by Dan Taylor
With Charles’s fantastic movie star looks, he got work as an actor.
And they made a nice little life for themselves, until Barbara got depressed, started missing her life as Paul, the man of the house. But they got by when she started a course of antidepressants that would last many years.
They raised a fine daughter, and she soon forgot who Judy and Paul were.
They kept their secret until Megan was all grown up and brought her new boyfriend home, Josh, a Harvard medical student who was suspiciously old. Who turned out to be a shrewd PI called Jake Hancock.
44.
“I’D JUST LIKE to say, I think you’re both very brave for what you did,” I say.
“Fuck you, you little punk,” Charles says.
They’re still smarting from the way I deceived them, Charles especially.
I have to say, you wouldn’t know by looking at them that they used to be different sexes. I had found Barbara reasonably attractive up until I found out she used to be a man, and Charles has classic movie star looks.
I say, “I know you’re angry, but sometimes the truth just has to come out.”
“I respectfully disagree, Josh—” Barbara begins.
“He’s not Josh, honey,” Charles says.
“Jake then. I respectfully disagree, Jake. Everyone was a whole lot happier before you came along and found this out.”
“Megan wasn’t. She found out that Charles isn’t her biological father. In fact, it’s weird that the geneticist didn’t mention that he’s actually her biological mother.”
“That is weird,” Barbara says.
“Anyway, Megan wasn’t. She would’ve found all this out whether I was involved or not. If there’s one thing I know as a PI, it’s that the truth never stays buried for too long.”
Charles says, “Spare us the cheesy lecture, son.”
“Fine. And I think you’ll come to realize that it was lucky that your daughter chose me instead of some other PI.”
They stay silent.
“And if it’s any consolation, you two guys would have been great in-laws.”
Charles says, “No, it isn’t.”
Then Barbara says, “It kind of is.”
“Thanks, I think.”
I get up and collect my things. Charles and Barbara are waiting at the door, their arms round each other’s shoulders.
I say bye, then go to leave, but I realize something. “That picture you carry around, that’s you as Paul, isn’t it?”
Takes a moment for Barbara to realize what I’m talking about. “Yes, it is.”
I go to leave again, but Charles stops me, asks me something despite himself. “Are you going to tell Megan?”
45.
IT’S A HELL of a question. One for which there is no obviously right answer.
As I drive to Sister D’s, I call the number for the geneticist, which Megan gave me at the start of the investigation. It’s the laboratory’s landline, so, as it’s a Sunday, I get an answering machine. I leave a message explaining briefly who I am and that I’d like to discuss a sensitive matter.
Do I tell Megan?
That’s like trying to decide between losing an eye or losing both your testicles.
Both have distinct advantages and disadvantages.
My phone rings. I answer it, thinking it must be Scottie or Gerry.
“Jake Hancock.”
“Hullo, this is Dr. Gene Harding.”
“Hi, Doc. I just left a message on your answering machine.”
“I listened to it. Hullo there, Mr. Hancock.”
“I’m wondering if you could answer some of my questions.”
Silence. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“Your secrets are safe with me, Doc.”
“I’m going to have to respectfully decline.”
“I hate doing this, but if you’ve got any skeletons in your closet, I’ll find them, use them to gain the information I need.”
“Your bullying tactics won’t work on me.”
“I disagree. You ever jacked off in some place you shouldn’t have, or—”
Whispering, he says, “How do you know about that?”
Bingo.
“So I can expect your full cooperation?”
“Shoot.”
“Something’s been bothering me. You told Megan that Charles Books isn’t her biological father. But we both know he’s her biological mother. Why didn’t you tell Megan this? And don’t say she didn’t ask.”
“That’s precisely the reason I didn’t tell her.”
“Whut?”
“Look, the guidelines for the American Society of Human Genetics’s code of ethics stipulates I can only give out information that relates to questions she asked. For example, I wouldn’t go and tell her she’s got a gene that makes it likely she’ll lose her eyesight if she hadn’t requested that information specifically.”
“I don’t get it. Talk to me like I’m the clown at your daughter’s birthday party.”
“I was unable to because she didn’t request that information from the tests.”
I think a moment. “So Megan asked you to check whether Charles was her father?”
“Yup.”
“So what about this Wilson Disease business?”
“She wanted that checked, too.”
“So Megan already knew that something was up at home?”
“Do you think you’d notice something was up if your mother had had a sex change?”
“I probably would. But this was a really good one.”
“Anyway, Mr. Hancock, I really must get on with my Sunday.”
“Thanks for the help.”
He sighs.
I hang up.
I only get a couple minutes to ponder whether I’m going to tell Megan, when my phone rings again.
“Jake Hancock.”
“Jake, it’s Scottie.”
“Hi.”
“You’re not going to believe what I’ve just found out.”
“Way ahead of you, Scottie. Megan’s father is actually her mom, and vice versa.”
“Argh shit! You’re still going to pay me for the last day’s work?”
“Not only that, I’m going to give you a bonus.”
“Why would a tight-fisted Yank do something like that?”
“Think of it as a retainer for the next time I need you to work all weekend.”
“Thanks.”
“And Scottie, goodbye…Oh, one more thing, what did you find out that confirmed it?”
“I found the geneticist who did the test, then remote-hacked his computer.”
“Wow, it kind of seems this investigation would’ve been solved a lot quicker if you’d done that from the outset.”
“Yeah, I didn’t think of that.”
“Goodbye, Scottie.”
“Goodbye.”
I hang up.
I see Sister D’s on the horizon, and realize I’ve got no time to decide.
My eye or my testicles?
A hell of a choice.
46.
I GO INSIDE, find Megan leaning on the bar, talking to the barman with the jar of keys.
I expect her to slap me, but she turns and smiles. She’s clearly sloshed.
“Hi, Jakey,” she says. Then laughs; so does the barman. “You don’t have to apologize for leaving me here. I’ve had a great time talking with Terry. Ironing out some of his relationship problems. And you were right about these Polish beers.” She raises her glass, and I raise an eyebrow at Terry.
He holds his palms out in a gesture of what are you gonna do?
“That’s good. Two coffees, Terry.”
Megan screws up her face. “There’s no way I’m drinking a coffee.”
“You’re not. You’re going to drink two. And I’m going to get a beer while you sober up.”
“The hell I am.”
I lean in close. “I need to speak to you. And I’d like you to be at least half sober when you find ou
t the news.”
The seriousness in my voice sobers Megan up instantly, and her eyes flit over my face. She looks nervous.
I take a stool, get my beer, and Megan gets her coffees. She sips pensively as I watch the next stage act.
Halfway through Diamond Cutter’s dance, I make my decision.
“Come on, Megan. Let’s go.”
47.
WE’RE SITTING IN T-Boner, on our second refill, awaiting our food.
Megan asked me numerous times on the drive here about what I’ve found out, but I stayed quiet.
In my experience, bad news is better received at a public place. Better for the one giving the news, at least.
“So, are you going to tell me, yet?” Megan asks.
“Here we go…I want you to brace yourself.”
“I am. I have been since you mentioned it at Sister D’s.”
“Here we go.”
“As you said.”
I take a deep breath, then pause. “And I’d like you to know that I think the information you’re about to receive shouldn’t affect your relationship with your mom or dad.”
“Just spit it out, Jake.”
Again, a deep breath, a pause. “It’s just as we thought. Your dad’s some worthless deadbeat, and your mom got rid of him, got a better man in Charles.”
Could Megan handle the truth? I thought about this long and hard, and came to my decision as I watched Diamond Cutter’s cigar-butt nipples sway in front of my face. Megan is sweet and kind, and I really like her, and as much I think she’s mature for her age, this is the type of news that she could never get used to. Imagine finding out your mom was actually your dad and vice versa?
It’s the type of news Jerry Springer discloses with a smirk. But Megan isn’t white trash, and she deserves better than that.
Remember when Megan got all worked up about my age when I arrived in Texas? As much as I think Megan’s got a good heart, she’s really concerned with surface. This secret is better left buried.
Plus, it should be up to the parents, don’t you think?
The difficult part of investigating isn’t finding out the information—with people like Scottie, it’s usually child’s play. It’s deciding what to do with the information that’s the difficult part.
“Wow, that’s an anticlimax. That’s what I thought all along.”
“Take a second and wait for it to sink in.”
We sip coffee for thirty seconds or so, then I ask Megan, “How do you feel now?”
“Just the same.”
I sit and wait still, looking at her. Then it comes. Could’ve been that Bruce Springsteen’s “The River” has just started playing. Could be that she’s just realized that all her home life has been tinged with a lie. Or it could be that she’s just realized she has a family member that she’s never met, who’s been living a life completely separate to hers.
Sounds cheesy, but a single tear rolls down her cheek. No shit. A lonesome tear. How’s that for symbolism?
She asks, “Have you met him? Is that where you went today?”
I take her hands in mine, cup them. “It is.”
“And how is he?”
“He loves you very much. But he isn’t a shade on Charles, who’s your real dad. I hope you know that?”
She takes her hands away, wipes the tear from her cheek and laughs, which releases more tears. “I do…look at me, my face is melting.”
Parodying Megan, I say, “You look like an eight-month-old with blocked tear ducts.”
She laughs, though not because it’s funny, then says, “I’m going to miss you, Josh.”
“Call me Jake.”
Thanking me, she smiles.
“What do we do now? How do I tell my parents about your being a PI?”
“We don’t. Tell your parents we didn’t work out—Josh and you, I mean.”
“Don’t you think it’s better to come clean about it?”
“I think that’s rarely ever the case.”
“How so?”
“I consider carrying secrets a brave and noble thing, as sentimental as it sounds.”
She thinks about it, her eyebrows narrowing.
I continue to explain. “You ever cheated on anyone?”
“No.”
“I have. After a couple months, I spilled the beans.”
“Good for you.”
“Is it?”
“Yeah…I think.”
“Who benefited from knowing? My girlfriend at the time?”
“Definitely. Then she could make an informed decision about whether or not she wanted to stay with you.”
“By knowing what had happened in the past she could predict how our future was going to be?”
“I suppose when you put it like that…”
“Look, the point I’m trying to make is, the only person benefiting from your coming clean about my being a PI and your hiring me to investigate them is you. You just share the shitty feeling if you do. If you carry that feeling around all by yourself, that’s the brave and noble thing to do, not what some self-righteous, holier-than-thou chat show audience member would say.”
She thinks for a moment. “I think you’re right, Jake.”
“I am right.”
“You know, there have been times during this investigation that I thought you were a real fuckwit. But now you’ve really surprised me.”
I laugh.
We sit quietly, thinking, sipping the shit coffee they serve at this place.
Realization shows on Megan’s face. “So hypothetically, if you were carrying around the real reason behind Charles not being my biological father and who he actually is, you’d be brave for doing it—hypothetically.”
I’m pokerfaced. “I’m not sure it would fit in this situation. I’ve gotten paid for this gig, so braveness wouldn’t be my primary motivation. But hypothetically, sure.”
We hold hands again. She says, “Thanks, Jake. Hypothetically.”
“You’re welcome. Hypothetically.”
“Let’s stop saying that.”
“I thought you’d never ask. Look, all you need to know, Barbara and Charles are fantastic parents. You just need to accept that and move on, embrace how shit-hot they are.”
“I will.”
“Good.”
I take a sip of coffee, then Megan asks, “So what do we do about you and me?”
I spray it all over her.
“You did it again!”
“I did.”
“But seriously, it was fun last night. If I’m ever in Hollywood, I’ll give you a booty call.”
To myself, I say, “The kids of today…”
Megan kicks me under the table.
After the pain subsides, our food arrives and we sit and eat in silence, smiling at each other every so often.
As she wipes her mouth with a napkin, Megan says, “Are you going to miss Texas, Jake?”
“I don’t know about miss. Think about fondly, maybe. I’ll miss Sister D’s for sure.”
Megan gets excited in that way only twenty-something girls can. “Do you know what we should do? In a year’s time we should meet up, go for some of those Czech beers and see how Terry’s getting on.”
“Sounds cool. I’m up for it.”
“Oh, and Jewels.”
“And Diamond Cutter.”
“And Snow Flake, the albino stripper.”
I focus on nothing in particular, remembering her performance.
Megan says, “It’ll be a blast.”
“It will.”
I check my watch, then Megan asks, “Have you got time for dessert?”
“I don’t know. It’s getting late. I’ll have to start looking for a motel for the night.”
“Oh.”
“And I should get an early one. My flight’s in the morning.”
“Oh.”
I leave money for the check, get up. Look around the diner, delaying the inevitable.
Megan walks me to my car, an
d we hug.
I say, “I guess this is it?”
“Until next year. Sister D’s, remember?”
“I will.”
I open the car door and start getting in; Megan stops me, asks, “Unless you let me make that booty call now, and we make a night of it? Send you back to Hollywood with a smile?”
I think a second, look into her eyes. As schmaltzy as it sounds, it’s one of those moments at the end of an old movie when a slow and romantic piece by a big band plays. A heartwarming moment when our hero shows how eminent he is. He kisses the heroine, and they embrace one last time, sharing a smile as they part and he gets into the car.
But this isn’t that movie. I say, “I don’t see why not.”
48.
MEGAN LITERALLY MAKES the booty call. She pulls her phone out and rings my cell, and we speak, face to face.
The conversation goes like this.
“Jake Hancock.”
“What you doin’…Jake?”
I think for a second. “I’m sitting on the toilet.”
“Ew! Gross.”
“Not like that.”
“What are you doing, then?”
“Masturbating.”
“Really?”
“No, but it would be fun if I were.”
“So what you really doin’?”
“I’m about to take a shower.”
“Mm. What are you wearin’?”
“Just a bathrobe.”
“Mm. Do you need someone to wash your back?”
“I’ve got a loofah.”
“Spoil sport.”
“But I’m not going to use it.”
“How are you going to wash your back, then…?”
“I was hoping you might like to do it.”
“Sounds kinda gross.”
“It is, but the fun part comes afterwards.”
“What’s that?”
“I’ll turn around and you can wash something else.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how I can be more specific without ruining the mood.”
“I want you to be specific.”
“It looks like a miniature elephant trunk.”
“Ew. Be vague again.”
“Okay. After you’ve washed my back, I can turn around and you can wash some place where you definitely can’t use the loofah, because it would chafe.”
