Michael, Antoinette, and Me

 

Part Four

 

Pushing back an anxiety attack on the fifty paces from the circular driveway to the door, I reminded myself I was expected, wanted, and my outfit already approved by Mary Locke. I wish I’d gotten a clutch, maybe just left my bag home.

The house was larger than Paul’s. I wanted to mow the lawn and rake out the gardens.

Mary Locke, surprisingly in blue jeans and a gray sweatshirt, right hand dancing in the air like a bird, called to me from the center of the spacious room. “Toby, Toby, right on time.”

“I’d have been early if you didn’t send a car for me.”

“Nevertheless, love the hair, your outfit is perfect. Follow me.”

I did, through house, down a few halls, into a spacious, busy kitchen.

“Manny,” Mary said sharply.

Manny turned from pushing dough. “Mary.”

Dressed in white, he was a man in his forties, a head over me, dark hair under a white cap, broad face, busy black eyebrows, black eyes, wet, serious mouth.

Mary’s right hand indicated me. “Toby. Your extra.” With a sharp pivot, she hurried back the way we’d come.

I offered a nod to his up-down.

“You belong to me until 2am. You will follow my instructions to the letter. Your primary job is to keep order. You will pick up abandoned glasses and plates. Clean up spills. Follow me so far?”

“Yes.”

“You will be courteous, attentive, and friendly with the guests at all times. However, you will not fraternize. Do you understand the difference?”

“I do, actually.”

“Explain it.”

I employed my rare eye holding. “If someone says he – or she wants to fuck me, I should smile, thank him – or her, politely declining. Fraternizing would be exchanging phone numbers, maybe running off to a closet or bedroom.”

He bit his lip.

A voice, deep, moist accompanied the rich scent of musk came from behind me. “I feel, Father, that was very well put. If a man said it, you’d be laughing, shaking his hand.”

“Maybe one of those man hugs you mock me for,” he grumbled. Back to his dough, he waved a hand in the air. “Toby, Jessica. Any questions, you can bother her.”

I pivoted, frozen, a deer in the headlights, captured by the darkest, blackest eyes I’ve ever seen pushed deep into a yellow ochre palette, cords of black hair coiled around on her head not unlike my hair. Her tuxedo, not a rental, came with pants, black bowtie and white pocket square, men’s black dress shoes. “May I?” she asked.

Only three inches over me, she still filled the room. I didn’t know what she was asking, but I would have said yes to anything. In the absence of no, she cupped my chin with light fingers, her lipstick touched my lips, her squinting.

I had tried lipstick, never able to get it right. Her candy apple red was a perfect accent to a perfect face. I thought the color would make me look like a clown.

It didn’t.

Sent to the bathroom to look in the mirror, a bathroom larger than my kitchen, I realized Jessica had put her hands on me in an intimate way yet didn’t feel creepy. She managed to slip under all my defenses.

She was next level Sally.

 

“Your answer was perfect and could have gotten you a good smack across the face,” Jessica said, giving me the tour of the house. “My father does not like his woman to be so, eh, outspoken.”

“The question was stupid, requiring a cynical answer.”

“You say cynical, he hears it as smartass. You don’t have any friends your age, do you?”

“I do not.”

We enter the room where I first encountered Mary. A dozen people, mostly in their twenties, all in black pants, black shoes, white shirts, busied with temporary tables draped in sparkling white covers, setting stacks of plates, silverware, chaffing dishes.

“The gathering will mostly take place here, people arriving around eight.” She stopped, turning on me, stepping, taking my hand, her musk washing over me, filling my head. “Mary did tell you about the party?”

Like with the lipstick, I was surprised I didn’t bring my palm up her face or smash her instep. I held her hand, welcoming her in. “Vaguely.”

“Firstly, anything you see or hear will never leave this house.”

“That’s kind of like a rule for anywhere with me. I’m not a gossip.”

“Good. Two: You are going to witness some strange behavior. Do not show shock or project any negative reaction.”

“I could teach a class in stoic. I do appreciate the heads up, though. Miss Locke vague-ed at that. For a woman who likes to pepper the landscape with fuck, she was afraid to use words.”

“You going to see men dressed as women, women dressed as men.”

I inhaled her, inching closer, lost in those dark eyes. “Are you one of the women dressed like a man?”

Her tongue caressed her lower lip. “What if I were?”

With a shrug, I answered, “I don’t judge. I have my own kink.”

She let out a long sigh, stepping back, setting me free. “They have a dog.”

“Never been one for pets. Maybe a goldfish, but I’d probably kill that.”

“One of the guests.”

“One of the guests thinks she’s a dog?”

“He. Yes.”

“Oh, I can’t wait.”

“Nice, I was listening for the sarcasm and didn’t hear it.”

“That wasn’t sarcasm.”

She gave me the thoughtful, narrowed eyes. “Oh, you’re the perfect choice.”

I thought to forego the long blather about how reading and pleasing drunks kept me from getting beat around and abused, saying, “I’m generally good with people.”

“Three.” She opened a closet. “Keep used plates, glasses, and silver off the floor, fill the bins in the hallway, then back to the kitchen. Keep the plates and silver stocked. We, you and me, don’t handle the food.” She nodded to the open closet. “When someone vomits, we clean it up. Everything you need is in here. You OK with that?”

“Sure, no problem.” Again, I kept my tale of the drunks to myself.

“Finally, fraternizing. This is a good natured, friendly group of people. You were dead on right. Many people are going to want to engage you in conversation.”

“And that’s not what I get paid for.”

“Exactly. Be polite but avoid getting sucked into long conversations. You’re not a guest.”

“Got it.”

“There’s an open bar. Many people tend to drink a lot when it’s free. Some people, when drinking, can get grabby.”

“I had an uncle like that, but sober. They’re the people that’re going to want to slip away to a bedroom or closet and fuck me. I won’t be falling for that I want to show you something line.”

“Good. You keep an eye on me, me you. If need be, we can rescue each other.”

 

The spacious room got small, quickly filling up with thirty or so people, most as advertised, most ignoring me, which was the plan.

Mr. Locke, in his usual dark business suit, stopped me as I crossed the room loaded down with plates and silverware. “How are you finding it, Toby?”

Juggling. “Busier than I thought, but I’m good.”

“Everything OK at the house?”

“Eh, sure. I decided to paint all the rooms, but I can’t plaster, not that I haven’t tried.”

“Well, bring someone in!”

I rolled my eyes. “I’ve got four people coming to pitch after Thanksgiving.”

“Oh, Thanksgiving. I wanted to talk to you about –”

“We need you. Now.” Jessica pulled on my elbow. “Hi, Mr. Locke, sorry.”

He happily shrugged, turning to speak with someone else.

Michael Borrows was next to ensnare me, perched on four-inch heel gold sandals still only bringing him a half a head over me, a neutral white chiffon dress waving on his knee, sleeveless, golden wig flowing on his shoulders. “Hi, honey.” His makeup was perfect in shades of blue.

“Eh,” the voice placed him. “Hi, eh, Miss Borrows?”

“How about Michelle?”

“Hi, Michelle, really nice to see you.” I certainly didn’t want him to come on my face, still Michelle suited him.

“You like the dress?” He spun, twice.

“I absolutely love the dress.”

“You don’t have a drink, let me get you a drink.”

“I’m working. Michelle.”

“Maybe later, then?”

“Maybe.”

I rescued Jessica four times, her me five. I mopped up vomit twice, ran to the kitchen and back a million times, got hit on more than a dozen times, which, in the safe environment, I found more flattering than creepy.

Fido was crazy. A man, almost naked, with leather collar and leash, pranced around the room on his hands and knees, soliciting people for head scratches, which most provided.

I provided, happily, without laughing. I was glad for the warning.

Toward midnight, people with duffle bags or suitcases disappeared into the bathrooms, reemerging as men with stoic faces to match mine. Still others paired up behind locked bedroom doors. On the far side of the room, I watched Bill Locke offering final good-byes at the door.

Jessica came up beside me. “It’s illegal.”

“What is?”

“What they do, the gender bending, the sex.”

“I was wonder why so many changed.”

“For many, their wives don’t know.”

“Kind of sad.”

“Things can get complicated quickly when you cannot be who you are.”

“Tell me about it.”

She nodded. “I think he wants you.”

I hurried to the front door. “Mr. Locke?”

“Allow me to present Bob Edwards. A very good friend of mine.”

“Mr. Edwards.” I offered a slight head bow.

“Nice to meet you, Toby.”

“I wanted to talk to you about Thanksgiving.”

“I don’t do family dinners, Mr. Locke.”

“I’d guessed as much. Bob runs Harvest Chateau. In the mall.”

“I’ve seen it.”

“I need an extra to work Thanksgiving. Interested?”

“Sure. Doing what?”

“Bussing, washing dishes.”

“Sounds like fun.”

I rejoined Jessica, side-by-side watching the few people scattered about in small groups talking quietly.

“Love watching that hem dance on your thighs.”

Me, too. “Want me to walk back and forth a few times? I will, for you.”

“Oh, I’ve been watching you all night.”

“I know.”

“What did he want?”

“Job offer, one day, like this. Thanksgiving.”

“You really need the money that badly?”

I shrugged. “More like doing him a favor. I feel it’s always good to do favors for people with resources.”

“We have at least thirty minutes until we have anything to do. Hungry?”

“I’m good.”

I could feel her looking at me. Leaning, our shoulders touched. “Toby. I would never wish to be presumptuous.”

I twisted a smirk. “Jessica, please, presumption away.”

“Um, I’d like to show you something in the hall linen closet.”

I thought you’d never ask.

 

Jessica had three inches, ten pounds and maybe four years on me. I didn’t ask about the years. The click of the latch plunged us into near-complete darkness, my back against the shelves, my hand batting at the air until I found a string to pull, the bare bulb overhead flooding us in a harsh light.

I blushed. “I want to see your face.” Unheard of for me, comfortable with a human face close to mine, the discomfort a gift from Uncle Gropey.

“I didn’t wish to be presumptuous.”

Her fingers touched my chin – again – softly, like holding a soap bubble. I watched my convex reflection looking back at me from her dark eyes. Her musk filled my head, her lips touched mine like a kitten whisker on a warm cheek. I unbuttoned her jacket, my hands finding her waist.

I braced for the dark wall of panic coming down on me. It didn’t, even as her hand lifted the hem of my skirt. Her tongue danced on my lips. I tasted her lipstick.

“Satin,” she said into my mouth.

“Silk,” I giggled back. I’d been watching Jessica all night, obsessively wondering what her lips felt like. I was not disappointed, the moment better than I even imagined.

The silk creased, I moaned, Jessica’s tongue entered my mouth, my right hand coming up around her neck. Lost in the kiss, I have no idea how her hand got down my underwear, her slender fingers not entering me, but not not entering me, the perfect balance of tease and torment.

“I thought I’d have to lick my fingers,” she whispered.

“Never,” I whispered back.

 

We reentered the main room from different directions after a brief visit to presentive powder rooms, our makeup needing attention. Coming side-by-side again, I blushed, Mr. Locke briefly glancing our direction.

“I smell,” I confessed.

“I know. I like it.” She put the tips of her fingers in her mouth.

I melted.

“No one’s going to notice, but you. Of course, me. People always smell, some better than others.”

 

The whisper of rain on the roof and window eased me from sleep, blushing at the hint of Jessica still on me, more a memory than a reality. Early, the sun struggling to make itself known behind heavy clouds, I’d have called Jessica if I had her number.

“If my father ever found out, he’d beat me until his arms got tired,” she said, accepting my phone number. Having met her father, I took that literally.

She puzzled me, a bright, strong woman barely not a girl, assertive, standing strong against her father on my behalf the moment we first met, yet cowering in his shadow, hiding her authentic self. Leaning across the sink in the previously covered-in-shit bathroom combing my mascara on, I realized hiding my authentic self to avoid taking a beating or other abused was exactly what I do.

I smirked at my reflection. “What Father Brown meant to say was Maybe you should consider the way you’re dressed so that the gossipy old women won’t be upset.” Yet, the church is his house, not mine.

“Maybe they should post a dress code instead of berating people at the door,” I told myself, not that Father Brown’s suggestion rose to the level of beratement. That’s just the way I heard it.

I lingered over my usual breakfast on the screened in patio off the backdoor watching the rain, quiet moments conjuring up Antoinette, holding her hand, imaging what she smelled like, what her touch would really feel like, not my many imagined moments over the years.

A blush pinked my cheeks. What I imagined was not far off the reality, but that was Jessica, not Antoinette.

 

I wore my favorite Antoinette dress, white tights, light gray knee socks cuffed below the knee, and of course, my combat boots. In passing, I’d considered wearing my new Mary Janes to appease God, gossipy old women, Father Brown, strangers who would look upon me with a sour face, and tween boys amused I’d wear my mother’s combat boots.

The rear passenger door of the Fairlane opened as I walked from my porch into the rain. “Good morning, all,” I greeted. “Pretty dress!”

Levy, driving, and his parents occupied the front seat, all turning with greeting for me as I dropped next to the child in the back.

“Thanks,” she said. “I like yours, too. I’m Belly, Toby.”

“Really? Belly?”

She rolled her eyes as only a nine-year-old could. “It’s short for Isabella!”

“Isabella is a very pretty name.”

“I like it.”

“I like the boots, kiddo.”

“Thanks. They’re authentic, Mr. Palmer.”

“Levy has told us much about you,” Mrs. Palmer said, twisted around.

I did not think Levy had much to tell. “Only the good stuff, I hope.”

“I can tell,” Mr. Palmer pushed. “I can tell the work you put in, also.”

“Oh, the boots. I like to see my refection.”

“You’d certainly pass muster.”

The three faced front, the car in motion, Isabella taking my hand, which seemed creepy.

“I know what you are,” she whispered. “Jenny told me.”

I rolled my eyes back at her, giggling. “Belly, I am not an angel.”

“I think you are. You just don’t know it.”

“OK. Can we leave it at that? You keeping my secret?”

She put an index finger to her lips.

The story never ends well for woman living alone believed to be magical being.

Mr. Palmer caught my arm just out of the parking lot, Mrs. Palmer, Levy, and Isabella hurrying ahead to get out of the rain. He drew me close, looking down on me. “Your parents don’t attend church?”

He smelled of stale beer, shadows of the night before, not breakfast. “They do not.”

“Why?”

I shrugged as innocently as I could, keeping his eyes. “You’d have to ask them.”

He released me. “Maybe I will, stop over the house sometime, have a chat.”

Mr. Palmer reaffirmed my decision not to have breakfast at the diner with family after church. Trapped in the car to and from church was plenty.

 

Levy circled back after dropping the family home.

I answered the door wearing a white tank top, blue jeans, my feet bare, wielding a four-inch scraper, my hair in a high ponytail.

“You do look good in a suit.” I invited him in.

He reached out, I pulled away. “Oh, hold still.” He removed a hunk of wallpaper from my hair. “You always look good no matter what.”

“Did you just drop by to flirt?” I moved into the house. “Coming? I have work to do.”

Four steps up the rickety ladder, I worked a wet sponge on the wall, then both hands on the scraper.

Half out of his jacket, Levy said, “I can help.”

“Not in those clothes. If you want to strip down to your underwear, I’ll hang your suit in the other room.”

“Who’s flirting now?”

I rolled my eyes. “Men.”

“Anyway, I wanted to apologize for my father.”

I shrugged. “I don’t follow.”

“He was out of line – in the parking lot? I asked him what that was all about. He said he was concerned about me getting involved with a girl who didn’t have a proper family.”

Coming off the ladder, I set the bucket on the floor, looking up at Levy. “I don’t. Have a proper family. Not going to church is far down on the list of their failings.”

“I’d not judge you by your family.”

“Does your father drink every day?”

“Huh. How do you –”

“People smell, Levy.”

“I hadn’t noticed –”

“He wasn’t in your face. Just an example. In my opinion, he should worry about his own life, not mine.”

“He works hard, harder than he has to. Saturdays, he likes to kick back, watch TV, have a beer or two.”

“Or two, sure, and maybe that’s the point. Quality drinking time. He had a beer stink on him beyond a couple of beers yesterday. You’re lying about it.”

“What’s it really matter how much he drinks?”

“Maybe I don’t want to hang with someone who doesn’t have a proper family.”

He opened his mouth to respond.

I narrowed my eyes.

“I see what you did there. Anyway, he won’t be knocking on the door looking to talk to your parents.”

“That would be awkward.”

“Why?”

“They don’t live here.”

“Who do you live with?”

I bit my lip. I did not want a walking hormone to know I lived alone. “Uncle Percy. He’s a special field agent with the FBI out of the Philly office.”

“Wow, that’s cool!”

“It is. I can’t wait for you to meet him.”

 

The phone guy, Les, rang the doorbell promptly at 9:00 am Monday, the appointed time. Russet hair cropped short, tan shirt and pants, black shoes. “Morning, Ma’am. Is the lady of the house home?”

“That would be me.”

He narrowed his eyes.

“Check the work order. Toby. That’s me.” I displayed the bill from the power company, the first mail I received confirming the account change.

He consulted his clipboard. “Ah, good enough for me.”

Backing, he followed me in. I indicated the hall. “I have a phone in the kitchen. I’d like an extension run up to the bedroom, next to the bed, under the window.”

“That, you shall have. I’ve got a phone in the truck that just came out, you might like. Has an interior bell, called the Princess phone.”

“Funny, I hadn’t thought about it.”

“Less bulky than the standard.”

“Sold.”

He gave me extra wire from the wall. “I have a teenaged daughter. She likes to walk around while talking on the phone.”

He gave me wide eyes when I maybe too generously tipped him.

The afternoon brought a parade of paster repair people, Mort being the last. “Mort,” he spit at me. “Just Mort. Only take cash, half now, rest day the job’s done. If that’s not good for you, no sense me even looking.”

“Toby.” I didn’t offer a hand. “Cash is good. Please, come in. Tour the downstairs. I’ve got a few holes, some cracks.”

“Nothing upstairs?”

I gave him a hard look.

His hands went up, pencil in one hand, notepad in the other. “Downstairs, OK. You only have to say it once!”

Just Mort had a hard decade on my father, swimming in his tucked tan shirt, a pack of Chesterfield’s budging his right breast pocket, his gray pants pulled tight by a new black belt. His boots displayed years of abuse, though similar to mine.

He entered the room, ignoring me on the ladder, surveying the walls and ceiling. “I don’t drink, never smoke in the house,” he announced, ripping off the top sheet from his notepad.

I turned on the second step, leaning back on the ladder, accepting the paper. Ladders scared me at first, in a week, I owned them.

Not looking at me, he made for the door.

“How busy are you? I mean, can you start tomorrow?”

He pivoted, watching his worn boots. “Eight AM sharp. Need half upfront.”

“I shall put half in your hand when you walk in the door. I don’t keep this kind of money in the house.” I do. I don’t wish anyone to know it.

I’d called people out of the Yellow Pages. The first three, men younger than Mort, were more interested in me than my walls, the first flirting so hard, he scared me, all boasting on their work, each offering a couple horror stories they heard about other people doing similar work. The first guy thought it a good idea to get behind me to show me how to properly hold the scraper.

“Wow, sounds like a great deal,” I told him. “I’ll let Uncle Percy know when he wakes up!”

Mort came through the door like a warm spring breeze.

 

Tuesday evening, I took time out to have a date with myself, a lingering bath, my usual subtle makeup, my chiffon dress, silk underwear and stockings, my new Mary Janes. I felt guilty – not overwhelmingly so – about the linen closet and Jessica, the thought of Jessica still raising a blush on my face.

She hadn’t called. I was sure the phone was broken even having checked for a dial tone a dozen times.

OK, two dozen times.

I’d moved the upright mirror close, talking of nothing with Antoinette, working around to my confession, her eyes getting wide, a coy smile as her hand came up my thigh over the garter onto flesh, encountering the silk. Eyes closed, I shivered, melting, reliving Jessica’s reaction to my underwear.

The doorbell sang from the hall.

With the door flung wide, the much-needed cold air raked over me, me panting just a little, face flushed. “Hi, Mr. Locke.”

“Toby. Are you OK?”

“Sure. Would you like to come in?”

“No, no, eh, I wanted to drop this by. Mary said you’d not been in.”

That Mr. Locke took up the errand himself, not sending Jack Remington, spoke volumes. I accepted my pay envelope. “Thanks, busy week. I would’ve been by. I need a shirt for Thursday. Sure you don’t want to come in?”

“I’m sure.” He reached into his jacket pocket, revealing another envelope. “For working the party. You do not disappoint. Even Manny was pleased with your performance, and he’s never pleased with anyone except his daughter.”

I blushed. “Thank you for saying, Mr. Locke. I thought to just put my hours on the timecard.”

He smirked, I think at the blush. “You can do that, too. Take this as a bonus.”

“Taken.”

“You may put Thursday hours on your timecard, too. Edwards is a fair man, but his resources limited, and he has limited discretion. I smell fresh plaster.”

“Found a guy who didn’t seem likely to rape me.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Is that really an actual concern?”

“It is, Mr. Locke.”

“My people, that is to say the people you met Saturday night, often worry about getting assaulted, even murdered.” He glanced his watch. “Grab a coat. Let’s get you that shirt.”

“I appreciate it, Mr. Locke.” I worked into my pale red fleece coat from the hook by the door. “I’m a little overdressed for mall shopping.”

“As am I.”

 

My tuxedo shirt was the required white. I thought the wingtip collar and pleats were too formal. Not wearing a jacket, I bought a black belt for look rather than function. When I emerged from the dressing room, Mr. Locke stood, presenting three dresses.

“I’d like to see you in these.”

I twirled. “How do I look?”

“Overdressed for a busboy.”

“Bus-woman.”

“That, too.”

I accepted the dresses, modeling each in turn, Mr. Locke maybe a bit too enchanted. The third, a black silk straight dress, so short the top of my stockings showed, shimmered when I walked.

Sitting ten paces away, he drank me in, not in a shy way. “I thought you were wearing stockings and garter,” he said. “I mean, at the party.”

“Well, Mr. Locke, definitely not with this dress.” At the party, I’d caught him looking at me uncomfortably often.

Retreating to change back into my chiffon dress, a woman slipped in behind me. I recoiled.

“Are you alright?” she asked, leaning much too close.

“What do you mean? I was fine until you creeped up on me.”

“I mean, that man. Are you alright? Do you need help?”

I rolled my eyes. “Yes, fine. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.”

 

With the shirt, black pants, and belt draped on my right arm, I pushed the three dresses, neatly on hangers, at Mr. Locke. “If you feel I should have these, you may buy them for me.” I thought that cheap payment for the floorshow.

“It’d me my pleasure, Toby. Mary’s having a party on the 31^st of next month. The black dress would be perfect. I didn’t want you to have to scramble for something to wear.”

“Love the dress, feels great on me, but not great enough to work a party, my butt flashing every time I bend over to pick something up, no offense.”

“Oh, you’re invited as a guest.”

“Will Jessica be there?”

“Manny works all Mary’s party, so yes. Jess will be there. Working.”

“May I bring a date?”

“Of course.”

“Maybe I’ll ask Jessica.”

He rolled his eyes, whistling. “Not a good idea. Manny isn’t openminded when it comes to his daughter.”

“I heard.” I bit my lip. “Will it be the same crowd?”

“Yes and no. Mary hosts that party every three months. It’s a come-as-you-want-to-be party, a safe place for people to express themselves.”

“That makes sense now.”

“You didn’t have any problem, did you?”

“Fido was a bit weird but fucking cute.”

He chuckled. “He didn’t get around to humping your leg.”

“Jessica would have rescued me like she did when you pulled me into a conversation.”

“I saw you two doing that.”

“We are professional, if nothing else.”

 

In the car, halfway back to the house, Mr. Locke finally said, “I dress up.” He glanced at me as if looking for judgement.

“Like I told Jessica, I have my own kink. I don’t judge.”

His face twisted as if he’d bit into a lemon. “I’m a fucking ugly woman, a lumberjack in a dress. If I looked like Mike, I don’t think you could get me out of a dress. He passes. He could walk down the mall, no one would guess he’s a man.”

Mr. Locke was a powerfully attractive man, always impeccably dressed. I nodded sympathetically at the tragedy. I wasn’t about to contradict what was obviously true. I loved, was in love with, what looked back at me from the mirror. I couldn’t imagine hating the image.

“I get, eh, pleasure watching you.”

I resisted rolling my eyes, offering, “Thank you.”

He pursed his lips. “This isn’t easy to explain. I like your body, eh, I mean, I watch you and imagine how it feels to be in your body. That didn’t come out right.”

“I follow you, Mr. Locke. Not my body, but the wave of my hair on my shoulder, the hint of my breast pushing against my chiffon dress. The hem of my tuxedo skirt dancing on my thigh, the turn of my ankle breaking out of my shoe, the arch of my eyebrows, a hint of stocking, even my voice, maybe my smile.”

“Yes, exactly that.”

“Deep in your imagination, Mr. Locke, you see me as a better version of you.”

“My god.”

“And that turns you on.”

The car rolled up to the curb at my house.

“Is that terrible, Toby?”

“I’ll say it again, Mr. Locke. I have my own kink. I don’t judge.”

Retrieving the two large shopping bags from the backseat, I noticed Mr. Locke working at his pants. “Thank you,” he said.

I almost invited him in, that he’d not have to be alone in the car. I knew he wasn’t alone, I was there with him, him becoming me.

 

The Harvest Chateau rested in the middle of the mall in a long row of stores, cafeteria style, good food, reasonably priced. The inside could easily seat sixty people with a veranda reaching out into the mall, separated by a wall of glass and two glass doors, which could be closed and locked.

Most the stores in the mall were closed for the holiday.

Pam, like me, barely not a child but leaning toward more adult in her white pleated dress brought a snowman to mind. The dress zipped up the front. With her soft, round Germanic face, light oak hair flowing her shoulders, and innocent brown eyes, I wanted to take the silver ring on her zipper and open her up.

“Did you hear me?”

Kind of. “Dishes stack here, come out over there,” I said.

“Things will be moving quick when we open. Circulate, stay out of the way, be polite. Take the dishes and silver as people are done with them, but don’t be aggressive or pushy about it.”

I sighed watching her hem as she walked off, her dress much too short for polite company. I figured she was probably Mr. Edwards’ daughter.

The pace was fast, understaffed, the kitchen loud and busy, the tote full of dishes almost too heavy for me. “Carve this!” a man demanded in the kitchen, presenting a knife and fork. I’ve never carved a turkey, attacking the best I could.

Pam nudged me aside, taking the knife and fork. “Get on the floor.”

“Gladly.”

The afternoon became a blur. I never imagined so many families would not Thanksgiving at home. My history was of the horror show of extended family, Uncle Gropey chasing me around, people getting drunk, abusive. The Harvest Chateau didn’t get large groups, mostly couples, some families of three and four.

Laboring a tote from the veranda, halfway to the kitchen, a man caught my arm with a light touch. Sad eyes found mine. “Did you know Antoinette? Were you friends?”

I gulped hard, his wife anxious, a teenage son watching me, a daughter younger.

“No, Mr. Blanc, we were not friends.”

“You look so much like her.”

I said, “Thank you,” because I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“What did you want?” Mr. Blanc asked. “That night. At our house?”

I thought to deny, dodging instead. “I can’t. I’m working.”

“Just tell me, please.”

“Please, child,” Mrs. Blanc pleaded.

A tear rolled down my cheek, my voice cracked, my hands shook. “I thought you must miss her so much and my life was so terrible, I could come be your daughter. I gotta go.”

Hurrying to the kitchen, I emptied my tote on the conveyer, went to the rear wall, leaning my back against it, hands to my face, I slid down until my knees met my chin, crying quietly as to not disturb anyone. I had finally cried against all the pain. I did not know I needed to. Four entire minutes leaked by. I stood.

The man demanding I carve the turkey handed me a towel. “You OK?”

Working the towel on my face, I said, “Yeah, I am.”

“It’s your time, huh? Happens to my wife, too.”

I let out a deep sigh wondering how stubborn blood would be to get out of silk. It was my time. Thankfully I wasn’t pregnant. “I need a bathroom break.”

Back on the floor, Pam came up, her face to the side of my head. “What did you say to them?”

“Who?”

“Family of four. Hurried out of here crying.”

I shrugged. “Their daughter died. I don’t think you ever get over something like that.”

“A friend of yours?”

I turned my head, watching her begging eyes, tasting her sweet breath. “A lover.”

She blushed, broke a mournful smile, hurrying off. Just for a fleeting moment, I wondered whether I could show her something in a linen closet.

 

The last customer was out at 8:06. By nine-thirty we had the Harvest Chateau ready for business Friday morning, Pam, Diane, and I lounging on the veranda sipping coffee. Diane, also an older teenager, dressed much like me, half a head taller, dark hair in a high ponytail, oval face, and rich dark eyes. Pam and Diane had obviously had a conversation.

Mr. Edwards appeared in the half-open glass door. “Great job, girls.” He tossed a fistful keyring to Pam confirming what I thought. “Make sure everything’s locked up, don’t be out late.”

“No problem.”

“And Toby. If you’re looking for a job, we’ll make room for you.”

Pam and Diane nodded.

“Thanks, Mr. Edwards.”

Once he was gone, Diane watched me over her coffee mug. “I’ve been with a girl. I like boys.”

Could you be anymore condescending? I shrugged. “Is it always this busy on Thanksgiving?”

“This is our first Thanksgiving. Dad thought we can try it out. He thought we’d be standing around doing nothing.”

Diane intruded with, “People get the wrong ideas about us Catholic girls.”

I offered yet another dismissive shrug. “I really have no idea what people think about Catholic girls.”

“People think we’re not openminded.”

“Well, Diane, I got to work shoulder-to-shoulder with you and Pam today. I can say I find you both delightful, maybe Pam a little more delightful than you because I adore the dress she’s wearing.”

“Dad thinks it’s too short.”

“I think it’s too short, too, but unlike your dad, I don’t mind.”

Pam put a hand to her mouth, blushing.

I wondered many things. I wondered whether Diane was actually with a woman or was just an openminded tourist like Carol at the lunch counter. I didn’t want to do Pam like Jessica did me. I was daydreaming about her full lips on mine. I wondered whether I could ask her out, like on a date, in front of Diane. I guessed Pam’s answer might be different if Diane wasn’t present.

“I’m sorry, Diane. I was daydreaming, didn’t hear what you said.” I was in the mall often. I could circle around if I really want to ask Pam out.

“I was saying, the Bible says homosexuality is a sin.”

Yet another shrug, with some rolled eyes.

“Thompson’s an asshole,” came from behind me, out on the mall, swooping in to save me like Jessica did many times at the party.

I turned. “Michael! Thompson’s an asshole.” I scrambled to my feet.

He gave me an up-down across the railing. “My, you are looking dapper.”

“You’re looking like a hippy.” He was in dirty jeans, tee shirt, suede jacket a size too big.

“I wear what I find. What are you doing here?”

“Just finished work.”

“Huh? How can –”

I put my index finger to my lips. “You?”

“House full of crazies.”

I rolled my eyes. “The horror show that is our family holidays at home.”

“Oh, you nailed that!”

  “Hang on.” I turned to Pam. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, and I don’t want you to take this wrong, but how do you feel about a hug?”

She stood eagerly, we hugged, the universe stood still. “Thanks for being you,” I whispered in her ear.

“You’re lucky presumptuous was a vocabulary word last month,” she whispered back.

With regret, I let her go.

Diane stood. I shared a pity hug finding her gaunt, maybe even thin to unhealthy.

Grabbing my coat and bag, I stepped over the railing, taking Michael’s arm, moving off.

“You work there? How?”

“No one asked my age. Just for the day. Anyway.”

“Anyway. You disappeared from school. Mark said you ran away.”

“Mark’s a raving asshole.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“Dad dumped mom for a girl my age, ran off. We got kicked out of the house, deposited in a cramped apartment. Mom dragged sailors home, Mark jerked off in my underwear. That’s when I kind of ran away from home, more like moved on.”

“Wow, that sucks.”

“Well, far from an ending, but pretty happy so far.” Stopping, I faced him, watching his eye, he still only two inches over me, maybe ten pounds. “Can I trust you?”

“Do you have a body to bury?”

“I guess that’s a silly question. I trust you or I don’t.” Fishing in my bag, I produced a notepad and pen, scribbling. “My phone number and address. Do not share even that you saw me with anyone. It’s not that it’s a secret, I just don’t need assholes calling me or banging on my door.”

“Understood,” he said solemnly.

“How about Saturday, around six. I’ll make dinner.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, really. I have this beef stew thing I’ve been waiting to try on someone.”

He stepped back, nodding a bow. “I am honored by your trust.”

“You’re corny.”

In the murky soup of my imagination, I’d lost track of the girl Michael was that day years before in my bedroom, the day he draped my pea coat over his shoulders. He still scared me and excited me, too.

 

Friday afternoon I returned to the mall, standing in the milling river of Black Friday shoppers, catching glimpses of Pam in the Harvest Chateau from across the mall. I liked her OK. She was a great hug, smelling like sugar cookie dough. I didn’t know what I wanted from her. Mr. Blanc appeared from the shoppers near the cafeteria veranda, watching for a long time, I assumed looking for me.

The thought of sharing my love for his daughter, words making any kind of sense dancing out of my grasp, that his daughter and I are in love, share time together, dance in the woods by the fire, make wonderful, deep love often.

I secured my hood, stopping by the Continental Bank, waiting for Mia Borrows. “You have a checking and saving account,” she said.

“I’d really like another place to park some money, a place no one else has access to – for obvious reason.”

“Oh, you can trust Bill.”

“Not the point, Miss Borrows. It’s not about what’s real and true. It’s about how I feel. As a woman, you have to know what I’m talking about.”

“As a woman, I do.”

Just like that, I had my own conspiracy going.

Next stop, The Wig Boutique. I strolled in, casually glanced around, getting pointedly ignored by three older women doing nothing but acting like they were doing something. I stepped to the counter, pointed, and said, “I want that one, the third from the left, top row.”

The woman nearest looked at me over her glasses. “Don’t you want a fitting, ask how much it is?”

“No fitting, how much is it?” I began counting out twenties.

“But,” the woman said climbing a stepstool. “It’s almost exactly like your hair.”

“Yeah, right? Maybe two inches shorter.”

“Maybe.”

Sometimes I like to be presumptuous.

 

“Are you sure you wrote all your hours down?” Mary Locke asked me.

“To the minute.”

“How’d you like the party?”

“I’m sure Mr. Locke told you all about it.”

“He’s my brother, not my husband.”

I wondered how secret my secret bank account would remain. “I loved it, actually. Even working, I had a lot of fun.”

“I heard.”

“You heard what?”

She stared at me for a long minute. “Just that you did a great job, that I should invite you back. Is there something else I should have heard?”

“Not that I know of. Mr. Locke did invite me to your New Year’s Eve party.”

“Oh, did he now?”

I rolled my eyes. “I thought that had been preapproved.”

“He mentioned it in passing. I’ll pencil you in. Guest? We only have space for so many.”

“If that’s the case, you can pencil me out. Give the spot to someone more deserving.”

“No one is more deserving than you and your guest.”

I blushed, amazed at how a simple affirmation could make me feel.

“Bill’s in the office.”

Though I had a key, knocked.

“Toby! I was just thinking about you.”

I entered, the door closing behind me.

“I wanted to thank you for yesterday.”

“You mean to thank me for you buying me dresses?”

“For spending that time with me. It’s rare I can be myself with anyone. Even with my best friend, Mike, he gets so wrapped up in his own thing, he can’t hear me.”

“Michelle,” I said. “She’s adorable, a lot of fun. I think I like her more than I like Michael.”

“Yes, Michelle.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You are aware they’re the same person, not like the three faces of whoever?”

“That would be Eve, and yes. I’m aware.” I resisted soapboxing about persona.

“I wanted to say, Mr. Locke, if you want, you can come over the house, dress anyway you wish. Hang out. No judgement from me. We can have tea, sit, talk of everything or nothing. You can be yourself.”

A tear dripped down his cheek, staring off into space. “I have, on occasion, rented a motel room, dressed, sat, staring out the window.”

“We could even give you a room, with a dresser and a closet.”

“You, Toby, are truly a gift I gave myself.”

“Likewise. You just need to let me know ahead of time.”

“Deal.”

 

I treated myself to three pair silk stockings, two pair white silk lace underwear, and black fishnet tights – because they caught my eye. I tried a four-inch heeled black sandals, offering the critique, “You’re fucking kidding me,” buying the less insane three-inch heeled.

With the little black dress, the fishnet tights, and sandals, I was a simple clutch away from my outfit for New Year’s Eve.

 

I’d ignored the fact I could have been pregnant from the gang rape, the implicates being too complex to consider on a maybe. Having read much across magazines on the topic of human reproduction, I knew the odds favored I wasn’t.

Lightning has to strike somewhere.

I knew I was due. I knew my period coming, yet I ruined my underwear anyway. I’d read the instructions on the label when I bought the underwear. I handwashed in cool water. Somehow I thought blood would require hot water, which set the stain.

I’d read the washing instructions.

With fifteen inches of white string from the ball on the kitchen junk drawer, I tied a corner of the silk, hanging my underwear in the top window of my bedroom overlooking the backyard. Not to be a constant reminder of my stupidity, not as a reminder to always follow instructions, but as a reminder of my connection to the earth, my mother, and all women back to the time even before we fell from the trees millions of years before.

“Good save, Toby,” I said to myself, my sarcasm, of course, not lost.

 

“I don’t want you messing up my work,” Mort shot at me.

“OK,” I agreed.

“I mean, you have to wait a month, you know, before painting.”

“I know now.”

“You gotta use a quality primer, not the cheap stuff. You don’t save money trying to save money.”

“Something else I didn’t know.”

“Gotta make sure you get all the glue off. TSP from the paint store. Read the box. Wrote done my recommendations.”

I took the note. “I’m really pleased with the work, and you.”

“I’m good at what I do, people, not so much.”

“I understand.”

He took the envelope, fingers dancing over the bills. “You counted wrong.”

“Please accept it. My way of showing my appreciation.”

“I will.”

“I’ll let you know when I get the upstairs ready,” I called to his back.

He waved a hand over his head, Levy laboring two grocery bags up the walk.

“Thanks,” I said as we entered the kitchen.

“Not a problem. I didn’t tell you. We do deliver for people who can’t get to the market, or don’t have transportation.”

“You’re getting paid to visit me?”

“Pretty much. Pick you up for church in the morning?”

“I don’t think so. If you sit on the end in the pew, I’ll sit next to you. A ride? I don’t want to be a captive audience for your father. Things could get ugly. He really has no idea the hell I’ve walked through just to get where I am.”

“What kind of hell?”

I shrugged. “The point is, too often people lecture down from the mountain without having any idea what it’s like to live in the valley.”

“That, I understand. Company for dinner?”

“Jealous?”

“A little.”

“I’ve thought about our date.”

“I thought you said no?”

“I did and I didn’t.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“One afternoon next week, there’s a garden center over in Mount Ephraim, on the Pike.” I displayed a half-page ad from the newspaper.

“You want me to take you to see Santa? For a date? Santa’s going to be in the mall.”

“No, silly. I want to break open my piggy bank, get a tree, all the required decorations. I have nothing, except one ornament I stole from when I was a kid.”

“I have school.”

“Cut an afternoon. Then, we can come back home, set the tree up, decorate it, maybe even put some garland and lights on the porch railing, a wreath on the door. I’ll make hot chocolate.”

“OK, OK. Calm down. Thursday. I have a light afternoon. I won’t be missed by many. I’ve been meaning to ask: Why don’t you go to school?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have proper parents.”

 

Michael was ten minutes early, tapping lightly on my oak door.

“You found me.”

He looked around, leaning in. “I wasn’t sure I had the right address.”

“Come in, your coat.” I hung his coat next to mine.

“You live here?”

“Yeah, pardon the mess.”

Halfway to the dining room, I turned. “I can’t remember. Are we friends that hug?”

“Not in real life, but OK.”

I was decked out in my chiffon dress, half sleeve, breaking at the waist, all silk under, stockings, garter, my new sandals – I wanted to get used to them – bringing me to Michael’s height.

Michael worn the same clothes, with the addition of a battered brown sweatshirt.

Not in real life swelled up in my head as we hugged. We didn’t have a relationship of any kind in real life, my relationship with him was dancing with him around the fire, him a girl. I’d refrained from imagining what his mindscape relationship with me was.

“You smell, Michael,” I whispered in his ear.

He tried to pull away. I held on.

“Sorry, really bad week, relatives, the holiday. Haven’t been able to get in the shower, do my wash.”

“I was stating a fact, not offering a criticism. I understand more than you know.”

I served hot tea at the dining room table.

“I’ve missed you.”

“You mean you’ve missed looking at me.” I shrugged. “Really. I understand more than you can know. I remember what you said about wanting to be me.”

He blushed, dunking his teabag. “I was, sometimes.”

“Was what?”

“You. There in the woods by the lake. I’d found this dress in the trash. Danced like you around the fire.”

That explained the fairy. “I usually dance naked.”

“Really?”

“Never for an audience.”

He let out a long sigh. “I’d go there often, getting away from all the bullshit. Like an escape, always hoping to see you there. Pretending to be you.”

I offered a soft smile.

“Weird, huh?”

“I get it, I really do. Do you dress up often? I mean in girl’s clothes?” I held his eyes, wishing they were yellow brown like mine, like Antoinette’s.

He squirmed on the chair, sitting back, wringing his hands in front of his teacup. Like with Bill Locke, I’d caught him with something he wanted to talk about and couldn’t – not unlike me and the gang rape.

 “Often?” he asked. “Sometimes, in the bathroom. They keep the clothes hamper there,” he confessed, watching his hands. “There’s always someone home, always someone to yell What are you doing in there so long?” His face twisted. “Sometimes in the middle of the night, I’ll get clothes from the hamper, dress in the dark, in my bedroom.”

“Sit on the edge of the bed, staring out the window,” I finished.

“Yeah. I know it’s weird. I just can’t stop.” He rolled his eyes, relief in his voice. “Thank God I’ve never gotten caught. I’d be in for the beating of all beatings.”

I glanced the kitchen over my shoulder. “Do you want to?”

“Do I want to do what?”

I leaned on the table, maybe a little too enthusiastic. “Be me. I mean, Michael, you can take a shower, maybe a bath? I’ll put your clothes in the wash. I have clothes you can wear.” I looked toward the ceiling. “I bet you’d fit into my Mary Janes.”

He watched my eyes.

“I can even do your makeup!”

“Who else is here?” His eyes darted in all directions.

“I live alone.”

“How can that be?”

“By the luck of a broken roller coaster car wheel.”

“Huh?”

I shrugged. “Michael. All those years ago, I know why you got me that new coat. So you could wear mine. It’s really not weird to me. That day after I bounced Joe’s face off the concrete steps, got suspended, you brought my homework. I wanted you to try on my denim skirt but chickened out even suggesting it.”

“My favorite.”

“I could tell by the way you looked at me.”

He watched his tea. “What about dinner?”

“It’s stew, low heat, though I do have to take the bread out.”

“You made bread?”

“I’m full of surprises.”

 

When I heard the shower, I switched into the blue brushed denim dress Mr. Locke bought me at the mall, changing my garter belt to the inherited so Michael could have mine. In the steam-filled bath, I hung my chiffon dress on its hanger on the back of the bathroom door, my camisole, underwear, garter, and stockings neat on the toilet, my new Mary Janes on the floor.

“Toby?” came from the shower.

“I’m just getting your clothes for the wash, brought you a couple clean towel.”

“Thanks.”

 

I paced – forever, which in real terms was about forty minutes, Michael finally calling from the top of the stairs.

“We still alone?” he asked from the darkness as I climbed the steps.

I wanted to say, Well, let’s have a look at you, thinking better to not make a big deal. “May I do your makeup?” I walked past, down the hall, into my bedroom. Michael followed. The light came on.

Fuck, I thought. “That dress is perfect on you. Find everything OK?”

“Yeah, I kind of used your razor.”

I shrugged approval, hoping he would, indicating a chair. He sat, knees together, fluffing his dress as if by instinct. I expected him to sit like a cowboy. It was that moment, there in his mannerisms, his subtle gestures, that the boy disappeared, the girl emerging.

I brought another chair over. She watched my eyes as I sponged moisturizer on her face. “I found almost by accident, this helps makeup go on easier and come off easier.” I applied two shades of brown shadow to the eyes, brushed rich oak mascara on her lashes, lashes that made me jealous.

I loved the rich red on Jessica’s lips, not mine, having picked up a brownish-red, perfect for me and for Michael.

Fuck, I thought again, sitting back to admire my handiwork. I wanted to put my hand up my dress, watching her like I watch me in the mirror. “Oh, wait. I went through this thing where I didn’t wash my hair.”

“Huh?”

I went to the closet. “My mom was so embarrassed, she bought me this for when company came over.” I presented the wig.

“I thought I had a weird family.”

Brushing the wig out, I snugged it on Michael’s head, pulling at the sides to straighten it.

Double fuck. “Have a look. See what you think.”

She turned on the chair to see the mirror. “My gosh, Toby, I don’t look like me!”

“You don’t look like Michael, you mean.”

“Yes, yes, that’s what I mean.”

Guiding her by the arm, I pulled her beside me, indicating the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. I wanted to say: We look alike. I settled for, “We look like sisters.”

“My gosh, Toby,” she repeated. “I can’t see Michael at all.”

I noted gosh instead of God, another indication of the different persona.

“I like her,” I said watching us in the mirror.

“Me, too, Toby, me too.” She bit her lip.

I melted.

“Michelle?”

“What?”

“My name. Michelle.”

“Too much like Michael. You look nothing like a Michelle.”

“What, then?”

With no surprise to me, I said, “Antoinette. Soft, innocent, fragile, like dancing in the woods naked in a beginning snowfall.”

“Antoinette,” she said softly. “I love it.”

Just like that, I resurrected the dead.

 

I put Antoinette on my left where I usually place the mirror when I eat, me at the head of the table. “Shoes fit OK?”

“Like they were made for me, Toby.”

Hand under my hair on the right side of my head, I leaned on my elbow watching Antoinette. “You are absolutely stunning.”

She blushed. “I really had no idea, eh.” She set her fork and bread down. “This feels so good, so right.”

“You stuffed.”

“Huh?”

“The bra.”

“Well, I ­–”

“Not a criticism, Antoinette. It’s a nice definition. I don’t know if you noticed, but many girls around school enhanced their definition.” I shrugged. “No different from, I guess, wearing makeup.”

“To look better to others.”

“To feel good about myself.”

I resisted sharing my experience at Mary’s party, many of the men enhancing the definition with what seemed like basketballs. I rolled my eyes knowing it wasn’t for me to reason or even understand. “I have my own kink. I don’t judge. I’d suggest, though, to avoid overstuffing.”

“This is really great stew.”

“Thanks.”

“And the bread, great, too.”

“Surprised myself, able to follow instructions.”

 

Part Five