A Kind of Justice (32 page)

For all my doubts about her motivation, Lisa is invested in the dispossessed people of TransRising in a way that no other volunteer is. The hours and energy required to accumulate the knowledge she has goes far beyond anything the rest of us would even contemplate. Even if I'm right about her motivation, her work for disenfranchised Chicago transwomen is Mother Theresa–worthy.

Lisa has given me carte blanche on this service because she's never had an up-do she likes, and I'm getting into it. I carefully sweep the hair from the back half of her head into a series of graceful arches that rise upward over her crown then bend forward toward her face. I make the same arc with sections of hair on the front half of her head
and intertwine them with the ends of the back hair. I continue to arc sections back, up and forward, and secure them in an intricate pattern that's really just a loose, puffy two-strand braid. The height of the hair decreases as it comes forward achieving the silhouette of a classic twist, but with a lot of texture and complexity. A few inches from her face, I stop braiding and feather her ends into long bangs that descend to her eyebrows.

She is elated and I am jealous. She looks like a red carpet celebrity. The bangs bring more oval symmetry to her face, the high-piled hair in back gives her an aura that is equal parts royalty and sexpot. When she combines this with a low-cut gown, she will leave a trail of male desire wherever she goes.

“Bobbi,” she exclaims, “you're a genius.”

She's gushing like a schoolgirl who's just been kissed by Elvis. I look at her and see youth and beauty and the arrogance that comes with it, but when she looks at herself she looks through the prism of her own vulnerabilities, just like the rest of us. She got a princess moment right here in my chair and she can't stop glowing about it. I'm gushing, too—this is the kind of client joy I live for.

As I show her what she looks like from the sides, the rear, and standing up in a full-length mirror, I wonder what it's like to be Lisa, to be young and beautiful and smart and ambitious and to look and feel like a woman. There is joy on her face.

I will never know that joy. When I look in a mirror I will always see someone who doesn't look at all like the
me
inside. I will always see the masculine features where a Lisa-like princess is supposed to be. And I fear that someday in the not-too-distant future I will be seeing these things in a prison mirror, if they have mirrors in prison.

*    *    *

S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
14

The magnificent jazz singer Lou Rawls once likened Chicago's winter winds to “a giant razor blade blowing down your spine.” My analogies are running more to a naked plunge in the Arctic Ocean as Cecelia and I play tag with Robbie while Betsy kneels at Don's gravesite. The exercise gets our blood pumping again, though it's too late for my fingers and toes, which will probably never recover the sense of touch.

When Betsy's mourning ends, I scoop up Robbie, and the four of us head to the car. We are arm-in-arm, Cecelia on one side of my grieving former wife, me on the other. In the car, I direct Cecelia to a restaurant a few miles from the cemetery. It's nearly empty on a Sunday afternoon, the other patrons gathered in the bar to watch football and drink. We get a table overlooking the river and order hot drinks and soup. Robbie is fascinated with the electric fire glowing in the fireplace and Cecelia takes her for a closer look.

“How are you holding up, honey?” I ask Betsy.

She shrugs. “I'm okay. I just wish—” She stops, shrugs again, stares at her soup.

“What do you wish?”

She stares me in the eye. “I'll tell you my worst secret if you'll tell me yours.”

“Let's not do that.”

We fall silent. Betsy stirs her hot chocolate, eyes downcast, for a long minute. She looks up.

“I was a poor wife to Don,” she says. I've never seen eyes so sad. “I wasn't really honest with you before, when we talked about sex. He . . . he . . . wasn't a very good lover. Especially after my miscarriage. He had trouble getting . . . aroused. I could do it, but . . .” Her voice trails off. “But it was difficult for both of us. It was a lot of work, and sometimes he still couldn't do it. And then he didn't want to kiss me because, you know . . .”

Yes, I know. Men are so neurotic about sex. You pleasure them and all of a sudden you have germs.

“Everyone has those kinds of issues sooner or later,” I say.

“I don't know about everyone. I know Don was crushed. He felt awful that he wasn't a better lover. He even asked me once if I needed to take a lover.”

“Did you?” I withdraw the question immediately. It's not my business. I only asked because I didn't see why she should feel responsibility for their sex life.

“No, of course not.” She answers anyway.

“So why the guilt?”

“Because when he offered to get Viagra, I told him not to. I said I preferred it natural, even if it was just sometimes. But, Bobbi, the truth was, I just wasn't interested in him sexually. I loved him, but I didn't enjoy making love with him. So he died unfulfilled. And it's my fault.”

We join hands across the table. I look into her eyes. “He would never say that, Betsy. He did not feel that. You were the highlight of his life. I could see it with total clarity. Anyone could.”

She shakes her head and looks down again. “I wish I could feel that way.”

“I think if you talked about this with a therapist they would tell you that you're turning your grief into guilt. They might even know why that happens.”

Actually, I don't have much more faith in psychologists and therapists than I do in a kind and interactive deity. About half of the ones I've met had the intellectual depth of a Fox News commentator.

“The best sex I ever had was with you.” It just bursts from her lips, quiet, but as shocking as if she had screamed it in a crowded room. I have come to think of my former penis as a sort of dildo with nerve endings that was distributed to the wrong person. I enjoyed the male climax and getting aroused, especially in my younger days when
testosterone coursed through my veins as if I were a real boy. But I never really thought of myself as male, not even at climax. And as our marriage matured, the frequency of sex slowed down a lot. I always assumed Betsy just forgave me for being a crappy lover. Her revelation leaves me speechless.

“It's okay, Bobbi. You can talk.”

“I feel like I lost the last set of car keys.” This is unintentionally funny. I was thinking that my lost penis was the engine that made us “go” in bed. Betsy snickers.

“Well, Cecelia has the keys,” she says.

“Yes.” I nod. “But not the one you want.”

We exchange juvenile laughter.

“If you let me set you up with my hooker, he'll make you forget my missing member in an hour or so. He is a genius and I was a fraud.”

Betsy's face is bittersweet, part smile, part sadness. “It wasn't just the physical part, it was the love that made it sweet, Bobbi. I can't get that from a hooker.”

I understand what she means, but the thing about being a transsexual is, you learn quickly you'll never have it all. Your life becomes a matter of getting what you can. I'd love to be Officer Phil's official full-time lover, but that's not going to happen. Actually, it's not going to happen with any nice man. An erotic session with a professional every now and then isn't my first choice, but I got a lot of pleasure from it and it beats watching television.

*    *    *

S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
14

“Wilkins.” His tone is curt, to the point. His voice is deep, and carries into my auditory canal like a declaration of doom. I shouldn't be returning his call. I am completely out of my mind for doing so.

“This is Bobbi Logan, returning your call.” I say it with all the femininity I can muster, my voice an octave higher, a pronounced sibilant lisp. I know he hates me for what I am and I am being defiant. Plus, of course, if he starts insulting me, I have a good reason to hang up on him, which I should do anyway.

“Thanks for returning my call, Ms. Logan.”

His civility is disarming until I realize he's just doing his good-cop routine. My defense mechanisms fly into the ready.

“I wanted to ask if we might talk again, now that you've had a chance to think about what I said.”

“That won't be necessary,” I say. “I have nothing to confess. If you can make a case against me, please do.”

“Ms. Logan, I am turning over this case to the district attorney shortly. I would really appreciate one more opportunity to speak with you about it. I will be respectful.”

I politely decline his request.

“If you change your mind, call me any time, day or night, okay?” he says.

I agree but assure him no call will be forthcoming. When we hang up, something about the conversation nags at my mind. Partly his tone. He was polite and businesslike, but there was an undercurrent of something . . . sadness, maybe. With a touch of urgency. And the other thing . . . he had led me to believe he was taking the case to the DA days ago. Something is going on . . .

M
ONDAY
, D
ECEMBER
15

I'
M WATCHING
J
ALELA
do foil highlights for one of her TransRising friends. Jalela has blossomed in her short time with us. She's observed and assisted on so many color services, she's already close to a New Talent in her foiling abilities. Plus, she'll be starting cosmo school next month, and she's getting a nice head start here.

Jalela finishes the last foil and sets the timer. Her foils are exquisite. There is no other word for it. They are precise and neat, uniform in appearance, snug to the scalp, perfectly formed. There's not a drop of bleach anywhere on her apron or the client's cape. Many of us do excellent highlights without being anywhere near so precise, but the great ones tend to be like this.

In my peripheral vision I sense movement at the reception counter. I glance over and see Samantha leading someone to my office. It's Officer Phil. It's rare that Sam would put anyone in my office without talking to me first. Something is astir. Probably something unpleasant. Good grief, I wonder if something has happened to Betsy or Robbie.

Samantha walks quickly to me. “Sergeant Pavlik—Phil—says he needs to talk to you for just a moment. I put him in your office,” she says.

“Is something wrong?” I don't try to hide the alarm in my voice. “Are Betsy and Robbie okay?”

“I don't think it's anything like that,” says Sam.

I let my mind briefly flirt with the thought he has come to declare his undying love for me and to beg me to move in with him and wake up in his arms every morning. Then I erase the thought. I'm not in a place in my life where I can be entertaining schoolgirl fantasies. And if that was his message, this isn't how he would deliver it.

I ask another stylist to oversee the rest of Jalela's service and head to my office.

Phil stands as I enter. I extend a hand for a handshake, preempting any thought of a hug or kiss. It turns out I have some pride.

We sit.

“This is unexpected,” I say.

“I've been working the north side today,” says Phil. “And I heard something a little while ago that I wanted to share with you.”

“You have my undivided attention.” I try to say it in the haughty tone of a wronged woman. I think I succeeded. It feels good.

“Bobbi, Detective Wilkins is on medical leave. Apparently he is very sick. The person I spoke with thought it might be cancer, but he didn't know for sure.”

I blink and sit back in my chair. My mind goes back to our last meeting, the shock I felt at Wilkins' appearance, gray and emaciated. Yes, cancer would be a good guess. A flurry of new thoughts streak through my consciousness. Might he die before bringing a case against me? I feel remorse that I have many times wished bad things for him and now that he is ill, I realize I didn't really mean it, or shouldn't have. An arcane puzzle pops into mind: What if the heavenly baritone of an all-seeing deity poured down from the heavens to say Wilkins would live if I confessed to my crime. Would I give up my life to save his? The heavenly voice would have to be very convincing.

My mind meanders back to the here and now. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask.

“Because it might be important information for you,” Phil answers.

“How?”

Phil shrugs. “I don't know, Bobbi. I just thought you should know.”

He can't say it, but he's thinking that this case might go away if Wilkins dies or retires, that I shouldn't confess to anything or make any deals. He can't say it for legal reasons, and I don't want to think it because I don't want to think of myself as someone who would celebrate someone else's tragedy. Still, it occurs to me that I might survive all this after all. Brief visions of a happy ending flash through my mind until I regain my senses and stop the thought. This is not a guarantee of a happy ending. Indeed, I'm recalling the sense of urgency I heard in Wilkins' voice when we spoke on the phone. He's trying to finish this case before he's incapacitated. I could be arrested any hour now.

“Thank you, Phil,” I say.

Silence engulfs the little room as he searches for something to say. I wait. I have this part of womanhood down pat.

“Just thought you should know,” he says, finally. He stares into my eyes. He starts to speak once, twice. Stops. He wants to tell me he misses me and I want to kiss him on the lips when he does. But we can't go there anymore, either of us. He stands. We shake hands across the desk but instead of letting go, he bends at the waist and sweeps my hand to his lips. I can feel their warmth and softness. Resisting the urge to throw myself against him and have him envelope me in a full body hug is almost more than I can bear. But I do.