by Renee James
“I’ve never stopped thinking of you.” His eyes are soft and sincere, his face serious and handsome. A tingle of arousal stimulates my need to break the somber mood in this place.
“Hey, big boy,” I say, trying to effect a Mae West voice. “If I end up in prison, will you drop in on conjugal visit day?”
Phil stays serious. “Don’t even think about prison,” he says. “Fate has intervened. Accept it.”
Betsy intervenes, calling us all to the table for hot chocolate laced with a chocolate-flavored liqueur. It is more delicious than chocolate cake and probably more fattening. We engage in sporadic, lazy conversation about nothing, a moment of limp bodies and peaceful minds. When the moment passes, Phil excuses himself, then Cecelia.
Betsy and I tidy up the kitchen, change into nightgowns, and share the bathroom to do our nightly routines. We finish with a hug, a little tighter and longer than usual, and we share the melancholy thought that this may be our last Christmas together for a very long time. As I start for my bedroom, Betsy takes my hand.
“Please hold me tonight, until I fall asleep?”
My answer is a kiss on the cheek. We pad down the hall to her room, slide under the covers, and spoon, my front against her back, my arm around her, my face nuzzling against her neck. As I drowse toward slumber, I’m recalling the song about making this moment last forever.
* * *
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 25
Christmas morning begins when Robbie climbs on my body and pries one of my eyelids open.
“Are you awake, Aunt Bobbi?” she whispers.
I laugh out loud, my body shaking, my mouth trying to muffle the noise. This has to be the oldest and sweetest tradition in Christendom, the wondrous child rousting the slumberous adults on Christmas morning with the old eyelid-peel maneuver.
I am still in Betsy’s bed, we are still spooned, my left arm still embraces her. My movement and noise has stirred her, but not to wakefulness.
I kiss Robbie and gesture for her to snuggle between Betsy and me. Her face lights up. Robbie’s snuggling is laced with wiggles and giggles and eventually wakes Betsy. She rolls onto her back, a Mona Lisa smile on her face. She kisses Robbie and hugs her for a long moment, then reaches over to touch one hand to my cheek. “I love you,” she says softly. She’s saying it to both of us. We turn to face each other, Robbie in the middle, and share a group cuddle. It’s like the perfect dessert at the end of a perfect meal.
The moment passes quickly. Robbie is anxious to behold Christmas morning, to see the tree, start the music, open gifts, put the popcorn out for the animals, and to express herself the way children do, with movement and laughter.
Before we follow her into the living room, Betsy puts her arms around me and kisses me on the lips, a sister kiss. “Thank you for last night,” she says. I hug her tight. I feel like I am part of a family, a real one where we love each other, even when we disagree, even when we disappoint. Another first, in a season of firsts.
* * *
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 25
Cecelia arrives at nine, laden with a group-sized container of Starbucks coffee and a huge shopping bag filled with presents and a half dozen cinnamon rolls, each one a gooey, eight-hundred-calorie assault on the waistline.
We open gifts and dine and sip and trade Christmas stories, then talk about our favorite Christmas movies. I talk about A Christmas Story. I was a lot like Ralphie as a little boy, so I could identify with him. But deep down inside, I wanted to be his mom. She was beautiful and sexy in an earthy way and selflessly loving. Everything I wished I could be as a woman. And I loved her curls.
At midmorning we pile into Cecelia’s Caddy and do our Christmas rounds. We stop at Marilee’s house and drop off small presents, have a cup of coffee, and enjoy Marilee’s homemade rolls. Robbie engages Marilee in a game of hide-and-seek, always hiding behind their beautiful Christmas tree, always delighted to be found. At noon we head for the TransRising building, stopping at a catering firm on the way to pick up a Christmas dinner for twenty people—the residents and their friends. This is just part of Cecelia’s holiday largesse. When the residents opened gifts this morning, each of them got a card with five crisp twenty-dollar bills in it. The cards were signed “Santa” but the elf in charge was Cecelia. The old softie.
We return home in the early afternoon to start preparing our Christmas dinner. Cecelia leaves to complete her rounds of friends and causes. Her holiday giving list is deep and varied. I remember the first time I became aware of her generosity it was like a slap in the face. I had always thought of her as a self-absorbed transwoman at war with the world. That was before we became friends. Discovering the real Cecelia was one of many lessons I’ve had about judging others. My harshest judgments are so often wrong.
Phil calls just as Betsy imposes thirty minutes of quiet time on Robbie . . . and by extension, on the two of us, too. Phil wants to drop by for a moment. I’d rather not break the spell of the day. Nothing against Phil, but the sight of him often turns my thoughts to his body against mine and this is a day for family. But there’s no fair way to turn him down. Fifteen minutes later he’s at the front door. I don a coat and meet him on the front steps. We go to his car, double parked in front. The car is warm, holiday music plays on the radio. He hands me a shopping bag with the gifts in it, a princess doll for Robbie, a book by a woman whose husband became her sister for Betsy, an anthology of music by the great jazz saxophonist Sonny Rollins for me. I thank him and kiss him on the cheek. His gifts are very thoughtful.
He fills me in on the latest about Wilkins. “He left a note,” says Phil. “He said he just couldn’t see any reason to go on living. Apparently the surgery he was scheduled to have was disfiguring.”
“You can’t even imagine,” I say. “He showed me the pictures. I wouldn’t have wished that on Adolf Hitler.”
“You know,” says Phil, “sometimes you think you know a guy and you don’t really know anything about him. I always thought of Wilkins as an honest cop, but hard, a man with no softness anywhere. He leaves everything to his ex-wife. How many people do that? And in his suicide letter he thanks his captain for letting him use the department car and says he hopes he doesn’t mess it up by dying in it, but if he does, he leaves another note asking his ex to pay for damages. Jesus, who thinks of things like that when they’re planning a suicide?”
We sit in silence for a while, paralyzed by the thought of that tortured man.
“Want to hear the kicker?” says Phil. “We all think of Wilkins as a bone crusher, and he was pretty fearless in taking down people who resisted arrest. But one of the guys who knew him told me the man never fired his firearm except on the range. Said he didn’t believe in it. Can you imagine that?”
Actually, I could. But the realization came too late for me to acknowledge his human qualities to his face. Maybe it wouldn’t have meant anything to him, coming from me, but maybe it would. I really have a long way to go as a human being.
“Still no word on the status of his investigation,” says Phil.
“He said he was taking it to the DA the day before yesterday,” I tell him. “I expected to get a call from them, or maybe a visit. Maybe even get arrested and charged.”
Phil doesn’t know what to say. Me either.
“Thanks for telling me, Phil,” I say at last. “And thanks for the gifts.” I lean over and kiss his cheek again. He squeezes my hand.
“Merry Christmas, Bobbi.”
“Merry Christmas, Phil.”
24
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 25
AFTER ROBBIE SETTLES in for the night, I collapse on the couch and Betsy tidies up around the Christmas tree.
“Oh!” she says. “You forgot to open this one.” She’s holding the package that came yesterday. It got pushed behind the tree, somehow, maybe by Robbie who constantly sorted the gifts by color and size in the lead-up to Christmas. A plain brown box wouldn’t rate very highly in her systems.
“It’s addre
ssed to you,” says Betsy, handing it to me.
The return address is a north-side apartment number and street, no name. I open it, joking to Betsy that I hope it’s not a bomb.
There’s no holiday wrapping inside, just a very thick book, like a photo album, but something much more businesslike. It takes a moment to understand what I’m looking at.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim.
“What is it?” There is alarm in Betsy’s voice. I must have frightened her.
“It’s from Detective Wilkins,” I say. I try to keep my voice normal, but my mind is on fire. I’m pretty sure I’m looking at Wilkins’ investigation, what he called his “murder book.” It’s a thick, three-ring binder notebook, brimming with pages and dividers. I open it and leaf through the pages.
“I think he sent me a duplicate file of his investigation,” I tell Betsy. I’m thinking it’s a nice gesture. My attorney and I will see everything the DA sees and we won’t have to wait for it while the prosecutor plays court tricks.
As I flip through the collection of photos and reports, diagrams and maps, an envelope falls out. There’s a note inside. I read the first page.
Ms. Logan—
I decided you should have this. You’ve been through enough. I could have destroyed it myself, but that would have left you in doubt. You can destroy it and know it’s gone. And you need to destroy this. If you don’t, two good people will be destroyed by John Strand—you and the person who wouldn’t let him kill you. I’m not saying you did the right thing, but Strand’s destruction has gone far enough. Find a better way next time.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim. I read the page again and keep coming back to the sentence, “You’ve been through enough.”
“What is it, Bobbi?” Betsy comes to my side this time, deep concern on her face.
“It’s a message from the grave.”
“What?”
“It’s Wilkins’ murder book. The real one. All the evidence he put together on the Strand murder.”
“Why is it here?” she asks. “I don’t understand.”
I’m struggling with the concept myself. Slowly, I look at Betsy.
“He didn’t file it. He doesn’t want me to confess.”
“I thought he was supposed to be a heartless bigot.” Betsy isn’t being funny. There’s real confusion on her face.
“This is unbelievable,” I say.
I leaf through the pages and pull out some of the photos. They all have names on the front and copy on the back about the person. I show Betsy the photo of me. It’s not very complimentary, but girls like me don’t photograph well. I turn the photo over and read the text to Betsy. “Roberta ‘Bobbi’ Logan, owner of L’Elégance Salon, pursued Strand for the murder of Mandy Marvin, a transwoman beaten to death in 2003.”
I pull out another photo showing a strikingly beautiful woman, blond, stacked, perfect. I show it to Betsy. “Meet Barbi Dancer,” I say. “Strand’s last victim. The girl he beat up the last night of his life.” I stare at her photo, wondering what it feels like to be so incredibly beautiful. “Can you even imagine what it’s like to be someone like Cecelia or me?” I say to her image. The copy on the back of the picture tells me that Ms. Dancer is employed in the sex trade and she called Strand “a demon from hell.” Amen, Miss Dancer.
A few pages later I see an image that chills my soul. I show the photo to Betsy. “He’s one of the men who raped me. His name is . . .” I read the copy, “Andive.” I look at his ugly mug for a moment. “It’s better I didn’t know your name back then,” I murmur. “You, I could have killed.” Wilkins’ caption says Andive knew I set him up in the alley. Good.
I keep turning pages in mute astonishment until I get to the one that slaps me in the face. It’s Officer Phil, wearing an expensive suit, addressing the media, handsome and hauntingly sexy. I turn the photo over and read Wilkins’ note. “A BMW sedan with license plates registered to CPD police sergeant Phillip Pavlik was reported as a suspicious vehicle a few doors down from Strand’s apartment a week prior to the murder. On the night of the murder, Ms. Dancer saw what might have been a black BMW pull away from the curb as she fled Strand’s car.” My mind is racing. Phil? Are you kidding?
As I put the photo back in its plastic sleeve, I glance at Betsy. She’s holding Wilkins’ note and looking at me in a strange way. “Is that Phil?” she asks.
I nod yes. She hands me the second page of Wilkins’ note. “Read this,” she says.
I’m convinced you didn’t know it, but Sergeant Pavlik followed you many times after you were raped, including the night of the abduction. He entered Strand’s residence after you left to make sure no evidence was left behind. He found Strand alive. He knew the man would kill you as soon as he got free, so he took it upon himself to clean up your mess. I’m surprised he had it in him. He’s not that type. He must think the world of you. For his sake, destroy this book. Let the rest of Strand’s secrets die with him.
I lose all strength in my legs. I sit heavily on a chair and stare gape-mouthed at Betsy. Can this be true? The things I’ve said to Phil? The names I’ve called him? The man who can’t let himself love me, but he does this?
And Wilkins? To me, he was always a tranny-hating bigot. Now he gives me back my life.
I rock back in the chair, my mind trying to comprehend the meaning of this. Can this really be the original report? The only copy? I leaf through the book again, looking for original material. Everything from the old investigation files is a dry copy, of course—the summary of the original Strand investigation, the report on the alley mugging, the brief summary of Mandy’s murder. As for pages relating to Wilkins’ current investigation, it’s impossible to say what’s an original and what isn’t. The pages and photos come from digital files on a computer somewhere.
I’m spinning between competing emotions: elation at the thought that I may not be going to jail or even to trial, and profound sadness that my freedom was the last act of a dying man. A man who was much better in life than I ever gave him credit for. A man I never got to thank.
You’ve been through enough.
Wilkins’ words echo in my mind. I try to picture him writing this note. I try to understand why he decided to let me off, and when he made the decision. The package is postmarked December 24 by a delivery service. The day he was supposed to have his surgery. The day he committed suicide. I guess the surgery was a journey he just couldn’t make. I don’t think I could have made it either. It’s one thing to look awful to other people and be regarded as a freak. I know about that. You can learn to deal with it. But he wasn’t going to be able to talk or eat regular food. He was going to be weak and emaciated. He was going to die slowly. A proud man living on an umbilical cord to modern science, his spirit housed in a small, dark place awaiting death.
I keep leafing through the investigation book as I ponder the Wilkins enigma. It’s hard to recall the man I feared and loathed, the angry bigot who called me every horrid name you can call a transsexual. Something in his investigation changed him. Or maybe his illness. Whatever it was, he became civil and respectful, and in our last meetings, it was hard to dislike him.
The apartment is as silent as a graveyard. My mind careens wildly through the revelations of Wilkins’ work. Not just the facts and speculation in the book, other things, too, maybe more remarkable. His journey and, to a lesser extent, mine.
Betsy squeezes into the chair and puts an arm around my shoulders. “Are you okay?” she whispers. I nod, too numb to speak. She kisses my cheek.
We thumb through the final pages of the notebook together. There is an eight-by-ten photo of a dark BMW sedan, its license plate circled with a highlighter. A caption below says it’s the car used to stake out Strand’s apartment in the days before his murder. It looks familiar, an older vintage BMW than most of the ones you see on the street.
On the last page there are images of several 2005 license plate registrations. One is Cecelia’s, for a black Seville. One is Thomas�
�, for an ancient Nissan. The third has the same plate number as the one on the BMW photo and the complaint report. It’s highlighted. So is the name of the license holder. Phillip J. Pavlik.
Wilkins’ warning rings in my ears. And you need to destroy this. If you don’t, two good people will be destroyed by John Strand. You and the person who wouldn’t let him kill you.
* * *
WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 31
I’ve been doing hair since seven o’clock this morning. Everyone but me has left for home. I would love to go home, too, but I have one more thing to do.
Stephen Wilkins, the teenage son of Detective Allan Wilkins, knocks on the salon door at exactly two thirty, our appointed time. He greets me as Ms. Logan and extends a hand. He is a tall, handsome young man and his hand is huge. I hug him instead of shaking hands and tell him I’m sorry for his loss. His face is sad. I think I did the right thing, even if a hug from a white transwoman wasn’t exactly what he was hoping for today.
I usher him to my workstation, offering him a soft drink on the way. I gesture for him to sit in the styling chair where his father sat just days ago. He’s a polite, quiet young man with little physical resemblance to his father. He is lean and angular. He has a lot of structure in his face, prominent cheekbones, wide eyes, a chiseled jaw and chin line. Young Stephen will leave a trail of brokenhearted women in his wake if he chooses to, but the first impression he gives is that of a considerate and serious kid. He’s certainly showing me a great deal of deference.
After we get settled, we look at each other uncomfortably for a moment, neither sure what to say. I’m the adult, so I break the silence. “Do you know why your father wanted us to meet?”
Stephen shrugs, his face a question mark. “I got a package in the mail with some of his things in it . . . that he wanted me to have. There was a letter to me about a lot of things. One was to call you and see if you’d talk to me.”
I blink. It’s my turn to shrug. “I’m not sure what he had in mind,” I say.
