By morning, I was ready for the day to be over.
I called in sick. Call it ‘heartsick’ or ‘gutsick’, take your pick.
Either way, it was just a symptom of a greater malady. The excitement of the past two days, the adrenaline from playing detective, had subsided, leaving me with a real fear for Dylan’s life. Was this a campaign stunt like the Senator thought? Wouldn’t have made much sense. Why would his opponent do such a thing? To throw the Senator off his game? And why leave traces that could so easily be tracked? No, it was far more likely that all of this was an elaborate hoax. Somehow, Dylan was in on it, and yet I was getting worried about the three most reasonable outcomes — kidnapped, dead, or an insider.
If it weren’t so frightening, it would be hilarious, me getting thrown off the force only to land in the middle of yet another criminal conspiracy, having to clean up the shit that the real cops couldn’t or wouldn’t dirty their hands with.
Of course, my sick call prompted a return call from Tennyson.
“If this is about last night—”
“Oh, please. I think it’s food poisoning.”
“Yeah, right.”
I told him I’d work from home, and he asked if I might feel up to dropping by the Senator’s house in the evening for that talk about my ‘future’ in the campaign. I told him maybe.
I wasn’t going to feel any better, that was for sure.
So, instead of going to work, I called Paula and went out to brunch.
Life in the bubble of a political campaign had messed up my sense of the outside world. I had forgotten it was Saturday, prime brunch time, but there was no escaping the fact when I met Paula at Nightingale in Uptown. It was a small café, very modern, very hip. Paula acted like a regular, and at least a couple of the wait staff seemed to know her. She presided over her blue-vinyl padded bench like a throne, while I took the hardback chair directly across from her. She’d ordered a bowl of fresh fruit for the table before I’d even arrived, then proceeded to order a mammoth amount of food, whereas I only wanted some toast and jam.
“No, no, no, my child, no. Order something that was once alive. Order something good for your blood. It looks like you need it.” Then she ordered sausage for me. Apparently, my consent was not required.
The towering Bloody Mary standing in front of her alongside a Miller Lite pony just made me feel queasy, but I did require a little hair of the dog, so I ordered a gin-and-juice.
Courage imbibed, I asked her for something … not exactly legal.
She dipped her chin, gave me a few blinks. Straightened her arms until she was grasping two corners of the table. She knew how to strike the most imposing posture. She’d long ago realized her passing resemblance to rock star Paul Stanley of KISS, and when she transitioned, she chose to capitalize on it, accentuating the right features with makeup and taking the name Paula Livingston. You get it right? When Stanley tromped all over Africa looking for Dr. Livingstone? Educated woman. As for her current look, she used to have long curly black hair, but due to some of our recent adventures, for now she was keeping it short, straight, and bleached, which somehow made her incredulity at my request seem even more intense.
“Why, oh, why, would I give you any hormones?”
“Just … just some extra. Or someone else’s extra. Some old ones. I’ll pay you. It’s not like I won’t pay.”
“So, I’m a dealer, too? Is that what you think of me?”
Sigh. “You know so many people like me. Like us. And I don’t. Please. Do I really have to wait a year?”
She shook her head. “Do you think the rest of us took shortcuts? Maybe, maybe so, but what gives you the right? You haven’t even talked to a shrink yet. I can tell you haven’t.”
“Okay, never mind. Forget I asked.”
Pursed lips. Narrowed eyes. “Aw, it’s a man, isn’t it, honey? You’ve met someone.”
“I said, forget I asked.”
Widened eyes. “Exactly. That’s it. That’s all it took. Now you want to speed things along.”
“Forget it!”
“You’ve got to tell me everything.”
“No, I don’t.”
With an admonishing sigh, she made a show of giving up the interrogation, then smiled and held her drink up for a jovial toast. We clinked glasses, but I was careful to take small sips to avoid it becoming a truth serum.
Even still I told her about Dylan. At least as much as I could. I don’t mean ‘as much as I could legally’, but ‘as much as I could before we paid the bill’. It was a rather long, luxurious, watching-the-joint-empty-out sort of lunch. I even had a second gin-and-juice, while Paula moved on to Moscato. As she toasted me again, I noticed the stump of her pinky finger wrapped around the glass, a silent reminder of what she’d endured to help Joel and me survive a similarly dangerous situation as the one I seemed to be maneuvering my way into as we spoke. But whereas I was nearly shitting myself with nerves, she wore a beautiful pink-hued pearl ring on that little stump, as if she wanted someone to ask about the loss of half her digit.
“My, my,” she said, deflating. “Those boys play hard, don’t they?”
“You think it’s just playing? Like Marquette does?”
“There’s nothing in your story that indicates anything more dangerous than boys playing politics. This is just … stupid.”
I looked away, must’ve twisted my lip absent-mindedly.
“You’re worried?”
I nodded. I hadn’t cried yet. Hearing myself tell her the story made me want to. I mean, regardless of whether the guy had been snatched or whether he was in on it, I felt helpless, especially after two nights of crawling around town with Joel. Whatever was up with Dylan, I was either helpless or pathetic. He was either out of my reach or laughing at me from afar. And just like that the tears started.
“Oh, honey.” Paula crossed her arms. “Finish your drink.”
She told me that she’d worked in theater long enough to know when someone was playing to the audience a little too much, looking for a better review than the rest of the cast, perhaps. Looking to be noticed. “The actor who acts as if he or she is in a completely different play, a somehow better and more entertaining one? In theory, that kind of self-importance should make an actor look like an amateur. But that’s not what happens. What happens is that those little shits become huge stars.”
“You think Dylan might be trying something like that? Was he a plant? Or Konzbruck?”
A lazy shrug, because Paula never wanted to seem too interested in anything that might divert attention from her. “Let’s say an actor struts and frets like your guy. Do you know how the rest of the cast make him get back in line?”
“I’m listening.”
“They change the rules. They collude before the show and come up with a back-up plan. Force that overreaching clown to either improve on the fly, or come back down to earth with the rest of us. That’s why there aren’t as many huge stars as there might be.”
I got what she was saying. But I didn’t have someone else to collude with. I mean, Joel, sure, but these days I didn’t want to piss off anyone else on the campaign. I was being watched like some infectious disease under a microscope.
I checked my phone. Five missed calls, four of them from Tennyson. One from an unknown number which might have been the Senator’s, but I hadn’t got around to putting his details back into my phonebook and he didn’t leave a message. Score one for me over Tennyson — he deletes the Senator’s number, Marquette sends it again. Too many texts to count, most just about details for upcoming events, which they already knew the answer to, but they texted anyway because that’s what people in campaigns did to make sure they were on the record, part of the team, their name preserved for posterity.
But those messages from Tennyson … four already and two identical: How you feelin now?
Right, game on. Like Paula said, time to change the rules.
I went back to the townhouse, packed a small bag, and t
ook that Lincoln in the parking garage for a drive out of town, out to Jahnke Farms to see my dad.
I texted Tennyson: Feelin worse. Gonna sleep it off. Alone. Off the grid.
And for the first time in god knew how many weeks, I powered down my phone.
I had spent my formative years, tweens until I left for college, at the Jahnke hobby farm, a working farm on the small scale, but more of a bed-and-breakfast, tourist trap, beautiful place to hold a wedding, that sort of thing. My dad had bought it when he grew restless in his job as a hunting and fishing guide for clients of the big corporation he had worked for. As part of that job, he had tended to their northwoods retreat for over two decades, but felt ever less fulfilled. So he’d bought the farm for pretty cheap over in Alexandria, a sort of vacation mecca for people from the Twin Cities and St. Cloud who grew tired of metro life every summer and fled to any of Minnesota’s over ten-thousand lakes.
Unfortunately, our farm wasn’t on the lake, but it still attracted the b&b set, mostly retired couples or churchy families, who liked the rustic vibe.
Unfortunately, again, it was exactly that rustic vibe that drove my own mother away. She despised the guests, her anger stewing as her home was taken over by pesky people who treated the place with far too little respect for my mother’s liking. Then Dad banished her television to our basement apartment, meaning she came out less and less until finally, although the word ‘divorce’ was never mentioned, she rented a condo on Lake Calhoun in Minneapolis and moved there full time. That left my older sister Marcia and me divided, of course, but we were trying to make the best of it, even as Dad grew desperately lonely yet too proud to tell Mom, whereas Mom became overjoyed and relieved to be away from the farm. I wasn’t sure how much longer the thread between them would hold, but so far she hadn’t quite found it in her to snip it in two.
Pleased as I was about their tentative limbo, though, it meant that I hadn’t been able to come out to them together. No, that would’ve been too easy. Instead, my mom learned about my transitioning when Joel, Robin, and I had come to town looking for answers as to who had killed Hannah. And after the initial shock of it all, she came around much quicker than I had imagined. What really bothered me — and maybe it was just her trying to act the way she wanted me to — was that she didn’t seem to care. I was hoping for understanding, not uninterested.
Dad, on the other hand, had reacted with great sensitivity, and we’d discussed my transition over the phone, but he’d never seen me fully embracing my womanhood. Was he suspicious? Look, ever since Marcia caught my teenage Lothario in her lingerie, experimenting with her vibrator, I was pretty sure she had told my parents. They had all decided to just let me be me, while at the same time encouraging me to ‘be a real guy’, you know. Want to toss the football around? Want to go see this UFC fight downtown? Hey, how about a subscription to Maxim?
In hindsight, I’m surprised they didn’t just hand over some straight porn. Not that I depended on such questionable charity. I had found plenty of pornography online by then, and not just the straight kind.
Of course, then I went and nearly burned my junk off in a farm ‘accident’, but by now the entire family knew that it had been less of an accident and more of a stupid DIY attempt to solve my ‘manparts’ problem.
A part of me wanted to dress in a way that would make absolute certain my Dad got the message. How about a figure-hugging dress, y’all? And strappy sandals? And the brightest red lipstick and darkest mascara I could find, just so he’d know there was no middle ground for me to stand on anymore?
But that might have confused him too much. A stab in the heart. I couldn’t go through with it. Instead, I applied a bit of makeup, opting for a more natural look, and worked on my hair some. Then I pulled on a dark pair of jeans, boots, and a black silk blouse, so that I looked more like a glam rock band singer on his day off than a transwoman.
Dad was sitting on the front porch swing when I pulled up. As expected, there were several cars scattered around. Summer was our bread, fall our butter. He was grinning in my direction, which I took as a good sign. I parked, got out, and stood there for a moment, taking in the smells of the place, the breeze, and on the edge of my hearing, the sounds of happy guests somewhere on the grounds, maybe wandering the strawberry field, maybe walking the trail through long prairie grass, maybe sitting out back on another porch swing.
And then I turned my attention to him. He’d gotten thinner since my last trip out here, back in the winter when Mom hadn’t left yet, the kitchen hadn’t finished being remodeled, and I hadn’t figured out that the woman on the ice was Andrew Marquette’s missing brother Hans. I wondered if he’d been living on bagged salads and the occasional bratwurst, but his grin seemed healthy enough as I made my way from the parking lot to the steps. Until I stepped onto the porch and took a closer look. Then it seemed painted on, and the paint had cracked.
“So, Dad, what’s the latest?”
Slowly, he got up and hugged me. I felt all of his ribs. And then he said, “Sit with me, son. It’s been too long.”
He was right, it had been too long. And yet, for the next hour and a half, he wouldn’t look at me once. Barely glanced at me the entire time.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said, patting my leg. “Everything’s changing, and I’m getting older. I just wish things had changed when I was younger, you know? Then I wouldn’t be so bad at dealing with them.”
I was pretty sure he meant Mom leaving more than he meant me transitioning. Truth be told, I think he was mad at me because he wanted to talk about Mom leaving much more than he wanted to talk about me. That’s when I realized: my parents were selfish. Very selfish. Sure, Marcia and I had been part of their plan, but not the biggest part. They had idealized parenthood, just like most couples caught up in each other, romantics, not realists. They were the opposite of helicopter parents, really. They were blimp parents. Floating, floating, far away as we came up through our formative years. They thought we had wanted it that way. As teenagers, sure, it had been great. As adults, though, Marcia and I started wishing we’d known them a lot better than we did.
A guest couple stepped through the front door onto the deck, ready for a drive somewhere. The woman wore a floppy hat. They looked freshly retired, still young enough that waiters asked for ID when they requested the senior discount.
“How’s everything?” Dad called to them.
“Wonderful, so wonderful.” The wife. “It’s just a little hot, is all.”
As if Dad could do something about the weather. I held my tongue.
“Is this your … son?”
I’ll give Dad some credit. He almost explained. I could tell by the hemming and hawing. But then he looked to me, and I answered the woman. “Yes. Nice to meet you.”
“Do you work here, too?”
She must’ve met Marcia, who does the finances for Dad, but my sister, much like myself, didn’t want to live here anymore. It had been claustrophobic and uptight when Dad and Mom were together, since we all had to tip-toe around Mom’s depression and Dad’s delusion. As far as he was concerned, Jahnke Family Farm was a smooth operation that had brought us all closer together.
If only.
“No, I’m sorry to say my talents lie somewhere else. I work in the Cities.”
Oh, and of course they lived in the Cities, too, Edina to be exact, and I stopped listening. I nodded. I didn’t like them. Just wanted them to leave. Couldn’t help but think of every guest here as a vulture, picking at the remains of my dad’s dignity. Marcia and I had discussed an ‘intervention’ — get him to sell the farm and make a new life for himself before it was too late. Not that we thought Mom would take him back. No, but he could find someone new, and with a new partner a new purpose in life. The Farm was a disaster.
Neither of us could pull the trigger on it, though. Something about his sad face and melancholy voice. We were cowards.
“Nice to meet you,” the woman said. Her husband was alread
y off the deck, bleeping the car open with his fob. It was obvious they could ‘tell’, and I wondered if they would cease being polite liberals as soon as they closed the car doors behind themselves.
I got to my feet and turned my back on them to spare myself the shame of watching them disparage me. Instead, I turned to my father and put on a brave smile. “How about some iced tea, Dad?”
Later, he told me that my old room, now the ‘Northern Lights’ room, was occupied. If I’d let him know earlier …
“No, hey, don’t worry about it. Just point me to the inflatable matrass in the downstairs den. I’ll be fine.”
He waved me off, said I could have Marcia’s room while she was out of town. A heavy pause, then his eyes dropped to his feet. “I cleared the schedule for the first week of August. I’m going to see your Mom. We might head over to Chicago for a couple of nights.”
“That’s great, Dad.” I’d already heard about him going over, but as far as I understood the situation, it wouldn’t be the type of weekend he was expecting. Then again, neither did I think it would be the weekend where Mom pulled the trigger on making their separation official. To be honest, I didn’t know what to think, least of all why I thought coming back here would be less stressful than sticking around campaign headquarters.
We lingered at the bar in the kitchen, sitting across from each other, our iced tea glasses sweating almost as much as me. I’d brought him up to speed, explained the ‘accident’, which was the hardest part for both of us. I’d let him know that I’d been born this way, and there was nothing wrong with me. I just happened to be in the wrong body. I won’t bore you with his questions. Or rather, I won’t humiliate him by telling you what he asked. Nothing to be done about it. I’m sure he will educate himself in the weeks and months ahead, just like Mom had. It was an uncomfortable talk, one of the most uncomfortable in my life. He didn’t really get it, but what I saw in him was more confusion and hurt than anger, which I hoped would be a good sign going forward.
Castle Danger--The Mental States Page 8
