by Casey Plett
Sophie curled herself further in the blanket and looked at the preacher. They changed the channel to a stupid sitcom and sat for a while, watching mindlessly. This is nice, Wendy thought.
“Is your dad different than when you were a kid?” asked Sophie.
“Lots,” said Wendy. “In a good way. Why?”
Sophie was silent. “When I was younger my mom was—nicer.”
“About trans stuff, you mean,” Wendy said, bored.
“No. She’s nicer about trans stuff now. Never mind.”
“I’m listening,” Wendy said, looking at her.
“Nah.”
“Hey, Sophie?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m fuckin’ sorry to ask this, but are you suicidal?”
Sophie barked out a short laugh. “Yes. But that’s not new.”
“Oh, honey.”
And then they were quiet for longer than before.
“It’s not because of that … bullshit—whatever,” Sophie mumbled. “I’ve always dealt with ideation. It’s been harder in the last few years. I guess I’ll be fine. I don’t feel like I need to check myself into the psych ward or anything.” She shivered. “Though I hate that fuckin’ place.”
“I understand,” said Wendy.
“Thought you might.”
“Hey,” said Wendy. “I had a friend who killed herself years ago. Her name was Clara. She was trans. I know I can’t tell you to do anything. I can’t tell you not to kill yourself because that doesn’t matter because I can’t stop you. No one can stop anyone.” Wendy coolly stared at her friend. “But I miss my friend who’s dead. And I want you around. I want to grow old with you. I want you to stay here with me.”
Sophie cracked a smile. “You’ve known me eight months, bitch.”
“Shut up!” said Wendy. “I fucking love you! You’re fucking important to me, okay? You’re one of the best friends I’m ever going to find in this shithole! I want you to stay alive! Sorry.”
“Thank you,” Sophie said softly.
Wendy shifted gears. “Would it be helpful if you had people around when you’re feeling particularly suicidal?”
“I don’t know …”
“Sorry.”
“Don’t tell Raina, okay?” Sophie said suddenly.
“I won’t. Hey, look, thanks for telling me. I want to be there for you how I can—you can leave that as open-ended, okay?” Wendy said. “You want to text or call me with a way I can be there for you, you can do it. I’ll want you to do it. I know that sounds high school, but I’ll never not want you to call me. Is that okay, can I say that to you?”
Sophie gave her a warm look. “Yes.”
“And if I want to check in with you more than just every once in a while, can I do that?”
“Yes,” Sophie said. “I would like that.” Then Sophie laughed. “I just remembered something. You know Morgan Page, eh?”
“I read At Land.”
“You know how she doesn’t like the word transgender?”
“No,” said Wendy, confused. “Why? I think it’s fine.”
“She said the other day: ‘I refuse to call myself anything but a transsexual. I earned all those syllables.’”
“Ha!” said Wendy. “I’m going to use that.”
16
Wendy finally posted her ad at four, after a nap. Almost right away, she got two calls, both about the size of her cock. Fifteen minutes later, a text asked if she’d take fifty bucks. Sigh.
At nine she got a real call.
“Hi, hi—what are your rates?”
“One fifty for a half hour, two hundred for an hour. Outcalls only.”
“I’m sorry, I only have eighty dollars.” She inhaled sharply but he continued, “Would you just come cuddle with me maybe?”
She clucked her tongue.
“… sure,” she heard herself say.
“How long?”
She considered. “Twenty minutes. Why don’t I come over for twenty minutes.” To her surprise, he said okay.
She bussed out to his place in East Kildonan—a little far for that much? Whatever, she definitely wasn’t cabbing it, and she needed to re-break this damn cherry—and texted Lila where she was.
Wendy felt squirrelly walking up to his door. She’d rarely done outcalls before. This was a house. There were safety practices, but after that thing with Sophie …
His place was a little bungalow, clean, with nice furniture. He was a short Indian guy in a black T-shirt.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” He stood nervously.
“Well, can we settle up business, then we can—” He hurriedly dug his hand into his pocket and handed her an envelope; she opened it and counted the cash.
“Would you like to show me to the bedroom?” She smiled warmly. She set a timer. They laid down together, clothed, and she cradled his head on her chest. He hugged her, vibrating at first, then unmoving. He smelled clean and scentless. They lay there for a few minutes. He nuzzled her neck, and she let him. He nuzzled her chin. He tried to kiss her on the lips, and she said, “No, no sorry … that’s more.” He nodded and fell back onto her shoulder.
Minutes went past. The timer went off.
“Thank you, call me again anytime,” she said. He shrugged nervously in the doorway. She left.
At the bus stop, she looked at the eighty dollars in her wallet.
The rest of the night was more wankers and timewasters, and at 1:40 a.m.:
Ernie: Hey fierce stuff
Ernie: Lol jk what u up to
Her heart sank at this. The sadness and weight of the last few days hit her hard. She took a huge slug from her mickey of whisky and felt tears in her eyes that she swallowed and pushed away. Should text him my fuckin rates, she thought moodily.
Around two a.m. she got a real call to an apartment in the Village, not even that far away. She texted Lila the address (U got it ladypants) and cabbed over, snow wild and blowing around the ankles of her boots as she walked through the courtyard. It was a young, drunk white guy with a soft beard who barely spoke, in an old building where Wendy knew you could hear anything between rooms.
She blew him in minutes then walked back with a brown and a pink bill, each zipped into her pocket, sipping from the last of her whisky. The storm was still going, but she’d dressed for it and the whisky warmed and radiated from the soft roll of her centre to her double-gloved fingers, and her hair whipped and flowed around her, dusted in snow. She laughed, drunk, beautifully tired and at ease with her whole aching body by the time she was home. A couple days like this a week, and this outcall stuff could actually be pretty alright.
The next morning, she was groggy and bumping around, almost late to go to the store. Her phone rang. At first she didn’t look, but then—
“Anna!” she said.
“Hello. Um. This is Wendy?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Good. How are you?”
“I’m fine thank you,” said Wendy, wriggling into her sweater tights. “I have to go to work soon, so I’m just getting ready, just—having my coffee.” There was silence because—of course there was. “How are you, Anna?”
“I’m well, thank you. Yup. Have my grandchildren coming later today.”
“Yes, that’s good,” said Wendy.
From the back lane came the sound of a car starting and fizzling out and a woman yelling, “Get your fuckin’ mom!” A child said something back. Wendy put her arms through a tank top without disturbing the phone.
Anna took a breath. “I want to apologize. For last we spoke.”
Wendy felt ice and iron inside of her. “Thank you,” she said coldly. “And maybe you would like to tell me exactly what you are apologizing for? Why don’t you say it to me very clearly. That seems like a good idea,” she said.
There was a long, long silence. Then Anna said, “For being negative. Toward your. Idea of Henry’s desires.”
Wendy didn’t respond at first, then thought Good enough. Her
irritation evaporated. She put on a stretchy black-and-white-striped skirt and moved to the washroom. “Thank you for that, Anna. That is considerate of you.” She put the phone down and waited for a response, put her hair up into a long, high ponytail, looking at nothing. If one of her roommates walked into the kitchen and looked her way through the open bathroom door, they would’ve seen a side view of her staring at a wall, phone balanced on the sink.
“I would like to continue talking. About Henry,” said Anna faintly through the speaker. “Not many people interested in this part of him, I think.”
“Yes,” Wendy said. “Yes, I hope we can.”
For all of Wendy’s anger at Anna, which had built over the interim days, it was mixed with frustration and sadness. She had loved her grandpa. She had loved the shit out of him. And she was ready to believe he’d been like her, that Raina was right, and Anna just didn’t realize that Henry was trans, and maybe Henry hadn’t understood it himself. Wendy wanted to love this old woman. She was so, so tired of loving her people and them not loving her back. Sometimes this made her angry. And sometimes, like now, she found it spookily easy to put her hurt and baggage on ice. She was aware how strange this was. On some level.
“Anna, may I ask you a question about Henry?”
“Oh, go ahead.”
“Was he ever angry? About his—situation?”
“Never,” Anna said immediately. “Henry was not an angry man. Of course, no matter how Christian a person may or may not be. Anger is still very much there.”
“Yes,” said Wendy. “I understand that.”
“Not him,” Anna responded definitively. “Never saw a hint of it. You’d think he had. A thing or two to be angry about. However you want to look at it, now. I have no doubt he is in Heaven. Had his soul straight with God when he died. Forgiven. But no Christian gets there easily.”
Wendy had to go to work soon.
“But Henry,” Anna continued, “didn’t bear grudges. He was never harsh. For whatever else he might have done—” she trailed off.
“He told me a joke once,” blurted Wendy. “It was silly and harmless, but he apologized afterwards,” she said. “Because I was confused and didn’t get the punch line.”
“Oh, mm-hmm,” said Anna blankly.
More silence. “I think I get what you mean,” offered Wendy.
“Oh!” Anna said suddenly. “And how is your family keeping? With Aganetha’s passing.”
(Jesus, Wendy thought to herself. You do remember your grandmother died this month.) “They’re doing just fine,” she said. “All things considered. We knew she was near the end. Ben seems to be doing okay, and I believe his brothers are coping as well.”
“Oh, good. Death is never. Not painful but. I’m thankful she is with Jesus. I take great comfort in that. That a loved one’s suffering is over.”
“Nettie wasn’t suffering when she died,” Wendy said.
“Well,” said Anna.
“Hey,” Wendy said. “Another question. I was looking over some family photo albums. And there’s some periods where Henry’s not in them.”
“Oh, yes. Would be in the eighties, I think.”
“You know this!” Wendy said. “Why?”
She was silent for some time. Then said, “One should not take delight in one’s self.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“The church didn’t like cameras. Back when we were children. Idolatry too of course. Graven images. Looked down upon, in general, as vain, selfish. I think that was the old saying. ‘One should not take delight in one’s self.’ I think the elders changed it in the fifties or sixties. Goodness, can’t remember. But there was a period where Henry. Went back to this. I think it was the eighties.”
“But Nettie had a camera.”
“Oh, yes,” said Anna. “Aganetha loved her camera. Quite the shutterbug. You perhaps remember.”
Wendy sighed. That’s not why he avoided cameras, Anna, she thought nastily, it was never about fucking religion. For fuck’s sake, Occam’s Goddamn Fucking Trans Lady Razor.
“Henry,” Anna said, “had no interest in judgment. He didn’t judge anyone for using a camera, no, my goodness. He loved Aganetha deeply. Very deeply,” she said sharply, as if correcting herself. “He said he thought the elders were right, years ago, and that was his decision. For himself. He would leave the room when Aganetha got a new roll of film back, if I recall.” Anna’s voice dropped off. “Did irk her somewhat.”
“Anna, can I come visit you, still? I have to go to work, but I want to talk with you more,” Wendy said rapidly. “I would like to do that, and I’d love to do it soon. Can I come up and see some of those letters you’re talking about maybe?”
“Oh, uh. Sure! Yup, that could certainly happen. I could make some coffee and some sandwiches.”
“How about next Friday,” said Wendy. “One week from now. I could come up for lunch.”
“Absolutely! I’m right on Highway 329. You have the number?”
Wendy stared at the ripped-out page of the phone book that had lived on her desk for a couple weeks now. “Not in reach. What is it, just to be sure?”
“The house number is 36492. On Highway 329. Brown house, it’s on the north side of the road.”
“Sure.”
“I’ll write it on the calendar.” Anna gave a short laugh, a fuller sound than Wendy had heard from the woman so far. “Looking forward to this, Wendy!”
That night she got a one a.m. call-out to the motor inn on Henderson—a trucker who wanted to fuck her in his cab. He was short and clean-shaven in a polo shirt—looked more like a pampered hockey player than a trucker. Barely older than Wendy. He had a 519 area code and Ontario plates.
He was drunk and couldn’t come. He throat-fucked her, standing as she lay on his bed for a long while, and she vomited in her mouth a few times but swallowed it down fine. She hated doing this. But they liked that. Wendy always marvelled, in a grim sort of way, how so many boys liked this. The velvety sliding feeling of her puking and swallowing with her mouth closed around their dicks.
Then he wanted to fuck her ass. He wriggled a hand into her pussy at the same time. “You feel that?” he said breathlessly.
He never managed to cum. She left after half an hour, and he didn’t make a fuss. Her hands and face were a mess from his dick. She walked over to the Sev across from the motel and bought a thing of Wet Ones and wiped herself off right out front, in the cold, still air, where the stars for once were out.
She put on her headphones and listened to Hole as she waited for her cab. She listened to the song “Violet.” She listened to it over and over on repeat. She had an early shift at the store tomorrow.
As she fell asleep, she thought about the moment when he’d had his hand in her pussy and his dick in her ass. He didn’t even look like he was having fun. His body in hers felt as sensual as foam peanuts.
The next morning, Wendy heard hymns. Beautiful, haunting hymns. It was a Sunday. She heard them for a few minutes, then they would go away and come back a few minutes later. They sounded recorded, like maybe a loudspeaker van was driving around. They were beautiful. Wendy had no words for how light, sad, and peaceful this made her feel. She lay in bed listening until the last second before she had to get up.
It wasn’t a recording. It was people standing in their coats near the church down the street, listening to an outdoor service. Wendy hadn’t known that was a thing—in any season.
The minister led the gathering again in a hymn as she walked to the bus. She kept stopping to stare over her shoulder at them as she walked, until they were out of sight.
17
The next morning, the phone rang as Wendy was rubbing her eyes and shuffling back from the bathroom, getting ready for a noon shift. She ignored it, then saw it was Lila.
“Hey—”
“Dsomebatjouyet?” Lila’s voice was frantic and garbled.
“What?”
“Did someone tell you yet?” she
repeated, obviously crying.
“No, oh no, no, what—”
“Sophie killed herself.”
“NO!” said Wendy.
“I know I can’t fucking believe her!” screamed Lila.
“NO! No! No!” Wendy screamed. “No. No. No. No.”
There was a moment when neither spoke; both were crying.
“Who found her?” said Wendy.
“Her mom.”
“Fuck! Sophie!”
“She didn’t tell me how she did it,” Lila said manically and breathlessly. “She found her this morning. She did it last night. She thinks late. Her mom thinks late. I hung out with her yesterday evening. She seemed fine. We were out at Cousin’s. We didn’t get drunk. We made plans to hang out again today. I—”
“FUCK God fucking damn it!”
“I haven’t told anybody else,” said Lila. “I was the first one her mom called. She wanted me to tell her friends. Her new friends, she said. She was going to call everybody else.”
“I ca—I ca—I ca—” Wendy was hyperventilating. She was staring at the wall unable to think, or speak. “Lila—she was—oneofmyonlyfriends. She was one of my only friends.”
“I’m fucking pissed off at her!” sobbed Lila. “What the fuck was she thinking! What the fuck! What the fucking fuck! What the fuck is wrong with her!”
Wendy didn’t say anything. Her mouth wouldn’t open. She stopped hyperventilating. She listened to Lila cry while tears silently dripped down her cheeks. One of the quiet cis roommates came out of her room and Wendy waved her away like a vampire in sunlight.
The two of them cried together on the phone for about a minute.
Then Lila said, “I need to call other people.”
“I can’t,” said Wendy. “No. I can call Raina.”
“I’ll do it,” Lila said shakily. “I don’t know what to do,” said Lila. “I’ll call you later today,” she said. “No, I’ll call you in just a bit. Please. Okay?”
When Lila hung up, Wendy sat on a stool in the kitchen, crying. She didn’t move. She sat there with the phone in her hand.