by Joseph Souza
It takes me a few seconds before I realize what he’s talking about, and I break out laughing. I roll up my pant leg and show him one of my prosthetic legs as a way of avoiding the topic.
“Damn!” He leans over and examines it.
“Had both of them blown off below the knee. But I’m sure that doesn’t answer your real question.”
“No, but probably better than having that other thing blowed off.”
“Says you.”
“Says me is right. The only thing I use mine for these days is to go to the john three times a night.”
“A dangling appendage of no real worth?”
“It is at this stage in my life,” he says. “I still don’t understand why you care so much about these dead kids.”
“Something happened to me while I was serving overseas, and it had a huge impact on my life.”
“Of course it did. You lost both of your legs.”
“No, something else.”
“I would have thought losing two legs was enough to mess you up.”
“In many ways that bombing saved my life. It helped me realize that my body can be irreparably broken but then rebuilt and changed for the better. It was an incident that happened the day before the bombing that caused me to hear these voices.”
“Voices? That attack make you crazy?”
“No, I’m not crazy. At least not that I’m aware of,” I say, laughing. “I hear them only at night when I’m sleeping.”
“And you can’t tell me what happened?”
“It’s not that I can’t tell you. It’s just that I’m not ready to talk about it yet.”
“I’m all ears when you’re up to it.”
“Thanks.”
“What about those two dead kids?”
“When I learned that that Afghani girl had been murdered, it felt as if I’d been brought back to Fawn Grove for a specific reason.”
“To find out who killed her?”
“It sounds crazy, I know.”
“That’s because it is crazy. It’s not your job to track down a murderer.”
“Maybe not. Then again, maybe fate has made it my job.” I stand and peer past the curtain and out into the woods. A doe and a mother prance through some bramble. “Does the VW van still run?”
“What do you think?” After spending many years working on mill machinery, my father taught himself to become a skilled mechanic. He could fix most any engine, whether it be a lawn mower, car, or snowblower.
“Can I borrow it to go into town from time to time?”
“What for?”
I walk over and pick up the weekly newspaper, open it to the classified section, and point to an ad.
“You wanna be a line cook at The Galaxy?”
“Just until the time comes when I can return home.”
“No offense, but what the hell do you know about cooking?”
I laugh. “Enough to be dangerous.”
“If that’s what floats your boat, then you can use the van whenever you like. I rarely leave home these days, anyway.”
“I’ll fill it with gas and pick up your groceries whenever you need me to.”
“Did you always know you wanted to be a gal?”
“Let’s just say that I’ve always known that I wanted to be something other than Jaxon. But I didn’t really understand these feelings when I was a kid.”
“The Jaxon I remember was a little hellion on wheels who skipped school and got himself into loads of trouble. Had himself a little cutie back then too. The Greek goddess, I used to call her.”
“You knew about Nadia?”
“I saw you out with her one night but never said anything about it. She probably tried to keep you in line, like most everyone else in town.”
“Looking back, I think I got into so much trouble because I was unhappy with myself. I didn’t know it at the time, but I was miserable and lashing out.”
“I remember how some of the kids used to pick on you, especially that cop. Called you a sissy and a pretty boy. You used to come home practically in tears every day. I’d try to teach you how to defend yourself, but you wanted no part of it,” he says.
“I knew how to fight, but Dalton was bigger and stronger than most of the other kids. I could never figure out why he always had it out for me. Maybe he sensed that I wanted to be a girl before even I realized it.”
“Probably made him insecure, which is why he took advantage of the situation.”
“Thanks for the analysis, Dr. Phil.”
“And now to think he’s a cop in town. Go figure.”
“People change, Dad,” I say, recalling that amazing kiss at the bus station. “Did you know that Dalton’s the assisting detective in charge of these murders?”
“Nope. But if you ask me, I think one of them immigrants killed those kids,” he says.
“I bet you think you’re Columbo as well?”
“Just seems to be the thing these people do to their own. The only difference is, now they want to do it in our country.”
“But what if, hypothetically, someone wanted to make it look like one of the immigrants did it? Wouldn’t you stage it that way?”
“Why would anyone do that?”
“I don’t know. I’m just playing devil’s advocate.”
“The devil’s smart enough on his own, Lucy. He don’t need you or anyone else advocating for him.” He tugs down on his beard and appears to mull it over. “I suppose if someone wanted to use these murders as an excuse to get rid of someone, they’d make it look like a Muslim did it. But killing innocent kids?”
“Now you’re thinking like a detective.”
“What about that girl you used to go with? You gonna see her while you’re in town?”
“I already have. Her father owns The Galaxy.”
“Heard that place has gone to the dogs.”
“It has. Only dogs wouldn’t dare eat there nowadays.”
“Speaking of food, I got to get dinner started,” he says, pushing himself off the chair.
“Sit down, Dad. I’ll do the cooking tonight.”
“Huh! That’s a laugh coming from someone who couldn’t even boil an egg growing up. I taught your mother everything she knew in the kitchen.”
“Those must have been on the nights you weren’t out drinking or screwing around,” I say, trying not to sound spiteful. “Relax, Dad, I’ll make dinner this evening.”
“Knock yourself out, then,” he says, falling back on to his chair.
I grab my trusty boning knife and take over the kitchen. My father has no idea the mad culinary skills I possess. There’s a freshly plucked chicken waiting in the sink and some sad-looking vegetables harvested from his tiny garden. I prefer sad vegetables to those GMO monstrosities they sell at the supermarket. In my experience, the uglier the better tasting.
I remember when I was a little boy, watching my father butcher one of the hogs he used to raise in the back pen. Once a year he slaughtered the fattest pig for a big backyard barbecue we used to hold for friends and family. The squeal of that frightened pig still haunts me to this day. And yet I happily noshed on the delicious, moist flesh. The crispy skin was the most sought-after part of the hog. Killing was the price we paid for our food, but as a young kid it scared the hell out of me. The spray of blood as the knife cut through the pig’s artery. There was a steel basin underneath to catch the blood, which he used to make sausages. The pig would be hung and then broken down into its respective cuts: ribs, shoulder, butt. The head he’d use to make headcheese. Then after that my father and his merry band would drink and play music all night over a roaring bonfire. Sometimes I can still hear that banjo in my dreams.
That moment of death has always fascinated me. I’d seen it up close and personal while tending to the severely wounded returning from battle. I saw it in the eyes of my fellow soldiers moments after that IED went off. I remember the toxic smoke clouds given off by the paper mills and the greenish foam that collected along
the river. And all I could ever think about was that this town was dying a slow death. I had no rationale or clue as to why. Everyone was so happy back then that we never believed these mills might stop producing paper and leave destitution and sadness in their wake. They were our pride and joy, but they were also our downfall.
I’ve been thinking a lot about death lately. I’ve had nightmares about being stoned since they buried me in that pit. It’s unimaginable what those two kids must have experienced in their final moments. I keep telling myself that death is not the end of this journey but just the beginning, and that their souls are in a much happier place. But that sounds more like a justification for their senseless deaths. A cop-out to appease the living.
I prepare a simple dish of herb-crusted chicken, pan fried under a brick and then finished off in the oven with some lemon and garlic-infused butter. I whip up a batch of buttermilk bacon biscuits, and I sauté fresh vegetables in the pan juices. Dad seems happy when I present the dish to him. He eats in silence, which I can tell is a sign that he likes it. For dessert, I make a simple blueberry tart using the Maine berries he picked out back. After polishing off his plate, he thanks me and settles back with a thick joint. I can tell he’s pleasantly surprised by the meal I’ve prepared, but he won’t come right out and say it. That’s the way he’s been his entire life. He looks tired from the excitement of my visit, and I wonder about his health. Wendy had expressed concern about it, but I’m not bringing the subject up unless he wants to talk about it.
Once he’s safely in his room, I take out my phone and check on a website that markets fake mustaches and beards. I discover that they’re made out of real human hair, which is perfect for the way I’m planning to disguise myself. After perusing the site for a few minutes, I order a walrus mustache with accompanying soul patch. I also order some dark brown contact lenses. Delivery in two days and charged to the account of Lucy Abbott.
This way I’ll be able to walk into town and not be recognized. Just like when I returned here as Lucy. Only then can I find out for sure who murdered those two innocent teens—before I return to being the girl who returned to Fawn Grove.
22
Two Weeks Later
I REMEMBER APPROACHING THE GIRL’S STALL ONE DAY WHEN I SAW AN older man leering at her while she was arranging the fruit to be sold that day. Although I couldn’t understand what he was saying, I could tell by the look on the girl’s face that she was extremely uncomfortable by his presence. She was young and beautiful, and I could see how she’d be the object of many men’s desires. Still, it didn’t give the leech the right to harass this poor girl.
Upon reaching her stall, I recognized the older man as he slunk away. He sold vegetables in a stall three removed from the girl’s. She looked up nervously as I checked out some of her produce. When I looked over, I saw him smiling in a lewd manner, and I knew his harassment of the girl was not an isolated event. Furious, I walked over to his stall and stood in front of his vegetables, glaring at him.
“Give good deal to American soldier,” he said, his fake smile making me dislike him even more.
“Keep to your vegetables, pal, or we’ll have a problem.” I picked up an unwashed potato, nodded toward the girl, and pointed it at him. “Do you understand me?”
The man looked furious that I’d reproached him, but he nodded grudgingly.
I returned to the girl’s stall, noticing that she’d witnessed our confrontation. I smiled at her as I looked over her selection of fruits. When I told her what I wanted, the girl picked out my apples and dates before handing the bag to me.
“Thank you,” she said, giving me a sly smile of appreciation.
I shrugged and took the bag from her.
She poked her head out of the stall and glanced around before saying, “I feel safe with U.S. soldiers here.”
I smiled at her again and turned to leave.
“It’s Zarafshan,” she said, which caused me to turn back to face her. “That is my name.” Then she quickly averted her gaze and returned to organizing the fruit on her stall.
* * *
I wish I could say that I slept comfortably on my father’s couch, or that I didn’t hear the voices, but the truth is that my sleep habits grew progressively worse as D-day arrived. And today, finally, the day has come to debut my new persona in town. For the time being, I’ll be known as Iggy. Why that name? Because my favorite song is “Five Foot One” by Iggy Pop.
My mind is having a difficult time processing these three distinct identities, and this is causing me significant angst. My dreams tend to ramble all over the place. Iggy overcompensates for the ghost of Jaxon, who’s trying to inhabit Lucy’s mind and body and take control of her. Then there’s the little voices crying out for my attention. All of this adds up to one confused individual.
I sit on the couch after a night of tossing and turning and make my way into the shower. I pull off the prosthetics and gently lay them down on the lid of the toilet. Dragging myself into the shower, I let the warm water wash over me. After dressing in my ratty Goodwill clothes and black Metallica T-shirt, I glue on my mustache and soul patch using the water-resistant adhesive. I put in my brown contact lenses, don the black-rimmed glasses, and tie a red do-rag around my shaved head. In this new incarceration, I don’t in the least resemble that gorgeous, slender boy from my youth. Nor do I resemble the attractive woman I’d been upon returning to Fawn Grove. I am the prodigal transgender son.
The problem is, I feel terrible about the way I look. I know in my heart that it’s not the real me. It’s not about gender as much as it is about identity. It’s about who and what I am, and where I want to be in life. I so badly want to return to the real me that Lucy is ready to burst out of this cocoon of my own making.
I called yesterday about the job, and Yanni told me to come in for an interview. I could hear the desperation in his voice. The key will be for me to show him I’m worthy of cooking his shitty food. Prepare it exactly the way he wants. Only in that way will I be able to blend seamlessly into the background of Fawn Grove society. I’ll listen to everything that’s being said. Speak only when spoken to. I’ll do whatever needs to be done so I can do what I came here for.
* * *
Yanni takes one look at my getup, and I can tell right away that he’ll hire me. It’s not like there’s a gang of cooks in line with résumé in hand, waiting to toil at this diner for near minimum wage. Working here is the culinary equivalent of hitting rock bottom. After The Galaxy, there’s nowhere left for a cook to go in this town. I doubt I could get a job at Denny’s with this place on my résumé. The only demand I make is that he pay me under the table. He steps aside to mull it over. When I tell him I’m willing to take a pay cut in order to make it happen, he waves a greasy spatula in the air and laughs. I’m hired.
“What’s your name?”
“Iggy,” I say in the most masculine, raspy voice I can muster.
“When can you start?” he asks while manhandling a neon orange mess of scrambled eggs.
“Soon as you need me.”
“Grab an apron and start peeling potatoes, then.”
“Can I check out the dining room first?”
“Hurry up and be quick about it. We’re busy this morning.”
Busy?
I make my way through the galley and arrive into the diner, and I am stunned to see that the dining room is nearly full. To my surprise, Stefania is busy at the counter pouring coffees and taking orders. Billie is busing a table in the far corner of the restaurant and seems flustered because she has so many tables to cover. Sitting at the counter is Dalton, and he doesn’t look well. Dark bags sit under his eyes. Is he daydreaming about Lucy? Is he heartbroken that she’s gone from his life? Was that kiss as amazing for him as it was for me? Stefania turns and stares at me with barely veiled disgust. She rests a long, slender hand on her hip as she takes me in.
“Who the hell are you?” she asks.
“The new line cook,” I say
goofily, flashing a hook ’em horns hand sign made famous by metalhead rockers. “Iggy.”
“Iggy?” She laughs hysterically. “Now there’s a messed-up name if I’ve ever heard one.”
“Short for Ignatius.”
“My grandfather must have really hit rock bottom if he’s hired a guy named Ignatius,” she announces to the people sitting at the counter, drawing a big laugh. Dalton manages a tortured smile. “Of course, you’re probably way better than the last cook he hired. She was a total loser.”
“For real?”
“Miss Fancy-Pants, I used to call her. Thought she was so much better than everyone else in town because she was from New York City.”
“Watch your mouth,” Dalton says, eying her fiercely. “Lucy was a good person and a helluva chef.”
“Oh, please, get a room,” Stefania says, rolling her eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest and stares at me. “Poor Detective Dalton fell madly in love with her and he’s been sulking ever since she left.”
“You’re pushing your luck, Stef,” Dalton says, pointing his utensil at her.
“What are you going to do? Stab me with your fork?”
“Why’d she leave?” I ask.
“Because she couldn’t keep her nose out of everyone else’s business,” Stefania says. “Then again, I suppose you’d leave too if you’d been buried up to your chest and left overnight in Robinson Woods.”
“Damn,” I say. “Who buried her and why?”
“You heard about those two murders in town?”
“Sure, who hasn’t?”
“She thought she was Nancy Drew and could solve them by herself. That way she could return to New York City a big hero. Only someone buried her first and scared her half to death. That’s why she couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
“I’m not going to sit here and listen to you bad-mouth Lucy,” Dalton says, grabbing his cap. “Especially when she’s not here to defend herself.”
“Love is blind, Iggy. It’s why I’ll never fall in love and end up a heartbroken loser like poor Dalton over there,” Stefania says, heading over to cash out a customer.
