A Kind of Justice (22 page)

“I feel like I wasn't woman enough for you. I feel like if I had been, you'd still be a man.” She looks at me with bloodshot eyes. “And even
now, I keep seeing you go in a bedroom with another woman because I'm not attractive to you.”

“You are the most beautiful woman I've ever known.” Even as I say the words I'm thinking they sound empty. I just don't know how else to say what's true. “I've always been attracted to you and I always will be. But, Betsy, you're not a lesbian. If we tried to be lovers, we'd lose each other. You need me as a sister, and I need you that way, too.”

We hold each other for a long time, Betsy brokenhearted and lost, me guilty and inept. At moments like this I'm overwhelmed by how much it sometimes hurts to have people you love in your life.

*    *    *

S
ATURDAY
, O
CTOBER
25

Wilkins sits on a park bench where he can see the playground. He followed the three of them here as he has several times, Logan, the woman, the child. It's not part of the investigation. More trying to understand Logan, how she thinks, what motivates her. Catch an insight that leads to an insight that explains why she would murder John Strand. Hang him up by his hands and slit his throat. A ritual murder, gory, premeditated, and then some. Professional. A clean crime scene. Nothing out of place, no telltale clues.

There were the synthetic hair fibers, but a defense lawyer would shred that evidence in a minute. The guy liked diddling transwomen. Lots of synthetic hair fibers in that demographic. Wilkins laughs to himself, thinking of all the transgender women he'd met since he reopened this case. He was getting so familiar with them he could spot a wig from natural hair before he said hello. He could read faces and tell where they had surgery.

The thing about Logan was, he knew she did it, but he still couldn't
figure out why. The man-hating killing spree might work in court, but it was thin, and he didn't buy it himself. She definitely took her revenge on the thug, but it was a beating, not a killing. And she seemed to get along with men. God knows that pretty boy Pavlik had a thing for her. How about that? Handsome guy, women falling all over him, and he's got the hots for a half-male transwoman.

This case wasn't unfolding the way he thought it would. Not even close.

And now this family thing. Logan is shacked up with her ex-wife and her child. They do everything together, like they were married. He didn't see it coming. He had never heard of anything like this.

The woman is sitting on a bench near the swings. Logan is helping the child climb on the playground equipment. She squeals with delight when she reaches the top and jumps into Logan's waiting arms.

He's thinking of her as Logan, now. As a transwoman instead of a tranny or queer. And as “her” or “she.” It has been a long, strange path. She still reviles him at times, especially when she gets dolled up like a whore to go to work, or when she hugs the woman, or when she kisses anyone on the lips.

He watches Logan and the child play. A few months ago the sight of a child being touched by a transgender woman would have made him feel queasy. The thought of the child being raised by lesbians would have made it worse. And yet, the little girl seems happy, and Logan and the woman seem considerate of each other. He remembers taking his own daughter to the park when she was a toddler, watching over her like a guard dog, smiling when she laughed out loud, her laughter riding on the air currents like the scent of spring flowers. He remembers holding hands with his wife when they walked to and from the park. They didn't do it enough. The job got in the way. And he got in the way, Allan Wilkins, the things he couldn't do, feelings he couldn't express, fears he couldn't climb over.

Wilkins sighs. Logan and the woman are walking back toward their apartment. The little girl swings gaily between them, holding their hands, leaping in the air as they walk so they can swing her forward. Her happy laughter haunts him. It is like an echo of his daughter's glee all those years ago. Logan stops at the edge of the park and picks up the girl in one hand and takes the woman's hand with the other. They walk away, the woman leaning her head sadly on Logan's shoulder, Logan bending her own head to console her. Like the poetry of a sad song, Wilkins thinks. What could have been.

*    *    *

S
ATURDAY
, O
CTOBER
25

I had hoped a trip to the park with Robbie would cheer Betsy a little, but it didn't. She's trying to be brave and supportive, but she is clearly miserable. We slog through dinner, me sitting in but not eating because Jen and I are going out to eat. Betsy tries to be conversational with me, but it's not working. I wish I hadn't invited Jen to come by and meet the family.

Jen arrives in time to say goodnight to Robbie. Robbie is intrigued with her. Jen cuts a dashing figure in her tuxedo, an intoxicating blend of male and female images. The slacks are masculine but don't hide her feminine derriere. The coat makes you think James Bond until you see the Marilyn Monroe cleavage bulging under the lapels. Her hair, an icy platinum blond, is slicked back on the sides and teased into curly spikes on top. If it were just us here, I would kiss her wildly and breathe hot sighs as I ran my hands over her feminine curves.

Instead, I greet her warmly and introduce her to Betsy and Robbie. Betsy smiles and nods. Robbie stares the kind of admiring stare that children do. Jen's face melts into a maternal smile, a dimension I never
imagined she had. She kneels to the ground and extends a hand to Robbie. Her nails are long and exquisitely painted in black and red geometric patterns. Robbie grabs Jen's hand and examines the nails like a jeweler appraising a diamond.

“Momma!” she says. “Look! Look!”

Betsy blushes and bends down a little. “Very beautiful.”

Robbie gushes, makes eye contact with Jen, smiles a shy smile.

“You're very beautiful,” Jen says to Robbie. When she smiles her glossy lipstick makes her lips glow with femininity. She holds her arms out to offer a hug. Robbie steps to her and throws her arms around Jen. After a brief hug, Robbie pauses to stare at Jen's hair. She takes a lock in her fingers and examines it closely.

“Do you like the color?” Jen asks.

Robbie nods her head enthusiastically.

“Well, stay close to your Aunt Bobbi, and when the time comes, she'll fix you up.”

Over Betsy's dead body, I think. Betsy is watching with a mechanical smile on her face. I'm certain she's playing images of Jen and me making out in her mind. Me, too, but I'm enjoying them and she's not.

Jen takes me to dinner at an Italian place in the north side theater district. It is the perfect Jen selection—chef-owned, gourmet cuisine, nice wine list, and virtually unknown outside its neighborhood. We start with wine and small talk about the hair show, the salon business, friends we share in Indianapolis and Chicago. Over the main course we talk about her stab at heterosexuality. It's humorous at first. She refers to her ex as Thick Dick and says when God was designing Richard—against all reason, Jen is a sincere believer—he decided to endow a man with the brains and the penis of a horse. Her tales of life with Thick Dick alternate between slapstick anecdotes about his stupidity and ribald accounts of his work as a stallion.

We stop for an after-dinner drink at a lesbian bar in Andersonville,
a favorite of ours when we were lovers alternating visits between Indy and Chicago. We find a table in the corner and sip chocolate-flavored liquor. It's still quiet in the place. We talk in low voices. Jen talks about how beautiful Betsy is, how she can see why I was attracted to her. She asks if it's different now, as a woman.

“Yes,” I say, not sure I want to go down this path. “I still love her, but it's a different kind of love. There's no sex. I need to be there for her and Robbie.”

Jen pushes the issue. Wouldn't I really like to make love with her? I issue my standard answer, the one I give myself every time I have libidinous thoughts about Betsy.

“I understand what you mean,” says Jen. “But still, don't you go to sleep some nights and dream about kissing those beautiful lips, how soft they must be?” She gets more graphic, what Betsy's skin must feel like, her breasts. She continues a sensuous tour of Betsy's body as she sits closer to me and starts touching and fondling. We kiss, hot and wet, our tongues coupling and rubbing. Her lips are full and soft, her breath sweet and damp and warm. Her cologne is delicate, like wild-flowers in the spring. It mingles with the scent of her hair, fragrant and delicious. It makes me picture us lying in a field of prairie grass and flowers, a gentle breeze wafting over our bare skin, birds singing, Jen's fingers bringing me to climax.

“Ready to go?” She says it dreamily, with a sensuous smile. She knows I am.

We go to her hotel and make love, cuddle, and talk, then repeat the cycle into the wee hours of the morning. We fall asleep in each other's arms.

I awaken to an overcast Sunday morning feeling equal parts guilty and fulfilled. Jen is still asleep, an angelic look on her face. It is impossible to imagine what an appetite she has for seduction and lovemaking when she looks like this. I rise quietly and ready myself to go home and
change for work. The show must go on, even on Sunday. I rouse Jen briefly to say good-bye and leave. I dread facing Betsy when I walk in.

*    *    *

S
UNDAY
, O
CTOBER
26

The apartment is as quiet as a tomb when I get home. For a moment I think they've left, moved out, then I see Robbie's toys in the living room, Betsy's coat in the closet. I hurry through my morning ritual and prepare for the day.

As I finish dressing and primping for the last day of the show, Betsy's familiar knock sounds on my bedroom door. I open it. Betsy looks tired, deep rings under her eyes, her skin shadowed in sadness.

“Did you have a good time last night?” Her voice is frosty.

“Yes.” I'd prefer to lie because that's not what she wants to hear, but we have to get over this.

“Did you two fuck your lesbian brains out?”

I try not to be shocked by her language. Or her disgust. “We did what lovers do. You make it sound like bestiality. It wasn't.”

“What is bestiality?” Betsy asks. She says “bestiality” with a scornful sneer.

“It doesn't matter. We made love. It was nice.” I want to add that someday it will happen for her, too, but in her current state I think she would scratch my eyes out.

She glowers at me in silence. I step to her, my arms open to hug her, a tacit apology. She flings my arm away. “Don't treat me like one of your lesbian whores!” She says it in a harsh whisper, keeping her voice down so she doesn't wake Robbie, but charging her words with an anger that is unnerving. Her stare falls to the cleavage bulging from my SuperGlam dress. “Touching me with your boobs! Ugh! Do you
have any idea how disgusting that is? Putting your arms around me? Were you going to feel me up? Kiss my tits? Oh God. Am I supposed to be turned on by that? You are disgusting, Bobbi!” She breaks down, sits on the edge of the bed, and sobs, her head in her hands.

Her words are shocking. They seep into my senses and find the place I store all the guilt I feel for all the hurts I've caused Betsy. Shame showers over me, followed by the overwhelming sense that I'm a misfit who doesn't belong in polite society, a familiar emotion that has walked with me since I quit denying my transgender reality. I push my issues aside and try to tend to Betsy. Her anger is real, but she doesn't mean her words. I put a hand tentatively on her shoulder. She continues sobbing but doesn't pull away. I sit beside her and put an arm around her. She continues sobbing, head in hands.

“Goddammit, Bobbi. I loved you so much! You were my everything. I needed you, and you had to go be someone else. I need you now, but you're someone else. You have tits and a vagina and you fuck other women.” She rambles. I hardly hear her because I know what she's saying more clearly than she's saying it. Bob Logan was the one for her. Bobbi Logan is no substitute. She is expressing herself cruelly because it's the only way she can get it out. Knowing that doesn't really dampen the hurt, though.

“Do you think all this . . .” she struggles for the right word, gesturing at my girlie presentation . . . “this shit you've done to yourself makes you . . .” Her voice trails off. She doesn't need to finish the sentence. I get the gist of it.

I remove my arm from her and create a little distance between us. Being close to a leper isn't going to make her feel better.

“I'm sorry,” I say.

“I can't live like this, Bobbi. This is perverted. You're my ex-husband, for God's sake. I have to move out. I'll find something tomorrow. This is over. This is over.”

She lapses back into sobs.

“Would you like me to go?” I ask in a whisper. She nods yes without looking up.

“Okay,” I say. “But you need to know, I'm the same person. I look different, but I'm the same person. No one will ever love you and Robbie more than I do. I hope some man comes along who will love you as much, but no one will love you more.”

I give her a farewell rub on the shoulder and leave. I feel like the ogre in a children's story, ugly and cruel.

As I reach the sidewalk in front of the apartment, Betsy appears on the porch and calls me back.

“I'm sorry, Bobbi.” It's cold out. She's shivering a little, her arms crossed. We are a few feet apart. “I'm upset. I didn't mean the things I said, but we have to talk. This isn't going to work.”

“I understand,” I say. “I have to get to the show, but I'll be home early. In time for dinner.”

She looks into my eyes and nods her head. “Okay.”

“I love you,” I say as I leave. Her lips make a small, sad smile. Her head moves ever so slightly in a tenuous confirmation. There will be no more
I love yous
from Betsy. No more cooking for three. No more coming home to an apartment filled with voices and life.