by Renee James
“How are you, dear?” he asks.
“I’m just fine, sweetie.” I’m trying to master that cooing use of dear, sweetie, honey, and the rest of that saccharine lexicon that gay men and most other women employ so well. It sounds stupid when I do it though.
“How’s business, honey?” The sweet references roll off his lips with the grace of an eagle riding thermals high above the earth.
I answer with platitudes, hoping not to get into the subject, but he presses me on it. I ask about Robert, his partner. Robert is fine, he says, but how is business?
“It’s slow, Roger,” I answer finally. I won’t lie to him about it. “We’re doing some promotional stuff to try to stop the bleeding, but we’re off about thirty percent versus a year ago, and the people I talk to say this recession won’t bottom out for another year or two.”
“Oh, Bobbi, I was afraid of that.” He issues a series of sympathetic clucks and groans. A normal American businessman would be asking about his money and I’m bracing myself for that.
“How are you meeting expenses?” he asks, finally.
“So far, by cutting my salary and not replacing one assistant who left. Plus a little belt-tightening in the color room, getting the girls to cut out waste. The usual.”
“You’re not paying yourself, Bobbi?”
He sounds like a comedian doing a Jewish mother routine. I almost laugh.
“I took partial payment,” I say. “I’ll get it back when things turn around.”
“Bobbi, you can’t do that. You are the key to the business.”
We talk business strategies for a few minutes, then Roger says what he called to say.
“Bobbi, if you have to go light on your payments to me for a few months, you go right ahead. If we have to restructure the deal, that’s what we’ll do. I don’t want you losing your building or living like a nun. You have to stay healthy. Robert and I are fine right now.” He goes on but I don’t really process his words. I can’t get past the realization that this man trusts me enough to let me miss payments to him or change the deal entirely. I would never do that, but the offer makes my head spin. Five years ago when I was transitioning, most people wouldn’t give me the time of day or an interview for a job or even deign to sit next to me on the El. Roger was the exception and now here he is saying “pay me when you can.”
I thank him and promise that if the situation becomes dire I will call him and talk about his offer. We have that conversation again. Roger has too much time on his hands.
* * *
SATURDAY, AUGUST 30
Betsy walks into the living room and collapses on the couch next to me. She has just kissed Robbie goodnight. The child lasted one set at Jazzfest and we stayed for one more, admiring how she could sleep so restfully in a crowd. We walked part way home because it was such a nice night, shifting Robbie back and forth between us until we got too tired to carry her anymore and took a cab the rest of the way.
This is our first weekend sleepover at my apartment. It has gone well. I’ve been anticipating this event all week, planning every detail, cleaning, prepping the bedrooms, laying in enough groceries to feed the masses. And dreaming about being there for Betsy. Providing support and shelter while she gets her life together. Being the sister she can say anything to. Being a second mom to Robbie. All three of us going places together, shopping, beaches, concerts.
Betsy is still too burdened by reality to share my sisterly zeal, but she has enjoyed the day, too. She leans her head against my shoulder. I lower my head to rest on hers and we hold hands.
“Were you really surprised to see that policeman there?” Betsy asks.
Officer Phil saw us at Jazzfest and came over to say hello. As I introduced him to Betsy it occurred to me she might find him interesting when she started dating again. It would be nice to keep him in the family . . .
“Are you interested in him?” There is a tiny undercurrent of tension in her voice when she asks this. We haven’t talked about how we would handle dating and sex yet. We’re both healthy single women. It’s going to come up, especially if we become roommates, but now might not be the time to get into it. If Cecelia were here she’d tell me to duck the question. This is America. Everyone gets weird about sex, even rational people.
But the answer to that question looms like a black shadow of fear in front of me. I can’t have a real relationship with Betsy if I lie about who I am.
“Was it that obvious?” I answer. I thought I had done a good job of keeping my knees and voice steady when Phil chatted with us.
“Kind of. And he’s obviously interested in you. Are you two . . .” She doesn’t finish the sentence.
“No. And he’s not interested in me. Not like that. Men like Phil don’t dabble in transwomen like me. You don’t want to see the kind of men who find me attractive.” But in the back of my mind I’m thinking that Betsy is the second person to suggest this possibility. Her and Marilee. Two women who have a firm grasp on reality. Plus Phil’s little erectile moment at the wine bar . . . It’s enough to make my heart thump a little harder.
“I thought you were more into women. Like that lady from Indianapolis.” My first romance when I transitioned was with a woman I met at a hair show. It was pretty torrid for a while, but the distance was a problem. Last time we talked she was dating a man.
I’m sensing that Betsy would be borderline grossed out by my sex life, not that I actually have one. Once again, I’m tempted to gloss this over. It would be devastating to have her think of me as some kind of degenerate sex maniac. But she might as well know what I am and decide for herself whether I’m human or alien.
“The truth is, girls like me don’t get to be as selective about their lovers as girls like you,” I say. “Not many people of either gender want to take me home to meet mom and dad. So I don’t have a long list of qualifying characteristics to measure my suitors by. They have to be a nice person and there has to be a spark there. Beyond that, I don’t care if they are male or female, black or white, tall or short, religious or not. I’d probably even consider a Republican, not that one would ask.”
She’s quiet for a while, contemplating what I’ve said and trying to figure out how to ask the next question. I know it’s coming.
“You must have a very active romantic life.” It’s a statement, but it’s a question. It’s the question. Am I promiscuous? I sit upright so we are facing each other.
“I had the fling with Jen for a year or so. I’ve slept with a few people since then, but they all lost interest really fast. I don’t know if that makes me loose or not, but I confess, it makes me desperate. The best sex I’ve had since Jen was with a male prostitute I hired to bed me. You probably think that’s sick, but it was the best I could do.”
Betsy’s face goes through a range of emotions as I speak. She ends by smiling. It’s a smile that is sympathetic and humorous at the same time. “You hired a hooker?”
“You make it sound like I found Jesus.”
“You hired a stud to . . . to . . .”
“Service me.”
Her face flushes. She founders for a moment.
“Bobbi . . .” She can’t bring herself to ask the obvious question. She has too much class.
“It was great, Betsy. It wasn’t love. There weren’t any angels or heavenly music. It was just a good old-fashioned fuck and it made me feel like a million dollars. Which is close to what I paid.”
“Really?” Her face is beet red and her eyes are the size of pancakes. This is not something Betsy would have ever considered doing.
“Well, not a million dollars. But a lot. He wasn’t some guy on the street. He’s an artist.”
“An artist? Like Picasso?” She’s laughing at me.
“More like a musician. He plays horny women the way Yo-Yo Ma coaxes beauty from a cello.”
“How often do you do this?” She’s enjoying my discomfort.
“Just the one time. It was Cecelia’s idea. She has a regular appoi
ntment with him, like her hairdresser. I probably won’t ever have the money to do it again.”
She is captivated and maybe slightly repulsed by this revelation. She asks how much I paid, where I got the name, what it was like. She alternately blushes and giggles. Genetic women are so practical about some things and so naive about others.
“I’ve tried to imagine what it would be like to see you with a lover. You know, coming to dinner or something.” Her voice trails off. “It’s weird. I feel a lot of things. Jealousy. I feel gladness for you. I worry about you, getting your heart broken or whatever.”
“Jealousy?” I ask.
“Yes. I know, it’s strange. I shouldn’t feel that way but it’s there.”
I kiss her temple. It is a reflexive expression of love. She turns her head to me and kisses me on the lips. It is a soft, warm kiss and it absorbs me. I am aware of nothing else but our gentle embrace and the feathery currents of her breathing.
It lasts for just a moment. Not a lover’s kiss, but close.
“I’m sorry,” she says. She’s embarrassed. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
“It’s okay, Betsy. We can love each other.” I’m pretty sure the kiss was a reflex from another time, years ago, when I was someone else who loved her.
“Not as lovers!” Her voice is quiet, but sharp.
“No, not as lovers. You’re not gay. You’d have to pretend I was still Bob, and I’m not.”
“What do you get out of this, Bobbi? What are you hoping for?” Her voice is soft, but this is the take-charge Betsy talking. She’s creating some distance between us.
“I want to be there for you the way you have been for me,” I tell her. “I want to have a sister who feels she can say anything to me and lean on me when she needs to. I want to have a sister and a niece I can love unconditionally and who love me back. I’ve had lovers, Betsy, but you’re the only real family I’ve ever had.”
She considers this for a moment. “Thank you for your honesty. Just please understand, right now I need some space in my life. I have a lot to work through.”
We’re quiet for a long time, each lost in her own thoughts. We don’t get into the other question that loomed before us like a massive wall just before the kiss: How will our relationship fare when we start having romantic encounters with other people?
She breaks our long silence. “This has been a great day, Bobbi. I’d like to do this again.”
Me, too. We hug. I dream of Betsy and Robbie moving in for good, having a day like this in the autumn, coming in with chilled faces, sitting down to hot chocolate. The three of us. A Terry Redlin scene glows in my mind, red cheeks on three loving faces clustered together in front of a fireplace oozing warmth, a womblike setting of smiles and love in a perfect world.
And in the dim recesses of my mind, it occurs to me that I want this too much.
9
SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 6
WILKINS PLACES HER tea in front of her and sits on the other side of the small table, cradling his coffee. He hadn’t expected her to order tea. In fact, there was nothing about her that he had expected. She was big and tall, obviously a transgender woman. But instead of a street person in stiletto heels and a miniskirt, she was conservatively dressed in a black skirt, pressed white blouse, ballet flats. Her hair was processed and curled into a fashionable bob. She looked like a young executive.
“I want to show you some photos and have you tell me if you know these people,” Wilkins says.
“I can’t do anything in court, nothing in public,” she warns. Her name is Candice. She has the diction of an educated woman. Her vulnerability surprises him. He feels like he should touch her, pat her hand to put her at ease, but that wouldn’t be professional.
“I understand.”
“I’m just getting my life together, you know?”
“How so?” Wilkins asks, and immediately kicks himself. Never get personal with a witness, especially not someone on the fringes of the law.
“Look,” she says, leaning toward him, lowering her voice. “We both know what I was five years ago. I’ve come a long way since then. I have a regular job. I’m finishing high school. I want to have a career. I want my past behind me.”
“I understand.” Wilkins collects himself and passes her a photo. “Do you know this man?”
“This guy’s dead.”
Wilkins nods his head yes. “He’s John Strand. He was murdered five years ago. The case is still open. I’m trying to find anyone who knew him or knew of him.”
Candice shivers with muted horror.
“What?”
The young woman’s body shakes with tension. Her clenched jaw sends ripples of angst across her chocolate skin. Tears begin to form in her eyes.
“Did you personally know Mr. Strand?” Wilkins hears himself ask it gently. It’s not his way, but it’s not an act. It’s like he’s talking to his daughter, not that there’s much resemblance. The tears, maybe. The heartbreak. Jesus.
Candice fights for her composure. “I knew him.” She says it without trembling or crying. Wilkins is impressed.
“And?” he says.
“I’m not going to court to say this.”
“No. Just tell me.”
“He was evil.”
There is something about the way she says it, Wilkins thinks. He’ll come back to that.
“How did you know him?”
“I was new on the streets.” Her tears start trickling down her cheeks. “He was a regular. He paid well.”
“How regular?”
“Once or twice a week. A party once, him and his friends.”
“He got rough?” Wilkins senses she wants to talk about it.
“Rough? Oh, Detective, I wish it had just been ‘rough.’” Her tears come faster now. He hands her a napkin.
“Tell me.”
“The first few times were okay, and he tipped big money. But after that it got like a horror movie. One minute he’s all charm and smiles, the next minute he’s a demon from hell. When I think of him, I see snakes in his eyes, wiggling, tongues out, fangs shooting venom . . .”
“What did he do?”
“He beat me.”
“Bruises? Broken bones?”
“Yes.”
Wilkins waits for her to elaborate, but she’s silenced by the horror of her memories.
“Did he hit you with his fists?” he coaxes.
“Hit with his fists. Kicked with his feet. Squeezed with his hands, my breasts, my genitals, like he was making fun of me.” She’s openly crying. People around them are starting to notice. Wilkins puts a hand on her arm, gentle as a cloud, as he would if she were his own daughter.
“The last time was like all the hate in hell poured through his body and ripped mine to shreds,” she says. “He broke my jaw, some ribs. My breasts were so sore I couldn’t wear a bra. I thought I was going to die that night.”
Wilkins lets her cry for a moment. “Did you file a complaint?”
“I was a junkie and a hooker and a transsexual. Who was going to listen to me?”
“A detective would have taken your report, checked it out,” Wilkins says.
Candice looks at him with a dubious grimace. “And the next thing that happens is he comes and kills me.”
“You never saw him again?”
“When I got back on the street, one of his goons picks me up. I don’t know it. I think he’s just a john. He roughs me up a little then tells me don’t talk about ‘The Man.’ I say, ‘Who?’ And he grabs my throat and chokes me and says, ‘You know who,’ and I say, ‘Okay.’ He gave me some money and threw me on the street.”
“What did that man look like?”
“He was white, ugly, pig eyes. About your size. Wore a Chicago Bears stocking cap, blue and orange.”
Wilkins digs in his folder and produces a mug shot. “Do you recognize this man?”
Candice brings a hand to her mouth in horror. “I never want to see that piece of shit again.”<
br />
Wilkins touches her gently again. “Not to worry, Candice,” he says.
She dabs at her tears and sips her tea. Wilkins gives her time to collect herself. “Thank you,” she says, finally. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“You’re not really trying to find the person who killed John Strand, are you?”
“Yes, ma’am. That’s my job.”
“That’s the worst thing you can do, Detective. That man destroyed lives. He killed people, and the ones he didn’t, wished they were dead. Don’t let him take another good life. Let it go.”
“I can’t do that. I have to enforce laws equally. A judge and jury can decide the rest.”
They sip their beverages.
“Why are you so nice?” she asks.
Wilkins tries to deny it, but Candice persists. “I have a daughter,” he says finally.
Candice laughs. “I remind you of your daughter?”
“Yes.”
“Is she an ex-hooker?”
“She’s smart and beautiful. She’s in college.”
“That’s not me,” Candice says, a trace of regret in her voice.
“It can be,” Wilkins says as they get up and start to leave.
“I’m just finishing high school. Twenty-one and just finishing high school. I work nights, ten bucks an hour. I’m HIV positive.” Candice says it like a confession. It shakes Wilkins.
“I’m sorry,” he says. He turns away for a moment and closes his eyes, stung by an impulse to hug the kid, wondering where in the hell that came from. A minute ago she was a man in a dress, a tranny queer. Now he wants to put his arms around her and urge her to stay strong. Damn.
She shrugs and smiles. “Sacrifices must be made, Detective. Prostitution got me out of a horrible home. Strand got me out of prostitution. Whatever happens, at least I get to die being me.” She gives him a last fleeting smile and leaves.
As Wilkins watches her go, emotion tightens his throat. “At least I get to die being me,” he murmurs. “My Lord.”
* * *
TUESDAY, SEPTEMBER 9
This must be what it’s like to be a doting wife to a husband experiencing a period of high anxiety. It’s five thirty in the morning. I’m touching up Betsy’s highlights, racing against the moment Robbie awakens and demands her attention.