Transition to Murder

by Renee James

She doesn’t. She smiles. “Good. I’m glad you still have lustful feelings,” she says. “That’s important, and it’s a good thing.”

  She allows a moment of silence to hang in the air.

  “The next step is forgiveness,” she says.

  I look at her with incredulity. “You must be kidding,” I say. “I would never forgive those monsters for what they did. I can’t imagine that anyone would.”

  “Probably not,” she says. She smiles her loving mom smile at me. “I’m talking more about forgiving life for insulting you so personally and so violently. Some people let experiences like this define their lives. They never recover. Every day from that point on, they are the person who got raped that winter. They never go back to being Susie the homemaker, or Ellen, the violinist, or whatever.”

  “But they must go back to their jobs,” I respond.

  “They do, but Susie doesn’t think of herself as a homemaker any more, she thinks of herself as Susie the homemaker who was raped and had her life ruined by the experience,” Marilee says. “My point is that you have a choice. You can acknowledge traumatic events in your life and keep on living, or you can let those events dictate how you live your life and how you feel about life.”

  She waits for me to respond. “I understand the words,” I say finally, “but I’m not sure I get what you mean.”

  Marilee stands and walks to her bookshelf. She selects a book and hands it to me. It’s The Count of Monte Cristo. “Have you read it?” she asks.

  “Yes,” I answer. “In high school. And I saw the Richard Chamberlain movie back in the Eighties.”

  “What’s the storyline?”

  I give her a stream of consciousness answer. An innocent man betrayed. Lost years in prison. Escape, great wealth, revenge. It's a classic story of revenge, I summarize.

  “Is it?” Marilee asks.

  “Of course it is. He destroys the villains who took so much from him.”

  “Indeed,” says Marilee, “But what did that cost him?”

  The answer hits hard. He loses his second chance with the love of his life by failing to extend mercy to her husband. I nod to Marilee, tears forming in my eyes.

  “Hate is destructive,” she says.

  I nod again, a chilling thought passing through my mind: if I knew who my rapists were, I would stop at nothing to take my revenge. Even understanding the Count’s tragedy, I would repeat it. Such is the power of hate.

  ***

  WHAT A STRANGE DAY this has been.

  It started with a morning phone call from Ray.

  “Is everything okay?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “I just need to talk to you about something.”

  I asked if we could meet after work, and we began finessing around each other’s schedules. Finally he asked if he could just stop by in half an hour. I agreed.

  When he arrived I was still undressed. I threw on a robe and answered the door. We exchanged greetings and I seated him in the living room while I ran into the bedroom and put on clothes. We talked through the door. Business was good for both of us. The weather was crappy. When I finished dressing I sat him next to my makeup table and started working on the war paint.

  “So, what brings you to my boudoir?” I asked.

  He paused. I already knew what was coming. “Well, I need to let you know about something that’s going on in my life,” he said. “We’ve gotten pretty close and I’ve had a great time with you…” He stopped, looking for words.

  “But…” I said, helping him out. I know what’s coming.

  He smiled thankfully and nodded. “But, well, with all the stuff my ex and I have been through since our daughter came out…well, Bobbi, she asked me if we could try again and I didn’t have the heart to say no.”

  “I’m so glad for you,” I said. I meant it, too, even though it meant we'd never get to explore a possible romance. “Ray, I hope it works out. You are a very wonderful man and you deserve all the best. Thank you for being so considerate of me.”

  He didn’t understand the last part, but in my world, guys don’t do this business face-to-face. The good guys call you, but mostly the guy just disappears.

  We chatted for a few more minutes before he left. I would still be his hairdresser. He would recommend me to his wife and his daughter, too.

  I was mildly disappointed. I was definitely interested in Ray, but we had done a good job of keeping the relationship on a friendly level, so the letdown wasn’t like stepping off a cliff.

  My spirits were buoyed when I got a call on my break from the SuperGlam people to tell me I was chosen for their show team. I’ll be doing an updo in one stage presentation and doing updo demos in their exhibit. I was thrilled and scared at the same time. It suddenly hit me that if something goes wrong, the fact that I am a large, ugly transsexual trying to look like a woman is going to magnify it.

  Now I’m sitting here in a coffee shop across the street from the Gender Alliance meeting place. Cecelia is wailing at Officer Phil who is making a courtesy call on the Alliance tonight. The poor guy arrived early and ducked into this place for a quick coffee—and encountered us.

  Cecelia is seething about the lack of police protection for the trans community. Her first words to Phil after he sat down in our booth were a demand for an update on the thugs who raped me. Phil told her, nicely I thought, that they had no leads. It was true and Cecelia already knew that, but she is in a venting mood, and vent she does.

  “Let’s see,” says Cecelia. “There was the girl beaten up in back of the Pink Lady a year ago. There was the murder of Mandy last May. We had cars vandalized at the Alliance meeting in December, and two animals beat and raped Bobbi in February. What do these things have in common? They all involve crimes against transgender people in Chicago and none of them have been solved. . “What does that tell us, Phil?” Cecelia asks. It’s a rhetorical question. She doesn’t even pause for air. “It tells us that it’s open season on us in Chicago. That the Chicago PD doesn’t give a damn about the trans community. What do we need to do to survive, Phil? Do we need to form our own vigilante committee?”

  Real concern shows on Phil’s face. He tries to respond but Cecelia is on a roll. She’s also getting loud. Many of the patrons of the place are now watching us.

  “We’re not going to just wait to be raped and beaten and killed, you know,” Cecelia says. “Tell your superiors, if the cops don’t start protecting us, we’re going to protect ourselves.”

  She repeats this point several times, along with the history of unsolved crimes against trans people. When she finally stops, Phil is statesmanlike.

  “We clear the same percentage of crimes against the trans community as we do any other group,” he says. “The fact is the unsolved cases are just like Bobbi’s. No obvious suspects. No identifications, not even good descriptions of the assailant.”

  Cecelia is unusually belligerent tonight, even for her. She snaps back, “I know for a fact your investigators heard from several people that Mandy was doing rough sex trysts with John Strand. I know for a fact that your investigators got chapter and verse about what a mean motherfucker he is. So where’s the indictment? Nowhere, that’s where. He’s too powerful. No investigation. No charges. It was just a tranny, so who really cares in the Chicago PD?”

  Phil’s face flushes. It’s the first time I’ve seen him show any sign of anger. “You’re wrong, Cecelia,” he says. “You’re very, very wrong. We investigated every lead, turned over every stone. I’m not going to get into the specifics of the case with you, but we’ve done everything possible to find the murderer. So far, we don’t have a case against anyone, but it’s still an open investigation.”

  Cecelia sneers. The waitress comes by and asks if we want anything else. It breaks the tension somewhat. I announce that it’s time to get to the meeting and we prepare to leave.

  Part of me sympathizes with Officer Phil. It’s true. The unsolved crimes against trans people tend to be cases like mine. The
thug or thugs prey on a transgender person who is alone somewhere. No witnesses. They wear masks. No descriptions.

  But part of me says Cecelia is dead right, at least about Mandy and Strand. It feels like law enforcement protects the rich and powerful and just doesn't do squat for the weak and vulnerable. . When I think of that, I don’t get as agitated as Cecelia. I don’t feel the urge to rant and rave and beat on the table. But when I think of Strand getting away with murder, the memory of his unblinking shark eyes comes clearly into focus, and I can feel him grab my breast and squeeze, and I see his eyes take pleasure in my pain and I can see his disgust at my tears. And that makes me seethe! But unlike Cecelia, I’m not interested in venting. I don’t want to talk about it. I want to see the expression in those dead eyes when his nose is crushed, his kneecaps broken, his manhood cut off. I want to run a sharp knife from his sternum to his crotch and pull his intestines out and watch him watch wolves eat them.

  As I see these things happening to Strand in my imagination, I feel a sense of…what? Shame? Disappointment in myself? Shock at my own violence? Marilee is right, I know it. Hate is corrosive. I need to get over this to get on with my life. But I don’t see how I can get on with my life until I settle up with Strand. Until then, he owns me. He’s in every view I have of my self-worth.

  He kills Mandy. He has me raped. Then he walks free with not so much as an interview with the cops. He’s revered by politicians and newspaper editors and police brass. He can do anything he wants. Me, I’m just a freak. He can have me removed from this earth tomorrow and get away with it. Oh, Cecelia would rant and Officer Phil would wring his hands, and a few of my friends would mourn my passing, but Strand would still walk tall with the big shots in the St. Patrick’s Day parade. He’d still make millions and live the good life. Killing me is just swatting a fly. There is no law protecting transsexuals from Strand.

  Which simply means we have to do it ourselves. Well, actually, I have to do it myself. I keep coming back to that.

  ***

  I AM SWEATING LIKE A PIG. Swatches of hair have pulled free from my ponytail and flop in sopping strands around my head. My baggy T-shirt is completely soaked and clings to my body like a stinking second skin, belying my androgynous cover by graphically outlining my cleavage.

  Ordinarily, I’d be self-conscious about this. But at this moment I couldn’t care less. I am kicking and punching a bag held by my kickboxing partner. I have no idea who he is or what he looks like. We exchanged names a while ago, but as soon as I started attacking, all I could see was Strand. I have been attacking in a savage rage at every opportunity since then. When the instructor whistles for us to stop, I do. But I only half listen to him while the other half of me recalls what it felt like to connect with various parts of Strand’s body.

  I get off a strong kick, follow with a hard jab then plow my shoulder into the bag knocking my partner off balance. I kick viciously and he topples over. In my fighting rage I want to continue the attack, but check myself just in time. I realize where I am and that the young man scrambling angrily to his feet isn’t Strand. The instructor’s whistle blows, but most of the students have already stopped to stare at me.

  “Everything okay over there?” the instructor asks. There is tension in the air.

  “My fault. I’m sorry,” I say. “I got carried away.” I face my partner. “Really, I’m really sorry. Please don’t hold it against me. He accepts my outstretched hand, but his face says he has no interest in being my kickboxing partner. I can’t blame him. Bad enough he got knocked on his butt, but by a fairy to boot. I would have had a hard time with that back in my Bob days, too.

  After class, Thomas approaches with a small grin on his face. “Bobbi, Bobbi, you are a killer out there, girl!”

  I sweep a glob of hair from my eye and try to smile. Thomas has no idea how true his observation is.

  As I prepare to leave, the instructor issues a few innocuous words of counsel, as in, don’t beat the crap out of other students, okay? I nod. He glances at my chest as he leaves. He couldn’t help himself and he tries not to be obvious about it. It’s okay. It’s a lot for someone outside the trans community to take in.

  We go to Thomas’ place and pick up Chinese food on the way. It’s just a few blocks from the gym and I can use his shower. My maidenhood will be safe. Thomas is gay and lives with his lover and one other roommate.

  We have his place to ourselves. His partner is working tonight and the other roommate is out on the town. After my shower I don Thomas’ bathrobe, wrap my hair in a towel, and join him for dinner. We make small talk as we eat. He tells me I look very feminine in my bath garb. He bets I have lots of male suitors. I tell him about my ban on sex and why. He seems genuinely surprised. ‘Just say no’ isn’t a widely practiced policy in our little neck of the woods.

  Thomas serves beer with our dinner. Not my beverage of choice, but I take one to be polite and for some reason it tastes delicious. I have another. Perhaps because of my dehydrated condition, I feel a buzz and a tingle. Good thing Thomas is gay, I think, I’m starting to find him attractive. Even though he looks mean and tough, he is one of the nicest, gentlest people I know. Instinctively, I trust him completely.

  “So what was the deal with the kicking dummy today?” he asks. “You looked like you wanted to do someone in.”

  I try to dodge the question. “I was just working out some anger I have toward someone I used to know,” I say.

  Thomas doesn’t let me off the hook. “Let’s hear it. Boyfriend did you bad?”

  “Not a boyfriend,” I say. “And it was worse than bad.”

  “Is that where your cuts came from?” He's referring to my post-rape appearance, when we first met.

  I nod yes. I’m healed now, but there are other kinds of scars.

  “I’d like you to tell me about it, Bobbi,” he says. “I’m not just being nosy. I care about stuff like this.”

  “Why?” I ask. I’m starting to tear up just thinking about what happened to me.

  Thomas smiles and holds up a finger. “Uh-uh-uh,” he says, “I’ll tell you mine if you’ll tell me yours.”

  I dab my eyes with a tissue. “Okay, but you don’t get to see my vagina.”

  He laughs. He tells the story of his drunken father beating him and his mother. When he got drunk. When he got mad. Whenever he felt like it. Thomas grew up with fear and loathing for his father and doubts about his own worth. He wet his bed well into junior high. And with the arrival of puberty, he became aware of his lust for other males, another thing to be ashamed of.

  He channeled his fear and anger into sports—wrestling, boxing, and finally weight lifting. It was a good cover for a boy who wanted to kiss other boys. Even if someone had figured him out as queer, by the age of sixteen he was too tough and strong to mess with.

  His father seemed to sense this and backed off on the abuse when Thomas was around. Until that fateful day when the old man found one of Thomas’ books about homosexuality in the house. The old man began taunting him, called him a pussy and cocksucker, screamed insults at him. Then he made the mistake of pushing him. Thomas was just a high school junior, but he finally stood up to his father. He beat him bloody in a short, one-sided fight that was a mismatch from the start. When it was over, Thomas sent the old man on his way, never to be seen or heard from again. He cared for his mother until she died a few years ago. She was an ineffectual, sad creature who never acknowledged that her son was gay. He’s always had a thing about protecting women and children from thugs and bullies. My kind of guy.

  I tell him about being raped and beaten. He unconsciously makes fists as I tell my story. We’re both wishing he had been there at the time.

  “And you have no idea who the guys were?” he asks when I’m done.

  “None.”

  He thinks for a minute. “It seems so orchestrated,” he says. “I mean, how is it one guy was on the El platform and the other guy was four or five blocks away in an alley? Did you ever
think about that?”

  I nod yes. He gestures for me to keep talking.

  “I think they were hired to hurt me,” I say. “There’s a very bad man out there who likes to beat up transwomen, and I think he’s even killed one. Maybe more. . “I was trying to learn more about him and I think I got too close.”

  “Who is this guy?” Thomas asks.

  “Let’s not get into that right now,” I say.

  Thomas looks at me questioningly, waiting for me to continue.

  “I think I’m going to have to settle this myself and the less you know, the less damage you can do to me if someone questions you about it later,” I explain.

  Thomas’ eyes widen. “Good God, Bobbi!”

  “Yes.” I agree.

  “What happens if he gets you first?”“Probably he gets away with it,” I say. “It’s happened before.”

  “Bobbi, promise me you’ll leave his name in a document that comes to me if something happens to you.”

  “I don’t want you or anyone else involved in this.”

  “I am involved,” says Thomas. “Promise me or I’ll keep bugging you to find out who he is.”

  “Okay,” I say. Inside, I’m thinking that if a man like Thomas ever proposed to me, I’d have to say yes.

  ***

  CAMILLE IS STARING AT ME with her dark eyes. Her expression is amazingly complex. It’s solemn and soft at the same time. Like a mother, or like a very serious older sister watching a young sibling struggle with something.

  Her question hangs in the air: “What makes you think you’re ready for gender reassignment surgery?”

  A rush of different thoughts flashes through my mind spontaneously. They are not answers, but they are reactions.

  Because I don’t like having a penis there…because I want a vagina…because that part of me just doesn’t feel right any more. . Conversely, I don’t think I am ready. How would I know I was ready? Aren’t you supposed to tell me?

  Aloud, I say, “I don’t know what makes you ready. I know I think of myself as a woman. I never think of myself as a man, even though I’m aware of being in between. I know I love dressing as a woman, wearing makeup. I love having breasts and I’d really love it if someone would feel me up. And I want to have a vagina. I want to be rid of this penis and scrotum. I want to be able to cross my legs comfortably. I want to make love as a woman.” My voice trails off. I don’t want to get graphic, though I’m sure Camille has been exactly where I am.