A Kind of Justice (27 page)

Some of us are socially gifted, able to chat easily with each new face. Some of us are not so gifted and spend much of the social hour in mute silence. After years of doing hair, I fall into the former category. Making small talk is not my favorite thing in life—I much prefer serious topics—but this isn't the place to discuss brain surgery or atom splitting.

After an hour of mingling, Lisa calls the group to order and explains the program.

“We put the mentoring program together to fill one of the black holes many of us step into when we start living as our true selves,” she says. “Many of us lose the family and friends and role models we would otherwise have to help guide us into adulthood and into careers and relationships.

“A lot of us, left to our own devices, start focusing our lives on body parts. I need to get breasts. I need to get rid of body hair. I need GRS.

“Natal women and men grow up thinking about their bodies, too, but most of them also focus on other things. Sports. Grades. Going to college. Getting a good job. Having nice friends.

“We want the mentor program to help our girls develop fuller lives, to help them realize that it isn't body parts that define us, it's many, many things. Are we people of good character? Can our friends trust us to do the right thing? Can our employers trust us to work hard and be loyal? What skills define us? When someone asks you, ‘Who are you?', what do you say? ‘I'm a transwoman'? No, that might be
what
you are, but
who
you are must be more complex.

“I'm young and my identity is still evolving, but if you ask me who I am I would say things like, I'm a graphic designer and a transgender activist and someone who works really hard without complaining. I'm smart and competent. I'm a woman and I want to have a family someday.

“I could go on, but you get the idea. A vagina and breasts will not make you happy in this life. You need other goals. All of our volunteer mentors have been successful in their careers. They have all transitioned and lived to tell about it. And they work every day to foster the kinds of interpersonal relationships we all need to have a full life.” She is articulating things that I agree with completely, and I am left to wonder again why we are so uneasy with each other.

Lisa eventually introduces each of the prospective mentors in the room, and each of the ladies who have not yet been assigned a mentor. The mentors include a corporate executive, a saleswoman, an
engineer, a mechanic, a doctor, two attorneys, and me. I'm feeling dwarfed by the accomplishments of the others, but she introduces me with great fanfare.

I smile and wave a hand to acknowledge Lisa's praise. Fortunately, I don't have to say anything. I'm so off balance from her introduction I wouldn't know what to say. I always assumed she thought I was an airhead hairdresser, not to mention old and ugly.

The flattery is especially welcome in this dark period of my life. It has been four days since I offered up my body as a hole in the fence for Phil to rub against. He did finally call, but all he said was he had been busy and would call again when he had time to talk. No need. That said it all.

And Betsy still keeps a lot of distance between us. She no longer has me take Robbie to preschool on my late mornings, and they manage to eat before I get home each night. She is applying for paying jobs so she can get her own place. I feel lonely already.

After the formal program is over, I work my way to Lisa to thank her.

“We appreciate you coming forward, Bobbi,” she says.

We stand awkwardly facing each other, both of us, I think, wanting to take this moment of goodwill another step forward. For the life of me, I can't think of anything to say. Neither can she. We finally exchange faux hugs and move off in search of easier conversations.

*    *    *

T
UESDAY
, D
ECEMBER
2

Wilkins shifts and fidgets, staring at the walls of the waiting room, too nervous to pick up a magazine, too bored, too uncomfortable, too engulfed by life's shit storm to do anything but sweat.

Perspiration pours down his face and his upper body. His palms are
wet. His mouth hurts. It even hurts to swallow fluids now. He should just get up and go back to his dreary apartment, put a hollow-point in the chamber of his Glock, and blow his brains out. The only thing that's going to happen here is they're going to tell him he's going to die, but he'll have to wait in this torture chamber for an hour before they get to it. And they won't just let him die, they'll make him do other things, painful things that mean coming into doctor and dentist offices all the goddamn time.

He should just go home and eat a bullet and get it over with.

But he has things to do first. He has to try to fix things with his kids. He's got to get his case files in order for whoever takes over. He has to close out the Strand case. No one else would put in the time. No one else would risk the bigotry tag he got for liking a tranny for the crime. He snorts an ironic laugh. How the world has changed. How many times he was called nigger by rednecks and John Birchers and expected to take it, even though he had a badge and a gun. Life was so screwed up sometimes.

Doors slam inside the oncologist's office. The receptionist leads Wilkins to an office. Three physicians stand to greet him with handshakes as he enters. The oncologist is a wiry, fiftyish white man with a Russian name and a light accent. The internist is an African-American woman in her thirties with large eyes and a kind smile. The oral surgeon is the same young white male who started everything, a clinician who looks at a patient and sees a specimen, not a person.

There are four files on the table, one compiled by each of them and a fourth from the ENT who specializes in cancer diagnosis and treatment.

The oncologist speaks first. “I'm afraid we have bad news, Detective.” There is regret in his voice, but he makes eye contact and gets right to the point. Wilkins appreciates that. Let's get it over with so I can get out of here and breathe again, he thinks.

“You have extensive cancerous tissues in your mouth. There are squamous cell carcinomas on the left side of your mandible, your lower jaw. The cancer has spread to your gums and your tongue. I'm afraid it is too advanced for routine treatment. When we catch these lesions early enough, we can treat the patient with a relatively simple surgery and/or radiation therapy.

“Unfortunately, your cancer has advanced far beyond that stage. Radical surgery is required—”

Wilkins feels his world shake. It's about what he expected to hear, but somehow, hearing it rocks him. The oncologist defers to the oral surgeon to discuss the surgery, but Wilkins is barely aware of the change in voices and speakers. The surgeon's technical dissertation passes far beyond Wilkins' comprehension.

The oral surgeon stops speaking and looks at Wilkins expectantly. “Do you have any questions?” he asks.

Wilkins blinks, shakes his head slowly. “I don't really understand . . .” He wants to say what he doesn't understand, but he doesn't understand any of it. He doesn't understand why his life has come to this. An early death, alone. A life trying to make the world safe for others coming to an end in a sterile office surrounded by strangers.

The internist speaks softly. “Detective Wilkins? Can you hear me?”

His mind comes back to the present. His eyes focus on the internist's sympathetic face. He nods yes.

“To save your life, we are going to have to do a mandibulectomy and a glossectomy. A mandibulectomy is the surgical removal of part of your lower jaw. It is a disfiguring operation even with reconstructive surgery. The glossectomy is a partial removal of your tongue. It will affect your speech. You may have difficulty being understood by others when you speak. You may also need to undergo radiation therapy and maybe chemotherapy, too, after the surgery.”

She lets him absorb her words, then continues. “There are several
other serious side effects that can result from this treatment. You may suffer from fatigue. You may have swallowing difficulties. Some people experience memory loss and dizziness. You may have to depend on a feeding tube for hydration and nutrition—”

Wilkins almost passes out from shock. The kindly internist is describing a nightmare, a vision more hideous than anything he could ever imagine.

“Detective Wilkins?”

He gradually becomes aware of the doctors again. The internist is saying his name. He focuses on her. She watches him expectantly. They all do. He has missed something. He's supposed to say something but he doesn't know what.

“Do you have any questions, Detective Wilkins?” She says it gently. He deduces that was her original question.

He collects his thoughts. “Survival? What are my chances?”

The doctors defer to the oncologist. “It's hard to say. The odds are pretty good that you can extend your life by a year or two. The five-year prognosis is less promising. There aren't good numbers for cases as advanced as yours, but I'd guess we're talking one chance in four, maybe less, that you'll live five years.”

Wilkins calculates what a year or two could mean. Patch things up with his kids. Close the Strand case. He tries to think. There was something else he wanted to ask. Something he heard before he zoned out.

“Disfigurement,” Wilkins says. “What does that look like?”

“We have some photos of others who have undergone a mandibulectomy,” says the oral surgeon. “But I have to warn you, they can be very shocking. You might want to take a day or two to digest everything before we get into that.”

Wilkins shakes his head. “No. Let's get this over with.”

The oral surgeon opens a medical text to a marked spread and
pushes the book across the table to Wilkins. A half dozen photos jump off the pages of gray text. Four show vile growths in people's mouths. The other two show horribly disfigured faces, scarier than any Halloween mask, their mouths tiny circles, their faces caved in on one side like a rotting jack-o'-lantern. Monsters.

“Sweet Jesus!” Wilkins gasps. He sits back in his chair and looks at the ceiling as if struck by a fist. Tears come, then sobs. He leans forward. He vomits. He cries uncontrollably. His mind fills with the sight of his son and daughter recoiling in horror from the sight of their father, his ex-wife hiding her eyes at the sight of him. The photos are the end of his life. He will never get his family back. He is no longer human.

*    *    *

T
HURSDAY
, D
ECEMBER
4

I spend the morning pouring my heart out to Marilee about everything, but especially about my relationship with Betsy. She counsels patience and she's convincing. I leave in the lightest mood I've had in days, but that evaporates as soon as I get back to the apartment.

Betsy greets me with a scribbled note and a demand. “We need to talk.” The note is a phone number and a name:
Detective Allan Wilkins
.

We sit at the kitchen table. I realize it's quiet in the place. Robbie must be playing with the neighbor. Betsy has been expecting me.

“Who is this man?” she asks, tapping her finger on the note in front of me.

“Didn't he tell you?”

“Don't be coy, Bobbi. I don't know if he's investigating you or if he's your latest cop lover.”

Her hostility makes me wince. “He's the cop I told you about. He's investigating a murder that he'd love to charge me with. I'm not going into the rest of it because it can only get you in the middle of something you don't want to be in. Here's all you have to know: I didn't kill anyone.”

“There's more to it than that, Bobbi. There has to be. If you aren't willing to trust me with what happened, how can I trust you?”

“I've told you everything I can about Wilkins. I'm sorry. I can't do more.”

“You have too many secrets.” She grimaces. She rattles off a list of secrets I've kept from her, from transitioning to my promiscuous sex life. “Good God, Bobbi, is there anything or anyone you won't fuck? One day it's a woman, the next time it's a man. Now it's a murder you can't talk about. What am I supposed to think?”

I'm at a loss for words, but she's not ready to hear me anyway.

“I need some truths here, Bobbi. Who are you? How are you involved in this murder? I need to know if my daughter is safe here. I need to know if you're going to be a bad influence on her.”

She stares at me, seething with anger that borders on hate. I don't know where to start or what to say. She glowers at me, silently demanding a reply.

“I don't know what I am, Betsy. I am trying to be a good person. I've had sex three times this year and I've never killed anyone.”

“How do I know you're telling the truth?”

I blink. Good question. “I don't know,” I say. “Maybe you just have to take it on faith. Like how you believe in God.”

“You're comparing yourself to God?”

“No. I'm saying the truth about me is a lot easier to see than the truth about God. You just have to make up your mind. Am I a person who goes to work every day, cares about people, loves you and Robbie? Or am I a closet nymphomaniac axe murderer?”

“You don't have any other lovers?”

“I don't have any lovers at all. Jen has a new heartthrob, and Phil doesn't want to see me or talk to me. I think he's pretty grossed out by having fucked a tranny.”

“Do you think that's all it was for him? A conquest?”

It hits me then, what really makes it hurt. “No. I think he actually likes me and I think he found me attractive and when we made love, we made love. It was after that, when he realized he had feelings for a transsexual, and what that meant about him, that's when he started thinking of me as a barnyard animal or a venereal disease.”

For all her anger and suspicion, Betsy's face softens.