A Kind of Justice (33 page)

I smile at him and lead him to the entry. He turns to face me one last time at the door. To keep from kissing or hugging him, I button his overcoat and run my hands along his arms. I try to say thank you again, but I'm overcome by sadness. My eyes mist, I nod my thanks. He nods back like he's agreeing, brushes my cheek with a gloved hand, and leaves.

Sam hands me a tissue as I pass the reception counter. A few tears
roll down my cheeks like a gentle dew. Not a sobbing, brokenhearted adolescent, a woman in mourning. Progress, I guess.

*    *    *

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
19

“You've got poor Stephen worried to death.” Her voice is angry. Wilkins couldn't remember it any other way, though early in their marriage it was always soothing, like a massage of the soul after a long day or night of dealing with society's vermin.

“Are you really sick or are you just playing games?”

Wilkins is tempted to tell her to mind her own business, to ask her if he ever played games about anything, or made excuses, or was ever anything but dead honest. But he doesn't have the energy for such things anymore, and it doesn't really matter anyway.

“I have cancer. I have to have an operation. It might not do the trick.”

“What kind of cancer?”

“Oral.”

“Are they pulling teeth? What kind of surgery are you having?”

He sighs. “They have to take out part of my jaw and part of my tongue.”

She is silent. “Will you—?” She can't finish the question.

“The surgery is
disfiguring
”—he says the word sarcastically—“that's how they describe it.”

“Disfiguring? What does that mean?”

“It means I won't need a mask at Halloween.”

Another long silence. She is shocked, he can picture it.

“Please don't share this with Stephen. I've told him that the surgery is risky but not anything about what I'll look like afterward. We can
get into that if I survive. If I don't, I'm leaving instructions to be cremated. Please don't let anything happen to prevent that.”

“Okay.” She says it in a quiet voice.

“I wrote a lot of things down for him,” says Wilkins. “He'll share it with you. I'm leaving what I have to you. I gave him a key to my apartment in case I don't make it and I told him he can have anything he wants in there. I'm sending a few personal things to Anita at school with a letter, and I'm sending a box of things to Stephen.”

“No guns!”

“No. No guns. My dad's pocket watch, some pictures. Some awards I won. My scrapbook. Things like that. I'm sending Anita my mother's wedding band and some jewelry. I have a few more days to put everything together. It will all be in order in my apartment. Stephen has a key. I suggested he take you with him when he comes.”

Silence. “Allan, I don't know what to say.”

“There's nothing to say. I just have to play out the string.”

“Can I do anything? Can we do anything? Your kids love you, you know. I love you, too. It's just—” She can't complete the sentence.

“I know,” says Wilkins. “Thanks for the thought. We'll see what happens after surgery.”

After he hangs up, Wilkins leans back in the chair and raises both hands to cover his face. He sees himself after the surgery, a face like a horror monster, his mouth in a permanent “O” like some fiendish ghoul, his tongue no longer able to make speech sounds, using a tube to eat. Too weak to climb stairs. What the fuck is he going to do with himself then? What kind of life is that?

*    *    *

F
RIDAY
, D
ECEMBER
19

This is our holiday party night at the salon. The party starts when we close at six, but the festive atmosphere builds all afternoon. Each of us brings a dish, and we exchange small gifts. We could go out to a restaurant or have a meal catered in, but for as long as I've been here, the salon culture was to invest a little of ourselves in the celebration.

After we eat and chat, I ask for the group's attention. In years past, Roger delivered a brief benediction, thanking God and karma for the bountiful year that was and hoping the new year will be good, too. The staff gathers expectantly. A new voice for an old script. They clap and smile as I stand before them.

“In the great tradition of the finest boss I've ever had—that being Roger, but Samantha is catching up”—general laughter—“I want to thank all the fates and deities and friendly prayers that got us through the roughest year we've ever had at Salon L'Elégance,” I start. More applause. “And to all of you who prayed, and to all of our collective gods, please do what you can for us next year.” More applause and smiles.

“I won't drag this out, but I have a few announcements . . .” Several people emit mock groans. I play along, promising to be brief if they will just give a moment more of their valuable time.

“First, let me say that because of everyone's hard work promoting our business at all hours of the day and night, I am pleased to tell you that Salon L'Elégance has returned to profitability!”

People clap and cheer. We're all invested in this place.

Barbara comes before the group, standing beside me, and raises her wine glass. “Let's drink to Bobbi and Salon L'Elégance!” A boisterous salute ensues. I blush crimson, to the delight of my colleagues.

“It is I who should salute you,” I say when the noise dies down. “I don't know of any salon where the staff would do the things you have
done to keep the business afloat. And I can tell you for sure that we wouldn't be here if we hadn't done what we did.” I raise my glass and we toast again.

“One final thing,” I say. “The senior management of Salon L'Elégance has experienced a moment of fiscal insanity and elected to thank each of you for your love and sacrifice with a small holiday gift. This is not something we can do annually, as you know, but this is a special year, and you are special people and we need a special moment together.”

As I speak, Sam distributes envelopes to each person. Each envelope contains a check for $100. Not the kind of money investment bankers throw around, but a tiny miracle in our business where the house profit margins are modest and bonuses are rare because ours is a business that operates on commissions and tips.

Around the room, the reaction is electric as people open their envelopes. In my corporate days I saw white-collar types swear angrily at receiving “only” a $5,000 holiday bonus. My colleagues aren't like that. People smile, some clap, one stylist holds her check to her chest and closes her eyes. I think perhaps her child will get a Christmas gift that wasn't within reach a moment ago. That thought makes me giddy. Jalela is holding check and envelope to her face and beaming with happiness. She comes to me, arms outstretched, and embraces me.

“You're the best,” she says. “I love you!”

“I love you back,” I answer. We hug and rock.

After many minutes of bedlam and celebration, Samantha calls the group to order one more time. “Bobbi,” she says. “On behalf of the Salon L'Elégance staff, I have an honor to bestow on you. Please come forward.”

I turn crimson again, which pleases everyone.

“On behalf of the greatest staff of hair professionals in all the world, and the most dedicated Bobbi Logan groupies anywhere, it is my pleasure to present to you the first ever Mistress of the Lethal
Curling Iron Award.” As she says it she pulls a carved-wood likeness of a curling iron, true to life in every detail except for the arrowhead on the end. My name is inscribed on the handle, along with the words, “Supreme Order of the Lethal Curling Iron.” I can barely read the inscription for laughing so hard.

A tiny voice deep inside me wonders if I could ever find this kind of joy in prison. I answer that myself. I'm lucky to have found it here.

*    *    *

S
ATURDAY
, D
ECEMBER
20

Betsy and I face each other in our living room. Robbie is playing at her friend's house next door. We have an hour to ourselves. Betsy is still pressing for full disclosure on my involvement in the Strand murder, but she takes it gracefully when I again decline.

I switch to the more important point.

“If they arrest me, Cecelia will handle things here. You and Robbie will have this place to live in as long as you want, and you'll get living expenses for at least a year.”

Betsy makes a face. “I don't want your money.”

“I know you don't,” I say. “I want you to have it. I want you to have time to make some choices. Good choices, not panicky ones.”

“You aren't my husband.” Her face is puckering as she says it.

“This isn't marriage. It's love, and you'd do it for me.”

Betsy stands, grasps my hands, and makes me stand. She wraps her arms around me in a soft, melancholy hug. “You are such a good person, Bobbi,” she murmurs. “It breaks my heart you went through so much alone. Don't do that ever again.” I can feel her tears on my skin.

*    *    *

S
UNDAY
, D
ECEMBER
21

Betsy pretends to act surprised that Phil happens to be shopping for toddler girl clothes at Macy's at the very moment we are in the same department picking out gifts for Robbie.

She walks right up to him and says, “You're busted, mister. Betraying the ghost of Marshall Field!”

“What about you?” he says.

“I was forced to come here by you-know-who.” She points at me.

“Hi, Bobbi,” he says. I return the greeting. We stand in awkward silence for a moment.

“Do you have a niece or daughter I don't know about?” I ask, finally, nodding to our surroundings.

“No. I, uh . . .” It's obvious he's trying to make something up. He blushes. “Okay, Betsy said you'd be here about now, and I was hoping to talk to you.”

“You could have called me.”

“I tried that.”

Betsy is smiling sheepishly at me and nodding. She wants me to chat with him. We seem to have crossed some kind of threshold. “Why don't you two go have a coffee or something? I'll catch up to you in a little while,” she says.

I make a face at her, then take Phil's hand and tug him in the direction of the Walnut Room, one of the last vestiges of the old Marshall Field's store. Field's was a Chicago institution until the conglomerate that owns Macy's bought it and converted the Field's stores, even the sacred one on State Street, into Macy's stores. The city is still outraged. Bad enough to lose our own landmark to a lesser brand, but worse that Macy's is as New York as Field's was Chicago. There are still protests every year under the old Field's clock tower. Personally, I would rather have Field's still there, but I can't see taking sides in the silly games of giant corporations.

Macy's has continued the Walnut Room Christmas tradition. It is more Christmasy than Santa's spread at the North Pole and more festive than all the suburban lights rolled into one display. It's even moving for an atheist. Coffee and cinnamon and lovely aromas I can't identify fill the air. It's like a great feast just breathing here, and the decorations and music massage your senses like a soft guitar. I try to stay mad at Phil, but as we sit over our hot drinks, old feelings come back. I gaze at him and fantasize about riding in one of the horse-drawn carriages outside, cuddling against him under a warm blanket, vapors of breath streaming into the frigid air as we glide through the magnificent canyons of downtown Chicago.

“How have you been?” he asks.

“Busy. Happy. Getting along. You?”

“I'm okay.” He bobs his head up and down like there's more he has to say, but he doesn't say anything. I choke back the temptation to fill the silence with small talk. This isn't my meeting.

I'm getting better at this.

“Bobbi,” he says, looking at me now, “I miss you.” He stares at me. I have absolutely no idea how to respond.

“The trans thing . . . I . . .” He stops and stutters several times. “I'm still trying to deal with it.” He says it with a rush, like I'm going to shoot him between the eyes as he says it and he wants to get it all out. “I know that's offensive to you, but it's not about you. It's about me. I have to grow a little.”

About him? I want to ask how it's about him when I'm the one he can't handle.

“The thing is, I can't get you out of my mind. I like being with you.”

“Well, that sure makes a girl feel good. At least you think I'm a good lay.”

“I didn't mean it that way,” he says. He's beet-red, his voice a little chippy. He's getting tired of my little gibes. He recovers. “I meant I like to be with you. Like this. At a club. In a restaurant. Any place.”

I knew that's what he meant but I felt like being cruel. I feel like I'm making a point in a very feminine way—no snarling anger, no loud voices, just a little dig that he can explain away if he wants to.

“I'd like for us to go out on dates. As friends. Maybe it becomes something else, maybe it stays friends. I'm good either way.”

“You know I'm crazy about you, Phil. But I'm not desperate. I'm not going to invest myself in someone who is too ashamed of me to introduce me to Mom and Dad or take me to the policeman's ball.”

“We don't have a ball,” he says. He's trying not to smile.

“Well, your turkey shoot, then. Or your bad guy shooting range, whatever you guys do to entertain your significant others.”

“I will introduce you to my parents next time they visit. I will proudly take you to my favorite cop bar and introduce you to my friends.”

I can see how this might work. He would be introducing me as his friend. It's not as edgy as introducing a transwoman as your lover. It gives everyone a chance to get used to the idea. I tell him I'm okay with that and try to smother the impulse to ask if we might make one little exception to the just-friends rule and run over to my place and make mad, passionate love. The urge passes, but it lingers just below the surface. Probably will always be there until he walks away for good, which, realistically, is where this is headed.