by Martha Reed
“When did you know?”
“Know that Gigi was transgender?” Leslie pursed her lips. “I suppose I knew it when she was six, maybe seven? She was still very, very young.” She toyed with her ring. “I remember thinking there was something odd about the way Gigi smiled in her grade school pictures. It looked ... unnatural. I know now, of course, that she was hiding from us, even then, poor little thing, as best she could. God bless her, she thought there was something wrong.” She sipped her tea. “I thought Gigi was going to grow up to be an actor because she was always playacting. Now I know she was acting at being male.”
Jane was struck by a sudden thought: ‘Gigi’ is an AKA. “What was her real name, I mean her birth name before it was Gigi?”
“Paul. Paul Pascoe. We named her for Ken’s father.” Leslie wound a stray strand of hair around her fingers before tucking it behind her ear. “Everything came out in spades when Gigi hit puberty. That was a rough few years, I can promise you that. Gigi hated growing muscles and hair and turning more obviously male. She hated it! We had an active teenage rebellion on our hands until we visited Dr. Benedict, our holistic therapist, and got things squared away.”
Jane settled her hands in her lap. Everyone has a story to tell. The trick with getting witness testimony is letting the witness speak.
Leslie smoothed the fuzzy afghan around her neck. “I thought that was going to be the hardest part about her gender change besides the pronouns,” she joked, “but I was wrong, because even though I accepted Gigi as my daughter,” her voice softened as she grew still, “I still wondered what happened to my sweet little boy? Where did Paul go?” Her hand trembled as she reached for the kettle. “I had to remember that Gigi is still the same person we have always loved and it did get easier with time. Ryan, of course, was devastated.”
Ryan Embry? “Why was Ryan upset?”
“Because up ‘til then they’d been best pals. Ryan and Paul were practically twins, growing up.” The water sloshed as she checked the kettle. “I knew something had changed when Ryan stopped coming by. That boy practically lived here when Cheryl was working or busy with her church. When Gigi turned thirteen, though, I think that’s when Ryan finally figured it out.”
Refilling the teapot, she replaced the lid. “Of course, you worry about it, as a parent, the same way you worry about any child.” She shuddered. “Some of the way Gigi lives now is called ‘high-risk.’ I hate that phrase, hate it, but I can’t help it, it’s stuck in my head.” She straightened. “I need to be brave because I want Gigi to be happy. I don’t want her going through life pretending to be something she’s not. That’s no way to live. There’s no happiness there.” The wooly wrap slipped as her shoulders slumped. “But there’s only so much I can do to protect her. I would never tell Gigi this, but I still struggle with it every day, the minute I open my eyes and my feet hit the floor.”
“Struggle with her gender?” Jane asked, suddenly feeling foggy. The Valerian was kicking in.
“No.” Leslie studied the line of dark trees. “I struggle with my fear.”
“Fear’s a raw bitch,” Jane agreed. And don’t I know it. The electric kettle steamed gently. Leaning forward, she chose a fresh teabag. Sleepytime. That’ll do it. “I’ve studied DNA and genetics some, as a hobby on my own. This kinda fits in there, somewhere.”
“It can.” Leslie readjusted her shawl. “I’ve read everything I can get my hands on, on the subject. There’s not a lot of information out there.”
Jane’s curiosity prickled. “Does this transgender thing run in Ken’s family, or in yours?”
“Not that I know of.” She smoothly linked her fingers. “Ken’s never mentioned it and if it ran in my family it wouldn’t matter, since Gigi’s adopted.”
Jane set her teacup down with a click. “I’m sorry? What?”
“Yes.” Leslie turned. “Gigi is Ken’s natural child, not mine. Her mother abandoned her when she was a tiny infant and we took her in.”
I did think Gigi looked more like Ken than like Leslie. Jane blinked. “That was very generous to open your heart to her.”
“Any child of Ken’s is a child of mine.” Crow’s feet lined Leslie’s eyes as she smiled. “Gigi may not be my blood, but she is my daughter. She always will be. That’s how love works.”
“Who was Gigi’s biological mother?”
Leslie shifted uncomfortably. “Some WarBirds groupie named Marianne. Turned up here one night with Gigi in her arms, the cutest little peanut you ever saw.” She slowly stroked her throat. “We still don’t know when Gigi’s real birthday is. I had to invent one for her birth certificate.” She stared blindly at the floor. “I had to lie to the judge. I’m not proud of that. I had to swear that I was Gigi’s birth mother and that she was born at home without a doctor.” She suddenly looked haggard. “I couldn’t let them take her. Luckily, it happens more often than you think, children born at home. Nobody raised a fuss.”
Jane shook off the foggy feeling. Marianne Tanner was mentioned as the backup singer on “Love Power”. “What happened to her? To Marianne? Why did she leave Gigi here?”
“I have no idea and honestly, I don’t care.” Leslie dusted her hands. “She took off in the middle of the night and left that sweet little baby sleeping in my laundry basket next to my washing machine. I found Gigi there first thing, wailing away. Poor little peanut got hungry.”
The floorboards creaked.
“Who there?” Leslie leaned forward. When no one answered, she settled back.
“I don’t think Ken was ever serious about Marianne. Didn’t even want to talk to her when she showed up. He told me to send her away, baby and all. She insisted on talking to him. Stood right out in our driveway, screaming Ken’s name at the house at the top of her lungs over and over, and that woman was loud. I could hear her shrieking from inside the kitchen,” Leslie flushed, “so did the neighbors. She kept screaming that Ken owed her the royalties from “Love Power”, that the money was hers, that she needed it to support their child. It was a terrible scene, horrible.” She swallowed hard, staring at the floor. “And when she left, she stole Ken’s guitar, his Fender bass. All of his WarBirds songs were in that case.”
And Ken burned the studio session tapes. “So, his other WarBirds songs are really gone?”
“Gone, all gone. And Ken absolutely refuses to write anything new or to even try.” She croaked. “I try bringing the idea up; we could sure use the money, but it only raises a fuss.” She shrugged. “We’re limping along.” She chewed her lip. “I still think Ken listens for those missing songs. Every once in a while, I’ll catch him listening to a riff or to a certain bass line, and he gets the strangest look on his face, like he’s still hoping they’ll turn up again, that they’re still out there, somewhere in the universe. Who knows? Maybe they will turn up one day. Stranger things have happened. You hear about people finding lost things all the time.”
The kitchen door creaked open.
“I thought I heard voices. Good morning.”
“Babette?” Leslie leaned forward. “You there? Come join us, dear. We’re having tea.”
Chapter Eleven
Jane straightened as Aunt Babette shut the kitchen door. I feel like such a slacker. The elderly woman was carefully made up and dressed for the day in a black linen skirt with a ruffled white blouse and sensible low-heeled pumps. Her gray hair was neatly combed into tight curls that lay flat against her scalp. She wore a necklace of colorful carved wooden birds with matching bird earrings and a jangly collection of silvery bangles on her knobby left wrist.
“You sure I’m not interrupting?”
“Don’t be silly. This is your home, too.” Leslie pushed a decrepit wicker chair closer using her toes. “Take a seat. How about a nice cuppa tea before you leave? What time is your bus?”
“Quarter past. I’d love a cup, but isn’t that the gift Delilah gave you?” Her shoulders dropped as she folded her hands. “I don’t want to take your nice pre
sent.”
“Babette, please! Look what that crazy girl did.” Turning the gift box sideways, Leslie displayed the selection as she reached for a fresh cup. “She is too generous by half! Gave me fifty different kinds, one for each year of my life. Which one would you like? Orange Pekoe? Lemon Splash? Lady Gray?”
“Orange Pekoe would be lovely.” Babette sat. “Merci.”
She’s got to be close to seventy. I thought she was retired. “Where do you work?” Jane asked.
“Le Maison Grise. Delilah’s shop.” Repeatedly dipping her teabag, she neatly set it aside. “This time of year between Christmas and Mardi Gras she gets fou occupe.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “She gives me twenty hours a week. It helps us both out.”
“Retail sales is tough,” Jane commiserated. “Personally, I am through dealing with the public. Never again.”
“Alors pas, no, dear.” Babette shrank back, horrified. “I don’t work the counter! I’m mediumistic. I do readings. Worried souls come to me seeking spiritual advice. I have the gift.” Pursing her wrinkled lips, she cooled her tea. “Did I hear you talking about Marianne Tanner?”
“Jane was curious,” Leslie said.
Babette frowned. “I hardly remember her. I only saw her that one time, the night she left the baby behind.”
“Are you sure that Gigi is really Ken’s child?” Jane blurted.
“Jane!” Babette laughed nervously, fingering her bird beads. “So many questions! You should’ve been a detective like on TV.”
“Yes, we are sure of that.” Leslie sipped her tea. “Gigi bought us one of those ancestry kits last Christmas. She wanted to know.” Her cup rang as she tapped it with her spoon. “Ken and Gigi are originally from Italy, Germany, and Wales.” She raised both eyebrows. “Gigi got a surprise; she showed Central European which was identified as Jewish.” Setting her cup down, Leslie placed both hands over her heart. “Babette and I are northern Spain, La Belle France, and sub-Saharan Africa, which is proper for Creole and exactly as it should be.”
“An all-American family,” Babette agreed.
A songbird’s bright trill caught Jane’s ear. It’s still strange to hear birds singing in December. She studied the threadbare porch, the unmortised bricks and the scruffy courtyard. “It’s a shame Ken’s songs are gone. They’d be worth some serious money. At least he’s still getting royalties from “Love Power”, right?”
“No, he is not!” Leslie snapped. “Ken sold those royalties before he left New York. He’s never made one dime offa that song! To this day that money still goes to those crooks, those New York record company thieves!”
No royalties? That’s got to sting. Explains why this property looks so run down. “Love Power” is a hall of fame classic. I hear it played everywhere I go.
“I know I shouldn’t let it upset me.” Leslie smoothed her hair. “It happened so long ago, it shouldn’t even matter.” Circling her finger, she indicated the Big House. “I keep warning Ken we’re only one disaster away from having to sell this place. If anything big happened, I don’t know what we’d do. We spent our savings repairing Katrina. There’s no way we could pay for a new sewer line or fix the roof again. When we die, all Gigi will inherit is old Tupperware and debt.”
“This property has to be worth something.” Jane stood. She had cooled off and her nap time clock was ticking. “The Bywater is booming. I see flippers working on a different house every day. This house has a big corner lot. You’d get a good price for it, as it is.”
“That’s what Ken says.” Leslie blotted her eyes with a ragged corner of the afghan. “I suppose we could move into an apartment, if we needed to. It’s not such a sacrifice to make.”
“Leslie! Please don’t talk like this!” Babette clapped both hands over her ears. “You know how it upsets me! We belong here! This is our home. Where else would we go?”
“Of course, Babette, of course. I’m sorry, you’re right.” Leaning forward, Leslie patted Babette’s bony knee. “Ignore what I said. I’m being foolish. Of course we’re not going to sell the Big House. For some reason I woke up feeling blue this morning -”
She turned as Gigi pulled The Boat into the driveway. Slamming the Cadillac into park, Gee left the driver’s side door open, sprinting across the side yard.
“Heel, Piddles!” She shouted. “I said heel, goddammit!”
A black standard poodle wearing a rhinestone collar hopped off the passenger seat and loped toward the porch. He had a ridiculously long purple tongue and a scarlet pedicure.
“Maman?” Gigi shouted, taking the porch steps two at a time. Snatching the screened door open, she waved her phone. “Maman? Why didn’t you answer me?”
“I’m sorry, dear.” Leslie rose, looking confused. “I didn’t hear it ring. What’s wrong?”
“Fancy never made it home last night.” Noticing that Leslie had company, Gigi nodded a greeting. “Bonjour, ma tante. Something’s happened. We need to call the police.”
“Let’s think about this for a minute, honey. Maybe Fancy met a new friend?”
“No.” The china tea set rang as Gigi dropped her phone on the table. Shaking out both hands, she cocked her right thumb at the dog. “She would’ve texted me and had me check on Piddles.” She nervously tucked her hair behind her ears. “Fancy hasn’t been home. I’m telling you, Maman, something is wrong, bad wrong.”
“You should file a missing person’s report,” Jane said, “in person. They can add her to the NCIC Missing Persons file. It has national reach.”
Aunt Babette frowned. “I thought you needed to wait forty-eight hours?”
“That’s a myth,” Jane stated. “The force is much more responsive these days. Sooner is always better.”
“It’s kinda weird, Jane.” Gigi’s brow furrowed. “That you even know that.”
“I’ve seen it on TV.”
“I watched you move in, Jane.” Aunt Babette slowly lowered her teacup. “You don’t own a TV.”
Chapter Twelve
“Thanks for coming with me. Something’s not right.”
“Not a problem.” Jane restlessly drummed her fingers on the Cadillac’s passenger door. The rising sun had warmed Lake Pontchartrain, stirring up a whispery breeze that set her teeth on edge. Gigi Pascoe had hesitated over filing a missing person’s report on Fancy Abellard, so she had volunteered to go to the police station to offer support. Reaching up, Jane massaged the back of her neck, rolling the tense muscles under her fingertips. Why do I feel nervous? I haven’t done anything wrong. This isn’t even about me.
She had skipped taking a shower, but she had scrubbed her face, slicked back her hair, and changed into what felt more like her native uniform: a V-necked T-shirt, jeans and her favorite scuffed patrol boots. Her lined windbreaker, wallet, and iPhone were tucked into the backpack on the floorboards next to her feet. Four years of road living had thinned down her vital necessities list.
Spinning the wheel with one hand, Gigi maneuvered The Boat around the construction dumpsters permanently parked the length of Poland Avenue before turning left on North Claiborne. The Lower Ninth Ward still looked like a bombed-out war zone. When Hurricane Katrina breached the MRGO and Industrial Canal levees in 2005, storm surges from Lake Pontchartrain had swept the Lower Ninth Ward off the map. Upriver The Bywater had mostly been spared, but as they headed for the Fifth District NOPD station they passed whole city blocks of barren devastation. One blighted little house painted a fading shell pink stood alone in a wilderness of bulldozed earth and shattered trees. Crumbling plywood sheets splayed with black mold boarded its windows. We Will Be Back was spray painted across its door.
“Looks like they didn’t make it back.” Jane pointed. “Where did all of these people go?”
“Houston, mostly.” Gigi puffed on her cigar. “Half a million. It’s the diaspora that everyone ignores.” She frowned at the vacant lots and the shuttered small businesses. “Most of this ward was owned by black folks. These homes were the only equ
ity they had.”
Diaspora? Jane blinked in surprise. That’s a five-dollar word, but it fits. She studied the acres of blasted desolation. How do you bounce back from taking a hit so hard that it doesn’t just disrupt your life, it ends it, snap, just like that like these people did? Something so overwhelmingly immense that you lose everything you knew and you simply give up and move on, leaving everything you knew before behind? Insight connected the dots. Like I did. Like Ken did when The WarBirds died. Who are you after you take a catastrophic hit like that? Are you even the same person anymore? What do you do when the whole question of you are becomes who you were? Who is Ken now? She swallowed. Who am I?
Pulling The Boat into a shaded spot in the gated NOPD lot, Gigi reached over, clicked off the ignition and stubbed out her cigar.
“Sit, Piddles,” she snapped. Stepping from The Boat, she smoothed the pale yellow polo shirt that complimented her tan. “Stay put. We’ll be right back.”
The poodle in the back seat cocked his ears at her command.
“You ready to do this thing, Jane?”
Butterflies battered Jane’s stomach. “Let’s do it,” she agreed.
Her boots firmly slapped the asphalt as they headed for the spanking new police station looming over the shattered neighborhood. The two-story cream-colored building possessed an entire city block with its end corner unit separately painted brick red. A double row of windows had permanently installed metal awnings that on a good day might look like eyebrows raised in surprise, but on a bad day look like drawbridges poised to drop on your head. PTSD sent a tremor through Jane’s fingertips. Evidently, today I vote for the drawbridge idea.
Gigi turned. “You okay? You look pale.”
Gripping the handle, Jane opened the door and pushed through the epicenter of her fear.
“I’m fine.” She crossed the threshold. “I’m not partial to law enforcement.”