by Joseph Souza
“Self-medicating.” I recall all the wounded and depressed vets I’d encountered who’d sought solace in the bottle. “So tell me, why would these girls make up such a blatant lie about me?”
“No idea. Maybe they want to get you in trouble, for whatever reason.”
I sip my coffee. “Any developments with these murders?”
“No, but I’m fairly certain that one of those immigrants is responsible for those kids’ deaths. Now I just have to prove it.”
“Based on what?”
“They formed the sign of Islam in that cornfield, the same sign that was scrawled over your windshield. Isn’t that enough evidence?”
I shrug. “So who were the girls that fingered me?”
“I told you over the phone, Lucy, I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Come on, Dalton. I could make a phone call right now and find out their names.”
“Okay, but you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Of course.”
“It was the girl from the Afghani market and Stef. The two of them were strolling in the woods that afternoon when the attack happened.”
“Stefania?” I act shocked. “What did she say?”
“Said she didn’t get a good look at her attacker but that she recognized your voice. Said you identified yourself as Miss Fancy-Pants. Then claimed you used a stun gun on her before securing her wrists and ankles with nylon restraints.”
“That’s nuts!”
“I know. Same with the immigrant girl. Only she swore that she looked you in the eye and spoke with you.”
“What’s wrong with these kids?” I glance around the café. “Think it could have been someone made up to look like me?”
He smiles.
“What?”
“Take this however you want, Lucy, but there’s no one in Fawn Grove who looks quite like you.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You should.”
“So you drove all this way by your lonesome just to ask about my whereabouts?”
“I actually drove here with that new line cook I was telling you about. Said he’s never been to New York before and begged to take him with me. Figure it was better than driving all this way by myself.”
“I’d love to meet him and catch up on all the diner gossip.”
“Sorry, but he took off on his own. Said he wants to explore the city.”
“Can’t you call him back?”
He shakes his head.
“Too bad. That might have been fun chatting with him,” I say. “Yanni will eventually run him off the line too.”
“No great loss. He isn’t the best or brightest cook Yanni’s ever hired, that I can tell you.”
“How’s Nadia doing?”
He shrugs. “Nadia and I, as you might already know, have never seen eye to eye on matters. I guess we ran in different circles growing up.”
“Still, she’s a good person, right?”
“Yeah, I suppose. But if you ask me, she seems more concerned about helping these damn freeloaders than she is about raising that smart-ass daughter of hers.”
I bite my tongue at this racist remark and wonder how I ever could have been so attracted to him. “What about her husband?”
“She should have kicked Niko to the curb years ago. I never liked that guy, going all the way back to high school. I had to teach that punk a lesson one day out in the school parking lot.”
“You and Niko fought?”
“Wasn’t much of a fight.”
“Poor Nadia.”
“Nadia’s made her own bed,” he says. “I still don’t know why those girls would make up such a lie if they knew you were living in New York.”
“We both know that Stefania hates my guts.”
He laughs. “It’s not just you she hates. That girl hates most people she comes in contact with.”
“But she seemed especially hostile to me. I think it was because I don’t live in Fawn Grove.”
“Assuming you’re right, what would they stand to gain by such a lie?”
“No idea,” I say. “Who else is close to Stefania?”
“Her mother and maybe some of her friends at school.”
“You said Nadia works with the immigrants?”
“These immigrants have given her not only prominence in town but job security.”
“Not when two kids end up dead in what is believed to be a pair of honor killings. I imagine that people in town are angry with her.”
“Maybe so, but have you seen her agency’s coffers since that first murder? They’ve increased their federal grants and donations threefold.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was reported in the local newspaper,” he says. “The rest of the people in town are hurting and losing jobs, and yet they keep giving more money to these ingrates.”
“Are you implying that Nadia’s in it for the money?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying. We may not be friends, but right or wrong, Nadia believes that what she’s doing is right. I’m just explaining how her agency benefitted from these immigrants coming here.”
“So that brings us full circle.”
“I have to assume that Stef and that Afghani girl were lying about you. But for what reason, I don’t know. Maybe someone they know at school attacked them and they’re fearful of turning them in.”
“Or they set it up to make me look like the culprit.”
“Another possibility.”
“So where does that leave us?”
“Right back where we started.”
I drink the rest of my coffee and stand to leave. My mission here has been accomplished. Little does he know that I hitched a ride with him and then convinced him that I was in New York City the entire time. I can’t help but think how brilliant I am. As much as it pains me, I need to quickly clean myself up and return to being Iggy so I can catch a ride with him back to Fawn Grove.
“Do you have to leave so soon?” Dalton says, standing like the gentleman he believes himself to be.
“I have a busy day in front of me. I’m still looking for work, and to the best of my knowledge, I believe I sufficiently answered all your questions about my whereabouts.”
“You passed with flying colors,” he says. “Can I at least walk you to the sidewalk?”
I shrug noncommittally. “I don’t see why not.”
“It really warms my heart when you say it with such passion.”
“We’re living hundreds of miles apart, Dalton. It’s not like anything will ever happen between us.”
“I know, but a little enthusiasm never hurts, especially after the way we parted back in Fawn Grove.”
“We both know that kiss was a mistake.”
“If it was, it was a mistake I wouldn’t mind repeating.”
We move outside, standing on the sidewalk as the river of Manhattanites streams past us. New York has transformed yet again into a swirling mass of humanity where people are born, live, and die on this overpopulated island purchased for pennies on the dollar. I flip my hair over my shoulder, stare at all the tall buildings down the street, and demonstrate my cosmopolitan flair.
“I’ve never met anyone quite like you, Lucy.”
I laugh and glance briefly at one of the shawarma street carts. “Honestly, I never know whether you’re teasing or paying me a compliment.”
“Oh, it’s a compliment all right,” he says. “I’ve really missed you.”
“What about all those desperate housewives back in Fawn Grove? I’m sure one of them would love to hook up with an officer in uniform.”
“But none of them like you.”
“Come on, Dalton. Don’t make this any harder on me.”
He smiles. “It’s Detective, remember?”
“Maybe you’ll be promoted to police chief in a few years, assuming you solve these murders.”
“Tell me what I can do to get you back there.”
“I’ll not
even consider returning to Fawn Grove until those two murders are solved.”
“Then I promise you I’ll crack them,” he says. “And when I do, you should come home and take over The Galaxy.”
“With what? My good looks?” I laugh at such nonsense.
“I’m sure some sort of financing deal could be arranged, seeing how that place has such historic significance.”
“Nice to see you, Dalton. I really must be going.”
I turn and stride purposefully down the sidewalk until I disappear into the crowd. I can barely breathe I’m so flustered. Good thing I told him I had laryngitis, because I don’t think I could handle another kiss of that magnitude.
26
THEN I’M BACK TO BEING IGGY JUST LIKE THAT, THE TRANSITION NOT as carefree and breezy as I expected. I feel like an actor playing multiple roles while trying to keep everything in check.
Dalton picks me up on the agreed-upon street corner just after one in the afternoon. I climb in next to him, and we drive back to Maine in relative silence. Prior to meeting him, I’d dashed over to Katz’s and ordered the biggest sandwich on the menu, half of which I gave to a homeless guy on the street. The other half I stashed in my bag as proof of having been there. I glance over at Dalton as we drive out of the city. The look on his face is tortured, as if someone wearing stilettos had stomped on his heart and pierced a hole through it.
In many ways the silence between us is a good thing. I find it bizarre to be sitting in this police car next to him after how we parted ways. He still loves me. Or I should say he loves Lucy Abbott. And yet he thinks this Iggy character I’ve inhabited is a total chump worthy of laughter and derision. It almost makes me feel sorry for both Dalton and this sad fictional person I’ve created. This dorky, lovable loser named Iggy.
In many ways, Dalton remains a complete mystery to me. Has he changed for the better, or is this version merely a continuation of his sorry past? A bully in a cop’s uniform? Or a cop who was once a bully? What’s a bully after all but an insecure person who’s been wounded by the people closest to him? That could apply to just about anyone, myself included. My sense of insecurity comes from a deep misunderstanding of who I was growing up. No, who I was meant to be. It’s like the phantom pain I occasionally experience in my legs; the real me was never there to begin with, but merely a ghost inhabiting the role of Lucy. Jaxon was the closest to my true self, and he hurt me. Not intentionally, but his mere existence hurt me in more ways than I care to admit. More than Dalton and my deadbeat dad combined. More than the jihadists who blew my legs off and killed that innocent girl from the fruit stand. Only when I finally became Lucy Abbott did Jaxon cease to cause me any pain. He vanished, and yet somehow I couldn’t totally extricate him from my being.
Knowing what I know now, Jaxon’s actions were those of a confused, angry boy lashing out at others. He inflicted pain on himself and those around him as a cry for help. Then he joined the army to try to right his wrongs, all under the guise of serving his country, when in reality he was fighting an all-out war with himself.
Despite the intensity of his conflicted feelings toward his gender, Jaxon found a girlfriend and thought that might solve his issues. Only it made everything worse, because it felt unnatural, and by making it worse he increasingly sought refuge in his hidden desires. Every time he walked past the beauty parlor, he felt envy mixed with guilt. Every time he locked himself into his room with his sister’s makeup kit and one of her party dresses, he experienced tremendous bouts of self-loathing. And yet Jaxon would stare at the girl in the mirror and know that this was who she was supposed to be. Then he mistakenly believed that by joining the army and leaving town, his masculinity would be restored and his life saved. But when that didn’t work he was out of options, save death. He could help others but not himself. At first he wished that roadside bomb had killed him. It took some time before he realized that the bomb that killed and maimed him and his fellow soldiers had actually saved his life.
Dalton drops me off in front of The Galaxy just after ten. All the lights are off and it’s eerily quiet. So different from the big city I call home. The disparity between Fawn Grove and Manhattan suddenly hits me like the weight of a dropped anvil. The city fostered my anonymity. It nurtured my gender transition and allowed me the space to breathe while I fit into my new skin. On this most recent visit, the city told something else: It released me into the air and told me to fly. Fly, Lucy, fly.
Oddly enough, Fawn Grove seems the place I should be right now. Like the recently arrived Afghanis, I too am an immigrant in this town. A sexual refugee from a hostile land. Death seems an apt metaphor in many ways, because if I go back from where I came I most certainly will die. I hope I can finally shed the remaining bits of my past so that Lucy can prosper and bloom. This body is only big enough for one person.
“Thanks for the lift. Crossed another item off my bucket list.”
“Glad you enjoyed yourself, Iggy.”
“Hope you had a little fun too,” I say with a wink and a smile.
“Like I said, strictly police business.”
“Which means it’s none of my business whether you got lucky or not,” I say.
“Damn straight it’s none of your business.”
“Think I’ll go home and polish off the rest of my sandwich.”
“How was it, by the way?”
“Amazing! You shoulda seen that place.”
“Maybe I’ll go back there someday and try one.”
“The pastrami was so pink and juicy.”
“Get your mind out of the gutter, Iggy,” he says, before driving away.
I toss the remainder of my sandwich in the Dumpster. Salty smoked meat piled four inches high is not my idea of fine dining.
All the lights are off in my father’s place by the time I arrive at his cabin. I pull into the dirt driveway and make my way inside, but my father’s nowhere to be seen. I go into his room and see him lying on the bed. His bong sits on the nightstand next to him, and he waves when he sees me.
“You okay, Dad?”
“Don’t feel so hot tonight.”
“Anything I can do for you?”
“A prayer’d be nice, although I never did believe in God.”
“You need me to take you to the ER?”
“Probably just a little indigestion,” he lies. “You’re a good daughter, Lucy. Now close the door and let me rest.”
It touches me that he thinks of me as his daughter, despite the clown outfit I’m wearing. I shut the door to his room, knowing full well that his days on this earth are numbered. But referring to me as Lucy will be something I’ll always remember. The fact that he called me his daughter not only is touching but also feels as if progress is being made. It makes me want to stay in this town and nurture that kind of tolerance in others. The kind of tolerance that the God-fearing and the godless will share and respect in kind. Respect for one another and our freedom to love the way we’ve always desired to love. And be loved in return.
I lie down on the couch, completely exhausted from that road trip with Dalton, and consider all that’s happened. I fall asleep with these thoughts swirling around in my brain, hoping that tonight they might crowd out the voices that have long taken hold of it.
* * *
My father is fast asleep when I wake up the next morning. I put the back of my hand to his forehead and check his temperature. Normal. On the nightstand sits his battalion of orange pill bottles. Most of them are full, which tells me he’s abandoned all hope and is self-medicating with weed until the time comes for him to exit this life. At this stage in the game, does it really matter?
I work a full shift at the diner, pumping out meal after shitty meal until the misery comes to an end. Dalton didn’t come in this morning, and I can’t say I blame him. It was a long journey to and from New York City, and I bet he slept in, having heard what he needed to from Lucy. I try to talk to Nadia when she comes in, if only to hear the sound of her familiar voice
, but she has no patience for me, a short-order cook from the sticks who struggles to make a simple omelette. Nadia’s refusal to pay me any attention hurts more than anything else, although I know why she’s doing it. I keep thinking she loves me, but then I have to remind myself who I’m disguised as.
I have no doubt that Dalton was tossing around theories and considering every possibility. Nadia would be the last person I’d ever suspect of hurting someone. In many ways, I still love her. Maybe not romantic love, but surely the love one has for a sister or close friend. She knows more about me than anyone. We made awkward love as teenagers, unfulfilling as it was unsatisfying. We learned about sex as we went along, without a video or manual, the secrecy of our flawed intimacy its own private reward.
I go home that afternoon to find my father sitting in his recliner and looking pale and sickly. I shudder to think that he might be closer to death than expected. Death seems to be the motif in my life. Everything in my vicinity is dropping off into that black spiral where nothing returns in its original form.
He assures me he’s all right and that I should go about my normal business. Wendy called the diner earlier and asked if I’d take her to the hairdresser this afternoon. So I drive over and pick her up, watch as she motors up the ramp and into the van. She talks on and on about the most inane matters, and I try hard to listen, obliging her by nodding my head nonstop while she rambles on. She rewards me with an extra five-dollar tip at the end of the day.
Three boring days of this when I should be out doing something more useful. It’s driving me crazy. Dalton comes into the diner on the third day but pays no attention to me. I take Russ to Buck’s Comics that afternoon and wait patiently in the van as he spends over an hour scanning comic books. I sit with the key in the ignition, listening to music, my head resting on my numb hand. The news comes on and a reporter says something that stuns me. An unnamed immigrant has been charged with the murder of those two kids. What’s this? I lay on the horn for Russ to come out.
“Jesus, Iggy, what’s your damn rush? I wasn’t finished searching through all the Spawn comics,” he says after settling in his seat.
“Sorry, boss, but something’s come up.” I turn off the radio so as not to upset him.
