by Renee James
* * *
MONDAY, DECEMBER 8
Betsy’s eyes are closed and her body is limp. She is in the midst of a scalp massage, and we are at the midpoint in our spa day. Betsy’s attitude toward me has softened. She still wants answers, she’s still not really certain about me, but she’s still trying to be there for me just as I am for her.
I declared Spa Day to celebrate Betsy’s completion of a large project at work. It was received with fanfare by her colleagues, and she is feeling a resurgence of self-worth and relevance. There may be a chance for a paid position down the line, and even if there isn’t, Betsy has gotten her confidence back, and it won’t be long before she starts pulling down a salary somewhere. Her mood is heightened by the fact that Robbie loves her preschool. The guilt she once felt about “abandoning” her daughter for portions of each day has morphed into a shared excitement for the world our beloved toddler is experiencing.
Despite the demons that follow me everywhere I go, I’m feeling a little festive myself. A lot of it is seeing Betsy’s spirit rise from the ashes, but some of it is selfish. I haven’t done the books yet, but the salon has been busy from open to close since the week before Thanksgiving. We are attracting many new customers from our promotions, we are retaining quite a few of the new people who came in last summer and fall, and some of our clients who quit coming in at the onset of the recession have begun coming back.
This is pleasing on several levels. I didn’t destroy the business; I may have even made it better. It will survive the recession if we continue to do the things we’ve been doing. And, if the worst happens to me, Roger can come back and take over a viable business. He won’t have lost his investment. He can keep it going until he finds a new buyer, a more worthy one, I hope.
Betsy and I started our day at a massage spa a few blocks from L’Elégance. We had side-by-side deep massages that left us as limp as overdone pasta and so relaxed it took forever to dress afterward. We are doing hair at the L’Elégance, of course. After her shampoo and scalp massage, Betsy will get the most elegantly crafted graduated bob in the city, courtesy of Barbara. I will be getting a cut and color from Bobby. He’s a young, flamboyantly gay hairdresser who has a wild, uninhibited genius for color. He has convinced me to let him decide the colors without discussing it with me. “I want it to be a surprise,” he says. This from the colorist who has sent heads of bright orange, shocking purple, hot pink, and sky blue out our doors in the past couple of months. If my immediate future was a sit-down with a banker or some other stuffed shirt, I probably wouldn’t have agreed to it. But the thought of the police taking me away in a Christmas coif of green, red, and white hair has a certain charm to it. In my mind’s eye, I could see a judge looking down at me from the bench and saying to the prosecutor, “You’re charging this Christmas fairy with murder?”
When we finish here, we will go to the nail salon a few doors down for a mani-pedi with holiday colors.
Bobby foils my hair with nimble fingers that seem to travel at the speed of sound and while my color is developing, he and Betsy and several stylists carry on a running dialogue about how I’m going to look in my wild new hair, which is said to be hot pink, platinum blond, and a custom shade of purple. What purple hair shade isn’t custom, I wonder.
Bobby and Jalela work together to remove my foils at the shampoo bowl. There must be fifty of them at least. He has colored nearly every hair on my head, but he used foils to interweave four colors. Four is a lot, more like an Impressionist painting than a traditional hair coloring service. After the shampoo, Bobby insists that I sit with my back to the mirror while he trims and blow-dries my hair so I don’t see it until I can get the full effect of his masterpiece. Betsy and Jalela hold their hands to their mouths in mock shock as he works. Everyone is having fun with this, even me. I’m thinking what a great figure I will cut wearing a hot pink up-do into Cook County Jail when the gendarmerie come to take me away.
In the end, it’s kind of a letdown when Bobby spins the chair and I behold myself in his mirror. There is no hot pink, no purple, nothing outlandish at all. Instead, I have the most beautiful red hair I’ve ever seen on a woman, a tasteful, complex blend of multiple shades that looks both natural and evocative. As I turn my head from side to side, light shimmers and dances from my curls and emphasizes the graceful movement of my hair. The mix of colors and shades adds depth and mystery to my hair and makes it look fuller.
It’s brilliant work. My hair looks feminine and sexy, but I also look like a professional woman who would fit nicely into a corporate conference setting or negotiating loan terms with a bank officer. I’m not sure how the other inmates will feel about me in jail, but the guards will have no trouble seeing me at a distance.
Betsy and I head for the nail salon. Another hour of fun and fantasy. The real world will still be there when this one ends.
* * *
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9
Cecelia gets weepy as she talks about her ex-wife, now in hospice care.
We are having a quiet lunch in her castle in the sky so that I can ask her for great favors. Before we get to my business, I ask her how she is holding up.
It’s been hard for Cecelia since she received the news that her ex-wife has an advanced stage of breast cancer. I’m astonished at how deeply moved Cecelia is. Every anecdote I’ve heard about their marriage suggested that Mrs. Swenson was an egocentric, materialistic opportunist with the heart of a vampire and the sincerity of a politician.
Apparently there was more to her than that, at least to Cecelia who cries long and hard. She had always held out hope for reconciliation, she said. Like with Betsy and me. If anyone ever deserved it, it was Cecelia. But even now, she mourns from a distance. Mrs. Swenson has no interest in seeing her ex-husband in a dress and makeup.
When we finish our salads, Cecelia pours coffee and gets to the business of things.
“So, what brings you to my parlor today, Bobbi? Please tell me this isn’t about Wilkins.”
“I’m afraid it is,” I say. “It’s about that and how it will affect everything in my life.”
Cecelia sighs with regret. She signals with one hand for me to continue.
“Wilkins has strung together enough circumstantial evidence to charge me with Strand’s murder. My attorney doesn’t think it’s a strong case, but just being charged will ruin me, and I’ll be leaving Betsy and Robbie in a terrible position.”
Cecelia’s large blue eyes are troubled.
“I wanted to see if you could help me make sure the salon goes back to Roger if I’m going to default. The business is still viable. We’re starting to do pretty well, actually. And I wanted to see if you could figure out a way for me to put something, cash or assets, in Betsy’s name so she will have some kind of equity if I go away.”
“Jesus, Bobbi,” says Cecelia. She stares at me for several counts before responding to my request. I can’t help wondering if the horror on her face is the realization that I’m going to the gallows for a murder she committed. The thought passes. She couldn’t have done it.
“Sure, I can help you,” she says finally. “I have a few ideas.”
“And there’s one other thing, Cecelia. The worst one. I want to tell you what happened so when the time is right you can tell Betsy.” I have to come clean with this. It’s killing me.
Cecelia shakes her head no. “Not a good idea, Bobbi. Don’t forget, Wilkins is looking at me, too. I don’t want to know what you know. Not until that hound from hell goes on to other things.”
Cecelia’s eyes are wide. I read her face and body language, looking for some hint that she knows more about this than she has ever let on. Nothing. I try to picture her slicing a knife through a defenseless man’s throat. I can’t make it work.
I shrug. “It’s complicated, isn’t it?”
Cecelia sits back. “Isn’t it?” She wears both a confused look and a bemused smile on her face. I can’t tell if she knows something she’s holding back, or if sh
e thinks I know something I’m holding back. Or both. Our “someday” talk is going to be a doozy.
* * *
TUESDAY, DECEMBER 9
As we wait for members of the holiday party committee to straggle in to the TransRising building, someone turns on the television set in the conference room.
Like a practical joke played by a malicious deity, Officer Phil’s image blinks on the screen and glows in living color across the room. Several of the ladies at the table recognize him.
“Hey, isn’t that your boyfriend?” says one. She’s actually trying to be friendly. She rolls her eyes a little to express her approval of what a hunk he is.
“Friend,” I reply, trying not to betray my emotions. “We’re friends. He’s still available as far as I know.”
The table talk diffuses into other subjects. I can hear bits and pieces of what Phil is saying. He’s standing at a lectern studded with microphones. Cameras flash nonstop. Light from the television crews makes him blink. I can’t tell what the event is, but he is a picture of suave decorum, serious, sincere, not a bit defensive. The Chicago press corps has to love him.
I had almost gotten him out of my mind, during my daylight hours, anyway. I’ve been so preoccupied with Wilkins and his investigation. Every day I get up and expect to be served with a warrant or notification to appear before a grand jury. Every day I try to compartmentalize my dread and enjoy my freedom and participate in the festive mood of the season.
Seeing Phil is like getting stabbed in the heart. I see his kind, handsome face holding court, the lips that once kissed mine answering questions with aplomb, his tapered body completely at ease in a perfectly tailored suit. Thousands of women are watching him right now and thinking how nice it would be to go out with him tonight. When he walks down the street, dozens more will think the same thing. And they will all be prettier, more feminine, and far more respectable than I.
Bobbi Logan was never going to be the girl who got asked to the dance by the prom king. A quick tryst in the back seat of a car maybe, but no hand-holding in public, no long, warm embraces each night, no poems or flowers, no breathless “I love yous.”
The television set is snapped off, stopping my pity binge. Lisa calls the meeting to order. We have been convened because the band contracted for the big holiday party fund-raiser has cancelled due to illness. This news is received with great regret by the other members of the committee. Apparently the band was highly regarded. I had never heard of them, or the other bands that were being considered. I’m a generation older than the next oldest committee member and woefully out of touch with pop culture.
Lisa has located several bands that are available for our date. She plays recordings supplied by each one and opens the meeting to discussion. After twenty minutes of give-and-take, opinions begin to coalesce around a group with a contemporary rock sound. The twentysomethings think the sound is sophisticated and will be great for dancing.
“What do you think, Bobbi? You’ve been very quiet over there,” says Lisa. She’s patronizing me, but in a friendly way. She’s trying to acknowledge that more than half the people who come to the Holiday Ball are middle-aged and older transwomen, a group I represent, by age at least.
I blush crimson and defer to the group’s wisdom about things like this. Scrambling to say something intelligent, I ask if a few members of the group could play holiday music during cocktails, to add to the festive ambience.
There are several groans, but Lisa puts the idea up for discussion. A consensus grows that it would be nice for mood, for the young as well as the old. They elect to hire the band; if they can’t do the holiday music, we will play CDs. I volunteer a choice of my salon’s mixes.
The meeting adjourns, all parties happy. Lisa thanks me for my contributions as we leave. The wiseass in me wants to ask her if this means she will come see me in jail, but instead I thank her for undertaking so much. It’s a more sincere response.
20
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 10
BETSY ANSWERS THE phone in the living room and brings it to me in the kitchen. It’s my night to cook.
As she enters the kitchen, she points to the phone, mimes a word I don’t understand. I shake my head in question. She moves one hand to her crotch and makes an obscene gesture to indicate a giant erection. Very funny. Her spirits are rising each day while mine are sinking.
I take the phone and grimace at Betsy. We really are like sisters. I say hello.
“Hi, Bobbi.” It’s Officer Phil. The big dick. I almost snicker at the inside joke.
“Hi Phil,” I respond. “Hey, I saw you on television yesterday, holding court with the press. I couldn’t hear what you were saying, but you looked very composed.”
He says it was a press statement about the latest CPD scandal. Nothing serious. He asks how I am. I ask him to wait a moment, then ask Betsy to take over the meal. I drift into the living room.
“Well, other than having a mad-dog detective trying to put me in jail and trying to make payments on my business and my building in the worst economic crisis in seventy-five years, things are pretty good. Oh, wait, did I mention that the man of my dreams fucked me and never talked to me again? No, wait, let me rephrase that, it sounds too pathetic. What I mean to say is, on top of everything else, my love life is pitiful. How are you?”
“I’ve missed you, Bobbi.” Silence.
“Is this where I gush about how honored I am?”
“I don’t blame you for being mad. I’m . . . I’m trying to work out some things. Personal issues. Failings, really.” He’s silent again. I have no idea what to say. I’m not even sure what he has said. It’s hard to pick up a train of thought from him.
“I was hoping you’d see me again, Bobbi. Will you have dinner with me?”
I think about this for a minute. My adolescent self wants to say yes. The mere sound of his voice sets off fireworks in my senses. My wicked adolescent self wants to say yes and get laid again. But my forty-three-year-old self, the person who has been living under a cloud of doom for months, is having none of it.
“I don’t think so, Phil,” I say. “I have too much on my mind right now to help you decide if you can handle a transwoman.” I’d like to say more. A lot more. I’d like to tell him what it feels like to be felt, fucked, and forgotten. I can handle the one-night-stand thing, but not being shunned by someone who cares about me but can’t get past the trans thing. I’m not human, even to him. But I don’t say any of these things.
“I wish you’d reconsider,” he says. His voice is sincere. A mental image pops into my mind of him standing in front of the microphones and an army of media people. Cool, poised, patient. I can hear the same things in his voice now and it angers me. He’s giving me the professional Phil and that’s not what I want. I want the human one, with vulnerabilities, humility, a sense of humor when things aren’t so heavy.
“Thanks for saying so.” Silence. He wasn’t expecting that response. I let the silence grow and fester.
“Okay,” he says, finally. “Uh, well, if I can ever be of any help to you or you just want someone to talk to, uh, you know, please call me. Anytime.”
“Thank you, Phil.”
“Goodnight, Bobbi.”
I say good-bye and hang up the phone. Betsy looks up as I come back in the kitchen. “Dare I ask?” she says.
“He asked me out.”
“And?”
“And I said no.”
Betsy widens her eyes in surprise. “I thought you really liked this guy.”
I nod, trying to suppress my sadness. She glances at me, expecting more. “He sleeps with me then stays away for weeks because he’s not sure how he feels about fucking a tranny.” The tears come full force. Betsy hugs me.
“I’m a little surprised,” she says when I get myself under control.
“You wouldn’t be offended if it happened to you?” I ask.
“Of course I would,” she says. “But you’re the girl who hired a hooker to get
off with. What’s the difference?”
She’s partly joshing, partly trying to get me to put this in perspective.
“Expectations. All I wanted from the prostitute was an orgasm and good manners. Phil had me thinking about love songs and holding hands. Doing things together. You’re right, it was silly of me. A girl like me should be happy for the orgasm and just look for the next one.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it.” Her voice is a blend of humor and reprimand. “Welcome to the world of women. You don’t think this happens to the rest of us? Being a woman isn’t just body parts and clothes. This is part of it. You make yourself as attractive as you can, then men size you up and decide if you pass muster. Men who stink and make you shudder to look at them, they size you up. Nice ones size you up. Everything in between. Every day all kinds of men decide if you’re cute or fuckable or a pig.”
“You get to make the same judgments on them,” I point out.
“Not really. When I reject a man, it’s because I’m a bitch. When he rejects me, it’s because I’m ugly or I’m flat or I’m not passionate or my boobs droop. I don’t make these rules, Bobbi, and I try not to live by them, but this is how it is in our society. Male privilege is real. They can make you feel like crap and it makes them feel like studs. We make them feel bad and it’s because we can’t control our emotions or we’re irrational.”
“I can’t believe Don was like that,” I say.
“He wasn’t like that. That’s why I married him.” She pauses, then adds in a soft voice, “That’s why I married you, too.”
That takes me aback for a moment. I had never seen any likeness between Don and me other than maleness, back when I was one. “We were practically twins, I guess.”
Betsy laughs.
“I wouldn’t have expected you to see any similarities between us.” I blurt it out. I’m a little hung up on the thought.
“Why, Bobbi?” She’s surprised.
“Because Don was a real man and I was a fake one. I mean, I know he was a very nice man and you appreciated that about him, but surely it was also a pleasure to make love with a man who liked being a man.”