by Alice Walsh
“He usually stays around the house,” Claire said. “But he came to our house on a couple of occasions. He…” she stopped when they heard Mitch’s footsteps on the stairs.
Mitch joined them in the living room, his face wiped clean of makeup. He had changed into a pair of tan pants and a button-down blue shirt. “The secret’s out,” he said, fixing an accusing stare on Lauren. “You can tell everyone that Mitch Cromwell, director of drama, is really Mrs. Doubtfire.”
“I’m not out to embarrass you, Mitch,” Lauren said, feeling some empathy for his predicament. “But the police consider you a suspect right now. You have to let them know you were at Claire’s house the day Ariel died.”
Mitch sank down on the sofa. “I suppose you’re right,” he conceded.
“If you like, I’ll go with you while you give a statement,” Lauren offered.
“That won’t be necessary,” Mitch said. “I’m innocent. I don’t need a lawyer.”
—
“Well, it’s not a secret anymore,” Mitch told Claire. Lauren had left, and they were having coffee at the kitchen table.
“Lauren will be discreet, I’m sure,” Claire said. “I had a talk with her, and she realizes that you don’t want this getting out.”
“It’s not Lauren I’m worried about.” Mitch folded his hands in front of him. “I may have to testify in court. I’ll be the laughingstock of Paddy’s Arm. I dread having to go to the police station. You know they’ll question why I was lurking around your house in a dress.”
“Even if people do find out, it’s not such a bad thing,” Claire said. “More people now are going public.” She laid a hand on his arm. “It’s never too late to be yourself.”
Mitch shook his head. “I’m too old for that. I’ve lived my whole life pretending to be something I’m not. I don’t know how to live any other way.”
Claire stared at him. “It must take a lot of energy keeping a secret, hiding who you are.”
A cloud of pain passed over Mitch’s face. “I’ve paid a price,” he admitted. He thought of his father. Even if Mitch lived another sixty-five years, he would still feel the sting of his father’s disappointment. James Cromwell was a high-ranking army officer. He had no use for men who were “soft,” as he put it. When Mitch was ten, he’d asked if he could take ballet lessons. “Christ,” his father had muttered, “what am I raising, a goddamn pansy?” The disgust in his eyes had cut Mitch to the core.
“It doesn’t matter what that hateful man thinks of you,” Claire said, knowingly. She’d heard about Mitch’s father and his cruelty.
Mitch nodded, absently. He recalled the day he and two girls were acting out Snow White. Mitch, who was playing the queen, had donned one of his sister’s dresses. He had been using a lace curtain as a veil. His father had come home early that day. He tore the curtain off Mitch’s head and ordered him inside the house. Later that evening, Mitch heard him talking on the phone to his uncle. “I believe the lad’s a faggot.” A few weeks later, Mitch was shipped off to a military academy.
Mitch stared down at his coffee mug. “For the longest time, I believed I was gay,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud. “It would have been much easier if I were. But I’m a woman.” He looked down at his massive bulk and gave a bitter laugh. “A woman imprisoned in this...this ghastly body.”
“Do you think other members of your family knew?”
“My mother, god bless her, said she knew I was that way from the time I was a child.” Mitch paused momentarily. “‘Don’t ever tell your father,’ she warned me. She sent me to a psychologist who specialized in my”—he made quotes with his fingers—“‘disorder.’ The military academy was the worst. I hated everything about it. They cut my goddamn hair so short they might as well have shaved my head. It was just after the Beatles became popular and I’d let my hair grow down to my shoulders.”
Claire shook her head in disbelief.
“I had a secret tote where I kept silk dresses and night gowns, lace panties, bras, eye makeup, lipstick, and jewellery,” Mitch continued. “I called it my survival kit. Every evening before I went to bed, I would get dressed up. One time, when I thought everyone was asleep, I went into the bathroom wearing one of my nightgowns. I had on lipstick and eye shadow.” He smiled, remembering. “When I came out of the stall, Charlie Burgess was standing by the sink. I thought that was the end. But Charlie only laughed. Called me a nut and punched me in the shoulder.”
“Did you have anyone to confide in?” Claire asked.
“My best and only friend—well, only real friend—was Vera Mills. She was a closet lesbian who grew up in a strict, religious family. They would have disowned her had they known she was gay. We stuck together, Vera and I. Everyone thought we were a couple. We went to movies and dances. She was my date for the prom.” He laughed. “My mother began to push the relationship. I think she hoped if I became interested in a woman it would cure me of my disorder. I still recall the talk I had with Vera’s father,” Mitch continued. “I think he was afraid I would take advantage of his daughter. With a straight face, I had to assure him that I was not that kind of a bloke.”
Claire smiled in spite of everything.
“Acting is what saved me,” Mitch said. “I could escape into the role of whatever character I was playing. Of course, I was given roles as Romeo and Mark Anthony when I really wanted to play Juliet and Cleopatra.”
“I’m sorry,” Claire said.
“Ah, it’s okay,” he said, dismissively. “I had Vera, and I had my good friend Johnny.”
“Johnny?”
“Johnny Walker,” he said, raising his coffee cup.
—
“That’s where I keep my stuff.” Bailey led Daniel to a row of brightly painted lockers that held jackets, boots, books, and toys. Bailey’s orange locker had her name printed on yellow construction paper taped to the door.
Parents dropping off their children shot Daniel curious glances.
“Are you coming back again?” Bailey asked as he hung up her coat.
Daniel knelt beside her. “Would you like for me to come back?”
Nodding, Bailey threw her small arms around his neck. “When you come back, I’ll draw you a picture,” she whispered.
“I could use a picture for my bedroom wall.”
“I draw good snowmen.”
Daniel smiled. “Then why don’t you make me a snowman?”
“Bailey?” someone called.
Daniel turned to see a woman and a little girl walking toward them. The little girl smiled as they approached.
“Hi, Auntie Emma,” Bailey called brightly. “Hi, Dylan.”
“How are you, sweetheart?” The woman knelt beside Bailey. “You must come visit us. Sure, we hardly get to see you anymore.” She rose to her feet and held out her hand to Daniel. “I’m Emma Buckle,” she said, “Lauren’s friend.”
“Daniel Kerry,” he said, taking Emma’s outstretched hand.
“This is my daughter, Dylan. She and Bailey are good friends.”
Daniel took Dylan’s small hand in his. “I’m pleased to meet you, Dylan.”
“Hello,” Dylan mumbled shyly.
Emma gave Daniel a curious once-over that made him uneasy. No doubt she’d heard about him from Lauren.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he said. “I have a long drive to catch my flight, and I need to get an early start.”
“It’s been nice meeting you,” Emma said pleasantly. “Have a safe trip.”
“Thank you.”
Daniel turned to Bailey and kissed the top of her head. “I have to go now,” he said, “but I’ll come back for my picture.”
Bailey grabbed his hand and pulled him close. “Promise?”
“Promise,” he whispered, folding her in his arms.
It took all of Daniel’s willpower to
walk away. As he headed toward the door, he noticed Emma Buckle watching him.
Things can never be the same, Daniel thought as he walked to his car. It was uncanny how much his life had changed in such a short time.
He had taken his calling to the priesthood seriously. There had never been any doubt about his vocation. He felt privileged to be able to comfort the sick, offer hope to the poor and downtrodden. He couldn’t find words to describe the joy he felt each time he celebrated mass. He felt both humbled and honoured with the ritual of preparing the Eucharist. But now, recalling Bailey’s small trusting arms around his neck, he wondered if this might be a higher calling.
Lauren had done a good job with Bailey, Daniel thought as he got behind the wheel of his rental car. She was a bright child, happy and confident. But would she grow into a sullen, angry teenager, scarred by his absence? He’d seen kids in his parish acting out in anger because they felt their parents had abandoned them. God knows, he loved Lauren. Would God want him to sacrifice the woman and child he loved? What had he been thinking last night to behave in such a manner? He could only imagine what Lauren thought about it. She had loved him and he had brought her nothing but pain. Now he had come back into her life offering her nothing again.
Chapter 28
Emma glanced at her watch. Lauren would be arriving in about ten minutes. She had called earlier saying she’d drop by after her class. Leaning back in her chair, she stared out the window overlooking the campus. The grounds were scattered with dead leaves, ice, and slush. Emma knew that in a few weeks the groundskeepers would have them manicured to perfection. The trees would be in full bloom and colourful flowers would flourish in bark-mulched beds.
What’s Lauren up to? Emma wondered. She’d been adamant about not letting Daniel Kerry back into her life, yet there he was this morning dropping Bailey off at school. Not that Emma faulted her for letting Bailey get to know her father. She never thought Lauren should have kept them apart. And Bailey seemed so at ease with Daniel—as if she’d known him all her life. It was easy to see why Lauren was attracted to him. He was handsome and charming. Those blue eyes. No wonder Lauren was so conflicted.
A knock at the door roused Emma from her thoughts. Lauren’s early, she thought. “Come in,” she called through the partially opened door.
Emma looked up, surprised to see Erika Jansen walk in.
“I hope I’m not disturbing you, Professor Buckle,” she said.
“I have a few minutes,” Emma said. “Have a seat.”
“I’m hoping to get another extension on my assignment. I’ll have it to you by noon tomorrow, I promise.”
“That’s no problem, sure.” Emma studied Erika. “You’re looking a lot better than when I last saw you. How are you feeling?”
“I have a handle on my depression, but I’m still not sleeping. My anxiety attacks are still a big problem.”
“Well, I’m glad the depression has lifted at least. That can be a terrible thing.”
“A real bitch,” Erika agreed. She looked at Emma. “Have you ever been depressed?”
Emma paused. “I have,” she admitted. “In the months after my husband died. It took me a long time to come out of it. It can be really challenging.” Usually, Emma didn’t share private information with her students, but she felt it was important for Erika to realize she understood what she was going through.
“Really?” It was clear that Erika wasn’t expecting to hear this. “I appreciate your honesty, Professor Buckle. People who haven’t been depressed can’t understand what it’s like. Sometimes it feels like I’ve fallen into a deep, dark hole with no way out.”
Emma nodded. Her own depression had totally incapacitated her. Her mother had come every day during that dark time; she’d done the housework and taken care of Dylan. During that period, Dylan spent more time with her grandmother than she did with Emma.
“I don’t know when a panic attack is going to hit me,” Erika said.
Emma knew what that was like too. After André was killed, she would sometimes feel an overwhelming sense of fear. The world was fragile, no longer a safe place. A loved one could be gone in the blink of an eye. She no longer felt safe in her own home. Emma leaned toward Erika. “I hope you’ll be feeling better soon,” she said.
“Thank you for your understanding, Professor Buckle. And thank you for giving me another extension.”
“Take as much time as you need,” Emma said. “That assignment you took on is more elaborate and complex than anything your classmates have committed themselves to.”
“I did go a bit overboard,” Erika admitted.
Emma smiled. “You certainly did.” While most of her students had written one-act plays for their final assignment, Erika had chosen to write a stage adaptation of The Victory of Geraldine Gull, a novel by Joan Clark. The book, shortlisted for the Governor General’s Award back in the eighties, was one of Emma’s favourites.
“I appreciate you offering me extra time,” Erika said, “but I really do plan to have it in by tomorrow. I need to be able to move on to other things.” She met Emma’s gaze. “You’re so caring, Professor Buckle. Not like some professors I could name.”
Emma knew Erika was referring to Annabelle Chandler; the two had butted heads on more than one occasion. Although Emma felt Annabelle had been unreasonable not to take Erika’s depression into account, she wasn’t about to discuss her colleague with a student. “I’m happy to help in any way I can if it will make things easier,” she replied.
“You know that Lisa Hare dropped out of the program because of Dr. Chandler,” Erika continued.
“What? Why?” Emma asked, taken aback by the news. Lisa had been a talented student with the potential to make it as a professional actress. Barely a month into the second term, she’d quit the program without a word to anyone.
“She humiliated Lisa in front of the whole class.”
“What happened?”
“Lisa was playing Joan of Arc and she was having trouble with her lines. Professor Chandler told her if Joan’s voice had been as weak as hers France would have been lost to England forever.”
Emma frowned. Annabelle should have known better. She was a great actress and a fine professor, but she could be insensitive at times. Still, for Lisa to drop out of the program over this was a bit extreme.
“I’m sorry that she quit the program,” Emma said. “Like you, Lisa was a very promising actress. I wish she could have worked it out.”
“I miss her,” Erika said.
“Me too.” Emma smiled. “Well, I must tell you, Professor Cromwell is very impressed with your adaptation.”
“He’s been very helpful,” said Erica. “I have to admit there were times when I wanted to walk away from the whole thing. Just a couple of months ago I got so depressed I wanted to pack my bags and go home.” She shook her head. “Professor Cromwell kept me grounded. He gave me encouragement, offered suggestions. It was his idea that I cut out some of the minor characters. The play’s more focused now, and I feel really good about it.”
“I’m looking forward to reading it,” Emma said. “Professor Cromwell says he’ll do what he can to help you get it produced.”
“I’ll probably put it in next year’s fringe festival.” Erika smiled. “And after that, who knows?” She rose to her feet. “I should be going,” she said. “You probably have tons of work to do.”
Emma looked at her watch. Lauren would be there any moment now.
“Well, thanks again, Professor Buckle,” Erika said.
Emma watched her leave. There was something about Erika that she just couldn’t put her finger on. A shame, Erika being such an exceptional student. Were her anxiety and depression rooted in some personal trauma? Emma wondered. There doesn’t always have to be a reason, she told herself. Some people are prone to it. She felt sorry for Erika. She’d been there, and it w
as hell. She could still recall that dark time in her life as if it was yesterday. She had missed André so much she wanted to die too. She’d started to drink, hiding in her room after she put Dylan down for her naps. Lauren had come by nearly every day urging her to go to the gym. They had been going regularly before Emma had moved to Ottawa. But just the thought of dragging her body out the door had overwhelmed her. All she wanted was to be left alone. But Lauren was relentless: “Just ten minutes on the treadmill,” she would coax. “It will make you feel better, I promise.” It took a while, but gradually Emma’s depression lifted and she started looking forward to her time at the gym. She knew she was lucky to have had Lauren in her life during that difficult time. Erika deserved the same support, and she would do whatever she could to help her.
Lauren arrived a few minutes later. She plopped into the nearest chair, shadows of exhaustion noticeable under her eyes. “You’re not going to believe who I saw this morning.”
Emma looked up at her with mild interest.
“The platinum lady.”
“What?” Emma sat up straighter in her chair. “Where?”
“I went to visit Claire this morning and when I left her apartment, the platinum lady was standing in the yard.”
“She was in Claire’s yard—the platinum lady?”
“Not a lady, exactly.”
Emma shot her a puzzled look.
“What I mean is…she’s a he.” Lauren leaned forward. “The platinum lady is none other than Mitch Cromwell.”
Emma stared at her. “Are you serious?”
Lauren nodded.
“My God!” Emma said. “And she—he was at Claire’s house the day Ariel died. You don’t suppose….”
“He’s certainly a suspect,” Lauren said, “but he agreed to go to the police and explain.” She fixed Emma with a stare. “You need to be discreet. I’m only telling you this because I got you mixed up in the situation. It’s not something Mitch wants getting out.”