by Renee James
My knees are weak and my head is so disoriented I feel like I’m somewhere outside my body, watching this happen, and not understanding what he just said, or why I’m still alive. I blink stupidly.
“Can we talk?” he says, after a polite delay.
“Of course.” I try to sound like a poised, self-assured woman, but my voice cracks. I manage to walk past him on more or less steady legs and lead him to the front door. As I unlock it, I realize he might just be waiting to get inside to pulverize my face and shatter my ribs. Of course, he could do it on the porch if he wants to and no one would see it.
I show him into the living room and gesture to the couch. I offer a beverage. He asks for water as he sits. Maybe I won’t die today. I go to the kitchen for two waters.
He thanks me when I hand him a glass of water. I sit across from him on the edge of a chair. I cross my legs tightly and pull down the hem of my dress, like I’m trying to protect my virtue. He’s eyeing me, but I can’t tell if it’s predatory or just the testosterone effect that makes all men evaluate a woman’s body, even if they aren’t interested in her. If I’d known this was going to happen, I’d be wearing something baggy that started at my neck and ended at my ankles. The memories of being raped are always there, and they come to the fore in situations like this.
“My name is Georgio Demopolis,” he says. He’s looking at me earnestly, like this is an answer to a question. Then I remember asking him his name before Cindy blew me out the door on an airstream of obscenities. I nod.
“People call me Greco,” he adds. I nod again, not sure what to say.
“Because I’m Greek.”
I nod again.
“Part Greek. My dad was Greek. My Mom is Mexican.”
I sip my water and sit back a little in my chair. He’s here to talk. I’m curious what he has to say.
“I’m not the one making trouble for you,” he says. His face is sincere. The anger I saw in the salon isn’t there anymore. Which means nothing. No one knows better than I how charming a sociopath can be, right up to the time their true nature comes out.
“You promised me you’d make trouble.” I say it matter-of-factly. “Back in the salon. You said, ‘This ain’t over yet.’ I think you called me a bitch, too, or maybe a cunt.”
Greco hangs his head. “I’m sorry.”
I let the silence hang in the air. This is his stage.
“I was trying to intimidate you,” he confesses. “To make Cindy feel better. Her whole life was that job.”
“Really?” I don’t mean to say it, but Cindy’s attitude was always borderline. She was a complainer, ready to whine about anything—the mess in the color room, how snippy a client was, which stylists weren’t pulling their weight. She was late to work a lot, and I had to talk to her frequently about looking professional when she was on the floor. When she didn’t have a client, she liked to slouch around the other stations or flop in her client chair like a slob. We have strict rules about things like that because we charge a lot for services and people expect a lot of professionalism, along with first-class work.
“Really. She’d come home sometimes and show me pictures of a style she did, or a color. She wanted to be a platform artist, like you were.”
It’s a good thing I’m sitting down. The best I ever got from Cindy was basic respect, and that was only because I demanded it.
“I didn’t know that,” I say. “She’s a very good stylist, though.”
“She has these moods,” he continues. “She gets blue. She gets so sad she can hardly get out of bed and she thinks everyone’s better than her and everyone’s making her feel bad. And she gets mad about it.”
We lock eyes for a moment. He wants to see if I’m listening. I’m rapt.
“It’s better for her when she feels like she’s got protection,” he explains. “That’s why I did that, acted that way.”
“You wanted to scare me to death to make her happy?”
He shakes his head from side to side—I’m not sure if it’s denial or regret. “Not just like that.” He searches for words. “I shouldn’t have done it. I was just trying to help Cindy.”
“You seemed like a professional.” I say it calmly, but it’s a question.
He drops his eyes from my face. “I did collections for a while,” he admits. “I got in some trouble. They gave me probation. Before that, when we thought I was going to jail, Cindy went to pieces.”
Greco pauses and looks at me. I must have arched an eyebrow or something because he picks up on my thoughts right away.
“I know,” he says, “I’m ugly and stupid. But she loves me, and I love her. She’s my whole world, Ms. Logan.”
He uses my name for the first time, and with the manners of a sales professional. I didn’t see that coming.
“I’ve never had someone like her before,” he says. “So beautiful. And she loves me. She actually loves me. So, I promised her I’d stay out of trouble and I’d never leave her. And that’s what I’ve done. I don’t do collections, I only do honest work, even though it’s hard to find. I don’t have any skills. I work hard, but . . .” His voice trails off.
“I saw someone who looked like you taking pictures of me a few days ago,” I say. I kind of believe him, but I need to sing all the verses before we part ways.
“It wasn’t me,” he says. “Honest. I don’t have a camera. I’ve never had one. I wouldn’t know how to work it.”
I weigh his words in a long silence. I believe him, but I don’t want to trust him because that’s when you get hit with something you don’t see coming. I’m mulling everything I know and everything I suspect through my mind, trying to find a rational reason to distrust him. There’s only one: it’s safer not to trust him.
“I don’t want any trouble,” he says.
My silence has probably freaked him out. Still, words don’t come to me just yet. I stare at his face and feel a strange sensation sweep through me. The veil of fear through which I saw him just a moment ago has lifted. Now I see a vulnerable man as cursed by genetics as I have been. He wants to be loved and accepted, but he’s ugly in a way that seems threatening. His body is huge and powerful, like a gorilla. Whether he actually is or not, he thinks he’s dumb. Most people who meet him probably try to get away as fast as they can.
He and Cindy. How did that happen? My mind tries to envision it, but I can’t. I have so many preconceived notions about Cindy, based on how unpleasant she’s been in the salon, it’s hard to picture her loving someone in a nurturing way. Wild sex, yes. Tender hugs and dabbing at tears with soft kisses, no. I can’t get there. But Greco did. Beauty and the Beast.
“I’m sorry,” I say, snapping out of my reverie. “I was lost in thought.”
I pause to make sure I say the rest the right way.
“If you don’t hassle me, I won’t bother you, Greco. I wish you both good fortune.”
He nods his appreciation, and we both stand. As we walk to the door, my mind is still on Cindy, searching for the part of her I didn’t see, the part that loved the salon, the work, the art. I step on the porch and offer my hand to Greco for a farewell handshake, his meaty hand dwarfing mine, a rare sensation for an oversized woman like me. For a fleeting moment I feel like a petite cheerleader being greeted by the star of the defensive line. I feel a blush cross my face and jeer at myself, an experienced woman of mature years having such adolescent thoughts.
“She shouldn’t have any trouble getting another job,” I say.
He looks at me inquisitively.
“Cindy, I mean. She’s very talented. But she needs to work on her attitude and her demeanor.”
He nods his head up and down, but I can see he doesn’t know what I mean about “demeanor.”
“It’s mostly body language,” I explain. “It’s important to give off positive vibes. It’s important to be positive, period. Getting to work on time, smiling, having something nice to say to others. Accepting compliments graciously.”
He
’s listening intently, like I’m a priest outlining the steps to immortality. His humility is heartrending. I sigh. I don’t want to say anything more, but I can’t stop myself.
“If she doesn’t find what she wants, tell her to call me and we’ll talk. I’m not sure I can take her back, but we can talk about it.”
My world disappears as Greco envelops me in a hug. It’s like being consumed by a grizzly bear except his arms are gentle.
I watch him leave down the walk, trying not to see how much he resembles a gorilla or maybe a Neanderthal, with his thick body and fearsome head, and powerful arms so impossibly long it seems like his knuckles could drag on the ground. It’s a nasty thing to think about someone and I try not to, if only because it reminds me of what people must think when they see me come and go.
The sound of a ringing telephone brings me back inside.
14
IT’S PHIL, CALLING on a Sunday afternoon. In the old days, that could be a prelude to a dinner date, or a couple of sets at a jazz club, or some hot, steamy sex.
“I just wanted to let you know, someone tried to get into your salon early this morning.” His message follows a terse hello, not even a pause for me to return the greeting.
“What?” The news strikes me dumb.
He repeats what he said.
“Who was it? Did you get him?” I ask.
“No. We got a call from someone in the neighborhood. He was out walking his dog at three a.m. and saw someone trying to jimmy the lock on the door. The guy was long gone when our squad got there.” Phil is reciting this stuff like a computer, all monotone and a cadence so regular you could march to it.
“Did you get a description?” I ask.
“Not much. The guy looked big, but it was dark and the witness wasn’t close. Not sure about his height or his age. Didn’t see his face. Ran ‘like a mature adult.’ That’s how the neighborhood guy described it. He wasn’t as nimble as a kid, but he didn’t lumber along like a geezer, either.”
“Doesn’t limit the possibilities too much,” I comment.
“The witness thought the guy was wearing a green fatigue jacket, like the military kind. No patches he could see.”
I wait for him to say more, but he doesn’t. He’s waiting for me.
“Do you have any advice?” I ask.
“Get a security guy to evaluate your setup. Maybe add a lock or something.” He throws this out like a doctor telling an anxiety-ridden patient to take it easy for a while. His next word will be, “Good-bye.”
“Phil?” I interject before he can sign off. “Why are you calling me? Why not one of the locals?”
“The duty guys didn’t call because they couldn’t be sure anything happened. There wasn’t any damage to prove the guy did anything.” His voice is flat, but something about it sounds, I don’t know, different.
“And yet, you’re calling me,” I prod him.
There’s a moment of silence. I’ve put him on the spot, maybe embarrassed him.
“I asked those guys to let me know if you have any more trouble,” he says.
“Really?” I shouldn’t say this, but it slips out. It’s the first indication I’ve had in months that he cares at all about what happens to me.
He ignores my question. He doesn’t want to get into it. “That’s all I’ve got, Bobbi.”
He uses my name as a sort of period at the end of a sentence, a signal the conversation is over, but hearing him say my name makes my mind flutter with a succession of romantic moments from the past when my name passed from his lips in a sigh, or a fevered pant, or to punctuate an expression of love.
I clear my mind enough to thank him and say good-bye like an adult woman who has moved on. He clicks off so abruptly after issuing his own good-bye I get the feeling he was in pain talking to me, though it’s always hard to tell with Phil. He hides a lot. He says he’s a desk guy in the police department, but his fellow officers told me he could shoot lights out with his service revolver. He never talked about his dreams and passions, but I stumbled across some of them by accident. Like, in the trunk of his car, he has road maps of every state in the union and he has highlighted the routes he wants to take when he drives through them. Then there’s his movie collection—all thrillers and legal dramas on the outside, but when you get to the second layer, it’s Sleepless in Seattle, When Harry Met Sally, and every Jane Austen book ever adapted for the screen. He even cried with me sometimes when we watched them.
When I get past my broken heart, I try to evaluate Phil’s news. Was it really an attempted break-in? My gut tells me it was. Did it eliminate Mark or Greco? No. It didn’t eliminate anyone. The only good news is, the bad guy targeted the salon instead of my apartment with me in it. I don’t take much solace in that, though. He’s going to come for me when he gets tired of playing his games. I’ve been through this before. John Strand was a master at it, at playing the homicidal cat, terrorizing the helpless mouse until the perfect time came to kill it. Strand only made one mistake in all his years of predation. He got too arrogant, and it cost him.
My thoughts cartwheel back to Phil. If it’s so awful talking to me, why did he ask the local cops to keep him in the loop about me? I stifle the secret wish that his perfect princess is a disinterested lover and he goes to sleep at night remembering how uninhibited our sex was. But I know it’s not that. It’s that he’s a genuinely nice guy who would watch over someone who was special to him once, not because he’s horny, but because he’s loyal and good and caring. Which makes it almost unbearable to live without him.
Cecelia and I are panting and sweating our way north along the lakefront. I needed to unwind after my grim morning, and Cecelia’s Sunday powerwalk seemed like good tonic. Nature has cooperated: the morning gloom has lifted, the sun is as bright and warm as a mother’s smile, the breeze off the lake is just enough to keep us comfortable. I’m wearing skintight shorts that wick moisture away and make my ass look cute, and a sports bra that lets my breasts jiggle enough to get some attention, but not so much that they hurt when we’re done.
Cecelia’s right. I’m an exhibitionist and I’m out of control, but as we churn along the pathway, my thoughts are far from sex. I’m musing over the mess my stalker has made of my life, and I’m trying to come up with a plan to stop it. I’m getting nowhere. I can’t keep a train of thought long enough to add to my list of suspects, and I can’t think of anything to do about the stalker that I’m not already doing.
Worst of all, I know that Roberta is not safe with me until I get this resolved. It’s a terrible dilemma. I love her as if she were my own child. I dream about her and Betsy more often than I dream about sex. The thought that she might come to harm while in my care is unbearable.
We stop for a water break, sipping slowly, stretching, looking out on the lake, which stretches to the horizon like a blue-green promise of adventure and possibilities. It should soothe my soul, but I’m preoccupied with worldly issues.
“I’m worried about Roberta,” I tell Cecelia.
She nods in agreement. “You should be.”
“She’s due home this evening, and I don’t know what to do.”
“What are you considering?” Cecelia isn’t looking at me as she says it. She doesn’t want me to ask her for help.
“Nothing that works,” I answer. “I thought of stashing her with you—don’t worry, I know that’s a bad idea. I’ve thought of just getting out of town on a vacation, but I can’t take Roberta out of school that long. And—” I stop. I can’t say it out loud.
“You’ve thought about asking the Hitlers to keep her?” Cecelia finishes the sentence for me. She’s met Betsy’s parents and shares my contempt for them and also the friendly nickname I have for them.
“The thought of it makes me sick,” I say, but I nod yes at the same time.
“It’s either that or making Betsy come home early.” Cecelia looks me in the eye when she says it. That’s her not-very-subliminal message to face the facts and make
a decision.
“I thought about calling the other grandparents.” I’m referencing the parents of Betsy’s second husband, Don, father of Roberta, who was killed in a car accident when Roberta was still a toddler.
“We could drive her down there,” Cecelia offers. I don’t have a car and she loves to drive her sumptuous Caddy.
“Thanks,” I say. “But Roberta would miss school, and Betsy won’t tolerate that.”
“So?” Cecelia cocks an eyebrow at me. I love when she does that, going back to the first year of my transition, when she taught me how to be proud and assertive and to never let bullies stop you. She was nimble with comebacks to the slurs that we often endured back then. Most of all, she was regal at all times, and there was no more regal gesture in her repertoire than the cocked eyebrow. She locked you in with it, the way your third-grade teacher could silence a classroom with that gesture, or the way an assertive woman judge would tell an attorney his machinations were about to bring a piano crashing down on his head.
“So, it’s the Hitlers.”
“You poor child.” She says it humorously, but there’s empathy there, too. She puts an arm around me and hugs me to her side. I find great comfort in these gestures from Cecelia. I had always wanted contact like this with my mother, but it just wasn’t in her. In fact, my whole family was infected with a kind of distant coldness, even before we discovered that I was queer.
“They’ll never let me live it down,” I mutter. I squeeze Cecelia’s hand in thanks. She hugs me a little tighter.
“Just walk through them,” she says. “You know how.”
It’s an image we share in our conversations. “Walking through them” means walking through the clouds of bullshit spewed out by the ignorant and intolerant. Cecelia told me once, it’s just walking through a shit storm. You have to hold your breath for a few minutes, and take a shower when you get to the other side, she said, but it’s just an inconvenience compared to letting people like that run your life.
