!!
Turning back was the hardest thing I’d ever done. Pops was still where I'd left him, calming Trent down from the indignity of my abrupt departure. I walked back to them, slowly, bent down and rubbed Trent’s always itchy snout. “Sorry, boy.”
“Wooof!”
I looked at Pops. “Your friend . . . said something about owing you a mulligan?”
He nodded. “Yeah. Pete was desperate to win a round, so I gave him one when his first shot off the 13th hole ended up in the sandpit.”
“Pete? Like, Saint Peter? And you’re beating him at golf?”
“He may be a saint, Jill, but that don’t make him Arnold Palmer. Besides, like I always told you, ability . . .”
“. . . is no substitute for practice. I remember.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, I might have said that more times than I shoulda. But Pete’s a busy guy, he doesn’t get much practice, and no one can teach him a proper grip, ’cuz, he’s, like, 'Saint Peter' an’ everything. So, yeah. He owes me one.”
I looked at him intently. “Tell me what it means.”
“You get to go back . . . you pick the spot. And start again, going from where you were then.”
“If I go back to when I was first dating Caroline and tell her then . . . will she still accept me?”
He stood back up, looking down at me as I loved my dog. “I don’t know. I only know the results of the future you created, just now.”
I could only look up at him, trying to weigh his words. “It could turn out worse! I mean, if she said ‘no,’ Karl would never even be born!”
He said, patiently, “It could. I’ve known mulligans that went wilder than the original shot.”
I snorted. “You’ve hit mulligans that were wilder than your original shot.”
“Nice of you to remember!” Then he looked serious and crouched back down beside me. “I don’t know what’ll happen, Jill . . . but you’d be hard pressed to end up worse than you did. It was bad. For you, for Caroline, for my grandson, even for the EMT who had to pry you out of that car. The only one who wasn’t affected was your Mom, and that’s just ’cuz she can’t even remember her own name, now.”
I thought about it carefully. “Almost any spot I pick, I should do better . . . especially knowing what I know now.”
He shook his head. “You won’t, though. Sorry. You’ll only remember your life – the parts that happened after the spot you pick – for a couple of minutes after you get back. Beyond that . . . it’s a new timeline. You won’t remember a thing – it won’t even trouble your dreams.”
I gave a rueful smile. “No buying into Google at the IPO, huh?”
“Shoulda listened to me, kiddo.”
“I know.” I rose. “Okay . . . . I’m . . . I’ll go back. I’ve got to make this right. For Caroline and Karl. Even for the EMT. I’ve got to.”
He got to his feet and said, “C’mon, then.” The three of us walked back the way we came. Trent, as usual, ranged this way and that, checking for smells. I wondered if there was anything worth smelling here.
“Jill . . . You want to do right by Caroline and Karl, and you’re right to put them first. I’d do the same. But . . . spare a thought for yourself, too, would you?”
“Me?” I snorted. “Why?”
He stopped me, grabbing both shoulders, his face suddenly contorted with pain. “Oh, girl! How ’bout just ’cuz I love you to pieces, you are the whole world to me, and I never even saw you properly! Maybe if I had, none of this would of happened. I am so sorry!” He pulled me into a bear hug and cried so hard I thought he’d burst.
And I cried too, right there with him. “Pops . . . Pops! It’s okay. It’s gonna be okay. I’ll fix it, Daddy! I promise, I’ll fix it!”
That just made him cry harder.
“You were the best father ever,” I said, fiercely. “Don’t you dare think otherwise!”
He broke our embrace and looked away, taking a moment to wipe his eyes. “Well . . . don’t you worry about me, Jilly. I’ll be fine. Me’n Pete and the dog ‘n all. Just . . . take care of yourself, will you? Spare a little love for the person you are?”
“Okay, Daddy. I will.”
“That’s my girl. C’mon now, let’s stop that idiot before his muscle memory locks on his current excuse for a golf swing.”
We started walking again.
“Daddy . . . is this your place, now? Did you get to heaven?”
He chuckled. “Story for another day, Jilly. You’ll find out when you get back.”
We heard him before we saw him.
Swoosh . . . crack!
“Oh, God damn it!”
“Pete!!! Pete!!! Not like that! How many times do I have to show you?” Pops was never rational about golf.
“Don’t start on me, Karl!” he warned. He looked at me. “You ready? He explained it all to you?”
Deep breath. “Yes, sir. What do I need to do?”
“Just focus on a moment. Your choice. Visualize it. Where you were. Who was with you. The sounds. The smells. . . . then, all you have to do is step forward, into the moment. Carpe Diem and all that.”
I nodded, the motion shaky. I looked around, bent and clapped my hands, and Trent came lumbering over.
“Wooof!”
My hands caressed his head, his silky, floppy, perfect long ears. “I love you, boy! Miss you every day!” Then I stood. “Pops . . . Daddy. I’ll do better. And I’ll be back!”
“I know, honey. Go on now!” His eyes were misty.
I turned back to the Saint and closed my own eyes, following his instructions. The moment rose around me, everything as clear and sharp as the instant it had happened. “Ready.”
“Just step forward, and the moment’s yours.”
So I did.
– The end.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
CHAPTER ONE: CAMRYN’S VIEW
December, 2022
“Son. Of. A. Bitch.” The words slipped out, though quietly. There was no-one else in my office. Screaming wouldn’t help, though God knows, I felt like giving it a try.
I’d expected to lose the Motion to Dismiss. There was no way – none – that the Department of Justice would be able to convince Judge Ritchie to dismiss the state’s criminal prosecution on constitutional grounds. Not when the law involved a prohibition on the use or prescription of puberty blockers or hormone therapy to treat gender dysphoria in minors. He’d made his views about “transsexuals” – his term – abundantly clear during the motion hearing.
Probably just as well neither he, nor his staff, nor anyone from the State Attorney General’s Office had bothered to research my background. They wouldn’t have had to look very hard.
Despite the Judge’s retrograde views about trans people, the sheer vehemence of the opinion – the sneering condescension with which he treated both the constitutional arguments and, even worse, the poor souls who were being prosecuted, still managed to surprise and appall me. Prosecuted? Persecuted, was closer to the mark.
They weren’t my clients – not technically. I represent the federal government, and we had just appeared as intervenors in the case. Still, I felt like somehow I’d failed them.
I found myself staring at my ring, yet again. Not the beautiful diamond that my fiancé – my fiancé! – had given me just days before, but the smaller, simpler ring that I wore on the pinkie of my right hand. Plain silver, worked in a flowing, Celtic design.
Tina’s ring.
“Well, that purely sucked. You okay?” My boss, Lally Wissert, was leaning against the frame of my open door. Clearly, she’d already read the decision. I waved her in and she perched on one of the chairs in front of my desk.
“No. I mean, I was expecting the loss, like I told you. But . . . I didn’t expect to feel dirty after I read the ruling!”
“Dirty? Seriously? Don’t let a jackass like Ritchie get under your skin!”
I shook my head. “Sorry, I wasn’t clear. His views about transpeople aren’t going to affect how I view myself or anyone else. I’m way past all that. But . . . I’m an officer of the court. I’m part of this whole system, you know? And it’s my duty to somehow respect it. I read this . . . this!” I waved my hand disgustedly at the opinion staining my computer monitor.
“Turd? Dingleberry? Piece of crap?” Lally offered.
“Right. And I think, what am I even doing here?”
“Fighting for the angels, even when we’re in hell. Someone’s got to do it.”
“Yeah. I know.”
I guess I didn’t sound sincere enough; Lally was observing me closely. “You okay with this, Camryn? I know you don’t want to be ‘the trans lawyer’ in the Civil Rights Division. I just didn’t have anyone else I could throw at this one when it came through the door.”
I looked at Tina’s ring again. She’d kept it as a talisman through years that she’d been locked up in a mental institution for her “deviance.” It had been a way for her to keep faith with the woman she knew herself to be. After I’d helped her get the insurance she needed to finally obtain gender-affirming care, and after my old law firm had helped her get a settlement for some of the wildly illegal abuse she’d suffered, she gave me the ring before she left for a new life in Colombia. She said she didn’t need the reminder anymore.
I expect she had known that sometimes, I did.
“It’s an honor, Lally,” I said softly. I met her eyes and smiled. “Look, I don’t want to do trans cases exclusively, and I haven’t. But I have no problem taking them. No problem at all!”
“Good!” She rose and moved back to the door with her signature energy. But she looked back before disappearing and said, “losing sucks, pure and simple. Let’s kick some ass and win the next one.”
I was still brooding about the decision when my phone rang. The caller ID said “Sloan & Hardcastle,” the firm that represented the criminal defendants. I picked up. “Hey Shelby. You feel as shitty as I do?”
“No, Camryn, I do not feel ‘shitty.’ I feel furious! Ballistic! Burn-the-fucking-courthouse-to-the-ground mad!” Shelby O’Meara, the young partner who had argued the case before Judge Ritchie, was not the sort of person who hid her feelings well. She was funny, fierce and irreverent, and I’d enjoyed working with her tremendously. But I had never heard her in such a rage.
“I’m with you, woman,” I said fervently. “Hundred percent. Make that a thousand percent. How are your clients?”
“Doctor Cohen is stoic, as usual. I’d prepared him for it, I guess. But Debbie’s a wreck, and her Dad’s almost as bad. God damn it! Even if he didn’t rule in our favor, that bastard Ritchie could at least have pretended to act like a Judge!”
I had nothing to say to that. I was struggling hard to maintain any sense of propriety where Judge Ritchie was concerned. So I tried to steer the discussion to something practical. “I assume you’re going to take a shot at an interlocutory appeal, right?” Normally, decisions on motions to dismiss couldn’t be appealed until a final judgment had been entered on the case, but courts allow immediate – “interlocutory” — appeals in some circumstances.
“Since the Rules of Professional Conduct and the criminal law prevent me from just going downtown and pounding that asswipe ‘Judge’ into santorum, sure. Absolutely. I even think we’re likely to get it.” Shelby calmed down just enough to explain her reasoning, and I found myself nodding along. Her righteous anger hadn’t affected her always-razor-sharp mind in the slightest.
When she was finished laying out her strategy, she asked, “Will DOJ join the petition?”
“I’m sure we will, though I’ll obviously have to run that up the chain here. Who knows? Maybe they’ll even let me present the argument for the government, if the appeal goes forward.”
There was a moment’s silence on the line, then Shelby said, “That’d be a good idea, Camryn. Just so you know, though, I think maybe I’m going to ask someone else here to argue for the Defendants, if we get the chance.”
I was dumbfounded. Shelby knew the case backwards and forwards, and she was no shrinking violet. She loved being in court just as much as I did, and she was an extremely effective advocate. I said, tentatively, “Really?”
She laughed. “I’m not getting soft, believe me! But one of our senior partners is a retired justice on the state Supreme Court. Everyone respects the hell out of him. The dean of the state’s appellate bar. I want Debbie and Tom to know we are sending our very best.”
“You are the very best, Shelby!” I said with conviction.
“Thanks for that. But seriously . . . you’d need to meet him to understand. He was the face of the Court for fifteen years. No-one ever even thought about running against him in an election. If Roger Danforth stands up in Court to defend trans rights, that’ll send the kind of message little ol’ me can’t deliver.”
I thought about the attitudes I’d encountered since I came out of my egg nearly three years before. “Okay. Would someone like that be willing to do it?”
She chuckled. “Like I said, you’ll need to meet him. I’m not worried about it.”
“Good morning, Judge. Your nine o’clock has arrived; I put her in the Jacoby Conference Room.”
“Thank you, Trudy. Please ask Shelby to join us; I’ll be right down.” I hung up the phone and rose, but just as I was about to grab the file I stopped. Yes, I was a retired state Supreme Court justice, and the attorney I was going to meet was only five years out of law school. No matter. She worked for the U.S. Department of Justice and she represented the people of the United States of America. I would show appropriate respect.
I straightened my tie, retrieved my charcoal gray suit jacket, and put it on.
She was sitting with her back to the window, laptop open. When I entered, she rose smoothly and came around the end of the table, hand extended. “Justice Danforth! It’s an honor to meet you. I’m Camryn Campbell.”
I smiled and shook her outstretched hand. She was tall in heels, but I’d expected that. Her conservative navy blue suit suggested that she adhered to my own notions of courtesy and respect, however outdated they had become. “Ms. Campbell. It’s very good to meet you.”
“Please, call me Camryn,” she smiled and straightened. Her natural posture wasn’t quite ramrod straight . . . but it was pretty damned close. Her eyes were startlingly blue and almost unnervingly direct.
“If you can be persuaded to call me Roger,” I countered. “We’re colleagues on this one.”
She looked momentarily uncomfortable and blushed slightly, which made her look younger. “Your Honor . . . you may have retired from the bench, but I still can’t imagine calling you by your first name.”
I shook my head, despairing. “I can’t break anyone else of the habit, either,” I sighed. “At least my family still calls me Roger . . . when they’re feeling polite!”
Shelby chose that moment to walk in. “Hey, Camryn,” she said, smiling, then looked at me. “Couldn’t talk her into it, could you?”
I threw up my hands. “A retired judge is just an old fart with a law degree!”
“Exactly right, Judge,” my partner said, cheekily. “Which is why you can call me ‘Shelby,’ and you can call my distinguished colleague from DOJ ‘Camryn,’ and we’ll bend protocol and call you ‘Judge Danforth.’ ‘Justice’ sounds so pretentious.”
Ms. Campbell smiled and gave Shelby a conspiratorial wink.
Ms. Campbell is – by reputation, anyhow – an accomplished attorney, and Shelby O’Meara is a dynamo, a fighter’s fighter whose perfectionism and drive had more than earned the early decision bringing her into the partnership. But I had been a prodigy myself, in the distant mists of history, and I had shown attorneys and judges a generation or more my senior the same sort of deference.
I just had no idea, back when I was young and being oh-so-polite, how old and decrepit I was making them feel.
Well, life keeps shoving lessons at you, whether you want them or not. It was time to give in with good grace, so I did. “Let’s get started, then.”
I moved to the table and we all sat. “I’ve already said this to Shelby, Camryn, but I wanted you to know I think you both did an outstanding job on the motion to dismiss. The loss wasn’t any fault of yours; Clarence Darrow couldn’t have convinced Judge Ritchie. Not if it meant acknowledging that transgender people might have rights!”
I had been surprised when Shelby had come to ask me to argue the appeal, since I have no background in the field of transgender rights. It was just an abstraction to me. But that stopped being the case just as soon as I’d met our clients. Once I’d gotten to know Debbie and her dad, once I’d seen what the government was doing to them – the government of my state, damn it! – it became intensely personal for me. So Judge Ritchie’s dismissive opinion left my blood boiling.
I tamped down on my anger, though, since I didn’t want the meeting to devolve into an unproductive session of bitching and moaning. “I’m frankly surprised that he allowed an interlocutory appeal of the constitutional issues.”
Shelby shrugged. “You know my feeling, Judge – he wanted the state Supreme Court to have a chance to weigh in before the federal court does.”
“Maybe,” I responded. “Probably, even. And my former colleagues have no doubt fast-tracked the briefing and argument for the same reason. In any event, Camryn, I’m delighted that Lally Wissert prevailed on the rest of your management to let you argue the appeal for the government. You deserve it.”
I was very well acquainted with Camryn’s boss – a former clerk of mine who had gone on to clerk for a judge on the D.C. Circuit before joining DOJ. Her star had risen fast on raw talent and an enviable work ethic; now she was the deputy chief of the Civil Rights Division.
Camryn’s smile was crooked. “Thank you, sir. Though, to be honest, I think what you’re seeing is less a vote of confidence in my ability, and more a lack of confidence that your ‘former colleagues’ will be . . . ah . . . receptive to our arguments. No matter how well presented. I’m just taking one for the team.”
“Carefully phrased,” I acknowledged. “But I’m afraid your management is right. Best-case scenario, we’re looking at a six-one loss. The only one of the current justices I served with is Ellie Taft. She conservative – traditionally conservative – but her vote might conceivably be in play. That’s it, though.”
“We thought Justice Keller might at least consider the Equal Protection argument,” Camryn offered.
I shook my head emphatically. “Not a chance. I can see where you’re coming from, after his concurring opinion in Moody, but . . . no. Think about his limiting analysis in Mann from last term, and Striker three years ago.”
She inclined her head in acknowledgement. “We did think it was a long shot.”
“And, of course,” Shelby interjected, “two of the justices – including the chief – pretty much campaigned on upholding the law in the last election.”
Camryn nodded. “Naturally, we’ll move to recuse . . . and naturally, they’ll deny the motion.”
“Because no-one could possibly question their fairness and impartiality,” Shelby said, snidely.
I couldn’t really blame her sarcasm, even though it made me uncomfortable. I used to think judicial elections made some sense, if only as a check against my brethrens’ tendency to see themselves as philosopher kings. But these days? Yikes.
Again, I decided to try to move the discussion in a less emotional direction. “Well, it seems we’re in agreement that this round’s a loss, and we need to be focused on winning at the U.S. Supreme Court.”
“Right,” Camryn agreed. “Given the rulings we’re hoping to see from the Eighth and Eleventh Circuits in the Arkansas and Alabama cases, the issue of civil and criminal penalties for treating trans minors will end up there sooner rather than later. We want to use this case to increase our odds of winning there.”
Interesting. “What, in your view, is the best set up?”
She hit me with that direct gaze again. “Obviously, we need to make all of the arguments we hope to preserve for the high court. But, honestly . . . so long as we’ve got that base covered, the worse the state Supreme Court’s ruling looks, the better it might be.”
Shelby winced. “Ouch. I’m expecting ‘bad’ already; I hate to root for ‘worse.’”
“But Camryn’s right,” I responded, no happier about it than anyone else at the table. “I don’t put much faith in the U.S. Supreme Court when it comes to protecting the transgender community, but states targeting a disfavored group so blatantly might – maybe – give just enough of the justices pause. Especially if the state Supreme Court’s opinion upholding the law is itself . . . . intemperate.”
“In that sense,” Camryn added, looking at Shelby apologetically, “it will only help us that Chief Justice Wilkins and Justice Taverner won’t recuse, despite their past advocacy for the law.”
Shelby nodded, her expression sour.
But I expected she’d like the other necessary part of the strategy even less. “I’m generally opposed to trying cases in the court of public opinion, but I assume Justice is in agreement that we’re going to need a strong PR campaign going in the background.”
This time, Camryn’s nod was emphatic. “Absolutely. We’re going to be playing whack-a-mole with these laws for years. States are going to keep coming up with clever ways to reach the result they want while adhering on paper to whatever guidelines the Supreme Court sets.” She shook her head, frustrated. “That won’t change until the political calculus changes – until the voters see, and reject, what’s being done in their name. We need to make a forceful case in public that these laws are unjust, that they unfairly discriminate, and that people – real flesh-and-blood people, like your clients – are being harmed. Badly harmed.”
There, I thought she’d hit the nail on the head. “There will be a lot of coverage of the oral argument,” I said carefully. “Local coverage, but also national. Cameras rolling on the courthouse steps kind of stuff. It’s . . . not the sort of thing that plays to a lawyer’s typical skill set.” I wasn’t quite sure how to phrase my concern politely. I’ve seen plenty of good courtroom lawyers make complete fools of themselves in front of television cameras.
But she smiled, understanding. “We’ve got people who will help prepare me for that. And . . . I’ve had some odd twists in my career, so I’m more used to public speaking and public relations than I used to be.”
That made me chuckle. “Shelby mentioned that. A podcast, right? Something about opera?”
“Exactly!” There was a twinkle in her blue eyes. “Not at all the same thing, but . . . it did improve my ability to communicate more naturally with non-lawyers in a public setting. It’s been a surprisingly big help to me.”
“I’m sorry to admit I didn’t catch any episodes, but I’m completely tone-deaf so it would have been wasted on me.” I paused, then changed gears. “There may be protests, too. Again.”
“Yes. Shelby and I dealt with some of that after the hearing before Judge Ritchie.” She shrugged. “Not much we can do about it.”
I put both hands on the conference room table, palms down. “Camryn. It will be worse at the Supreme Court. Depend on it. And . . . Shelby mentioned that no one picked up on the fact that you’re trans yourself. You can’t count on that this round. Someone’s going to check your bio, and you can bet that word will get out. You’ll have a target on your back as big as a bull elephant.”
“I understand. But just living here is becoming dangerous, for trans people. At the end of the day, I get to go home to a jurisdiction that doesn’t consider me a second-class citizen. They don’t.”
“True. But they aren’t standing on the courtroom steps, poking the bear.” This was something she and her superiors needed to take seriously.
“I read your biography, sir. You volunteered, didn’t you? Vietnam?” Camryn’s expression was difficult to read, and her voice was surprisingly soft.
I nodded, interested to see where she was going with this.
“My fiancé Rob served too.” She looked down at a ring – a truly impressive specimen – on her left hand. “Afghanistan. I’m ashamed to say I didn’t. Maybe I wasn’t brave enough. Or selfless enough, or enough of a patriot. I probably wouldn’t have made much of a soldier.” She raised her eyes to meet mine again. “But I’m a better person now, and a better patriot. This is my fight.”
I held her determined gaze for a long moment, before nodding. “Okay, Ms. Campbell. I’ll be right there with you. But you tell Lally that her old boss says you could use some protection when you're down here. And remind her, in case she’s gone native and forgotten, that this is an open carry state!”
She smiled. “I’ll be sure to pass that along, sir.”
We got down to brass tacks, and had a good discussion of ways to ensure that both our briefs and our oral arguments would be mutually reinforcing while minimizing redundancy. When we wrapped up, we had a game plan and all of the necessary tasks were assigned.
Some hours after our meeting, I looked up to see Shelby in my doorway. “What did you think?” she asked.
“Not what I expected, though I can’t pinpoint why. Your descriptions were certainly accurate.”
She sat in one of the chairs in front of my desk. “Knows how to keep her cool, that’s for sure.”
I toyed with a pen. “That’s good. Several of the newer justices . . . they'll be brutal. Think it's some kind of a stick in their eye, that the feds sent a transwoman to argue in front of them.”
“Well . . . that’s pretty much exactly what DOJ is doing, isn’t it?” She gave me an appraising look.
I snorted. “It’s not like she isn’t qualified!”
“No argument. But so are scores of her colleagues. Like you said, they’re poking the bear. Deliberately.”
I set the pen down. “The bear, in this case, is pretty unlikely to take that well.”
“I think that’s what they’re counting on.”
I thought about Lilly Wissert as I had known her years before — driven, pragmatic, eyes always firmly fixed on her objective. Probably right. “I hope Lally saw fit to tell Camryn.”
“She’s a smart cookie.” Shelby smiled again, with a predatory gleam. “I think she’s counting on it, too.”
Two of our clients were accompanying Judge Danforth and me to court, everyone piled in one van. I had come to know them both well, this past year. Just regular folks dealing with an unusual circumstance as best they could, only to find themselves on the wrong side of anti-trans legislation rammed through a legislature eager to prove its conservative bona fides. Their safety was in my hands, and I felt the weight of that responsibility with every fiber of my being.
“How are you doing, Debbie?”
Truth is, she didn’t look so good, in the back of the van, shaking like a leaf. If it weren’t for her father by her side, his arm around her shoulders, she’d probably have fallen apart completely.
“O . . . okay, Shelby,” she stammered. “I’m just . . . you know . . . it’s too much!”
“It’s okay, honey,” her dad said, his voice horse with emotion. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”
They didn’t need to be here, and I’d tried to convince them to stay home. Dr. Cohen hadn’t come, and he was as much a target as the Stevensons. But, while the fines and penalties would be very significant to him, it was personal for Debbie and Tom.
So they had both insisted. “They need to look us in the eye, Shelby,” Tom had said. “The judges. That horse’s ass AG. They need to understand . . . we’re people. Not toys for their frickin’ games. People.”
“Getting in and out will be the worst of it,” I assured Debbie. “The rest of it’s just legal arguments. You don’t have to do anything. Just be there.” I had told her this numerous times, but I couldn’t think what else to say. It was just legal argument, but the consequences of a loss – which, no doubt, today would be – were potentially devastating for the young transgirl, and her dad, and her doctor.
This is evil, I thought, for the hundredth time since I’d first met my clients. Evil! Damn them all to hell! Damn the legislature, AND the holier-than-thou Governor eyeing a Senate race, AND that sanctimonious prig of an Attorney General who hopes to take the Governor’s place when he does!
From the shotgun seat, the Judge turned around and looked back, gray eyes framed by the creases of age and compassion. “Debbie?” When he had her attention, he said, “We’re going to take care of you. Today will be bad, but the story doesn’t end here. They aren’t getting to you, except through us. Except through me.”
It made me so glad I had asked him to argue the appeal. Over the decades of his professional life, he had stood for integrity, compassion, and justice. When Roger Danforth spoke, with his chiseled face, his abundant white hair and his rich baritone, people took it to the bank.
Debbie visibly calmed.
We hit trouble more than a block from the courthouse. Protesters were overflowing the square outside the building and spilling over into the street. Someone had a bullhorn, and traffic came quickly to a standstill.
The Judge got on his phone. “George! How are you? . . . Yes, it’s bad. . . Uh huh. Right. . . Right. . . I need to get my clients in without being mobbed. Can you arrange the back entrance? . . . I expect so. . . . Give us ten minutes; we need to make a bit of a detour. . . . Thank you, George!”
He ended the call and looked at the driver. “We need to go to the back of the building, off of Church Street.”
“Might take a bit to get ourselves extracted, Judge,” the driver responded, apologetically.
“Yup. You’ve got ten minutes.”
“On it, boss.” The driver started making micro turns, which caused people in neighboring cars to get upset and honk their horns, adding to the chaos.
“Are we going to be safe?” Debbie’s voice was soft, intended only for her dad’s ears, but I heard it anyway, and it pierced my heart.
“They don’t get to you except through us,” I reminded her fiercely.
It took the full ten minutes, but we managed to arrive where we were supposed to be. The Judge had us all primed, and we stepped out in good order. We walked purposefully, but not quickly, to the back door, which was held open by an older man in a marshal’s uniform who gave the boss a big smile. “How are you, Judge?”
“Downright perky, George,” he responded cheerfully. “Let’s get inside, shall we?”
Once the door was closed, the Judge asked the marshal whether Camryn had arrived safely.
“Oh, yes, sir! She got here a bit earlier than that lot outside expected. There were only a couple on site, and, ah . . . she pretty much marched right over them, with that big paralegal of hers.”
“Excellent!” He looked at our clients. “I’m afraid you aren’t permitted in the attorneys’ cloakroom, but the Courtroom’s open now, so you can go and get a seat.”
“I’ll bring them in, Judge,” I offered. “Join you in a couple.”
He waved, and walked briskly towards the attorneys’ reserved area. I knew he was anxious to make sure Camryn was safe.
The bullhorn was very audible in the marble foyer, though it wasn’t possible to make out what the protester was saying. It sounded like he was leading some kind of call-and-response, but all I could hear was his sharp and garbled voice, and a growling, angry response. The sound of a mob.
The sound of evil.
I guided poor Debbie and Tom through the ornate wooden doors leading into the courtroom. As the doors closed behind us, the sounds of the mob faded. Mercifully.
We walked across the mosaic tile depicting the State’s Great Seal, and I got them seated on one of the benches. The type that wouldn’t be out of place in a Congregational Church. I snorted internally. Ought to add kneelers, like the Catholics, so people could watch the proceedings on their knees. That would give those bastards on the bench a frickin’ orgasm, wouldn’t it?
“Okay, guys. Our argument is first on the calendar. Just hold tight; it’ll be over before you know it.”
Tom reached up and gave my hand a squeeze. “Thanks, Shelby. I don’t know what we’d have done without you. Really!”
I wanted to cry . . . I wanted to scream. Better, I wanted to put on my sparring gloves and just beat the ever-living shit out of a long, long line of people. Recreational boxing is my favorite form of exercise, and my right fist can do a truly satisfying amount of damage. I looked at the broad dais where the justice’s high-backed seats were arranged in a shallow curve. Today, the Governor wouldn’t even be at the top of the list of people I wanted to maim. He might not even make it to the top five.
But I gave my clients a brave smile, assured them we would see them soon, and went to join the Judge.
When I entered the attorney’s cloakroom, he was engaged in an intense conversation with our opponents. Because this was such a high-profile case, the Attorney General intended to argue it himself.
So he can put it in his frickin’ campaign ads, I thought sourly.
The state AG had his Solicitor General with him, an absurdly young woman who looked freakishly camera-ready at all times, as well as Jim Stone, the AAG who had handled the case in front of Judge Ritchie. Stone wasn’t a bad guy, but he was defending an unjust law. In my book, that made him no different than the Solicitor General who defended the forcible detention of Japanese Americans in Korematsu.
He’s a tool.
Camryn was standing to the side. Despite her height, she looked almost petite next to a stocky, well-muscled man with a buzz cut in a dark gray suit, who must be the paralegal the marshal had mentioned.
Paralegal my ass! “Paramilitary” is more like it! That guy screams “security!”
“Howard,” the Judge was saying, “They’re worked up, they're armed, and they’re dangerous. I’m not saying you need to clear the plaza – though you did last year, for the BLM protest during the Carly S. hearing! – I’m just saying we need a more visible police presence.”
“It’s nothing like last year,” the AG said heatedly. “Citizens got a right to protest!”
“Uh huh,” the Judge responded in a dry tone, unconvinced by the AG’s facile distinction. “And my clients and I, and the Justice Department’s attorney, have a right to go to and from court safely.” The AG still looked mulish, so the Judge added, “Just talk to the Governor, would you? If something happens out there, he’s not going to be happy about it.”
The AG grudgingly said, “All right, Judge. I’ll talk to him.” He and his entourage moved to the other side of the room.
Camryn looked cooly professional in black-on-black, a well-tailored jacket and pencil skirt with a plain silk shell, her hair pinned up in an arrangement that was probably more complicated than it appeared to be, and a simple string of blue stones around her neck. She turned her matching blue eyes on me and smiled warmly. “Good morning, Shelby!”
“Ready to face the dragons?”
“Once the Judge is done with them, I’ll just be mopping up their remains. No problem!” She leaned in close and said, “Actually, I’m nervous as hell. Just pre-performance jitters.”
I shook my head. “Could have fooled me! Actually, you did.”
“My old boss used to say, ‘Never let ’em see you sweat!’” She smiled at the memory.
“Sound advice,” the Judge said, joining the conversation. “If it makes you feel better, the whole butterflies in the stomach thing does die down some after you’ve done a couple dozen of these things.”
“But it never goes away, does it?” she asked.
“Mine never has,” he said with a broad and infectious smile. “That’s how I know I’m still alive!”
“We’d probably better make our way in,” I said, glancing at the old-fashioned clock over the doors into the courtroom. Why put Roman numerals on a clock, for God’s sake? Are we scheduled to kick off at X o'clock?
“Right you are,” the Judge replied.
The Supreme Court’s chamber was no better or worse than any other courtroom I’d ever been in. Lots of wood paneling, dark with age. The railing – the “bar of the court” – separating the benches where the public sat and the inner area reserved for the justices, their staff, and the attorneys presenting arguments. The two long library tables where counsel would sit, a podium between them, separated from the dais by the high-fronted stations for the Court Reporter and the Clerk. The flags flanking the door behind the Chief Justice’s seat where the judges would enter. The usual portraits of long-dead justices, looking suitably learned and mildly constipated. It must have been the style.
Because this was the state Supreme Court, there was also an upper gallery for visitors, essentially a loft about twenty feet above ground level. It was filling up fast. The lower level, which had been reserved for litigants and the press for purposes of today’s hearing, was also getting a bit full.
Looking at the gathering crowd I thought, bitterly, Who wants to miss a bear baiting?
As soon as we entered the courtroom, Camryn made a bee-line to where Debbie and Tom were sitting. “Mr. Stevenson . . . Debbie. I’m Camryn Campbell from the Justice Department.” She shook their hands, then turned her startling eyes on Debbie. “I want you to understand, I’m here representing the people of the United States of America. That’s my job. So when I get up there today, I’m not just speaking for myself. Your government – your country – is with you today. Your fight is our fight. All of ours.”
Debbie’s eyes were huge. She whispered, “Is it true? You’re trans, too?” She looked around, afraid she might have been overheard.
Camryn reached out to lay a gentle hand, fingers immaculately manicured, on Debbie’s forearm. “Yes, I am.” Her voice was low and warm. Intimate. Then she smiled, looking suddenly defiant. “Openly, publicly, and proudly!” She gave Debbie’s arm a squeeze of reassurance and made her way through the swinging gate and over to the table on the left-hand side, her stride confident and purposeful.
Damn, girl! You got style!
The Judge and I gave our clients a final smile, then followed.
The AG and his team came in a few minutes later and set up at the right-hand table. The courtroom was less quiet than usual, with a continuous low buzz of sound coming from the upper gallery. But it was still a courtroom – an environment that tends to put a damper on people.
One can hope, anyway.
After a few minutes of waiting, a sharp rap came from the door behind the dais, and we all stood.
The bailiff sang out a redundant “All rise!” as the justices filed in and took their seats. Five men, two women, all lilly white. Their average age was probably over sixty. Not the best demographic for an argument about transgender rights.
Ironically, the silver-haired woman sitting to the left of the Chief Justice, 78-year-old Eleanor Lynch Taft, was probably the most open-minded of the lot, even though she was the eldest by several years.
The Chief Justice, a handsome man with just the right amount of silver at his temples, looked to his right and said, “Marshal, you may open court.”
“Oyez, Oyez.” It was the Judge’s friend George, mangling the old Norman French so that it sounded like an ironic cheer – Oh, yay! “The Supreme Court of the State is now open and in session in this place. Let all persons having business before this Court enter and be heard. God bless the State and this Honorable Court!”
“Be seated, everyone,” the Chief said. “The Clerk may call the first case.”
The clerk’s monotone followed. “Civil case number 22-164839, State ex rel. Howard Palmer, Attorney General, versus Thomas Stevenson et al.”
“Attorneys state their appearances,” the Chief commanded.
The Attorney General rose to his full height and squared his shoulders. It wasn’t quite as impressive as I expect he wished it were; he didn’t have enough height to hide his growing mass. But he had a powerful voice, and he put it to good use. “May it please the Court, Attorney General Howard Palmer for the State. With me are Solicitor General Stacy Ratchet and Assistant Attorney General James Stone.”
“Mr. Attorney General. Counsel. Welcome,” the Chief Judge acknowledged. He turned his attention to our table and gave a wintery smile. “Justice Danforth, it’s always good to see you here.”
I’ll just bet it is, I thought, keeping my features neutral.
The Judge rose, showing the AG how it’s done. He had the height, he was still trim, and his immaculately tailored midnight blue suit, snowy-white dress shirt and boldly-patterned tie in a perfect full windsor knot, all served to emphasize his natural gravitas. “Good morning, your Honor. Roger Danforth, Sloan and Hardcastle, for Defendant-Appellants Thomas and Debbie Stevenson and Dr. Jeffrey Cohen. I am joined at counsel table by my distinguished partner, Shelby O’Meara.”
“Welcome, Mrs. O’Meara – and, welcome back, Judge,” the Chief Justice responded. “You are splitting your time with the intervenor, correct?”
“Yes, your Honor. I will take fifteen minutes of our allotted time, reserving ten for the intervenor, with five minutes for rebuttal.”
“Very well. You may be seated.” The Chief Justice cast his eye on the last attorney standing, and his expression was downright frosty.
She didn’t wilt. “May it please the Court, Camryn Campbell, Department of Justice, on behalf of the United States of America, intervenor.”
“You are appearing pro hac vice, correct?” The Chief Justice’s question was precise, but the tone was cold.
“That’s correct, your Honor. The Court granted my pro hac application in January. Docket entry seven.”
“Mister Chief Justice? If I may inquire?” It was the aptly-named Justice Burleigh, beefy and pugnacious, seated second from the right.
The Chief waved his hand. “Of course.”
What the hell?
“Mr. Campbell,” the Justice said, stressing the male honorific. “Did you acquaint yourself with the rules of this Court, as you attested in your pro hac vice application?”
“It’s ‘Ms.’ your Honor,” Camryn said calmly. “And yes, I scrutinized the Court’s rules with great care.”
“May I direct your attention, counselor,” the Justice retorted, refusing to concede her preferred honorific, “to our rules concerning proper attire for attorneys appearing before the Court?”
“I am acquainted with them, your Honor,” she said gravely.
Was there a hint – just a hint – of a smile on her face? Had she seen this coming?
“Are you really?” Burleigh asked, sounding like he was poised to pounce.
“Yes, your honor. Actually, I bought this suit just for today’s argument; I thought the cut of my navy blue suit might be too informal to be considered ‘appropriate and conservative attire.’”
There was laughter from behind us, and the Chief Judge banged his gavel. “There will be order in this Courtroom!”
Justice Burleigh’s face darkened and he leaned forward, causing reverberation from his microphone. “On what planet is it ‘appropriate’ for a man to appear in court in a skirt, Mister Campbell?”
This time there were whistles and cheers from the upper gallery. The Chief Justice tapped his gavel, but said nothing.
“With respect, Justice Burleigh, the Court’s rules do not define appropriate attire, nor do they differentiate between clothing appropriate to men and women. And again, respectfully, it’s ‘Ms.’” Camryn’s tone remained courteous . . . but firm.
“No, it isn’t, Mister Campbell,” Burleigh shot back, his face florid with anger. “First, because ‘Miz’ is an abomination. Female attorneys in this Court are customarily addressed as ‘Mrs.’ if they are married, and ‘Miss’ if they are not. And second, I don’t care how you ‘identify,’ you can’t change what God decreed. You are no woman!”
The upper gallery positively cheered this speech, growing raucous.
“Order,” the Chief admonished mildly, once again tapping his gavel on the desk.
Camryn remained calm. “If I may suggest, your Honor, I had a case in Connecticut a few years ago, where the custom is to use ‘attorney’ as an honorific. It might provide a means for us to, perhaps, circumvent a debate on etiquette and address the merits of the dispute?”
“Does this look like a Connecticut courtroom, Mister Campbell?” Burleigh was practically sneering.
She looked around the courtroom carefully. “In all honesty, your Honor, one courtroom looks surprisingly like another.”
Chuckles from the floor earned some more gavel pounding, this time somewhat more robust.
“Don’t play games with me, young . . . .” Burleigh bit back what he had been about to say, which I’d swear was “woman.” “Are you in Connecticut?”
She looked at him directly, and her expression for once showed a measure of her feelings. But her words, and her tone, were completely proper. “No indeed, your Honor.”
“Then you will abide by the rules and customs of this Court! I will not address you by an honorific you are not entitled to, and you will appear here – if at all! – in clothing appropriate to your gender!”
The people in the gallery erupted. After a moment’s chaos, someone started chanting, “Lock her up! Lock her up!” apparently failing to notice that the words were completely at odds with Burleigh’s whole point.
I shook my head. Even the haters have trouble thinking of Camryn Campbell as a guy.
“Order!!! There will be order!!!” The Chief Justice hammered the gavel in earnest.
“Lock her up!!! Lock her up!!!”
The Chief was visibly angry now, realizing that his control over the situation was rapidly deteriorating. “There will be order, or I will direct the Marshal to clear the courtroom!”
The crowd ignored him. They were standing, clapping, cheering, thrilled at their suddenly-realized power to simply shut things down. “Lock her up!! Lock her up!!!”
Camryn looked at the Chief Justice. Nominally the presiding officer. Pitching her voice to be heard over the clamor of the crowd, she asked, “Does the Court agree with Justice Burleigh’s request?”
Before the Chief could respond, Burleigh shouted, “I am a justice of this Court! I don’t make ‘requests!’”
“Lock her up! Lock her up!”
“Order!!! Order!!!” the Chief was shouting, trying to be heard by the out-of-control crowd. It did nothing to enhance his stature. He hammered the gavel so hard that the handle broke. The head spun off, falling down behind the Clerk’s desk with a hard clatter that pierced the cacophony that filled the chamber.
“Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up! Lock her up!!!”
“Marshal, clear the courtroom!” the Chief barked, exasperated. “Get them out of here!”
George looked at his boss and shook his head. He couldn’t be heard over the crowd, but his one word response was clear nonetheless. “How?”
“Lock her up!!! Lock her up!!!”
The Chief Justice glared at George, then at the gallery. That didn’t help either, so he threw in the towel. Rising, he said, “The Court stands in recess. We will resume this argument tomorrow at noon.” He spun and stalked from the chamber.
The other justices rose to follow, and the bailiff shouted, “All rise!!!”
He was ignored.
The crowd in the upper chamber grew even louder. Someone threw a wadded paper. More began to follow, raining down on the main floor of the courtroom.
“Let’s get Tom and Debbie into the attorney’s lounge,” the Judge said. “Rules be damned!”
Camryn was still on her feet, unhurriedly putting her papers back into her leather attaché case. I shot her a look, then followed the Judge to help our poor clients.
“Lock her up!!! Lock her up!!!”
Tom and Debbie looked shaken to the core. Debbie was quivering, her face a mass of tears.
For the hundredth time, I thought, they should never have come. They should not have had to witness this.
“It’s okay,” the Judge told them. “It’s okay. Follow me, we’re going to a quieter place to regroup.”
I took Debbie’s elbow and led her to the door to the lawyers’ cloakroom, the Judge shepherding her numb-looking father.
The State's team was already inside. When the Solicitor General saw that we’d brought clients into the inner sanctum, she started to say something.
Her boss stopped her. “No,” he said sharply. He walked over to us and said to the Judge, “I’m sorry. That should never have happened.”
“You’re apologizing to the wrong person.” The Judge’s slate gray eyes were cold. “Anyway . . . what did you think would happen? All of you have been encouraging this! The Governor. The Chief Justice in his last campaign. You. And now Burleigh, making sure he doesn’t have a challenge from the right in next years’ election!”
“That’s not fair, Roger!” the AG replied heatedly.
I decided to add my two bits. “Talk to our clients about what's ‘fair.’ Go on. Look them in the eye and tell them this whole thing isn’t a goddamned political stunt, red meat for your base!”
The AG didn’t respond, his clenched jaw and tight lips betraying his fury.
“Howard,” the Judge said, “if that’s too much to ask, can you at least ensure our clients’ safety getting out of here? You are technically our State’s Chief Law Enforcement Officer.”
The AG jerked his head in reluctant assent, eyes blazing, and stalked off, his team following him out the door into the foyer. The noise of the crowd surged as the door opened, dropping once more as it closed behind Jim Stone.
Must be a damned thick door.
“Are you okay?” I asked Debbie. Stupid question. Of course she’s not okay!
Before she could respond, the door from the courtroom opened and Camryn walked in, her ‘paralegal’ and the sound of catcalls from the gallery following her. She looked around the room and, seeing we were alone, broke into a dazzling smile. “Well, that couldn’t possibly have gone any better, could it!”
The man with the gray suit and the buzz cut groaned. “Rob’s going to kill me.”
“Nonsense, Kyle,” she said, giving him a fond look. “He’d give you a medal, if he could, and if you didn’t have so many already.” She gave his shoulder a companionable squeeze. “He might very well kill me, but that’s another story.”
I smiled at her. “I wanted to ask you about your ‘paralegal.’”
The Judge’s eyes were twinkling. Tom and Debbie just looked confused.
“Sorry about that,” Camryn said. “This is Major Kyle Stewart, my fiancé's closest friend. When the Department decided it would send the wrong message if we had federal agents here, Kyle offered to come with me to provide some security. . . . Kyle, let me introduce Tom and Debbie Stevenson and their lawyers, retired Justice Roger Danforth and Shelby O’Meara.”
The Judge and the Major were sizing each other up. Something about them both . . . there was a similarity there. Or maybe a familiarity.
Finally, the Judge said, “Afghanistan?”
“Yes, sir,” Major Stewart replied easily.
“Counterinsurgency?”
“Yes, sir. Felt like old times, this morning. And not in a good way.”
“I’ll bet,” the Judge said dryly. “I’m assuming your assessment for getting out of here matches mine?”
“Be surprised if it didn’t,” he agreed. “Kind of a no-brainer. We’re safe here, so we stay put and wait for the cavalry to show up.”
The Judge nodded. “Yup. Well . . . we’ve got time, and I know for a fact there’s a deck of cards in here. Who likes poker?”
I could see that the Judge’s relaxed attitude was putting our clients at ease, making the morning’s terrors fade, at least a little. Playing along seemed like a good idea. I asked, “Dealer’s choice?”
“As you like it,” the Judge replied.
“I’m in,” said Camryn.
“I don’t know the rules,” Debbie said shyly.
“No worries, Debbie.” Camryn hit her with a terawatt smile. “Remember, I’m on your team.”
— The story will conclude with Chapter Four: Camryn’s View, which will be posted on Friday.
CHAPTER FOUR: CAMRYN’S VIEW
The Following Day, 11:45 a.m.
Kyle and I had arrived early again, and we were back in what was charmingly – if inaccurately – called the attorneys’ cloakroom. No one wears cloaks anymore, and the room is more of a lounge.
Shelby – intense, intelligent, Shelby – arrived a few minutes after we did. She was now pacing like a caged panther, her cell phone mashed to her ear. “Come on, dammit, answer the phone!”
It wasn’t really my place to tell her to relax, and besides, I shared her concern. After having to rely on a phalanx of State Police in full riot gear just to muscle through the chanting crowd to a waiting van yesterday, I was far from sanguine about how safe any of us were.
Kyle, of course, filtered the same concerns through his Army-instilled paranoia, and he had essentially unlimited access to my fiancé Rob’s ridiculously large pot of money. So we had gotten out of the van yesterday at a random intersection where he had arranged to be picked up by an Uber . . . which had dropped us off at a random office building . . . where we had walked briskly through the lobby and out the back door . . . where we were picked up by a car that drove us to a supermarket in the nearest suburb . . . where a man handed us keys to a rental car.
The man took Kyle’s key and went back to Sloan, Hardcastle, where he picked up our original rental car and took it back to the airport. Meanwhile, Kyle took a leisurely and roundabout drive until, convinced we were not being followed, he stopped in a random motel and got us adjacent rooms. We had, of course, perfectly good rooms at the Hilton downtown, but we would not be staying there. Oh, certainly not!
It sounds exciting, I suppose, but mostly it was tedious and I was pretty emotionally wrung out. When I had gently suggested to Kyle that he might be overdoing it, he said, “Listen, Cami. It’s your fight and you’re doing great. But it’s my fight, too. Trust me to handle this part.” I didn’t have any answer to that.
I had kept my cool yesterday – I felt really good about that – but I had been seething the entire time. For the profession, and even more, for the administration of justice and the rule of law. But most of all for poor Debbie, having to watch someone in a black robe humiliate another person, just for being trans.
Well . . . attempt to humiliate, anyhow. Burleigh’s ham-fisted efforts had pleased the peanut gallery, but that was about it. The news coverage had been positively brutal. Even conservative media outlets, which thrilled at Burleigh’s stand, were unimpressed by the Chief Justice’s inability to control his courtroom.
My bosses, of course, had been delighted with the coverage. Rob, stuck at home with a broken leg, had been apoplectic, but I’d talked him down. It had helped that I was able to assure him that there would be no mob today.
Recognizing that the optics of yesterday’s farce had not looked good for Team Transphobe, the Governor had closed off the area immediately around the courthouse to protesters. The Court itself had barred the public from observing today’s hearing. One pool reporter in the courtroom, but otherwise just the parties and their legal teams. Including, naturally, my diligent “paralegal.”
The rest of the press were in the plaza in front of the courthouse. Indeed, the AG and his team were outside right now, chatting them up. I was more than content to wait until after the hearing.
Especially since my own participation was likely to be brief. Late last night, we had received an electronic order from the Court. “Clarifying item 5.7 of the Court’s Guide for Attorneys, ‘appropriate attire’ means clothing that is conservative, professional, and gender-appropriate. Counsel for intervenor is specifically directed to comport with these standards during all court appearances in this matter.”
Well, as far as I was concerned, I was complying with the Court’s directive. I did change my top – I could scarcely wear it two days in a row – replacing yesterday’s black shell with a white silk blouse that had a demurely scooping neckline. I made sure it displayed no cleavage at all. None. Except to people who are significantly taller than me, and in my 3-inch heels, I almost hit six feet.
Of course, when the judges were seated behind their tall and imposing bench, they would be up rather higher than that, I suppose. Deary me, the poor boys will just have to avert their eyes, won't they?
I was amused to see that Shelby had defiantly opted for a pantsuit today. The style flattered her trim, toned, and powerful body. Was that, I wondered, “gender appropriate?” Well, if the Court is dumb enough to give her a hard time about it, all the better. Transpeople make great scapegoats and targets because there are so few of us. Women, on the other hand . . . .
She stopped pacing, put her phone down and looked at me. “He’ll be here. But . . . I’m ready, if he doesn’t make it.”
I rose and gave her my best smile. “I’m worried about the Judge, Shelby, after everything that’s happened. But I’m not remotely worried about you. Pretty much the same argument we did before Judge Ritchie, and you rocked!”
“Thanks.” She looked grateful for the vote of confidence, but what I had said was true. She knew this argument at least as well as the Judge. Maybe better. It was her case from the start, and she was the one who had convinced the firm’s pro bono committee to take it. Besides, we had preserved all of our arguments in the written briefs.
She looked at the clock again and muttered something.
“I didn’t catch that,” I said.
“Nothing . . . but, I guess we’d better get out there. Hopefully, he’ll get here in time.”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound upbeat, though my stomach was in knots. “Let’s do it!”
We walked into the courtroom, Kyle bringing up the rear. Shelby stopped to murmur something to Tom and Debbie, who had insisted on returning despite everything. It had been Debbie, to my surprise, who had said, “We can’t just let them run us off. We can’t.”
I gave her a big, cheerful, devil-may-care grin, hearing the voice of my mentor, Eileen O’Donnell, in my head. “Never let them see you sweat’ applies doubly to clients!” The next little bit was going to be unpleasant . . . but sometimes victory arrives in stealth, disguised as a beat-down.
Kyle sat with the Stevensons, lending them the comfort of his quiet and formidable presence.
At counsel table, Shelby left the seat closest to the podium for the Judge, taking the one next to it. I sat on her other side and began pulling papers from my attaché case. Not like I’ll need them.
Shelby’s phone vibrated with an incoming text. She grabbed it, checked the message, and said, “Oh, thank God! He says he was delayed, but he’ll be here in just a few minutes.”
I felt muscles between my shoulders loosen; I hadn’t even realized they were tight as the string on a steel crossbow. I knew there was nothing he could do to shield me from the Court’s self-righteous indignation, but I would still feel better having him at my side. More importantly, I was just relieved.
He's safe!
Shelby went up to the Clerk’s station and told her that Judge Danforth was on his way, but might be a minute or two late.
“I’ll let them know,” the woman replied, her tone registering severe disapproval. One does not arrive late to a hearing before the Supreme Court. Disrespectful.
Shelby came and resumed her seat. She looked my way and gave a barely perceptible head shake. They won’t wait.
The shrug of my shoulders was almost as undetectable. It is what it is.
The rap on the Justices’ door came at twelve o’clock precisely, and we all dutifully rose while they filed in and took their seats. The Marshal opened Court, we took our seats, and the Clerk called the case.
The Chief Judge turned his eyes on me. “Counsel for intervenor is present?”
Party time.
I rose. “I am, your Honor. Camryn Campbell for the United States.”
“Did you fail to receive our order from last night?”
“I received it, your Honor.”
“Was there, perhaps, something unclear about the order?” He sounded incredulous.
Fair enough; I was sounding respectful, and both of us were lying. “Not at all, your Honor. The order was perfectly clear.”
“Indeed,” he said pompously. “I thought so myself. So, since you received it, and you understood it, can I conclude that you have chosen to wilfully disregard a direct order from this tribunal?”
“Not at all, your Honor.” I adopted an earnest tone. “I followed the Court’s directive exactly.”
The Chief Justice’s brows gathered in thunderous disapproval. “I don’t care if you are here representing the administration in Washington, D.C. I will not tolerate disrespect for this Court! Am I clear! Your attire is not appropriate for your gender!”
“I assure you, your Honor, I am not playing games.” I needed all of my vocal training to keep my voice steady. “Based on careful observation, my attire is fairly standard for a female attorney. It therefore complies with the Court’s directive, since I’m a woman.”
Hear me roar.
Although it was obvious that the Chief Justice had told the other members of the Court that he, as the presiding officer, would handle the issue of my attire, Justice Burleigh could no longer contain himself. “You are nothing of the sort!”
Better and better. Lally will be SO pleased.
I looked at him and cocked my head. “With respect, your Honor, precisely how do you propose to determine that?”
“You don’t ask questions here!” He was incandescent.
Good.
The Chief Judge gave Burleigh a quelling look and raised a hand to stop him from saying more.
Time to take the initiative. “Mr. Chief Justice?”
He turned his attention back to me.
“At a speech before the Tattershall Rotary Club during last year’s election, you said, ‘Anyone who is confused about their gender should just go into the bathroom and check.’ Do you intend to assign someone to accompany me . . . for verification purposes?”
I’d never seen anyone actually turn purple before, but the Chief Justice had hit his limit. “That’s enough! Enough!!! Your pro hac vice admission is rescinded! Marshal . . . .”
In the silence of the empty courtroom, the clash of the main door opening was unnaturally loud. His anger diverted, the Chief Justice paused his diatribe.
At the sound of hard-soled shoes on mosaic tile, I risked turning my attention from the bench to look behind me, hoping that the Judge had arrived.
He always cut a fine and dignified figure, and his black suit was, if anything, even more formal than the dark navy blue he had worn the day before. But it consisted of a sheath dress, covered by a matching crop jacket with a high collar and three-quarter length sleeves. Hose and low-heeled shoes completed the ensemble.
He walked forward at a normal pace, neither hurrying nor dawdling, passed the bar and came to stand at the podium. “I apologize for my late arrival, Mr. Chief Justice. Justices.” His gray eyes swept the bench. “Roger Danforth, for the defendants.”
The Courtroom was silent as a tomb. This was Justice Roger Danforth. The very epitome of dignity and probity. A man who treated dressing properly as a way – a necessary way – of showing respect. The Roger Danforth. Standing in the well of his old courtroom in a dress.
Interestingly, his outfit did not make him look remotely feminine, nor did he look silly. He looked strong, masculine, and dignified, like a distinguished man in a kilt. Or a lion facing down a pack of snarling hyenas.
Magnificent. He looks magnificent!
I had kept my cool through the Chief Justice’s attack and Justice Burleigh’s viciousness, but Judge Danforth’s grand gesture brought a lump to my throat. I felt the prick of tears and fought to control them.
Finally, Chief Justice Wilkins managed to recover his wits enough to make a response, trite and predictable though it was. “Judge Danforth! What is the meaning of this?!!”
The Judge didn’t waste time pretending he didn’t know what Wilkins was talking about. In a stern and serious voice, he said, “This Court refused to accord my distinguished colleague the respect that is due to counsel for the United States of America – or to any member of the bar. I protest this Court’s disgraceful treatment of Ms. Campbell, and I stand in solidarity with her.”
“Are you lecturing us?” Justice Burleigh was, as usual, incredulous, outraged and indignant.
Perfect.
“No, sir,” the Judge countered. “I am admonishing you.” They were seated on the raised bench, looking down, but his was the voice of authority.
The Chief Justice wasn’t having it. “Your prior service does not give you license to make a mockery of this court!!!”
“I have in no way done so,” the Judge countered. “Far from it. Rather, . . . “
“No!” The Chief talked over him. “We’re not doing this, do you hear me!”
He’s losing it!
Justice Taft laid a hand on Wilkins’ wrist and interjected, “Mr. Chief Justice? A point of personal privilege?”
He turned to her and almost snapped, “What?”
She gazed at him calmly, letting the silence linger just long enough to remind the Chief that he was addressing the senior associate justice on the Court. “I served with Justice Danforth for many years.” Her mouth quirked in a smile and she said, “We had some pretty explosive arguments, as I recall. But I always respected his opinion. I would like to hear what he has to say.”
The Chief glared at her, furious.
Her level eyes did not waver.
“Fine!” he conceded, with ill grace. “Fine!” Turning his glare on the Judge, he said, “You have one minute. Sixty seconds.”
“Thank you, Justice Taft,” the Judge said to his old colleague. Looking at Chief Justice Wilkins, he said, “I would never mock the court on which I served, and for which I have enormous respect. But insisting on gender stereotypes in attire, and squabbling over honorifics and pronouns, is profoundly unserious and deeply harmful to this court’s reputation. Worse, justices who campaigned on a promise to uphold the law at issue, and refused to recuse themselves, violated both their sacred oaths and the Code of Judicial Conduct.”
Wilkins' teeth were rigidly clenched, and he was staring at the watch on his wrist like an owl watches a field mouse.
But the Judge still had time. “My clients, and the transgender community as a whole, have been unfairly targeted and discriminated against in violation of the Equal Protection Clause of the Fourteenth Amendment. They have the right, just like any American, to have their defenses considered by a fair, sober, and above all, impartial tribunal. If this Court can’t even clear that minimal bar, it is a mockery. Nothing that I say, and certainly nothing that I wear, will alter that reality.”
In marked contrast to Burleigh’s bombast and bellowing, the Judge’s voice was even and measured, and his anger was all the more vivid for being tightly controlled and leavened with disappointment. It wasn’t a harangue, it was a judgment. He might have been the Patriarch Jacob, rebuking his errant older sons for their small-minded jealousy.
The Chief Justice looked up from his watch and scowled at the man at the lectern. Wilkins certainly looked the part, but he lacked the native wit and flexibility of mind to see the strategic advantages of a tactical withdrawal.
Presumably deciding that any challenge to his stewardship of the Court must be swiftly and ruthlessly quashed, he proceeded to make himself look smaller still. “All right, ‘Judge’ Danforth. You’ve had your minute, and you’ve had your fun. Now it’s time for you to listen for a change. Our order from last night was unambiguous concerning the meaning of Guidance 5.7. We’re not going to buy Mr. Campbell’s excuse, and it doesn’t even apply to you. On my own authority, I am referring you to disciplinary counsel, and I expect the DC’s recommended penalty will be severe.”
He looked across the Courtroom. “Marshal, kindly escort Mr. Danforth and Mr. Campbell from the chamber.”
The Marshal looked offended and momentarily defiant, but Judge Danforth gave him a smile and a wink. So he rose stiffly, came out from behind his desk, and walked, with obvious reluctance, to the central podium. “Damn it, Judge,” he growled, exasperated. “You got me this job!”
The Judge’s smile was warm; his voice low and filled with humor. “So you know how disappointed I’d be if you didn’t do it right. Besides . . . when else will I get the chance to have a distinguished gentleman walk me down the aisle?”
George couldn’t help it. He cracked up.
“Allow me to be the one to escort you, Ms. Campbell.”
I spun, surprised, to find myself staring down at the smiling face of Justice Taft. I’d been so engrossed in the drama between the Marshal and the Judge that I hadn’t seen her leave the bench. “Your Honor?”
The Judge turned as well, looking surprised for the first time. “Ellie?”
She wagged a finger at him. “You are still wrong – dead wrong! – about Carter Manufacturers, and you don’t know antitrust from antiperspirant.” Her smile grew broader and her eyes danced with merriment. “But I love your dress, and the court shoes are adorable!” Gesturing towards the exit, she said, “Shall we?”
“I think I’ve got an appointment with some representatives of the Fourth Estate,” the Judge replied. “Care to join me?”
“I might. I just might. . . . Oh, wait. Almost forgot – silly me!” She turned back to face the bench, where her colleagues were still sitting in stunned silence, completely unable to formulate a response to this rebellion from within their ranks.
Justice Taft unzipped her black robe, letting it fall to the ground in a puddle. Under it, she was sensibly dressed in a sleeveless white top and dark pants. “I quit. Effective this instant. Now, for the love of God, people! Stop making asses of yourselves, would you? It’s embarrassing.”
She turned her back on her colleagues, the bench, and the court that had been her life for three decades, to put a firm hand on my elbow. “There. You’re my prisoner. How’s about we get out of here?”
We followed the Judge and the Marshal to the courtroom door, where, his duty accomplished, George left us. The Judge had motioned the clients to stay put, so that poor Shelby would have someone there to watch her argument. Kyle, of course, followed me.
Once the door closed behind us, the Judge gave now former Justice Taft an apologetic look. “Now that we’re not putting on a show, let me say I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to drag you into this.”
“It was past time, Roger,” she said sadly. “I can’t be associated with what they’re doing any more. With what this place has become.”
His voice was soft, heavy with loss and regret. “God save this Honorable Court.”
“Amen,” she replied, before adding tartly, “and, God, if I may be so bold, kindly don’t dawdle!”
We crossed the foyer and went out into the sunshine, where the microphones and cameras were waiting.
Time to make our case to another court.
The End
Author’s Note: This is a work of fiction. The characters are not based on any particular individuals, living or dead, and courthouses seldom see made-for-TV moments like the ones depicted in the story. But there ARE things about this story that are very real. Laws making it illegal to obtain or provide hormone blockers or treatments for minors based on a diagnosis of gender dysphoria – regardless of parental consent – have been passed in several states. Each of these statutes has been challenged on constitutional grounds, including (most significantly) violation of the Equal Protection Clause of the 14th Amendment. The Civil Rights Division of the Department of Justice has intervened in these cases on behalf of the U.S. Government to support the rights of transgender individuals, their parents and their doctors. It is also certainly true that the constitutional challenges will ultimately be decided by the Supreme Court of the United States.
I would like to thank Dee Sylvan, Rachel Moore, and Jill Rasch for giving me comments on an earlier draft of this story. It is substantially better as a result of their help, but you may rest assured that anything you DIDN’T like is no-one’s fault but mine!
Emma Anne Tate
20 October, 2023
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Virtue and Valor
Darren Conners was smart, articulate, contrarian, and — almost invariably — wrong. Naturally, I liked him. “I don’t think that’s fair at all,” I said, shaking my head sharply. “Tolkien didn’t despise learning, he was just awake to its dangers.”
“Can you expand on that, Drake?” Professor Somers asked.
“He was an Oxford don, the recognized expert on Beowulf, of all things. Esoteric stuff. If he had despised learning, he would have hated himself. There’s zero evidence for that.”
“There’s evidence all through the text!” Darren interjected.
Professor Somers held up a hand. “Hold tight, Darren. Let Drake finish.” The professor’s skill as a traffic cop was often required to moderate the spirited discussion in his 200-level seminar, The Academy of Fantasy: Variations of Virtue and Valor in Tolkien and Lewis.
The course helped fulfill a requirement for my English Literature degree, but I would have found a way to take it even if I was getting a degree in physics. There were only fifteen students in the class and we were all geeks. It was probably fair to say I was the biggest geek of all, if you are measuring on the SciFi/Fantasy geek scale. And in that classroom, for three blessed hours each week, that was the only scale that mattered.
“The text evidence is far more nuanced,” I said, responding to Darren’s objection. “Certainly he uses characters like Fëanor, Denethor, Saruman and Celebrimbor to show the dangers of the pursuit of knowledge when it’s not balanced with understanding, with wisdom. You might even throw Aulë in with that grouping. But Gandalf, Elrond and Faramir are all counterpoints, and if Aulë is in the first group, Yvanna should be in the second.”
Paige Dupree jumped in before Darren could formulate his rebuttal. “Even you’ve got to admit, Drake, that Tolkien had no use for what we might call academic learning. Think of the hapless chief herbalist of Minas Tirith, who knew all the ancient names for healing remedies, but didn’t know where to find any. Or the king’s knights in Farmer Giles of Ham, so wrapped up with heraldry and nonsense that they were surprised by the dragon.” Paige was a unicorn – a really good looking girl who was also a high geek and proud of it.
“I’d certainly agree that Tolkien has no use for pretension – but that’s not confined to academia,” I replied. “For instance, the Master Cook in Smith of Wooton Major — Nokes – is pompous, just like the herbalist in Return of the King, but he’s also ignorant. No-one would think of him as ‘learned.’” I enjoyed sparring with Paige in class, but outside of it, her vibrant personality and physical beauty left me feeling awkward and tongue-tied.
I loved the class. I had already read the primary source material for both authors multiple times; that was true of most of the people in the class, with the exception of the four or five who hadn’t encountered C.S. Lewis’ less-well-known space trilogy. I had also read some of the secondary works as well. But because everyone was both a geek and a fan, discussions were always fun.
I was on my way out fifteen minutes later when Paige stopped me. “Hey, Drake, wait up!”
I stopped, suddenly uncertain.
“You heading to another class, or do you have time for some coffee?”
“Uhh . . . no. I mean, yes. Yes to the coffee. No, I don’t have another class,” I stammered. Feeling, well, awkward. And tongue-tied.
Paige gave me a look that was hard to interpret. Friendly? Exasperated? Conspiratorial? Maybe some of all of them, in equal measure. I don’t know.
“Drake,” she finally said, “we’re going to go to Kitchener’s, we’re going to have some coffee, and we’re going to talk until you stop being nervous around me. I’m the same person, inside class and out!”
I’m sure I was blushing, and I didn’t manage a response before she took me firmly by the elbow and started walking away from the center of campus and towards the center of town.
I could only think of one way to redeem myself – the truth might actually have some utility in this embarrassing circumstance. “I’m sorry. I’ve always been shy around pretty girls, and you’re beautiful.”
She gave me a sideways look and said, “That’s either bad flattery or it’s very sweet. And I think I know you well enough to rule out the first option. You’re not that kind of an operator.”
“No,” I agreed with a chuckle. “I’m lucky if I can operate a cell phone.”
Paige had a musical laugh. Because, of course she did. On top of everything else.
She managed to divert me by talking about class, and once we were deep in the land of geek I was comfortable and even self-confident. I’m no Oxford don, but I know my shit when it comes to Tolkien and Lewis.
By the time we arrived at the outdoor seating area at Kitchener’s, our discussion had turned to Tolkien and Lewis’ views of the relative merits of virtues that are typically viewed as feminine or masculine. Paige was saying, “Their heroes consistently show pity, mercy, and skill at healing. I’d say Lewis was far more likely to simply assign those characteristics to his female characters. Tolkien was more daring. For example . . . .”
I touched her arm. “Hold that thought; let’s order first.”
“Right!” She looked inside and said “Excellent –The Prince is making the coffee today!”
I gave her a puzzled look, but stepped inside and up to the counter. “Salaam alykum, Hamza,” I said to the tall Moroccan at the espresso machine.
He returned my smile, gleaming white teeth in a spare, ink-black face. “Good morning, Drake.” He was friendly, but, as always, very formal. “Your pronunciation is definitely improving. Salaam alykum to you, too. And to your friend.”
We ordered our drinks and paid Jack, another regular who had the register. “Drake! Good to see you! And Paige, too!” Jack had a great smile.
Three minutes later we were sitting outside with 16 ounces of coffee. “Prince?” I asked Paige, making it a question.
“The Prince,” she replied, correcting me. “Everyone calls him that — he just seems like he ought to be in a palace, you know. Regal.” She gave me a look, then quirked a half-smile. “But naturally, you don’t call him that.”
“I’d never heard it. But . . . no. I don’t think I would. Hamza doesn’t have much use for princes.”
She nodded slowly, giving me a thoughtful, appraising look. “I’ll remember that, next time.”
We got over that awkwardness like any good pair of geeks would, by returning to our purely academic discussion.
Paige elaborated on her earlier argument. “Maybe the best example of what I’m talking about is the comparison between Boromir and Faramir. Boromir has all of the classic male characteristics, both good and bad. He’s strong, decisive, courageous, self-assured, headstrong, ambitious, and arrogant. But he fails, while Faramir, whose more nuanced, more feminine nature alienates his father, passes the test.”
“Maybe.” I wasn’t convinced, though. “But remember, Faramir also was a war leader, with everything that goes with that. He had to excel at both. He was allowed to have that gentler side — that more feminine side, if you want to look at it that way — only because he also adhered to the masculine ideal. Same’s true of Aragorn. And, to be fair to Lewis, he did something similar with Edmund.”
“That argument doesn’t really work for Elrond, though. He’s consistently portrayed as a healer.”
I shook my head. “In the main text of the Lord of the Rings, sure. But he was thousands of years old by then. He was Gil-Galad’s second-in-command throughout the Second Age, and had an independent command in Eriador several times.”
Paige was about to respond when she checked herself, cocked her head and said, “Okay, let’s say that’s fair. But what about YOU? If you were writing the story, would Faramir or Elrond have to be a war leader? What sort of characters would come out looking good? And which wouldn’t?”
“Me?” I said. “Why . . . I mean. What does it matter?” I was stammering again.
“Drake,” Paige said, “It matters because you matter.”
I hoped I didn’t look as dumbfounded as I was feeling. I closed my gaping mouth, took a deep breath and asked the first question that popped into my head. “Why do I matter?”
“Why are you so convinced that you don’t?” she countered. “You’re a nice, decent person. Always polite. Seriously brainy. Smartest guy – or girl – in the room. Even I’ll admit that.” She shot me a grin and added, “Much as it pains me. But you never rub anyone’s nose in it. When you’re talking about things you know, you’re articulate, thoughtful, persuasive – even passionate. Why isn’t that enough?”
“Because it never has been,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. I tried to take it back. “I’m sorry, that was . . . “
She cut me off by saying, “Heartfelt. Now, Drake: tell me why you said it. What did you mean?”
I stared at her, unable to formulate a response. She reached over and touched my wrist gently.
“I’m right here. I’m not going to run away. Tell me why you don’t think you matter.” Her eyes – kind, golden eyes – held me gently.
I tried to answer Paige’s question as I would if it involved a character in a story. Or maybe a person in real life, so long as it was someone else. Anyone else. “Because, like Tolkien and Lewis, I value love, compassion, kindness, mercy, service. And I don’t think . . . .” I couldn’t finish the sentence. I just sat there, trying to think of something to say that wouldn’t invite ridicule.
Paige said, “No-one thinks less of men who have those qualities, Drake. You have to know that.”
No, I couldn’t hide behind a literary analogy. Paige was too sharp. But I suddenly, and very uncharacteristically, felt an overwhelming desire to just be open about my desires. Her steady, gentle gaze gave me courage.
I took the plunge. “I know. What I’m trying to say is that I’m not remotely ‘masculine’ as our society understands it. I disagree with society on that, but I’m just one guy. I don’t make the rules. And that’s why I don’t matter.”
“But YOU think you’re right, and society’s wrong?”
I hunted for the trap, the unkindness, that might be in her question.
I couldn’t find it.
“Yes,” I said simply. “I do. There’s nothing wrong with traditionally masculine virtues or aesthetics, but they shouldn’t be the measure of a man’s value, any more than femininity, as currently understood, should be the measure of a woman’s.”
“Do other people have to agree with you, for you to matter?”
I thought about this one too, turning it this way and that, before answering, “In theory, no; in reality . . . it’s hard to sustain a position against the weight of a whole society’s expectations.”
“Eowyn did,” she responded, “when she dressed like a warrior and went to fight the Witch King. Defying the conventions was part of what made her heroic. You don’t dress like any guy I know. So why aren’t you?”
My look today was as androgynous as usual. Mid-length hair, a lime-green tank covered by a checkered flannel shirt – unbuttoned – and jeans that were pristine, tapered, and pretty tight. Nothing designed for women, but for sure, seriously not typical for a guy. In another world, Paige’s question might have made sense. But in this one?
“You KNOW why.”
She leaned back and regarded me levelly. “Spell it out for me, Drake.”
“Because a woman putting on war gear and taking a man’s part is SEEN as heroic. A man who dresses in a neutral way isn’t, and a man that dresses or acts like a woman is seen as flat-out pathetic.”
“That only makes sense if women, and women’s roles, are inferior. Do you think that’s true?” she challenged.
“I guess I’d say the relative value of the virtues we associate with men and women are dependent on circumstance. For instance, Tolkien is describing an all-out war — an existential struggle of good and evil. The traditional masculine virtues of courage, sacrifice, decisiveness, pure physical strength and military skill were necessarily paramount.”
“Nonsense! The entire story arc of the trilogy revolves around rejection of the masculine characteristics of power, control, and dominance — not just the ring, but the temptation to simply oppose force with force. The physically weak hobbits, especially Sam, who’s always shown as caring and supportive, are the heroes of the story. Just like Bilbo is the hero in The Hobbit and Lucy is the real hero of The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe! In fact . . . .”
She was about to go on, equally impassioned, when she stopped herself, chuckled ruefully, and wagged a finger at me. “I see what you did there, Drake, and it almost worked! Don’t try to wiggle away. Let’s stay focused on our society. Here. Today. Do you think women’s traditional virtues — or aesthetics, for that matter — are inferior in our world?
“I don’t. But, Paige, don’t you see? That’s why my view doesn’t matter. Because our society does, in every imaginable way! Even girls aspire to be masculine now. Like turning Galadriel into some sort of action figure. Whatever.”
She grimaced at my reference to the new Amazon series set in the Second Age of Middle Earth. We both had strong opinions about it.
But I shook my head. “I mean, it’s fine. Really. It’s wonderful that girls feel free to explore traditionally masculine roles, virtues and aesthetics. But if boys aren’t equally free to aspire to be feminine, it sends the message that feminine virtues and aesthetics are only for women who can’t cut it. That leaves us completely unbalanced as a society. Without the feminine virtues — without caring, compassion, nurturing, mercy — masculinity becomes toxic.”
“I think you’re underestimating how much “power girls” still have to exemplify feminine aesthetic ideals. So long as you’re hot, you can do whatever you like.” She brushed her hand as if dismissing a quibble. “But even with that caveat, isn’t your point a pretty good principle to stand on?”
“Sure,” I replied. “But again, I seem to be a minority of one in my view.”
“And that’s not good enough?”
I couldn’t meet her eyes. But . . . no, it’s not enough.
“Would it matter to you if one other person agreed with you?” She added softly, “if I agreed with you?”
Her fingers were still on my wrist and her warm eyes still held mine. I thought of all the characters I had read about, in all the books that had been my solace and refuge for as long as I could remember. What would Beren say, or Thingol, or Aragorn?
“With you at my side, Paige,” I said, “I would stand against the whole world.”
“Now,” she said with a truly lovely smile, “that sounds like progress! So tell me . . . what social rules would you break, if I was there to back you up? What would you like to do? Be concrete.”
Again, I saw no sign of mockery. She seemed to be genuine. But this was really where the rubber met the road. Would she REALLY accept me, if she knew? How much did I have to lose?
Desperately trying to control my stammer, I started with the easy things. The safe things. “I would smile at people and not feel self-conscious. I would tell people how I feel . . . not just what I think. I’d hug people when they were sad – or when they were celebrating.” A bit more daringly, I said, “I’d cry if I felt like crying, and I wouldn’t care who saw me.”
The more I said, the more I wanted to say. My nervousness disappeared as feelings swirled and swelled like a spring flood, crashing into the dam I had so carefully built to contain my feelings, overtopping it completely.
“I’d dance with my whole body and put my heart into it. Sing, for the pure joy of singing! Watch a sappy rom-com in my PJs with a big bowl of popcorn. Order froofy drinks in a bar. I might throw on a dress, just to feel pretty. Paint my nails, do my hair, and go to class. Why not?” I threw up my hands. “God! I’d be free, you know? The conventions we use to define what’s right for a guy are just so suffocating!”
Her expression, thank God, didn’t change. Instead, she said, “I can see where they would be. Everything you mentioned certainly seems like a positive good, or in the case of the aesthetic choices, harmless. Not sure why people make such a big deal about it. But I’m curious: do you think you’re trans?”
Something deep inside me relaxed – an emotional coil that had been wound tight for so long I’d forgotten what it felt like NOT to feel the tension. I couldn’t believe I had bared my soul like that, but . . . she hadn’t run, or scoffed. Or even laughed. She’d just asked a follow-up question that was, under the circumstances, pretty reasonable. It’s one I’d asked myself often enough when I was younger.
I shook my head firmly. “No, I’m male. I don’t hate my body or feel misgendered. I just disagree with society about what flows from the fact of my biological sex.”
“That’s what I thought.” In response to my raised eyebrow, she said, “I don’t really get a female vibe from you. Probably because you seem to be such a ‘head’ type, I guess. Thinking all the time. Abstract. Logical. Aesthetics, of course, are a completely different matter.”
“Yeah, they are.” I sighed. “But aesthetics matter. Women aren’t attracted to ‘pretty’ men. And I can’t gripe about it. After all, I’m not attracted to women who present a masculine aesthetic.”
“I assume you aren’t attracted to men either,” she said.
“Nope.”
Again she nodded. “Yeah, I figured you wouldn’t have been so tongue-tied if you weren’t attracted to girls.” I blushed again and she just squeezed my hand and said, “It’s okay. Really, it’s sweet.”
She cocked her head and gave me a thoughtful look. “I’m curious, though, whether your shyness was just generic, or did it have something to do with me?”
“I’m always shy around pretty girls. The prettier they are, the more tongue-tied I get.” I looked at her and tried a smile, and hoped it wasn’t gruesome. “In your case, it’s a wonder I can talk at all.”
She laughed, drank some coffee, and just looked at me with those amazing eyes.
But as the silence stretched, I started to panic. She wasn’t saying anything. Is she waiting for me to do something? Should I ask her out? But, she might just be friendly! I tried to cover my panic by taking a sip from my coffee, but in my nervousness I squeezed the paper cup too hard, the lid popped off, and coffee sloshed onto the table. God damn it!
As I tried to get the lid back on and mop up the mess with the useless little paper napkins coffee shops always have, she said, “Relax, Drake. You don’t need to do anything. We’re good. But . . . Would you like to go to a movie together? Or maybe go out for dinner? Sometime? It doesn’t have to be today.” She sounded uncertain. . . even, oddly, vulnerable.
“You’re serious?” I asked. “After what I told you? This . . . this isn’t . . . .”
I couldn’t go on. She said, gently, “a joke? A trick? No. I wouldn’t do something like that. To anyone, much less to you.”
“But . . . why?”
“Why what?” She looked puzzled.
“Why would you want to go out with me? God, Paige! Look at you!”
“Umm . . . I do know what I look like. So?” She shook her head, puzzled. “Sorry, I’m just not following you.”
“Really? You’re gorgeous! How could you possibly . . . I mean. Jesus! Seriously?”
“Can’t you just accept that I’m attracted to you?”
My mouth was hanging open and I snapped it closed. The spilled coffee was forgotten. “Paige, I . . . I’m sorry. I’m just dealing with a lot of years of rejections, from girls not half as amazing as you are. Not a quarter! I’m . . . I mean, I’ll do better. I’ll try.” I stopped stammering and ground my explanations to a stop, convinced that I had completely screwed everything up.
She looked momentarily exasperated, then thoughtful. The silence stretched again, but this time she grew very serious. Apparently reaching a decision, she said, “You aren’t the only person with bad memories, Drake.” All the warmth had left her voice and it sounded, suddenly, bloodless. Almost chilling.
She put her coffee down carefully. Precisely. I became aware that her hands were trembling. It was almost unnoticeable, and she covered it by twining her fingers together. “Okay,” she said, her voice low. “You trusted me, so I’ll trust you. I was raped when I was sixteen. A sophomore.” Her fingers were clenched so tight they were turning white.
“Oh, my God! Paige!” I managed to keep my voice down, but I was shocked to my core. This sunny, vibrant, intelligent woman . . . ?
She kept going, every word sounding like it was dragged up from hell itself by brute and uncompromising force. “It was an older boy – I knew him – and he got off. He said, she said. You know how it is. I haven’t . . . I mean, ever since then, I haven’t been able to even think about dating. Guys, that is. I tried, with other women, but . . . but I guess I don’t hit that way. I wish I did. So, I figured, fine. I just won’t. I’ve got friends. Maybe . . . maybe that’s enough.”
She looked up, and her beautiful eyes were filled with remembered pain and present anguish. “But God, Drake. I still want more, don’t you see? I don’t want that asshole to ruin my life forever! But I need . . . I need someone who can understand. Who can let me set the pace. Someone who can be strong enough to help me, but wise enough to give me space when I need it.”
In the face of her hurt and her need, my navel gazing seemed positively juvenile. “Paige,” I said softly. “My hand is here, if holding it will help.” I put it on the table, palm up. An invitation. “And I’m here, if my being here will help. As a friend, always. As for more . . . well. Let’s just take that as it comes. Only when — only if — you’re ready.”
She was silent a long time, just looking at me. Weighing my words. Slowly, the haunted look began to fade from her eyes. She unclenched her fingers and brought her right hand to rest gently on my upturned palm. “Thank you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper.
I simply sat, and held her hand, and tried my very hardest to just be present for her. To speak with my touch. With my eyes. And, even with those, to speak softly. Very softly.
People came and went, and I paid no attention to them. Their conversations, their laughter, faded into white noise, like the buzzing of bees or the sound of highway traffic, heard from a distance. I might have been Elwë Singolo, lost in the glade of Nan Elmoth, dead to the world outside as centuries passed. All of my attention was focused on Paige.
On my friend, who was hurting.
The sun was pleasantly warm in the outdoor area – a bit of Indian Summer. Half her face was sun-drenched, the other half in shadow. I was aware, as never before, of every line of her features. The set of her eyes, the delicate arch of her brows. The pale, pale blush on her cheeks, and the shape of her full lips. The lightest of breezes caused her bangs to flutter. From across the table, I was aware of her scent — fresh, clean, and perfect. What was it? I didn’t know.
After what felt like a very long time, she said, “You see? I don’t know many people — much less, any men — who could have just sat here with me like that. Who wouldn’t try to fix whatever’s wrong with me. You see people. Listen to them.” She smiled softly. “And you don’t even understand why I’m attracted to you?”
I shook my head. “No, I really don’t. If you are, I’m astonished.” But I returned her smile and added, “and glad, of course. Very, very glad.”
Just then we were interrupted by a petite young woman with feathery, raven-black hair and a shy smile. “I’m sorry to intrude. You both looked so . . . I don’t know — focused? — just then. I hope you don’t mind, but you were sitting so still I couldn’t resist sketching you. Normally I just keep these in my sketchpad, but I wanted you to have it.” She put the sketch down on the table between us – mercifully, far from my coffee spill!
I looked at it and gaped. “Oh . . . my . . . How extraordinary!” I had just spent an eternity looking at Paige’s perfect face, and there it was, breathtaking, captured in amazing detail with an economy of strokes.
The expressions, the posture, were all ours, caught in our moment of intense and wordless communion. But the setting and attire were all done in a high fantasy style. If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’d drawn a picture of Aragorn and Arwen at Rivendell. “How did you know . . . ?”
She blushed. “You were kind of having a big Lord of the Rings discussion when you walked in. I loved those movies – the scenery and the costumes were just so amazing.”
“It’s stunning.” Paige’s voice was filled with wonder. “I never saw myself like that . . . but, wow. You sure captured how I see Drake.”
“Oh!” I exclaimed, remembering. “You must be Teri — Jack’s girlfriend!”
For an instant she looked strangely frightened, but then she smiled. It was an interesting thing to watch — tentatively at first, then breathtakingly bright. “Yeah. Yeah, I am!”
To Paige, I said, “Jack was talking to me just the other day — raving about his amazing girlfriend’s art.” Turning my attention back to Teri, I said, “You should have heard him! But he mentioned that you sketch people here sometimes.”
She bobbed her head, self-consciously. “Sometimes. It’s . . . I guess it’s just my thing.”
Paige rose gracefully and took Teri’s hands. “Thank you. Thank you so much. It’s beautiful. Will you join us? Once Drake’s got his coffee cleaned up” — she shot me a teasing smile — “we’ll have plenty of room.”
Teri shook her head, a mixture of shyness and regret on her fine features. “No, I’ve got to be going. But maybe I’ll see you around, sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Paige said, smiling.
I got up as well, and surprisingly Teri gave me a hug.
Close to my ear, she whispered, “good luck!” Then she stepped back, gave a wave and a smile to Jack, who was standing behind the counter inside, and was off.
“What an extraordinary gift,” Paige said, watching as Teri walked off down the street.
“In both senses of the word,” I said, looking at the drawing. “Do I really look this way, to you?”
She smiled. “Yes. The setting’s straight out of Peter Jackson, but . . . you really can’t tell, looking at it, whether you’re a man or a woman, between your face, your hair, and the cut of your robes. You’re just . . . beautiful. Lovely.”
I took that in. Teri, I was quite sure, was a transwoman; Jack hadn’t said anything, but there were a few tells — a bit of an Adam’s Apple; the way she kept her voice so light. She wouldn’t have made me look so beautiful as some kind of a joke. And there was nothing humorous in the depiction. To the contrary— it’s how I wished I could look. How I might choose to look, in a better, more balanced world.
Still, there was a more pressing issue to think about. “Paige . . . If that’s how you see me, I’m . . . honestly, I’m flattered. But are you alright with it? Really alright?”
She took my hand again. “Yes. Really. I . . . look, I don’t know if this will work. But I think . . . .” She looked at the sketch again. “No, I’m sure — that I’d at least like to find out.”
She picked up the sketch and rolled it carefully. Then she freed her hair from the elastic band that had held it in a loose ponytail, and used the band to secure the sketch. “We can make a copy at the library.” After a moment’s pause, she said, “Drake?”
“Yeah?”
“Will you walk me home?” Her voice was tentative. Hesitant.
I looked at her closely. “Are you sure?”
She took my elbow and steered me out to the street. “You don’t need to keep asking that. Really. I’m not sure about anything, except that I want to try. And as part of that, I want to give you space to put down your barriers and be the person you want to be — the person Teri sketched just now, maybe.”
I nodded slowly. “Okay, Paige. I’ll try. I don’t know if I can do it. But I’ll try. For you.”
“You’re a remarkable person,” she responded. “Even if you're wrong about Faramir. Definitely feminine traits — it’s how he bonded so well with Eowyn, at the end.”
“You’re seeing Faramir through the lens of the movies. It’s one of the places I wasn’t satisfied with Jackson’s work. I’ll grant you that Faramir comes across as, I don’t know, soft, in the movies, but that’s really not in the text . . . .”
We were, once again, in our geeky comfort zone, easing the tension that had grown almost unbearable. The internal terrain of our prior discussion was extremely difficult ground for both of us, and it was a bit of a relief to step back.
Our lively — to us, anyhow! — academic conversation took us through block after block of generic student housing, boxwood hedges and sections of grass designed for ease of care by commercial equipment. The not-very-interesting part of town.
None of that mattered. My entire being was thrumming with excitement. I was walking with not just “a girl,” but with Paige. And Paige knew my darkest secrets and hadn’t turned away. At least, not yet.
Her unit was on the third floor of a block of nondescript apartments owned by the university. There was an elevator, but apparently it would take much longer. It was a two-bedroom unit, but her roommate went home Thursdays after her last class. We were alone.
She shut the door behind us.
I stood in the middle of the common area, once more struck dumb. What comes next? How . . .
No doubt seeing my rising panic, Paige touched my arm and said, “Relax. Have a seat.”
I took a seat at one end of the couch, and she took the other.
“Okay,” she said. “When I asked about specifics— things that you might do, if you weren’t bound by our society’s ideas of what guys are supposed to be like, you mentioned being more free with your emotions, doing activities that are more associated with women, and being free to dress in an overtly feminine way anytime you felt like it. Right?”
My face was red. Flaming red. “Yes. I mean, hypothetically . . . .”
She cut me off. “Stop. Don’t be embarrassed. There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look or feel pretty. I won’t think any less of you.”
“But . . . will you . . . could you . . . ah.” My embarrassment was killing me, but I ground it out. “Could you be attracted to me?”
“Do you mean, could I still be attracted to you?” She smiled mischievously, but then put a hand on my knee. “I don’t know, Drake. I wish I did. But I want to experience who you are, without all of your protective filters. I can’t . . . I mean . . . I want to know you. Not some curated version of you. Does that make any sense?”
It actually made a lot of sense. Given the trauma she had experienced, I could understand why it was so important to her that I not try to hide who I am. She needed truth from me . . . even if, in the end, that truth caused her to turn away. Can I do it, though?
Quietly, as much to myself as to Paige, I said, “Yes.”
She reached over and squeezed my hand. “Drake, I promise you this. Even if I’m not romantically attracted to your feminine side, I will absolutely, positively, be your fiercest friend and supporter. Okay?”
I took a deep breath and said, “And if that’s all that happens, it’s a thousand times more than I could have imagined when I walked into class today. I won’t push you romantically, but don’t think it’s because I’m not interested.”
She rose. “Okay then. I’m tense, but you’re like a fully-wound catapult. How about you do something really feminine, and go take a bath? Soak for a while, and I’ll get some things together for you. I want to see how you look, when you allow yourself to be pretty.”
So I shortly found myself in an old 1950s style soaker tub, encased in bubbles and a floral scent. I regularly shave my body and facial hair, but I was happy to borrow Paige’s razor and freshen the job. When I was done I just sat for a moment, trying to relax. It was hard. The bath felt wonderful, but I was worried sick about what would come later. How could she accept me?
There was a discreet knock on the door and Paige asked, “Are you decently covered with bubbles?”
I laughed at her formulation and said that I was. She came in with a fluffy towel and a short, pale blue robe. After hanging them where I could reach them easily, she asked if she could wash my hair.
“You don’t need to do that,” I said, embarrassed but also excited by the prospect.
“I know that, silly,” she said. “I want to.”
She had me sink the back of my head into the water. When I brought it back up, she lathered in a pleasant-smelling shampoo. With her long, tapered fingers, she worked the foam into my scalp, paying particular attention to my temples. It was so sensual, so . . . intimate. I felt like I should purr.
She had me dunk and rinse, then she repeated the process with conditioner. This time her scalp massage went on for a solid five minutes, while her thumbs dug into knots at the base of my skull that I hadn’t even known were there. This time, she dispersed the foam by slowly pouring warm water onto my head from a 12-ounce plastic cup she kept by the bath.
When she was done, she cupped a hand around one of my cheeks, then said “take your time. When you’re ready, dry off, use the hairdryer and brush, then put on the robe and come join me.”
I opened my eyes to smile at her. “I’ll be out in five,” I promised. She smiled and left.
I got up a minute later and followed her instructions. My shoulder-length hair, blow-dried, fluffed up quite a bit, and I promised myself I’d get it trimmed soon. Paige’s robe came to my knees; the material was soft but also absorbent.
I stood for a moment by the bathroom door, too afraid to move. But my friend was waiting, and I was not going to force her to draw me out. So I opened the door, and Paige beckoned me to her bedroom.
“I’ve laid some things out for you to wear,” she said. “You’ve worn lingerie before?” The inflection made the question entirely practical and non-threatening. She just needed to know whether I needed any help.
“I have,” I admitted, feeling incredibly self-conscious. “I can manage.”
“How about make-up?”
“I’m not Monet, but I can handle the basics.”
“Which is probably more than Monet could do,” she teased. “There’s some moisturizer, foundation, blush, eyeshadow, mascara and lipstick on the top of the dresser. Help yourself. I’ll be in the common room when you’re ready.” Again she left, giving me privacy to get dressed.
The lingerie was a very pale pink. A lacy bra and full panty, plus a silky camisole with delicate trim. Nude control-top pantyhose completed the underwear. I started with the panties, thrilling as I slid them up my smooth legs and settled them where they belonged. Yes, I had done this before – many times – but never where anyone might see me.
I hooked myself into the pretty bra. It was the least practical item of clothing for a man, but I did love the way it made me feel. The cami and pantyhose followed, each item intensely feminine. At this point I paused to apply the makeup Paige had provided and checked the results in the mirror.
Finally, I stepped into the dress she had laid out. It was a floral pattern, all yellows and spring green with dashes of pink and lavender. Three quarter sleeves, a u-shaped neckline, and a very full skirt. I reached behind me and zipped up. The top was empty, of course, but I wasn’t trying to pass or look like a woman. I just wanted to look like a feminine version of me.
I felt divine. I knew I didn’t look THAT good. But I was pretty and I felt it. Now, however, it was show time. I told myself firmly that Paige wouldn’t reject me as a person, and that’s all that mattered.
But I knew that wasn’t the truth.
No, I didn’t just want to be friends. I wanted more than that — much more. But I promised myself that I would do nothing to make her regret trusting me. Where we went was in her hands. So I opened the door and walked, with as much confidence as I could muster, into the other room.
Paige rose, slowly. She was looking at me closely, and her eyes were hard to read.
I stopped, uncertain. What if . . . ?
She raised both hands, palms up, inviting me to come take them.
I advanced into the room, tentatively. Hesitantly. Finally I put my hands in hers and raised my eyes to meet her gaze.
“You clean up pretty!” Her voice was soft and touched, once again, with wonder.
I looked in her golden eyes and said, “Do you . . . do you like it?”
She pulled me closer and kissed me, her lip gloss blending with mine. Releasing my hands, she caressed my back, her palms gliding over the dress she had lent me, electric.
I dissolved in the sensations of the moment. The smell of her hair, the taste of her lips, the warmth of her eyes. . . . I was never more alive than I had been. Though my arms remained at my sides, passive, my lips responded to her kiss like the whole of my soul was embodied in them, eager to communicate my innermost feelings. My utmost truth.
Eventually, she broke the kiss and leaned her forehead against mine, her eyes closed. Absorbing the moment.
“Yes.” She opened her eyes and pulled back so that she could look at me directly. “I wasn’t sure. I didn’t know how I’d react to you, like this. It took a different kind of strength and courage – a woman’s kind, maybe – to walk through that door, just now. When you came out, so beautiful, so perfect, so vulnerable and trusting, I knew. I just knew.”
She kissed me again, then stepped back, smiling. “NOW are you ready to stand against the world? I promise, you won’t stand alone!”
The end
.
.
Author’s note: To anyone feeling a teensy touch of deja vu, I apologize. There are a lot of thematic similarities between this story and Logan’s Ride, the story I posted a week ago. But Drake is significantly older than Logan, has had more years to figure himself out, and has reached conclusions that are different from where Logan appears to be heading. This story also layers on the additional complication of romantic relationships, which Logan mercifully had not yet had to face. Gender, sex, and sexual orientation are complex and tangled things!
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Which Road to Camelot?
Uther was angry. Again. When he spotted me, he stomped in my direction and bellowed, “Where have you been?”
I kept walking, forcing him to match my lengthy strides. Allowing my own anger to show, I replied, “I have walked my way since the beginning of time. Sometimes I give, sometimes I take. It is mine to know which and when!”
That stopped his bellowing, at least, but he turned to pleading. “You must help me, Merlin!”
I kept walking. “Must I?”
Naturally, he decided to appeal to authority. “I am your king!”
Like I care about that! I let him have it. “So you need me again, now that my truce is wrecked. Years to build and moments to ruin, and all for lust!”
“For Igrayne! One night with her!” He shook his head, baffled at his inability to communicate what seemed to him to be self-evident. “You don't understand. You're not a man!”
I looked at him with a level of disgust I hadn’t felt since the Romans had first shown their clean-shaven faces on Britain’s shores, all those centuries before.
He was undeterred. Probably undeterrable, at this point, so consumed was he by passion. “Use the magic! Do it!” he commanded.
I looked up at the castle, seeing evidence of Uther’s futile siege. The Dukes of Cornwall had sited it beautifully, and the likelihood that the King’s forces would see the inside of Tintagel before the coming of winter seemed remote indeed. Good! I thought spitefully.
But the delphic gods whom I serve are not always creatures of logic. I do not understand their ways, but I follow where they lead me. And suddenly, the sights and sounds of battle faded as my masters stirred within me.
“Igrayne.” I must have spoken aloud, though softly. Whatever the gods demand, Igrayne is central to it.
Turning to Uther, I said, “You will swear by your true kingship to grant me what I wish. Then you shall have it.”
His face shone with barely contained anticipation and lust. “By Excalibur, I swear it!”
“Good! That’s good,” I said, pleased. “Then here is what shall happen. Assemble your troops. Pack up your engines, and depart.”
“What trickery . . . .”
“Silence! The Duke shall follow, to attack your troops by night. While he is gone, I shall spirit you into Tintagel, and there you shall have your desire.”
He glared at me, looking for some sign of trickery. But his lust commanded him, and he spun ‘round to give his orders.
Many hours later, as the sun was setting, Uther and I watched from a high promontory as the Duke sallied from Tintagel with his men, intent on teaching the King a lesson that would keep him far from Cornwall ever after. Having seen to his camp’s defenses personally, Uther was unworried.
“That’s it!” I said. “Now. You must rest, while I prepare the magic.”
Uther shook his head, eager to be off. “I cannot rest, while Igrayne lies within!”
“You must,” I admonished. “I have powers to summon, and your thoughts will only interfere. Rest. Sleep!”
As I spoke, the King’s eyes grew heavy, and he lay down upon the ground, the last rays of the sun catching his armor and causing it to glow . . . .
The sun dipped below the horizon and the King lay in slumber. I felt the powers stirring, and drew them to myself with the charm of making. “Anal nathrak, uthvas bethud, do che-ol de-enve!” The ground rumbled, and I felt the steam rise. The power that I alone could summon. “Anal nathrak, uthvas bethud, do che-ol de-enve!”
The art of summoning is a hard one. Oh, hard indeed! For one such as me, long years are needed to recover from such a spell. Hours I wrestled with it, coaxing, urging, commanding . . . until at last, the moon rose high above the castle and all around was covered in a dense and deep mist.
Uther startled awake. “I dreamt of the Dragon!”
I looked down on his frightened face and replied, “I have awoken him. Can't you see, all around you, the Dragon's breath?”
Uther scrambled to his feet, looking startled, frightened, but still eager. The mist completely filled the valley between the promontory where we stood and the castle.
“Mount your horse,” I commanded, in no mood to be deferential after my hours of labor. “I will transform you, and Igrayne will think her husband has returned.”
He mounted, then looked down at me. “But the cliff, the sea?”
“Your lust will hold you up.” I told him. “You will float on the Dragon's breath!” Slapping his horses flank, I cried, “Ride! Ride!”
His horse leapt forward, down the slope and full onto the mist. Rather than sinking into it, the dragon’s mist bore horse and rider up, as I had known it would. “Ride!”
As he reached the midpoint, I called out, “Change! Transform! Now!” Once more, I summoned the power and unleashed it. “Anal nathrak, uthvas bethud, do che-ol de-enve!”
I looked out across the mist, and it was as if I was soaring above horse and rider, close enough to touch them. Close enough to see the transformation and discern, at the last moment, the fickle gods’ true intent. “What’s this? I didn’t expect this!”
The horse clattered up out of the mist and onto the drawbridge. Above the gate, the Duke’s men gawked. “It’s the Duchess! When did she depart?”
A captain in the Duke’s livery appeared on the walls. “What trickery is this?”
The door to the central keep opened, and a man stepped out. Golden hair, a fine beard and kind eyes. “Open for the Duchess, Brithael,” he called to the Captain.
“Aye, my lord,” the Captain of the Gate responded, and gave the command.
The gate opened, and the horse crossed into the central courtyard, stopping before the figure of the Duke.
The Duchess appeared completely lost . . . disoriented, uncertain, and deeply confused. Her Duke held out his arms, and she sank into them, frightened and unsure.
“My dear,” the Duke said. “You’ve suffered such a fright. Come. Let me see to you.” He lifted her easily in strong arms and carried her back into the keep, the edge of her gown almost kissing the ground.
My spirit vision blurred, and I returned to my high perch above the castle. Oh, I didn’t need to see the rest. The gods had shown me enough.
I knew that, on the battlefield five miles away, the body in the Duke’s armor, pierced by a dozen spears, would no longer look like the Duke. A ruse, they would say. In the castle, a strong and kind young woman, born with a face and form that drove men to madness, would now have peace and the chance to forge a better world. And a lust-maddened King would have opportunities of a different kind. The chance to learn, at last, how to love, how to give, and how to nurture.
Sometimes I give, sometimes I take.
And sometimes, I do both.
Another vision came to me, caught in a golden glow. A land at peace, the crops ripening in the sunlight . . . a man with a fair beard, resting a gentle hand on his wife’s shoulder . . . her perfect face is suffused with tenderness as she gazes upon the infant suckling at her swollen breast . . . . Maybe – just maybe – the gods got it right this time.
The end.
Author's Note: "Excalibur" is a bit of a cult classic, with cast members like Helen Mirren and Liam Neeson, who later became quite famous. But Nicole Williamson's Merlin stole every single scene he was in, an absolutely perfect portrayal of the legend. Quite a bit of the early dialogue in this story is taken straight from the movie, but . . . yeah. It kind of veers off into new territory. Maybe better territory.
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Just a little light fluff tonight, to start the weekend off . . . . Cheers!
-- Emma
William’s Tell
Wasn’t life grand? The sky was blue, the maples were in full autumnal reds, oranges and yellows, the air was crisp, and no-one in my apartment liked pumpkin spice anything. What’s more, my last class of the day was over and I had no classes on Friday, so it was officially le weekend. Best of all, Thursday night was poker night.
My roommates and I had instituted Thursday poker nights last year. The three of us – Josh, Cara and I – were the core group. Typically we would need to pull in two or three more, but they were a rotating cast of characters. There were even times when we had eight or nine people, but that left you with boring games like Texas Hold ‘em which required fewer cards per player. Our preference was to allow the dealer to call the game.
Tonight only two people were joining us. Ariadne was a friend of mine from my art history class; she was bringing Rachel, a friend of hers whom I hadn’t met. I was glad that she had found someone; poker is better when there are at least five players to start.
I say “to start,” because our house rules were simple. $50 buy-in from everyone upfront. Everyone got the same 100 chips, and we played until one person had all of them. No limits on the betting except one: you couldn’t buy a pot by the simple expedient of betting more than anyone else who was still in had in front of them. Our core group were good players, so games tended to last for quite a few enjoyable hours.
I stopped by the store on the way back from campus to pick up some supplies for the evening. Nothing fancy – just some beer, some chips and a bit of onion dip. People usually came over after dinner. Simpler that way. I expected that Josh and Cara would already have our dinner underway when I got back; neither of them had any afternoon classes on Thursday.
In the event, I was disappointed. I walked up the two outside flights of stairs, fumbled for my keys and got the door open. No-one was in the common area and clearly no dinner was underway. “Dammit,” I muttered.
I flipped on the lights, put the beer and dip in the fridge and pulled the kielbasa from the meat drawer. I didn’t want Ariadne and Rachel to show up before Josh, Cara and I had eaten, or worse, while we were still eating. The former would make for a hungry evening, while the latter would be flat-out rude. Ariadne was the kind of person who might take offense, but wouldn’t tell you she had. She tended to notice things.
Ari and I were good friends studying for the same degree who started at about the same time. She was around 5’8” with a spare build, medium-length blond hair and a pair of glasses that made her look even more studious than she was. She’d been over for poker night lots of times; not quite enough to be a regular. Her tell was a tendency to tug her ear when she thought she had a good hand. As a friend, I suppose I should have told her, but you have to learn these things yourself, in poker. Kind of an unwritten rule.
I cut the kielbasa into bite-sized chunks and got them going in a frying pan with a bit of olive oil. Then I washed some broccoli and got that cut up as well. Got some butter noodles going. Around 5:30, just when everything was about done, Josh came out of the bedroom he shared with Cara, looking a bit sheepish. “Ah . . . sorry dude. Kinda lost track of the time there,” he said.
I rolled my eyes. “Get the table set, would you? And let Cara know dinner’s just about ready?” He gave me a thumb’s up and popped back into the bedroom, emerging a moment later to put pasta bowls, forks and knives on the table. And water. Poker nights tended to be lubricated by alcohol, so it was important to at least start the evening hydrated.
Cara came out a few minutes later. Cara was petite in every dimension with baby-blue eyes and fluffy blonde hair; she looked about as adorable as a kitten and ruthlessly took advantage of everyone who judged her by her looks. When we filled out the poker table with guys, you might as well have handed her sheep shearing equipment.
At the moment Cara was looking more like a fully-grown cat who’s found a stash of cream. I thought better of commenting on it. I liked Josh and Cara, and they liked me, but sharing an apartment with a couple requires a certain delicacy on everyone’s part. A certain willingness to look the other way from time to time, to pretend not to have seen or heard things, and to use the mental “edit” function before opening the mouth. This was one of those times.
We ate without any preliminaries. Well, Cara did say “Hi, Willie.” But otherwise we ate quickly; Then Cara washed and I dried while Josh tidied up and got the table ready for poker. With five, we could leave it in its small, circular configuration without adding any extenders, and that was always better. You didn’t have to toss cards down the table, and everyone was equidistant from the pot.
We were ready just in time. The doorbell rang promptly at 6:00 and I opened the door to admit Ari and her friend. Ari was wearing a flared tea-length cotton skirt and a white peasant blouse that had a ruffled elastic neckline that flattered her spare frame. In a breezy voice, she said, “Willie, Rachel; Rachel, this is Willie, the tigershark by the table – don’t let the fluffy hair fool you – is Cara, and the big guy is Josh.”
Rachel smiled – a slow, somehow sensual, smile, and said, “so pleased to meet you all.” Her voice was a low, smoky contralto. It suited her, too. She was a bit shorter than Ari and considerably more curvaceous. And I do mean, considerably. Her wide hips and narrow waist were emphasized by a simple black skirt, just above knee high, in a stretchy Rayon-poly blend; she wore a purple top in some silky fabric that had very short sleeves and an extremely complicated series of folds at the neck and chest. She wore her wavy, raven-black hair loose just below her shoulders.
I must have been gaping, or at least not doing a very good job of hiding the fact that I felt like I’d been pole-axed. “Stick your tongue back in your head and do something useful, Willie,” Ari admonished. “Like maybe pour some drinks?”
I moved to comply. “What would you like? Beer? Wine?” That pretty much exhausted our communal offerings, but our guests had other ideas.
“For poker,” Rachel said, “I thought whiskey might be more . . . appropriate. Ariadne told me she hadn’t remembered seeing any here, so I brought some.” I can’t say I know bourbon well – I try to keep moderately sober during poker nights by sticking to beer – but Blanton’s Original looked like the real deal. And I didn’t want to look like some kind of a lightweight by turning down what Rachel had brought. So I got appropriate glasses, dropped in some ice cubes and poured. By the time I was done, Josh had hung up our guests’ coats and the three girls were chatting about something. Just breaking the ice.
I handed out the drinks and we all went to the table to sit down. It was oak, heavy, and had seen enough use that we didn’t bother with things like coasters. A few more stains would just add a bit more character. Josh explained the house rules to Rachel while I got out the chips and disbursed them, collecting in exchange everyone’s $50. A $250 pot tonight – plenty enough to be interesting, to a group of college kids.
Josh started us off easy – simple draw poker, one chip ante. Josh has big hands – well, really, Josh is big all over, like Cara is small – but he shuffles cards with a kind of grace and fluidity that makes you think of Yo Yo Ma playing the cello. He passed the cards to Rachel, sitting immediately to his right, to cut. She simply tapped the deck with a single, perfectly tapered and immaculately polished fingernail. He smiled and dealt, the cards sailing around the table as if they had launched themselves. I wish I knew how to do that!
Cara was sitting to Josh’s left and she tossed a chip into the pot to get the first round of betting going. I looked at my hand; a pair of fours was not particularly auspicious, but I decided to play it a bit longer just to see how the early hands went. I tossed in a chip. Ariadne put her cards down with a firm, “nope,” passing the bet to Rachel. “See your one and raise you two,” Rachel said, pushing three chips into the pot. Ah, I thought. An aggressive player!
Josh put in three and called; Cara took the bet as well. I decided I’d seen enough and folded. Cara took three cards. Rachel said, “I’ll play these.” The dealer took two. The next round of betting made me glad that I had gotten out; Josh folded rather than meet Rachel’s raise on Cara’s bet; then Cara and Rachel had two more rounds of raising before Cara called. Rachel had been dealt a flush in clubs, but Cara had been luckier still with her draw, and ended up with a full house, nines over queens. Cara’s smile was predatory. Rachel’s, however, suggested that she was delighted. “This will be fun,” she said.
Cara kept the same game. Josh – knowing his woman – cut the cards. I had a much better hand this time, but my two pair lost to Rachel’s three tens and it was my deal. Time to mix it up. “Seven card stud,” I said. After Cara cut, I dealt three cards to each player; two down and one up. As I dealt the up cards, I added the commentary. “Sweets to the sweet, and a queen for Ariadne,” I said, followed by, “a seven for our lovely guest, a ten for the big guy; the tigershark gets an ace and the dealer gets a five. Ace high bets, darlin’.” Cara tossed two chips into the pot. I called, feeling pretty good since one of my down cards was a king and the other was a pair for the five of diamonds I was showing. Ari and Rachel called without comment and Josh folded.
“A seven for the queen; no help there; eight for Rachel, also in spades; oops – a pair of aces there,” I said, tossing Cara her prize, “and the dealer – ah, sweet, has a pair of fives. But the pair of aces still bets.” With a pair of aces showing, Cara was going to make us all pay to see more cards, and she did. Actually, betting five was a little light under the circumstances, but she was probably going easy to keep more of us in. I knew I was sitting on three fives, though, so I took the bet. Too early for a raise. Ariadne called, but Rachel folded with a small smile. “Not this hand,” she said. With her sultry voice, even those short words sounded sexy as hell. She saw me looking at her and turned on her smile like a slow burn.
In the next round, Ariadne picked up another seven, Cara got a four and I got no help with an eight. I now had the low hand showing, but three fives is still three fives. I stayed in. Ari’s final up card was another queen, giving her two pair showing. Cara got no help again, getting the queen of clubs. The two that I pulled gave me no help either. But Ariadne kept the bet light, only putting in two chips on two pair. Her low bet did the trick – Cara and I both stayed in for another round, and I hit the home run, getting a second king as my final down card.
This time Ari pushed ten chips into the pot and smiled. Cara thought for a moment, then called the bet. I had a full house, so I had good reason to stay in. Both Cara and Ari could have one too, but the odds were against it. Cara would need both another ace AND a pair. Ari just needed either a queen or a seven to be one of her three down cards, but Rachel’s first up card had been a seven, and Cara had a queen showing. Ari was watching me, just smiling, daring me to pony up; the ruffled top of her peasant blouse had slipped off one shoulder, in the process showing off a nylon bra strap in the same pretty pale blue as her skirt. I tried not to gawk. But she was also, poor girl, playing with her left earlobe. I folded.
Cara is an exceptional player and she would certainly know Ariadne’s tell as well as I did; she probably spotted it first. But Ari hadn’t started playing with her earlobe until after Cara had called her bet. And sure enough, she took the sizeable pot with a full house, sevens over queens. Cara’s three aces – an entirely respectable hand in seven-card stud – came up short.
So the evening progressed, hand after hand. I was enjoying the Blanton’s – a much better bourbon than I would normally spring for. Rachel was, indeed, an aggressive player, but she tended to get out early on hands that showed little promise, even when the early betting was low. That tended to be my style as well. Josh – and, for that matter, Ariadne – were more likely to take risks and bet on hunches that later cards would bail them out.
As a dealer, Rachel tended to favor games with more betting rounds, especially those that involved rolling your cards one at a time, with a betting round following each roll. She completely smoked all of us on a hand of five-card draw with a roll. By the time all but the last of her cards were showing, she had a possible straight while Josh was showing two pair (for a possible full house), Cara had four diamonds and Ariadne had thee tens – also a possible full house. Everyone stayed in, but only Rachel’s hand panned out. Her slow smile returned.
Ariadne was the first of us to go out; her downfall was a game of “pass the trash,” and I was the one to call it. I dealt everyone seven cards. I had a pair of sevens, a jack, a king, a two, a three and a five. I passed the jack, the king and the five to Ariadne and received a seven, a ten and a four from Cara. Three of a kind, but not very impressive for this game. I passed the ten and the four to Ariadne and got a two and a queen from Cara. A full house – but a low full house. In pass the trash, full houses are pretty common. For the last pass, I sent Ari my three of hearts. Incredibly, I got a fourth seven from Cara.
I arranged my cards for the flip: seven, seven, seven, two, seven. I discarded the remaining two cards and we did the first flip. By the time we got the fourth flip, the pot was very large and Ariadne was almost out of chips. Only Rachel and I were still in; Cara and Josh had folded. Ariadne was showing two jacks and two threes. A full house at best, which would not beat my four of a kind. Rachel, on the other hand, was showing a possible straight flush, which would.
My three sevens were the high hand showing, so I started the bet. Out of kindness, I only bet three. It was all that Ariadne had left. She called. But Rachel did not let her off, raising the bet and knocking Cara out.
I thought about it. We played a pretty cut-throat game. Betting more than one of the remaining players in the hand could match was perfectly permissible, so long as one of the other players still in could match the bet. But it wasn’t the friendliest of moves. Dickish might be too strong a word, but then again, it might not. Ari had said Rachel was her friend. I knew it wouldn’t matter, since Ariadne’s best possible hand couldn’t beat my four of a kind. Perhaps Rachel knew the same thing, though, which strongly suggested that she was not bluffing. Her eyes held mine, challenging me. I decided I would pay to see her cards, but rather than raise the bet, I would simply call.
Rachel hadn’t been bluffing. I gave her a salute with her excellent whiskey.
Ariadne stayed at the table to watch a few more hands, but eventually retreated to the couch, curling her legs under her and nursing a Corona. Play continued. With four players, pass the trash was no longer a good game to choose, but there were plenty of others that worked just as well. Josh was the next player to go out, trying to run a bluff on a middling pair in straight draw poker, but losing out to my lucky three threes. Cara fought the good fight for another half hour, but it was not her night for the cards. The back half of the evening, she wasn’t even getting anything she could bluff with. She got up, stretched, and smiled. “You guys keep at it,” she said, “Josh and I have a makeup class at 10, so we’ll crash a bit early.”
Rachel and I kept at it and we were well matched. She said little and focused on her play, managing nonetheless to display a kind of sardonic humor at the whole thing. I was uncharacteristically a bit fuzzy headed. It had been a long evening, even for our group, and I was not used to drinking anything more potent than beer. But if my skill was maybe less than normal, my luck was better. By 12:30 in the morning, I had almost all of the chips, and Rachel was fighting a rear-guard action. On the couch, Ariadne slept, still curled up; her bra strap was flirting again.
We were playing five-card stud with a roll; I was showing a pair of fives, but my downcard was a king and one of my upcards was as well. Rachel was showing a pair of jacks, a ten and a five that I would have loved to have had in my own hand. It was her bet, and she put three of her four remaining chips into the pot. This wasn’t a hard call. If she had two pair, it would be a lower set than mine; she could only beat me if she had another jack. But those are long odds in poker. I saw her three and raised her one – the maximum allowed, since I couldn’t bet more than she had. All she could do was call.
She was giving me a measuring look, her dark eyes carefully appraising. I wasn’t sure why; there was only one move for her to make. She seemed to come to a decision and set her whiskey glass down carefully. “I see your one and raise you,” she said.
“You raise me with what?” I asked, puzzled. Without taking her dark eyes off me, she reached down with both hands and pulled the silky purple top she was wearing over her head, held it loosely for a moment in one hand, then allowed it to slide through her fingers like water, pooling beside the pot. Her sultry smile challenged me.
“I raise you,” she repeated.
Now in my defense, my brain was fuzzy. I wanted to look around to see if Ari was still sleeping, but I couldn’t. Rachel’s large and perfect breasts, nestled in a lacy, dark red underwire bra, were proudly displayed. A small golden heart pendant dangled on a thin golden chain right over her deep cleavage. Her eyes dared me. Challenged me. Until, one by one, I loosened the buttons on my flannel shirt. I pulled it clear of my jeans and laid it over her top. Then I pulled my white tank t-shirt over my head and, laying it down next, said, “see you and raise you.”
Her smile grew wider. She reached one hand lazily over her shoulder, and brought the other up under her arm, in the process thrusting her chest forward. She unhooked her bra and laid it over her top. Her breasts were flawless; her areola dark and wide. “Call,” she said. Not once had her eyes left mine. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was far too dry.
I flipped my down card. “Two pair, kings over fives.” She flipped her own downcard; without either saying anything or looking at it, she pulled the pot over to her side of the table. I glanced down. Sure enough; a third jack.
Rather than putting her clothes back on, Rachel slipped my tank top over her head, then put on my flannel shirt without buttoning it up. She slid her bra into the middle of the table and said, “ante up.”
What was going on? Was Ari STILL asleep? I wanted to turn around, but I wouldn’t do it. Wouldn’t give Rachel the satisfaction of seeing me flinch. I removed my slippers – all I wear on my feet, indoors – and put them in the center. The game, clearly, had gone beyond chips.
“Five card draw; jacks or better to open, trips to win,” she said, taking care to enunciate each word. She gave me my cards. A pair of eights and garbage. “Do you have openers?” she asked. I shook my head. Apparently she didn’t either. She pushed her top back into the center of the table, and now I was in trouble. With great reluctance, I unbuttoned my jeans and pulled them off, setting them beside my slippers.
She shuffled, dealt and again asked, “Do you have openers?” But this time I did; a pair of kings. I nodded. She smiled her slow smile and said, “then it’s your bet.”
Given that I was only wearing my watch and my boxer shorts, I decided that discretion was the better part of valor. “Check,” I said.
She shook her head sadly, “Willie, Willie. I thought better of you than that! If you are afraid to bet, you will surely lose. Because I’m not afraid.” She reached down again, and with an easy tug pulled her stretchy black skirt off and set it beside her bra and her top. Given the table, I could not see her in her panties, but my mind had no trouble imagining it. My palms were sweaty and I dried them against my bare legs.
Then I took a breath and muttered, “in for a dime, in for a dollar.” I pulled off my boxers and found myself suddenly grateful for the solid oak table that shielded my private parts from her dark eyes. Talk about solid oak! “Call,” I managed to husk out.
“What would you like?” she asked, just like it was a normal question. Which, double entendre or no, it was. I held up three fingers and was embarrassed to see that my hand was trembling. She tossed me the three cards I had requested and took two herself. I looked down at what I had gotten – a six, a jack and . . . oh thank God, another king. I had trips; I COULD win the pot. It was possible. “Still your bet,” she said.
All I had left was my watch. I took it off and laid it in the pot. She smiled, reached down, and a moment later put a pair of matching panties next to her lacy red bra. “Call,” she said evenly.
My three kings beat her three nines, and I sighed with relief. I moved to pick up my boxers. “No, no,” she chided softly. “You have to wear your trophies, Willie. Proudly. Just like I did. You won them, fair and square.”
I looked at her, incredulous. She simply picked up her whiskey and leaned back in her chair. My tank top did little to contain her full, round breasts, and she wore my flannel shirt in such a way that it only framed them. My mind was trying to catch up with what was going on. Was she really suggesting . . . .?
The hand that was not holding her whiskey glass snaked down, snagged her panties, and tossed them at me. Yes, that was exactly what she was suggesting.
I should protest. I knew that I ought to. But those dark eyes, so full of dark humor, seemed to hold me silent, to pierce my heart. I knew that I should protest, or even better, should laugh it off.
But I also knew that I didn’t want to.
It was like Rachel knew. Knew my deepest, darkest secret. The one I never told anyone. Not family, not friends. No one. I lived so deep in the closet I could see Cair Paravel; there was no way she knew.
Even when I was a little kid, I would steal my sister’s cast-offs and play make-believe. Had a stash of my favorite things. I had loved pretending to be a girl. But I had told myself that I was done with all that. That I had to play the cards I had been dealt, and stop mooning over the truly beautiful cards others got to play. So my stash had found its way into a give-away bin in a deserted parking lot, and I hadn’t dressed since going off to college. Maybe, I told myself, I had outgrown that longing.
I knew, in that moment, that I hadn’t. That it was still something that I wanted. Those lacy panties were so silky, so sexy . . . I wanted to feel them stretch as I pulled them up my legs; wanted to feel their caress as I slid them up over my ass, as I tucked my rock-hard penis inside. But what would Rachel think of me then? What would Ari think? Was Ari still sleeping?
Rachel saw my internal struggle and said in a low, coaxing voice, “Come on, Willie. What’s the big deal? Just a bit of pretty fabric.” She paused, a half-smile rounding her full lips. “You want to, don’t you?”
I could barely speak, overcome by longing. But I heard myself whisper, “yes.”
My hands reached out, slowly, and picked up the panties from where she had tossed them to me, still warm from the heat of her body. I bent down and inserted one foot, then the other, then I eased myself far enough off the seat to pull them up and set them in place. They felt indescribably wonderful. My face must have been as red as the panties themselves.
Rachel just kept smiling. She took another sip of her whiskey, then tossed me her bra. I picked it up, my hands once again trembling. I put one arm, then the other, through the narrow straps, then repeated her maneuver in reverse. Despite the liquor in my bloodstream, despite the trembling, I managed to get the right hooks into the right eyes with my hands behind my back. Because I had done it before. Many, many times. It was muscle memory.
The smile on her lips was very knowing, now. Without saying anything, she picked up her purse, reached into it, and pulled out a tube. She stretched across the table, once again showing her cleavage to great effect, and put the tube into my hands. Lipstick. I knew what to do with that as well, and somehow, she knew that I knew.
I took the top off the tube, brought my lips together, and applied the color, assuming that it was the same dark red that she was wearing herself. I moved my lips to spread the coating evenly. LIke I had done it before.
She stood up, slowly, in the process rotating her shoulders and losing my flannel shirt. The poker game was forgotten. She began to walk around the table towards me, slowly, her naked hips rolling to the steps her three-inch heels compelled. I was frozen in place, watching her, my eyes drawn to the jet black pubic hair just below the bottom of my tank-top t-shirt. She kept walking, slowly, gracefully, until she left my sight and went behind me.
It was so quiet you could have heard a cat stalk a mouse. My hands were positively shaking now and I felt that my heart beat was as loud as a grandfather clock. I sat, unmoving.
“My, my, my,” she murmured, just behind my ear. “What have we here?” I felt silky smooth hands on my shoulders, caressing me. I could feel her breath, smell her scent. My heart beat louder still. Her lips pressed a kiss just below my ear. “You look good enough to nibble on,” she said. Her hands slipped down, following the line of her lingerie straps until they rested over the side panels of the bra. “So pretty . . . .”
I was blushing furiously. I had wanted to impress this woman, but she knew exactly what I was. Saw through everything. Her hands withdrew from my torso, but she continued to nibble on my neck and murmur endearments in my ear.
I felt metal against my chest and looked down to see a pendant on a fine, fine gold chain. The one she had worn earlier. Her hands did something behind my neck, then they were back on my chest, caressing me. The pendant stayed in place. “It goes so well with your new bra, don’t you think,” she crooned at me.
My senses were on complete overload. I was wearing lipstick and sexy lingerie and a gorgeous woman was fondling me. I whimpered as her hands came up and pulled my unresisting head back against her breasts. She must have removed my T-shirt, because my head was most definitely pillowed on her amazing flesh. Her right hand played with the lobe of my ear, just like I was Ariandne, signaling a good hand.
“Your body says you want me. Does your mind say that too?” she asked. I nodded, shakily. Oh, I certainly did. I had from the moment she walked in the door. “But, I only like women,” she said. “So what are you, hmm? A boy in a woman’s lingerie, or a woman in a boy’s body?”
“I . . . I . . . .” I stammered, caught between a lifetime of hiding and a possibility, however distant, of something more. Finally, I blurted it out. “I don’t know what I am. I love wearing your clothes. But I do wish I was a girl.” There. I had said it. Confessed. I waited for the mocking laughter, the scorn. My face burned, and a tear slid down one cheek. The silence stretched, painfully, as she continued to play with my body.
After the pause had gone on long enough to crush me, she said, “In that case, perhaps we can do a little experiment, you and I.” She snaked a long leg over my legs, then sat in my lap, straddling me. Her bare vulva, warm and moist, touched the end of my penis where it emerged from the waistband of the panties. I gasped. She framed my face with her hands, then kissed me, forcefully. I felt the unusual sensation of lipstick against lipstick and thought, stupidly, that at least it was the same shade. She thrust her tongue into my mouth aggressively; my own danced meekly to her tune.
She pulled her head back without releasing the hands holding my head in place, and said, “Let’s see if you can make love to me like a girl. Not with your silly prick, but with your hands, with those pretty lips of yours. With your tongue. Do you think you are woman enough to manage that?” She rose off my lap, still straddling my chair, until her breasts were in front of my lips.
I answered her as best I could, with my body. I began kissing her breasts, licking them, caressing them with both hands. She allowed this for a while, then she plopped her bottom on the top edge of the table and put one high-heel clad foot on either side of my thighs. I brought my head down lower. I stroked her smooth thighs, then leaned forward and buried my face in her soft, smooth belly. I began to give it kisses, then I bent lower, kissing her mound. She leaned back on the table and spread her legs, and I went lower still. “That’s it,” she said huskily. “You know your business, girl.” And I went to her like a bee to nectar.
I don’t know how long I pleasured her with my lips and tongue. She bucked and her hands on my shoulders grew tight, pulling me close against her. But I was becoming desperate for my own release, and however much I might wish I was female, my body was built the way it was built. “Please,” I begged, “Please!”
She gave a low chuckle. “Not really my thing,” she said. “That’s more in your friend’s line than mine. What do you say, Ari, love? Got a mercy fuck in you?”
Behind me, I heard Ariadne say, “After watching the two of you go at it, I could use a little something to scratch my itch. Nothing wrong with her equipment.”
I was mortified, but I was also over the top aroused. When I felt a new hand touch me, resting lightly over the clasp of the beautiful bra I was wearing, I didn't even flinch. And when Ariadne said, “alright girl, on your back if you want relief,” I dropped like a rock and rolled like a dog.
Ariadne had not gotten undressed. She straddled me, her loose cotton skirt covering us both. I reached up, but Ari swatted my hands down. “No, Willie,” she said, “You just lie there like a good girl and I’ll ride you like the filly you really are.” She reached down, freed my penis from Rachel’s panties, and impaled herself on it. “Ahhhhh!” she said.
Rachel came and stood behind Ariadne, watching me squirm and playing with Ari’s hair as she pumped me up and down. I just lay there and allowed myself to be swept away by the sensations of the moment. Allowed her complete mastery. I was whimpering, crying out, for once – really, for the first time ever – completely uninhibited. Finally, I couldn’t hold back any more, and I exploded inside of Ariadne.
Ari looked down at me fondly, touched the pendant at my breast with one finger, then patted me on the cheek. “Nice job, sweets,” she said. "And about time. In case you’re wondering, you practically drool when a girl so much as flashes a bra strap, even when you aren’t attracted to her, and you should see your face when you walk by a women’s shoe store. It’s quite the tell.”
The End
For information about my other stories, please check out my author's page.
Wittgenstein’s Illusion
“Why’d you do that, jackass?” I snarled at Sabrina, who was the barista this morning. I make better coffee, if I do say so myself. Well, really, everyone says so, but I was on the schedule for the register this morning, and that was that. “You embarrassed a customer!”
“It was a JOKE,” she snapped back. Just ‘cuz YOU don’t have a sense of humor . . . .”
“It wasn’t funny,” I returned, with considerable heat.
“No,” she said, “It was HILARIOUS.”
I was tempted to respond, but that wouldn’t do anything for our customer, who was already making his way quickly down the street. Besides, Jen, who was relieving me, was just about to come out from the back. “Hey, Jen,” I called. “Can you come on a couple minutes early?”
She popped her head out. “Sure Jack, what’s up?”
“I’ll fill you in later, okay?” I said.
“Sure thing,” she said. “Go!” Wholly disregarding the scornful look Sabrina was directing my way, I tossed my brown apron in the hamper behind the door, ducked under the counter and took off after Terry.
I don’t know Terry’s last name, but I know his first name because I’ve written it on scores – possibly hundreds – of his coffee cups over the past two years I’ve worked at Lord Kitchener’s Kafe. It’s not hard to write; unlike most guys his age – well, our age – he has a conventional name that he spells in a conventional way. But Sabrina, bitch troll that she is, decided it would be “hilarious” to write “Teri” on his venti latte, and even dotted the eye with a cutesy heart. Terry, at least, hadn’t seen the humor. He had flushed bright red, spun around and hustled off, leaving his coffee behind him.
Why would she do that? Well, Terry wasn’t a particularly imposing figure. Short, slight, with deep brown eyes. He had feathery black hair that seemed to stick out in odd directions. He was quiet, polite. Diffident, even. On nice days, he sometimes had his coffee on the outside patio; I had seen him doing charcoal sketches of customers on a pad he always had with him. There wasn’t anything particularly feminine about Terry. But there wasn’t anything especially masculine either. He was just a decent, quiet guy. Just the sort someone like Sabrina would target for her “fun.”
But I expected that Simon Kitchener, like Terry, would not share Sabrina’s sense of humor. Terry was a good regular customer – just the sort that Simon cultivated as the foundation for the cafe’s success. I’m a good employee and I’m sure Simon would approve of what I was doing, but truth is – much as I respect my boss – I wasn’t doing it for him.
I couldn’t call Terry a friend, really. We’d just exchanged pleasantries more often than not. We’d had slightly longer conversations from time to time. But he was a nice guy. A sensitive guy. I liked him. He didn’t deserve Sabrina’s “jokes.” And I didn’t want to be the kind of guy who just sat back and did nothing in the face of cruelty, just because it wasn’t directed at me.
I caught up with him about four blocks from work. “Hey, Terry, wait up,” I said when I was about ten steps back. He slowed, almost reluctantly, then turned his head.
Seeing me, his shoulders slumped. “It’s okay, Jack,” he said. “Just . . . wasn’t in the mood for jokes today.”
“It’s NOT alright, and it’s NEVER alright,” I said forcefully, as I caught up with him. “I want you to know that Mr. Kitchener is going to be ripshit when he hears about it, and he will. From me!”
He looked at me quizzically, then continued to walk, turning his eyes forward. “Maybe you should let it go,” he said, as I kept pace with him. “Not that I don’t appreciate the thought. I do. But I can fight my own battles when I need to.”
He kept walking, and for some reason I kept walking too. He didn’t tell me not to. I said, “I’m not suggesting you can’t. But I KNOW Mr. Kitchener. That’s not something he’d want happening at his place. And he’d want to know if it did. So . . . it’s your battle, I suppose, but it’s not JUST your battle.”
He digested that as he continued walking. When we hit Durling Creek he turned down the dirt path that left the main road. He didn’t ask me to join him, but again, he didn’t ask me to leave him alone, either. He said, “Is it your battle?” Nothing challenging in his voice that I could sense. Just . . . curiosity? So I thought about it rather than answering right away.
After a few yards I said, “Yes, I think it’s my battle too. I may just be a barista, but I want to work in a place I’m proud to work. That has values I share. That didn’t happen today. I’m as responsible for our work culture as everyone else. Making sure it’s a good environment, a positive experience for our community – yeah, that’s my battle.”
The path went back over Durling Creek by a footbridge. Terry stopped in the middle of the bridge, leaned forward and rested his forearms on the railing. He looked down at the water, gurgling through a tangle of weeds and rocks. Even though the band of trees we were in was narrow, it blocked a lot of the normal noise of the busy suburb that surrounded us. The early afternoon sunlight filtered through the oak leaves above us, dappling the ground with pockets of light and patterns of darkness.
Without taking his eyes off the flowing creek, he said, “Well, I guess you need to go fight your battle, and maybe Lord Kitchener needs to fight his battle too. Do what you need to do, and God bless you for it. The world could certainly use more people who think like you do. But it’s got nothing to do with me. For my part . . . I’d let it go.”
I was confused, and said so. “Terry . . . I don’t understand. Why doesn’t it have anything to do with you?”
He continued to look at the water, carefully weighing his response. Finally he said, “Please don’t take this the wrong way, Jack. I DO appreciate what you’re doing. You want to be a good guy and work at a good place. Those are good things. That has to do with YOU. Mr. Kitchener wants to run a good place. That has to do with HIM. Sabrina . . . she’s a nasty piece of work. But she was going to be nasty to somebody. It happened to be me, this morning, but it could have been anyone. I’m not important to the equation. To what you need to do. And that’s fine.”
I tried to process what he was saying. I mean, what he was REALLY saying. And then I had to think a bit harder about why I had charged after Terry. All the while, he just stared out at the creek, apparently oblivious to my presence or the passage of time.
“Terry,” I said softly. “Would you look at me, please?” He straightened up slowly, turned around and leaned on the railing, facing me where I leaned on the railing opposite. He looked wary, cautious. Vulnerable.
“I’m sorry,” I said. “Not just for what Sabrina did, though it’s that too. But for how I managed to make it all about me. It IS about you, Terry. I wouldn’t have come after ‘just anyone.’ I came out because I care about YOU. Because you’ve always been a nice, decent guy that I wanted to get to know better, and I hated to see you treated that way. Because you deserve better.”
The wary expression did not leave his face, but he said, “Thanks for that, Jack. I appreciate it. But . . . I’m not really a nice, decent guy. And you probably DON’T want to get to know me better.”
“Why would you say that?,” I asked. This conversation was just baffling to me.
He gave me a long, long look before saying, “Sabrina was nasty, Jack. But she wasn’t wrong. She saw in a week what you missed for two years. I’m not a guy at all. Not really. Even though I’ve nominally got the equipment. I’m a woman.”
I gaped at him for a moment, but then I shut my open jaw and thought back over all our interactions over the past two years. It was like the drawing that looks like a rabbit from one direction and a duck from another. Or like one of those pieces of three-dimensional art that look random, until you see them from just the right angle and the pattern and design become clear as day. What had been lines and squiggles becomes a bird, or a famous building.
Or a beautiful woman.
Terry was still looking at me warily. Like he was waiting for judgment day. I don’t know what was on my face. But I suddenly knew – blowing past all my self-deceptions – why I had come after him today. After her.
“Teri,” I said. “I don’t know why I didn’t see you properly. But I think my heart knew what my mind refused to process. I said that I care about you, and that’s true. I’d tell you that your gender doesn’t matter, and in a way it doesn’t. I care, regardless. But . . . .” I struggled to articulate what I was thinking. What I was feeling. Teri just looked at me, almost expressionless.
“But in another way, your gender matters a lot,” I finally was able to say. “Because I’ve been attracted to you for a long time, and I’ve been lying to myself about that. Lying, because I’m not gay, and I thought you were a guy.”
Her eyes got wider at that – much wider. Then she visibly schooled her features and said, cautiously, “I’m a woman inside, but like I said, I don’t have a woman’s physical equipment. You need to know that.”
I nodded. “I understand. And I’m not going to say it doesn’t matter. I don’t know if it will or won’t. But . . . can we . . . can we maybe find out?”
Her sensitive face was showing fear, indecision, hope . . . . She leaned against the rail, unmoving. Too scared to move toward me, too hopeful to run away. Very slowly, very carefully, I raised my right hand, palm facing up.
She looked at me – a look I would remember if I lived to be a hundred – a look that pierced my heart. With equal care, she took my outstretched hand in her own and we came together. My left hand cradled her cheek, and I bent down and kissed her. A light kiss, so soft . . . I was so afraid, in that moment, that she would run.
Maybe she would, one day. Maybe I would. But in that beautiful morning on the footbridge over Durling Creek, my heart sang with the joy of love finally seen, finally recognized, and I saw that love reflected in her matchless eyes. And the world, in that moment, was a magical place.
The End
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