A Kind of Justice (23 page)

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S
UNDAY
, O
CTOBER
26

Robbie is at a neighbor's home, playing with a friend when I get home. Betsy is making a simple vegetarian spaghetti meal. She greets me in a civil voice and makes one of those almost-smiles. I kiss her on the cheek. I've thought about this in the nooks and crannies of my day, the moments when I didn't have to concentrate on my work. I don't
believe Betsy hates me. I don't believe she is reviled by me. I think she just wishes I were still her leading man. It would fill a hole in her heart and it would make her feel more secure.

I share her wish. I wish I could be all that for her and still be me. She was the one for me, too. I'll never love anyone as much as I love Betsy. It's ironic when you think about it.

When I'm done taking off makeup and changing into soft, comfortable, dowdy clothes, I join Betsy in the kitchen.

She stops stirring the sauce and gives me a gentle hug as she apologizes. “I'm sorry for the things I said. I didn't mean them.”

“No apology necessary,” I say. I have more to say, but she cuts me off.

“It is necessary. No one should ever say things like that, especially to you, Bobbi. You are the best person I know. That's why it hurts so much. Losing you.”

We grow silent. I know better than to challenge the notion she's lost me. This isn't the time, even though I think I'm an even more dedicated partner to her now than I was as a man.

“I understand how you might think I mutilated myself,” I start. “And I know I'd make you feel more secure if I was a man and we could be husband and wife.”

She's shaking her head no. “I don't think you mutilated yourself, Bobbi. I understand you and I accept you, maybe more than you do. You're a sweet, kind woman, and I love you. But I can't help it, you were once the man I loved, and I can't get past that. When you have dates, I'm always going to feel like you're cheating on me, like I'm not woman enough. That's why I have to get out on my own.”

The sauce starts to boil over on the stove. Betsy doesn't notice. She is completely focused on our conversation. I reach over and turn off the burner. “I'd like to have a sex life and I'd like you to have one, too,” I say. I'm not going to bring up the fact that she has no job, no money,
and no immediate prospect for independent living. It would only add to her frustrations.

“Let's give it a few weeks, a month. It's not like I have a social life anyway, and if I do, I won't ever be distasteful, and I won't ever do anything provocative in front of you and Robbie.” She is listening thoughtfully.

“You've started applying for jobs, we have Robbie in preschool, let's see what happens.” As I say it I realize that it makes sense. It also quiets my inner feelings of despair at the prospect of living without them.

Betsy looks at me for a long moment. “Okay,” she says softly. “But just until I get a job.”

We dine quietly, then fetch Robbie. I'm waiting for Betsy when she finishes the tucking-in ritual with Robbie. I lead her into my bedroom, seat her in my styling chair, and begin a luxurious scalp massage. They taught scalp massage techniques in my beauty school, and I became masterful at them practicing on Betsy. It's the one thing in cosmetology where having big, strong hands is an advantage. Betsy is groaning lightly with delight. I should have thought of this before. This will be a regular ritual in our house, as long as we share a home, anyway.

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F
RIDAY
, O
CTOBER
31

“Are we talking on the record or off?” she asks.

They are sitting in a quiet corner of a downtown Starbucks in the middle of the afternoon. Her law offices are in a high-rise a block away. Wilkins has just asked her about John Strand.

“I'm not a reporter,” he says.

“I know. You're a cop. Things that are said on the record you expect to be repeated in a court of law. What I'm willing to say on the record is a lot less than what I'll say off the record. What's your pleasure, Detective?”

He appraises her. Just the kind of attitude you expect from a litigator, especially if you're a cop. Tough. Confrontational. She's also attractive but she plays that down. He could see how her attractiveness might have come later in life. She is tall, strong looking. Not like a transsexual, but somewhat similar. Attractive facial structure, high cheek bones, blue eyes, short blond hair in a contemporary style. Good dresser. Probably bigger than the boys in grade school, gawky, shunned. Somewhere in college or law school she emerges as a swan.

“I'm just looking for some background here, Counselor. How about we start off the record. If I need you to speak on the record, I'll ask you about it later.”

She nods her approval. Her cell phone beeps. She glances at it, clicks a button, puts it in her purse, and looks at Wilkins.

“You worked with John Strand for several years.”

“Yes. Until 2002. He was my mentor.”

“What was that like?”

“Why are you asking me?”

“Because you left the firm. The women who are still there won't talk about him.”

She nods, knowingly. “Same reason I don't want to talk on the record.”

“We're off the record.”

She nods again. “Okay. He was a very sharp attorney and a great fixer. He knew every judge, every politician, every department head in the city, and a lot of the same kinds of people in Springfield. He could get a lot done, in court or out. Very smooth. Being his protégé was a first-class ticket to the fast track in the firm.”

“But . . .” Wilkins bridges her silence.

“But he was inappropriate with women. With me.”

“How so?”

“At first it was just innuendoes and talking dirty and talking down to us. Like we were stupid. I was a lot more upset by the talking down than the innuendoes, to tell the truth. But it got worse. He'd come up behind me when I was working and kiss me on the cheek and hug me. Once he stuck his tongue in my ear. The year I left, he'd cop a feel now and then and laugh like it was a big joke. It didn't feel like he was doing it to get laid. It was more like he was showing me who was boss. That he could hump me or fire me any time he wanted.

“Thing was, I think he was impotent. After he was killed, one of his corporate clients, a woman, supposedly told someone in the firm he was a stud lawyer but a gelding in bed.”

“Did you ever sleep with him?”

She makes a face. “Never.”

“What else did you know about him?”

“Nothing in the way of hard facts.”

“What did you hear?”

“After he died, a lot of stories started making the grapevine. One was that one of the assistants was tending the entrance to the firm's big Christmas party and this transvestite or transsexual person shows up, asking for John Strand. She gets him and Strand blushes crimson. He whisks the transperson away, comes back a few minutes later, and tells the assistant it's a pro bono client he's helping off the books, a charity case, doesn't want anyone to know because of complications it would cause in billings and hours and all that.”

Wilkins nods.

“Here's the eerie part. A few weeks later the assistant reads about a transsexual prostitute found beaten to death. The story was in a neighborhood paper. North side, where the body was found. No
photo, but the description of the girl could have been the one she saw at the party.”

“Do you believe it?”

She shrugs. “Do I think John Strand could have beaten someone to death? Yes. He was really artful in disguising it, but I got this eerie vibe from him. I don't think he had a conscience and he hated women. Plus, I think he loved to dominate people. It made him a killer litigator.” She pauses a moment, realizing the significance of her word choice. “I think the only person in his universe was him and it was a violent, cruel universe.”

She pauses as she stares at the tabletop for several beats. “Speaking as an attorney, I have no proof of anything. Speaking as a woman, I think he was a creature from hell. I'd be surprised if he only had one victim.”

“Who do you think killed him?”

She shrugs again. “A vengeful ghost? A guardian angel? A lightning bolt from heaven?”

“No remorse from you, then?

“None. The world is a better place without him.”

“Where were you the night he was killed?”

“I was on vacation in California. Lots of witnesses. Class reunion.”

“You weren't a suspect anyway. Just some cop humor.”

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S
ATURDAY
, N
OVEMBER
1

Halloween is one of the biggest days on the transgender calendar, which is why I spent much of my day at TransRising helping do hair and nails and makeup for legions of young transwomen preparing for a night of colorful parties. I did get a selfish benefit from it, though. Two volunteers from my salon gave me a Halloween look—something
I've never had before. I'm going as my favorite Disney princess, Ariel, she of long red hair.

As Betsy and Robbie and I head for Cecelia's costume party, I don't look much like Ariel, but temporary color has given me flaming-red hair and theatrical makeup techniques have provided a regal and kind of exotic look.

Cecelia's parties are always tasteful events, which is why we are taking Robbie with us tonight. We won't stay long. She'll pass out by nine. But that works, too. Betsy and I are easing back into some kind of compatibility after things bottomed out last weekend.

Betsy has curbed her anxiety to get moving. She's mulling a job offer from a nonprofit group that lobbies for LGBT rights, and I think she's going to take it. It's time. She's still mourning for Don, still spends parts of her days in sadness. She is sometimes withdrawn from me, sometimes close and familiar. I can see both sides of her on the same day sometimes. I try not to let the distant Betsy leave scars on my always fragile ego, and I try not to rejoice too much when we share moments together the way I have dreamed we would.

Betsy threw herself into getting Robbie and herself into costume. She is going as a sexy witch, something she pulls off by being beautiful, no prurient display of tits and ass necessary. Robbie is going as her kitty. They are both dressed in black. Betsy has a witch hat she crafted from black construction paper. Robbie has two sets of cat whiskers; the ones made from plastic bag ties fall off in the cab on the way to the party, but the ones that are painted on with eyeliner hold firm. She's completely enamored of herself and her new identity. She walks up to everyone she sees and meows at them until they acknowledge what a beautiful cat she is. Then she tells them her mommy is a witch and her aunt is the princess Ariel.

Our cat introduces us to everyone at the party.

Betsy relaxes as the party gets under way. Her smile is the smile I
remember, warm and light. Robbie is happy and well behaved. The people are friendly. Cecelia has a vast spread of finger foods placed on tables throughout her designer apartment overlooking Lake Michigan and the Chicago River. It's an older, professional crowd. The costumes are tasteful. I would be the most outrageous exhibit but for Cecelia, who is presenting as an Amazon Queen, tottering around in heels the size of stilts. She's wearing an enormous wig that's teased so high and wide it seems impossible for her to make it through a doorway. Her bosom is padded to the size of a couple of grapefruits, and her dress shows off her royal legs to great advantage.

People float from one table to another, drift in and out of groups, glide from room to room getting different views of one of the world's great cities from high in the sky. I bring a glass of wine to Betsy and tell her I'd like to take Robbie for a while so she can mix and mingle. She looks at me with a twinkle in her eye and an easy smile. “Okay,” she says. “But go easy on the sweets.”

I heap different foods on a plate and lead Robbie into the kitchen. The caterers are bustling in and out, but I find two chairs on an unused side of the kitchen table for us. Robbie picks through the food, unwilling to try much of it, not liking the rest. The head caterer sees the dilemma. He asks her if she likes hot dogs. They are one of her three current food groups. He is back in a few minutes with a plateful of tiny wieners wrapped in a puffy bread dough. Robbie eats four of them, dipping them in ketchup, and drinks a glass of milk.

When we go back to the party, Robbie immediately hooks up with an older couple who marvel at what a cute kitty she is. She takes each by one hand and brings them to the floor-to-ceiling windows in Cecelia's living room. She fearlessly steps to the glass, her nose smashed against it, and encourages them to do the same so they can see the street below. As in, thirty-some stories below. I get dizzy just watching from the middle of the room.

As Robbie and her friends entertain each other, I look about the room. Betsy is in a cluster of people, chatting back and forth, at ease, engaged. She holds the wine glass near one shoulder. She has not consumed much of it. Her eyes drift to Robbie. Her smile widens. She finds me next, a few steps from Robbie. Her eyes sparkle. I feel my whole body glow. In that moment, I realize that she is having a good time because we're here together, because she can trust me with her daughter. And because, underneath her misgivings about me being a woman now, she knows I am the terra firma in her life, the one place she can step where the earth beneath her feet won't crumble away. That's what makes me glow. That, more than anything in my life, is what I want to be. Though I wouldn't mind having a lover, too.

When Betsy takes Robbie to the bathroom to get ready for our trip home, I take a leisurely stroll through Cecelia's condo. I have a lot of memories here. Many great late-night talks with Cecelia. Meeting various people at her parties, corporate honchos, attorneys, politicians. I go into her bedroom to retrieve our coats. As I walk in a man exits from her private bathroom. It produces a flashback I don't want to have. Another Cecelia party, long ago. Another man coming out that door, a very handsome man who makes several passes at me that night. Me, the half-formed transsexual woman, weak kneed by the attentions of such a handsome man. Him, the good John Strand. The seductive John Strand. The fake John Strand.