by Cris Beam
“It’s kind of creepy,” one girl said to the other.
“What is it?”
The first girl, who was about sixteen, squinted her eyes. “It’s like a jackhammer going into a dead body or something. But the light’s making a halo—see around the head? Maybe it’s an angel.”
J almost burst out laughing. People will see whatever they want to see. Parallax. He surreptitiously stuck his name to the wall and went in, taking a seat next to Karyn.
The first few dances were kind of boring—just bendy, sweeping things with girls in serious faces falling to the ground and getting up again. Thankfully, they didn’t release the doves—they just danced around them at one point and dragged out a human-size cage to lock themselves into. A metaphor, he supposed. The word Threshold was printed on a banner above the audience, which was crowded with bodies and thick winter coats. It was so warm, J had to chew on his cheek to stay awake.
Finally, it was Melissa’s turn. She started the piece on her toes; she was wearing pointe shoes and a thick wool blanket in a mummy wrap, so tight she could barely move her feet. Her eyes were closed, and the drummer hit the bass in a steady heartbeat rhythm. Melissa pointe-tipped her way across the stage, gently swaying her head, toward a hook that was bolted to the wall. She caught the edge of the blanket on the hook and struggled, pulling and yanking, until finally she tumbled out of the blanket and landed in a heap on the floor, yelling like a baby. The inside of the blanket was shiny and red. A birth, J supposed. Why were these dancers so into metaphors?
After she’d untied her pointe shoes, Melissa danced her way through childhood—first crawling, then walking, then swirling and leaping, hunching into a small toadstool shape and jumping up to a star, then around and around, dervish-style, arms flailing in a falling spin. The drums were wild and ecstatic until, suddenly, they stopped. But Melissa kept dancing as though she hadn’t noticed, as though she had an internal meter and rhythm of her own.
But then Melissa stopped, too. She cocked her head, listening. The audience watched her heaving chest. Her eyes grew wide and angry. She marched back to the drummer, who sat with a placid expression, his drumsticks loose in his hands. Melissa, her back to the audience, raised her hands, stomped her feet, mimed drumming, but the drummer didn’t even look her way. Melissa jumped up and down, trying to get his attention, throwing a silent fit. Finally, she just hung her head and walked away.
She went back to the blanket, crumpled on the floor by the hook. She sat on it, cross-legged, and lifted the edge of it to her mouth. She tasted it, smelled it, rubbed it against the caution tape in her hair. Then she started searching the red shiny lining, feeling the countours of it lovingly. The room was silent. She found a pocket and pulled something out. Something small and square. A razor.
J didn’t breathe. Melissa held the razor up to the light and slowly, carefully, drew it up the inside of her forearm. A thin line of blood beaded up. Not enough to gush—she hadn’t hit a major vein—but enough to catch the light and shine against her skin. Someone gasped. Melissa raised her hand to do it again.
“Stop!” someone shouted from the audience. But Melissa appeared to be in a trance. This time, she flipped her arm over and made three quick nicks in the top of her forearm. The drum started again—the heartbeat, slow and steady. Melissa smiled, and the stage went dark.
“Oh, my God,” Karyn breathed beside J. “My fucking God.” Then, as the audience slowly started to applaud, Karyn stood up and shoved past him and the rest of the people sitting nearby, making her way backstage.
It was intermission. J didn’t know where Karyn and Melissa were. People were hovering around the entrance and going outside to smoke. He spotted Zak and Chanelle.
“That was intense!” Chanelle said, squeezing around some teenagers blocking the way. “Melissa’s bold.”
“Yeah, but look at us,” Zak said, nodding at the photographs on the wall. “We’re famous!”
J tried to smile, but he was distracted, worried about what was going down between Karyn and Melissa. Still, for the second time in two days, he accepted congratulations from his friends. Chanelle told him she thought he’d definitely get into a photography program, with talent like this. Zak didn’t even know J had applied, but he agreed with Chanelle.
“Thanks,” J said. “Listen, are you guys staying ’til the end? Will you tell Melissa I said she did a great job?”
It was eight-thirty on a cold winter night. The third Friday in February. J realized he had somewhere else he needed to be.
The last time J had been to Martino’s, it was summer, and the back patio was open. His grandma had been visiting from Puerto Rico, and they’d gone there to celebrate her birthday. It was probably three years ago. J remembered that his dad had been particuarly sullen over the clams in wine sauce—too salty, he said—and he went inside to watch the game at the bar.
He didn’t know whether his grandmother would be there tonight, as she wasn’t the biggest fan of Manny, and his mother hadn’t mentioned anything about a trip. Still, a twenty-year anniversary party was a big deal, so who knew. Mercie would definitely be there, and probably some of his dad’s friends from the union, maybe that couple they used to go to movies with—J couldn’t remember their names. For sure, Carolina’s boss and some of the other nurses, and J’s old babysitter, Alfie, whom they still talked to. Alfie was a lonely old guy who lived on 205th Street; he needed a party.
J remembered there was an alcove near the coat check at Martino’s, just before you got to the back room. He could hide out there for a while and watch. Maybe he could slip a waiter some cash to bring him a drink, so he could arrive at the podium with a glass in his hand. He was sure there’d be some kind of podium or microphone setup for people to give toasts, like at a wedding.
“To the best parents in the world,” he would say, raising his glass high. His mother would be shocked, but she’d force a smile, look nervously around at her friends. “Here’s to twenty years!”
But after everyone cheered and clanked glasses, J would go on. “Thank you for raising me,” he’d say. “And for staying married.”
He’d wait for a laugh—the old, shy J gone for the moment, the new, testosterone-filled J confident and charming. He’d smile into the microphone, gathering attention. “To Manny and Carolina. A beautiful couple. A couple that always puts themselves first.”
Here the room would start to shift uncomfortably, but J would continue. “To Carolina, who protects Manny at all costs, including the cost of their only child—me. And to Manny, who was once my hero but is now too much of a coward to even talk to me. My parents may have been too ashamed to invite me tonight, but I am not ashamed of who I am. I came to this party to toast who they are. Who they really are.”
This is the speech J would give, and when the doors opened at his old station, he was just determined enough, and angry enough, to do it.
Martino’s looked less fancy and festive than he’d remembered it—just a plain old brick restaurant with an Italian flag on the door. Be a man, he told himself as he gripped the handle, but his hand was shaking.
“The kitchen’s closed,” a waiter told him when J walked in. The waiter’s top button was undone, and he looked tired.
“I’m here for the party in the back,” J said.
“Oh, the Silver party? I think most everyone’s gone. But go on back.”
J took off his hat and smoothed what there was of his short hair. The razor stripes had entirely grown out. He briefly considered hiding in a bathroom stall for a while, but he didn’t want to bump into anyone he knew, and there was always the question of which restroom to choose. He walked slowly toward the back room, careful to hold his chin high.
Five people sat around a table cluttered with bottles. He recognized his father’s backside, broad and doughy, stuffed into his best checkered shirt. His mother was next to him, laughing at something a woman was saying. J didn’t recognize her. Two other men in sweaters and slacks nodded along.
“J!” his mother yelped when she saw him.
“You got back early!” his father said, standing up. Manny walked up to J and pulled him into an awkward hug. “Everybody, this is my daughter, J. She just got back from a trip to D.C.”
The other three people at the table stood, smiling, and shook J’s hand. “Have a seat, have a seat,” one of the men offered, pulling up a chair from one of the other tables, also covered with discarded plates and glasses.
“When’d you get back, J?” his father asked. His words were slurred, but J couldn’t decide whether alcohol was confusing him or he was supplying some kind of secret code for J to follow in front of these strangers.
“Um, I just came to give you guys a toast,” J said.
Carolina cut her eyes into slits. “You missed the party.”
“That’s okay—you’re here now,” the unknown woman said. Her dark hair was piled into a swirly updo on her head, and her earrings were shaped like bees. She patted J on the knee.
One of the sweater men told the updo they had to get going; the babysitter was going to cost them a bundle. Carolina begged them not to go.
“How was D.C.?” Manny asked, turning to J.
“What are you talking about?” J asked. This was not the vision he’d had on the train.
“You can tell him about your trip later,” Carolina said, pouring some bourbon into her watered-down Coke. Her voice was shrill, her expression tight. “Right now we’ve got guests.”
“What do you mean, D.C.?”
“Honey, we’ve got to go.” Sweater Man was tugging at Updo’s dress.
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” Manny said. J couldn’t tell whether it was anger or alcohol rising in his cheeks. “You’ve been living there for months.”
J looked at Carolina, but she was standing up, helping her friends put on their coats.
“No, I haven’t. I’ve been at Melissa’s.”
“Cari!” Manny practically shouted, followed by J’s “Mom?”
Carolina was ushering her three friends toward the front of the restaurant. They looked more eager to leave now, with Carolina shoving at their backs, and they barely mumbled a “happy anniversary” in Manny’s direction.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” Carolina said. “I need to show our friends to the door.”
J and Manny stared at each other. “What’s going on?” Manny finally said.
“You tell me,” J answered. He felt sullen, defiant, and entirely confused.
“No, J, you tell me.” Manny slammed his hand on the table. “You’ve been staying at Melissa’s? Don’t you have a crush on that girl?” He shuddered in disgust.
“Not anymore.” Good old Manny. Always months behind.
“So, what’s this about a college prep course in D.C.? Staying on the Georgetown campus? Studying computers?”
“I have no idea. First I’ve heard of it.”
His father shook his head in amazement. “So, you’re saying Mami’s lying.”
“I don’t know,” J answered. He looked at the tablecloth. It was stained with red sauce. “What did Mami tell you about me?”
“What did she tell me? Nothing. Just that you got into this program in D.C.”
“And you didn’t think of asking her anything about it? You never wanted to call me?” All this time he had thought his father hated him. And now maybe he still would. J wanted desperately to reach for one of the half-empty bottles of beer.
“So, now I’m the bad guy? J, I never call you on the phone. Why would I start?”
“Why would Mami lie to you?” J asked. And where was she? It was taking a long time to get back from the front door.
“I don’t know,” Manny answered. He stared down into his glass and shook his head. “It wouldn’t be the first time she lied.”
J looked at the tablecloth stains again, unsure of where to direct his rage. At his mother—who had deceived him, making him think it was his father who wouldn’t let him come home? Or at his father, who was so detached and indifferent that he couldn’t be bothered to inquire about J’s life?
“Let me tell you something about your mother, J,” Manny started. His voice was still slurred, but his eyes were clear. “You’re eighteen now. You should know the truth.”
J wasn’t sure he wanted to know the truth, if there was even a truth in all this strangeness going on. But his dad continued.
“This whole anniversary party bullshit—it was all for her. She always wants to make everything look good on the outside, when the inside can be going to hell,” Manny said. “She wants to have the perfect job, the perfect husband, the perfect kid. She’s a very driven woman.”
J remembered his conversation with Carolina that day by the river. I wasn’t in love with your father, she’d said. And, I was a very determined kid.
“And when things aren’t perfect on the outside, J, Mami wants to make them just disappear until they’re perfect again. Why do you think I’ve been gone so much? I haven’t been perfect to Mami in a long time.”
She wanted to make me disappear, too, J thought. “I’m not perfect, either,” he said.
“How are you not perfect, J?” Manny asked. “This is between Mami and me.”
J swallowed. “I’m transgender, Pops.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means,” he paused, “that I’m really male. I was supposed to be born male, except I wasn’t, so I’m doing things to change it.”
Manny’s jaw dropped for a second, then he closed his mouth. “Jesus, J. That’s disgusting.” He rubbed his eyes, and when he looked back up, his sockets were bulging, almost pleading, but his mouth was twisted into a snarl of contempt. He gripped a beer bottle as though he might break it. “You’re sick. You need help.”
“No, I’m not.” J was shaking, but he held his father’s stare.
Manny sat for several long minutes, glaring at his bottle and picking at the label. “Man, what a night,” he finally said, sighing. “You find out that your wife’s been lying to you and then that your kid’s got major problems in the head. Happy anniversary to me.”
J looked at his father. Manny was balding, and sweat beaded up around the receding hairline. What used to be muscle had drooped into fat, and his eyes looked dim and unfocused. This was the man J used to worship?
“Yes, Pops, happy anniversary to you. And happy birthday to me. Which you forgot.”
Manny stared at him, uncomprehending. “Wasn’t that months ago?” He looked toward the door, searching for Carolina. “And you were supposed to be in D.C.”
“You could have called my cell phone; you have the number.” His father was always full of excuses; if Manny had actually tuned in for once instead of relying on Carolina for everything, this whole mess could have been sorted out much sooner. J felt a surge of strength, standing up to his father this way, and Manny even seemed to shrink back in his chair just a bit.
“Is your birthday really the point, J? What are we even talking about here?” Manny looked genuinely confused and, more than that, despairing. He was holding on to the tablecloth as if it would save his life. And, yes, J decided, his birthday was the point. From here on out, he’d have a new birthday. February 16: the day of his first testosterone shot.
“We’re talking about respect,” J said, though by this time he, too, was a little confused about where the conversation was going. Still, while his courage was running high, he wanted to make a point. “Respect for your only son.”
“My what?” Manny sputtered.
“Your son,” J said, standing up. “Call me when you can say the word.”
J pushed open the door to Martino’s, and the winter air was harsh and dry. On the corner, he saw his mother, stooped against the cold and leaning on a lamppost. She was crying. He marched straight up to her.
“Mami!” he shouted. “What the hell?”
They were alone on the block. A siren sounded from far away, and a few dogs howled in response. Caro
lina looked up at him, her face tear-streaked and miserable. She shook her head.
“Answer me!” J said. “What did you tell Pops?”
“I couldn’t,” she breathed. “I couldn’t.” And her face crumpled into more sobbing.
“Couldn’t what, Mami?” He balled his right hand into a fist and stuffed it deep into his pocket. Her tears disgusted him. “Couldn’t what?”
Carolina’s eyes widened. “I needed more time, J.”
“Time for what?” J kicked the lamppost, and his mother jumped. “I’m not going to kick you, Mami. Jesus.”
Carolina just mutely shook her head, the tears still streaming.
“But you told me he was the one who couldn’t deal with me, that he was the one who wasn’t ready. You let me think he hated me.” J felt bile rising in his throat, and his eyes burned in their sockets. “You were the one who was ashamed of me.”
“He would have, J! I was protecting you,” Carolina said. “And how can you say I was ashamed? I wrote you that letter!”
The letter. Testosterone. His mother had written the letter, had met with him; his father hadn’t even called for his birthday. A kid who’s got major problems in the head. Who was better? He was begging for scraps. “You were too late with that letter, Mami. I got the hormones myself. I’m an adult now.”
Carolina leaned her head back against the pole and slid down so she was sitting on the sidewalk, her legs stretched out in front of her. “You don’t know about your father, J. He thinks I’ve spoiled you.”
Oh, God, not again, J thought, his head swimming. What am I, some kind of marriage counselor? Try talking to each other about your problems. “You married him,” he said bitterly.
“Yes, I did,” Carolina answered from the ground. “And all my life, I’ve been trying to make things right.”
Carolina was silent then, staring at her gloves. J felt weird, standing above her, but he didn’t want to sit on the cold sidewalk. He remembered his father’s words. “Did you think that if I went away, I would just stop being transgender?”
