by Casey Plett
“I liked his hair,” said Wendy. Her Opa’s hair had been soft, wavy, and black. Wendy swished her fingers back and forth over the sheets. The sun was almost down, and dark pink streamed into the room.
“My aunt’s place was like this,” Sophie said. “In Kleefeld. I liked it there.”
“Mmm,” Wendy said, her eyes closed. “Your whole family’s EMC too, right?”
“My Mom is. God knows how many ways we’re related.”
“Six,” Wendy said, not opening her eyes. “I’ll guess six ways.”
“Har har.”
Sophie flipped through more of the album, her short dyed-red hair falling into her face.
“Will you call her?”
“I don’t fuckin’ know, man!” Wendy said. “Probably. Where do you even find a phone book anymore? The library?”
“Wouldn’t it be online?”
They checked. Canada411 didn’t know where Morweena was. They searched for any Anna Penners in Manitoba, but that didn’t help either.
Wendy lay back on the bed. “Oh well.”
“Someone in your family probably knows.”
“Maybe.”
They heard a knock on the door. “May I come in?” came Raina’s voice.
“We’re having butt sex!” Sophie hollered. Wendy rolled her eyes.
Raina opened the door wearing a chiffon blouse and a shiny purple skirt. Smooth foundation on her chin.
“Your butt sex is very tantric,” she said. “I—I’m going on a date—do I look okay?”
“You look beautiful,” said Sophie.
Wendy squinted. “Not one of your work outfits, is it?”
“I’d never wear this skirt to work. Does it look okay?”
“Shut up, you always look classy,” said Wendy. “You and your—big-city-America powers.”
“That’s very kind,” said Raina. “But yes, this lady and I have been messaging on OKCupid for some days now. I think I’m fond of her. We were both raised Catholic, which is a first for me. It will be unusual, though. It’s been a while since I dated a cis lady.”
“That’s because you’ve dated every trans dyke in the province, honey,” said Wendy.
“And a lengthy list that was,” Raina said dryly. Sophie laughed. Raina smiled mischievously. “Hm. Never would’ve thought of myself that way.”
“Have fun, sweets,” said Wendy. “Text us if you need rescuing.”
“Doubtful,” said Raina. “Thank you, though.”
“Tell us what the cis are like!” said Sophie. “What do they want?” Raina gave a short bark and went out the door.
Raina was the only one of Wendy’s friends from out-of-province, and had grown up in a Puerto Rican family that moved all over the States. She’d gone to York and tunnelled through social work school and married a Toronto girl young. Then she transitioned, and one day came home to find that the Toronto girl had neatly packed Raina’s things in boxes. The first job she could find elsewhere was here.
Wendy changed into pyjama pants and threaded out of her bra, her boobs poking through the camisole like flaccid balloons.
Sophie shut the album, and a side of her hair flicked up in a poof. “So why don’t you want to call her?”
“Is there a point?” said Wendy. “Look, you know. He was probably a girl; it probably sucked. I’ll bet a million fuckin’ Mennonites were trans. They probably all killed themselves or they lived stoically and added it to their triumphant burdens to bear for God. Maybe it wasn’t even that bad in that light, who knows.”
She lifted her drink to her lips, and the ice clinked. “Anna probably thinks he went to hell, anyway. Like, what’s the point?”
“But Wendy! What about the lost history of the Blumenort drag circuit.”
“Sure,” Wendy said. “Right. You’re a real fuckin’ scream.”
Sophie looked hurt at that.
“Whatever. You know what? Here’s how I feel. I don’t think tracking down dirt about my Opa is going to result in anyone feeling better about their lives. Or his, for that matter.”
“Anna might,” Sophie said. “Not that you … necessarily need to care about her well-being, I suppose.”
“No,” said Wendy. “I don’t.”
Sophie lay down next to Wendy, her skirt against Wendy’s pajamas. Their heads touched, and Sophie curved her hand around Wendy’s fingers.
“Doing anything tomorrow night?” Sophie said.
“No.”
“Would you want to come to this costume party at Frame? There’s a guy I want you to meet.”
“Is there.”
“Yeah, you’d like each other. He’s hot. He’s smart. He’s a social worker. At—shit, I forget where. I mean, you certainly don’t have to, I don’t want to pressure you.”
“You’re not,” said Wendy. “Is he weird about shit?”
“I fucked him,” said Sophie. “And you have a vagina.”
“Bring Lila and Raina, eh? Trans girls’ night out?”
“Hell, yeah.”
The sun had set, and Sophie reached over and turned on a lamp, her skirt making a rasp against Wendy’s clothes. For a second, Wendy felt an overwhelming sense of peace, like the two of them were suddenly younger—much, much younger.
Sophie tucked her head under Wendy’s chin. Wendy stroked Sophie’s hair, which looked and felt and sounded like straw.
“I’ve thought a lot about old Mennonites being trans before,” Sophie mumbled into Wendy’s neck.
“Mmm.”
“Especially when I think about my mom.”
“WHAT?”
“No!” Sophie giggled in her high-pitched girly way. “Not that way. At least I’m pretty sure my mom’s not a guy.”
“Explain,” said Wendy.
“Well, lapsed Mennonites like her, they had to learn to negotiate a larger world. I don’t mean the simpler stuff, like learning how you take a bus. I mean socially—but maybe not even that.”
“What then,” Wendy said, irritated. “What not-simpler stuff.”
“I just mean, you can learn to look normal very quickly,” Sophie said softly. “Think about how fast people adopt certain words after a few months on the Internet. You can go from being clueless to yelling at someone almost right away. It’s so fast. It takes longer to register a car. But you can’t learn to talk about real wants, hates, desires as quickly. You can’t figure out when to care that your actions will hurt someone and when to figure that person can go fuck themselves. Their culture never built any of those skills. They didn’t need them in the first place. It must be hard escaping that. And people like your Opa, like my mom, they grew up where everybody was supposed to feel the same about everything.”
Wendy was silent. “My dad’s not like that.”
“That’s because your dad’s fucking bonkers,” Sophie replied. Wendy blew a raspberry on her head.
“You said, ‘They didn’t need those skills in the first place,’” Wendy said. “What do you mean?”
“I used to think,” Sophie said, “in the old days, it must’ve been beyond suffocating, how no one said what they thought. And I’m sure it was. But maybe, in that world, you didn’t need to as much. If you were a parent, and your kid got wasted or snuck home a record player or whatever, it was ordained how unhappy you were supposed to be and how they would be punished. So who needed to talk about what you felt? Ever been called a faggot when you’re with another trans woman?”
“Yes,” Wendy said instantly.
“Did you need to talk about it?”
“No. What’s your point.”
“I know it’s not the same thing,” said Sophie. “I just get what it’s like when something needles you, but talking isn’t necessary. Maybe living through it isn’t the only hard part. Maybe being in the world afterward is also the hard part. You know?”
“Where does my possibly trans grandfather come into this.”
“Just that I see what you’re saying—I think I see what you’re saying. I
don’t want to put words in your mouth,” Sophie said hastily. “It was probably just another earthly burden to bear for him. And God would be proud of him for resisting. Done. He could’ve left for the city, he could’ve found a way, but how hard would that have been? On top of how awful it was for any trans lady back then.”
“It wasn’t even a choice,” Wendy said sharply. “There was no option for him at any point in his life, and you know it.”
Sophie was silent, her skirt shifting on the bed.
Wendy had a very deep memory of her Opa praying for guidance on how to be of service. That same day, he’d said, “I wish people would just ask God for something more when they prayed than, ‘Protect my wife, my children, protect me.’ I don’t think enough people pray in hopes of learning what they might give.”
They were by the gravel pits that his brother owned, and he was throwing fish food into the water and it made the sound of rain. Her Opa was the least opinionated of people. But he’d sounded frustrated when he told her this.
“Well, anyway,” Wendy added bitterly, “I hope that’s how he thought of it,”
“Oh?”
“He was always really sweet. He was so gentle and kind. If he never had a hope of being a girl—and he didn’t—I hate to think he believed with all his soul that he was going to hell for it too.”
Sophie rubbed her eyes. “That’d be rough.”
“I used to sing to you,” Ben said that night on the phone, drunk out of his mind, before Wendy drifted off around one in the morning. “I used to sing to you every night.”
“I remember that,” replied Wendy, snuggled in her blankets layered three-deep, warm as fur.
“You were always such a good kid,” Ben continued. “You never got in anyone’s way, you would tuck yourself in and then I would come into your bedroom and turn off your light.”
She heard car horns and police sirens through the phone. “Dad, where are you?”
“Corydon. I’m almost at my place. I went to the King’s Head.”
“You’ve been walking a while.”
“Don’t worry about me, kid.”
They hung up. A key skittered in the lock downstairs, then the sounds of laughing. Raina. And her date. The sound of a body shoved against a wall and gasping and wet kisses.
That’s nice, Wendy thought. The streetlight was making a triangle on the outline of her legs. The sound of the wind was soft.
4
Sophie dressed up as Audrey from Little Shop of Horrors, and Wendy went as a raccoon.
Raina rapped on the door. “Can I come in?”
“Come in!”
She entered shyly. Wendy’s mouth dropped. “Is that latex?”
“Yes.”
“You’re beautiful.”
“You’re beautiful!”
“You’re going to have girls hanging off you.”
“Oh, am I,” said Raina.
“Unless—is your girl from last night coming?”
“She doesn’t do well with crowds, unfortunately. But she doesn’t mind me going.”
“Ah.”
“Your boobs are so shiny,” said Sophie.
“I thought so.”
“Who are you? Batgirl?”
“Lord, no,” Raina said. “I’m just a bat.”
“Ah.”
“Is Lila still coming?”
“We’ll get her on the way.”
“Who are you?”
“Audrey from Little Shop.”
“I love that movie!”
“‘Oh, Seymour, you’ve been getting hurt so much lately!’”
“You girls,” said Raina. “You keep me young in this town.”
“Aren’t we older than you?” said Sophie.
“I thought age didn’t matter for us,” teased Raina.
“Yeah, you’re in bat years now!” (Wendy said this louder than she meant, already a little drunk.)
Raina smirked. “Saucy raccoon you are.”
Wendy raised a brown-gloved hand to her face. “Thanks, sugar.”
“Gin anyone?”
Wendy raised a glass. “Two steps ahead of you.”
“I’m okay, thanks,” Sophie said uneasily.
“No?”
“I’m takin’ it easy tonight,” she said. “Just takin’ it easy.”
“Alright,” Wendy said. Then there was an awkward beat. “I can put this away.”
“No, it’s fine.”
“I should have asked you, I guess.”
“It’s fine.”
“Would you be uncomfortable if I made rickeys?” said Raina.
“It’s all good!” said Sophie. “I just want to take it easy tonight. Please don’t worry about me, please!”
“Un moment, je te faiserais les meilleurs boissons.” Raina sashayed out.
“How is it the American knows French and we don’t?”
“Because the American works for the government and we don’t.”
“Je vous entends!”
“Well, I understand that!”
“Je saissssss!”
“Better her than us,” said Sophie.
“Yup.”
“American,” Raina said bitterly moments later, returning with drinks. “A gentleman at the bus stop today demanded to know why I didn’t go back to the rez. He was very passionate about this.”
“What’d you say?”
“I said nothing. Do you want to get a cab when we go?”
“Let’s walk,” said Wendy. “It’s not that cold.”
The three of them walked down to Lila’s building. She answered the door of her basement apartment in dark red and white face paint, carrying a sceptre with a heart on it, and her long jet-black hair up in curls. “You’re kidding!” said Sophie.
“Off with your head!” said Lila. Someone down the hall poked their head out the door, shook it, and went back inside. “Okay, so we’re taking shots,” said Lila.
“Where’s your boy?” Wendy craned her neck in.
“Being a fucking pussy,” Lila snapped. “Bottoming for the kind of lesbo who’ll top him! I don’t fucking know, I broke up with him.”
“Whoa! Lady!” said Wendy.
“I’m sorry,” said Raina. “Are you alright?”
“No!” Lila shrieked in a funny, relieving way, in a way that made the other three relax. “If I wanted to sleep with gay men, I would have stayed a fucking man! I want someone who’ll take off my panties with his teeth and fuck me, not some Everyday Feminism-reading tenderboy who treats me like a fucking baby deer! Probably the worst part of this for him is now at parties he doesn’t get to say: ‘As the partner of an Indigenous trans woman …’ I’m going to get drunk—can we go?”
“Cheers?” said Wendy, offering a flask.
Lila sipped. “We’re still taking shots.”
“Your majesty,” Sophie curtsied.
Outside, it was mild and cool; dusty snow flitted through their hair. Raina reached into her bag and unfolded a pair of black wings on the doorstep. She strapped them to her back, long stretches of fabric that were layered with feathers, like an angel’s. They walked with cars honking, Raina stumbling, the four of them gulping from Coke that was two-thirds rye. They were a sight; Wendy and Sophie and Lila, the three looming transsexuals of variously tall heights, with Raina at least half a foot shorter than the others. A lone huge man in an idling car said, “You’re not fooling anyone, boys!” and Wendy shouted, “Fuck you!” and the rest of them grab-dragged her down the street and Sophie pleaded for Wendy to apologize as the guy yelled, then sped away, and Lila flipped him off as he went.
At Frame, Sophie paid the fifteen-dollar cover for Wendy, and they walked up three flights of old stairs and buzzing lights with Lila’s sceptre raised like a lance. Sophie got blistering drunk the fastest, and rather than waiting for the washroom, she peed standing off the fire escape; Wendy was out there bumming a blue-moon cigarette and Sophie looked beautiful and wild as a flaming star, her straw hair and long dres
s whirling in the wind and the last drops of piss blending with the falling snow. Sophie’s guy showed up, and his name was Ernie: Tall, bearded, dressed like a Blues Brother, kind of looked like Dan Aykroyd. They talked and danced and Wendy kept saying, “We’re on a mission from God” enough that it quickly went from annoying to background noise, and Ernie started to laugh and soon they’d emptied his plastic bottle of half water, half gin. Lila was ranting to Raina in the corner, Sophie was running around with a dead flower she had brought in a can.
When they danced (it was a swing band), Ernie knew how to lead, and Wendy danced for—well, really, the first time. Real dancing, anyway. At thirty years old and eight years post-transition, it’d still been one of those things that’d just never happened. She tripped once or twice, falling against his body, laughing. “I can’t help it, it’s the Mennonite blood,” a silly lovely joke that wasn’t true (of course that wasn’t why she couldn’t dance), and he steadied her gloved hands and bare arms and whispered in her ear, “You’re fuckin’ pretty, you know that?”
He touched her face and then kissed her, and Wendy melted into him, her flesh telling her something deep and natural at the same time that she stupidly thought, His beard’s thicker than it looks. She asked how tall he was and they stood back to back. They were exactly the same height. He laughed and said “That’s cute!”
He had a ruddy-red face with pale patches. He drew his fingers through the gleaming black wall of her hair.
She learned some general things. He had to work the next day at the detox unit—somewhere, she didn’t catch the name—and had to be up at seven (“Booooo!” she said). He claimed he had no hobbies (“I don’t want you to think I’m interesting,” he said without deadpan or performativity). He grew up in Western Manitoba, around Killarney, and when he said, “And you?” Wendy said, “No, no, no, I’ve been here all my life”—gesturing toward an open window and the shuttered lights of the frozen city—“I’ve never lived anywhere else.”
Then Sophie accidentally dropped and crushed the dead flower from the can she was carrying and shrieked raw and loud enough to disturb the crowded dance floor where the swing music had inexplicably given way to house. “God fucking damn it! Fuck fuck piece of shit cunt God fucking—”