Backcast (24 page)

“No.”

“Because?”

“Frankly, I found the title off-putting.”

Towanda laughed. “And yet, you read personal ads.”

“Touché.”

“So you see?” Towanda picked up her coffee again. “Appearances can be deceiving.”

“Okay.” Cricket closed the paper and set it aside. “Let's talk about some appearances that aren't so deceiving.”

“Such as?”

“Such as the thing between you and Viv.”

“That's a long story.”

“Lucky for us, the refills here are free.”

Towanda smiled. “Maybe I don't care to discuss my relationship with Viv.”

“Relationship? That's a new term for it.”

“Really? What would you call it?”

“Well. The phrase ‘cage fight' springs to mind.”

Towanda shook her head. “It hasn't always been like this. There was a time when we were a lot—closer. But everything changed when I met Barry.”

“Who is Barry?”

“Barry Faderman. My husband. Viv flipped out when we got married. I think she felt betrayed.”

Cricket was surprised that Towanda was being so forthcoming. She wasn't sure how much more she could ask.

What the hell? In for a penny, in for a pound.
She decided to go for it.

“Were you two involved?”

Towanda raised an eyebrow.

“Romantically, I mean.”

“Hell,
no
.” Towanda practically spat the words out. “Viv's issue with me relates to her belief that I'm sponging off the experiences of others.”

“Others? What others?”

“You name it. In her view, I don't have the right to write any stories about ‘authentic' lesbians.”

“Why not?”

“Because I ‘suck dick,' as she so charmingly puts it.”

Cricket noticed that Towanda's colorful description turned more than a few heads in the tiny deli. It was clear that this wasn't typical breakfast conversation in Clifstock.

“You're straight?”

“Yes. But that has nothing to do with my ability to write good fiction.”

“Why not write good fiction about other straight people? Why write about lesbians?”

“Let me ask you something.” Towanda leaned forward. “Why do you write books about nursing?”

“Because it's what I know.”

“The same thing is true for me.”

“You know about lesbians?”

Towanda nodded.

It wasn't the most implausible thing she'd ever heard. After all, Kübler-Ross wrote what arguably was the definitive book about death and dying without the benefit of being dead.

“I guess that makes sense.”

“But?”

“But I'm curious about how you learned so much about lesbians?”

“You'll have to take my word for it.” Towanda broke off a corner of Cricket's scone and popped it into her mouth. “I've done my time.”

Run.

That was always her instinct when things went south. Run as far and as fast as she could.

Running kept her safe. Running kept her focused on the future and not the past. Running made sure that anything she didn't want to look at too closely stayed behind her where it belonged. That was especially true for all of those broken, disconnected fragments that had no relationship to who she was now. They were the random pieces of her former life that didn't fit—like curly bits of celluloid on the cutting-room floor of her subconscious.

She didn't want to look at them, and she didn't want to add to them, either. And if she ran far enough and fast enough, she wouldn't have to.

Running made her good at her job, too. That's what asset recovery was all about: sleight of hand. Being smarter and faster than the people who were trying to outrun their obligations.

Darien knew all about the rules of that game. She'd spent a lifetime perfecting her own techniques.

But were they obligations?
Had they ever been?

How could things you never chose obligate you?

If she could answer that one, she could give up spec fiction and make a fortune writing pop psychology books.

And maybe she wouldn't be sitting here alone in the dark, staring out the window at a blank landscape, second-guessing everything she thought she understood about the newest tangled mess in her life.

Her head was reeling from everything that had happened last night.

They were both pretty shell-shocked when they finally got untangled and climbed out of the water. It was odd, but Vee seemed calmer than she did. Less rattled by the sudden turn their surprising friendship had taken.

Maybe that was just because Vee was more composed, generally? Darien's demeanor wasn't anything like composed. She could barely make eye contact with Vee when they shook themselves off and started their squishy climb back toward their rooms at the inn. They trudged across the sloping lawn in silence and parted by the flower garden, just outside the entrance to the restaurant. Darien's room was in the garden house, located in the center of the property near
the barns. Vee had a waterfront room at the extreme north end of the inn.

They didn't say anything to each other when they parted. Vee gave Darien a small smile, and Darien responded with a soggy, halfhearted wave.

She felt like a complete idiot. She blamed her lack of self-control on how rattled she'd been after running headlong into one of the worst roadblocks of her life. It completely knocked her off her footing. It made her feel vulnerable again—and she hated that. She hated that even more than the gut-punch of seeing
him
again.

And Vee had been right there to witness it all.

That meant she couldn't pretend it hadn't happened. Vee made it clear that she wasn't going to let Darien off the hook. And after everything that happened between them last night, she was certain of it.

Darien had been back in her room for about thirty minutes and had just emerged from the shower when she heard the soft knocking at her door.

“Hang on a minute!” She pulled on a t-shirt and a clean pair of sweat pants and walked over to open the door.

Vee was standing there. She had changed clothes, too, although her hair was still wet. For some reason, that made her look smaller. More youthful. She looked scared, too. Like she wasn't at all sure why she was there. Or maybe she was scared because she didn't know how Darien would react to seeing her there, outside her room, at nine o'clock at night?

“I have no idea why I'm here.” Vee sounded like she meant it.

“I do.”

Darien reached out and took Vee by the hand and pulled her forward into the room.

Within seconds, they were wrapped around each other and headed for the bed.

“Wait a minute.” Vee tried to slow them down. “Shouldn't we talk about this?”

“What?' Darien was taking deep breaths. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What are we doing?”

They were sprawled across the bed. Their clothes were already halfway off. They'd knocked the alarm clock off the nightstand. Darien thought what they were doing was pretty clear.

“You don't wanna do this?”

“I didn't say that.” Vee tried to sit up. Darien rolled to the side so she could. “I just haven't done—
this
—for a long time. A very long time.”

Darien rested a hand on Vee's bare back. Her skin felt warm and smooth. “They say it's like riding a bicycle.”

“They lie. It's nothing like riding a bicycle.” She looked down at Darien. “At least not for me.”

Darien sat up, too. “Here.” She handed Vee her discarded shirt. “Put this back on. We can talk.”

“You're okay with that?”

Darien nodded.

Vee took the shirt. “You don't think I'm a freak?”

“Why would I think you're a freak?”

Vee shook her head. “Let's see. I practically throw myself at you, and then I run scared. Isn't that the classic definition of a cock tease?”

“You'd have to ask Towanda that question.”

“Towanda?”

“According to Viv, she's the only one in this crowd with a cock.”

Vee looked confused. “Towanda has a cock?”

“Yeah. She just keeps it in another suit. It's called a husband.”

Vee rolled her eyes. But she smiled, so Darien knew she'd managed to defuse some of her angst.

Darien bumped her shoulder. “So what else did you want to discuss?”

“Aren't you confused by this? We don't exactly fit.”

“I don't know. I think we fit pretty well.”

“I really wish you'd be serious.”

“I
am
being serious.”

“It doesn't feel like it.”

“Well, what does it feel like?”

“The truth?”

Darien nodded.

Vee exhaled. “Wonderful. Exciting.” She slowly shook her head. “Arousing.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

“No. Not bad. Just….”

“Just?”

“Unexpected. Not something I planned on.”

Darien dropped her chin to Vee's shoulder. “I didn't plan on it either. But then, I never plan on any of the great things that happen to me. They always take me by surprise.”

“You think this is a great thing?”

“I think it has been so far.”

Vee didn't reply.

“I guess you don't agree?”

“No.” Vee shifted on the bed so she was facing Darien. “I think it's incredible. And terrifying.”

Darien smiled at her. “It'll only be terrifying if we fuck it up.”

“We have nothing in common.”

Darien took hold of her hand. “We have everything in common.”

“We want different things.”

“The world is big enough to make allowances for that.”

“You don't know anything about me.”

“You don't know anything about me, either.”

“That doesn't concern you?”

“Not if we're willing to teach each other what we don't know.”

Vee closed her eyes and leaned her forehead against Darien's.

“This is insane.”

“It's okay.” Darien wrapped both arms around her. “I think it's supposed to be.”

They didn't say much after that. Not with words anyway.

When Darien woke up several hours later, Vee was gone. She sat up and looked around the dark room to be sure. Her clothes were gone. And the alarm clock was back in its spot on the nightstand. The red numbers on its display mocked her. Three-fourteen a.m.

Of course.
Pi.

The circumference of a circle is equal to Pi times the diameter.
She remembered that from math class.

Isn't that essentially what she'd been trying to explain to Vee? Yes. They were a different kind of equation. But they added up to the same result.

But Vee was gone. Vee was gone because, somehow, the math just didn't work for her.

And Darien was left alone—alone and fighting her own impulse to run.

Essay 8

I don't know why they asked me to write this story for their chick-lit art show. I'm not a writer. And I sure as hell ain't a woman.

When I told that to Barb, she said “But you play one on TV.”

I guess she was talking about my job, and she thought that was funny. But my job is no joke. And even though some people might think so, my life ain't much of one, either.

I work the night shift at the San Diego Central Jail. That's how I first met up with all these crazy women. They all got busted after a riot broke out during that lesbo smut meeting they called CLIT-Con. All I can say is, they picked the wrong time to tango. Judge Carla Roberts was on the bench that night, and she don't take shit from nobody—especially from spoiled white women who ought to know better. She could've let 'em all go with just a warning, but when that short redhead started mouthing off about some Bible beater, Carla just banged her gavel and said it would do them all good to spend a night cooling their wingtips in the can. Carla's like that. She runs a hardcore bench.

That's where I came in. I'm the night matron at the women's detention facility. That means I got to babysit all these yammering broads until their high-priced lawyers could make bail. Half of them got sprung in the first forty-five minutes. The rest? Hell. If the boys
upstairs hadn't needed a bottle opener, they'd probably all still be in there. Don't even ask what I mean by that. You wouldn't believe me, anyway.

Let me just tell you one thing about lesbians. No matter how butch they try to be, they still act just like bitchy, stupid sorority girls when you get them all together in a group. Happy, sad, or mad—they're like a bunch of yapping dogs fighting over the same squeaky toy. And most of them even look like those fat, candy-ass dogs that only roll out of bed to eat or hump your leg. So don't even try to tell me that I'm like them—cause I'm not. Not one bit.

My mama died when I turned fourteen. That meant that me and my two brothers had to figure something out. I knew enough to know that if anybody found out we were alone, we'd get split up and sent to different places—if we were lucky. We didn't have any relatives who could take us in. Our apartment was not real expensive, and nobody paid much attention to us—the place where we lived then was just too big for that. So I decided to quit school and look for a job. I didn't have to make a lot of money—just enough to get us by until the boys were out of school.

I didn't get very far. Because I was big, I didn't have a hard time passing for eighteen. But I guess my size made me look dangerous, because most people thought I was going to rob them or rape their daughters as soon as their backs were turned. My stutter didn't help, either. I've always had it—and it gets worse when I'm nervous. So I think that combination just made me look dangerous and stupid.

It wasn't really hard for me to quit school. I was a loner and I hated it. Besides, I already knew most of what I needed to know about how things worked. It turned out I was right, too. I found out really fast that nobody wanted to hire a big black boy who couldn't talk
straight or look you in the eye—and we were getting desperate. The little bit of money my mama had stashed in an old envelope beneath her nightgowns was nearly gone. I knew that if I didn't find something soon, I'd either have to call social services, or go to work for one of the gangbangers on the corner.

That's when I met Mrs. Alvarez. She was a Guatemalan woman who lived in an apartment down the hall from us. She cleaned houses for some rich white people, and I'd see her nearly every day—standing out in front of our building in her gray and white uniform, waiting on the bus to take her across town. She was a lot older than mama, and didn't have any kids left at home. One morning, when I was walking past the bus stop, she stopped me and asked where mama was. I wanted to run away from her—I didn't want to tell her that mama was dead and that we were living there alone, and that I was on our last fifty bucks and had no way to pay the rent that month.

I tried to tell her something about mama being away, but my stammer was so bad I knew she couldn't understand me. I tried to walk on past her, but she grabbed my arm and stopped me. Nobody ever just touched me like that. I was shocked. Then she called me by my name. Marvin. She knew who I was. She asked me if we had food. Her English wasn't all that great, but I understood her just fine. I could feel myself starting to lose it. She just squeezed my arm and told me not to worry. Then her bus showed up and she was gone.

That night, when I got home and stood at the door trying to get my key to work, I heard my brothers inside talking to somebody. That scared me shitless. I knew it meant that somebody called social services on us. I thought about running, but I knew I couldn't leave the boys like that, so I opened the door and went on inside.

I was shocked when I saw Mrs. Alvarez in there,
standing at the stove in our kitchen. She was cooking something, and it smelled really good. And my brothers were sitting at the table eating like they hadn't seen food in a month. That part really embarrassed me, but I tried not to show it.

Mrs. Alvarez told me to sit down. She already had a plate out for me. It was loaded up with eggs and bacon—and there was a big plate of toast, too. She gave me a big glass of orange juice and told me to drink it. Pretty soon, we were all eating big piles of scrambled eggs and thick pieces of toast with some kind of red, homemade berry stuff smeared all over it. She told me there was more food in the fridge. When I told her we couldn't pay her for it, she just waved her hand in my face and ignored me.

I remember thinking that she was pretty damn bossy for somebody who had just walked in off the street. No matter how much she knew Mama, she didn't know us at all. So why was she doing this? I tried to ask her that—but I learned real fast that when she didn't want to answer a question, she just did that hand-wave thing and pretended she didn't understand what you were saying. She was a small woman, but there was something about her that made her seem big. I knew it wouldn't be a good idea to mess with her.

When we finished eating, she told my brothers to go do their homework. I didn't believe it when they just got up from the table and went off to obey her. I always had to strong-arm them and practically tie them into their chairs to get them to study. Then she handed me a towel and told me to help her do the dishes. She asked me if I needed a job. I was too embarrassed to look at her, so I just nodded. She asked me how old I was, and when I said fourteen, she shook her head. She told me that I needed to be in school, but I said I couldn't go back because I told my teachers we were moving away to
keep them from looking for me. She asked where I had looked for work, and I told her pretty much everyplace. Then I explained that nobody would hire me because I was big and acted slow.

She looked around our small apartment and asked who kept it so clean. We never had all that much, but Mama made sure that we always took good care of things. I didn't let my brothers slide on that after she was gone. I told Mrs. Alvarez that we just kept things tidy because that's what we knew.

She looked me up and down, and said she had an idea about something that might work for me—but she wasn't sure if I would want to do it.

I was desperate, and I told her that. I didn't care what it was, as long as I could make enough money to pay our rent and keep the boys in food. When she smiled and asked if I was sure, I knew I was probably in for something awful.

Later that night when she showed me what she had in mind, I knew I was right. She came back after the boys were in bed, and she was carrying a big pile of folded up clothes. When I saw what they were, I told her she was crazy. It would never work, and there was no way I was putting on a dress. Ever. She reminded me of what I said to her before—that I would do anything. I told her that anything didn't mean that. I was already a freak—there was no way I was gonna be a queer, too. I told her I'd rather hook up with one of the gangs that ran things in our neighborhood.

She started folding up the gray and white dress and said that she'd just have to call social services, because I'd soon be dead or in jail. She was halfway out the door before I stopped her. What choice did I have? I knew she was right. I made her promise that she'd never tell anybody.

She handed me the pile of clothes. I held up the
dress—it looked big enough to fit me. I didn't understand that part. Mrs. Alvarez was a small woman, and this would've wrapped around her body twice. She could tell what I was thinking, because she said it belonged to her cousin, Esmeralda, who got deported last year. Esmeralda must've been pretty big all over, because there was a giant bra, too. I looked at Mrs. Alvarez and she just did that hand wave of hers and told me to put it on, too.

I still don't know what it was that made me give in to this pushy little woman I barely knew. I think it was something more than just being desperate. There was something weird about that dress. As soon as I saw it, I knew it was going to change me. And when I put it on, I just felt different. Maybe it was because I didn't look like me anymore. But I don't think that was all of it. I just felt better. Like I wasn't shy anymore—and I didn't have to take shit from anybody just because I was big and strong. Once I had those clothes on, being big and strong felt like a good thing. It felt right. And I didn't stutter anymore, either.

So that night, Marvin became Mavis—and pretty much stayed that way.

Don't get me wrong. That didn't make me a fag. I still liked girls. But I knew that I could do things dressed like a woman that I would never be able to do as a man. I did, too. Working with Mrs. Alvarez, I made enough money to help my brothers get through San Diego City College. After that, a judge I cleaned for helped me get my GED and a job as a bailiff at Central. I should say that she helped Mavis, because by then, I was pretty much Mavis all the time.

I still am. For me, being Mavis is just less complicated than being Marvin. That's it.