by Jack Wallen
Once the song finished, he returned to the cold, hateful world, stuffed the player in his bag, zipped it closed, and headed out the door.
Lakmé kept the drive quiet to put himself in the proper frame of mind. He knew he was going to be trapped inside a closet for a number of hours and wanted to be as relaxed as he could. Of course, as a child, he had become very familiar with the comfort a closet could bring.
When Lakmé got close to the house, he pulled the car off to the side of the road and parked in a boat-slip rental parking lot. He checked his watch—eight-thirty. He knew Gene Kelly would be on the road to work. It was safe to enter the home. He got out of the car, pulled his doctor’s bag from the trunk, and walked to the house.
The house and its surroundings were dead quiet. Rush hour was over, and the boat traffic on the river had yet to pick up.
The back yard was well kept. The grass had been recently cut, and it was obvious that new plants had been recently potted. Gene Kelly was as meticulous with his surroundings as he was with his appearance. He imagined Gene pushing the lawnmower in heels and an a-line skirt. The thought made him smile.
Just as he presumed, the second-story patio was easy to reach, and the lock on the door gave way instantly to the nimble lock picks.
The house was immaculate. “Hello, Martha Stewart!” he laughed lightly. Without taking too much time, he took a tour of the house. He stopped at a large aquarium. It seemed Jean Ann was into the ocean. Spread out in front of him was an enormous tribute to the natural reef system. He could see every color of the rainbow, as well as corals, and anemones, and snails, and shrimp. He could have stared at the scene for hours. But he knew he didn’t have the time to take in such beauty. It saddened him to turn away from the silent, glassed-in world.
When Lakmé reached the bedroom, he was stopped in his tracks by mirrors. Floor to ceiling, the room was covered in mirrors. They repulsed him. It wasn’t just the sight of his overly masculine frame that disturbed him, but also the thought of poor Gene weeping at what he saw every day. He could feel the echo of sorrow, could smell the bittersweet dreams of being a woman.
“Soon, my friend. Soon, you will wake to find your life has been changed and your every wish fulfilled.” He closed his eyes and drank in the sweet air of salvation.
The closet was one of the largest walk-ins he’d ever seen. The doors were open to reveal a wardrobe that would shame even the most fashion-obsessed princess. Gowns, dresses, slacks, suits, coats, and shoes for every day of the month. It was astonishing.
Lakmé stood transfixed in front of the closet. It was just like the aquarium, only motionless. There was such life in there, such wonder. Tears started falling down his cheeks. He cried as the memories once again took over.
“Your closet is so pretty, Mommy!” His seven-year-old self stared as if he was viewing the incarnation of Christmas itself.
“You like them, sweetie? All the pretty clothes?” She hugged the boy tightly. “Oh, you’re Momma’s little girl, aren’t you?” He smiled and nodded excitedly. “You do wish you were a girl, don’t you, sweetie? You wish you didn’t have this little thing between your legs so you could wear all of Momma’s wonderful clothing, don’t you?” Again, he nodded.
“Well darlin’, you don’t have to worry about a thing. You go right ahead and wear whatever you want!” The boy squealed in excitement. “Would you like to play dress-up, sweetie?” He bit his lower lip trying to hold back the thrill.
She pulled a few things from her closet and then turned to a dresser to remove some panties, a pair of nylons, and a bra. “We’re gonna do you up right, sweetheart. Then we’re gonna drive around town like a momma and daughter ought to. Won’t that be fun? I’ll take my little girl out for a ride.”
Very slowly, she dressed him. Standing in front of the mirror, all he saw was a little girl. A beautiful little girl. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy. This was better than birthdays.
Before they could reach the front door, Dad came home. Smelling of the usual beer and cigarettes, he slammed the door shut and stood in amazement. The veins on his forehead started to stand out. His hand was rhythmically squeezing the air. His face turned bright red, and his mouth opened to vent the heated blast of hell.
“What in the fuck is this?” He didn’t give any time for a reply. “What in the fuck have you done with my boy?”
Momma was shaking and instantly started weeping. “I just wanted—”
“You just wanted what? A little queer for a son? Is that what you want? How many times do I have to tell you, I ain’t allowing no sissy boy in this house.” His father looked at him as he was trying desperately to disappear from sight. “Now get back into the bedroom and shut the door.” The boy started to turn. “No, not you! Your momma!” He was confused. He looked at his mother, but she looked confused, too. Dad’s face twisted in anger. “I said, get back into the bedroom. Now!”
Without hesitation, the young boy’s mother ran back into the bedroom, shut the door, and locked it behind her.
“Well, Daddy has a new girl in the house. Is that right?” He circled the boy, pinching and prodding as he spoke. “Whatcha got under here?” His father lifted his dress. “Mmmmmm, I can smell ya from here, little girl.”
The little boy was paralyzed. He knew what was coming and wanted to fold up inside of himself and hide.
Hearing the garage opening pulled him from the nightmare he was reliving. He had fallen to the floor of the closet. He was able to stand, but was shaking and covered in a cold sweat. He hated the visions, hated them for reminding him of his painful past. But when they faded, they left him with a clarity of purpose.
He quickly readied the syringe and solidified his footing. He knew there was a possibility of a struggle and was prepared for anything.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The six o’clock bell sounded, telling everyone it was time to close down the phones and head home. Gene shut down his laptop, slid it inside his briefcase, said goodnight to the friendlier co-workers, and sauntered out to his car. It was a chilly evening, and he was looking forward to stepping out of his itchy, confining suit and into a nice wool skirt combo. He had thought about just the right outfit for that evening’s dinner and was thrilled because he was finally entertaining a little group of fellow cross-dressers. The dinner was being catered, and the entertainment would be the sheer joy of just sitting by the fire chatting with the ‘girls’ about shopping, makeup, wigs, and maybe even a little lobbying.
He tuned the radio to WUOL. WUOL was the University of Louisville’s radio station, but it was also the only local station that played the likes of Barber, Finzi, and Brahms. A Copland piece sung by Dawn Upshaw was underway. He adored Upshaw’s wonderfully lyric soprano. Delicate and perfectly articulate, she could sing the phone book and make it beautiful.
The voice and the strings made Gene think of his feminine self. He noticed the perfectly feminine tone of the singer’s voice and wondered how different it would feel to experience that, instead of the rough, masculine baritone of his own. He let his mind wander off as he daydreamed himself in front of an orchestra. He was standing near a piano in a pink chiffon gown and singing the lovely strains of Knoxville: Summer of 1915. He was Dawn Upshaw. He felt pure elation. His head was swaying as he sang the words.
“But will not, oh, will not, not now, not ever; but will not ever tell me who I am.”
Soon after Miss Upshaw finished the lovely Copland melody, Gene pulled into his drive and hit the garage door opener. He slid his black BMW Z3 into its stable, got out of the car, and headed into the house.
Gene dropped his wallet and keys in their usual spot. He briefly acknowledged and enjoyed the light fragrance coming from a small vase of roses. Passing a rear window, he stopped and looked out at the river. It was one of his favorite moments of the day. Finally, Gene made his way to the bedroom.
He always felt a little nervous excitement when he was about to let go of Gene Kelly and embrace Jean Ann Kell
y. He wished he could enjoy her charms all the time, but he knew his employers and co-workers just weren’t as open-minded as he’d like them to be. “Maybe someday…” he said with a little chuckle in his voice. The thought of arriving at work as Jean Ann brought a smile to his face and warmed his heart.
The stairs to the bedroom were never difficult, even in these later years. Lucky for him he was in wonderful shape, and the severe arthritic condition that had eventually taken his late wife was not something he had to worry about.
TWENTY-EIGHT
We arrived back at the station. It was late, but it didn’t matter. I had to match up the next name. I couldn’t take a chance on being too late. I asked Skip to give me a hand. He whined about a possible date, but I gave him the if you know what’s good for you look, and he bowed his head in submission. I gave Skip a reprieve when he promised to bring me a cup of coffee; I needed my caffeine.
Fortunately, I knew that Tasha was just as obsessive as I was and would still be working. She was a member of the Ghoul Squad, after all, with a tendency to work into the wee hours.
When I entered the lab, I saw Tasha working on a cadaver while wearing headphones and gyrating like she was in the middle of some Gothic dance club. “Hey, Elvira!” I called. She was drowning in her music, and my voice alone wouldn’t save her. I tapped her on the shoulder; she quickly turned and nearly dropped me with a punch. Luckily for me, my reflexes were on over-drive.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,” I apologized as my heart slowed from its current breakneck speed. She tried to recover her cool, an act that was totally lost on yours truly: the queen of uncool.
“No big deal.” She took off her headphones. “Is there something I can do for you, Detective Davenport?” I had no idea why she insisted on the formalities.
“You can call me Jamie, you know,” I returned. She nodded. “I need the evidence you pulled out of the bodies.” I spoke quickly. She picked up on my urgency and immediately turned to retrieve the fragments.
She set the aluminum trays in front of me. I had copied the words, but I needed to be in front of the real thing. It might have been superstitious, but if it helped even the slightest bit, I was all for it.
Tasha went back to her music and her patient. I set the page of names beside the fragments.
I already knew the first clue spelled out Tye Siam’s name, so I concentrated my efforts on the second clue: jesus and khriste llike yearning.
The words that had started out seeming to have some semblance of meaning began to blur together in a jumbled mass. In my own naive way, I had hoped that the name would pop out at me as Tye Siam’s had. No such luck this time around. Even with the list of names from the Southern Belles, I was being put to task.
I realized that I was making this too difficult; trying to Zen the clue out of the puzzle wasn’t working at all. I decided to take it one letter at a time. The first letter of the first word matched a number of names on the list: Jessie, Johanna, Johnette, and Jean. With the second letter, both Johanna and Johnette were out of the running. Finally, with the two s’s of jesus, it looked like I had my victim. Khriste offered up the final letters in ‘Jessie.’ I reached for the phone and started to dial the phone number listed next to that name. Before I could get the last digit dialed, I took notice of the last name, Rose. That blew my solution straight to hell. There was no ‘o’ in the fragment. So, I went back to Jean, whose last name was Kelly.
“Bingo!” I exclaimed as soon as I was able to connect the dots and see the name ‘Jean Kelly’ pop out of the words. I immediately grabbed the phone and called the number associated with that name. The phone rang once, twice, three, four, and five times. No one answered.
I had to locate Jean Kelly. Without hesitation, I tapped out Skip’s number and insisted he come down to the lab. He didn’t even say ‘tata’ before he hung up. I wanted to be able to bleed this turnip myself, but for some reason my brain was frozen, and I couldn’t come up with the means to contact Jean.
Skip finally managed to make his way down to the lab. “Sorry, I needed some serious caffeine. What ya got?”
I filled him in on what I’d found. He ran to the phone and called Delancy, the vice-president of the Southern Belles, who might know where Jean Kelly lived. I should have thought of calling one of the Belles. I made a mental note to chastise myself later for slipping on that one.
It took Skip no time to complete the call and come back with Jean Kelly’s address.
I grabbed Skip, and we sped to the car. We had no time to lose, nor did Jean Kelly.
TWENTY-NINE
Gene had entered the bedroom and was preparing to transform into Jean. He kicked off his shoes, pulled off his socks, carefully pulled off his silk tie, stripped off his suit, and looked into one of the many mirrors. The mirrors displayed the transforming man from every angle. With the mirrors surrounding him he would be able to see how he looked from all angles. He never had to worry about missing panty lines, messed up hems, bunches, or wrinkles in this room. In a room full of mirrors, no secret was left untold, no lie was left uncovered.
Gene took in a deep breath and turned to the closet. He placed a hand on the handle and opened the door.
He only had a few seconds to take in what had happened. Lakmé’s body standing in the closet. An arm reaching out. A sting in his neck. Darkness overtaking. There was no chance to put up a fight. He could only dance a slow motion death-waltz to the floor.
Lakmé watched as Gene Kelly’s eyes fluttered – like the wings of a butterfly. The image nearly brought tears to Lakmé’s own eyes. Gene’s heart would be pounding in his ears as he lost consciousness. He had no idea what was happening, or what he had done.
Gene Kelly dropped to the floor like a shopping bag filled with yesterday’s fashion. Lakmé scooped up the limp body and carried it to the bed. Unfortunately, the bed was a modern, platform-style, so there were no posts. He gathered up some of Jean’s best hose and tied him to the bed by looping the hose around the legs of the bed frame. Necessity was definitely the mother of invention when it came to bondage.
With the man firmly tied down, Lakmé began to lay out his tools. He spoke gently as he ritualistically placed each tool on the stained panties. “Do you remember when you first admitted you were a cross-dresser? Do you remember how freeing and exciting it was? Remember how at first, all you could think was that you wished so desperately you could be a girl? Well, my dear, those days are gone. It’s far too late for you to be a girl, but with my help, you can and will be a woman.” He finished laying out the necessary tools. He set his CD player on the nightstand, and sat down beside his patient. He placed his hand on Jean’s. “When you awake tomorrow morning, you will stand in front of your mirrors and cry out in happiness. You see, I’m going to pull from within you that which you desire the most. I am going to make you into the real woman you have dreamed about since you were a little boy.”
He pushed play on the CD player, and the Flower Duet spilled from the speakers. He closed his eyes, and began the ritual.
He held up his blade as if it was a conductor’s baton. There were no tears this time. His tears had been replaced with an empowering sense of triumph and righteousness.
As he had with his last patient, Lakmé started with the creation of the breasts. He sliced the skin in the same pattern, only this time, he managed to keep the blood from flowing so freely with the help of an old cotton t-shirt. With each incision, his blade sang along with the music, and his skill grew by leaps and bounds.
After the final cut to the chest was made, Lakmé managed to gently stuff a Victoria’s Secret Second Skin satin bra under the folds. He smiled at the irony of the bra he used. As with his new artist-like use of the scalpel, his skill at getting the breasts formed had improved since the last operation. Lakmé was sure the girls would greatly appreciate that fact in later days.
The sutures on the chest were much neater this time. His careful slices with the scalpel helped to keep the
sewing to a minimum. With each suture, the flow of blood abated until the chest was completely sealed.
With the breasts finished, it was time to move to the genitals. The Flower Duet was set on repeat, and everything was going smoothly.
The penis was the first item to be removed. It was, after all, no more than a piece of useless meat. The blade sang through the base of Jean Kelly’s moderately-sized manhood. With each subtle movement of the surgical steel, Lakmé could sense the masculinity fading away.
The blood flowed so gently. It was like a tiny river of passion trickling over his rubber-gloved hands. The motion of the blood, the sounds of the song, and the thought of the gift combined to bring tears back to his eyes as he created the female genitalia.
Slice. You’re a man.
Slice. You’re not.
He held the useless, dying flesh in his hand. He smiled at how it looked, so innocent, as if it never really meant to do any harm to the woman who was trapped behind its power. But that power was oozing out of both ends. He placed the chunk of meat on the patient’s stomach. The lump would be used in creating Jean’s vagina.
Before he sewed the wound closed, he pulled the fragment of paper from his bag that contained the blessing of the next patient and gently tucked it inside the genital cavity. Every surgeon left his mark; this was his calling card. It wasn’t meant so much as a signature but more as a token of good luck for the next patient. With each passing day, the patient carrying the blessing would grow into her new-found womanhood, and with each passing day, the blessing of the next new woman would become part of the cycle of femininity. He thought it clever.
