Backstab (21 page)

“You are quite a collector,” I said, surveying the knickknacks on every surface. I'd never seen so many dust collectors in my life, and they didn't have a speck on them. She must spend hours dusting them. Mrs. Delmer proudly showed me her bronze, crystal, and china eagles. We stopped at a hutch full of Precious Moments
figures. I also couldn't help noticing all the religious statues. Mrs. Delmer's religion was red-blooded: The statue of Christ had a squishy-looking bleeding heart, crowned with thorns. The picture of the Virgin Mary had swords run through her heart. The Christ on the cross had blood running down his arms from the nails, and deep gashes on his forehead and side. Her religion didn't offer much comfort, but what comfort was there for a woman whose son wanted to change his gender?

I figured it was time to get to the point. “When did you first notice Michael was different?” I asked.

“When he was six. I caught him dressing up in my clothes and hats. He even wore my lipstick. I knew it was unnatural. I beat him with a belt. I never caught him at it again, but I suspected he still did it. I would find a dress hanging inside out or a sweater folded wrong. I tried to reform him, but it didn't work. I made him play manly sports. I forced him to join the Scouts. I even sent him to the seminary, hoping the priests would straighten him out. Instead of finding God, he committed mortal sins with his fellow men. The seminary asked Michael to leave, you know. Because of his…his…because he was…”

“Because he was gay?”

“Those deviants have perverted everything, even that perfectly innocent word,” she said. She sighed, then continued bravely. “But I guess it's the modern way to excuse sick and diseased individuals.
Yes, Michael was a homosexual. And he dressed like a woman. What did I do to have such a perverted child? I gave him a good Catholic education. Why did God punish me with this unnatural son? I always obeyed the Church. I didn't use birth control, you know, because the Church forbade it. When I married, I promised at the altar I would do my wifely duty and care for any children God gave me.”

Wifely duty? Mrs. Delmer made it sound like she made a deal with God and he delivered defective goods.

“I didn't see Michael for several years. I heard he was living with a roommate and dancing in those filthy clubs as a woman, Maria Callous. I was ashamed, but at least if he went by a woman's name, the neighbors would never find out. I'd always hoped he'd reform. Like St. Augustine's mother, I prayed and prayed for him to abandon his sinful life. Then one night, about two years ago, he called me. It was after midnight. He said, ‘Mama, I'm in trouble. I've been arrested.'

“I asked what he'd been arrested for, and he said, ‘Prostitution.'

“My son! A common prostitute. I was mortified. And he wanted bail money. He said he was scared because he could get raped in jail. I told him he was a disgusting creature and deserved what happened to him. If he dressed like a man he wouldn't make himself a magnet for carnal desires. People who are raped bring it on themselves
by the way they dress,” she said firmly. “Besides, you can't rape a moving target.”

Oh, my god. I didn't think anyone still thought that way about rape. Especially women.

“I disowned him then and there. I told him never to call me again. Then I hung up on him. God was with me. The arrest didn't get into the paper.”

More likely, the devil got into the night police reporter, and he missed the item. Or it was cut for space.

I wondered if Mrs. Delmer knew she'd lost her chance in the maternal saintly sweepstakes when she locked her son out of her life. St. Augustine's mom didn't give a hoot what the neighbors thought—and she certainly wouldn't have let her wayward son get jumped on in a jail cell.

“For two years, I had peace. Then two police officers came to the door, fortunately in an unmarked car, and told me Michael was dead. They wanted me to identify the body. It was horrible. Horrible. I was so ashamed that any son of mine would die like that.”

“Like how?” I didn't mean to interrupt her, but I couldn't figure out why being strangled was shameful.

“Wearing makeup and women's clothes! I had to ride all the way downtown with those policemen, and they knew what he was! What must they think of me! And then the story got in the
Gazette.
How much more could a mother bear? At least your paper never printed his name. I talked with your nice managing editor, Mr. Harris,
and he agreed not to do another story about Michael. There's some decency in this world. I just thank God his father was dead when it happened.”

I bet Mr. Delmer was glad he was dead, too. Anything was better than a life sentence with this woman.

“I gather you've never accepted your son's lifestyle?”

“It's not a lifestyle. It's a defilement of the body, which is a temple of the Holy Spirit. The Church says sex should only be used for procreation. He shall be cast into a pit of fire.”

What an understanding mom. “Do you know who your son was dating at the end of his life?”

“I know nothing about that filth. I don't want to. I know he was living in a flat in South St. Louis. His roommate packed up his things for me. I had them burned.”

“Cast into a pit of fire?” I said. I couldn't resist.

“I was afraid of disease,” she shot back. Mrs. Delmer looked at me shrewdly. After that smart remark, I was no longer welcome, no matter how much I admired her eagle collection. “It is time for you to go. I am confident you'll never write about this. Mr. Harris assured me there would be no further stories on such a revolting subject in his family newspaper. I know nothing about Michael's life. I don't want to. I only buried him to save myself public embarrassment, and because burying the dead is one of the Corporal Acts of Mercy.”

She walked me to the red door. Just before she shut it, Mrs. Delmer made one last effort to get my sympathy. Her lips quivering, she said, “You must understand. Michael was my cross to bear.”

Mother and son were even, then. I was sure she was Michael's cross.

Back in the car, I was so angry I was shaking. I speeded through the side streets to the highway, anxious to get away from that house. What an awful person. What a waste of time. I'd sure learned a lot from that visit: poor Michael/Maria had a real ball-breaking bitch for a mother.

Why the heck was I throwing my time away on this wild-goose chase? It wasn't getting me any closer to who murdered Ralph and Burt. I couldn't even write about what I'd discovered. Mrs. Delmer had my number: That nice Mr. Harris would never permit a story about Michael Delmer/Maria Callous in his paper.

But Ralph thought it was important, and Ralph was dead. Did he die because he knew something? What was it? Maybe there was a connection between this female impersonator and Ralph's death, but for the life of me, I didn't know what it was. I'd at least talk with Michael's roommate and manager. I owed Ralph that much. Then I'd put the whole thing aside. I had a column to write.

Going to see Michael/Maria's roommate wasn't a big deal. Maria's last address was on Crittenden, a mile or two from my house. Crittenden was a handsome street of old-fashioned
brick houses and flats with big wide porches, near Tower Grove Park.

Todd, Maria's live-in manager, was a pretty boy who was fast becoming an ordinary man. The pale blond hair was darkening to a dull brown. A few more years and a few more pounds would turn that delicate Grecian profile into a round dumpling of a German face. The soft skin was already thickening and turning pale from too many late nights, too much junk food, and not enough exercise. The small frame was already carrying more weight than it should. Todd was dressed in the theatrical uniform: black turtleneck and black jeans. His black square-toed shoes had silver insets.

He had quite a talent as a decorator. He'd sponge-painted the walls of the flat turquoise and gray and then decorated it with fifties furniture. I always hated that period, but Todd made it seem witty and smart. It was a fantasy for a time that never existed. I admired the kidney-shaped table with the turquoise-and-tangerine inserts, the pole lamp, and the black couch with the wrought-iron legs, and I told him so.

“Flea market finds,” Todd said, proudly. “Can you believe it?”

“They're in remarkable shape,” I said.

“But you're here to talk about Maria Callous. That's what Michael wanted to be called. I gather you've met the mother.”

“Saints preserve us.”

“Girlfriend, have you ever seen anything like her?”

“She was god-awful,” I said, “in all senses of the word. Poor Michael. Or Maria. She didn't have a chance, did she?”

“That's the sad part. I thought Maria was really turning her life around before she died.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

“I haven't a clue. The police dismissed it as some kind of fag killing, but Maria wasn't fighting with anyone. She was extraordinarily happy the last weeks of her life. That's why I didn't report her missing when she dropped out of the pageant and didn't come home. I thought she was with her man. She'd talked about giving it all up for him. It would be like her to do something romantic. Then, the police called and said they'd found her body in the Dumpster. What a brutal end for poor, elegant Maria.”

“How long did you know her?”

“We lived together about five years. We weren't lovers. Maria just wanted a friend to manage her. Once she started listening to me, her career improved. I gave her a lot of advice about her act. Did you ever see it?”

“No. I heard a little bit about it. Can you describe it?”

“It was different from most drag acts. That's what was good and bad about it. Maria didn't go in for sequins and glitter. She was fairly subdued, at least for a drag queen. It was part of her charm. She had this navy-blue designer suit—a genuine Chanel. It cost a fortune, even secondhand. She had a tailor take it apart and make it break apart for the stage, with Velcro. She added
the little bow at the back. I thought it spoiled the lines, but it did set off her heart-shaped rear end. Most men have flat butts. Hers was nicely rounded. She was proud of her remarkable rear. No padding, you know. It was all natural.

“Onstage, Maria minced around for a bit in the suit, removed her white gloves, then got serious about stripping down to her lacy underwear. The crowd loved it. She'd leave the stage with her bra stuffed with tens and twenties. She could make three or four hundred dollars a night. By the time she perfected her routine and took it to the Miss American Gender Bender Pageant, she got Third Place. Maria was smart, though. She knew that was about as far as she could go. It really was a one-joke act. It wasn't a flashy, high-energy dance routine like some of the girls did. Her club dates were starting to dwindle. She knew she'd have to come up with something else, or get out of the business.

“She was working on a new act, but her heart wasn't in it. She really was a true transsexual—she felt she was a woman in a man's body. Part of her was like Maria Callous—she wanted to be classy and proper. Part of the act was a dig at her mother, who was so prissy she was half dead. A lot of people become impersonators to escape the poverty of life in the projects or the trailer court. Maria was running from the emotional poverty of life with her mother.”

“Is that why she became a prostitute?”

“No. She did that for money, honey, and only for a few months. She was saving up for her sex
change operation. She was stopped once for loitering, but that didn't bother her. She thought that was like a parking ticket. When she was hauled in for hooking, it shocked her. Maria really was a proper Catholic child. Her mother refused to bail her out, so I went down and got her. Maria was so frightened she never tried it again.”

“Are you sure she stopped? Maybe she just told you that. Maybe she was killed by a john.”

“Francesca, honey, we were roomies, remember? If she was hooking out of here, I'd know it. I could tell by the phone calls and messages. She had a boy friend or two, but she was giving it away, like a good girl. Oh, maybe she wasn't above taking a gift, but she wasn't selling it. That arrest scared her. Besides, she didn't need to peddle it all over town. She had almost all the money she needed for her operation.”

“Her mother said she called for help from jail. It was a rotten thing for her to abandon Maria.”

“It was,” said Todd. “But she did Maria a favor by making the break final. The more she got away from her mother, the less outrageous she wanted to be. Maria's goal was to have her operation and then pass as a woman. She could do that for a while with her straight dates. She'd tell them she had female trouble or say it was her period, but eventually either they found out or she broke off the relationship when she thought they were suspicious. She was scheduled to have her operation in a few months. She'd been through the counseling and she was taking the
hormones. She just wanted to be a woman, and love some man.”

“That's what most women want to get away from,” I said.

“Old-fashioned, wasn't it?” said Todd. “But rather romantic. If she could have gone shopping at the Galleria and been mistaken for a West County doctor's wife, she'd have been in seventh heaven. I think with the right man she would have given up her stage act and settled down. And she would have made him a good wife—or an even better mistress.”

“The guy would never have to worry about getting her pregnant,” I said.

“Please, no breeder bias,” said Todd. “I'm serious about the mistress part. Maria told me she was dating a married man. She knew he'd never leave his wife, but she thought they could have a long-term relationship.”

“What was his name?”

“She never said. Maria could be very secretive when she thought it was important, and after the first date with this guy, she was madly in love. She said he wasn't handsome, but he was safe and solid and intelligent, all qualities she valued. I gathered from a few things she said that he was some kind of bigwig, maybe worked for a major corporation. She told me once that I'd recognize his name because it was in the newspaper.”