“I know, I know. It’s—he’s so afraid for her.”
Everything I’ve heard from Mum about the next stage of Persie’s care has sounded better to me than Brian’s position. I looked at Mum with a new sense of respect and said, “Let me go and fetch some work, and I’ll set up in the music room where I can see the stairs.”
When I got downstairs with my laptop and a few books, Mum and Brian were at the kitchen table. The kitchen is on the other side of the living room from the music room, and at first their voices were low, so I was able to concentrate on homework. Then I heard Mum’s voice, raised, say, “That’s not fair! You can’t keep holding that over my head! Persie is not Clive. She’s not autistic; she has AS.”
Brian shushed her, and they were quiet again for a bit, but gradually the volume rose enough for me to tell that the conflict Mum had described to me yesterday was still alive and well. I kept glancing up the stairs towards Persie’s door, which remained shut.
I renewed my attempts to concentrate on my homework, but I could no longer quite ignore the discussion in the kitchen, which was definitely louder now than when it had started. At one point Mum asked a question that sounded particularly challenging.
“Brian, where do you see her ten years from now?”
“Here.” His answer was very quick, spoken possibly without thought at all.
“Do you see her as ever being able to live apart from us?”
“I don’t see how.”
“It’s likely that she’ll outlive both of us.”
“I’ve provided for that. She has a generous trust fund, and I’ve appointed people to manage her care for the rest of her life.”
“Do you think that when she’s, maybe, twenty-five or thirty, she might rebel and want a little more autonomy?”
At last, something he didn’t have a quick answer for. “It seems unlikely.”
“Or she could begin to feel like that after we’re gone. And that could happen suddenly—a plane crash, something like that. She’d be on her own abruptly. She’d have been insulated all her life, completely, and there would be no safe way for her to find out how well she might manage without complete and total support.”
Mum waited, perhaps to see if he’d take it from there, and I looked up to watch, not able merely to listen any longer. After a pause all he said was, “What’s your point?”
“If you open the door for her now, just a little, to give her more latitude, she might be able to grow. And if she can’t, if that turns out to be something she just can’t manage, she still has a safe place to retreat to.”
“I don’t want her to have to retreat. That’s my point.”
Mum stood and paced the floor, clenching her hands and no doubt trying to come up with another angle to get him to understand the importance of what she was saying to him.
I tried to reconcile this Brian with the Brian I’d thought he was: someone who was open to new things; someone who would meet a woman in a foreign country, woo her, marry her, carry her home, with every expectation that it would work. Someone who even knew how to talk about my cat in a way I couldn’t argue with. It didn’t make any sense. And that’s when I couldn’t just sit there and listen any longer.
Abandoning my post, I headed into the kitchen and stopped at the far end of the island, facing the table. Brian looked at me, evidently surprised I would just step into this conversation—this confrontation—so boldly.
“You might remember,” I said to him, “that I once told you that Persie is a cat. What I meant by that was that she makes the rules, and they’re more or less sacred. What I didn’t tell you was that she’s a cat who needs an authority adjustment.”
As I spoke, Mum headed towards the music room, no doubt to take up my guard post. Brian sat back and crossed his arms on his chest.
“That’s ridiculous, Simon. You—”
I talked over him. “If you take a cat out of its environment, it freaks. But then it adjusts. And it makes new rules, based on its new environment. And when that happens, its caretakers have a chance to influence what rules it makes. Anna’s leaving has changed Persie’s environment, and she’s busy now making new rules. This is your chance to introduce change, because she’ll see it as part of the change that’s already happening. And it might be the best opening you’ll ever have to give her a chance. To give her a chance to grow. And if it doesn’t work, then, yes, there’s one more change. It will involve another new person, but it would just be the same old routine.”
“Simon, we can’t have just anyone in here.”
“That’s what you’re for, to make sure that doesn’t happen. And from what I gather, you haven’t asked her yet which candidate she likes. But that aside, there’s no reason you can’t find the right person. You have the luxury of time, with Mum here to bridge the gap.” Would he say anything to me about Clive?
He didn’t say anything right away, so I took another risk. “And, given that you work, and presuming you don’t chase Mum away, presuming that she stays longer than the next tutor, isn’t she providing the best kind of bridge—a consistent one?”
He stared at me for several seconds and then leaned forwards, elbows on the table, rubbing his forehead with his fingers. I waited; he who speaks first, now, loses. And, finally, he spoke.
“I can’t stand to see her suffer.” His voice was tight, as though holding emotion in check.
With an effort, I kept my tone soft. “No doubt I haven’t seen the worst she can get, but I’ve seen enough to know what it might be like. Even so, would you rather see her stagnate? Would you rather see her dry up and fade?”
He looked at me, but I had the sense he wasn’t seeing me. And suddenly what I saw was Persie in the Clyfford Still Museum in Denver. “Should she be robbed of any chance to explore her creativity ?”
He stood quickly and went to the patio door, facing outside. His back to me, he leaned both hands on the doorway. And I lobbed one more volley at him.
“Is it her pain or yours that frightens you more?”
He spun around. “That’s enough!” His whisper was hoarse and forceful, but even in his fury he was mindful of his daughter upstairs, not wanting her to hear this strife.
It was on the tip of my tongue to say, “Is it? Is it enough?” But instead I left the room, knowing that anything else I might say would be pointless at best. So, yes, it was enough. Maybe more than enough.
Mum was standing in the doorway to the music room. As I got closer, she reached out and ran a hand down my arm. “Thank you. Thank you for trying, and for supporting me.”
Supporting her had not been my objective, but I decided against pointing that out. “I hope it all works out,” was the inane response that came out instead.
She nodded. “Give him some time. He’s a good man, Simon. He really wants to do what’s best for her.”
And once again, it hit me how what was best for me had been ignored. Nearly knocked me over. “Of course.” I collected my things. “Think I’ll go out for a while.”
“Anyplace special?”
“No.” Afraid of saying something that would cause a fight and benefit no one, I left her standing there, dropped off my schoolwork upstairs, and headed out the front door.
I had no idea where I was going. All I knew was that I needed to try and get away from my own thoughts, my own emotions. I walked hard and fast, down Marlborough Street a few blocks, and then turned south where I saw more people; I wasn’t looking to interact with anyone, but I felt I needed the distraction a crowd of strangers can provide.
As it happens, I’d turned onto Dartmouth Street, and after I crossed the green island at Commonwealth it wasn’t long before I was at Copley Square, where the stone Trinity Church, from the 1870s, is dwarfed by that glass Tower of Babel called the John Hancock building. Turning slowly away from this juxtaposition, my attention went next across Dartmouth to the Boston Public Library, a place I’d been meaning to visit. So I did.
Boston became a complet
ely different city to me that afternoon. The library’s initial statement alone—with the main entrance flanked by huge sculptures of human female forms representing Art and Science—impressed me beyond any expectations I’d had. The fact that it was the first public library in the world was what had made me want to see it, and I’d heard it was full of art, but I wasn’t prepared for what I saw. Inside, it was apparent that this library is at least as much a museum, and form and function become one in no better way than here.
Lions guard the massive marble grand staircase, which is so large it dwarfs people as surely as the Hancock dwarfs Trinity. The stone is rich with colour and patterns, and where walls follow upwards around the staircase there are huge murals; it took me some time to get up the stairs for gazing at the art.
The place is chock-full of sculpture as well as painted art. I stopped before The Child and the Swan sculpture and wondered if Michael had seen it. I wanted to take it home.
There’s a café that’s also a map room. A café in a library . . . unique, surely. There’s a courtyard, in Italian Renaissance style, that feels almost like a cathedral cloister, with any ecclesiastical misapprehension dispersed by the delightful, pagan-inspired Bacchante and Infant Faun sculpture in the middle of the fountain.
I could go on for days, but one thing I knew was that if Michael had not yet seen this place, we would explore it together. With that in mind, I denied myself further investigation other than to see the main reading room. It goes on for days under a ceiling vaulted so high I couldn’t guess at the distance from the marble floor to the huge arches overhead. I walked slowly down the centre, with long wooden tables on either side lit by green shaded lamps, enjoying the hush of books being opened and shut, pages being turned, the low, almost whispered sound of the occasional quiet conversation. And then, in a whisper that carried, I heard my name.
At first I didn’t react; who here, I reasoned, would know me, and how many people must there be in Boston named Simon? But it was repeated with more urgency, and when I looked in that direction I saw it was Toby. He wasn’t alone.
Grinning from ear to ear, no doubt struggling to contain his boisterous spirit in this place of reverent hush, he introduced me to a Dean Furley, who appeared to be a few years older than I am. Toby pulled me immediately down into a chair beside him, and Dean resumed his seat across the table.
“Simon, this is so fabulous! Guess who Dean is?”
I shook my head. “I’m terrified to try. Please tell me.”
Toby smiled broadly at Dean and back at me. “I met him in a transgender chat room. He’s going to help me. Dean was born a girl. Diane. Can you believe it?” To Dean he said, “Simon is the spelling coach I told you about.” Back to me: “Simon, I hope it’s okay that I told Dean you’re gay.”
I glanced at Dean again, and he smiled. It was apparent that he’d had hormone treatments; the muscle definition was remarkable, and he obviously shaved that dark beard frequently.
“I don’t think it’s a problem that you told him,” I said to Toby, “but it’s a better policy not to out someone else.”
“I’m sorry.” Before I could think what else to say, Toby shoved a periodical towards me, open to an article by Norman Spack, MD, titled “Transgenderism.” He didn’t give me a chance to read, launching right into what it was that had captured his attention in particular.
“The thing is, Simon, that I have to do what Dean did. His parents let him get hormone treatments before he hit puberty as a girl. If you wait, that’s a huge mistake! Without the treatments, your body develops fully the wrong way, and even if you do sex-change surgery, it’s really hard for a man’s face to look feminine. The only reason to wait is if you’re not really, really sure. And you know I’m really, really sure, right? So this is what I need to do!” He stabbed the journal with his finger as though the force of that alone would make this therapy happen for him.
I picked up the journal, scanned for Spack’s credentials, and nearly gasped; he’s right here, at Boston Children’s Hospital. I set the paper down again.
“So, what are you going to do?” By which I meant not so much what did he want to do as what was he going to be able to do, given his home situation.
“I guess I’m gonna have to come out to my folks. I have to tell them. Because I have to get these treatments. Dean’s going to help.”
Dean is, is he? Dean probably looked about how the Parents Lloyd were expecting Toby to look in several years.
I asked Dean, “What are you going to be able to do for Toby?”
He shook his head. “I’m going to help Kay. If her parents react badly, and if they won’t let her see me again, I’ll find someone else who can help. Maybe a woman next time, M to F.” I understood this to mean male to female.
Dean went on as if reciting promotional material. “We have lots of educational material, including information about what’s in store for people who are forced to mature against their sexual identities. I can give the Lloyds references to specialists, to counselling if they’re open, or just to medical people. I know people who can put them in touch with parents who’ve seen their children safely into new identities. And if necessary, there are parents willing to talk about what happened when they didn’t support their transgender child, and how they wish they had.” It hung in the air why they might have wished this, and I presumed that suicide was involved.
Then Dean lobbed another information bomb. “Did you know that the brain structure of transgender individuals is that of their desired gender, not of their apparent one?”
I blinked at him, stupidly. “I did not.” If that’s true for everyone who’s transgender, I have to say it’s rather compelling. To Kay, I said, “When are you going to do this? Tell your parents, I mean?”
“Tonight.” Her face was set into an expression that was hopeful, determined, and terrified all at once.
“And I’ll be available,” Dean told me, “to hear how it went and help figure out the next steps.”
I couldn’t imagine that it would go well. “What if Kay’s parents prevent her from contacting you afterwards?”
“I’ll find her at school if necessary. Don’t worry. I won’t leave her on her own.”
Well, I was worried; I’d seen how afraid Kay is of her father, even when she’s not expecting him to explode. Just introducing me to him had taken courage. This wasn’t my business. Even so, I couldn’t avoid asking this question. “Kay, has your father ever struck you?”
“When I was younger. Spankings, sometimes. That’s all.”
“And are you afraid he’s going to?”
“I—not exactly.”
Hardly a rousing vote of confidence. “Why were you so reluctant to introduce me to him?”
Kay’s voice rose a little. “It’s because he’s so mean about letting me be who I am.” Dean hushed her, and she relaxed a little. “My mom’s the one who let me decorate my room. She fought with Father about it. They had another fight when she found out he’d made Colleen take it all away again.”
“Does he strike your mother?”
“No. He doesn’t hit people, Simon. Why do you think that?”
“I don’t. I’m just trying to understand where your fear is coming from.” I looked at Dean. “And I should think Dean would want to know whether there’s any danger in this outpouring you’re planning.”
Dean said, “We’ve talked about that. I didn’t overlook it.”
I had another question for him. “Are you straight?”
“Yes. I like girls.”
“Girls like Kay?”
I had expected this to take Dean by surprise, but it didn’t. “I have a girlfriend. And Kay is far too young for me.”
“And how does Kay feel about you? She’s straight, too, you know.”
Kay interrupted. “Simon, really, you don’t have to worry.”
Dean smiled at me. “I like that you’re so protective of her.”
I ignored that and said, “I’m assumin
g that there are trans men who like men, and trans women who like women.”
That annoyed him. “Of course there are. We’re all just people, you know.”
I nodded at him and looked at Kay. “All right, then. I guess I’ll find out next Thursday how things went, eh?”
“You don’t want me to call you tonight?”
“I’ll be out tonight.”
“On a date?”
“Sort of.” No point in trying to explain. “You can e-mail me, if you’d like. How’s that?”
“It’s a plan!”
I stood, and Kay stood, and impulsively I embraced her. “Good luck, Kay. I hope it goes really well.”
She smiled bravely and nodded. I shook Dean’s hand and left the reading room, reminding myself yet again that this was not my problem, not my worry, not my concern.
But I was worried.
Back at the house, Brian called to me from the music room as I closed the front door. “Simon, is that you?”
I stood in the doorway and saw he was in an upholstered wing chair, listening to Chopin’s nocturnes. It looked like that was all he was doing; there was no sign of reading material or a computer, nothing to distract him.
“Come in, please.”
Without going too far into the room—not knowing what to expect—I kept as much distance between us as was reasonable without being impolite.
“Your mother’s gone to the Museum of Fine Arts,” he opened.
I think he would have continued, but I was too shocked and had to interrupt. “On a Saturday? She never goes to museums on weekends.”
“I think she needed the escape. And while she’s been gone, I’ve decided that she—and you—are right about asking Persie about the candidates.”
Wow. I was right about something? And he admitted it? “Thanks. For telling me. I, um, I need to go get ready to go out.”
“Ah, yes, your date.”
“It’s not a date. He’s just a friend.”
“Sorry. Really. I don’t mean to presume. But—I thought you were meeting his family.”
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