Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  Connie had also hinted at the possibility of needing someone to help with marketing. She had been vague but wanted Julie’s ideas for advertising the one-of-a-kind custom homes for the very wealthy—the special community Connie was building in the foothills. Julie would help with the business and manage the office for a while until her wedding. Wedding? Was she really going to get married? Julie held out her ring finger. The diamond winked back at her. Looked like this time it was going to be the real thing. The fact that Ben was able to wrangle two days a week at the Albuquerque clinic made it perfect.

  She looked up as the door to the hall opened. A young man hesitated, then pushed between her and the magazine rack and took a chair on her right. She tried not to stare but looked sideways when he reached for a magazine. His choice was a much-thumbed Good Housekeeping—a vintage copy, no less, some three years old. But he seemed intent on reading it. He was strikingly handsome—no, beautiful was a better word. Tall, graceful, perfectly layered black hair reached to mid-back; he slipped off a lavender suede jacket to reveal a deep wine silk shirt a shade darker than his suede silk slacks. His shoes were suede pumps with a two-inch stacked heel in the exact same wine shade that matched his shirt. She secretly wished they were hers.

  Feigning choosing a magazine herself, she leaned forward. He was shifting in his seat. He seemed nervous but was pretending, at least, to read. He absently flattened one side of a straggly mustache with the underside of his thumb, long graceful fingers sticking straight out. And his fingernails were painted a bright cherry red. She suddenly realized he had looked up. She caught the smirk. His eyes were beautiful—made more luminous by eyeliner—permanent, she guessed. She knew she could never draw a line that thin or that straight. She supposed she shouldn’t be surprised. A transgender Native American was more a sign of the times than an anomaly. And s/he was singularly beautiful—mustache and all.

  “Someday I’ll have bigger boobs than you do. What do you think?”

  She caught herself before she laughed and offered with a straight face, “A good idea—maybe a full cup-size bigger?” She could play along but something told her he was being dead serious—he really wanted her opinion.

  He pulled the wine silk taut across his chest to reveal the budding beginnings of breasts. “I’m considering a boob-job. On my frame I’m thinking C cups. What do you think?”

  “At least. I’m not an expert and I’m not saying bigger is better but you could carry it off.” She smiled. What an interesting conversation. Certainly one she wouldn’t forget. “I’m really interested in where you got your shoes. I love the color.”

  “Online. I’m lucky I can still squeeze my foot into a woman’s size twelve.”

  She stole a look at her own size sevens. “Well, you won’t have to worry about my wanting to borrow them.”

  He laughed and returned to the ancient Good Housekeeping. Then he closed it, slipped it into the rack, and scooted his chair out to face her. “Speaking of shoes, do you have a brand of pantyhose that you could recommend?” He tucked a strand of long black hair behind his ear and earnestly leaned toward her.

  “Pantyhose?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Do you know your size?”

  “Queen.” Laughter danced behind his eyes.

  “Then L’eggs.” She bit back a comment on queen. “But with slacks you should consider knee-highs. They’re so much more comfortable and last a lot longer.”

  “Really?” He seemed to consider the idea. “I’m getting tired of investing a paycheck on pantyhose every week. Sometimes I put on three pair before I’m run-free.”

  Julie nodded knowingly. “I’ll be honest, I can’t remember the last time I wore pantyhose. I try to keep a good tan on my legs and go bare-legged.”

  “Potawatomie?” he asked.

  “What?” She was still thinking pantyhose and the discussion had taken a turn.

  “Your tribe. You could be a quarter Potawatomie to be eligible for treatment here. That’s all it takes. I had a friend once who had red hair and he was Potawatomie.”

  “Oh. No, I’m just waiting on Dr. Pecos. He doesn’t know I’m here—it’s kinda a surprise.”

  “I like Dr. Pecos.”

  “Me, too.” She held up her left hand, her engagement ring turned outward.

  “Beautiful. When are you getting married?”

  “Our plans are a little up in the air.” Julie shrugged. No need to go into detail here, but the lack of a date was a bit of a problem.

  “By the way, I’m Emma but I like being called Em. I think one-syllable names are star-makers. You know, like Cher. You’ll remember Em someday.”

  She nodded, then added, “I’m Julie,” realizing she’d just taken herself out of the star competition. Had the singer, Jewel, started out as a Julie? Maybe she still had a chance. But she couldn’t help wondering how he was going to become famous.

  “You look familiar. Have I seen you on TV?”

  “Maybe. I’ve done some work for Good Morning America.”

  “I knew it. Last month you did that thing on fetishes.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re famous.”

  Julie laughed. “I don’t think so.”

  He scrutinized her then pushed his chair back. “Well, thanks for the tip on knee-highs.” He reached for the same magazine he’d put in the rack and reopened it.

  The conversation seemed over, so she reached for a magazine herself. The two-year-old Newsweek featured an insert of Skip CdeBaca on the cover—New Mexico’s premier statesman, dead at seventy-nine. The picture showed an elderly but still dapper man with a black cowboy hat pushed back on his forehead. Dear Uncle Skip. She flipped to the article and paused to look at a snapshot of Skip and Connie being greeted at the White House. Connie looked absolutely gorgeous—silver sequined gown setting off her tanned skin, dark hair caught at her neck in a thick braided bun, those luminous eyes outlined perfectly with long black lashes. Julie mentally counted up the years—wow—Connie was 58 in the picture before her. Thirty years older than Julie was right now. She fleetingly thought of her own mother who looked good for her age, but it came out of a jar with help from a scalpel.

  The article was a good tribute. There were more pictures—Skip and his children. Julie searched for their names; the oldest son was Byron. She remembered him. And yes, Cherie. How could she forget the daughter? And the youngest—still twenty years older than she, at least—was Jonathan. According to the article, all were prosperous. Cherie and Byron looked out from the picture with plastic smiles, all corporate America in suits. Byron was swinging a leg off the edge of a large modern glass-and-steel desk while Cherie sat behind it. The setting was opulent Wall Street. There was some reserved reference to Byron being a broker and Cherie having her own cosmetic company.

  It was Jonathan who caused her to pause. Bearded and scruffy, he seemed totally out of place in the one picture that had captured him on a bicycle, his sinewy body leaning over the handle bars, helmet in hand. No smile here. He was almost scowling at the camera. If the other two children were artificially attractive, he was simply naturally ugly—a real string bean, too gangly, face too narrow for the shock of hair that poked out at all angles. She caught herself. What a terrible thing to think. She glanced quickly at Em as if he might have read her mind.

  “Do you know them?” He was watching her.

  “Well, yes, I do. My mother is an old school chum of Ms. CdeBaca.”

  “She’s beautiful.” Em leaned in for a better look and pointed at an insert of Connie in soft gray cashmere, black pearls at throat and earlobes. The caption extolled her philanthropic endeavors, listing several charities and foundations she chaired. The CdeBacas were generous. Certainly being very, very rich hadn’t hurt Connie’s beauty. She appeared to glow even in newsprint.

  “She’s a head-turner, even today. You know, I always thought my mother was somewhat jealous.” Now why had she said that? To a stranger? Even if it might be true, she wasn�
�t in the habit of gossiping about her family with just anyone.

  “I can understand that.” He leaned over to study the photo of Connie. “She’s Indian.”

  “Yes, Mescalero Apache.”

  He seemed about to say something else when the door to Ben’s office opened.

  “Julie?”

  There was no hiding the absolute joy in his voice. Her first inclination was to rush to him—all two giant steps, that is. Leap into his arms, smother him in kisses—maybe one long, teasing promise of what she had in mind for the evening. But she felt Em’s eyes boring into her.

  “Hi.” God, how romantic. Didn’t that just say it all? She could kick herself, but still, in front of a patient she needed to give some semblance of propriety.

  “Want me to push a couple chairs together?” Em’s meaning wasn’t lost on either of them.

  Julie laughed. Guess there was no need to worry about being proper.

  “Emmett, why don’t you wait for me in the office?” Ben stepped to Julie’s side. “This will only take a minute or two.”

  “Hey, take all the time you want. Don’t let me stand in the way of true love.” Em nudged Julie. “You go, girl. And you,” he turned to Ben, “practice calling me by my real name.” He gave Ben’s shoulder a playful punch and closed the office door behind him.

  Julie pointed to the closed door and whispered, “We had a good talk—”

  Ben whispered back “Later” and drew her to him. The kiss wasn’t chaste and Julie was a little breathless when he released her.

  “This is the best surprise I’ve had in a long time. But I’m going to be tied up for an hour. I don’t want you disappearing.”

  “Don’t worry about me. I’ll go bother Gloria.”

  Ben kissed her on the forehead and held her for a moment. “Maybe I’ll just mark off the afternoon.”

  “Already done.” She snuggled against him then forced herself to step back. “I’ll meet you out front at noon. Blue Impala.”

  He nodded, bent down for one last brush of lips and went into his office.

  For the first time in a month, the ring felt right. She wiggled her finger and maneuvered the stone to catch the light. Yes, being Mrs. Dr. Ben Pecos was exactly what she wanted.

  ***

  She’d had a chance to talk with Gloria and pick up toothpaste from a nearby Walgreens before Ben was ready. She pulled the Impala under the wide portal in front of the hospital and took the Employee of the Month slot. As long as she waited in the car, it shouldn’t matter and would get her out of the way of deliveries. The portal that covered a dozen coveted parking spots had been added recently—in the last ten years or so. The architect had done a great job of blending the old with the new, retaining the trim around the roof, matching the stucco color to the original.

  The hospital had been a tuberculosis center in the 1930s—one of many when it was discovered that the high, dry desert climate offered relief, if not a cure. She remembered pictures of men and women lounging on the hospital’s flat roof in white robes. The scattering of deck chairs always made her think of a cruise—some sort of inland Titanic with doomed passengers roaming around topside. Treatment centers had been a going business back then. And hadn’t she read that tuberculosis was on the rise again in third world countries?

  Em came out first. She watched as he strode purposefully out the sliding glass door, wine suede pumps and all, then stopped and primped—fluffed his hair, put on the lavender suede jacket before opening an envelope purse Julie hadn’t noticed before. Now a mirror and lipstick. She couldn’t see but could only imagine how great any color would look beneath that straggly mustache. She watched as he unlocked a pickup parked at the end and swung up behind the steering wheel.

  Ben came out next and stopped to wave to Em before glancing to his right down the line of parked cars. She loved the grin when he spotted the Impala.

  “So what’s with Em?”

  She didn’t even wait until he had settled into the passenger-side seat.

  “Emmett, Emma, Em—guess its Em this week. Interesting case. This was our fifth meeting. I’m going through the required preliminary workup before he gets a sex-change operation. He’s one of the reasons I’m in Albuquerque two days a week—the counseling is intense.”

  “You’re kidding.” Julie stopped in the middle of backing out of the parking space. “He’s doing the whole thing? I can’t imagine anyone wanting to change sex—do something so irreversible.”

  “I agree, it seems extreme. The process has a number of roadblocks before any action is taken. He’ll have extensive therapy, hormone treatment, additional transition counseling with the end result an evaluation that might nix the deal even after a year or two’s investment.”

  “If he passes, where will he go to, um, have it done?”

  “Trinidad, Colorado or Galveston, Texas.”

  “You’re kidding. Not some major city clinic?”

  “Those are the two best known treatment centers. They’ve been around for a long time.”

  “Unbelievable.”

  “I’m sure all this sounds like the possibility of a story, but I’d rather get some lunch.”

  “Me, too.”

  + + +

  “I think we need to run by Connie’s. I called her from the airport and she insisted I bring you out if you could get away.” Julie set her crème brûlée aside. “She even offered to let you stay. Now, before you get paranoid about living three days a week with my mother’s friend—think of the savings. It’s a little far out, but gas still costs a lot less than an apartment—”

  “Yeah, you know, exactly what I was thinking—gas money and driving distance—those are a couple things that will keep me away from you every time.” He grinned and reached for her hand. “I think it’s a great idea. I even admit to hoping she’d offer.”

  “Really? I was so worried that you’d have scruples or something.”

  “Nope. I’ve been inoculated—haven’t had a good case of scruples since junior high.”

  “Be serious.” But she was laughing.

  “Okay. I can’t think of anything on earth I’d rather do than come home to you three nights a week, sleep with you, get up in the morning, have breakfast with you—I missed you. I don’t want to be apart any more than we have to.”

  She loved the huskiness of his voice and the earnest way his eyes explored her face. And somewhere between her navel and her knees, there was a certain warmth.

  “Let’s get out of here.” Julie put her napkin on the table.

  “Isn’t it un-American to leave a half-finished dessert?”

  + + +

  “You’re Ben. You absolutely redefine handsome, don’t you?” Connie had thrown her front door open and grabbed both of Ben’s hands, then stepped back to give him a scrutinizing once-over. “And you look perfect together—light and dark. Well, your almost-aunt totally approves. Remember when you used to call me that? Auntie Connie?” She turned to include Julie.

  Julie was feeling a little left out, but Connie dropped Ben’s hands and hugged her.

  “Please, come in. I cannot tell you how I’ve looked forward to this.”

  Julie always felt a little overcome by Connie. Her beauty? Her perfect manners? Her million-dollar settings? She totally understood her mother’s reaction. She marveled at how Ben seemed to take this in stride. He turned to wink as they were being ushered into the vast living room, but he never missed a beat as he answered questions about Indian Health Service.

  “So tell me, when is the date?” Connie leaned back on a forest green leather couch, pulling her long dark braid over her shoulder. Even in casual clothing, a lime green velour sweatshirt and jeans, Connie looked spectacular. This woman made Julie’s outfit seemed wrinkled.

  “Spring, probably. We had thought Christmas but that didn’t work out.”

  “No date?”

  “Depends on good ol’ mom—”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Connie interrupted. “If yo
u wait until Bev Conlin is ready, then Julie Conlin will never ditch that last name. Listen to me—and I’m sure this is nothing new—no one will ever be quite right for you. One of the drawbacks to being an only child, I suppose. But enough of that. I’ll intervene—if you want. We have plenty of time to talk strategy. Let’s take a look at your rooms. ”

  And it was rooms, plural. Connie had put them at the back of the house in a bedroom/living room suite with a private entrance. But Julie wasn’t sure whom they would disturb; the house had to be over ten thousand square feet.

  “This is perfect.” And it was. The furniture was new but comfortable—lots of leather, overstuffed and plain, heavy with wood accents. The room was really unisex and just oozed good taste. Lamps were stained glass and rugs were Navajo. All, of course, works of art. Julie looked down at the large Two Gray Hills she was standing on and realized it was worth at least ten thousand. This part of the house was adobe, judging from the irregular white walls. Building with mud never ceased to amaze her—bricks of mud finished with ceilings of wooden beams and latticed wood sticks in between.

  “Here’s keys to your private back door and the front. And here’s a key that will let you in from the garage and the electronic opener. There’s an alarm but, frankly, I find it a nuisance. I think you ought to ditch that rental and borrow one of the cars here. I’ve kept three. I’ve taken the liberty of assuming that you’d want the BMW. So, here are two sets of keys. House keys, car keys.” She handed a key ring to Ben and then to her. “You can park your truck out here—the driveway extends to just beyond the wall—or in the driveway at the front. I hope that will be all right. There just isn’t garage space. Skip had planned a six-space garage. It was one of the first things I changed.”