Transition to Murder

by Renee James

  She puts her hand on my wrist. “It wasn’t a waste. We loved each other.” Tears come to her eyes. “I think we still love each other.”

  I nod. I’m getting misty too.

  “It’s not that I don’t love Don,” she says, sniffling, “I do, very much. But you were my first love and sometimes I wish you were the father.”

  Tears flow freely for both of us. “That’s sweet, Betsy,” I say when I get my voice back, “but honestly, I’d rather be the mom.”

  We laugh, but it’s true. I have fantasized about being pregnant and about raising a child as a mom. It is a pleasant vision, but one I try to avoid. Science hasn’t blessed transsexual women with the ability to reproduce. Why pine for something that isn’t possible?

  I work fast to finish the cut, letting the conversation taper off. As I check my work, she catches my eye in the mirror. “So, are you, you know...like, all woman now?” she asks.

  “No, not yet,” I reply. “But I’m getting close. It looks like I might be ready for GRS this summer.”

  “GRS?” she asks.

  “Gender reassignment surgery,” I answer. “Vagina day.”

  “Isn’t it hard to think about that? “You know, having it cut off?”

  “A couple of years ago I wasn’t so sure,” I tell her, “but I’m at a point now where I can’t wait. That’s just not me. I’m a girl. I want a girl’s body.”

  Our conversation is stifled by the noise of the blow dryer as I finish the service, but Betsy scribbles her home address and home and cell phone numbers on the back of her business card and hands it to me when I finish.

  “Will you have lunch with me before I retire to mommyhood?”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for anything.”

  “And can I book a cut and color with you?”

  “You don’t need to ask,” I say. “Just don’t make me cry so much, okay?”

  She smiles and mists up. Me too. For a moment I feel the old pang. When we were together, I was part of something. I belonged. I miss that. I love her, I'm glad for her, but I feel just a small twinge of jealousy that someone else, not me, has that place in her world.

  But the pang fades almost instantly. I hug Betsy. A full body hug between two women. I love her and I know she loves me. We are sisters in a very special way. I will be her child’s aunt and I will love them both with a passion that is new in my life. Because I’m finally me. This is who I am.

  ***

  FOR REASONS I WILL never understand, people here expect April to be a season of sunshine and daffodils, of blue skies, warm breezes, and calm waters on Lake Michigan.

  I’m considering this irony as I walk into the teeth of winds gusting up to thirty miles per hour, maybe more. I’m leaning forward like a ski jumper going downhill just to keep from getting blown backward.

  The air temperature is in the mid-forties, but it feels much colder thanks to the wind and overcast skies and wet air. Yesterday was sunny, sixtyish, with gentle breezes.

  Pedestrians are in real danger of being impaled by umbrellas blowing inside out, or just dismantling altogether. It’s funny in a slapstick kind of way to see some commodity trader in a thousand-dollar suit and four-hundred-dollar trench coat have his umbrella collapse, exposing his expensive threads to the vicissitudes of our nasty weather.

  But the highest comedy of all is watching slight women try to wield umbrellas in these winds. Seriously, they can be blown about like plastic grocery store bags. I know, it isn’t really funny, especially if it’s happening to you or someone you love. But it looks comical.

  Although I have done a great job of losing weight and thinning down, I have enough body mass to deal with the winds, albeit in a staggering sort of way. My problem is staying warm. I have very little body fat and I make vanity compromises. I’m a hairdresser. I have to. And today I’m taking it further. Today is a special day.

  Instead of a winter coat, I’m wearing a very stylish spring coat just because it makes me look trim and feminine. The wind is blowing through the fabric as if it weren’t there and underneath the coat I’m wearing a stylish but thin blouse, no bra, and a short skirt.

  It’s hard to tell what part of my anatomy is coldest. My lips and nose are numb, but my ears are stinging they're so cold, and I can hardly feel my toes. I did stop to stuff my hair under a cute beret, but it does nothing for my ears. And my toes are a sacrifice to the shoe gods who made me wear open-toed sandals today.

  Ordinarily, I would make a few concessions to reality. I would wear a sweater and maybe a windbreaker. I’d change into boots and wear thick socks with them. I’d wear a stocking cap or wrap a long scarf around my head and ears.

  But today is a special day. It's Tuesday evening, and tonight I’m celebrating my Tuesday night tail. Every Tuesday for the past four weeks, I have glimpsed a man following me home from the El station. The first time I spotted him I started hyperventilating with fear. Good God, I thought, this can’t be happening again!

  When I got over my shock I faced the reality that my rapists were getting ready for another event. I’ve been careful on Tuesday nights to spot them even as they follow me. The prey stalking the hunter stalking the prey.

  It won’t be so easy for them this time. In fact, I have a nasty surprise planned for whichever one of them comes calling tonight. It's the man in the blue stocking cap and tan coat. I saw him as I got off the El tonight. Sometimes it’s the other guy, but it’s always one of them. Tonight we’re taking a special stroll down memory lane, Blue Hat and I. My treat.

  Three blocks from the El station and I reach Rape Alley, the place where Blue Hat and his thug buddy had so much fun making me feel like human scum. Instead of darting to the other side of the street as I have previously, I duck into the alley and press myself against the building wall, out of the wind. I make a show of letting my trench coat fall open as if the belt has come untied. If Blue Hat is looking, I make sure he gets an eyeful. I bend down to fix the strap on one of my sandals, letting my blouse-top open to expose my bare breasts. My beret comes off, allowing my spiral curls to burst out. Before I replace the beret and re-tie my coat, I shake out and primp my hair. I don’t know if this is rousing Blue Hat’s angry rapist instincts or not, but it’s the best I can do.

  I take a deep breath and enter the alley. I go into an exaggerated femme walk, hips swaying, short steps, one hand held out to the side, the other swinging in rhythm to the sound of my heels on the asphalt surface. The alley is riddled with potholes and cracks, and I pick my way through them like a helpless virgin, holding my arms out for balance, stopping to carefully step across a crack. To catch a predator, dear old Dad once told me, you need bait that looks attractive and vulnerable. He was talking about fish, but I think it will work with a shit-heel predator like Blue Hat, too. I look like an easy victim, easy enough to take all by himself. Truth be told, I feel like an easy victim too, but my fear is just another dark tunnel to navigate. I have a plan. The plan is in motion. Blue Hat and his buddy and Strand are going to get a message tonight. I just have to have faith in the plan.

  The alley is dark and completely deserted. The nearest street lamp is out. The only sounds are the muted noises of passing vehicles out on the street and my own footsteps. Three buildings into the alley I pass by the recessed area in which I was raped and beaten a few months ago. A large, hulking form stands in the shadows. Thank god! I don’t know who he is, but Thomas promised he’d be there. My heart races and my breathing gets short. This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.

  I keep walking. I want to see if Blue Hat is following me. I want to stop and turn to find out with an urgent desperation. But I don’t. I keep swishing down the alley, hips rolling, arms out, a tranny slut looking for a good time.

  Half way down the alley I hear a short yelp followed instantly by the sound of a heavy blow meeting flesh and bone. Sure proof that Blue Hat did follow me into the alley. A moment later, I hear it again, more of a grunt this time, as another blow strikes home. I d
on’t pause to watch or listen. I keep moving to the end of the alley then turn north, drop the hooker walk, and go home.

  In my wake, a former rapist and would-be repeat offender is lying in a heap, the victim of an attack himself. He hasn’t been raped, but he has other problems. I don’t know what they are exactly, but I’m betting on broken bones. Whatever it is, Blue Hat isn’t going to be following me again. Not alone, anyway.

  No, I don’t feel good about it. This isn’t a choice I’m making. People are waging war on me and I don’t have the money or the connections to employ the law to defend myself. Whoever the brute was in the alley, he just delivered a message to Mr. Blue Hat that the law never would, and the cost to me is about what a downtown lawyer would charge to shake my hand, hear my story, and tell me my chances of winning aren’t good.

  I don’t want a war. In my heart, I'm a sissy. I want to do hair. I want to wear girlie clothes and go shopping and have my surgery. I want to make love as a woman, to be aroused as a woman, to have a woman’s orgasm. I want to stroll along the lakefront in the summer in shorts and tank top with Marilee or Cecelia, sipping iced coffee. I want to be a platform artist at hair shows making other girls beautiful and sexy. I’d love to be an aunt to Betsy’s baby.

  But more importantly, I don’t want to be a victim. I will be goddamned if I will wait for these thugs to hurt me again. I’m not kidding myself. Strand may end up killing me anyway, but I’m not going to go willingly. And I won’t make it easy for him.

  ***

  I LOOK OUT MY PEEPHOLE to see who’s knocking. It’s Officer Phil in his CPD blues and another man wearing a suit. The suit looks like a cop, too. I yell through the door for them to give me a moment, and then slip on a robe. It’s late in the morning and I should be wearing more than underwear, but Wednesday mornings are leisure time for me. I don’t go into the salon until one. So I had a nice breakfast, a leisurely bath, and coffee. I had just started doing my nails when Phil and his friend came calling.

  I open the door and self-consciously fold my arms across my middle. “Hi, Phil.”

  “Hi, Bobbi,” he says. “This is Detective Wilkins. We’d like to talk to you for a minute. Can we come in?”

  “Of course,” I say, and step back into the apartment so they can enter. They move past me at the entry to the living room. Detective Wilkins is a middle-aged black man, heavy-set, strong looking. He has not taken his eyes off me from the time I opened the door. I’m sure he’s seen transwomen around the station—hookers and junkies and so forth—but I’m thinking he hasn’t really had any human contact with one of us. He’s too curious. Right on cue, as he edges past me into the living room his gaze drops to my chest. Are they real? he’s wondering.

  They sit on my couch. I offer them refreshments but they decline. I get a glass of water for myself and sit on one of the stuffed chairs facing the couch, crossing my legs tightly. Definitely not a good audience for a beaver shot.

  “Bobbi, we're looking for people who know anything about an assault that occurred last night in the same place you were assaulted in February,” Officer Phil says after I sit down. “Do you know anything about that?”

  I react quizzically. “No. Nothing,” I say. “Was it another transwoman?”

  Detective Wilkins flashes a grimace. Phil keeps doing the talking. “Actually,” he says, “the victim was a white male fitting the description you gave of one of your attackers.”

  “Description?” I ask. “What description?”

  “He was wearing a tan coat and a blue stocking cap,” says Phil. “We’re wondering if it’s the same guy.”

  I shrug. “I never saw the face of either guy. I’ll be glad to take a look at him, but I don’t see much chance it will help.”

  “Did you have anything to do with this, Bobbi?” he asks straight out.

  I am taken aback. “I’m sorry?”

  He repeats the question. Detective Wilkins has a smirk on his face and that angers me.

  “Are you asking me if I beat up a rapist last night?” I exclaim. “Me? Me? I’m a fairy, Phil. A hairdresser. A transsexual. Can you honestly picture me as a mugger?”

  The anger in my voice is real. These bumbling idiots wouldn’t walk across the street to investigate the rape and beating of me, but the thought that I might have taken revenge on my assailant has them concerned about public safety. I’m seething.

  So is Detective Wilkins.

  “We think he was set up,” Wilkins says in a low voice. His face is etched in anger. “We have a report there was a woman in the alley about the same time the victim was beaten. We think maybe he was lured in there by someone with an axe to grind.”

  His voice is very menacing. He’s trying to scare me into confessing all. He's picked the wrong transwoman at the wrong time.

  “It wasn’t me, Detective,” I respond. “I don’t beat up men. Or women. And I can’t help saying it would be nice if Chicago’s finest were half so concerned when a transgender person gets beaten up. But when that happens all you can say is there are thousands of men in Chicago with blue hats and tan coats.”

  “Let me tell you something,” he says. “We know what went down in that alley. We know you set it up. And we’re going to prove it. We’re giving you a courtesy call right now for your own good. If you tell us what happened it’ll go better for you. But you keep playing games with us and you will pay the price. We’re talking a felony assault. That’s real jail time. Think about how it’s going to be doing time as a she-male.”

  He stops and stares expectantly, eyebrows raised. I'm supposed to talk. To acquiesce, like a good little tranny.

  “I am doing time as a she-male, Detective,” I answer quietly. “I’m not getting raped every night, but I have to endure many other indignities, including fewer rights under the law than other people get. Right now, I’d like you to take your vile threats and your intimidating presence out of my home. If I ever see you again it will be with legal counsel at my side. . Now please, leave.”

  Wilkins is internalizing his anger. It must be hell to play bad cop and get shot down by a transsexual hairdresser. Phil shrugs and shakes his head slightly, feigning regret.

  “I wish you wouldn’t leave it this way, Bobbi,” he says. “We’re on your side. Really. You don’t know what you’re getting into here. You hire a guy, you start something. Your victim has friends who come looking for you. Maybe the guy you hired blackmails you someday. Maybe he decides to beat you up too. It works that way sometimes. You’re a lot safer letting the law handle it.”

  “I’m still waiting for the law to handle it,” I say. “When I was raped your rape specialist thought it was my fault. When a guy you think is one of my rapists gets beat up, you think it’s my fault. Well, I’m just a tranny hairdresser, but I think there’s a pattern here and it really doesn’t seem to be working in my favor.”

  “You’re a real smart ass!” Wilkins shakes a finger in my face, his body taut with rage. It’s not a show. He really hates transwomen. Me in particular. “Don’t come whining to us when this guy’s friends come looking for you. You’re on your own!”

  “Indeed,” I say, as I open the door for them to leave. “Something we can agree on at last.”

  As their heavy footsteps descend the stairs, I close the door and lean against it, raising my hands to my face. What have I done? I’m shaky and suddenly cold. The law is against me. The lawbreakers are against me. This is crazy! I go into full panic mode for a moment. Part of me wants to call them back and come clean. Instead I sit down and take deep breaths until the shaking and panic subside. I can come clean any time I want.

  After a moment of calm I think it through again. If I confess I will be convicted of something, I’ll ruin Thomas’ life because he arranged for the muscle, and I’m still a sitting duck for Strand and any thugs he wants to hire. No, there are no options now. Now we just play out the story.

  ***

  He took the call out of curiosity. Grace Andive? Andive couldn’t pos
sibly have a wife, could he? No, Grace Andive was his mother. That was a hard concept too. Her son was in the hospital with many broken bones. He had been mugged in an alley on the North Side and wanted his mom to let Mr. Strand know.

  As soon as he hung up, Strand contacted Andive’s skulking buddy, Curtis. Another thug with a violent sheet and a special thing for queers. Strand had never met the man. Andive was his only contact and Andive swore never to tell Curtis or anyone else about him. He hadn’t. Curtis had no idea who Strand was when he called for a meeting…and Strand didn’t tell him. Stand just set up a meeting in a bar and asked him what went down in the alley.

  And now he’s listening with mounting fury as Curtis tells him what Andive had managed to say through his wired jaw and miles of bandages.

  “He never saw it coming,” Curtis is saying. “One minute he’s following the faggot, and the next minute someone whacks him with a baseball bat. He thinks the first shot broke his ribs, but his face is smashed and his kneecaps are busted and some fingers on one hand were smashed. He’s a mess…”

  Jesus Christ! Strand swears silently. The man in front of him is a hulking moron and he’s simpering worse than a tranny. And he hasn’t even been harmed. He hides his disgust and keeps listening, trying to rein in his rage. He already knows who set up the beating.

  “Some of his bones aren’t just broken,” the man says. “They’re shattered. And the poor guy doesn’t have insurance.”

  Strand waves his hand. “That will be seen to. Tell me what you two were doing before that happened. How did he end up in that alley?”

  The moron tries to think. “We’ve been following that tranny for a while. Andive would take a night and I’d take the next one. We’d do three nights a week, sometimes four. He told me we were charting patterns. He said we were going to have another party with her. We just needed to find the right place.”

  Curtis shows him some of his notes. A list of places she stopped, trains she took, streets she walked, the times she did all these things. The search for a pattern. At first, not much of one, Curtis says. Every day was different. Different time leaving the shop, different destinations, different times getting home. Some nights she goes out, some nights she doesn’t. But lately, Tuesdays had a pattern. She left work around eight, took the same route home. It looked good.