Choir Boy (28 page)

from the need to position a net. Speaking of suicide. Have I mentioned I’m out on a limb?”

“I’m not self-destructive or suicidal,” Berry said. The bandages bear-hugging his chest only covered a scorching pain that made it difficult to think about anything else. The hospital had released him after just forty-eight hours, but Dr. Tamarind could send him back any time. He was on pain pills and antidepressants, and off hormones.

“It speaks,” Dr. Tamarind said.

“I’m not an it.”

“So what are you?” He tapped a pen on his legal pad.

Berry shrugged. “You talk too much.”

The heat beneath Berry’s sternum flared as he twisted in his seat as if to escape Dr. Tamarind’s deep black eyes. The bandages reminded him of the ones he’d used to hide his breasts for so long. Only now, the new wounds meant Berry couldn’t repress his chest for months, if ever.

Berry started to tell Dr. Tamarind about his parents’ rec-onciliation-turned-divorce, his near-murder of Lisa’s dad, the discovery his maybe-womanhood had helped turn Wilson gay, and his exile from the choir on the eve of recording. As he spoke, pain flared. It comforted and terrified Berry, because it jarred his mind away from his usual terrors, but also reminded him where they led.

Berry was forever scarred, the doctors said.

Dr. Tamarind seemed to reflate as soon as Berry gristed his machinery. He had a slice of cake with too much fruit and frosting on top to eat chaotically. He had to eat some fruit and frosting to make it less top-heavy before he could scoop at the sides. He started with Wilson. “You don’t really think you could have made your friend gay, do you? I mean, you may be attractive, but let’s keep a sense of proportion. You may have helped him become more conscious of something that was always there.” Then he tossed out a lot of questions about Mr. Gartner’s special swimming pool, and whether Berry had intended murder. Then there was the divorce.

Berry’s guilt lessened a little, replaced by annoyance. Berry thought a makeover might be fun compared to Dr. Tamarind’s droning. “You’re missing the point,” Berry said in the middle of a long sentence about the difference between thought and deeds, or faith and works. “It’s my fault because I was starting to enjoy this.” He gestured down at his femaleness.

Dr. Tamarind’s precarious cake had turned out to have a delightful creamy center. “So you
have
started to enjoy it all. The clothes, the bangles, the makeup. But the price was too high, eh? The price is always high for truth, often higher than you could know.”

“So what do we do?”

“Maybe we went too fast.” Dr. Tamarind clasped hands in mid air, then let them fall in his lap. He breathed through his nose. “Okay. So first I need you to promise me no more cutting anything but coupons and paper dolls. Or else it’ll be the observation ward for you and night shift at the county bughouse for me. That’s number one. Number two: do we keep you on the hormones and geegaws? Going on and off hormones is dangerous, but maybe you should quit for good.” “I don’t want to stop.” Berry hadn’t expected to be so sure. “Okay. If your parents want to come in and talk to me about it, maybe we can help them through this. Your dad especially. Meanwhile, I’m going to talk to your mom about letting you go back to your choir as a boy for now.”

The fire-pins inside Berry swept like pennants. He started to sob and shake. “I’m going to sing again,” he let out between gouts of wet air. “If the other choirboys don’t kill me for being a fairy.”

“You’re not a fairy. You’re an incredibly brave person, way braver than most kids your age, who should stay away from knives for a long, long time.”

Judy had bought a book called
Your Self-Lacerating Teen
, complete with heartwarming pictures of recovered selfslashers and a “Blade-Free Pledge” you could ask your kid to sign. She read it cover to cover several times. From the book, she learned:

•    More teenagers cut themselves than people realize.

•    If they stay away from wrists, neck or other arteries, this is a Good Thing.

•    This behavior usually means something.

She’d gone robotic when she’d taken Berry back to the emergency room. She’d alternated between crisis mode resolve and exclamations like “Oh my God oh my God . . . what are we doing Oh my God ...” Seeing the terror and crippled emotions in her face, Berry’d felt worse than before he cut himself. But she hadn’t scolded Berry. Instead, she’d stroked from neck to collarbone, kissed his nose, and said, “Oh baby, please be okay, please don’t do this again, my sweet baby. Please . . .”

Marco had show'ed up at the hospital on Wednesday, halfway through Berry’s; stay. Judy had seen someone it was okay to blame. “Come to finish the job, macho kid-rejecting asshole fiend?” Marco glared and would have thrown a telephone at Judy if the nurse hadn’t watched him. “Fucking creep, you’d rather beat our daughter than see her as she is.” Marco had left without talking to Berry.

Judy’s pattern of alternate panic and dead-eye stillness had continued after Berry’d left the hospital. “Oh Berry,” she’d say after staring into the shiny kitchen floor an hour or two, “you’re such a perfect blessing and 1 love you. I wish I’d said that before.” She’d hug Berry so tight his stitches almost popped, then return to staring.

Berry felt Judy needed Dr. Tamarind more than he did. The two of them spent an hour together after Berry’s session. Berry sat out in the waiting room trying not to think about what they might be saying about him. Instead he leafed through Judy’s self-laceration book. For fun, he went through and crossed out the word “not” with a chewed-end ballpoint pen. “This behavior does mean your child is a Satanist. Your teen does know what he or she is doing. You should leave your teen alone with sharp objects.” Then Berry felt guilty for his “not” crossings. Anything he did to battle his guilt just made him guiltier.

Judy came from Dr. Tamarind’s office looking bloodless. “Hey mom.” Berry hid the defaced book behind his back. “You look like you should eat.”

“We’re having dinner with Mr. Allen.”

Once, two years earlier, Wilson’s parents had invited a bunch of St. Luke’s people over for a dinner party. They’d summoned Mr. Allen, Berry and his parents, and a few others. Mr. Allen had shown up looking like the victim of a beautician’s assault. Somehow, he’d sprayed his mane into a neat dome over his head and trimmed his beard, mustache, and eyebrows. He’d swapped his normal thick glasses for a special pair with flared steel rims. He wore a square blue tie with white stripes, a tweed jacket, and dark pants. Berry had dropped his stuffed mushroom on his good pants at the sight of Mr. Allen tamed. Mr. Allen was always the wild musician who played forty men and boys using gentle hysteria as his bow.

But even weirder, Mr. Allen had brought a girlfriend to the Fennimores. She’d been younger than Mr. Allen, a few
⁷
years at least, with tanning booth skin and bleached hair, plus square glasses. Berry couldn’t remember her name, but the other choirboys had called her the Fox. That was the first Berry had heard of Mr. Allen having a life away from church.

Staring at the choirmaster had distracted Berry from watching his parents struggle to act sophisticated in front of Wilson’s. Marco had thrown a fit before the party, taking an hour to find a stain-free tie. He’d finally dug out a power tie from his broker days, creased but not blotted. At the Fennimores’, Marco had sloshed dip on the Power Tie anyway. Berry had listened to Mr. Allen discussing politics with his mom, and ignored Marco’s attempts to impress Wilson’s parents. Marco had stayed sober and tried to sell Mrs. Fennimore on one of the Spiritual Growth Funds he’d peddled at the time. (Biotech stocks plus animal guide consultations.) Mr. Fennimore had gotten roaring drunk and shrieked at Dean Jackson about subjectivity. The Fennimores hadn’t invited Berry’s parents to another party, if they’d held any. Berry had never seen the Fox again.

“So map out the Mr.-Allen-and-you thing for me,” Berry said to his mom on the bus. Marco still had the car. Judy had threatened to sic the cops on him to get it back, but she wouldn’t mind if he drove out of town and kept driving in one direction.

Judy leaned over and lowered her voice. Across the aisle, a large woman made a show of not listening. “I just enjoy talking to him,” she said. “He’s passionate about music. And I know he’s had a big influence on you. It’s nice to have him around.”

“So he’s my dad now?”

Judy laughed. “Let’s not jump the gun.”

Berry imagined vaulting over a gun that fired wildly, halfaimed at pubes, legs, or torso.

Mr. Allen was due at their apartment around seven PM. It was Thursday, the free day between rehearsals. Berry realized with a jolt that it was also the original target date for the choir’s recording. The apartment looked neat beyond recognition. Judy had thrown out most of Marco’s junk. All the wrecked appliances had vanished. The Native American wall rugs sat in the dumpster behind the apartment building, and Judy had vacuumed and polished. “Wow,” Berry said.

“I had to do something while you were gone.” Judy pulled out the big table and unscrunched the middle section to make a space for place settings and candles. “I’m marinating wings. So would you dress up nice, Berry? Boy or girl is fine.”

Berry laid out some clothes on his bed and stared at them. Berry hadn’t done boy in ten days. His breasts still hurt like vinegar or hate. It stung just to touch them, and there was no way he could bind them. Hiding them meant layers, or a loose poncho. Berry wanted to make Judy as happy as he could. In the end, he pulled out a pleated gray skirt that Anna Conventional had bought him at Old Navy, a highnecked white blouse, and his choir blazer. The effect was a pastiche of choirgirl. The breasts pushed at the blazer and the skirt made him look schoolgirlish. High white socks and black shoes finished the outfit.

When Berry came out of his room, he found Mr. Allen and Judy making out on the couch. The choirmaster had the same trimmed-everything look he’d brought to the Fennimores’ place two years before. He wore a nice flannel shirt and jeans instead of tweed. His hand sat near Judy’s lap. Judy had one hand on his beard. Berry coughed. They stopped kissing, but not in a hurry.

“Hi, Berry,” Mr. Allen said. “Wow—you look terrific.” “Wow from me too,” added Judy.

“Thanks.” Berry looked at the glass coffee table. He’d never seen its surface before. “So I’m sorry I messed things up. I know tonight was supposed to be the big recording.” “Don’t worry—it’s not the end of the world or anything.” Mr. Allen smiled and stayed leaned back against the couch and Judy. Berry looked up at the huge blue eyes behind rimless glasses, seeking the lie in his smile. When he found none, it shook his whole image of Mr. Allen, the obsessed maniac who lived for the choir’s performance. He’d always assumed Mr. Allen spent every spare moment grinding his teeth over each rushed half note or squeak the choir committed. He’d pictured Mr. Allen walking the streets cursing at his unfocused boys and amateur men. Not sitting with a glass of mineral water in one hand chatting about opera with Berry’s mom.

Judy’s wings had marinated for twenty-four hours and tasted yummy. But everything else about dinner was awful, and Berry marinated through Mr. Allen and Judy’s boring conversation. Judy talked about her car for half an hour, including all the work she’d done on the suspension and winterized undercarriage, and how badly she’d miss it. Mr. Allen said car custody battles could turn just as ugly as human ones. They talked about all the construction on the Downtown Loop and plans to turn some old noodle-stretching plants into nightclubs. Mr. Allen talked about church politics and how Canon Moosehead had convinced the Downtown Association to support a revamped Hungry

Souls program that kept the homeless from wandering onto the main street.

“Canon Moosehead is dating my friend Maura. She’s a tranny ho,” Berry chipped in. Mr. Allen’s eyes went wild and he nearly bit a chicken bone in half. He looked more like the choirmaster Berry knew. “We should hang with her. She’s really cool, even if you did get off on the wrong foot with her, mom.” Judy didn’t remember Maura. Mr. Allen couldn’t quite take in what Berry had said. “Maybe you shouldn’t mention that to anyone else,” Berry said as an afterthought.

Berry cleared up after dinner. Mr. Allen and Judy ended up back on the sofa while Berry washed dishes. Berry sneaked a glance over the half-counter dividing the kitchen from the living room. Judy had her legs up on the sofa and her head rested against Mr. Allen’s armpit. Berry felt jealous of each of them getting to be close to the other and a weird resentment on Marco’s behalf. The idea of a music scholarship at a school far away tempted Berry.

“Can you tuck yourself in?” Judy started to lift herself. “Mr. Allen and I were planning on going out for a drink.” “Oh,” Berry said, looking at the coffee tray in his hands with cups and butter cookies on it. “Okay.”

“And hey, Berry,” said Mr. Allen. “Hope you can make it to rehearsal tomorrow evening.” Judy nodded. Then the two of them donned coats and strolled out.

Berry put the tray down and danced across the apartment. Then he practiced marching back to the kitchen as if it were a cathedral. He rushed into his room and peeled off the skirt so only the blazer and white blouse remained. He considered: how could he squelch the breasts without dying? Then he forgot that question and went back to dancing bottomless around his room, hearing the voices raise within. A thought snagged Berry’s brain, what if Mr. Allen was only dating Judy to get Berry back in the choir? It would be really sweet and touching, but not necessary now that Dr. Tamarind had given the go-ahead for him to come back. Berry hoped Mr. Allen treated Judy well if that turned out to be the case.

Berry went to sleep hearing an inner chorus cascading something out of Handel’s “Zadok the Priest.” He woke at three AM to the sound of Mr. Allen and Judy across the hall—at least he assumed they were the ones moaning and stuttering. Berry felt anxiety crowd out his assurance. His family had warped faster than his body. What would the other choirboys say if they knew Mr. Allen was fucking his mom? That thought took Berry back to the one he’d been avoiding all night: how would he deal with the other choirboys now they knew he was a sex-change case?