by Renee James
Betsy smiles and shrugs. I’m on my own. It’s nice that she has so much trust in me, but it leaves me with a terrible problem. I have no idea how to answer.
Start with the truth, I think. Just leave out the obscenities.
“He was a very angry man,” I start. “He wanted to get even with me for an argument I had with his father.”
“An argument?”
“It was more than an argument,” I concede, “and when you’re older, I’ll tell you about it. But not now.”
“Was he crazy?”
“I think so, Roberta,” I say. “But I’m just a hairdresser.” I look to Betsy and Phil for some help on this one, but they just stare back, Betsy smiling a little, her sister smile.
“There are a lot of crazy people out there,” Roberta says, matter-of-factly.
“Like who?” I ask. She’s going to have nightmares about boogeymen forever if she believes that.
“Like every night on the news,” she says. “Mom won’t let me watch it with her anymore.”
I hadn’t thought of it before, but it’s true. There’s enough terror and violence on many evening newscasts for an R-rated movie.
“There aren’t that many crazies,” I say. Roberta and I lock eyes. “And none of them will ever touch you. You’ve got family. You’ve got your mom and me and Cecelia, and I promise you, anyone coming for you has to go through me first.”
I’m running off at the mouth like a macho male teenager. Phil and Betsy stare at me mutely. Roberta starts to smile.
“I don’t think you’re going to be able to do much with taped hands.” She giggles.
“Hah!” I say. “I can scare them away.” I raise my arms above my head and make ghost sounds. Roberta laughs like an eleven-year-old. My world is coming back in balance.
After the meal, Betsy shoos Phil and me into the living room while she and Roberta take care of dishes.
He holds my arm all the way to the couch and hovers around me like an Elizabethan gallant. It’s nice. He sits next to me.
“How are you, Bobbi?” he asks. His voice is confidential. It’s not a rhetorical question.
“It’s like my brain is just starting to thaw, Phil.” I labor to cross my legs, my body still aching from Albert’s hospitality. “I have a feeling it’s going to hit me like a tsunami when things start soaking in.”
“What will?” he asks.
“The terror.” I say it in a hushed voice, but it carries through the silent room like an echo rolling through a cave. I feel Phil’s hand on mine, but my mind has started playing movie clips that I can’t stop. The darkness. The total absence of light. The isolation, like I was dead and lying in a casket underground. The shattering noise and light. My body being abused. I break into tears. It just comes on. I can’t stop it.
“He put a stick inside me.” My voice is tiny and weak. “It was so . . .” I can’t finish the sentence. Dehumanizing? Cruel? It was worse than that. Phil holds me while I cry. It takes a while, but it passes.
“I learned something about being a woman,” I say. “I learned what it’s like to be physically vulnerable.”
He looks at me quizzically. I’ve been attacked physically and emotionally before.
I look Phil in the eye. “I finally understand that it’s dangerous to be a woman. I always thought my biggest danger was being laughed at.”
We look at each other in silence for a moment. I’m thinking how recklessly I’ve gone out in short skirts and dresses, flashing cleavage, curly red hair, me just wanting the world to see me as a woman and not laugh.
“I’ve learned attitude and self-defense training won’t save me from violence,” I say.
“You did pretty well,” says Phil.
I think about that for a moment. “Yes. I killed him. So, if I get over the terror, I have to live with that, too.”
We ponder the point in silence.
“Thank you for what you did for me,” I say. I hug his arm.
After another long silence, I squeeze his arm.
“Do you think Albert was the only one stalking me?” I ask.
“Don’t you?” Phil is puzzled.
“Maybe. He definitely did my salon and apartment, so I assumed he was also the one I caught glimpses of now and then.”
“And?” Phil doesn’t see where I’m going with this.
“It’s just—Albert wasn’t Andive’s accomplice when I was raped. Albert didn’t even know Andive existed. So, the other guy’s still out there. What if he was following me, too?”
Phil puts his hand on mine. “The other guy was the guy you saw in the lineup.”
“The one I couldn’t identify?”
Phil nods.
“Did he confess?”
“Not yet,” says Phil. “He may be holding back on some of his crimes so he can make a deal. He’s going to jail, and for a long time, that’s the main point here.”
Phil strokes my hand and arm. “We’ve got a solid rape case against him already—eyewitnesses, DNA, the works. He’s going down. He might confess to other crimes, like yours, when the plea bargaining starts. The prosecution likes to clear unsolved cases and sometimes throws in some incentives for confession.”
“What if he’s not the one?”
Phil smiles. “His street name is Mick the Stick. He’s the one, whether he confesses or not.”
My mind drifts back to that lineup, but I can hardly see the man who stirred my memories of that night in the alley. I wonder how I could forget, then I wonder why I’m not feeling anger. Whenever I’ve thought of those thugs before, I’ve felt violent and wrathful. Now I’m just limp.
“I can get you into the trial, if it goes that far,” says Phil.
“No.” I shake my head slowly. “Just get me a picture of him and put me on the list of people to notify if he ever gets out.”
“If you go after him, you’ll end up in jail yourself,” Phil cautions.
“I wouldn’t go after him,” I answer. “I’m done with that. This is how it’s supposed to work. I just want to see him coming if he ever gets another crack at me.”
Phil is silent. I glance at him. His face has a profound sadness about it, and I understand why immediately. We have reached a place in time, both of us, where we understand that each act of violence can set off a chain of violence and all the survivors are victims, too.
EPILOGUE
OUR HOLIDAY DECORATIONS are up. It’s cold and Christmassy outside. The days are short, the nights are long and dark, but they’re illuminated by holiday lights that hover over the streets like a magical fog. Michigan Avenue looks like Roberta’s dollhouse, come to life, a winter wonderland filled with dazzle and possibilities.
I’m hurrying to meet Phil at Macy’s. We have a Christmas tradition there that goes back many years, to when Betsy orchestrated a meeting between us so we could kiss and make up. It’s a happy event and even though the rush of business keeps me frantic most of the time, I feel a glow as I make my way to the rendezvous.
One of the things I’ve learned is that you never know when your life is going to end. So, I try to keep my debts paid. Not just the money ones. I try to be as good to the people around me as I can, and to make sure they know I appreciate them.
I’ve quietly made Jalela my junior partner in the salon. She has to buy in over time. It won’t be easy, but she’ll get there. It’s a smart business move. I need a backup and a successor. She ran the place like a veteran in the long weeks I was away. She’s also the best partner I could ever want. She has the passion and the grit and a good way with people. And she’s smart. She soaks up the business stuff like an eager student. She’s the perfect business partner for me, and after all I’ve gone through, I need the peace of mind that this place of art and beauty will carry on after I’m gone, and someone will see to it that Roberta and Betsy benefit from my equity in the salon.
Cecelia smiled when I told her all that. “You’ve met mortality, Bobbi,” she said.
It’s true,
but I also got a refresher course in what’s important in life—and who’s important to me.
When I pick up Roberta at school, I make sure to say hello to her classmates, even those who taunted her about having me for an aunt. I think it’s working. They seem to appreciate my friendliness and forget to be surly.
Cecelia says I’m crazy, but I’m mailing Christmas cards to the people on my suspects list. Cecelia calls them “the survivors.” I’ve tried to apologize to them for the things I did to make their lives more difficult. Greco and Michael Albrechti, aka Lover Boy, have been very gracious about my overtures. Victor Grassi was guarded but at least gave me a smile. I’m sure he’ll open the card. Joey Swidell is lost in his own misery, but I think it meant something that another person in this world cared about him. I don’t think anyone else does.
Mark was surly and caustic, but that’s Mark.
Andive is dead. He was the sixth suspect. I was right about the law of sevens, though. It was the seventh suspect, Albert, the one I didn’t see coming, who was the stalker. Neither of them will be getting cards this Christmas, or ever again.
I sometimes have nightmares about the terror I endured, but I haven’t suffered any guilt about Albert’s death. If I were a Christian, I’d say the death blow I dealt was guided by God or that it was a divine miracle. As an atheist, I say it was a lucky shot. Incredibly lucky. Like, I could never do it again in a hundred tries.
The police said the odd thing about Albert was that he’d never been in trouble before. He behaved in school, had a good job, payed his taxes. He did all the things a good citizen is expected to do. Until he decided to get revenge for a father he never knew. My guess is, it was probably as much about his mother as his father; he thought both he and his father had been the victims of nasty women. We’ll never know the truth. Albert left nothing behind that provided any insights into his view of life.
Betsy is seeing Slick Alex again. I still don’t trust him completely, but I keep the “Slick Alex” reference to myself. Who am I to judge? He certainly has feelings for her, and he’s good to Roberta, so Aunt Bobbi will just keep her skeptical judgements to herself.
Phil? Well, he’s moving in with me right after New Year’s Day. We’ve been doing sleepovers since Thanksgiving and it was time to make it official. Killing Albert is the strange bond that seems to unite us. Phil knows about killing, and dealing with the aftermath, and he’s taken it upon himself to help me come to grips with the horror. His mentoring has opened the door for a lot of other dialogue. In the past, Phil had trouble talking about his feelings for me, and his issues with himself as a man attracted to a transwoman, but for some reason, helping me deal with the violence Albert wrought on me has made Phil more forthcoming in our conversations, even the ones that have nothing to do with Albert or killing. It might work this time. Phil thinks his attraction to me is a signal he’s bisexual. I’ve learned not to argue about it. I just tell him to keep his eye on the ball—we like each other, we love each other, and we have a fantastic sex life. That’s a better deal than being one of the shriveled-up old souls who might judge either of us.
As for me, I’m serious about being a better person. I’m not religious, but I believe the good among us have souls and I believe our souls glow with warmth with each act of humanity we perform. I think when we die, that’s it, lights out for body and soul. But that’s all the more reason to pack all the glow you can into the life you get. I’ll share this thought with Phil tonight as we cuddle in front of the fireplace and talk of Christmas, and life, and the things that connect us. He’ll tell me I’m a lunatic and I’ll remind him that I’m a great lay.