by Renee James
“And you’re surprised by this?” I say. “Your rape specialist probably puked on the report every time she thought about talking to a dirty transsexual. Anyway, it’s over. Life goes on.”
“It’s not over until you give the system a chance to work,” says Phil. “There are only two places in the country that have advocates who specialize in LGBT crimes. We’re serious about protecting your safety and your rights, but you have to meet us halfway.”
“What do you want me to do?” I ask. But with a growing dread, I already know the answer.
“I want you to meet with her and see if between you two we can get your rape investigation reopened.” Phil hands me a business card.
A week ago, I would have jumped on this. Not with a lot of enthusiasm and certainly not with the expectation anything would come of it, but just to give the system a chance. Now, the worst thing that could happen would be for the system to work, for the new investigation to lead to the thugs, then to Strand, then right to my door.
I glance at the card and slip it into my purse.
“Promise me you’ll call her,” says Officer Phil.
“I’ll try, but I make no promises,” I answer. I allow a little anger to show through. “This is pretty late in the game, Phil. I’ve already been through the abuse your rape sergeant doled out, and all the hurt and pain, the feelings of uselessness, the contempt from polite society. I got past it on my own and I’m doing okay. . The other thing is I’ve got a lot on my plate. I’m going to be working as a platform artist at a hair show in New York next month, and I’m getting ready for my operation. The big one.”
It’s true. Camille has cleared me for gender reassignment surgery this summer, so I’m getting ready to set the date. I’ve also scheduled a consultation with a plastic surgeon to see about feminizing my appearance. And on top of all that, SuperGlam wants me to work on stage in their presentation at the New York hair show. Somewhere in all the gloom and despair in my life, some part of me is rejoicing at this honor.
Phil takes my angst well. He gives me a five minute pep talk on why I should call and all the good things that can come from it. I’m actually feeling a little guilty when we finish. The LGBT advocate is trying to reach out to the trans community. I could help her cross the bridge and maybe no one would ever have to take up violence against a shitheel like Strand again. Or maybe I would just put myself in jail.
May
IT HAS BEEN A WEEK since Strand’s murder first made the headlines. It has been a miserable week. Sleep comes hard, in short bursts. I have very little appetite. Workouts are a chore. Even work at the salon is a struggle. Most of my clients don’t notice it, since I’ve always been more of a listener than a talker. But my mind wanders while I work, even when the client is talking. And even though my work is technically good, it lacks flare. The creative urge to do more, to add a spiff here and there, is just missing. I wish it weren’t so. I miss that feeling when creative juices are flowing, and I miss that combination of surprise and delight that so many clients expressed when I was really on my game.
I’m hoping desperately that this part of me is not a casualty of the Strand murder too.
There is still a constant war going on in my head. On one side is the knowledge that I tried to murder a man in cold blood. With that vision of myself comes shame, and images of Strand hanging in his living room. I remember every word, every thought I had. I remember the last moment I willed myself to cut his throat. I remember not being able to do it. I remember his contempt for me when he realized he was going to live.
The other side in the war is the knowledge that I could be convicted of killing him if the police manage to prove I was there that night. I can't think of any trace I might have left of myself in his apartment, or anyone who ever saw me with Strand, not even his last girlfriend. In fact, I’d bet that news of his murder came as a complete shock to her.
But I also remember that spooky feeling that someone was watching me that night. I thought it was nerves, but maybe it was the person who finished off Strand. How's that for irony? The one person who can connect me to Strand and the murder is the person who actually committed the murder. That’s the eeriest thought of all. Could that person have set me up to take the fall? All it would take is planting one of my personal possessions in the room. A lock of hair, a glass with my fingerprints on it. A prescription bottle with my name and address on it.
That thought is enough to ruin my sleep each night, which leads to the most haunting question of all: Who did it? I keep thinking someone must have been following me that night. Cecelia? I never told her what was going on with Strand, but she has an uncanny sense about these things. Still, for all her bluster, Cecelia is not someone I can picture killing a man in cold blood, especially not in such a personal way. If I couldn't do it, could she have? Now I really am letting my imagination go wild.
Thomas? It’s hard to picture such a compassionate man doing mortal injury to anyone, even an evil psychopath like Strand. Thomas knew about Strand. And he knew I was getting ready to do something drastic. He could have followed me. Goodness knows he's done lots of that since the goons worked me over in the alley. And with his passion for protecting the vulnerable from the malevolent, maybe he followed me that night like a guardian angel. I can see him stepping inside after I left to make sure I didn't leave incriminating evidence. He maybe saw Strand hanging there, still alive, realized I lost my nerve, knew the bastard would come and get me as soon as he got free, opted to slit Strand's throat to save my life.
The more I think about it, that's the most likely scenario, even though Thomas acted like he knew nothing when I called to tell him he didn't need to follow me anymore. He just asked if I was sure and when I said yes, that was it.
The other possibility is that someone I don't know about was after Strand and took advantage of a perfect opportunity to do away with him when I left the job undone. When I first considered that idea it seemed even less likely than any of the other possibilities, even the one where I killed him and can't remember doing it. But as I think about it now, it seems feasible. A man like Strand would have a lot of enemies. A husband or brother of one of his paramours. One of his goons, angry because he didn't compensate them right.
As I mull and fret about these things I keep thinking that this all started with me not giving the law a chance. That I should have opened up to someone like maybe Officer Phil about the incidents that led up to me getting raped in the alley, that I should have filed a complaint about people following me. This line of thinking always ends with me trying to explain my peril to a cop or a prosecutor. Yeah, I had a date with this rich, powerful guy who seduced me and later squeezed my breast really hard and made me cry. I made him for the one who murdered a friend of mine, mainly because of the look in his eyes when he said it wasn’t him. No, I never personally saw them together, but lots of people in the community said they were a package. I followed him for a while to see if he was going to beat up any more transwomen, but he caught me and had me raped by two guys I never saw.
It sounds ridiculous when I think of it that way. So ridiculous I start to wonder if Strand really did beat and kill Mandy. Did I set up a man who never murdered anyone, who just had bad manners and a mean disposition? It reminds me of a televised rape trial I watched some years ago. Halfway through the trial, it was clear that no rape had been committed, that the two people had consensual sex, during and after which the guy treated the woman shabbily. It was debasing for her, but not rape, not in the legal sense of the word.
What if Strand’s only misstep was treating me badly after sex? What if the two goons were acting on their own? ? But their words come back to me. Be careful who you piss off next time. . They were working for Strand. They had no other reason to follow me. If they wanted to rape a transwoman, they could have picked hundreds who were younger and cuter than I am, and smaller.
And so it goes, a constant run of contrasting images and thoughts flashing through my consciousness.
It is exhausting. I wonder if being constantly stalked by Strand’s goons might have been better. Or if the stalking and harassment might have ended when the goon who followed me got brutalized himself. If the confrontation with Strand was unnecessary.
This cycle of doubt and guilt saps all my energy. I've thought several times that death would have been better, that maybe before it’s over, I’ll consider suicide.
Oddly enough, what keeps me going is not wanting the bullies and bigots to win. The thought of people reading my obituary in the paper and thinking, There goes another tranny misfit, is too humiliating. As long as I’m alive and doing hair, even people who hate me or hate trans people have to at least acknowledge my existence on this Earth.
Such is my frame of mind as I head up the walk to Marilee’s house. It's a strange sensation to realize it was almost exactly a year ago that I came here for the cop party. It was my first appearance as a woman with a group of straight people in a social setting. It’s mind boggling to think how much things have changed since then.
As I ring the bell I realize what a beautiful day it is. Birds are chirping, trees are in blossom. Spring flowers are in full bloom. Lawns are green and the grass is growing. Spring is erupting all over and I’m just noticing it for the first time. I need to live better than this!
Marilee sees me in. We take our usual places at her kitchen table, sipping coffee, making girl talk. I tell her about my last session with Camille and my preparations for surgery. She gets me up to date on her husband and kids, a new (nameless) male client who has a fetish for high heels but not for cross-dressing, her garden. The conversation starts to wane.
“Bobbi,” she says in that sort of pensive tone women use just before they hit you with something big, “something isn’t right with you. I can feel it. You look tired. You don’t have your usual energy and enthusiasm. And you’re holding something back. I don’t know what it is, but I can just feel it. What’s going on?”
God but this woman is perceptive. What do I say? I open my mouth but can’t find words. I realize there is no right thing to say and there never will be, and I break into tears. I cannot control this outpouring of grief. I sob and sob and sob. Marilee pulls her chair next to mine and puts her arms around me. I rest my forehead on her shoulder and continue crying.
When my crying subsides from hysterical levels, she rubs my back with one hand and holds me close with the other. It feels so good. She is the mother Bobbi never had. Her arms are warm. Her hug is filled with goodness. Her breath is soft on my face. I feel loved and protected.
“Tell me about it, Bobbi,” she says in that soft mom’s voice. “You need to let it out. It’s eating you up. Tell me.”
I wrap my arms around her and hug back. “I can’t, Marilee. It’s my curse, not yours. I can’t let it be yours.”
She pets my head. “Bobbi, I’ve been hearing people’s darkest thoughts for years. It won’t destroy me. Tell me about it.”
“I can’t. I can’t,” I say. “It’s too awful. It’s too…too…” Words fail me.
“Too what, Bobbi?” she says gently. “Talk to me. Go ahead. You’ll feel better.”
“I betrayed you. You’ll never trust me again. You’ll never forgive yourself. You’ll never forgive me.” The sobbing starts again. “Marilee, I love you more than anyone in the world. I can’t lose you. Not you too.”
She hugs me tighter and lets me cry for a while. When I calm down she takes my shoulders in her hands and straightens me up so we can look at each other eye to eye.
“Does this have to do with John Strand, Bobbi?” she asks. Her tone is motherly, but firm. I can’t lie to her. I nod my head yes.
She stands up and takes my hand.
“My office, right now,” she says. She is very businesslike.
I stand and follow her on shaky legs. In her office she seats me on the couch and takes her shrink chair.
“Do you have a credit card or checkbook with you?” she asks. I nod yes. “Give me one or the other,” she says. “You just became my patient. The fee is $30. Our first session just started, okay?”
I nod. We take care of the financial transaction. She gives me a personal history form to fill out later, but before I leave.
“Okay,” she says. “Everything we say is protected by the patient-doctor relationship. Tell me everything. Everything. Even if it takes all day.” I start to argue but she shushes me with an outstretched hand. “Everything!” she commands.
I have no tears left to cry, so I cover my eyes with my hands for a minute, then start.
“I tried to kill him,” I blurt out. It’s not the beginning, but it’s the first thing she needs to know. “I kidnapped him and hung him by his hands in his apartment so I could execute him. The fact that I could do that, that I did do that, is almost more than I can bear. Maybe it will be more than I can bear. The fact that he’s gone from this earth isn’t troubling at all.”
Marilee stares at me, her mouth agape, her eyes misting with tears and confusion. “You killed him?”
“No.” I shake my head and try to get my mouth to work. “I meant to. I planned it. I got right there but I couldn't do it.”
Marilee is confused. Who wouldn't be? She asks me to start at the beginning. I go back to hearing the news about Mandy’s murder, deducing that this was the event that had so shaken Marilee a year ago. Picking up the trans community gossip on Strand. Meeting him. Having sex with him. Being physically hurt and intimidated. Following him. Getting caught. His overt threats. The people following me. The rape, undoubtedly perpetrated by the same goons he had following me. The taunting flowers. More tails. Getting one goon beaten up. Knowing for certain afterward that he would kill me soon. Not wanting to be a victim. Not trusting the legal system. Planning his murder for weeks. Executing the plan. Stringing up Strand by his hands. Putting the knife to his throat and commanding myself to pull the blade hard and deep. Failing. The aftermath. . I try to give her the Cliff’s Notes version of things several times, but she makes me go through everything in detail.
When I finish, Marilee face is wet with tears.
“Well,” she says, “we have a lot to talk about.” The sadness in her voice sets my conscience on fire. My god, I realize, Strand wasn’t her patient! I kidnapped an innocent man and got him killed.
I interrupt her. “Was he the guy?”
She looks at me with those large soft eyes, so sad, for the longest time. My heart sinks. At last she nods her head.
“Yes,” she says. “Yes, Bobbi. He was the guy. That much at least I can take off your shoulders. . And yes, I still love you. I’ll always love you. You are my daughter and my friend and you have a good heart, Bobbi. The best.”
A dam breaks somewhere deep inside me. Every sleepless night, every pang of anxiety comes tumbling out. I sob with joy and gratitude and relief beyond comprehension. Someone loves me. Someone who knows all about me loves me. We stand and embrace and cry in each other’s arms. I have never loved anyone so much.
***
I'VE WALKED HOME the several miles from Marilee’s house. It’s like floating on a cloud because of the relief I feel. She loves me. Marilee loves me like a daughter. She forgives me. This makes me feel human, somehow. And Strand is no longer in this world to stalk me.
The cloud beneath me is a dark one, though. I'm burdened with the knowledge of what I’ve done and what I wanted to do. I know I am a creature of the sunlight, but I know that I can navigate in the darkest extremes of human existence. . I can murder a murderer.
And in the here and now I could still end up getting convicted for the abduction and murder of John Strand. Still, compared to where I was, my spirit is light.
My walk home has given me time to realize how deeply it hurt when my father disowned me and my mother just followed him mutely into the haze. I never cried, never cursed, never looked back. I thought I got away clean.
But I didn’t. It’s one thing when your lover leaves you, or when a friend becomes alienate
d. Those things cause hurt and anger, but in the end, they’re just people you met. There will be others. But when your parents reject you, when they can’t stand the sight of you and your only sin is being who you are, it’s the ultimate rejection. They can’t replace you, and you can’t replace them.
Marilee isn’t my mom, I know that. But having an older friend who loves me unconditionally and thinks I’m a special person—that’s so much more than I ever expected from life. I’m so thankful. I feel like an orphan who has found a home at last.
When I turn down the street to my apartment building, my light mood evaporates and a new nightmare roars into life. There is an unmarked police car in front of my building. I’m not naïve. They aren’t here to see the neighbors and they don’t want a haircut either.
As I turn up the walk to my building entrance I hear two doors open and close. I climb the stairs to the porch and glance back. Detective Hard Case is walking briskly toward me, another plain-clothes guy I’ve never seen before in tow.
When he reaches the bottom of the stairs he flashes his badge. “Robert Logan, I’m Detective Allan Wilkins, we've met before. This is Detective Harold Johnson. We’d like a word with you.”
I eye them from the porch. Calling me Robert is a deliberate attempt to humiliate me. It also shows he’s done his homework. I haven’t legally changed my name yet. “Okay, fire away.”
“Can we come in?”
“Last time you were in my apartment you threatened me and treated me like dirt. No,” I say, watching him get tense in the face, “I don’t think I want to see you in a private place.”
“We can be back with a warrant in thirty minutes.” Always the bully.
“Suit yourself,” I answer. “Are you going to do that or are we going to talk here?”
“What do you know about the murder of John Strand?”
“What I’ve read in the papers and heard on the news,” I answer.
“Did you know him?” Hard Case is loud and he climbs the stairs to confront me on the porch. His face is inches from my face. I can smell his breath, which reeks.