All of Us (ARC)

by A F Carter

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  I’m not about to return to that prison they call a home.

  We’re into late September and I plan to enjoy the afternoon, what with New York’s street drama in full swing. Unfortunately, we’re two days short of our disability check and I’m completely broke, not a penny in my pocket, no rides on the

  MetroCard. I can’t buy a bottle of soda, which means I’ll be drinking from a juice bottle filled with tap water stashed in my back pack. It’ll be warm by then, warm bleeding into

  hot, but still a lot more palatable than the dry tuna sand-

  wich. By the time I get to the tuna, it’ll be growing fins.

  The man across the street folds his arms. He’s standing

  with his back against the streetlight, his feet crossed at the ankles. I stare back at him for another moment, hoping the

  ladies riding along with me will imprint his features. I’m

  thinking he’s a neighborhood freak, a jerkoff artist in search of inspiration. And maybe a little nearsighted, too, if he’s fix-ated on a man in a woman’s body.

  I take a right and head off. I’m planning to walk along Flatbush Avenue to the Manhattan Bridge, cross the East River

  and walk around the Lower East Side. I’m not expecting any-

  thing to come of my jaunt, but my access is rare enough to

  make any time I get enjoyable. Only not today because the

  man, though he stays on his side of the street, unfolds him-

  self and follows.

  Again, I stop and face him directly. This time he appears

  startled, like he knows something’s wrong, but he’s not

  sure what it is. And me, I’m not the brightest star in the sky, because only at that minute do I grasp the obvious. He must

  know my father. My dead father. In fact, everything, from

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  the stubble on his face to the wolf on his sweatshirt is wrong.

  The graying stubble is sparse and the wolf shirt would be

  more suitable on a fifteen-year-old playing street hood. This is a jerk who’s learned every lesson in prison, who will always look out of place unless he’s wearing a jump suit.

  Too many conclusions? With no supporting evidence?

  But I find more evidence in the swell of his biceps and the

  tree-trunk neck, in his Popeye forearms and his confused

  expression. Yeah, he’s spoken to Hank Grand about his

  daughter. And without doubt old Hank claimed that his

  daughter loved every minute, because that’s what he told

  everyone. His little girl was a natural whore. But if that’s true, what’s up with this dyke who’s just standing there, one hand in her pocket, like she’s not about to take shit from

  anybody?

  The man reveals more of his street instincts by follow-

  ing when I turn away. He doesn’t take shit, either. I know at some point we’ll have to confront him, but the prunes have

  got it right this time. We have to get past the hearing and

  that means keeping the drama to a minimum. If the review

  board decides to commit us, we’ll be taken into custody on

  the spot.

  And why not? After all, we’re crazy.

  Well, if the boy can’t confront, he can still have a little fun on a pleasant afternoon when he can’t afford anything

  more exciting. I stroll down Lafayette Avenue to Flatbush,

  then turn toward the waterfront. I take my time, window-

  shopping at almost every opportunity, including a dog

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  groomer’s and an empty check-cashing store. At one point,

  I take up a position at a bus stop, just another rider peering down Flatbush Avenue. I even glance at my wrist, just as if I had a watch.

  But when the bus finally arrives, I walk away.

  The jerk has to know I’m playing him by this time. Mock-

  ing him, really. Still, he keeps on coming, the way Hank

  Grand came after his daughter, testing the waters, stub-

  born and stupid. I lead him to Gold Street, then turn right.

  Two blocks later, as I pass the Eighty-Fourth Precinct, a uniformed cop, a woman, steps out of a patrol car. I dart across the street, hands raised, doing my best impression of a damsel in distress.

  “That man,” I say, pointing behind me. “He’s been fol-

  lowing me since I left my apartment.”

  The cop, a sergeant, follows my gesture. “Do you know

  him?” she asks.

  “I’ve never seen him before. But he followed me all the

  way from South Portland Avenue.”

  She hesitates for a few seconds as she sizes me up. Maybe

  thinking I’m too butch to be a damsel. Finally, she nods and says, “Wait here a minute, I’ll check him out.”

  Too late. When I look across the street, the man’s turn-

  ing the corner. He’s almost but not quite running, headed

  toward Flatbush Avenue. The cop follows, in no apparent

  hurry, and I finally relax when she’s out of sight. Now I know something else about the man in the wolf shirt. He’s either

  on parole or has outstanding warrants for his arrest. I’m

  picking the former.

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  Five minutes later, the cop returns. She’s slightly out of

  breath, but that look in her pale-green eyes, the tight evaluation, like she’s looking into me, not at me, grows more

  intense.

  “He jumped in a cab. He’s gone.” She hesitates. “You say

  you never met this man?”

  “Never, but he was across the street when I came out.”

  “And you’re afraid of him?”

  I smile and shrug, done with the damsel ploy. “Let’s just

  say he was makin’ me nervous.”

  She steps a little closer to me as she reaches into the pocket of her uniform blouse for a business card. “Well, you should be nervous. In your position, I’d be nervous, too. Here, take this. It’s got my cell number on it. If you need help, don’t hesitate.”

  I’m wearing a man-tailored white shirt with the sleeves

  rolled to my elbows. Instead of handing me the card, the

  cop slides it into my shirt pocket, her fingertips lingering on my breast long enough to make her intentions clear, long

  enough for me to notice the wedding ring on her finger.

  “Maybe,” she announces, her eyes boring into mine, “I

  should give you a ride home. In case that asshole is still in the neighborhood.”

  “Excellent idea, Sergeant.”

  “Sheila will do.”

  “Excellent idea, Sheila. Better safe than sorry.”

  We take a detour on the way to South Portland Avenue.

  To a deserted street behind an empty warehouse near the

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  Gowanus Canal. Sergeant Sheila, as I begin to think of her,

  maintains a tough-cop attitude. She stares straight ahead as she drives, seeming indifferent. But when I lay my fingertips on the inside of her knee, then slowly draw it along her thigh, her leg trembles and the car lurches forward.

  The ice broken, I can’t stop touching her. My fingers slide

  beneath the sleeve of her blouse to stroke the hollow of her armpit, the inside of her elbow, a dimple at the side of her mouth. I trace the curve of an ear and kiss the side of her neck, allowing
my breath to wash across her cheek. Then we’re

  parked and in each other’s arms, mouths joined.

  We stay that way for a long time, lips and tongues danc-

  ing, until I drop my mouth to the hollow beneath her chin,

  my hands to the buttons of her uniform blouse. Sheila has

  red hair cut short, and her pale skin contrasts sharply with the dark navy of her uniform blouse. I’m imagining her

  breasts, the milky white of her skin, but I’m still fumbling with the buttons when she pushes my hand away.

  I straighten as she unbuckles the belt holding her cop

  gear: gun, mace, spare magazines, and a folding baton. The

  wide belt rests on her hips, and she slides it off easily.

  “I don’t have a lot of time,” she tells me as she stuffs belt and hardware into the space between the seat and the door.

  I watch her fumble with the zipper on her pants, then

  slide pants and panties down to her ankles. I don’t resist

  when she draws my left hand down between her legs. I don’t

  protest when she opens my pants, my relaxed-fit jeans, and

  easily slides her own hand beneath the boxers I’m wearing.

  It’s been a long while since I touched another woman’s body

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  and I’m ready to provide whatever she wants. Eyes closed, I

  give way to my sense of touch, stroking, probing, until she

  begins to squirm, then to thrash, until she finally grabs my wrist. To slow me down, speed me up? I ignore her, continu-ing at my own pace until she lays her head against the head-

  rest and her body goes limp.

  Only a few minutes later, our clothes in place, I’m asking

  her to drive me to Flatbush Avenue. As we make our way,

  seeming to stop at every light, Sheila tells me that she’s been transferred. Beginning next week, she’ll be working with a

  vice unit stationed in the North Bronx. As I didn’t have any real expectations in the first place, I’m not exactly broken up.

  One-night stands are the only stands I’m likely to get, me

  and Eleni, and we’re used to it. Still, I nod once and drop my chin, like I give a shit. Like I haven’t had better.

  I give Sheila a peck on the cheek as I back out of the car. She nods, her smile seeming almost painful. She wants to be rid

  of me, but I’m not through.

  “One question,” I say. “The wedding ring?”

  “Yeah?”

  “A man or a woman?”

  “A man.”

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  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  VICTORIA

  For once, on this our day of judgement, the breaks go

  our way. First, because I’m inhabiting our body, not

  Kirk or Eleni. Second, because I gained control early enough to prepare. I’m wearing a pale-green suit, a yellow blouse

  with a round collar and flesh-colored pantyhose. My nails

  are trimmed and polished, my makeup fresh and lightly

  applied, my hair swept across my ears. I’ve a thin gold chain (plated, of course) around my throat and a ring I picked up

  at a flea market on my finger. The ring holds a four- or five-carat amber stone that I like to pretend is a citrine, but that’s almost surely glass.

  No question, we look good today. But my appearance, my

  presentation, is a sham. Inside, I feel more like a defendant than a professional, a defendant on her way to the courtroom after learning the jury’s reached a verdict, yes or no, door A or door B. The heels of my pumps rap against the stone

  floor with each step I take, marking the distance, closer and closer, our lives, as always, out of our hands.

  Chin up, I tell myself. Show fear and the dogs will bite.

  Stay brave and you have, at least, a chance.

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  The city’s built a new extension with a shiny glass façade

  on Kings County Hospital. The façade makes the hospital

  appear new and modern, but once you get into the building

  the fact that Kings County is 150 years old becomes appar-

  ent. I’m walking through an administrative wing, one of the

  oldest in the complex, toward a conference room near the

  Accounting Department. Ahead, I see a woman standing in

  front of an open door. In her twenties, she’s short and plump with the bright-yellow hair I associate with teenage Latinas.

  A black briefcase rests on the floor beside her.

  The woman steps toward me as I come closer, her eyes

  inquisitive. “Carolyn Grand?”

  I nod as I take the hand she offers. “Yes, and you’re . . . my lawyer.”

  She ignores the skeptical tone. “You look fantastic. You’re

  beautiful.”

  “You seem surprised. What exactly were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know.” She cocks her head to the side and grins.

  “Maybe wild hair spiking in all directions, eyes bulging out of your head. And drool, of course, lots and lots of drool.”

  I laugh, despite myself. We’re crazy, the issue decided

  long ago by experts. But our illness is not the result of some faulty gene. Our psychosis is reactive and we’re never what

  people who meet us for the first time expect. I find myself

  wondering how Malaya might have received Martha if she’d

  walked down that corridor in denim shorts with her hairy

  legs on display. Or, God help us, Eleni in seven-inch hooker heels.

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  Malaya reaches for her briefcase and waves me forward.

  “Shall we go in?”

  My heart jumps into my throat as I enter the room, knowing

  as I do, as we all do, that I might walk back out a ward of the state. Confined, of course, for my own good.

  A hush follows my entry, all eyes on me: What will I

  do? How will I act? Halberstam recognizes me. I can see it

  in his eyes, see him make a quick calculation. More than

  likely, he’s revising whatever argument he intends to make.

  One diagnosis for presentable Victoria, another for Martha

  or Kirk.

  I nod to him, the gesture obligatory, before I sit to face

  the panel. There are five of them seated behind a conference table with a faux-leather top. The administrative law judge, Mitchell Jefferson, sits in the middle, so old, pale and shriv-eled that he might be his own shroud. Two men and two

  women sit to his left and right, the women on the right and

  the men on the left. The two men, both in late middle age,

  are Dr. Plink and Dr. Scotto. On one level, they seem polar

  opposites, Plink trim and fit, Scotto ready to order a casket.

  The man’s wheezing with every breath, and his watery eyes

  are as yellow as my blouse.

  The two women are Dr. Ewing and Dr. Vasarian. Vasar-

  ian appears to be in her sixties, but Ewing, a black woman, is much younger. She’s the only one who looks directly at me

  and I desperately want to read sympathy in her look. I dis-

  cover pity instead. We’re going down.

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  I take a deep breath, telling myself: You can deal with

  this. You’ve been there before. Sooner or later they have to let you out. Meanwhile, I’m an eyeblink away from bursting

  into tears.<
br />
  “All present?” Judge Jefferson doesn’t wait for a reply.

  “Good, then let’s get started.”

  The door opens at that moment and a young man steps

  into the room. He’s got that crazy hair you find on six-year-old boys just out of the shower and a lopsided smile that

  belies his apology.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” he says, dropping into a chair set

  against the wall.

  Everybody straightens, even Judge Jefferson, who more or

  less uncoils. As Malaya explained it, there are thousands

  of administrative law judges in New York and they’re not

  elected. They’re appointed by a chief administrative law

  judge who may be fired by the mayor at any time for any

  reason.

  Jefferson’s voice is lot stronger when he speaks up, but his smile is the grimace of a lizard under the shadow of a diving hawk.

  “Sir, are you in the right room?”

  The man unzips his jacket to reveal a placard attached to

  a chain that circles his neck. I can only read a single word of what’s printed on the placard, but I know it’s the right word: press.

  “This is a public hearing, right?”

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  Malaya Castro reaches beneath the table to squeeze

  my hand. And though her eyes remain focused on Judge

  Jefferson, the message is clear enough. She told us she’d

  have our backs and she’d meant it. Judge Jefferson looks at

  the doctors to his left, to his right, and suddenly they’re all looking at each other, unspoken questions flying back and

  forth like bullets. Who, what, how, why? The man with the

  ultrathin laptop resting on his thighs has all the answers, but he’s not talking.

  “Well, then,” Jefferson says. “We’ll begin with Dr. Hal-

  berstam. Please read your report, Doctor.”

  Although Halberstam’s notes are laid out on the table, he

  doesn’t intend to consult them. He turns them facedown,

  then starts to rise, thinks better of it, and drops back into his seat.

  “Carolyn Grand was released from involuntary com-

  mitment on July 21 of this year. She entered therapy as a

  condition of her release and I was engaged to conduct that

  therapy. We’ve met thirty-four times since then, the last two days ago.”

  The good doctor stops abruptly. His chin moves to the