(Hired as the only man among a group of social workers, he becomes one of the girls and enters a new, unexpected life of mystery with life-and-death consequences.)
Undercover Girl
(Hired as the only man among a group of social workers, he becomes one of the girls and enters a new, unexpected life of mystery with life-and-death consequences.)
Chapter One – His New Job
Marcus Whiting shivered as he entered the heavily air-conditioned office of Opportunities, Inc., a social service agency that served troubled families in a city located in America’s Upper Midwest. Fresh out of the State University with a degree in social work, the slight young man was chilled by the cold air and by his own trepidation at starting a new job. Naturally shy and retiring, Marcus doubted that he’d be up to the task his job as a case manager for families that may not be open to his timid ministrations.
“May I help you?” asked a tallish, extremely pretty woman.
“Ah, yes,” Marcus answered hesitatingly. “I’m supposed to work here . . . to see Ms. Dacosta.”
“You must be Marcus, our new caseworker,” she replied cheerfully, holding out her hand in welcome. “I’m Latesha.”
Marcus took her hand and shook it, trying to equal the firmness of the young African-American woman’s grip.
“Well, welcome aboard, Marcus, we’re looking forward to having you with us,” she said. “You’ll be wanting to see Amy, that’s Ms. Dacosta. You’re a few minutes early and Amy’s not in yet. I’ll show you to your cubicle, at least I think the one I think you’ll be using and you can rest there until she comes in.”
“Thank you, but I don’t want to bother you. I can just wait here,” Marcus said, pointing to the client waiting area.
“Nonsense,” she said, beckoning him to follow her. “We’re so excited to have a man in our section. We sorely need the male perspective in this work.”
Marcus was shocked by the pronouncement. He knew men social workers were in the minority in many agencies, but he hardly thought he’d be the only male caseworker in the foster care services section of the agency.
“You mean I’m the only guy here?” he asked.
“No, there are others in some of sections of the agency, but not in our foster care services department. You’re the first.”
*****
Two days later, Marcus’ concentration was interrupted with an invitation: “Come on join us, Marcus.”
It was nearly five o’clock on Wednesday, his third day on the job, and he was deeply involved in completing his daily report. He looked up from his computer screen to see his immediate supervisor, Amy Dacosta, and two co-workers, Mollie Johnson and Latesha, the young woman whom he met on his first day on the job.
“Huh?” he said, puzzled as to why these three were inviting him to join them in some after-work stop.
“Yeah, we’re going to stop at Luke’s . . . y’know . . . that bar down the block,” Amy said.
“Sure, come on, as long as you don’t mind being the only guy,” echoed Latesha, a true beauty with a pleasant smile.
“It’s margarita night,” Mollie added.
“No . . . no . . . it’s fine,” he replied, declining the invitation, but clearly pleased to be invited by three nice-looking young women.
The three persisted, and Marcus, convinced of their desire to have him in their company, relented. He had nothing else planned, anyway, having been doomed to another lonely evening in his sleeping room.
*****
“So, how are you liking your first week on the job, Marcus?” Mollie asked, once the four got settled on their high bar stools that encircled a small round table. The din in Luke’s barroom was so intense the four had to lean forward and put their heads together to hear each other.
“Well, it wasn’t easy following Amy around,” the young man replied, smiling. He meant it as a compliment to the short, round young woman who had been his mentor on his first week as a case manager at Opportunities, Inc., a large nonprofit agency that worked with families facing all sorts of risks. Marcus had marveled at the chubby woman’s energy and cheerfulness as they visited home after home, each mired in some unfortunate state of dysfunction. Neither the stench that greeted them in some places, nor the noisy disorder, nor the danger of violence seemed to stifle Amy’s respect and embrace of the families they were serving.
“I know,” giggled Latesha. “She mentored me in my first two weeks here. Taught me all I know.”
“Including all your bad habits?” Mollie piped up, obviously chiding her friend.
“What bad habits?” Latesha replied, mocking her anger.
They all laughed, and Marcus enjoyed watching the interplay between his companions, hoping that he soon would become part of the same friendships and all of the good-natured teasing and affection that seemed to have developed.
“I’m Nancy, your server today. What can I get for you girls?” the waitress, a tired looking tall woman with straggly blond hair, asked, her voice almost robotic. She looked more closely at the group, recognizing some of them and her face warmed, quickly adding, “Oh, hi Amy . . . Latesha . . . and Mollie. And who is the new girl?”
“Nancy, meet Marcus, he’s new at the agency,” Amy said, not losing a beat and seeming to ignore the server’s mistake.
“Oh, I’m sorry, Marcus. It’s so dark in here and I didn’t look too closely, just thought you were one of the girls,” she said, genuinely concerned over her faux pas.
Marcus reddened. He said, “No problem. It’s my long hair I guess.”
As he said it, the young man flicked his hair back out of his face and he immediately reflected that his action might have been a bit feminine.
They all ordered pink margaritas, including Marcus, a rare drinker who had been at a loss as to what to order. As Nancy hustled off for their drinks, Amy explained that the waitress had just finished her shift as a hospital social worker and worked at Luke’s to supplement her income. The woman had a disabled husband with two kids at home and was largely the household’s sole wage-earner.
“Yeah, most of us have second jobs,” Mollie said. “I barmaid weekends at the Fleshpot.”
Marcus looked stunned, realizing that Mollie would be dressed in a scanty, revealing outfit working in a so-called gentlemen’s club that promoted all sorts of unsavory behavior. At work, Mollie, like most of the case managers, wore little or no makeup, tied her hair in a ponytail and wore long skirts, full blouses and flats. While she didn’t appear to have a particularly spectacular female body, he could imagine that she might dress up quite enticingly. Besides, she seemed always to carry a winning smile.
“Don’t be shocked, Marcus,” Amy said. “She gets great tips, though I’m not sure I could do it. I don’t dress up as nice as Mollie.”
“Don’t let her kid you, Marcus,” Mollie responded. “Until she became boss, she worked as a hostess at Maurice’s, you know, that classy restaurant on the river. And she’s quite a knockout in that black cocktail dress she wears.”
“I hate that dress, but I had to wear it and I looked like a pregnant cow in it,” Amy responded. Marcus sensed that the young woman was sensitive about her weight; yet she carried it quite well, since she appeared to be unusually strong and firm, not the least bit soft in spite of her above-average weight.
“I hardly think you’d look like a cow, Amy,” Marcus interjected.
“You’re right, Marcus, she’s quite a woman when she’s dressed up,” Latesha volunteered.
“But Latesha puts us all to shame,” Amy replied.
“I doubt that, but the fact is away from work we can all be quite good-looking,” Latesha said. It turned out that Latesha had modeled since she was fourteen and continued to do so on a part-time basis. Marcus saw that she easily could be a striking model; she was an inch taller than his own five-foot, nine-inch self and she had long lovely legs. Her dark skin was smooth and soft-looking.
“Well, I think all of you are beautiful women,” Marcus said sincerely.
“We’re not just dowdy old social workers,” Mollie giggled.
“And, we love you for that observation, Marcus,” Latesha added, leaning in a giving him a playful peck on the cheek. After a pause, Latesha asked, “By the way, why did your parents name you Marcus? I know a lot of black Marcuses, but you’re the first white guy.”
“I think it was because my mom’s grandpa was a prominent historian and wrote lots about the Roman Empire. He did a history on Marcus Aurelius and admired the guy, I guess. At least that’s the story mom told me, but she also said she liked giving a name that was different.”
“I think it’s cool,” Latesha said.
“Yeah, but now mom never calls me Marcus, except when she’s mad at me. Now she calls me Mark.”
The group stayed for about two drinks before breaking up and leaving for their respective homes. Marcus enjoyed the company of the three girls and the conversation was easy, without tension. Mostly, they talked about work, particularly the spotty management style of Mrs. Lambert, who supervised all of the agency’s home-visiting programs, giggling over her often-contradictory rules and commands. Amy, who worked directly under Mrs. Lambert as the foster home program supervisor, defended Mrs. Lambert as woman who served as a buffer between the state bureaucracy and those who did the work in the field. She urged that the others respect the woman for her dogged determination to serve the families properly and for giving most of the longer-term workers the freedom to do their jobs using their own good judgment and common sense and with a minimum of interference.
Several young men stopped by, many of them public employees from the nearby Social Services building. Marcus noticed there was an absence of flirtatious remarks and he was pleased by this. His female companions knew the men, apparently having met them in workplace situations, sometimes even as adversaries; yet, the men and the women seemed to share the common role of having to work with families who often were in the lowest ebbs of their lives.
The four left the bar as the early evening sun was setting, its sharp rays nearly blinding them. They gathered briefly in front of the bar before dispersing, and Amy offered to drive Marcus to his apartment; he demurred, noting that he lived in the opposite direction and that the bus took him directly to his stop. Amy and Marcus walked together, her toward her car and him to the bus stop.
“I hope you three didn’t mind me joining you. This was fun,” Marcus said.
“Why should we mind?”
“Well, I’m the only guy and I thought maybe I’d get in the way.”
“Don’t be foolish, Marcus. It’s like you’re one of us,” she assured him.
“I am?”
“Oh, I didn’t mean to say . . .” Amy said, unsure of what to say.
“No, that’s all right, I kinda like being one of you,” he said. His face grew flush.
“Oh, here comes the bus,” Amy said.
*****
It was past rush hour and the bus was only half occupied. Marcus found a window seat near the back, but hardly looked out the window and instead reflecting on how comfortable he was being with the young women and sharing in their conversation even to the point of talking about certain guys. He never found the same camaraderie in the company of other guys.
Marcus knew his budding career as a social worker would never bring riches or a fancy suburban home, and often wondered why he had drifted into the career, after initially starting in criminal justice at the university. Probably, he reasoned, it came about largely because he felt out of place in criminal justice studies; too much emphasis had been focused on law enforcement rather than on learning why folks acted as they did, why some people drifted into crime and others didn’t. There was a macho attitude that permeated the criminal justice classrooms, and it made him uneasy.
He had become close to one of his criminal justice professors, a former police captain who displayed rare empathy with those who had become involved in crime.
“You’re not comfortable in this program, are you Marcus?” Professor Stanley Lowell said after class one afternoon.
“I guess you’re right, professor,” he replied. He explained that he had hoped for his college classes would follow a more positive theme and not be focused so strongly on the nuts and bolts of law enforcement.
It was Professor Lowell, a tall, broad-shouldered African-American, who suggested that he transfer into the Social Work Studies program in his junior year. His previously earned credits were transferable into the Social Work program and Marcus agreed it was a good idea. Thus, he found himself in classes heavily filled with young women in sharp contrast to the criminal justice studies program, which had been largely male. He quickly felt he belonged in the Social Work Studies program. As had been shown during his recent after-work drink session, he was comfortable in developing close friendships with women.
*****
Soon, it became routine that on Wednesday, Marcus joined his co-workers at Luke’s, usually gathering around the same table near the back. The group sometimes expanded from four to as many as seven, all female except for Marcus whose gender was never discussed. Just as routinely, the barmaid Nancy began her ritual with “What can I get for you girls?”
Marcus at first thought he should correct her, but then thought the better of it. After all, with his long hair and delicate features he was often mistaken and called “miss” by clerks and others. It was strange none of his companions sought to intervene to correct Nancy.
Six weeks later, it was Nancy herself who brought the matter up. As the group got up to leave, the barmaid pulled Marcus aside and off to a corner of the barroom where they would not be heard.
“I hope you’re not offended Marcus, since I always include you as . . . er . . . shall I say, one of the girls?” she asked a bit sheepishly.
“No, no. It’s fine. It’s just the price a guy pays for being in social work, I guess.”
“Well, if it’s OK, then,” she smiled.
“Sure, it’s too awkward to say ‘girls and guy,’” he replied.
He turned to go, but Nancy put a hand on his arm, stopping him.
“I can’t help thinking,” she began. “In looking at you now, you know you could really be a very pretty young woman.”
“Oh?” Marcus said, blushing.
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that,” she quickly apologized.
“That’s OK. You’re not the first to tell me that.”
“You’re really a nice guy, Marcus, and the girls at Opportunities, Inc. are happy to have you, I know.”
“Thanks,” he said as Nancy hustled off to serve the next customer.
*****
“What did Nancy want with you, Marcus?” Amy asked as she waited the arrival of Marcus’ bus, before proceeding to her own car, as had become their usual Wednesday night routine.
“She wanted to apologize for always calling us all girls, including me, and I told her that it was OK since it would be to awkward any other way.”
“Oh, and you don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not.”
Amy said nothing for a moment, finally asking, “But she must have said more than that.”
“Well . . . ah . . . yes.”
“Well, what did she say?”
“Nothing much.”
“It must have been something,” Amy pressed. “I saw you blush.”
“How could you, it’s so dark in there?”
“Not where you two were standing. You were right under that overhead light and I could see you blush.”
Marcus hesitated. He wanted to relate the conversation to Amy; the two had become close confidants in the few short months he’d been at the agency. Marcus realized that he was beginning to have warm feelings toward Amy, as unlikely as that might seem. Not only was she his boss, but she was maybe ten years his senior, hardly a situation that would seem to make for a budding romantic relationship. It was obvious that neither of them had considered the other as a possible boyfriend or girlfriend; their attraction to each other had become merely that of friends who enjoyed each other’s company.
“That’s OK, Marcus,” Amy said, recognizing his reluctance.
Fortunately, the bus arrived, sparing Marcus from making a decision as to whether to tell Amy. He couldn’t forget Nancy’s comment: “You could really be a very pretty young woman.”
*****
Marcus lived in a single room, one of eight carved out of a rambling 1890s brick mansion. He was lucky to have found the room, since he had his own bathroom, even though it was tiny and cramped. The room itself was large (he believed it may have been the master bedroom for its original wealthy owners) with large windows that kept it bright, even though its flimsy curtains hardly blocked the bright morning sun or the windy drafts that came off nearby Lake Michigan.
The other tenants largely kept to themselves, many being single and young; some were obviously partygoers, but all appeared to have jobs. It wasn’t rare for some of the tenants to have partners spending overnights in the room and Marcus was certain several of them must be gay, judging by who might be staying overnight.
In the few short weeks, he had exchanged a few smiling “Hi’s” with several, but few other words; all appeared to be concentrated on their young careers and their own social lives. Marcus was OK with that; he was not much of an extrovert, he knew, finding keeping his own company to be comforting.
It was a warm night and Marcus quickly took off his slacks and shirt and stood in front of a large full-length mirror attached to the inside of a closet door. The mirror was pock-marked with damaged reflective material and imperfect glass and was likely an artifact from a much earlier generation.
“. . . a very pretty young woman,” Nancy had said.
Yes, it could be a figure of a girl, Marcus mused as he looked at the figure in the mirror, a slender, pale slip of a human being with skinny arms and a smooth chest that displayed but a few spare light brown hairs. The legs of the figure were truly lovely, nicely formed but soft and without discernible muscles. He turned around to look at the figure from different ankles. As a young boy, he had never been particularly strong and had pretty much avoided sports, particularly after a disastrous time as a Little Leaguer on a team of nine-year-olds.
His face, it was obvious from the reflection in the mirror, could be a that of a girl, maybe a pert face like that of his cousin, Colleen, with whom he was often compared. Both had the same cute nose that betrayed their Irish heritage, high cheek bones and smallish lips. His eyebrows of light brown hair were thin and his blue eyes sparkled. He remembered the visit he and his mother made to his Aunt Margaret’s home when he played with Colleen. It was during the summer when he was nine years old and on a particularly dreary rainy summer day when the two were bored Colleen dressed him up in her clothes.
“You’re so pretty,” Colleen said.
He recalled how he began to act girly, prancing about in her cute baby doll outfit. He never forgot that summer day, and later when he was about fifteen, he snuck into his mother’s bedroom while she was away and tried on her clothes. It was intoxicating, but he felt guilty at the pleasure he felt when he dressed and he did it only rarely. After all, he was a boy being raised in a backwater river town in rural Wisconsin and it was a place where boys had to be boys.
Those memories flooded Marcus’ mind as he played with his long hair, flicking it about with exaggerated feminine gestures, enjoying the fantasy. Suddenly, he wondered how he’d look in pigtails. Maybe he could get Amy to fix his hair in that style. His hair color could be described as strawberry blonde, a bit like the hair of Actress Emma Stone. He giggled out loud, though softly.
“. . . a very pretty young woman.” He smiled at the thought.
His sweet reverie was interrupted by his cell phone and its sing-song tone. He groaned as he went to pick it up, noticing that the call was from his mother. It was time for her once-every-other day phone call.
*****
Marcus spent the first two months on the job being mentored by Amy, largely by following her as she visiting her clients. Finally, he was given his own caseload and was only two weeks into being on his own when he joined the girls for the next Wednesday evening gabfest at Luke’s; he had been truly exhausted from the tension of his work, but the evening had rejuvenated him, finding as he did that night a true sense of belonging. Rarely in his life had he found a circle of friends with whom he felt wanted and felt such enjoyment.
He felt a bit giddy and light-hearted as he made his way home after the night at Luke’s, and he didn’t think it was because of the wine he drank. Marcus felt comfortable and free. As he set in his bus seat, however, he began to wonder about himself. What was it that made him feel so much “at home” with women? Was there something wrong with him? He remembered how he giggled, almost mimicking the same high tones of his friends, at a silly story told by Mollie in which she related the stupid actions of one of her ex-boyfriends. He recalled his own response of “guys can be so dumb when it comes to girls.” Not one of the young women at the table commented on what he said, except to giggle even louder and nod in agreement.
Despite his exhaustion, his mind was racing as he tried to sleep that night. Had he discovered his real self that night? Was he truly one of the girls? It seemed he was. The thought consumed him as a he tossed and turned, running his hands across his slender, soft arms and considering that “yes,” they were the arms of a young woman. He must have gone to sleep in that dream, for he soon was awakened with his room streaming with early morning light and his cell phone’s alarm chiming its lyrical sound. (As it played away, he wondered briefly how such a lovely tune should be so annoying in a morning wake-up alarm.)
He got up, went to begin his morning ritual in the bathroom and was disappointed when he looked in the mirror to see merely a disheveled young man, not the “very pretty young woman” that he had been picturing in the mirror previously. He wanted desperately to share his thoughts with someone, perhaps his mother or maybe even more ideally, his friend Amy.
He had hoped to see Amy first thing that morning at work, only to learn she had already begun her house calls that morning and was not in the office. Marcus knew that his own workload would be demanding and that he might not see her all day; he wanted to tell her of his thoughts soon, while he was motivated to do so. If he waited too long, he was afraid he’d become wary of unburdening himself with the possibly shameful story of wanting to be a woman.
Marcus’ work as a case manager involved checking in with the foster families that were raising children who had been removed from their families for either abuse or neglect. The twelve families he monitored had about twenty foster children, ranging in age from infants to eighteen. He was charged with judging each child to see if he or she was adjusting in the foster family and to assure that they had not been maltreated in the family setting, either by the foster parents or by other children in the household. Still after two months of shadowing Amy in covering her families, Marcus was not confident that he either wanted to, or was capable of making such a judgment. It was a terrible responsibility, he realized, since a child’s future life fortunes might depend upon his decision; nonetheless, Amy had assured him that his sensitivity and judgment were up to the task.
His biggest fear was in failing to see any form of “maltreatment,” the term that had been declared in the child protection circles as preferred to the former “abused” or “neglected” descriptions. Every case manager or CPS worker faced that concern; what if they overlooked something and the child ended up in the emergency room or the morgue due to “maltreatment?”
“Most foster parents are caring, but there are a few that are in it just to get the money, and they can be crafty in hiding their shortcuts or in beating the kid,” Amy told him during the training.
Perhaps the most galling part of his new job, Marcus soon discovered, was the paperwork; each visit required several forms of documentation; record-keeping was, he quickly learned, “cya” designed to protect the agency from lawsuits or criticisms if something went wrong in the case.
Marcus quickly learned that as a young man in what was seen to be “women’s work” the foster parents and sometimes the children themselves, particularly those in their rebellious teen years, often did not accept him.
“What do you want?” an angry looking overweight woman with disheveled hair and a stained shift said in opening the door and staring at Marcus.
There was a young child clinging to her dress.
Taken aback by the woman’s harsh greeting, Marcus stumbled with his answer, “Ah . . . ah . . . I’m with Opportunities, Inc. Your . . . ah . . . ah . . . case manager.”
“What? You? Where’s Maryann?” the woman said, her tone still one of confrontation.
“I’m taking over Maryann’s cases,” he replied.
“You? A guy? What do you know about raising kids?”
“My name is Marcus Whiting,” he said thrusting his credentials at her.
“Well, you might as well come in,” she said. “Christ, I don’t know why CPS can’t send us a girl. You look like you’re still a friggin’ virgin.”
Marcus blushed. At age twenty-three, he was still virgin.
“Aha!” the woman said triumphantly, obviously knowing she had scored points on this young case manager.
Marcus realized that he’d somehow have to regain control of the situation. Summoning all of his courage, he said directly, “Mrs. Hartley, you know I have to review your three foster children. Let’s get on with it.”
Just then, the young child who had been clinging to the woman’s dress, said in a soft voice, “Mommy, who?”
The woman sat down on a sofa, her demeanor changing quickly; she picked up the child and put it on her lap, gently brushing her hair.
“This is Marcus. He’s a friend. You can say hello to him, OK?”
She let the little girl down off her lap and she approached Marcus shyly holding her hand out. The girl smiled broadly as Marcus shook her hand.
“You may can me Cecily,” the woman said, smiling. “I know the routine, so let’s get on with it.”
Two other children entered the room, gathering at the side of Cecily Hartley, all smiling brightly.
“These must be all three of your foster children, Mrs. Hartley, right?”
“It’s Cecily, but yes. The little one you just met is Maria, who’s two, and these other two can introduce themselves.”
“I’m Orestes and I’m six,” said a bright-eyed African-American boy as he stepped forward, politely holding out his hand, that Marcus took and shook gently.
“Now you, Deborah,” Cecily said to the older girl.
“I’m eight,” the girl said, her voice so low that Marcus hardly could hear her.
“Nice meeting you, Deborah, and I like how pretty your hair is fixed,” Marcus said.
The little girl broke into a broad smile.
“Now children, go and play. Mr. Marcus and I have to talk,” she said. The children left, all of them waving at Marcus.
When Marcus finished with the 45-minute visit, Cecily guided him to the door. “I hope you got everything you need,” she said.
“Yes, you were very helpful and the kids seem truly happy here, Cecily,” he said.
“I hope so, though I’m worried about Deborah,” she said. “She was badly abused by her stepfather and she normally is afraid of men, but I think she liked you.”
“I hope so.”
“Marcus, see you next time, and, young man,” she said, smiling, “I think you’ll do as well in this work as any woman.”
Marcus walked to his agency-owned car pleased that he had won the approval of a most discerning foster mother.
*****
It may have been mere coincidence, but the following day he was called into the office of the agency’s executive director. Hector Ramirez was a handsome man with a full head of graying hair and a full mustache that exuded masculinity. He had founded the agency twenty years earlier, having left his job as a county investigative worker in child protection. His philosophy had been to restore families, if possible, rather than to tear them apart by removing their children for maltreatment. He won great respect in the community for his commitment to seeking to heal families so that they could continue to raise their children to be safe and healthy.
Marcus, of course, worried what the summons might be concerning; he was still in his probation period in his new job and feared he might be getting the sack. He knew not all of his visits had gone as smoothly as the one he made to Mrs. Hartley’s. Several of the parents questioned him even more vigorously than she had about the qualifications that young man of such tender years might be able to bring to mothering. While he felt he had assuaged many of the mothers’ doubts, he wasn’t certain he might have been nearly as successful as he might have been.
“Sit down, Marcus,” Ramirez said, his tone matter-of-fact.
After a few routine-sounding questions as to how Marcus liked the job, his co-workers and other matters, Ramirez apparently got to the reason for his summons.
“How does it feel to be the only man in a section of our agency that’s all women?” the director asked.
Marcus was momentarily stunned by the question.
“Does it feel strange to you? Do you feel you should be in one of our areas where there are more men?” Ramirez pressed.
“I don’t know, sir,” he answered.
Ramirez smiled, said nothing, waiting for Marcus to continue.
“Well, sir,” Marcus said, sensing the cue. “The other ladies are treating me fine. No one seems to resent me that I know of. I hope I’m doing fine.”
“From the reports I’ve heard, you’re doing splendidly, Marcus,” he said. “The reports are that you seem to have an empathy for the families you’re dealing with, and that’s a good thing.”
“Thank you, sir, I hope I am.”
He dismissed Marcus to return to his section and to begin my home visits. Marcus was frankly puzzled by the reason Ramirez had summoned him. Perhaps, Ramirez had been concerned how the young man might feel uncomfortable or unsuited for a job that typically was handled by a woman. Marcus smiled as he sat at his desk; he felt right at home in the work.
(To Be Continued)
Chapter Two – A New Social Life
Having settled into a routine over the next few months, Marcus was becoming comfortable in his job, having largely won acceptance by the families he served. The Wednesday outings continued as a “girls’ night out” affair, complete with innocent flirtations with some of the men in the place. Marcus found he giggled along in the fun, not realizing that he was growing more feminine in his mannerisms.
“You said you liked jazz, didn’t you Marcus?” Amy asked on a Friday, as the two were winding up paperwork in the office.
“Yes, and I know you do too,” he replied.
“There’s a jazz festival at Riverside Park Saturday,” she said. “Would you like to go? I’ve got an extra ticket in the reserved section up front.”
“Me?”
“Sure, why not? None of my other friends are free that day, and if you’re interested, come along. It should be a nice day.”
Marcus accepted the invitation. He wondered whether there was more to the invitation than what appeared: was she interested in him as a boyfriend? It hardly seemed likely, since Amy was nearly ten years older than he was; also, he never considered himself as being the kind of young man who would attract female admirers. He certainly wasn’t a “hunk.” He had wondered briefly whether there might have been some sparks developing between the two, since he sensed that Amy genuinely liked him, as he did her. He always dismissed such feelings as being unrealistic, since Amy was not only his senior in years but also his senior on the job structure. Nonetheless, he was pleased to accept the invitation, as he truly was lonely, having been separated from his mother since accepting the job. Even during his years at the State University, he had returned home nearly every weekend to be with his mother. He had found no close friends in his young life.
Amy picked up Marcus at his apartment Saturday; she drove an older model Chevrolet Cruze that appeared to be kept clean and in good working shape. (Earlier she had told Marcus that her father ran an auto repair business and that she had become quite involved in auto repair. “I work on this car myself,” she had told him; he had to admit that he was totally at a loss when it came to automobiles.)
The day was to be hot and humid and Marcus wore only sandals, a pair of beige shorts and a blue polo shirt; he tied his hair in a ponytail in an attempt to stay cool. Amy seemed years younger than her 33 years, wearing a colorful knee-length print skirt and a tank top that matched the same blue of Marcus’ shirt and flattered her husky figure. She tied her brunette hair into two high pigtails and put on lipstick, eyeliner and facial color.
She looked amazingly fetching, Marcus thought, hardly the dowdy social worker image she showed on the job.
“Wow,” he said, getting into her car. “You’re lovely, Amy.”
*****
Amy and Marcus both learned quickly that each favored more traditional jazz, that of the bebop era of Miles Davis and John Coltrane; after hearing an incredibly talented local jazz group perform pieces like “All Blue” and “Lazy Bird,” the two walked away from the musical area as a more modern group that specialized in electronic jazz was due to perform.
“I don’t like that electronic stuff,” Amy said at the break.
“I don’t either. Care to find a beer somewhere?”
They found a relatively quiet location and an empty picnic table and settled down with their cups of beer and a serving of nachos. It was peaceful and Marcus felt warmly comforted in the company of the older woman. He had been surprised at how cute and lovely his co-worker looked that day; yet, he felt no sexual yearning for her. Instead, he found himself wishing he too could be wearing the same casual outfit, his hair fixed into pixie-like bangs and as looking cute as Amy did that afternoon.
“What are you thinking, Marcus?” Amy said, having sensed the young man’s pensiveness.
“Nothing, my mind was just wandering, I guess,” he said.
Amy examined her friend closely; she also admired how handsome Marcus was, but then re-examined her thoughts. No, he was more than handsome. He was pretty; yes, definitely pretty. His lips were thin but were formed in a girlish pout and his face appeared smooth as if he never had to shave.
The two friends said nothing for a few moments and continued to look at each other. “A penny for your thoughts, Amy.”
“No, you first, Marcus. I know you have something on your mind.”
“It’s nothing,” he said.
“Come on.”
Marcus didn’t want to confess to Amy that he was wondering about how he’d look as a girl. He felt she’d be disappointed, since he pondered whether she might have hoped he might be looking at her as a potential lover and girlfriend. He knew Amy had not had a regular boyfriend for several years, and might be interested in him, in spite of his age and lack of apparent virile masculinity.
“Well, if you must know, I was just wondering how it was to have a guy working in your section, since I’m the first ever,” he lied, hoping to avoid telling her his true thoughts.
“We’re all glad to have you there,” she said honestly. “We know we should have more men involved in social work, since we need to know how to deal with men, too.”
“Oh, I’ve been told I’m doing women’s work, but the strange thing is I enjoy it,” Marcus admitted.
“You seem to be a natural at it.”
“Now you. Your thoughts, Amy?”
“You want me to be honest, Marcus, even if you might be offended?” she asked.
“Be offended?”
“Well, maybe you would or maybe you wouldn’t,” Amy began.
He nodded, signaling her to go ahead.
“I was just thinking how pretty you are Marcus,” she said.
He blushed. It was as if Amy had read his mind. He then smiled and his eyes began to tear up; her observation warmed his heart. He looked back at his friend, hoping he could confide Amy as a friend, not as a subordinate worker at the agency.
“Did that bother you Marcus? Boys don’t like to be told they’re pretty.”
“Thank you, Amy,” he responded, not directly answering her question.
She let out a sigh of relief, pleased that she hadn’t hurt his feelings; he apparently liked being identified with the feminine description of being pretty, she concluded.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked finally.
“Probably, unless you’re going to tell me you’re a murderer or something.”
He laughed. “No, nothing like that.”
“Well?”
“I was wishing I could be dressed in your clothes and looking like a cute girl. There I said it.”
Amy merely smiled and nodded in agreement.
“You would look like a cute girl, Marcus. You’ve got all the features,” she said.
Amy raised her partially filled cup of beer, beckoning Marcus to do the same. She smiled at him and proclaimed: “To the prettiest girl at the jazz festival.”
They followed the toast with a sip of their beer. For Marcus, it was the best tasting beer he’d ever had.
*****
“All of us have wondered about you, Marcus,” Amy said, referring to their Wednesday night friends, Latesha and Mollie. She spoke as she drove Marcus home after the jazz festival. “We agreed that you have a pretty face.”
“Amy, I don’t know how to feel about that, but I can’t really argue with them on it, I guess. I feel ashamed I’m not manly.”
“Don’t be, Marcus,” she said. “Nothing wrong with a pretty face, and we all like you as you are.”
“You know, I play with my hair sometimes in front of the mirror as if I was a girl,” he confessed.
“That’s so cute,” Amy gushed. “I’d love to see you in a dress.”
“Never,” he said, quickly, his face suddenly becoming flush.
“Oh, come on. You’d be a beauty. Don’t tell me you haven’t thought about it?”
Marcus hesitated in answering, but finally confessed, “Maybe a little.”
“Oh, Marcus, I shouldn’t be bringing this up,” Amy apologized. “You’re a friend, even more than being a co-worker. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”
“That’s all right, Amy.”
The truth was that Marcus had often thought that he should have been born female. The memory of the time when he was nine and dressed in his cousin Colleen’s outfit lingered on his child’s mind and in the fifth grade he started hanging around three girls in his class. Recently, he had realized that he was being judged as a girl, largely because of his longish hair that his mother had fashioned with cute bangs across his forehead.
The two were silent for the rest of the drive and Marcus began pondering whether he should tell Amy more about himself. He felt desperate to share his secret longing to be a pretty woman, feelings he had hidden from everyone, including his mother. Should he confess the feelings to Amy who, he felt, had become the first close friend he’d ever had? They had known each other for about two months, since he hired on at Opportunities, Inc., and she was also his supervisor. He felt he could trust her and he hoped he was right.
“Here we are, and there’s even a place to park. It’s our lucky day,” Amy said, as she stopped in front of Marcus’ apartment building. Parking in the area was always difficult.
“Amy, I think I must tell you something,” Marcus said, staying seated in the car even after Amy had pulled it to the curb and stopped.
“What’s that?”
“I . . . ah . . . sometimes feel I am a girl . . . or, I guess, a woman,” he stammered. “Does that make me a pervert or something?”
Amy smiled and reached over to put a hand on his forearm. “No, Marcus. You’re no pervert. Many men have such desires, I understand.”
“I feel embarrassed by that and that I’m not much of a man.”
“I think you’re special,” she said, leaning over to give him a brief kiss on his cheek.
“Do you think I’d look nice in a dress?” he asked, blushing freely now.
“The prettiest,” Amy said. “I think the other girls would like to know about all this, Marcus,” Amy said. “What do you think?”
“Won’t they laugh at me?”
“No, ‘cause they like you. You don’t have to be a macho guy,” she said.
He reluctantly agreed to Amy sharing his secret with Latesha and Mollie, especially when she’d approach each girl with the information obliquely, not telling Marcus’ full story until knowing they’d view it positively. Little did he know where that would lead.
*****
The next day – a Sunday – Amy called Marcus about noontime. It was a warm, humid day, but Marcus had turned off the noisy, ancient window air conditioner and opened the two large windows in his tiny apartment. He was seated on an old loveseat – the only place comfortable enough to read – wearing only extremely short shorts and curled up with the book review section of the New York Times. (One of his few luxuries in life was to buy the Times’ Sunday paper.)
A single fan struggled to keep him cool, but tiny beads of sweat gathered in his smooth armpits; he shaved them occasionally, even though the light blonde hair hardly showed.
His cell phone rang and almost before he finished saying “hello,” Amy’s voice excitedly burst into his ear, “Marcus, all of us thinks it’s cool.”
“What?”
“That you like the idea of being pretty like a girl. What are you doing this afternoon?”
“Why?”
“Well, we’re doing nothing and thought we’d like to dress you up today and see how pretty you could be,” she said.
“Are you serious? I said nothing about wanting to be fully dressed like a girl. I just fantasized about it. That’s all.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Amy replied. “We’re all bored today and think it’d be fun. Just this once.”
Marcus found the idea both frightening and tempting. Dammit! He was a boy and it was wrong to submit to some crazy desire to dress like a woman. Yet, he felt flattered, convinced in his own mind that he would indeed be a lovely looking young woman.
“Well, what do you think?” Amy pressed, as Marcus had remained silent. “Mollie’s got a great, air-conditioned apartment and you know she once worked as a hairdresser and I’m sure she’ll do wonders with your hair. And Latesha is about your size in clothes and she’s already found a couple of outfits in her closet that she thinks would look great on you. And you know how fussy she is about her fashions.”
“Let me think about it and I’ll call you back,” he said, trying to avoid making a decision.
“No, Marcus, tell me now since we all need time to get ready, besides what harm is there in it? It’ll just be us. No one else need know.”
Marcus finally gave in.
Hanging up the phone, he hurried excitedly into his tiny bathroom with its makeshift shower. After the shower, he ran a razor across the middle of his chest, his arms up to the armpit and his legs, trying to grab the few errant strands of hair. He massaged his skin with lotion, as he did almost daily; he loved having his skin soft and smooth.
As he did so, he imagined himself looking like a delicate slender girl; the images were so vivid in his mind that he was unaware that his smallish penis had grown erect and was throbbing with pain, needing to be relieved of its pressure. He rushed to unwind toilet paper and wad the tissue up to receive the ejaculation; he was panting and sweating profusely. He sat down on the commode breathing hard, cursing himself for succumbing to this habit he had; it seemed to develop only when he was thinking of himself as a young woman.
He had to take a second shower to freshen himself up; it would make him late to meet his three friends. He hoped they’d not conclude that he chickened out. As he had completed getting ready, Marcus’ anticipation of what the afternoon would bring excited him. He knew he’d become a lovely young woman before the day was done.
*****
He was only ten minutes late, though he was flushed from the bus ride to Mollie’s apartment. Fortunately, both lived along the No. 30 bus route, one of the most popular in the city. His three friends were all smiles when he finally entered the 19th floor apartment in a mid-scale project that was popular with young professionals. It was bright and unusually large for city apartments, but Mollie was able to afford it since she shared the two-bedroom unit with another older woman. The roommate was gone for the day, Mollie explained.
“I can’t wait to work on your lovely head of hair, Marcus,” she gushed.
“And you should see the outfits I brought for you,” Latesha said.
“I’ve gotten you some new lingerie, Marcus, a package of panties, two bras and a cami,” Amy said, thrusting a Macy’s shopping bag into his hands.
“You’re all so sweet,” he said. “I love you all.”
The young man was overwhelmed and began to cry. His friends joined him in a group hug; Marcus enjoyed the feminine fragrances, particularly Latesha’s perfume, coupled with the soapy scent from Amy and the fainter lilac of Mollie.
“Time’s a-wasting, girls,” Mollie said, ending the embrace. “I better fix her hair first.”
Her? Marcus wondered if he heard his friend clearly. Her?
“No, “Amy protested. “Let her get into her undies first.”
“Shouldn’t she bathe first?” Latesha asked.
“I showered and shaved myself, just before I came,” he said.
They suggested he go to the bathroom and disrobe, and then return wearing one of his new panties. Marcus at first balked at the thought of appearing before his women friends nearly naked; he had always been ashamed to display his puny body to others.
“Do it, dear,” Mollie said, “We know you’ll look just lovely.”
He accepted the fact that he was going to be the subject of the commands that afternoon of the three women; in fact, he was convinced that they’d physically restrain him if he tried to leave. Any of the three were likely stronger than he was and he’d not have a chance. Marcus, however, truly wasn’t interested in leaving; he was excited about seeing how pretty a woman he could be.
“And you can put this on first, inside the panty,” Amy said, handing him what appeared to be a bikini bottom.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“It called a gaff. Men use it when they dress as women to hold their penis in place,” she explained.
They all giggled as Amy gave a brief demonstration as to how he was to use it. Latesha wondered how Amy knew about such items and she replied she had looked it up on the Internet.
As Marcus changed clothes, he realized that his friends were determined to make him into a young woman, having planned this escapade even to the point of learning how to hide his penis, even though his own appendage did not offer much of a challenge to cover up.
“Here she comes,” Latesha said as Marcus left the bathroom, a pink fluffy towel covering his slender upper body. He wore a peach-colored satin panty with lace trim and was struck with how flat his front was, the gaff having done its duty in holding his smallish piece of manhood in place.
Mollie then produced a bra with two forms. “I hope you don’t mind wearing these,” she said. “I used them as a teenager when I was slow in developing.”
“They won’t be too big, Marcus, and will be perfect for your lovely figure,” Latesha added.
The girls soon had the breast forms in place, having stuck them to his chest with some sort of adhesive, claiming the forms could easily be removed without difficulty. Marcus hoped they were right; he hardly was ready to go to work with feminine breasts protruding from beneath his shirts.
“Wow,” Mollie said when they finished.
Marcus looked at himself through a mirror that hung over the dresser in Mollie’s room, astonished to see that it was as if a tiny slip of a girl was reflected, a girl that looked no more than about thirteen. The girl in the mirror had narrow shoulders, thin arms that were flat and undefined and a soft white tummy; her breasts were smallish. Her reddish blonde hair hung loosely, wafting onto her shoulders; the girl gave a dainty flick of her wrist to move some strands from the front of her face. She was coquettish and flirtatious. She was so cute. Marcus realized the sweet girl was he.
“Marcus, we need to get started on your hair now,” Mollie announced leading him to the bathroom.
“How can we call her Marcus?” Latesha asked.
“What’s your name, little girl?” The question came from Amy.
“I don’t know. Maybe Marian?” he speculated.
“Too ordinary for such a pretty girl,” Amy said.
“How about Petunia?” Mollie asked with a giggle.
“She looks like a dainty Petunia, doesn’t she,” Amy giggled.
“Come on, be sensible,” Marcus objected.
“I like Miranda,” Latesha said.
Marcus’ face lit up. Miranda? He liked the sound of it. Suddenly he thought of his mother, Jean; wouldn’t be nice to have her name?
“I like that,” he said, “But why not make it, Miranda Jean?”
“Yes, that’s perfect,” Amy said, quickly finding approval of all of them.
*****
“I brought along three outfits, Miranda,” Latesha said. “I hardly ever wear them anymore, but I think they’ll look nice on you.”
Marcus nodded; he was eager to see what she brought and found himself strangely excited at his new life as Miranda Jean. Latesha always dressed stylishly and he was certain whatever she brought would be stunning.
The first outfit was a dark charcoal colored tunic with spaghetti straps and as she removed it from the garment bag she held it up in front of him. It looked simple and easy to wear, yet most attractive. The second was a lace swing dress in a red and black dotted design that ended in mid-thigh. It featured the four-inch white lace hem with cap sleeves and a rounded bodice. Finally, she held out a mini-skirt in a gray and yellow leopard design coupled with a white blouse with a peasant neck and layers of ruffles.
“What do you think, Miranda?” Amy asked.
“I love them all, Latesha. Do you think they’ll fit me?” he asked.
“I think so. You’re just a tiny bit shorter, but we both have long legs, only yours are actually prettier than mine,” she said, smiling.
The girls helped him try out all three; the truth was he looked smashing in each.
“I’m jealous,” said Mollie. “I could never look as stunning as Miranda does in these.”
Marcus, now eagerly assuming the identity of Miranda Jean, modeled each of the outfits shamelessly, twirling and prancing about as if he were modeling on the red carpet. The outfits all fit marvelously well, although they were all a bit tight around the waist since he had a bit more tummy than Latesha. He had also heard that the male body typically had a wider waist than the equivalent female body.
“I think you’ll need a corset, my dear,” Latesha said.
“Yeah, I should have thought about that when I got her the undies,” Amy said.
“I guess I could do something about losing that tummy,” Marcus said.
“It’s about time you got in a little exercising, Miranda,” Mollie said. “You could come to my aerobics class with me on Tuesday and Thursday nights.”
“Isn’t that for women only?” he asked.
“I don’t know why a guy can’t come,” she said.
Marcus giggled, wondering if he dared to consider joining such a class of woman; maybe, he mused, he could wear a woman’s outfit. He doubted any of the other participants would suspect he was a man, anyway.
The girls all thought he looked best in the tunic with spaghetti straps. “You have pretty shoulders and arms, honey and you should show them off,” Latesha said.
Marcus tended to favor the swing dress since he felt quite flirty in it. He imagined himself being ogled by boys as he tantalized them with his fragile femininity.
“You’re such a girl,” teased Amy as he had demonstrated a flirtatious maneuver in the outfit. He wore a pair of women’s size 9 beige colored pumps that Latesha supplied, having determined her own shoes would also fit Marcus’ smallish, narrow feet.
Marcus didn’t change back into his male clothes, leaving on the third outfit, the skirt and blouse combination. For that wearing, he wore light brown sandals with a two-inch heel. He felt at ease in the outfit, partly because the waist seemed to be a bit less restricting and also because it seemed most suitable for an informal gathering of girls.
Amy opened one of the two bottles of the merlot she had brought to the party, and the four girls moved to the tiny balcony that opened out of the apartment. “Let’s toast our newest girlfriend, Miranda Jean,” she said.
Soon the young women finished both bottles. Now as Miranda Jean, he joined in the conversation easily as the four discussed various clothes, certain music artists, joked about the outfits of several celebrities on their favorite television shows and finally talked about the men they had – or once had and lost – in their lives.
Marcus had something to say about most of the topics, his words often accompanied by girlish movements and followed by a cute giggle. So far, however, he had nothing to say about boyfriends, past or present, never having experienced such relationships. He wondered whether he would ever have a boyfriend story to share with her girlfriends one day. That would have to wait.
*****
In spite of his protests that Latesha was being too generous, he accepted her offer that he keep the three dresses.
“Really, I don’t need them anymore,” she said. “Besides, I saw how you loved wearing them. It’s better they go to somebody who can appreciate them.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded in the affirmative, but Marcus still demurred.
“I can’t,” he said firmly.
“Why not?”
“I’m a guy and I’m not going to be one of those perverts who prance about in women’s clothes,” he said firmly.
“You’re not a pervert and millions of guys like wearing women’s stuff,” Amy said. “Take them home and enjoy them.”
They all helped Marcus clean himself up at the end of the afternoon, using a combination of lotions and soap to remove the makeup that had emphasized what a pretty face he had. She drove Marcus to the ancient mansion in which he had a room, and as she dropped him off, she said, “I hope we’ll see more of our new friend, Miranda. You really make a lovely young woman and I know you liked it.”
Marcus smiled at hearing the woman’s name they had tagged him with during their afternoon of feminizing him.
“Let me pay you for panties, bra and breast thingies,” he said.
“No, it’s my gift for a beautiful young lady,” Amy said, a mischievous smile crossing her round face.
“I’m a guy, remember that,” he said, getting out of her car.
“I’ll try, but it’ll be hard not to see Miranda.”
“Bye, and thanks for the ride and, I suppose, the undies,” Marcus said, closing the door and heading up the walk to the old house.
Amy watched him as he walked; she noticed he displayed a rhythmical sway to his hips. He did have a cute butt, she noticed.
Marcus had planned to complete paperwork involving his cases, a chore he had fallen behind in and was determined to finish. His concentration was interrupted as his mind wandered back to his afternoon escapade as Miranda. After two hours of nearly fruitless effort, he gave up on the reports, deciding to check his email on his computer.
There was a message from Mollie: “See pix of Miranda and girlfriends.” Marcus blushed as he clicked on the icons, bringing up three photos. The first showed Miranda wearing the tunic and Marcus lingered over the view of the slender young lady, astonished by the natural beauty of the girl. He could see the happiness in the girl’s face.
In the next photo, Miranda was wearing the skirt and blouse, and even in the more casual outfit the young lady looked cute and fetching. The final photo showed her gathered amid her three girlfriends in the flirtatious swing dress; all four were smiling as if they having a bang-up time in a “girls’ night out” adventure. Miranda was clearly the prettiest, if not the more feminine, of the four, Marcus thought. Was he truly the prettiest, or was that mere wishful thinking?
He looked over the pictures for several minutes, glorying in his own feminine beauty. “I’m really a beautiful girl,” he said softly. Tears came to his eyes as he realized he was not a girl, but a boy (or rather, a young man). As a young man, however, he never felt as good about himself as he did as Miranda.
(To be continued)
(Thanks to Eric for proofing and finding inconsistencies)
Chapter Three – How Sweet It Is
His reverie of an idyllic life as a pretty young woman excited him that night, making it impossible for him to easily fall asleep; his digital clock marked 1:40 a.m., bringing doubt that he’d ever find sleep that night. His mind flitted from seeing Miranda Jean in a strapless prom gown to imagining the dainty girl in a bikini. His penis grew hard as he tossed and turned at the picture of Miranda Jean (himself) enticing young men with her beauty.
He awoke with a start with the song coming from his alarm clock radio, turning and looking to see it read 6:30 a.m., time to get up. He fumbled his way out of bed and wandered over to the tiny sink in his room.
Marcus cleared his eyes of the crust from his short sleep and peered into the ancient mirror, still seeing the lovely Miranda Jean, a reflection that was marred by splotches of missing silver reflected material in the ancient mirror. He smiled, even flicking his hair in an effeminate manner. The pretty young man giggled; how vain he was!
Suddenly the realization came: he needed to dress that morning as a young man named Marcus Whiting and go to work, ready to serve the foster children entrusted to him for their safety and well-being. He must banish thoughts of Miranda Jean from his mind; yet, he knew she’d be with him for a long time, perhaps forever. He would dress in his most masculine manner for his job that day, he decided; somehow, he knew, he had to erase all signs of femininity from his workplace demeanor. He knew it might not be that easy.
Amy winked at him as he entered the office and passed her on his way to the cubicle; he sat down at his office chair and turned on the computer; as he was waiting for the screen to come alive Mollie and Latesha stopped by. “Hope you liked the new you?” Mollie said.
Marcus scowled at them, not wishing to draw attention to himself; he was still a bit embarrassed by his journey into womanhood the previous day. Even though he loved the idea, he wondered whether Mollie and Latesha, despite their encouragement at his feminizing episode, might think he was weird and even a bit pathetic.
“Good morning,” he said stiffly to the two young women.
“You were quite lovely,” Latesha said, keeping her voice low in hopes of not being overheard.
“But today, I’m Marcus,” he said, maybe a bit too sharply.
“I think we’ll see Miranda Jean, again,” Mollie said, smiling warmly.
Marcus turned to his computer. Yes, his friends were right: Miranda Jean would reappear.
*****
The phone on his desk rang. It was Amy informing him that the Springdale Police Department’s juvenile division was on the line and needed to talk to the caseworker for Jefferson Turner.
“That’s you, Marcus,” she said.
“Me?” he asked, puzzled by the name that seemed familiar.
“Yes, you have the cases assigned to the Harrison family, Hazel and Franklin Harrison,” she said.
Marcus recognized the name; he had yet to make the first visit to the Harrison home, having been only recently given the case file. He hurriedly found the Harrison file, paging through its papers to see the family had three teens as foster children, Melody, aged 16, Larry, aged 11 and Jefferson, 14.
A police sergeant, named Simbach, said officers had picked up young Jefferson sitting on the railroad tracks, apparently looking to be run down and crushed by an Amtrak train, thus ending “his misery,” as police quoted the boy.
“He’s raised some serious concerns about the foster family, the Harrisons,” Sergeant Simbach said. “You better get down here to talk to him. He’s a troubled kid.”
Marcus informed Amy, who was his lead worker, that he was off to central police headquarters, a three-block walk.
Simbach was a tall, middle aged man with broad shoulders and an obviously muscular body beginning to grow soft; he greeted Marcus amiably in his office. A severe-looking thirtyish woman in a pants suit introduced herself as Officer Heddy Jelacic, apparently one of the youth workers in the division.
“You’re new at Opportunities, eh?” the woman said in a tone that sounded a bit accusatory.
“Well, I’ve been there several months,” Marcus admitted. “I’ve never met the boy.”
“Isn’t that just great,” she said sarcastically. “How do they expect a kid like you to handle cases like this?”
“Now Heddy, give Mr. Whiting a chance to do his stuff,” Simbach interjected firmly. “I know he’s got help back at his office if he needs it. Now let’s get our thoughts together on this boy before we interview him, OK?”
Marcus was pleased that Simbach stepped in; he felt inadequate to begin with, realizing how inexperienced he was. He constantly wondered whether he had the ability to work with troubled kids and families; yet, he knew he wanted a career is serving youth and knew he had to learn quickly. Mainly, he feared making a mistake that might permanently harm a young person.
Jefferson Turner had been removed from his family when he was ten, mainly due to a father that had subjected him to a constant barrage of ridicule and minor beatings. The father had been arrested for some of the incidents, but there was never enough evidence to prove the abuse to convict him. When Jefferson was seven years old, his mother died at the age of thirty-four of cervical cancer. It took three years for the children services system to finally discover the how seriously the boy had been beaten and he was placed in foster care. In the following four years, the boy had been in three different homes, the latest being the Harrisons. He had been switched from each foster home because of his “inability to get along” with other children in the homes.
“He’s a terribly troubled kid, Mr. Whiting,” Simbach told Marcus. “And he has his own complaints against his current family that I presume you’ll need to discuss with them.”
Marcus was pleased to see the interview room in the juvenile division was hardly the austere, plain room as was shown on television cop shows. Instead, it was brightly painted and there were pictures of prominent musicians on the walls. The furniture consisted of a violet-colored love seat and matching side chair and a round table with four chairs.
Officer Jelacic brought Jefferson into the room and Marcus was surprised to see the boy was a slender African-American boy with delicate features, hardly one you would associate as being “troubled.” It looked like he could be easily subdued and would be the loser in any physical fight.
“Sit down and give Mr. Whiting here your attention. He’s your foster family’s careworker,” Simbach said in a gentler tone, compared to that of Officer Jelacic.
“I don’t know him,” the boy said, pouting. “Where’s Miss D?”
“Miss Dacosta has turned the case to me,” Marcus said.
“I liked her, and now she’s gone, just like everyone else,” Jefferson said. He looked as if he was going to cry.
“No, she’s at the agency still, and I’ll be talking to her on this case, so she’s not gone, Jefferson,” Marcus said, hoping to provide the boy with assurance that he was not being deserted. He knew he would have to prove himself to the boy, as he realized he would have to do with everyone. Marcus knew he would seem, in the view of many, to be too young and inexperienced. Also, they’d wonder why a young man was handling the case, not a woman as they were used to.
In questioning the boy, it was obvious that Jefferson must have felt he was alone in the world and that no one wanted him or accepted as he was. The boy’s fine features, in so many ways dainty and feminine, were obvious; even his mannerisms had a girlishness that was unmistakable.
“What were you doing, sitting on the train tracks, Jefferson?” the female officer questioned sharply.
“I dunno,” the boy mumbled, his voice hardly audible.
“Did you want to off yourself?” Officer Jelacic said quickly.
“I dunno.”
The questioning continued in this way for several more minutes, with Officer Jelacic’s inquiries becoming more insistent and intense; the boy’s replies were always said in hard-to-hear mumbles or even grunts. Marcus could see the boy was near to tears and seemed about to break out in full-blown sobs. He wanted to intervene: was this any way to treat such an obviously troubled child?
Sergeant Simbach, who had been sitting silently at the other officer’s side, finally interrupted the questioning.
“Would you like something to drink, a soda or something, Jefferson,” the officer asked, his tone kindly, gentle.
“Do you have fruit juice, like cranberry?” the boy asked, looking directly at the sergeant, the first time during the interview that the boy had raised his head.
“Jefferson, I’m sorry but we don’t have cranberry, but I think we have OJ in the vending machine,” he said.
“I like orange, sir,” the boy said softly.
Turning to Officer Jelacic, Simbach said, “Would you get a can of OJ for the lad.”
“Yes, sergeant,” Jelacic said, her voice resentful, knowing she was assigned to the chore merely to get her out of the room.
The sergeant reached into his back pocket, pulled out his well-worn wallet and removed a dollar bill, giving it to the Officer. “I think that’ll be enough, Heddy.”
She took the bill and turned abruptly, leaving the room, giving the door just a bit of an extra push to show her anger at being treated like an errand girl.
“Do you have to pay for my orange juice out of your own money, sir?” the boy said, apparently impressed by the consideration he was shown by the sergeant.
“It’s OK, Jefferson, we just want you to feel comfortable,” he said smiling.
Heddy returned with a small can of orange juice and handed it to the boy with a curt, “Here.”
“Thanks, Officer,” the Sgt, Simbach said. “Now, I’d like you to check with CPS on the Higgins girl. I’ll finish up here.”
Officer Jelacic glared at him. “Yes, sir.” She charged out of the room, clearly upset with being dismissed from the case.
“I’m sorry about that Jefferson,” Sergeant Simbach said. “Officer Jelacic can sometime be a little hard, but she cares and she’s a good officer.”
“I don’t like her,” the boy said.
“That’s OK, son. Just relax a minute and then we’ll see what else you’d like to tell us.”
Marcus was aware this was the “good cop, bad cop” routine being played out. As kindly and friendly as the sergeant was being, Marcus still felt this was hardly the routine that should be used with children, particularly ones as psychologically damaged as Jefferson appeared to be.
Yet, the gambit seemed to be working on the boy. He eventually opened up to the sergeant and to Marcus who interjected a few questions of his own. His role was to find out why Jefferson fled from the Harrison home and whether the Harrisons were abusing him or if there were other problems in the house. He needed to know if there was a need to find another foster home for the boy, a task his office hated doing due to the stress it causes both the child and the foster family as well as the difficulty in finding another foster home that would accept a “troubled teen.”
“I was afraid of Melody,” he finally confessed.
“What did she do to you, Jefferson?” Marcus moved in, asking this question.
“Nothin’.”
“Nothing? It must be something,” Marcus pressed, his words soft and gentle.
“Well, she hurt me,” he said.
“Why? Did you do something to her?”
“No. I don’t wanna talk about it,” he said.
Sergeant Simbach stood. He looked at the boy and then at Marcus. “I’ve got a few calls to make. I’ll let you and Marcus chat for a while, OK?”
The sergeant left the room, leaving Marcus and Jefferson alone in the room. Marcus was confused; he didn’t expect the police would leave him without another officer present, though it was likely the large mirror on one wall was actually one–way glass window, permitting both Sergeant Simbach and Officer Jelacic to observe the entire goings-on.
Marcus suggested the two move to the love seat to continue their talk; he felt the boy might more likely open up in a more casual setting.
“Nobody likes me, wants to be my friend,” Jefferson eventually said.
“I can understand that feeling, Jefferson. I used to feel that way, too,” Marcus said, nodding his head.
“You did? Really?” the boy said, looking directly at Marcus.
“Yes. Maybe just like you feel now,” Marcus continued.
“You? But you have a nice job and everything.”
Marcus smiled. “Look, you and I may be a bit alike,” he said, suddenly realizing how ridiculous that statement was, comparing his life as a white teenager with a loving mother and living in a relatively comfortable, though Spartan, household, with that of an African-American boy living in obvious poverty and in a dysfunctional family.
“How could we be alike?” Jefferson asked, obviously seeing the same lack of connection.
“Well, not totally alike, Jefferson, but at least in one way we are. You are slender and a bit small for your age, right?”
“I guess,” the boy said, clearly unhappy with acknowledging his lack of height and muscle.
“You can probably see. I’m just like you that way. In school, always the smallest boy and I hated sports and stuff like that,” Marcus said. “Many of the girls were bigger than me and probably stronger.”
He felt embarrassed confessing to his own school-age physical shortcomings, but he was confident that Jefferson might have the same feelings. By acknowledging his own frailty and childhood concerns, Marcus felt the boy might open up to express his feelings. Marcus continued to discuss his own teenage years; he even admitted to how few friends he had, his own ineptness in sports and that he most enjoyed being with two girls who were his only steady playmates.
“Me too,” Jefferson said. “In my previous foster home, my best friend was Maria; she was a year younger. I liked her, and I thought Melody would be my friend at the Harrison’s, but she just laughed at me and shooed me away as a nuisance.”
“Is that why she hurt you? Because you tried to be her friend?”
“Not exactly. I just wanted to feel how . . . ah . . . you know.”
“No, what?”
“How it felt to dress like her, with a skirt and all. You know.”
Marcus sat silently, looking at the boy, hoping he’d continue on his own.
Eventually, Jefferson said. “Well she caught me when I borrowed a dress and put it on. I just wanted to see how it felt and how I looked.”
“Oh.”
“I looked pretty,” the boy said, the first time a smile appeared, even though it was a faint smile.
“And then she hurt you for wearing her dress, right?”
Jefferson nodded.
“After I took the dress off, she took my arm and bent it so hard I screamed and began to cry. Larry, you know my younger foster brother, heard and he came in and laughed. Even though he’s younger, he’s bigger than me. I’m scared of them. Now they keep calling me Jenny.”
“Did you ever wish you should have been a girl, Jefferson?” Marcus said, gambling that the bluntness of the question might shock Jefferson into an honest answer.
Instead, the door burst open and Sergeant Simbach entered. “I’ll take over now,” he said, again using a soft, gentle tone but his intentions were clear; Marcus may have gone too far. Nonetheless, he felt he came to understand the boy’s problems.
*****
Since the boy was an obvious suicide threat, Officer Jelacic and another officer transported Jefferson to Hampton Clinic, a behavior health clinic. Marcus had heard about the clinic; it had a fairly good record on handling juveniles though the clinic’s religious sponsorship bothered Marcus. He wasn’t certain how Jefferson would fare if the clinic assumed the boy was gay or perhaps even transgender.
“I hope Officer Jelacic won’t be too harsh on Jefferson,” Marcus queried Sergeant Simbach. “She didn’t seem to take too kindly to the boy’s ways.”
“She’ll be OK with him. I sent along the other officer just to assure the transport would be smooth enough,” the sergeant said.
“I wonder if Jefferson might not be transgender,” Marcus queried.
“Hard to tell. We seem to be having more and more young boys in that situation, but it’s hard to tell. Besides it’s not our job. Our only job is to see they’re safe and I can assure you Hampton is OK with these kids.”
“I hope so,” Marcus added.
“Let’s hope for the best, eh? You were good in there, Marcus,” the sergeant said. “Sounds like you identified with the boy yourself.”
“I did.”
Meeting Jefferson, Marcus realized, helped to tell him something about himself.
*****
Technically, Amy Dacosta was not a supervisor with the ability to make management decisions, such as hiring or firing a worker; she carried the title of Caseworker III in which she oversaw the seven other workers in the section, reviewing their cases, assigning cases and generally leading the section. She reported directly to Miriam Lambert, the program manager.
As the most senior worker in the section, the others naturally looked to her for direction, suggestions and even criticisms. Most workers accepted her happily in this role, partly because of Amy’s own even-handed disposition and because of her experience and usual good judgment.
“I think Jefferson may be transgender,” Marcus said as he wound up summarizing the case.
“Why would you think that?” she queried.
“Just a few things he began to tell me, like he was beat up by his older foster sister for wearing one of her dresses. And the way he acts. I think that’s what his problem is. He gets teased as being either gay or a sissy or something and then feels unliked, unwanted and then acts out in some way. He’s a very sad and unhappy boy.”
Marcus noticed Amy looking at him as he summed up the case and he wondered what she was noticing about him. As he talked, he realized how much he was using his hands; he sat upright in the chair next to Amy’s desk, not slouching as most young men do. He tried then to restrain his almost natural inclination to talk with animation, holding his hands together in his lap, his legs together and feet straight ahead.
“I guess you’ve maybe got the insight to judge whether the boy is trans, at least from what I saw on Sunday,” she said.
“And, I’ve also studied that a bit,” he said.
“At the ‘U’?”
“There was a mention of it in our Principles of Sexuality class, but I’ve read up on it a bit, too, and there’s lots on the internet,” Marcus said. “You can imagine that I might be curious about things like that.”
“OK, I appreciate your concern for the boy, but we’re not in the business of diagnosing a child’s psychological natures,” Amy said firmly. “We’re here to monitor his safety and well-being. Let the people at Hampton decide that.”
Marcus nodded as if he accepted Amy’s and Sergeant Simbach’s confidence that Hampton, as a religiously managed clinic, would even seriously consider looking into Jefferson’s possible transgender tendencies.
“Oh, Marcus, you up to having dinner tonight? With me?” Amy said as he was about to leave her desk.
“Sure,” he said. “I got nothing doing. And it’s a Friday night. Aren’t you busy with friends of something?”
“Not really. I have no one special in my life right now.”
Marcus paused a minute, wondering whether having dinner with his supervisor was wise. Realizing he was looking forward to a dull weekend alone, the idea of having dinner with someone who he had grown to like and enjoy being with was welcoming.
“What time? Where?”
“My place,” she said.
He looked at her, wondering what brought this on. Dinner with her, at her place? Strange.
Sensing his possible uneasiness with the offer, Amy said: “Look, don’t read anything into this, Marcus. I know you’re alone and I love to cook. It’s terrible to cook just for yourself. I make a pretty good lasagna, based on my mom’s recipe. You like lasagna?”
“Yes,” he said. “Sounds great. About 6:30 p.m.?”
“Sure anytime. We’ll eat about 7:30 then.”
“I’ll bring a bottle of wine.”
Marcus returned to his desk, quite perplexed over Amy’s offer. Certainly, the woman must have other girlfriends to invite. He doubted she had any romantic intent with him because of their age differences (he learned, however, that she was only seven years older, not the ten he had thought earlier), he was her subordinate in the office and his own realization that he was far from being the kind of “hunk” that most girls seemed go for.
*****
Amy welcomed him with a brief hug when he arrived at her apartment that was located on the eighth floor of a high rise overlooking the river that ran through the center of town. She had a balcony that faced the river and a wooded park on the other side. The apartment’s rooms were small, but Amy had tastefully furnished them with the plain chairs, tables and other accoutrements of Scandinavian design. In a way, it was a little out of fashion, given the current styles, but Marcus found it to be a clean and inviting apartment.
“This is very nice and such a pretty view!” he told his host.
“Yes, I love it,” she said. “I’ve only recently got this place. Finally, my earnings gave me the option to move out from under the slumlords of this town.”
“Slum lords like mine,” he said, laughing.
“That’s right, you’re in the Hilldale section. Houses there have to be more than one hundred years old.”
“Mine dates to the 1890s, would you believe? An old mansion with eight boarders, but it’s OK if you don’t mind the drafts in winter or the centipedes that seem to colonize in the place,” he said. “I do. I hate the creatures, even though I guess they’re harmless.”
The two moved to Amy’s small but functional kitchen where the woman was finishing up preparing the meal and about to fix the salad. She took two wine glasses from the cupboard and placed them down on the table.
“Mind if we have the wine in here, while I fix the salad,” she said, more of a statement than a question.
“Let me do the salad, Amy, and you can pour the wine and relax,” he volunteered. “I’m used to preparing meals and I love doing salads. Show me what you have for the ingredients.”
“Really? How did you get that skill?”
“I fixed dinner for mom and me almost every night when I was living at home. Did from about age 14 on and got pretty good at it. I kind of kept house, because mom was so busy at work.”
“Go at it then,” Amy said. She took the bottle of wine that Marcus gave her upon entering the apartment and uncorked it. She did it easily, even though she had to use a simple corkscrew, the type that Marcus always struggled with given his own lack of strength in his hands and arms.
“That’s a great red you picked out, Marcus. It’ll go great with the lasagna. Are you a wine expert already at your young age?”
“No,” he let out a high giggle. “I know nothing of wine and I’m not much of a drinker. To be honest I told the man at the store I wanted a wine that would go with lasagna and wasn’t too expensive. He picked it out.”
“It’s a good choice, but Marcus you really didn’t have to pay this much. This is pretty expensive as it is.”
“That’s OK. After all I’m getting a free meal with it.”
The two held up their glasses in a toast, with Amy asking, “To what shall we do this toast?”
Marcus considered for a moment and then offered, “To friendship.”
“Let it be long and happy,” Amy responded. They tapped their glasses, both smiling and looking at each other.
Marcus wondered where the evening was to be going; he still hadn’t figured out Amy’s real reason for inviting him over for a dinner to two in her apartment. The woman had set up a small table in her living room, complete with cloth table covering, a small vase of daisies and carnations and two long white candles. It was a scene for a romantic meal, not a table set for co-workers who were not likely to be lovers. Amy also had shown strong professionalism in her work and would hardly risk her own leadership on having an affair with a young co-worker (and one that she directly supervised); besides, Marcus hardly considered himself to be particularly desirable as a mate for a pretty woman like Amy.
“Wow, you did wonders with that salad, Marcus. I liked how you added a few different spices. I would never have thought about doing that,” Amy said, as she prepared to serve the lasagna.
The lasagna was truly excellent; Marcus found it had a lighter texture than many he had consumed, but the taste easily surpassed any he’d ever had.
“It’s an old family recipe, maybe back to my great grandma in Italy,” she said. “It’s not like the typical American lasagna. This more authentic, just like they did for years back in the old country.”
Marcus couldn’t remember when he’d had such an enjoyable evening. He found the conversation with Amy to be easy and laid-back; they both talked about their childhood. Amy was the only girl in a family that included six boys along with her stay-at-home mother and hard-working father who was an ironworker. “I was the middle kid and boy did I have to learn to fight to stay alive in that family,” she laughed.
She admitted to being a promising gymnast in her early teens, but then her body thickened, reflecting the sturdy nature of her family line, especially her father’s whose strength was legendary in their Philadelphia neighborhood. She gave up gymnastics in favor of basketball, where she played guard through her high school and college years.
“I was too damn short to amount to much in basketball, but they always seemed to have a spot for me on the teams. I was lucky.”
“No, you were probably damned good, Amy,” he said admiringly.
“Did you do any sports, Marcus?”
“Hardly,” he giggled. “Do I look like I’d be any good at anything?”
“Sure, I could see you in track or swimming or something like that.”
“Sorry, unless they would have let me join one of the girls’ teams,” he laughed, tough realizing he probably wasn’t good enough at any physical sport to compete with most of the girls.
Marcus could feel the wine taking effect as the conversation continued. He found his talk because less cautious and he felt good about it.
“A little time in the gym, Marcus, and I’d bet you’d be good,” she said.
“I don’t know. It seems today I’m getting more often identified as a girl. You know, you saw it when we’re at Luke’s. Seems I get hit on in there far too often, and the barmaid’s always treating me like one of the girls.”
Amy nodded, saying nothing, apparently hoping the young man would continue.
“And tonight, when I got the wine, the clerk who was a chatty-type, asked me if I was getting the wine for a dinner with my boyfriend. Maybe he thought I was gay or something. But maybe he thought I was a girl, do you think?”
“Sweetie, you have very delicate features and I dare say you have a truly pretty face,” Amy replied. “And your hair, while it’s not too long, is still fixed like a girl’s.”
“I like wearing it that way.”
“That’s OK, but it probably may lead people to get the wrong idea about you. Look at what you’re wearing tonight, those tight hip-hugging slacks and that teal-colored open neck shirt. A girl could easily wear them. Sometimes I begin seeing you only as a particularly lovely young lady and I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”
“No, I don’t mind,” he said. He enjoyed the idea of being thought of as a pretty woman.
(To Be Continued)
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading, other assistance)
Chapter Four – A Night to Remember
It was a warm night and Amy and Marcus spent several hours on her balcony, sitting together in a two-seated swing chair. They sipped the red wine that Marcus had brought and were well into a second bottle that Amy produced when she said, “Want to stay the night?”
He was shocked. Stay the night? That would mean likely sleeping with her, maybe even making love. No, he couldn’t do that. It was wrong to sleep with his boss, wasn’t it? But, what was he to do? He’d never been in bed with a woman in his life, except with his mother and that ended when he turned twelve. He wasn’t sure he was capable of making love to a woman, though he knew what had to be done. Marcus wasn’t sure he could complete the act.
“I couldn’t,” he said.
“Why not? You have a jealous girlfriend, do you?”
He blushed. A girlfriend? Hardly.
“You’ve had a lot of wine, Marcus.”
Marcus didn’t answer; he realized he was getting a bit foggy-minded.
“It’s getting chilly now, Marcus,” Amy said after several minutes of silence passed between the two. “We’d better move inside.”
Soon Marcus found himself sitting next to Amy on the sofa; the woman had turned on her large-screen television to a movie channel that was showing “Sleepless in Seattle” for the umpteenth time. The sound was low and barely audible, but Marcus had seen the chick flick perhaps a dozen times and knew much of the dialogue anyway.
Amy cuddled up against him and Marcus was surprised as she put her arm around his shoulders and began caressing his slender upper arm. He stiffened slightly as he knew Amy would be feeling his soft, unmanly body, shaming his manhood. But her touches were tender, and soon became comforting. He succumbed into her arm and their faces grew close. He nestled more tightly into her, smothering his head onto her breasts, the scent of her subtle perfume intermingling with musty smell of her growing perspiration. His penis was growing hard.
“This is so nice, Marcus,” she said, looking into his eyes.
“Yes, Amy,” he said, wanting to say something more romantic, but still worried about whether the woman would be offended. He was ashamed at his own ineptitude with woman.
“You’re uncomfortable, my dear?” Amy asked, apparently sensing his hesitancy.
He wasn’t certain how to respond. What was a man to do in this situation, he wondered? Wasn’t the man to be the initiator, the one who made the advances?
“You’ve never had a girlfriend, have you, darling?” she asked.
“Not anything serious,” he said, realizing it was not the total truth. The truth was too painful to admit to. He was twenty-three years old and he’d never been on a date in his life, nor had he ever had a “girlfriend” in any sense of the word, unless he counted his mother.
“Would you like to kiss me, darling?” she asked.
Marcus never had a chance to answer; Amy’s lips were upon his, soft and gently at first and then with more passion. He tasted the garlic-and-wine of her mouth, the intimacy of her exciting him and he returned the kiss with his own firmness and the two were locked in a sweet embrace. He felt his lips being pushed apart and her tongue thrusting into his mouth, shocking him at first; it was stimulating and he could feel his penis growing harder and becoming painful. He was afraid he would burst into a violent ejaculation, filling his panties (yes, he had taken to wearing panties daily under his male clothes).
Suddenly Amy broke their embrace and move away from him. She was panting heavily and Marcus was confused. Her quick separation caused a softening of his penis.
“You’re so passionate, Marcus,” she said.
“Am I? Is that OK?”
She laughed. “Oh, my yes. I loved your passion, and I’ll bet you’re a virgin, right?”
He reddened, still ashamed to confess his lack of experience. He didn’t answer, but it was obvious that Amy knew the answer.
“There’s nothing wrong with that,” she said. “You have lots of love in you my darling.”
“You think so?”
She smiled and nodded her head.
“I better get going,” Marcus announced.
“You’re not going anywhere,” she said. “It’s after midnight and the buses will be few and far between. You’ll stay here.”
The tone of Amy’s voice was firm and determined; Marcus would stay with her that night. After all it was now Saturday morning and Marcus had a whole weekend free, with nothing much to do but his laundry and perhaps take in a movie by himself. His time off was lonely; he missed weekends at home with his mother.
“I have a big queen-sized bed and there’ll plenty of room for both of us,” she said.
“I can sleep on the sofa,” he said. “You don’t have to share your bed.”
“I don’t snore, Marcus,” she laughed.
“You know we shouldn’t sleep together . . . ah . . . er . . . unless . . . ah . . .”
“Unless we’re going to make love,” she completed the sentence for him.
“Yes,” he agreed.
“Marcus, we won’t be making love, as you call it, for two reasons, darling. First of all, we’re co-workers and we should not get too involved with each other so quickly and, secondly, you’re a virgin and I want your first experience to be with someone you really care for. OK?”
“I care for you, Amy,” he blurted out.
The woman shook her head negatively. “Not in that way, darling. Maybe sometime in the future. Right now, we’re just friends, OK?”
Marcus felt a bit embarrassed by his sudden outburst that he “cared” for Amy; he truly did, an affection that had grown from his first day on the job. After all, the age difference wasn’t too great, just seven years, he had periodically reasoned. The fact that they were co-workers and she was his immediate superior troubled him; such workplace romances rarely seemed to work out.
“Marcus, I really like you, I truly, really do, but we must cool off. I was wrong in encouraging this,” Amy said.
“No, you weren’t,” he argued.
Amy didn’t answer.
*****
“Here, you may wear this to sleep in,” Amy said. The two had finished cleaning up the kitchen and they had retired to Amy’s bedroom. The two had giggled often as they washed the dirty plates from dinner and cleaned the wineglasses. The buzz that Marcus had felt from the wine had tapered off and he was feeling more clear-headed. He was beginning to question why he was staying the night, but Amy had been insistent and he had no reasonable excuse to refuse the offer, outside of his own shyness and wariness over what was appearing more and more to be a romantic encounter.
“That’s one of your nightgowns, isn’t it?” he asked.
“Yes, put it on. It’s something to sleep in,” she said.
“But?”
“It’s clean if that’s what you’re asking.”
“No, but it’s a woman’s gown.”
“So?”
“OK,” Marcus said, a bit embarrassed at being asked to wear a woman’s gown.
“You’ll look darling in it,” she teased. “You can change in the bathroom, and you may want to keep your briefs on.”
Marcus smiled, realizing he was already wearing women’s panties. Maybe the gown was just made for him.
A few minutes later, he emerged from the bathroom, wearing the pink baby doll style nightgown. It was a little loose on him, since Amy had a huskier body.
“My, you are the picture of loveliness,” Amy said. She was wearing a similar style gown, but of peach color.
“You are too, Amy,” he said.
“Gimme a hug,” Amy said reaching out to Marcus. The two hugged for a long time and Marcus looked over her shoulder to the full-length mirror.
“We look like sisters,” he said, breaking the embrace and turning her toward the mirror.
“Yeah, we do. The short, fat one and the pretty one,” she said, beginning to laugh.
“Well, maybe two pretty sisters, one a little shorter than the other,” he corrected.
They tumbled into bed together, quickly separating under the covers, Marcus to the left side of the bed and Amy to the right. The width of the bed was enough to keep them apart for the night. He fell asleep almost immediately, perhaps due to the amount of wine he drank and perhaps also due to the contentment he felt with Amy.
*****
Marcus awoke to the scents of toast and brewed coffee; for a moment, he imagined he was back home in Wisconsin, his mother preparing a full breakfast for him. It had become a regular Saturday morning ritual between mother and son, the one day they were usually at home, unburdened with the need to arise for work or school schedules.
From the smells of the room, however, the sweet feminine aromas of cosmetics, potpourri and perfumes, he realized he was not back in his old childhood bedroom. His head ached, and he remembered all the wine he had the previous night. He smiled to himself; he was in Amy’s bed wearing her nightgown; he briefly thought how Amy had treated him as her girlfriend.
His memories were foggy; he remembered much of what had happened, his sharing of the bed with the solid firm body of Amy Dacosta, his falling asleep almost immediately but then waking to Amy’s hugs and kisses, his own excitement and erections, his declarations of affection for the older woman. What else did he do during the night, he wondered? Certainly, he did not end his virginity, he knew, but what else did he do?
Just then the door opened and Amy stood there momentarily, smiling. “Good, you’re awake, sleeping beauty.”
“Hi, guess I better be up, eh?”
“Yep, coffee and a nice breakfast awaits, dear Miranda,” she said using the female name she and his co-workers had tagged him with.
“Oh? You didn’t have to do that. Just gimme my clothes and I’ll be on my way,” he said.
“No way, cutie, you’re having breakfast and then we’ll see what we’d like to do,” she announced. “You don’t have any plans for the day, do you?”
“No, nothing but some studying for my class, but I guess that can wait.”
“What class is that, darling?”
“I decided I should start on my masters and am taking a class at the ‘U’,” he said, referring to the local branch of the state university.
“Good, girl,” she said, handing him a pink robe and a pair of fluffy slippers. “Go brush your teeth, freshen up and come one down for breakfast. You can shower later. There’s a new toothbrush in the bathroom you can use.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, I keep it for occasions like this,” Amy said, giving him a wink.
“You must do this often,” Marcus said in a teasing tone.
“Hardly,” she laughed. “You’re the first.”
“I’m honored,” he said.
“You’re special, but don’t let that go to your pretty little head. Now, get going, I’ll be starting on the quiche soon.” She turned and left the room.
*****
Amy set up their breakfast on the same small table upon which they had their supper the previous night. The tiny Pullman kitchen opened onto a small dining area. Again, she had placed a white table covering with cloth napkins neatly arranged with sparkling silverware. Goblets of water with ice stood before each place setting; the partially burned candles stood in their silver holders as they had last night. They were unlit.
Marcus was stunned by the loveliness of the table setting. “All this for me?”
“Yes, dear Miranda. It’s great to have someone to cook for,” Amy said emerging from the kitchen with an orange juice container in her hand. He was curiously pleased that Amy kept using his female name.
She prepared a spinach quiche for them, coupled with toast and jam; the quiche was magnificent, light and fluffy and yet tasty. It was obvious, Amy had used spices to great advantage in the quiche.
“It was delicious. Where did you get that skill, Amy?” he asked.
“I’m from a typical Italian family and as the only girl mom insisted I learn to cook. A way to winning a man’s heart, she used to say, is through his tummy. Only it hasn’t worked very well for me, as you can see. It’s just kept me fat.”
“I’m certain it’ll work sometime soon for you,” Marcus said. “Any man would be lucky to have you.”
“I guess it worked with you, Marcus,” she said, reverting to his male name.
“I guess, only I’m hardly the ‘hunk’ of a guy you deserve,” he said.
Amy merely smiled at Marcus. He wasn’t sure how to take her silence; did she agree with his self-assessed observation? Or, maybe she found him appealing for some reason that he could fathom?
“Let me help you clean up here, Amy,” he volunteered when they had finished eating.
“Nonsense,” she retorted. “I can clean up here in a jiffy. You just go and get your shower and pretty yourself up, Miranda.”
“You’re calling me Miranda now?” he said, framing it as a question.
“Of course, darling. You’re too lovely to be called something like Marcus.”
He blushed, not certain how to respond. Him, a girl named Miranda? It was a lovely name, he thought.
“You’re so cute when you blush, or did I already tell you that?” she asked, adding a little giggle.
As if on cue, Marcus responded, placing his hand in a girlish manner to his face, shyly looking to one side. Sitting there in the nightgown and pink robe, his long hair straggly from his night in bed, he felt truly feminine. In truth, however, he wasn’t a girl, so how could he be sure how a girl would feel?
“You’re a natural beauty,” Amy said, leaning in to kiss him lightly on the lips. “Go, now, get your shower. You’ll see some clothes on the bed that you can try on. They should fit you, I think.”
*****
Marcus found scented soaps and lotions laid out in the bathroom; having little choice he used them and emerged, his body scented with a subtle sweet odor that emitted femininity. He applied the lotion to his arms and back and legs, massaging his soft flesh. As he used the dryer on his hair, he viewed himself in the mirror, admiring the lovely girlishness of his body, its pale, hairless skin, slender arms and narrow shoulders. He smiled at the image.
He left the bathroom, wondering what Amy had in store for him. It was obvious that Amy Dacosta had taken charge of his life; she was in command and he welcomed it. In the past, he had turned to his mother for direction; he would still be looking to her for advice, of course, but he wondered whether Amy would now also become his confidant. Was she trying to change him from a pathetic young man into a beautiful young woman? And did he want that?
“I guess she wants me to be Miranda for the day,” he said aloud even though no one was there to hear him.
He smiled at the prospect. On the bed, he spied a blouse and shorts, obviously meant for a girl, as well as a beige panty with lace trim and a discreet ribbon on the top hem. And, to his astonishment, a matching bra with breast forms. A pair of light tan sandals sat next to the bed.
“Are you done, Miranda?” he could hear Amy’s voice outside the bedroom door.
“Yes, but I’m without clothes.”
The door burst open and Amy entered. Marcus tried to protest, but she continued in. He started to cover his private parts with his hands.
“No need to cover that,” she said. “I’m not interested in that.”
“But,” he protested. He hated anyone to see his tiny piece of manhood, trying always to hide it in the showers at high school after gym classes. How he hated those sessions!
“Shut up and try these panties on. Leave the tags on in case I have to take them back,” she ordered.
He noticed there were price tags on all the clothing and looked questioningly at Amy. “You bought these for me?”
“Yes, and I hope you like them,” she said.
“But, I’m not sure I can pay you for them, Amy,” Marcus said.
“You don’t have to. I just want my girl to look pretty and to be happy in them. Nothing’s too good for her.”
“I’ll still pay you, but it’ll take a few weeks,” he said.
“Nonsense. Wear and enjoy, pretty one.”
Marcus was excited to try them on and he was so grateful to Amy that he dropped the towel that covered part of his body and hugged Amy in the total nude. She took him in her arms willingly and caressed his soft, smooth skin kissing him voraciously. His penis grew hard as he pressed against her.
“My darling Miranda,” Amy said breathlessly.
Marcus’ breathing grew short as he felt Amy's fingers playing with the soft flesh of his man tits. He felt his nipples grow hard and he began panting heavily. He succumbed easily to the more aggressive actions of his new friend. He felt the strength of her arms as she moved him easily to fit her growing emotions, Amy's own breath growing more heavily.
“Oh Amy, you want me as your girlfriend, don’t you? You never wanted me as a man.”
“Yes, my darling, and you’re just about the loveliest girl a girl like me would want.”
They held each other tightly for a long time, before Amy broke away. “We better stop now, or you’ll need to shower again,” she said.
*****
She helped Marcus put on the panties and bra, with the breast forms to create budding breasts like you’d find on a thirteen-year-old girl; she led him into the bathroom, and ordered him to sit on a stool while she brushed his longish hair so that it hung straight with a slight bob, adding bangs across his forehead. As she worked, Amy's hands caressed his smooth skin, seeming at times too linger at soft parts of his anatomy. Finally, she finished brushing his hair, fixing it with a holding spray. She had him turn in the chair to face her.
"You have such lovely skin, Miranda, I don't think you need lots of makeup," Amy said. "You could be such a natural girl, Miranda. How I envy you!"
She explained that she was applying light foundation, followed by a bit of coloring for his cheeks. Marcus followed her instructions with interest, musing that if he was to be like most women he'd have to learn to apply his own makeup. She applied a light eyeliner and trimmed his eyebrows slightly.
"I think you look best in outfits that are modest and not too showy, kind of like you're a sweet young girl from the country with simple and lovely styles," she said.
He watched in the mirror as Amy did her work, marveling at how easily she had transformed him into a plain, but truly fetching young woman. He hated to admit it to himself, but he felt the girl looking back at him could best be called "cute." He offered a girlish flick of his hand into his hair that brought smiles to the two faces he saw in the mirror, those of Amy and Miranda.
"Today, you're Miranda, my darling," Amy said. "We're in for a perfectly magical day."
"Magical?" He asked, wondering what Amy had in mind and worrying that he may be in for a bit more than he was ready for. He realized she obviously wanted him to be her girlfriend for the day.
"Just don't you worry, darling. You're such a pretty little thing," Amy said, hugging him again. It was as if Amy couldn't keep her hands off of him.
She instructed Marcus to sit down on the vanity seat, while she sat down in front of him on the floor. "Now gimme your right foot," she ordered.
"What are you doing?"
"You'll need your toes painted. You're wearing open-toed sandals today," she announced.
"But," he began to protest.
"No 'buts' darling. You need some color down there."
He obediently did as he was told. Amy took his foot, caressing it gently. She looked up at him and smiled.
"Such a lovely foot, and your skin is so soft and smooth. Do you put lotion on them?"
Marcus blushed. "Every day I guess. I don't like getting calluses."
Amy leaned down and kissed the foot, even licking briefly around the big toe. He watched carefully examine the nails.
"You keep them trimmed, too, I see."
Amy applied a natural color, with a hint of pink, to each nail, her strokes lovingly applied. She blew on the toes to hurry the drying and then repeated the process on the left foot.
Marcus found he enjoyed his friend's artistry; rarely had anyone paid much attention to him, except for his mother, of course. He felt he had become the love object of Amy, a strange position since Amy was his boss and much older. The love interest involved him as a female, as Miranda.
"Now, here's what we'll put on for now," Amy said, reaching onto the bed for the orange-red shorts and teal-colored ruffled peasant-style blouse.
He took shorts and noticed tags were still attached. “Did you buy these, too?”
“Yes,” she said. “I just thought these would be divine on you.”
Marcus smiled at the woman’s observation, eager to try them on. She took the shorts from him, found a scissors in the vanity and cut the tags and then did the same to the blouse.
“There, you can put these on now,” she said, handing them back to him.
"Aren't they too short?" He asked. Marcus was worried that they might show part of his crotch and perhaps even his male part.
"No, hon, that's what all girls with pretty legs wear," Amy said. "I can't 'cause my legs are too fat, but your legs are absolutely gorgeous."
He put on the clothes and then posed in front of a full-length mirror that Amy had on her closet door, trying all sorts of what he considered feminine gestures.
"Such a cute ass, too," Amy said, gently patting his bottom, following the round curves with her fingers.
(Thanks to Eric for proof-reading and other editing help)
Chapter Five – A Day for Miranda
The two girls (and Marcus by now had fully accepted that he was Miranda for the day) went to a local coffee shop that featured truly scrumptious pastries; it was a popular hangout for twenty-somethings and Marcus was fearful they would meet up with someone they knew.
The place was fashioned in a backwoods style; picnic tables had been set up throughout the shop and in its outdoor patio. It was expected that customers would share the tables, so that if there were empty spaces you were forced to join others. This was done purposely to create an atmosphere of friendliness among the coffee-drinkers.
Amy pointed to a spot where she and Marcus could sit together along one side of a long picnic table, sharing it with two other young ladies and one young man, who sat at the other end of the table. Placing his coffee and a plate with a cranberry date bar on the table, Marcus lifted one leg over the bench to sit down, and noticed the young man look at his inner thigh that was exposed and might have excited his sexual fantasies. Marcus quickly sat down, growing red with embarrassment. He noticed the man (he was hardly more than a boy) smile in apparent appreciation of his smooth milk-white inner thigh.
"You folks weren't saving these seats, were you?" Amy asked as she sat down next to Miranda.
"No, they're all yours," one of the young ladies said.
"Thanks," Amy said, acknowledging the welcome.
Marcus felt the boy's eyes were still upon him, but he refused to look up, concentrating on the date bar he purchased as a snack. He turned toward Amy, but out of the corner of his eye he saw the boy was still staring at him and he became worried that he must have figured out Marcus may not have been a girl after all. Despite Amy's assurances that no one could have mistaken him as anything but female, Marcus had no such confidence. He wanted to escape as soon as possible.
"Let us introduce ourselves. My name is Jonathan," the young man said, directing his comment directly at Marcus. "And this is my sister, Meredith, and her friend, Laurinda."
"Hi, nice meeting you," Amy said cheerfully. "I'm Amy and this is my friend, Miranda. You guys doing shopping today?"
"Nah, we 're going to the arts festival along the riverfront," Jonathan said. "What are you girls doing today? I wouldn't mind having two more girls coming along with us."
The young man laughed, as if the invitation was just a way of flirting. It was obvious that he didn't take it too seriously himself, Marcus thought. Yet, he couldn't escape the feeling that the boy was apparently enthralled with the person called Miranda. He wondered if Jonathan’s brief glance at his inner thigh may have stirred his male emotions and the thought threw a fright into him. Where was this heading, he worried? Yet, Marcus felt pleasantly flattered at having been again thought to be a fetching, lovely young lady.
"No, we have plans," Marcus said quickly, hoping to fend off any ideas the young man might have had.
"Normally, we might have loved to join you, but we have a picnic to go to this afternoon," Amy said, surprising Marcus since it was the first he'd heard about a picnic. It appeared Amy was full of surprises.
"Such is life," Jonathan said, shaking his head.
Marcus was seated directly across from Jonathan, and when Amy got up to get a refill on her coffee, the young man asked him, "I've never seen you here before, Miranda."
"My first time," she replied. "It seems like a nice place and I love the pastry."
"Don't eat too much of it or you'll ruin your figure, Miranda," he teased.
"My tummy's too big already, but this date bar is too yummy to put down," he said.
"You look pretty good to me." He smiled at Marcus; his comment sounded sincere.
Marcus blushed, unsure of how to proceed. He was grateful when Amy returned to the table, and asked a question. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you. I was hoping you'd join me this afternoon at a picnic. You'll like everyone there, I think."
"A picnic?" Marcus asked. "I suppose that's OK."
Out of the corner of his eye, Marcus saw Jonathan and the two girls get up to leave. "Hope I see you here again, Miranda," the boy said. “I'm usually here on Saturday mornings and sometimes Sunday, too. Love to buy you a coffee and two date bars."
Amy overhead the exchange and injected. "My friend is already attached, young man," she said sternly.
"Sorry," Jonathan fumbled. "Just being friendly. Didn't mean no harm."
The young man reddened, obviously feeling embarrassed by his too obvious advances toward the person he perceived as Miranda. Marcus felt pangs of regret about how he and Amy had rejected the boy’s advances; the boy seemed nice, he thought.
"Nice meeting you, Jonathan," Marcus said. "Maybe someday you can buy me that coffee."
"Wow. You made my day," he said. He left giving a gentle wave.
"What was that about? You're with me, darling," Amy said in an angry tone.
"I just felt sorry for him, Amy. I won't ever see him again, but I wanted him to feel good."
*****
"You didn't tell me you were planning on taking me to a picnic," Marcus said. They had left the coffee house and begun to wander through several of the boutique and specialty shops that dotted a main street that ran parallel to the river. Amy held Marcus’ hand as they walked, appearing to be two same-sex lovers and he felt strangely excited. Marcus became comfortable in the realization that he was indeed accepted as a female and that no one would identify him as a young man. He was becoming attached to the idea. It seemed normal.
"Don't you want to go?" Amy asked as they paused in front of a store window advertising odd selections of clothing.
"You'll know everyone there, won't you? How will you explain me? As your boyfriend in drag?"
"This is my 'Sisters Strong' group picnic and you'll go as my girlfriend for the day," she said smiling.
"Your girlfriend? Like I'd be your date?"
"Yes," she laughed. "My date for the day. Is that OK with you?"
"You're a . . ."
"Lesbian," Amy finished the sentence.
"It's a lesbian group?" Marcus asked.
"Yes, but it’s more than that. They advocate for LGBT rights and other causes. But we also have fun and I know some of the girls will get all gaga over you, you luscious thing."
"But what will I wear?"
"Just like a girl. Worrying about clothes. You can go pretty much as you are now, but maybe we can see if we can find you a hat of some sort to ward off some of the sun."
*****
It turned out the picnic was a fund-raiser for a campaign that the Sisters Strong group was conducting to oppose some regressive anti-gay legislation being proposed at the State Capitol. Amy had purchased two pricey tickets for the event as part of her contribution to the cause.
Marcus was pleased to see the picnic had attracted a heavily diverse crowd, including many straight-appearing men and women and a smattering of children. She recognized several prominent Democratic leaders among the attendees, plus several key liberals in the community. All apparently supported LGBT rights and Marcus felt comforted to be in such a friendly crowd.
Dry weather in the 70s, with a light breeze and sparkling blue skies made a perfectly lovely day for the picnic which was held on the last Saturday in August, a time when weather in this northern city was chancy.
Amy led Marcus to a picnic table occupied by a strikingly beautiful dark-haired woman and a handsome man whose muscular upper body seemed to stretch the limits of his tight-fitting tee-shirt that proclaimed “Gay Pride.”
“I was hoping I’d see you here, Amy,” the woman said. “Peter and I were saving you a seat.”
“And you brought a friend. Great,” the man said, waving his hand as if to welcome the pair to the bench opposite them.
“Yes, this is my new friend, Miranda,” Amy said, who then proceeded to give a warm hug and kiss to the woman and a short peck on the cheek to the man.
“Nice to meet you,” Marcus said. He was confused about the relationship of everyone involved. Amy and the woman seemed strangely passionate toward one another. Miranda at first thought the handsome couple across the table were boyfriend and girlfriend or perhaps even married; yet they seemed not to have any emotional relationship.
“I’m Ellen Rodriguez and this is a soldier in the cause of gay rights, Peter Brockton,” the woman said holding out her hand.
Amy joined Marcus on the bench after her hug with Ellen, placing her body close to him so that their thighs touched. Marcus felt Amy’s hand wander to his bare thigh and begin gentle caresses; he tried to ignore her provocative touches and instead concentrate on the group conversation, which was mainly small talk. Amy explained that she met “Miranda” at a social workers meeting.
“We just hit it off,” Amy said.
“She’s a darling girl,” Ellen commented. “Have you known each other long?”
“No, just a couple of months,” Marcus said.
“And we only really met over the last few days, right dear?” Amy asked, directing the question toward Marcus, accompanied by a discreet wink.
He blushed, finally realizing that Amy was serious about becoming her lover; it was a prospect that Marcus had never before considered. He knew that as a male he had always hoped for a sexual relationship with a woman, though none had happened thus far in his life. At first, as Marcus, he had thought Amy had a true romantic interest in him as a man; now it was Miranda that Amy loved, not Marcus.
“You better keep an eye on her, Amy,” Peter said, laughing. “I know lots of the girls around here might like to get their hands on Miranda.”
Amy giggled. “I’ll do that Peter.” As she spoke, Marcus felt Amy’s hand begin to caress his thigh more actively and lovingly. Marcus felt his small penis grow hard and he worried that Amy might soon begin playing with it causing it to erupt. Amy appeared to judiciously avoid that sensitive organ.
After two beers, fetched obligingly by Peter, Marcus felt comfortable and became more talkative, sharing conversation with the many friends that Amy introduced him to as the picnic progressed. While they waited for the brat and burger feed to begin, a pickup volleyball game was organized and the athletic Amy was urged to join in.
“Only if my friend Miranda will play, too,” Amy replied to the person organizing the game.
“No way,” Marcus said, knowing how inept he was at such athletic endeavors.
“Come on, Miranda,” Amy pleaded. “It’s just for fun.”
“But, I’m no good and I’ll just slow the game down.”
“Don’t be silly. Come on,” Amy said, dragging him by the arm onto the volleyball field. “You’ll be on my team.”
There were six girls on each side and when the game started it was clear that Amy may have been the best player on the field. Despite her husky, short frame, Amy was quick on her feet and showed unusual jumping ability, several times getting up high enough to spike the ball sharply into the other side to score points.
Marcus was predictably pathetic, as he feared he’d be. When the balls came his way, he muffed them repeatedly, seemingly too weak to hit the ball hard enough to get it over the net. Several times his feeble hits were recovered by Amy before they hit the ground, keeping the play alive. When it came his time to serve the ball, he failed miserably, unable to get the ball across.
Marcus was pleased that none of the girls laughed at him or were disgusted. Instead they were encouraging and tried to show him how to best hit the ball. When he was to serve for the third time, Amy and one of the other girls instructed him how the hit the ball; Marcus listened closely to their instructions and then delivered a serve that shot over the net, surprising the other team which had been expecting another fluff. It scored a point for Marcus’ team. It meant he had to continue serving, and he surprised himself with another successful shot over the net. This time the other team was ready and returned the serve easily, heading it right toward Marcus’ space; he responded instinctively hitting the ball high in the air short of the net where Amy was stationed. She raised up and spiked the ball for still another point. It was the winning point.
Marcus was giddy with excitement and he jumped up and down, giggling loudly and flailing his hands in a girlish manner. The tall girl standing nearby hugged him in triumph as the other girls gathered around. Marcus could smell the sweat on each of them as they jumped together, their hot moist flesh slippery and sticky. Amy wound her way into the crowd pulling Marcus from the other girl and grasping him into a tight hug. It was heavenly, Marcus felt, to become a part of the group.
*****
“Let’s shower together,” Amy suggested when the two returned to her apartment from the picnic.
Marcus was aghast at the suggestion. It just seemed like a smutty idea, something for sexual adventurers. It just wasn’t civilized.
“Come on,” Amy pleaded. “Girls do it together all the time. So do guys. It’s fun to lather each other up.”
“I’m not a girl,” Marcus replied.
“You are today. And what a girl!”
“I’m shy.”
“Posh. Just get those sweaty clothes off and let’s get in that shower. You’ll love it,” Amy continued.
Marcus finally agreed, even being persuaded to completely disrobe himself and become nude; he had always hated exposing his puny body and smallish penis among boys for fear of being laughed at. Boys always seemed to equate the size of one’s male organ as some sort of mark of manhood.
Though Amy had a chunky body, she felt solid and Marcus loved the feel of the woman’s smooth skin. He knelt down before Amy as the hot water cascaded down on them and lathered up Amy’s husky thighs. He began to work the soap into Amy’s hairy triangle, and he felt Amy caress his slender shoulders. She opened up her legs a bit and bid Marcus, “Go ahead, you can kiss it.”
Marcus looked up at his friend who smiled broadly. Water from the shower dripped from her wet hair and from the nipples on Amy’s ample breasts, falling onto Marcus as he grew hard. Marcus placed his lips deep into Amy’s soft under belly and bristly hair, and tasted the mixture of soap and musky moistness. It was intoxicating and he felt his penis grow harder. Amy began panting heavily and finally cried out “Oh yes” as she moved her body forward and backward rhythmically.
“Go girl,” Amy yelled at her friend.
*****
Marcus and Amy were exhausted by the time their joint shower was over. It had been a long and active day; the two dried each other off, hugging and kissing intermittently as they did so. Still without wearing any clothes, they dried and brushed each other’s hair. They moved to the bedroom and still nude Amy sat down on the bed, pulling Marcus down beside her.
“Wasn’t that marvelous darling?” Amy asked.
“Yes, but . . .”
“But nothing. You liked it. There’s nothing wrong. It’s natural for people to want to be together intimately.”
“It just seems wrong to me, like we’re doing something evil. Like it’s a sin.”
“That’s just your Catholic Church talking at you.”
Marcus nodded, realizing that whether his religious upbringing caused it or not, he was something of a prude. He had always hated it when she heard boys talking about the size of a girl’s breasts or when they bragged about “scoring” on a girl by getting into her pussy. The word “pussy” seemed so crude.
“It’s just natural for us, darling,” Amy said.
“I guess. Shouldn’t we get dressed?”
“Why? I love looking at your sweet body, darling. You know, you look so totally female in the nude, I can’t believe you’re a guy, except for that little thingy,” the older woman said. She tweaked Marcus’ penis with a finger as she spoke.
“I don’t like my body. Look how strong and firm you are, Amy. And, I’m so weak,” he said.
“You’re perfect, dear. I like my girls to be dainty and fragile like you.” Amy put and arm around Marcus, hugging him tightly, her fingers playing with the soft flesh of the younger person.
“But, I’m not a girl,” Marcus said, pulling away from Amy and standing up.
“Come on back, Miranda,” Amy pleaded.
“No, Amy, I better get dressed and go home.”
*****
“I wished you had stayed another night with me darling,” Amy said as she drove Marcus home.
“I wanted to, Amy, but something tells me it’s just not right,” he said. “What would the agency say if they knew we slept together and showered together and if they knew I did it as a woman?”
“It’s common knowledge that I’m a lesbian,” she said. “They can’t discriminate against us, you know.”
“But as far as I know there’s no law against discriminating against a tranny, if that’s what I am.”
“No one needs to know, my darling girl,” Amy said, continuing the fiction that Marcus was truly Miranda.
They both agreed that their weekend fling would be a secret between the two; it was the best. In the office, they both also understood there’d be no favoritism shown toward Marcus. They’d still hang out with the others at Luke’s or anywhere else the group decided upon. It was to be business as usual, but Marcus remained doubtful, wondering what the future held. After all, he knew he’d never forget the joy of being Miranda for a day.
*****
True to her word, Amy treated Marcus just as she always had, as one of the small group of social workers in her team. If any of them, including their close friends Mollie Johnson and Latesha White, suspected anything intimate had transpired between Amy and Marcus, they didn’t indicate it. While at work, it was as if Marcus’ weekend fling as Miranda had never happened.
Just as they did every Monday, the foster care staff met for two hours to review each worker’s cases, to discuss particularly troubling ones and to consider various directives from top state bureaucrats. Marcus looked forward to the staff meetings since he found a general spirit of cooperation among the workers. He had heard that not all such staff get-togethers were as congenial, since many turned into a showcase for some of the underlings to seek to curry favor with their superiors or to undercut comments of their co-workers.
The foster care staff, however, seemed to concentrate solely on seeking to do what was best for each child. All of the women – and he was the only male at the meetings – apparently realized that there was no one good answer to many of the issues involving families and children and that invariably every social worker would at some time or other make a judgment that turned out to be a bad one.
“The hope is that in these meetings is that we will be able to find out how to achieve the best possible solution to your case problems, not to criticize the worker for what she . . . ah . . . or he . . . might have done,” Amy Dacosta told the group
The only case that Marcus had brought up for discussion involved Jefferson Turner, the 14-year-old who had suicidal tendencies. Marcus had mentioned that it had appeared that the boy might be transgendered. “He got into a fight with one of the other foster kids, a girl about his age who caught him in her dress. He likes to think he’s really a girl, I think,” he told the group in a previous session.
“Lots of boys like to experiment with panties and such just for a lark,” said Geri Hapness, one of the more experienced workers and a mother.
“Yes, you don’t want to stir him into the idea that he is transgendered unless he really feels he’s a girl, Marcus,” warned Latesha.
“I know, but I wonder if any of you have had experience with kids like Jefferson,” Marcus asked.
Only one other worker had and she agreed that Marcus had done the right thing by referring the case to the behavioral health clinic and various professionals. “Most of all, I think the boy will benefit from whatever attention you’re able to give to him, since it sounds like he needs an understanding friend,” the worker said.
Marcus nodded. “I sensed that. He doesn’t seem to have any friends.”
The group then turned to discuss one of Mollie’s cases – that of a 16-year-old boy who was accused of trying to kiss and fondle the 14-year-old daughter of his foster parents. It was a particular troubling case, since there was no proof of the accusation and the boy had no history of such behavior.
“Do you think we should place the boy elsewhere, Mollie?” Amy asked.
“It might be necessary, but you know how hard it is to place 16-year-old boys . . .”
Mollie’s comment was interrupted when the door opened and Maria Lopez, the group’s clerical assistance, entered and announced: “I have an emergency message for Marcus.”
“Here, I’ll take it,” he said, raising his hand.
The note was on one of those pink slips that were once omnipresent in offices, signifying that someone called. It read: “URGENT! Call Officer Jelacic cell ph 555-2650 Re: J. Turner.”
“I better take this. Excuse me,” Marcus said. He left the room.
*****
“Glad you got the message, Marcus,” Heddy Jelacic said when he called.
“What’s up with Jefferson?” he asked.
“You better get down to Community General. The boy’s in emergency right now. He was severely beaten and he’s been asking for you. You and he seemed to get along pretty good.”
“Thank you for the message, Officer Jelacic.”
“Call me Heddy, please. I’m really worried about the boy, Marcus,” she said. He was surprised to hear how friendly and warm the police officer was; at their first meeting, she had been cold and seemingly uncaring for the welfare of the young boy.
“I am too. I’m on my way. Will you be there?”
“I’m here right now. I need to interview him, but he’s scared to give any details. He’s such a fragile kid and so easy to bully.”
“I understand. See you soon,” he said, hanging up.
*****
When Marcus was fourteen years old, he lived in constant fear of being assaulted, harassed and beaten up; he lived with his single mother in a roomy apartment above an insurance agent’s office along the Main Street of their small Wisconsin town. He rarely left the apartment to play with other kids his age. The boys all liked to act tough and many of them relished in teasing and sometimes even physically assaulting the smaller or weaker kids of the community. Marcus was nearly always greeted with “Hi faggot” or “Hey, little girl” possibly because he was a bit shorter than most boys but more likely because of his physical weakness. His mother was able to engage Penny Emerson, an African-American teen girl who lived with her single mother above the bakery shop across the street, to walk Marcus to school when he was in grade school; she also watched over him after school until his mother got home from work. Her mother, Emma Emerson, was one of the few black persons in Riverview and was a large commanding woman who had gained great popularity in the otherwise all-white rural community. The more typically racist of Riverview residents called her “a good n------.”
Mrs. Emerson was known as Mama Edith in the area and was well-known, having lived in the area longer than just about anyone else. A local politician once said of Mama Edith that she was the true “Mayor of Riverview,” who was known to throw the fear of election losses into the hearts of local leaders.
Marcus had grown close to her, having spent much time in her apartment. She had no problem shooing away any would-be bullies from the fragile child. Her daughter, Penny was about six years older than Marcus. The two often played together, since there were few other children living along the city’s Main Street, and Penny was not readily accepted by the white kids of the area. They both like to make up stories with Penny’s dolls, dressing them in a collection of clothes that her mother had saved from her own childhood.
Not all the boys in Riverview were rough and tumble bullies, though, and Marcus befriended several other boys, either through school or through Penny, who shared many of his own sensitive qualities. His life in the neighborhood opened his eyes to harm that racism could cause, based largely on the experiences of Penny, who in spite of her own natural beauty, seemed to be excluded from the groups of teens that gathered around the school.
Perhaps it was Marcus’ childhood memories that helped him to understand young Jefferson Turner. While he had had Mama Emerson and her daughter Penny as his friends, it appeared Jefferson may have not yet found anyone with whom he could find comfort. When Marcus entered the cubicle in the Emergency Department at Community General, he was shocked to see how fragile the boy had become.
Jefferson was curled up on the hospital bed, his tiny form almost buried under the thin white cloth that hospitals consider blankets. The boy was shaking, seemingly uncontrollably, and soft whimpers could be heard. His head was buried into his pillow, as if he was in hiding. His back was turned against Officer Jelacic, who sat patiently on the only chair in the room.
Marcus squeezed through the narrow space on the other side of the bed and stood next to the boy. He carefully avoided the two tubes that led from the stand with its bags of fluid. He put his hand gently on Jefferson’s slender shoulder.
“Jefferson, I’m here,” he said softly. “It’s Marcus.”
“Marcus,” the boy said, raising his head. He burst into a full-blown cry, and with one small hand reached up and grabbed Marcus’ hand. Marcus could feel the desperation in the grip, a “life-or-death” hold.
“Oh, my God,” Marcus said. Jefferson’s face was covered with several bandages, and one eye was totally covered. Marcus also saw that one ear was also heavily bandaged.
Marcus leaned down, as if to hug the boy, but stopped when a nurse walked in and said in a soft, but commanding voice. “I wouldn’t do that, sir. He’s get several fractured ribs. He’s hurting all over. The poor boy.”
“I’m happy Marcus is here,” Jefferson said, his voice so soft and low it was difficult to hear his words.
“I know, but you need your sleep, Jefferson,” the nurse said. “You’re pretty well doped up.”
“Can you stay, Marcus?” the boy asked through his tears. He held on to Marcus’ hand and whispered, “Come closer, Marcus.” Weakly, the boy drew Marcus close to him.
“I need to tell you something,” he said. “But, not now.”
“OK. Just get your rest now. I’ll be back later,” Marcus said. He patted the boy gently and got up.
*****
“Something’s not right here, Marcus,” Officer Jelacic said after the two had left Jefferson’s hospital room. The injured boy had fallen asleep.
“What happened, Heddy? I’m still not clear who beat him up and why? Was he bullied?” Marcus asked.
“All he’ll tell me he was beaten up by some bullies, but he can’t tell me anything about it. He said he didn’t see them coming. He didn’t know how many or anything. Officers responded to an anonymous 911 call about a girl being down and injured at 7th and Polk.”
“A girl?”
“Yes, Jefferson was found in a mini-skirt and blouse and heavily made-up, like one of the prostitutes that populate that area. I must say he looked plenty convincing,” the officer said.
“Do you think he was working the streets? I can’t imagine that, since his foster parents seem to be keeping a pretty good eye on their kids,” Marcus said.
Heddy shook her head. “It’s hard to say, but officers from vice did a pretty good canvass of the girls who worked that street and they claimed to have never seen her . . . ah . . . him . . . before, if you can believe them. Vice said even their snitches hadn’t seen the boy.”
“He looks scared, Heddy.”
“Yes, I know and I think he’s hiding something,” the officer said.
A woman who identified herself as Jefferson’s doctor approached, interrupting their conversation. She asked to speak to the police officer alone, but Heddy Jelacic suggested Marcus join them since he was the boy’s social worker.
“Something else you should know, officer,” said the doctor whose badge identified her as Elizabeth McCoy. “Jefferson was badly bruised in and about the anus, as if he’d been raped.”
“Oh my God,” Marcus gasped. “The poor boy.”
“We’re not sure, but he’ll be given a more complete exam shortly,” Dr. McCoy said. “We’re going to be calming him down with more meds and I think he needs support.”
“Marcus here seems to have established good rapport with the boy,” the police officer said. “I’ve got to get back to the office for a bit. I’ll see if I can get some help from the precinct to find out what happened. I feel like crying when something happens to a defenseless child. Jefferson is so weak and fragile.”
“Yes, he’s a beautiful child,” the doctor said. “I’ve got to get on here, but rest assured we’ll take good care of the boy.”
Officer Jelacic said that Mrs. Harrison was expected soon; she said they were also trying to determine if Jefferson had any blood relatives in the area. The boy had said only that his mother had died and that he had loved her. The boy had no idea who his father was and his birth certificate only listed the father as “unknown.” About all that was certain was that the father was Caucasian, based on Jefferson’s light bronze skin color.
Marcus returned to the room and sat next to the boy, musing that he truly was beautiful and thought the boy must have made a perfectly lovely teen girl. A few minutes into his vigil, the boy’s foster mother, Mrs. Harrison, arrived. She hurried in and approached Jefferson’s bed, stopping short at the sight of the injured boy.
“How’s he doing?” she asked.
“Hard to tell,” Marcus replied. “I guess his wounds will heal and the ribs will hurt for a while, but he’s a scared child.”
“He was always so fragile. Oh, my God, who could do this? He was always my sweetest child and he so liked to help me in the kitchen,” the woman said.
“He was found on 7th and Grove dressed as a girl just as if he was a prostitute like the other girls that hang out there. Can you tell me what he was doing down there?” Marcus asked.
“I don’t have the faintest,” Mrs. Harrison said, adopting a defensive tone.
Marcus didn’t say anything. He looked at the woman waiting for her to explain further.
“I had to take one of the other boys, Melvin Potter, to the doctor for his asthma,” she said sharply. “Jefferson’s fourteen and I’ve left him home alone before. He’s a responsible kid.”
“I’m not accusing you, Mrs. Harrison,” Marcus said. “It’s just that we have to know that you as a foster parent are doing all that is reasonable to care for the boys.”
“You’ve seen the house,” she said angrily. “It’s always clean as a whistle. The boys are well-fed and get to school every day. Not every foster parent does as well.”
“Yes, Mrs. Harrison, you and your husband have always had high marks from us, but we’re as responsible for the well-being of these kids as you and your husband are. Legally, we’re probably more responsible and my job is on the line if I miss something. I have to ask.”
“You’re right. Sorry I blew up.”
(Eric assisted in proof-reading and in making this piece of fiction sensible. Thanks.)
Undercover Girl - Chapter Six
Chapter Six – Suspicious Happenings
Knowing he had appointments with two of his foster families, Marcus left the hospital. He told Mrs. Harrison that she should inform Jefferson that he’d return in the late afternoon after his workday was completed.
His paperwork required him to return to the office after he completed the other visits, and he hoped Amy would be there to discuss Jefferson’s case. Few of the cubicles were occupied when Marcus entered; obviously most of the staff were on home visits or handling cases in children’s court. The workers usually spent most of the workday out of the office.
Amy hailed him from her private office even before Marcus had set down his briefcase. “Marcus, come in here. Now,” her voice was sharp, authoritative.
“Be right there,” he replied, wondering about the fierce tone from her voice.
“What did you do with Mrs. Harrison?” she asked, not bothering to greet him first.
“Nothing, but discuss Jefferson’s situation with her.”
“You must have done something. She called just a little while ago and said she wants you off the case. She’s worried about your relationship with Jefferson, that he gets upset when you’re around,” Amy said.
“What?”
“Yes, and she was quite adamant, saying Jefferson was crying when she told him you’d be coming back later in the day. He’s afraid of you, apparently. Now, that doesn’t sound like you and I don’t always accept such demands from foster parents, but since you’re new, maybe you did something to upset the boy. I understand he’s quite fragile.”
Marcus was incredulous. The boy seemed to want to have Marcus there and had pleaded with him not to leave the hospital room. In fact, he had whispered to Marcus that he wanted to tell him something. He related that to Amy and she listened intently. Hearing his explanation, her voice softened.
“You know, maybe I was too quick to listen to Mrs. Harrison,” she said. “I handled her foster care cases for just a few weeks until you came on. Ellen Snyder had that family for several years until she left.”
“Heddy thinks Jefferson was hiding something,” Marcus said.
“Heddy? Who’s Heddy?”
“Oh, Officer Jelacic. She’s the juvenile officer handling the case. Something didn’t ring true to her in the boy’s description of the attack. And, now the doctor has informed us that Jefferson may have been raped.”
“Oh, my God. That’s awful,” Amy said.
Neither said anything for a moment. Amy broke the silence. “You know the Harrisons are just too good to be true. That immaculately clean house, all the kids in their care were never truant, their beds were made each morning, almost in military school fashion. I found it so weird, but who’s to argue with success. We have so many families just in it to get the foster care payment and seem to care little about the kids.”
“I know. Something just dawned on me,” Marcus said.
“Yeah?”
“Did you look at the boys under her care?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Didn’t you notice that the other boy Mrs. Emerson has, Larry, is much like Jefferson? Slender, nice looking, actually almost pretty, like a girl?”
“Oh, my God, now that you mention it, yes,” Amy said. “How strange that they should all be so similar? How could that happen? I know the Harrisons have been willing to accept hard-to-place boys, the ones few foster parents want. Most foster parents usually want pre-kindergarten kids.”
“I don’t believe I should be taken off the case, Amy,” Marcus said.
“Well, technically you won’t be,” she said. “But for the time being, I’ll handle all the visits to the family and with Jefferson. I see him later today and quiz him as to why he no longer wants to see you. I need to get to the bottom of this. You tell me he seems to have truly connected with you and she tells me, he no longer wants you. Frankly, I can’t see you’d lie about this.”
“I wouldn’t. I worry about Jefferson, and now I’m wondering about the other boy, Larry. Is he likely to go onto the streets and face being assaulted, too? Heddy’s right, something’s not right about the Harrisons.”
Amy nodded her head and then looked at Marcus directly. “Heddy, eh? First name basis with a police officer. Is she that good-looking blonde in JD?”
Marcus blushed. “Yes, she’s the JD officer.”
“You free tonight, Marcus?” she asked in a question that took Marcus by surprise.
“Yes?”
“Why not stop by my place about seven and I’ll order in Chinese?” she said. “Then we can talk about Jefferson and Officer Heddy.”
Marcus left the office feeling puzzled about Amy’s reaction. Could that be jealousy? He had recognized and understood her fondness for him and even her desire for some sexual fun, but given their age and job status differences he hadn’t suspected she’d had any romantic desires for him. He certainly was not the type of young man many women would seem to want as a boyfriend.
On the bus trip home, his mind wandered back and forth between Jefferson’s apparent change in mind and Amy’s strange behavior. He was surprised when his cell phone rang and the caller was identified only as “Restricted.” He rarely used his cell phone in public places, particularly on the bus when strangers were nearby and the call likely would be disturbing.
“Sorry,” he said to his seatmate, an elderly woman who looked at him with a scowl. “I have to take this.”
She nodded, reluctantly. Marcus put the phone to his ear.
“This is Heddy, Officer Jelacic,” the voice said.
“Heddy, of course. What’s happening?”
The police officer did most of the talking. She reported that Jefferson refused to say anything more about his attack. Heddy added that Mrs. Harrison was still in the room when she returned to pose more questions to the boy. The foster mother refused to leave the room until Heddy said she’d have to or else she’d be arrested. Heddy quoted Mrs. Harrison as saying “I’ll get a lawyer to sue you and your Gestapo tactics and the whole police department and city government.” She left, Heddy continued in her narrative, but Jefferson was even more close-mouthed than before.
“I think she scared the boy into keeping his mouth shut,” Heddy said. “She’s got some sort of hold on the boy.”
The officer grew even more concerned when Marcus told her he’d been told to no longer visit the family or the boy, based on complaints from Mrs. Harrison.
“Oh no, that’s awful,” Officer Jelacic replied. “You seem to be the only one he’ll talk to and now you’re gagged. Something’s foul, Marcus.”
“That’s what my supervisor thinks, too. I’ll be talking with her about the case this evening and will call you in the morning.”
“OK, see ya’,” Heddy replied. Marcus folded his phone up to end the call. He wondered if he sensed a flirtatious tone to the police officer’s voice.
*****
A traffic accident slowed the No. 30 bus on its trip to the transfer point at Sycamore Avenue. Marcus saw the No. 7 bus to downtown – the bus he needed to get to Amy’s apartment – pull away, meaning he’d be about fifteen minutes late to his Chinese meal at Amy’s. He called Amy on his cell phone, but got only the answering machine, hoping that meant she may have been late as well. He left a message telling her he’d be a bit late.
A moment later his cell buzzed. It was Amy. “Sorry I was in the shower, Miranda.”
Marcus was surprised she called him by his feminine name, since he had felt her suggestion to share Chinese with him was to be more of a business get-together to discuss the case of Jefferson Turner.
“Yeah, there was an accident that slowed my bus down and I missed my connection at Sycamore.”
“That’s alright, Miranda. I was a bit late myself. I stopped to see Jefferson myself. It’s as you said. He’s totally shut down, but we can discuss that later.”
“OK, Amy,” he said, pleased that her tone was friendlier than it had been in the office a few hours earlier. Yet, he was puzzled that she continued to address him as Miranda.
“What are you wearing?” Amy asked, just as he was about to end the call.
“Just casual stuff,” he said warily. “How did you want me to dress?”
“I was hoping you’d be in that lovely summer dress.”
“No, just jeans and a satiny shirt,” he said.
“Tight-fitting jeans?”
“Um . . . ah . . . yes.” Marcus blushed.
“Can’t wait to see you, Miranda,” Amy said.
“Oops, here comes my bus,” he said, ending the call.
*****
Amy and Marcus were both hungry and they quickly consumed most of the two boxes of Chinese, accompanied by a few small glasses of Huangilu, a yellow wine fermented from rice. It took not much more than a few of the tiny glasses for Marcus to feel a bit of a buzz.
“How do you like this wine, Miranda?” Amy asked.
“It’s different, but it sure it packs a punch,” he replied, already feeling a bit hazy in the head.
“It’s twice as strong as regular wine,” she said.
“You should have warned me.”
She laughed. “I just wanted to ease you a bit. You were so tense today. I know you care deeply for Jefferson and that perhaps you thought that maybe you blew it with him.”
Over tea, the two discussed the case. They came to the conclusion that there was something going on in the Harrison household that required looking into. The family’s generally stellar record in handling the foster children in their care had to be considered. Obviously, most the boys – and the family only rarely accepted girls, with sixteen-year-old Melody an exception – seemed to thrive and that should be the most important factor to consider. Yet, Jefferson had appeared to be genuinely frightened for some reason; and then there was the fact that he was found on a street known to be heavily populated by prostitutes. Scantily dressed women were regularly picked up by johns, a practice that police made only a slight effort to break up, apparently content to merely corral prostitution to a small area of the city.
“Do you think Jefferson was out there in drag seeking to be picked up?” Marcus asked.
“It doesn’t look like he’d be doing that on his own. He’s only fourteen, my God,” Amy said.
“I agree. Maybe he was pressed into service.”
Officer Jelacic had shown both of them pictures of Jefferson as he was brought into the emergency room. They showed a well-dressed, actually tastefully and modestly dressed, young woman who looked perhaps five years older than her true age. She had none of the looks of a streetwalker or the male transvestites that roamed the streets. It was ten o’clock at night when she was found, not overly late for a teen, thus indicating the Harrisons may not have been derelict in monitoring the boy.
“I think I’ll enlist one of the other workers to go with me to do a routine inspection of the Harrison household and to interview the other kids there,” Amy said.
“You don’t want me to join in that?”
“No, you’ll just raise Mrs. Harrison’s anger, not that I believe she’s right about you, but no sense in creating another hurdle for ourselves.”
“I guess you’re right,” Marcus said, disappointed he couldn’t be more involved.
“We'll make our inspection as routine as possible, so as to not arouse any suspicion about why we’re really there,” Amy said.
“She’s accusing us of all sorts of things, now,” Marcus agreed. “That makes me even more suspicious.”
“And we better work closely with the police on this,” Amy said. “You try to arrange a meeting with your Heddy and perhaps the vice squad to see what we can do jointly.”
Marcus chafed at Amy’s phrase “your Heddy,” but let it go.
“Anything else we need to discuss?” Marcus asked. “I suppose it’s time for me to get home.”
“No, Marcus, let’s forget about work now. Stay a bit longer and share one last wine with me,” Amy said, getting up. She grabbed him by the hand and led him into the living room. The two sat down on the sofa for a minute, the bottle of Chinese rice wine still on the coffee table before them.
Instead of pouring the wine, Amy pulled Marcus toward her and kissed him. It was a long, lingering kiss soon accompanied by intermingled tongues. Marcus nestled tightly against Amy and cooed softly as the woman’s hands caressed shoulders and arms.
“You’re so soft to hold, Miranda,” Amy said.
Marcus froze momentarily at the mention of his female name. He realized that now to Amy he was indeed Miranda, a lovely young woman. He held on firmly to her stout, hard arms, feeling protected in the woman’s grasp. He spent the rest of the night in Amy’s bed. It seemed so natural to be Miranda.
*****
Marcus awoke as light from a rising sun filtered through the drawn drapes; he was puzzled for a moment, not certain where he was. He felt an arm lying across his chest and realized he was in bed with Amy. There was a slight sweet scent of perfumed sheets mixed with the body odors of two sweaty lovers. His mind was in a haze. He smiled, recalling how the two made love, not the male to female type of love; no, this was girl to girl love. It was new and exciting.
He lifted Amy’s arm off his chest, hoping to get into the bathroom to relieve himself. She awoke.
“Don’t get up, Miranda. Let me hold you a bit more.”
He moved back next to her, kissing and tasting her stale mouth. The sour taste should have revolted him; yet, he was excited by it. He had no doubt his own mouth tasted similarly disgusting, due to the same diet of food, wine and sexual excretions. Never before had he experienced such closeness to any human being; the intimacy was intoxicating.
“This is so nice, Amy,” he whispered in her ear.
“I could lie with you forever,” she replied, covering his face with kisses. By now their bodies had combined, legs intertwined and arms wrapped about each other.
“Amy, I think it’s time to get up,” he said. “It’s after six.”
“Oh, my God. You’re right. We need to be at work by eight-thirty and you need to get home first for a change of clothes.”
Their moment of ecstasy ended; they showered together. After a quick breakfast of Cheerios (Amy’s favorite cereal), bananas and coffee, the two left. Amy drove Marcus to his apartment, where he changed quickly and the two headed for the office. To continue their subterfuge, Amy dropped Marcus off at a Starbucks several blocks away so he could get his usual morning coffee, thus arranging so that the two arrived at the office at different times without a hint to co-workers of their evening of love.
The Jefferson Turner case had occupied much of Marcus’ time the previous day and as a result he had neglected completing the written reports that were due on each of his cases. The completing of copious reports on each of their home visits was a constant challenge for social workers everywhere, taking valuable time from dealing more intensively with people they were serving. Paperwork demands on child protection workers had become doubly onerous, due to fears that they might be blamed for missing something that may have resulted in a tragedy involving one of their clients.
Paperwork, of course, is a misnomer, since now all the reports had to be filed electronically and Marcus was still struggling with mastering the complex program required by the State’s Bureau of Child Protection. The bureaucrats at the State Office had decided that they needed data, so they removed nearly all questions that required narrative answers; instead, the forms required the social worker to make constant judgment on various questions using a scale of 1 for negative to 5 for positive answers.
“How can you put a ‘1’ or a ‘5’ on a question like how well the child relates to classmates?” Marcus complained to his friend Mollie Johnson when he first started working on the forms.
“I don’t think any of those people who design these forms ever worked in the field,” Mollie Johnson grumbled in agreement.
At first, his concentration on completing the forms was complicated by his musings over Jefferson’s case and the night of sexual pleasure he had with Amy. Eventually, he realized he was faced with the challenge of completing the paperwork before his 11 a.m. appointment with one of his client families and he was soon deep into the task.
*****
As Marcus drove the agency car to his appointment with Emma Piotrowski, a foster parent who cared for two children in her modest home on the city’s west side, he realized that he’d soon have to purchase a car. It was required for the job, and new workers were given six months in which to comply with the order. In the meantime, the worker used either the agency’s one Ford Focus vehicle, took the bus or called a taxi when pre-approved, a process that was cumbersome and inconvenient.
His thoughts about getting a car were interrupted by a cell phone call. It was Heddy Jelacic:
“Marcus, I wanted to let you know that Jefferson will be discharged from the hospital today,” she said.
“Oh my,” he said, surprised. “Is he OK to get out?”
“I don’t think so, but then I’m not a doctor.”
“I agree. He really was pretty banged up. Weren’t they worried about internal injuries, particularly his kidneys?” Marcus asked.
“I know. He was kicked hard in the groin and in the ribs. I guess Mrs. Harrison put up such a fuss that he should be home that they finally gave in. It seems she has a background as an R.N. and said she could care for him. I still think it’s weird.”
“Me too. She certainly seems to have a lot of clout,” he said.
“You should still be on the case!” she said. “It’s ridiculous. You’re the only one he’d talk to.”
“I know, but Amy, my supervisor, is suspicious too and she’s going to be working the case directly with one of the others here so I think she’ll follow through.”
“Well, that means I won’t be working with you Marcus. I’m sorry about that. I think you’re a great worker and I enjoyed knowing you.”
“Thank you,” he said, adding, “And I enjoyed knowing you.”
“I will have to work with Amy then if I need anything from your agency, I suppose,” the officer said.
“She’s good to work with, Heddy,” he said.
“Good,” she said. “Well, bye for now. Hope we meet again, Marcus.”
“Me too.”
“Hey,” Heddy said, as if it was an afterthought. “Maybe you’d like to meet for coffee or even a beer something.”
“I’d like that.”
He closed his flip-phone to terminate the call. The truth was he had grown to like Officer Heddy Jelacic. Beneath the woman’s harsh exterior, Marcus realized was a warm, caring person who was serious about her job. He pictured her in his mind finding her hard, almost masculine bearing to be suddenly attractive. Her light brown hair was cropped short, but fixed in a lovely style and she was slender and obviously maintained a fit, firm body. She was the same height as Marcus. She was not a classic beauty and had a broad face with a flat Slavic nose. Her eyes were a bright and clear blue. Marcus found that the woman he at first thought was cold and heartless was in truth quite becoming.
*****
Amy had Latesha White join her in the visit to the Harrison household for what they hoped would be viewed by Mrs. Harrison as one of the routine visits all foster families received. They weren’t done often, but all such families in this county were told at their orientation that such unannounced visits were conducted no more often than twice a year. The families were told not to be concerned about such visits and just because the social workers turned up at their door without warning was not a sign that the agency suspected anything wrong.
“What are you doing here? Spying on us again?” Mrs. Harrison challenged Amy and Latesha when she opened the door.
“Just routine, Mrs. Harrison,” Amy said. “You know the drill.”
“Well you better come in,” she said grudgingly.
The two entered and were struck – as always – by the cleanliness in the house; Amy had recalled from her earlier visits to the Harrisons when she was handling the family that the house was always nearly immaculate. It was as if the woman lived alone, even though she lived with three foster children and a husband. Amy knew from her past contact with the family that all of the children in the household were given defined chores; she marveled at how the woman could accomplish getting teenagers to do chores without apparent fussing and arguing. None of the children ever complained about being abused, and Amy had believed the woman accomplished the feat by showing true love and affection for each child, thus providing the child with attention they may rarely have been shown in their previous family situations.
“All is neat as ever, Hazel,” Amy said, using Mrs. Harrison’s first name as had been her custom when she handled the family.
“The kids have pitched in well,” she replied. “These boys are especially helpful. They seem to enjoy housework better than that crop of girls I had before.”
“Are the boys in their rooms now?” Amy asked. They had timed their visit for late afternoon when they expected the boys would be home from school.
“Yes Amy. I guess you want to see them in their rooms. Go ahead, they’re there,” Mrs. Harrison said. The woman spoke in a cold, matter-of-fact manner that surprised Amy, considering how well the two had gotten along when she was assigned to the family.
Latesha visited Jefferson, while Amy checked on the other two.
*****
“We couldn’t find anything out of line during our visit, Marcus,” Amy said the next morning. She summoned him to her office to discuss the Harrison situation with Latesha sitting in. Even though Marcus was officially off the case now, Amy felt his earlier ability to connect with Jefferson was valuable in the discussion. Besides, she knew he cared about the boy and had worries about the setup.
“I still feel weird about it though,” Latesha commented. “Those boys were just too good; they had all the right answers, but they said them as if they were robots.”
Amy nodded. “I got the same feeling, like they had been coached. And they were all dressed so neatly and they were all dutifully doing their homework. And Melody was very cooperative, not at all like most sixteen-year-old girls.”
“It was so unreal,” Latesha added.
“How was Jefferson?” Marcus asked.
“He’s back in school, but he still has some pain in the kidney area and he gets dizzy spells,” Latesha began. “He’s been excused from any physical activity, like the freshman gym class.”
“Was he happier?”
“No, Marcus. He’s a pretty unhappy child. He only grunted when he answered me, but he kept insisting everything was OK. He said he likes the Harrisons and that he enjoys his chores there. He does all the clothes washing and Mrs. Harrison has taught him how to sew.”
“The poor kid,” Marcus said, realizing that the boy must still be scared. Perhaps, he thought, the boy relished doing housework since it kept him safe at home.
“And he refused to say anything more about the incident,” Latesha continued. “He keeps saying he was unconscious, but I think he’s hiding something. He’s afraid of something.”
“It must have been traumatic for him. It’d be natural for him to not want to talk about it,” Amy commented.
“The one thing he seemed enthused about was his sewing,” Latesha added. “He brightened up a little when he said he was learning how to make a dress. He showed me the pattern for it.”
“It’s great he’s found something to interest him,” Marcus said.
“Dress-making?” Latesha asked. “Isn’t that a strange thing for a boy to be excited about?”
“No, I don’t think so,” Marcus said. “Why can’t a boy learn to sew together a dress?”
Amy looked at Marcus and offered a discreet wink.
(Eric proofread this story and offered great suggestions. Thanks to him.)
Chapter Seven – Incident in the Suburbs
Ten nights later, his cell phone rang, awakening him in his sleep. With sleep-encrusted eyes he was able to make out that his digital alarm clock read “1:48 A.M.”
“Hello,” he said, his voice thick.
“Marcus . . . Marcus . . . is that you?” the voice was breathless, desperate and high pitched. A young girl perhaps?
“Yes, this is Marcus,” he said. He was alert now.
“I need help, please Marcus,” the voice said.
“Jefferson, is that you?” Marcus asked, realizing he was hearing the voice of Jefferson Turner.
“You need to come get me, Marcus. I’m scared. They’re going to rape me and kill me.”
“Who is? Where are you? Now just calm down and tell me what’s going on.”
“Yes, Marcus. I’m sorry, but I need help.”
“OK, where are you?” Marcus persisted.
The boy eventually calmed down and said he was hiding in the bushes at a small park in Madison Heights, one of the posh suburbs of the city. He was near the corner of Cypress Lane and Park Avenue.
“OK, I’ll be there in about 20 minutes. How did you get so far out of the city, Jefferson?”
“It’s a long story. Just hurry.”
“Stay hidden until you see an old dark blue Chevrolet Cavalier,” Marcus said. “That’ll be me.”
Marcus rushed into the bathroom, relieved himself, splashed water on his face, ran his fingers through his long flowing hair and quickly brushed his teeth, hoping to rid his mouth of its sour sleep-induced taste. It was a chilly early autumn evening, but Marcus hardly noticed the chill as he ran for more than a block to find his car that he had parked at the only space he could find the previous evening. He was thankful he had purchased the car just a week earlier, thanks to a loan he got from his mother to help with the down payment.
As he drove the Park Freeway out of the city into the fashionable suburb of Madison Heights, Marcus used his cell to call Amy. As a fairly inexperienced driver, he knew he shouldn’t drive and use the phone, but he felt this was an emergency; fortunately, there was little traffic on the road at the time.
“What are you planning to do with him?” Amy asked when he told her of his early morning rescue plans.
“I don’t know, ‘cause I’m not sure what his problem is,” Marcus responded.
“It sounds like maybe the police should be called, Marcus,” she said.
“Maybe we shouldn’t just yet ‘til we know why he’s out in the bushes in Madison Heights.”
Amy agreed, but said he should call her the minute he knows anything further. “I’ll stay up. So call, please.”
Thanks to the GPS system on his phone he was able to locate the small park easily. He looked at his watch; it was 25 minutes after he had talked to Jefferson and he realized he was five minutes later than he had promised. He hoped the boy hadn’t thought he’d deserted him.
He drove slowly down Park Avenue. The park was on his right and he passed several clumps of bushes, realizing that they weren’t the ones where Jefferson must have been hiding. Finally, he saw the street sign for Cypress Lane and a heavy clump of bushes crowding the park perimeter.
“Those must be the bushes,” he said aloud to himself. He stopped the car.
He looked to see any sign of Jefferson perhaps from a rustling of the bushes. Instead of a boy emerging from the dark greenery, he was shocked to see an African-American girl run out. She wore tight mini-shorts, exposing bare, lovely legs and ballet flats. She had wrapped a colorful wrap around herself and her dark, braided hair was disheveled. It didn’t take long for Marcus to realize that the girl was Jefferson Turner.
“My God, Jefferson,” Marcus said, as the door opened. “What is going on? Are you hurt?”
Before the boy could answer, a sharp, blinding white light beamed into the car from the rear, and a voice came from a speaker: “This is the police. All occupants get out of the car and raise your hands high. If we see anything in your hands, we’ll shoot.”
Marcus looked at Jefferson; both sets of eyes registered fear.
“Get out. Now. Move.” The voice said again.
Marcus and Jefferson did as they were ordered and Marcus could hear the boy sobbing as they stepped out of the car. Both turned to face the spotlight from the top of the police car. Slowly two officers approached them, one on the right headed for Jefferson and the other headed toward Marcus. Both had guns drawn.
The two officers stopped when they were about ten feet away as another squad car arrived, its lights flashing, but without a siren. Marcus realized that the pampered citizens of Madison Heights didn’t appreciate being bothered with police business that was noisy. He also knew the sight of his aging Chevy was a rare one in an area where late model SUVs and BMWs and Mercedes were the norm. Obviously, the police must have been suspicious that the driver of such a car was up to no good.
Two other officers approached. Though his eyes were blinded by the spotlight, Marcus could see that one of newly arrived officers had sergeant stripes on his sleeve and he apparently took command of the scene. The officers moved up to approach Jefferson and Marcus, ordering them to turn toward the car, to put their hands on the car and spread-eagle their legs.
Marcus could feel an officer pat him down; his touch was rough and Marcus felt it was unwarranted. He was probably looking for either a gun, knife or drugs and Marcus was clean. He hoped Jefferson was too. The officer removed Marcus’ wallet and handed it to the sergeant.
On the other side of the car, he could hear Jefferson crying and whining to the officer patting him down. “Please don’t hurt me. Please. Ouch. You’re pinching me.”
“Quit crying bitch,” said the officer. “What’s a kid slut like you doing here?”
Jefferson continued his crying. It was a pathetic sound. When the pat-down was completed, the police handcuffed both Marcus and Jefferson, completing the task so roughly that Jefferson squealed in pain and Marcus felt as if his arm was being ripped from its socket as the officer pulled his hands around to his back. Neither was resisting arrest in any way; yet, the officers treated Jefferson and Marcus with undisguised contempt. They were led to the sergeant. He was a huge man with a massive belly, reminding Marcus of a professional football defensive lineman who had let his muscle turn to fat. Nonetheless, he commanded attention and Marcus could see the disgust in the man’s face as they approached.
“We don’t need your kind of trash in our community,” he boomed. “Let’s just take ‘em down to the station and see what the hell they were doing here. Put the slut in Hector’s squad car and you take this one, Percy.”
Jefferson, tears streaming down his face, looked to Marcus. “Can’t you do something?” he asked in desperation.
Several times Marcus had asked the officers why they were being arrested, but none of them responded, except with orders to “be quiet,” “keep your hands where I can see them,” and “later.”
“Officers let me explain,” Marcus attempted to say.
“Shut up and get in the squad peacefully or else, young man,” the sergeant responded.
*****
Marcus was shoved into the back of a squad car, his hands still cuffed behind him, forcing him to lean forward awkwardly. One police officer, a young, tall slender man, reached in to buckle him up in his seat belt. He talked softly as he completed the task, “Just relax easy young man. You’ll be OK.”
Marcus looked up at the officer, who smiled at him, and he felt somewhat reassured. The young policeman’s behavior was the first sign of humanity he saw that night. He noted the officer’s name tag: Percy Lafferty. Marcus responded with a weak smile. Forced to lean forward, Marcus could see little as the squad car headed toward the suburb’s police station. Instead he looked down onto the floor, surprised to see how clean the car floor carpet was; it was unlike any squad car he had seen in the city, where they were kept too busy to spend much time on cleaning them out. He knew that the suburban police were able to sport healthy budgets that likely afforded the luxury of employing regular cleanups for the squad cars.
When he strained to look up, he saw a heavy mesh screen that separated the backseat area from the front and the backs of the heads of the two officers. Officer Lafferty drove and the other officer had said nothing.
Remembering the gentle tone from Officer Lafferty, Marcus considered trying to talk to him; he had seemed sympathetic and might even listen to Marcus’ story.
“Officer, I can explain everything that makes this arrest all wrong,” Marcus began.
“Just shut up or I’ll give you all the explanation you’ll need.” It was the other officer answering and Marcus took the words as a threat. He realized some police officers were not above using undue force and felt he was at the mercy of these two officers in the dark of night in this wealthy suburb.
Marcus decided not to answer and resumed looking down at the floor of the squad car. He began worrying about how Jefferson was doing; the boy was scared, he knew, and likely felt he had been deserted again. He remembered the boy’s history of threatening and once even attempting suicide and became concerned that tonight’s events might just trigger some form of self-destruction. The boy was terribly fragile.
*****
The squad car carrying Jefferson had reached the station before Marcus’ squad car. He was handled roughly by the other officer as he was led into the bright insides of the building. It was unlike any police station Marcus had seen in real life during his semester internship as a social worker assigned to work in several district stations of the large city. Tasteful lighting offered a calming environment with light colored walls, decorated with pastoral scenes.
A reception desk stood at the back of a large foyer where a police sergeant sat. His desk was neat and the room was dotted with comfortable chairs, racks with magazines and potted plants. It looked more like a reception area for a high-priced attorney’s office than a police station.
Marcus saw Jefferson being held up by two officers who flanked him on either side. The boy seemed to be sagging, hardly able to stand up. He could hear the boy’s quiet sobs.
“Come on, girl, stand up,” one of the officers holding Jefferson commanded, jerking the boy upward.
“Now I’ve seen everything. You found this school girl hiding in the bushes in the middle of the night?” the desk sergeant asked the two officers.
One of the officers handed a small purse to the sergeant, commenting, “This is her purse and her school ID says she’s Jefferson Turner, a strange name for a girl, but you know how screwy those people are in naming their kids.”
Realizing he had a responsibility to speak up on Jefferson’s behalf, Marcus began, “Hey, you have this all wrong, Jefferson’s not . . .”
He was interrupted when he felt his cuffs pulled hard, causing him to wince in pain. “I thought I told you to keep your mouth shut,” it was not officer Lafferty who spoke, but the other one, whose badge identified him as Matt Smith.
“Since she’s a juvenile, we better put her in Interrogation Room Three. I’ve called in Officer Heilmann; she can give her a good pat-down,” the desk sergeant said.
Marcus watched as they led Jefferson away, still dragging his feet and not attempting to walk.
“Now this must be the girl’s pimp,” the sergeant said as Marcus was led to the desk. “This disgusts me, a pipsqueak like this pimping for a young girl.”
“I’m not a, I’m her . . . ah . . . his …,” he started but was stopped by another rough yank on his cuffs and a warning to “shut up.” He was not permitted to say a word to the desk sergeant. He was quickly booked after his wallet, cell phone and wrist watch were taken from him and put into an envelope. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it all back,” was all the sergeant would say.
He was led toward a bank of several cells, only one of them occupied, a man curled up on a bench snoring uneasily as he slept. Marcus’ cuffs were removed and he was roughly pushed into an empty cell next to the occupied one.
“Is there anyone you’d like to call?” Officer Lafferty said, once the door to the cell was locked. “You get one call.”
Marcus took the opportunity to call Amy.
*****
Amy didn’t arrive at the Madison Heights police station until after five thirty in the morning, a full three hours after Marcus and Jefferson had been taken to the station. In the interim, Marcus was left alone in his cell; several times he yelled out to the sole police officer whose desk was located near the bank of three holding cells, but the officer merely responded that he’d be seen soon. Once after about an hour, he brought a bottle of water back to Marcus, but said only, “If you’re thirsty, here you are.” Marcus tried to protest, asking, “I need to know why I’m here. Please.” But the officer turned his back and walked away. All of his protests largely went unanswered, except for one police officer – a short, stout older man who looked like a wrestler – who responded gruffly, “Riff-raff like you aren’t welcome in Madison Heights.”
It was a shock to Marcus to be thought to be “riff-raff;” normally he was a well-groomed, respectful and well-spoken young man; yet, this morning, due to his haste in leaving his apartment in the middle of the night, he recognized how scruffy he must have looked. He had not brushed his longish hair and had put on only a pair of sweatpants and a stained navy blue sweatshirt with faded gold wording “Panthers” for the sports teams of his alma mater.
Mostly though he worried about Jefferson; the boy, he knew was hardly equipped to withstand the badgering he was likely to get from the members of the Madison Heights police force who by now must have discovered the “girl” they had arrested was really a boy. They probably were ridiculing him mercilessly and he could picture the slender, fragile boy crying and whimpering in fear. From where he was located, Marcus couldn’t tell what was going on. Marcus worried that the boy might hurt himself and he had tried to tell the officers that Jefferson had a history of threatening and even attempting once to kill himself, but they wouldn’t listen.
Several times he heard raucous laughter from the officers and one of them yelling out, “Can you believe it? That black kid. He’s a fucking guy.”
“A pathetic fairy,” another added.
Another officer, however, interjected. “Shut up you guys. He’s a juvenile. We gotta be careful. You know all those ACLU bastards are on our necks these days.”
The conversation ended when the officers moved away from the cell area.
Marcus didn’t realize Amy was in the building until he was roused from sleep. “Marcus, it’s Amy,” the words came to him as if he was in a dream. For a moment, he thought he was in bed with her warm body next to him following an evening of tender caresses and kisses.
“Oh, my God,” he said, when he finally remembered where he was. In spite of the tension he felt, Marcus realized he must have dosed off. He felt stiff from laying on the hard bench that constituted a bed of sorts in the holding cell.
“Sorry, I’m so slow in getting here, but I wanted to get our attorney to come with us and I had to awaken the director first,” Amy said.
Marcus noticed a tall, slender young man in jeans and a blue spring jacket standing with her. He was identified at Josh Spencer, a lawyer that occasionally represented the Opportunities, Inc. agency.
“You’re getting out of here, Marcus,” the lawyer said. “They had no cause to arrest you.”
“I thought so,” Marcus replied. “But what about Jefferson?”
“That’s a different situation, but let’s get you out of here first and then we can discuss Jefferson’s case,” Amy said.
A few minutes later, the police lieutenant who identified himself as being in charge of the district during the early morning hours directed an officer to unlock the cell to release Marcus. The lieutenant suggested that Marcus, Amy and Josh Spencer follow him to his office.
“We’re sorry for arresting you, Mr. Whiting,” the officer began after identifying himself as Lieutenant Paul Lightfoot. “Miss Dacosta here explained you were only doing your job in seeking to rescue young Turner.”
“I tried to explain that to the officers on the scene, but they only seemed to want to throw me in a squad car, but what about Jefferson, sir?” Marcus said.
“Yes, the men may have acted hastily, Mr. Whiting, but you must realize it was dark and in the middle of the night and you were in an older car and picking up what appeared to be a young schoolgirl. What do you expect?”
“A little more respect, in spite of the fact that he’s got an older car,” the attorney said sharply.
“It’s OK about me, but what will happen to Jefferson?” Marcus asked. “I’ve been trying to tell you he’s fragile and suicidal.”
“Well his situation is quite serious and puzzling,” Lt. Lightfoot said. “He won’t tell us what he was doing in the bushes in a park in Madison Heights far from his foster home and dressed like a schoolgirl.”
“I don’t know, lieutenant,” Marcus said. “I was as shocked as anyone when he bounded out of the bushes in a skirt.”
“We can hold him for violating our sixteen and under curfew and that might do some good,” the lieutenant said. “He might open up if he feels he might spend some time in juvenile detention.”
“Come on, lieutenant, he’s just a kid and a scared kid,” Amy said. “We’ve been working closely with him. He was recently picked up in the city bloodied and beaten late at night, but even then he wouldn’t admit to what he was up to. We’re working with the officers in the juvenile division on that.”
“Where will you take him if we let him go?” the police officer asked.
“I don’t think he wants to return to the Harrisons, his foster parents, but won’t say why,” Marcus said.
“It’s a tough one for us,” Amy explained. “The Harrisons as far as we can tell have been model foster parents and there’s no good reason we’d have for not housing him there. But Mr. Whiting is correct: Jefferson seems scared to stay there.”
Lt. Lightfoot looked up at the clock in his room. “It’s ten after six and there’s nothing we can do about this now. Why don’t all of you good get some breakfast and come back about eight o’clock. By then, I’ll get a hold of our state attorney’s branch here and talk to someone in the juvenile section.”
“Will you release Jefferson to us now?” Marcus asked.
“No, Mr. Whiting, but we’ll feed him and keep him comfortable. Besides he needs a little sleep. We have a nice room for juveniles here. He’ll be safe. Out here with all these wealthy families, we sometimes pick up rich kids for their hi-jinks and we hear it from their folks if we don’t treat them with kid gloves,” the officer said, smiling.
“That’s sounds OK, lieutenant, but remember his suicidal tendencies,” Amy warned.
“There’s good diner across the street and a block to your left. You’ll get a good breakfast there,” he suggested.
*****
It wasn’t until after eleven o’clock that Jefferson finally was taken from the Madison Heights Police Station; in the interim, the police had contacted Sgt. Simbach at the city police department’s juvenile division and the State’s Division of Child Protective Services and come to the conclusion that Jefferson would be placed in a temporary youth shelter, Hope Place. It was a highly regarded and well-financed agency that had recently constructed a 15-bed facility on the fringe of the city’s tougher neighborhoods to serve as emergency shelter.
When Marcus learned the Madison Heights Police were to transport Jefferson in a marked squad car using two officers, he complained, “Is that necessary? You’re treating him like a criminal.”
“He’s violated Madison Heights laws and we’ve still got a hold placed on him until we find out what he was doing in our town, dressed as a girl at two in the morning,” retorted a stern, gruff overweight police officer who wore the badge, “Lt. Hildebrand.” He was the day shift commander, having replaced Lt. Lightfoot whose shift had ended.
Marcus again warned the lieutenant of Jefferson’s suicidal background, suggesting that the escorting officers should treat the boy gently and to keep him under constant surveillance.
“They know their business, young man,” Lt. Hildebrand retorted.
“Marcus, let the police do their business,” Amy said, stepping into the conversation to head off any further animosity. She knew of Marcus’ personal concern for Jefferson and worried that in his zealousness Marcus might create more difficulties with the police.
The lieutenant allowed Marcus and Amy to visit Jefferson to inform him of the plans to take him to Hope Place. The boy’s face was puffy and his eyes were red and watery, indicating he’d been doing a good bit of crying. His plaid, schoolgirl skirt was askew and mussed, his stockings badly run and several braids of hair were disheveled. The boy received the news of his pending stay at Hope Place with no expression or comment. It was as if he hadn’t heard what Amy told him.
“What do you think, Jefferson?” Marcus asked.
“Dunno. Will I have to go back to Mrs. Harrison?”
“Not for now,” Marcus said.
The boy gave a faint smile. Finally, he said, “Can I go to the bathroom? I need to fix my makeup. Where’s my purse?”
A few minutes later, Jefferson was escorted to the men’s bathroom in the company of a police officer who had a smirk on his face; he apparently had no sympathy for a boy who dressed like a girl and was worried about whether his face was made up properly. Jefferson emerged from the bathroom, looking far more presentable and definitely feminine. His skirt hung properly, though it was a bit mussed and his face looked less puffy. It was obvious he had fixed up his makeup and washed his face.
Marcus was surprised that even in the harsh fluorescent light of the police station Jefferson truly made a lovely, fetching teenaged girl. His short steps and swaying of his hips betrayed a natural girlishness. They watched Jefferson being hauled off in the police car, escorted by a male and female officer.
“I think Hope Place is best for him right now, Marcus,” Amy said, as they moved to their respective cars. “They have a great staff and try to keep the kids busy and they’re used to handling kids who are having difficult times like Jefferson’s. I know they’ve dealt with gay kids and, I suppose, with transgender kids.”
“You agree then that he’s likely transgender?” Marcus asked.
“Of course. I think it’s pretty obvious.”
It was decided that Amy would go to see Mrs. Harrison to pick up Jefferson’s clothes and any other of his items and explain to her that the agency would be removing the boy from her care temporarily. She knew the women would complain, likely because she’d lose the monthly payment she’d get from the state for caring for the boy.
Marcus went to Hope Place where he briefed the social worker who was to handle Jefferson while he was there. Tatiana Helios was maybe a year older than Marcus, but she seemed to be caring and knowledgeable. Nonetheless, he had hoped for someone a bit more mature as he considered the depth of Jefferson’s problems.
The social worker was about Marcus’ height and had sharp features, piercing dark eyes and long black hair. She wore a stylish dark sleeveless dress that framed her slender frame. The skirt ended in mid-thigh, exposing pretty legs in coffee-colored stockings. She had strangely porcelain toned skin that to Marcus’ eyes negated what could have made her a beauty queen. She was the antithesis to what could be perceived as a social worker who served troubled kids.
Tatiana and Marcus took Jefferson to a side interview room which was a surprisingly cheerful place with framed posters of current entertainers and sports stars. Rather than an austere interview table, there were comfortable upholstered chairs in orange and teal blue arranged around a coffee table. Marcus told Tatiana about Jefferson’s background, relying on his memory since he didn’t have files with him. He told her that some of the dates were a bit fuzzy and that he’d have to get back to her with the specifics.
“That’s OK, Marcus. I’m really more interested in your observations and conclusions about Jefferson,” Tatiana said.
Marcus summarized the boy’s situation finishing up by commenting, “Jefferson’s very sensitive and I think he’s a bit vain. Yet, he’s being told almost constantly that he’s not a good human being. It must be destroying him inside.”
“You seem to understand him quite a bit, Marcus,” Tatiana said with a smile.
“I suppose.”
“Do you think he’s transgender? Does he want to be a girl do you think?”
“I don’t know.”
“I think you do Marcus. I think you understand him very well. Aren’t you a bit like him?” she said. Her voice was soft and pleasant.
It was the second time someone asked the question about Jefferson’s possible transgender status. Marcus reddened and was pleased he didn’t have to answer the question because the door opened suddenly.
Amy Dacosta entered with a suitcase and a black plastic bag. “I’ve got Marcus’ stuff,” she announced.
*****
When they had arrived at Hope Place, Tatiana and a male social worker led Jefferson to a room equipped with a closed-circuit video camera.
“We’ve got him in a comfortable single room where we can keep an eye on him,” Tatiana assured Marcus. “Thank you for informing us of his past suicide tries. We want to keep him safe.”
“Thanks, he’s a most troubled boy and he thinks the world has betrayed him,” Marcus said.
“But he seems like a sweet kid.”
“He is but he feels weak and powerless.”
When Amy arrived, the three decided to interview Jefferson about his activities. “Maybe he’ll tell us something he was afraid to tell the police,” Amy said.
Marcus doubted the boy would explain why he has shown up twice now dressed as a girl in the middle of the night. He didn’t talk after he was severely beaten and he didn’t appear to respond any differently after being found in the bushes in the posh suburb of Madison Heights earlier that morning.
Jefferson was sullen and communicated only in grunts and one-word answers when Amy, Tatiana and Marcus interviewed him in the same comfortable room. He refused an offer for a drink or food.
“You didn’t eat much at the police station, Jefferson. You must be starved,” Marcus pleaded with the boy.
“How about a pizza?” Tatiana asked. “We had that for lunch today and our cook does an amazing job at it. Best I’ve ever had. Why not try it, Jefferson?”
“Not hungry,” the boy answered in a hardly audible voice.
“Well I’m hungry. I’d like a piece, Tatiana. Shall I eat it in front of you. Jefferson?” Marcus asked.
“Don’t like pizza,” the boy grunted.
“I think you do.”
“Not.”
Marcus passed on eating the pizza, knowing it would not help in opening the boy up to discussing his feelings and after a half hour of fruitless questioning, the three social workers called it quits. They left the room and stood outside the corridor to discuss what to do next. They left Jefferson in the room, but they could still see him on a video screen from the closed-circuit camera in the room. He was crying.
Amy and Marcus knew that both the Madison Heights detectives and the city police juvenile detectives would continue to pursue the case, possibly in the belief that the boy was a victim in some sort of child trafficking scam. Getting Jefferson to say anything about his experiences that night, they knew, would be difficult, it was apparent.
“Do you have any appointments this afternoon, Marcus?” Amy asked.
“Have to see the Ougawale family at three o’clock and they’ve been hard to schedule an appointment with,” he said.
“You’ll have time to stay a bit longer here then and see if you can get Jefferson to open up to you alone,” she said, and then turned to Tatiana and said, “Marcus seemed to gain a bit of rapport with the boy. Maybe if he goes in there alone, he might learn something. OK with you, Tatiana?”
“It’s worth a try,” the Hope Place social worker replied.
“Are slices of that pizza still available?” Marcus asked.
“Sure, do you want some now?”
“Not now. I just want to see if I can talk Jefferson into joining me in a pizza lunch.”
(Copyright 2019)
(A child welfare worker accepts his growing sense of being female as he assists a troubled teen boy. He is accepted as one of the girls by co-workers and finds romance in an unusual place.)
Chapter Eight – A Frightened Boy
Jefferson continued sobbing and refused to look up when Marcus entered the room. Marcus said nothing and placed a gentle hand on Jefferson’s shoulder, caressing it softly for a moment. Marcus took off his jacket, got a chair and pulled it over to a corner of the room. He stood on the chair and reached up to place his jacket over a video camera thus blocking any chance of Tatiana, Amy or anyone else from viewing what was going on in the room.
Marcus got down from the chair and noticed Jefferson looking at him with interest. It was the first time since the incident in Madison Heights that Jefferson had shown an interest in anything. The boy had a questioning look in his eye.
“It’s just you and me now, Jefferson. Nobody else can hear us talk.”
“Are you going to hurt me or something?” the boy said. It was the first full sentence he had uttered since his arrest. “I know what cops do when they’re alone in a room. I seen it on TV.”
Marcus laughed. “Do I look strong enough to hurt you? And, besides you know I’m not a cop.”
To demonstrate his point, Marcus pushed up the short sleeve of his shirt and attempted to form a muscle with his thin, soft arm. Of course, the arm remained flat and without any show of manly strength. The boy gave a half smile, apparently recognizing the preposterous prospect of Marcum exerting physical harm.
“Look, I like you Jefferson. A lot. I really do and I hope you like me.”
The boy nodded, apparently signifying that Marcus was correct.
“And I’m your social worker. The law says whatever we talk about is just between you and me. I can’t even tell the police if you admit to a crime, unless it’s real serious like murder or something. OK?”
“I guess.”
“But first, I’m starved,” Marcus said. “I’m really tempted to see if Tatiana was telling us the truth about their pizza here. Why don’t we both have a slice and then if you’d like we can talk about whatever you want? I’m going to ask to have a slice and you’ll make me feel guilty if you don’t eat some too. I know you like pizza, Jefferson. OK?”
“Are you really starved?” the boy asked, appearing concerned about Marcus’ own hunger.
“Ravenous,” Marcus replied.
The boy looked puzzled and then asked, “What’s ravenous?”
“Means really hungry.”
“Me too. And do they have root beer?”
Marcus excused himself and went out into the corridor and asked Tatiana to bring on the pizza and two root beers for the two of them.
*****
The pizza was as good as Tatiana promised it would be; its crust was thin and crisp and heavy with cheese, pepperoni and veggies. Its sauce was unique and tangy and both Marcus and Jefferson had second helpings of the pizza. Tatiana joined them during their lunch break, commenting that she at first didn’t care for the pizza because of its firm, crisp crust. “It’s not what I was used to, being from New York,” she said, explaining that New Yorkers seemed to prefer soggy crusts.
“But I love it now,” she added.
“I like it,” Jefferson said enthusiastically. “Is all the food that good here?”
“Mostly it is, I’d say,” Tatiana replied. “But I got to go now. Have to see a couple of my kids.”
When they were alone, Marcus and Jefferson moved to a sofa and sat down next to each other. Marcus took the boy’s hand into both of his and looked squarely into the boy’s eyes. He could see Marcus was about to cry.
“What’s bothering you?” Marcus asked.
Jefferson began to sob softly and then slowly began to speak, the words breaking up due to his crying.
“You and Amy have both been so good to me. And I like you both, especially you, Mr. Whiting.”
“That’s OK. Take your time, Jefferson. We both like you, too.”
Jefferson’s sobs grew more intense and Marcus sat quietly, holding the boy’s hand. He wanted to pull the boy closer and hug him tightly, letting him cry his eyes out, but realized he did not want to compromise his professional duty to refrain from any undue contact with the boy. He was fearful he had already stepped over the limits of familiarity required of social workers.
The boy was slender and fragile, almost like a China doll that was too dainty to touch. He had beautiful full lips, a slender face with high cheek bones and thin eyebrows. He wore dreadlocks that were neatly fashioned. He could only be described as pretty. He was still wearing the schoolgirl outfit he had been arrested in, though it was mussed and disheveled from a night in a detention cell.
“I want to tell you what happened, but I can’t, Mr. Whiting,” Jefferson said finally.
“Oh? That’s too bad, because if I knew what happened maybe we could help you, Jefferson,” Marcus said.
“I know, but I can’t. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Jefferson. Listen to me. I’ll make certain what you tell me will stay strictly between you and me and remember the law protects your privacy on this.”
The boy nodded and pointed to the mirror on the wall; he apparently knew it was a one-way mirror and the perhaps Tatiana or maybe the police were watching and hearing every word he said.
Marcus got up from the sofa and pulled down a shade to cover the mirror. He excused himself and left the room briefly. He returned and sat down next to the boy, again taking his hand. The two sat together, their thighs turned toward each other, almost as if they were lovers.
“There, you see I have covered up the video camera with my jacket and I’ve had them turn off any recording device. They can’t hear us or see us, so you can tell me whatever you’d like to,” Marcus said.
Jefferson said nothing for a moment and then asked: “Will I have to go back to the Harrisons?”
“We’re not sure, yet. Don’t you want to? I thought you liked it there, Jefferson.”
“Not anymore,” he said firmly.
“Why?”
“I can’t tell you. They’ll hurt me.”
“Who will hurt you?” Marcus said. He was shocked by the statement, since the Harrisons had a reputation of being model foster parents.
“I can’t tell.”
“Is it the other kids in the house? The Harrisons? People at your school?”
“Not Melody and Larry. They’re pretty nice though they like to tease me. And, if I talk they’ll get hurt, too. Don’t you see? I can’t tell you anything.”
The boy shivered. The child was frightened and scared. He began to cry again. Against his better judgment, Marcus took the boy in his arms and hugged him tightly. He felt his shirt grow moist on the shoulder from the tears streaming down Jefferson’s face. The boy felt weak and breakable in his arms.
Finally, Jefferson stopped crying and Marcus released him from the hug. Marcus stood up, and suggested Jefferson do the same.
“Let’s go to the bathroom, Jefferson, and wash some of those tears off your face,” Marcus said. “Once you’re cleaned up, we’ll see if Tatiana can get you settled in a room and find some fresh clothes for you. OK?”
“OK and could I wear girl clothes?”
Marcus was surprised by the request.
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes. Is it wrong to want to wear dresses?”
Marcus blushed, uncertain how to answer. He wanted to urge Jefferson to dress in appropriate male clothing, realizing how much trouble the boy could bring upon himself by wearing female outfits. He reflected on his own joy of wearing dresses.
“No. Nothing wrong, I guess. I’ll see what Tatiana thinks.”
“Thank you, Mr. Whiting. I like being a girl.”
*****
Because of his afternoon appointments, Marcus had to leave Jefferson in the hands of the staff at Hope Place. It pained him to do so, since he felt he was breaking through the barriers the boy had placed around himself. He was puzzled at how foster parents like the Harrisons, who were so well-regarded, could have allowed one of their foster children to be found in girl’s clothing in the middle of the night, frightened and dressed strangely, first as if he was a prostitute and the second time as a schoolgirl. It just didn’t make any sense.
Tatiana said she couldn’t immediately find girls’ clothing to satisfy Jefferson’s wishes, but that she had several items of clothing that were androgynous, including girl jeans, a pink tee-shirt and a sweater provided by one of her co-workers. In the meantime, she told both Jefferson and Marcus that specialists would closely examine the boy, including psychologists, to determine the boy’s feelings about his gender.
“Jefferson, I assure you that we understand your feelings about wearing girls’ clothing, and we respect it,” the Hope Place social worker told the boy just before Marcus left for his appointment.
“I understand Hope Place also has had transgendered youth here before,” Marcus added.
“Yes, we have and in fact we have a transgendered boy here right now,” Tatiana said.
“A boy?” Jefferson asked.
“Yes. Elias was born as a girl, but now lives as a boy. He’s seventeen, but I think you’ll like him.”
“A boy. Why would a girl want to be a boy?” Jefferson asked.
“For the same reason you probably want to be a girl, Jefferson,” Marcus said. “Because even though Elias was born a girl physically, she felt like she was a boy inside. You were born with boy parts, but it sounds like you feel you are a girl inside.”
“Being a girl is so cool,” the boy persisted.
“If we find you really feel you’re a girl, Jefferson, we’ll respect that and let you live as a girl,” Tatiana said. “Just be patient.”
Marcus realized he had to leave for his appointment. He rose, promising he’d be back the next day to talk more. Jefferson stood up as well and walked over to hug Marcus. “You have to come back, Marcus. Don’t leave me like everyone else in my life,” the boy pleaded.
“I won’t Jefferson. I won’t,” Marcus said, wondering if he would always be able to keep his promise to the boy.
As the two broke up, Marcus could see tears in the boy’s eyes. His own eyes began to tear up, too.
*****
That evening Marcus and Amy had the first serious disagreement in their short relationship. You might even call it a fight, though no blows were struck. What they said to each other hurt even harder, it seemed.
They gathered for a supper of sub sandwiches at Amy’s, having stopped at Luigi’s Hero House, one of the more popular sandwich shops in the city. Marcus had changed out of the male attire he wore for work and stepped into a loose-fitting teddy and let his hair down. Amy had encouraged him to become Miranda immediately upon entering her apartment and even though he was hungry Marcus was only too happy to oblige. He felt comfortable as Miranda and, best of all, he knew Amy adored him as a pretty young woman.
His euphoria was short-lived. In the midst of devouring their juicy, meat heavy subs with Luigi’s special sauces dripping down their chins, Amy brought up Jefferson Turner and the boy’s troubled state of mind.
“I think it’s best you step away from the Turner case,” she said. “I’ll assign it permanently to Latesha.”
Marcus had his mouth full of soggy bread, Italian meats, lettuce, tomato and the usual condiments when she spoke. He almost felt like spitting the delicious conglomeration from his mouth and instead looked at her with anger in his eyes.
“You’re getting too close to him in this case, Miranda, and that’s not good for a professional social worker, my dear,” she said. Her tone was sympathetic, as if she sensed his unhappiness with her decision.
Marcus finally cleared the food from his mouth.
“But, he needs me now,” he said.
“That’s the trouble, Marcus. You have to step away from him. You’re not his mother or his sister and anything. You’re a social worker.”
“He’ll think I deserted him. Just like everyone else in his life. Right now, I think I’m his only friend.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Miranda. He’s probably just using you. If he’s so close to you, why won’t he tell you what he’s up to? For all we know, he’s an accomplished prostitute.”
Marcus stood up and looked down at Amy, who had put her sandwich down and was glaring at him.
“The boy’s suicidal,” Marcus pleaded.
“They’ve got him on suicide watch at Hope Place. Now sit down and finish your sandwich and then let’s you and I just enjoy our night together. I love holding you Miranda, my darling.”
“No. I’m going back to my place. Alone,” he said and turned to storm out of the kitchen.
Amy grabbed his arm before he could leave, dragging him back to her and drawing him onto her lap. He tried to squirm away, but she was too strong for him and he surrendered onto her lap.
“Let me go.”
“No, darling, let’s just cuddle now. We don’t need to talk business now. Let’s do it tomorrow in the office. Kiss me Miranda.”
She tried to kiss him on the lips, but he kept turning his face so she couldn’t link their lips. He continued to struggle against her hold, but his strength of giving out and soon he succumbed to her, collapsing into her arms. She nestled him tightly, her hands loosening their grip and beginning to caress his slender arms and round bottom. Marcus felt warm and protected in her husky firm arms. He felt fragile and weak after his struggle with the woman.
“Miranda, Miranda, Miranda, my lovely sweet Miranda,” she said soothingly.
They kissed. It was a tentative kiss at first, but soon grew passionate. They pressed their lips hard against each other, mouths opening to receive the other’s tongue. Marcus was lost in the reverie, momentarily forgetting the earlier disagreement over Jefferson Turner. He smelled the familiarity of Amy’s body, a sourness from a day of work and her tendency to sweat heavily; he was comforted by the scent. His mouth moved from her lips onto the flesh of her neck, where his tongue tasted the salt from her body.
“Ooooh,” she cooed. He knew how that excited her.
They left their half-eaten sub sandwiches and the still partially full glasses of red wine on the table and moved to the bedroom, helping each other out of their clothes before falling together atop Amy’s bed.
*****
Marcus awoke with his head resting on the soft tummy of Amy. A faint brightness filled the room from the early morning sunlight filtering through the semi-opaque shades. He saw the sweet nipples of her breasts. Amy’s hand has resting on his slender shoulders and the scent of a night of passionate love-making permeated his nostrils. In their love-making, Amy had tenderly caressed him, whispering “Miranda, Miranda.”
He had tasted every nook and cranny of Amy’s fleshy body. His mouth devoured the musky taste of her feminine cavity, his tongue teasing her as she squealed and moved with breathless delight. He relished the exotic taste of her orgasm. His reverie of the enrapturing night of love was interrupted as Amy stirred, pushing him off her tummy and turning her back toward him. The woman moved restlessly in the tangle of sheets.
He looked at the digital alarm on the night stand, his sleep encrusted eyes straining to read it: “Five-fifty-eight,” he murmured. Two minutes before its musical ring would disturb the peacefulness of the early morning. He leaned across the bed trying to reach the clock so as to turn it off before its buzz shattered the silence. He grasped it, but fumbled around trying to figure out what he needed to do before it exploded in its annoying sound.
He never could find how to shut it off and soon the alarm’s musical ringtone burst into sound and Amy stirred quickly, leaning her naked body over him to reach the clock. “Couldn’t you turn it off?” she shouted in exasperation.
“Didn’t know how.”
She turned off the alarm and let her body fall on Marcus. She kissed him softly. “You’re wonderful,” she said. “My lovely girl.”
Five minutes later, they were in the shower, together.
*****
Back into his male clothes, Marcus went to the kitchen and found the partially consumed sub sandwiches and the wine glasses (both with red wine still unfinished) on the kitchen table where the two lovers had left them the previous night in their fervent haste to get to the bedroom. He smelled the sandwiches, considered they were still safe to eat and wrapped both into wax paper he found in a drawer and put them into the refrigerator. He dumped the wine and was washing the glasses when Amy entered.
He was astounded by what he saw. Normally Amy wore slacks and simple tops to work; they were always of neutral colors, giving her almost a cold demeanor. This morning she wore a plain, but dark brown skirt with large white buttons down the front and a long-sleeved blouse with light silver starbursts on a white background. She had put on heavier makeup than he’d ever seen her with and fixed her hair in a pixie style.
“Wow. You look ravishing,” he exclaimed.
She smiled at him. “You like, Miranda.”
“Definitely. What’s the occasion? We have to go to work, you know, or were you declaring a holiday for us?”
She giggled. “I thought about it. But work beckons. Do you think this is too much for the office?”
“Not at all. Latesha is always dressed up, maybe even more so. Maybe it’s time we social workers need to show we can be stylish as well,” he said.
“Well, I know you could be the most stylish of all the girls, Miranda,” she said, winking.
“I was going to make us eggs this morning, that’s if you have eggs,” Marcus said.
The two busied themselves preparing their simple breakfast, having decided on veggie omelets. Marcus proved to be an accomplished morning cook and the two enjoyed their breakfast, sitting close to each other. They periodically gave each other light kisses as they ate.
“Playtime is over,” Amy announced as they finished their meal. “We need to get down to business and settle this Jefferson Turner situation.”
“I know. I kept wondering about it as we slept together last night,” he confessed.
“Me too, and I felt guilty to be enjoying you while still not sure what to do about Jefferson,” she agreed.
“I can’t desert him, Amy,” Marcus said. “I promised him.”
“Yes, I know, and maybe I was too harsh on you last night. I was thinking of a possible solution though, something that I think would possibly help the boy.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, but I will still make Latesha his principal worker; she’ll take over the Harrisons and that will include Jefferson, whether he goes back there or not.”
“But, I . . .”
“Wait,” she said, putting up her hand to urge him to hold back his words. “Here’s what you’ll do. You know first of all that you are emotionally connected to the boy, and that’s no good for a case. You have to remain objective, OK?”
“Yes, I guess.”
“But I will not order you to stop seeing him, as a friend. In other words, feel free to visit him on your own time and if you have a break in your other cases you can even sneak in a few visits while you’re working. Just don’t tell me, but you can’t neglect your other work. OK?”
“Seems OK.”
“Two other things and this is critical and I want you to be honest with me about them.”
He nodded.
“First, if he tells you anything that might be pertinent to his case, you should share it with Latesha or myself.”
“But what if he wants it a secret between us?” Marcus asked. He hated the thought of “ratting” on the boy.
“I’ll let you be the judge of that. He seems to trust you and that’s critical.”
Amy’s eyes focused in on him. “Secondly, you are not to have any sexual contact with him. Any. That’s vital to this case. We are representing the state as his guardians, you know. We could lose our contract with the state if you venture down this road.”
Marcus angered at her comment. How could she accuse him of such behavior?
“Are you accusing me of being a pervert or something? My God, he’s only fourteen. I’m not that way.”
Amy held up her hand again. “Whoa. I never accused you of anything. I trust you not to do anything like that, but the agency is responsible for its employees’ behavior with clients. Just a word to the wise, that’s all.”
Marcus understood. Amy was acting now in her role as his supervisor, not his lover. It was a relationship he realized the two had to recognize and obey. He knew their growing affection for each other could be troublesome for a boss and her underling, particularly for a social service agency operating with public funds.
“Now, let’s get to the office. I texted Latesha to plan on an early meeting for the three of us on this case,” Amy said.
*****
When Marcus walked into Amy’s office shortly after 9 a.m., she was on the phone; she motioned for Marcus to sit down at the small round table she had placed for small conferences. She continued her phone conversation, interjecting with comments such as “Yes, I understand,” “Of course, we want to cooperate,” and “We are first of all most interested in the welfare of the child.”
She had a critical look on her face, as if she didn’t like what she was hearing from the party on the other end. The conversation continued in that manner for a few more minutes, and Latesha entered, taking a chair opposite Marcus. A slight whiff of sweet perfume followed the woman’s entrance into the room. Marcus and Latesha nodded to each other, but said nothing.
“Yes, sergeant. We’ll be here,” Amy said, finally ending the conversation.
Marcus’ attention sharpened when he realized that Amy was talking with someone who was a sergeant. It could be a sergeant in the Army, the sheriff’s office or the police, but he was certain she was talking with Sgt. Simbach of the police juvenile division and their conversation involved Jefferson Turner.
“Yes, that was Simbach,” Amy said as she left her desk and walked over to the small conference table.
“What’s up?” Marcus said, worried that something might have happened to Jefferson.
“Well, first of all, your friend, Officer Jelacic, will be over here in twenty minutes to talk with us about Jefferson. Seems they’re under some pressure to arrest Jefferson for prostitution.”
“But he was a victim?”
“Of course, and I tried to explain that to Simbach. He’s sympathetic, but it seems the alderman of that district is on a crusade to shutdown Grove Avenue’s prostitution and the mayor is on board with him. They think arresting Jefferson would show how tough they will be on the Janes, particularly underage Janes.”
“What about arresting the Johns?” Marcus asked.
Latesha laughed. “Don’t be silly. They’d end up putting half of the mayor’s contributors behind bars. Besides, why shut it down? After drug dealing, prostitution is the area’s largest economic activity.”
“Let’s get serious,” Amy warned. “He also said he got a strange request from the police chief of Madison Heights. They are waiving all charges against Jefferson and urge that we not look into why the boy was in their fancy suburb that morning.”
“That is weird, isn’t it?” Marcus agreed.
“Sounds like they’re protecting someone,” Latesha said. “Perhaps the person who took the boy into Madison Heights to play with him.”
“He’s a victim, for God’s sake. I’m so worried that if he goes into detention he’ll be harmed. He’s so weak and fragile.” Marcus shook his head.
“Or, he’ll harm himself,” Amy said.
*****
Officer Hedwig Jelacic arrived within fifteen minutes of the Amy’s conversation with Sgt. Simbach and she was as worried about Jefferson’s treatment as were the three social workers. “My sergeant agrees with you, Amy,” she explained. “He doesn’t think the boy deserves arrest, but his hands are tied from above. I heard him argue with the captain vehemently before the captain yelled at him, ‘Dammit, arrest the boy. That’s an order.’”
“It sounds like the boy is a punching bag for the politicians,” Amy said. “He’s just a kid.”
“Isn’t the welfare of a child worth anything?” Latesha asked.
“Not where politicians are concerned,” Amy replied.
“The boy is so fragile,” Marcus said. “The other kids will torture him and rape him. You know they’ll beat the shit out of him, if not worse. Can’t we do something to save him?”
“I think maybe I have an idea,” Amy said, after a brief pause.
“What is it?”
“Let me make a few calls first,” she said. “You guys go down to the break room for a few minutes and I’ll call you. OK?”
“What are you going to do, Amy?” Officer Jelacic asked. “I’m ordered to arrest him.”
“I won’t stand in your way, Heddy. Just give me a few minutes.”
The three got up and left.
*****
It was nearly twenty minutes later when Amy summoned the three back to her office. She explained she had called Alicia Strauminger, the director at Hope Place, to discuss the boy’s situation.
“They are set up as a secure facility, you know, and under a court order, they have held kids who are under arrest until their hearing date,” she explained. “They only do it rarely, and the county district attorney has to agree to the arrangement. That’s a problem since the county must pay extra for Hope Place to hold a child in that way.”
“That won’t work then,” Heddy said. “You know how the county hates to pay for these kids to start with.”
“I called your sergeant, too, Heddy, to discuss it and he agreed to pursue the idea with his captain and, I suppose, the district attorney’s office. I also called the woman who heads the DA’s juvenile division. I know her. In fact, she worked here on a summer internship when I first started and she’s most sympathetic.”
“Wow, you’ve been busy, Amy,” the officer said.
“I hope you didn’t mind my calling your sergeant and not talking to you first, Heddy. I really trust you, but some of this is just beyond your pay grade,” Amy said.
“No, no, not at all,” Heddy reassured Amy. “If it’s best for the child. Do it.”
Marcus found himself growing to like Officer Hedwig Jelacic far more than he had ever imagined. So much for first impressions, he thought. He remembered how negative and mean-sounding she was at their first meetings; now, he felt she was truly a decent person and a dedicated police officer.
Temporary arrangements were made to hold Jefferson in Hope Place’s secure unit while efforts were made for a more permanent stay. Officer Jelacic, accompanied by both Latesha and Amy, met with Jefferson to tell him what was happening. He cried when he didn’t see Marcus with them, but felt better when it was promised that Marcus would visit him as a friend at night.
Undercover Girl - Chapter Nine
Chapter Nine – Secret Desires
The four friends, Amy, Mollie, Latesha and Marcus, dressed as Miranda, had their usual Wednesday “girls-night-out” at Luke’s Place. Several Wednesday nights before, Marcus had entered the bar dressed in women’s slacks, a blouse, wearing makeup and with his longish hair flowing freely; he was easily accepted as Miranda, the other girls having explained to Luke Bennett, the bar owner, and to the always inquisitive barmaid, Nancy, that the young man known as Marcus had joined them on a dare that he had to be dressed as a female to join them for their Wednesday night outings.
After several Wednesday nights as Miranda, Marcus had been accepted easily as a young woman and now, after four weeks, he took pride in gravitating for more obvious feminine styles and wore a tight denim skirt that ended in mid-thigh, black pantyhose, a violet-colored blouse with a scoop bodice and three-inch heels. He had invested in realistic looking breast forms (B cup) and through clever applications of blush coloring created an illusion of cleavage. Because he had little time to fix his hair, he had tied it with a pink ribbon into a high ponytail, giving him the look of a mischievous young lady.
“Hey Amy,” said a young man who was sitting on a barstool as she and Marcus entered Luke’s.
“Hi Emery, how you doing?” She asked in greeting him back with a smile. The young man dressed in knee-length shorts and brightly colored polo shirt; he was moderately tall and had a slender, sinewy body. His hair was neat and cut short and he looked terribly attractive.
Marcus recognized the young man as Emery Harrington, an assistant DA that he met while working on the Ethel Mitchell case, one of his first cases in which a young Ethel accused a foster parent of abuse. Marcus tried to position himself behind Amy, hoping the young man wouldn’t recognize him.
“Great now that I see you, dear,” Emery said, flirtatiously. “And who’s your lovely friend?”
“Miranda, and keep your hands of her; she’s taken,” Amy responded cheerfully.
Emery held his hands up, to fend off Amy’s suspicions as to his motives. “Just asking and you can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said.
“Wait ‘til I see Paulina, Emery,” Amy warned, apparently referring to the man’s significant other.
“Just being friendly, Amy,” he smiled back.
“Nice meeting you Miranda,” Emery said as the two turned from him and moved to their usual booth in the rear area of Luke’s Place.
“Oh, my God,” Marcus said. “I was worried he’d recognize me.”
“No chance of that, my dear,” Amy said. “You’re all girl tonight, but if you keep looking like you do, you’ll soon be too tempting for guys to keep their hands off you. Or girls, and I’ll get jealous.”
The two joined Mollie and Latesha in the booth; the other two had left one side free so that Amy and Marcus could sit together. Both were aware of that Amy and Marcus had been in a relationship and that Marcus had begun to wonder if he was transgendered. Mollie and Latesha seemed unconcerned about the unusual nature of the growing love affair; nor did they worry whether it might result in Marcus receiving undue favors from the team leader of their part of the agency. They respected Amy’s fair-mindedness and her commitment to providing the best care possible for the agency’s children.
It was agreed that their “girls-night-out” evenings were to be free of shop talk, but Marcus asked if they might take a few minutes to talk about Jefferson Turner. He hadn’t heard what Latesha might have learned from her time with Jefferson earlier in the day.
“We learned nothing,” Latesha replied. “He cried a lot and said he didn’t want to go back to the Harrisons.”
“Did he say why?”
“No, just that he didn’t like them, but wouldn’t tell us why,” Latesha said. “He said they didn’t hit him or anything like that. He just said it wasn’t a good environment for him. And he kept asking when you’d stop by.”
“Both Marcus and I feel that something weird is going on in that house,” Amy volunteered.
“I know,” Latesha agreed. “And, oh yes, he kept wondering how the other two foster kids there were doing. Melody and Larry.”
“OK, that’s enough for tonight, girls,” Amy said. “Let’s get our drinks.”
*****
Marcus had grown comfortable as an androgynous young man with effeminate mannerisms. Most days he wore unisex clothing to work, women’s slacks or jeans and colorful blouses. He kept his hair moderately long and neat, always fixing it into a ponytail during his work hours. He wore studs in his pierced ears. Underneath it all, he wore colorful cotton panties, largely because they felt comfortable. Rather than a male undershirt, he always wore one of his camisoles.
Most co-workers and colleagues seemed to accept him, as did all but a few of the foster parents he dealt with. As far as he could tell, the foster kids in his caseload were indifferent to his mannerisms and his style of clothing. The one exception was a boy named LaGrande Marquis who had assumed the role of being a tough guy complete with dreadlocks and goatee that he had fashioned out of a beard he had grown quite early in his young life. He wore his jeans so they slid down, often exposing the crack in his buttocks.
“What do I need this fairy princess for?” he said disdainfully when Marcus held his first meeting at the boy’s foster home.
“LaGrande, don’t be rude,” the boy’s foster mother, a husky woman with deep black skin. She had two other teen boys as foster kids; her own children were adults and no longer in the house. The agency had always considered Mrs. Jenkins to be particularly good with teen foster children; it was always hard to find adoptive parents once a child hit teen years. Often, the state and children’s agencies are forced to place teen foster kids in less than satisfactory homes; thus, foster parents like Mrs. Jenkins were highly valued by the child protection system.
“I’m nearly seventeen. Why do I need a fag like this telling me what to do with my life? What happened to that slit that used to come? She was hot,” the boy snarled.
“LaGrande Jackson Marquis! Watch your tongue,” Mrs. Jenkins yelled back.
Her tone silenced the boy, who merely nodded, and then discreetly flashed Marcus the finger. It was not discreet enough; Mrs. Jenkins saw the gesture.
“LaGrande, I saw that. One more bit of disrespect toward Mr. Whiting and I’ll take your sax away from you for a week. Got it?”
The boy nodded and then turned his head down. He was silent, but Marcus feared that the boy had shut himself out of the conversation, that he’d sit there and grunt for the rest of the visit. It would be a useless visit, he thought.
“I’m sorry Mr. Whiting,” Mrs. Jenkins said, turning to Marcus. “What was it you wanted to discuss?”
“No problem, ma’am. I really just wanted to get to know you and LaGrande better since I’ll be your caseworker,” he explained. “I’m sorry for the change in social workers, but Latesha, your former worker, was assigned elsewhere. I only hope I can do half as well as she has done.”
“We all liked her,” she said. “I don’t know why we can’t keep workers for a longer time.”
“I understand,” Marcus said.
While Mrs. Jenkins had silenced LaGrande and sought to make him more communicative, Marcus was aware that she also was suspicious of his ability to be an effective social worker. He knew his effeminate manners and lilting way of talking would mark him as submissive and perhaps easy to intimidate, but he was convinced he could overcome his outward appearance to serve his assigned families well.
“So, LaGrande, you play the saxophone?” Marcus asked, quickly changing the subject.
The boy looked up at Marcus, the first time he faced Marcus directly. “Yes, I’m in the jazz band,” he mumbled.
“And he’s great, one of the best they’ve ever had at Emerson High School,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
“Who’s your favorite sax player?” Marcus asked.
“Several. Sonny Rollins and Lester Young,” the boy said.
“Cool. So, you like bebop?”
“I guess.”
“Have you ever heard of Frank Morgan?” Marcus asked.
“No, who’s he? Is he dead?”
“Yes, he’s dead, but he played both a warm, lovely sound and also the up-beat, fast stuff.”
“Why don’t I know about him?” the boy asked.
Marcus took a moment to consider how best to relate the story of Frank Morgan, who had spent thirty years in jail due to troubles he encountered as a young man in Los Angeles, resuming his career as an older man.
“He had the smoothest sound you ever heard, man, even when he was doing some of his exotic riffs,” Marcus said after he told Morgan’s story. “If he hadn’t have screwed up as a kid when he was your age, I think he’d have become as well-known as your Sonny Rollins or John Coltrane or even Charlie Parker for that matter.”
The boy didn't say anything at first. He looked suspiciously at Marcus, as if the sissy white man sitting opposite him was just telling him a phony “do-gooder” story. “What’s that got to do with me?” he finally said.
"Think about it, LaGrande, I’d hate to miss out on your talents if you had to spend thirty years in the slammer. I love a great sax.”
“That’s not a true story. You just made it up to lecture me,” the boy said.
“Well, it’s true and I’ll drop off one of my CDs of Frank Morgan, and you can hear it and read about it for yourself,” Marcus offered.
“You can drop it off but I might not listen to it,” LaGrande mumbled.
"OK, then, but I’ll drop it off tomorrow.”
“Suit yourself,” the boy said, returning to his sullen demeanor.
Marcus got up to leave the room, discouraged that he had been unable to break through the boy’s seemingly uncaring, rebellious attitude. “Let me walk you out, Mr. Whiting,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
“Wait,” LaGrande said before they could leave. “You won’t forget that CD, will you?”
“No, LaGrande, I’ll drop it off after lunch tomorrow,” Marcus said.
“That’s your choice, ‘cause maybe I won’t even listen to it,” the boy said, returning to his sullen manner.
The two left the room and Mrs. Jenkins stopped Marcus after they had progressed to the front door. “He’ll listen to it, I’m sure,” she said.
“I don’t want to force him to listen,” Marcus warned, worried the woman might employ some form of discipline to get him to listen.
“Don’t worry, Marcus,” she said using his name for the first time in their meeting. “He’ll pretend he doesn’t care, but he’ll listen. He loves his sax that I can tell you.”
“That’s half the battle to being a good musician, loving the instrument,” Marcus said. “The other half is to play it a lot. Don’t call it practice, though. If you can, give him all sorts of opportunity to play it, or to practice.”
She nodded as if she’d agreed with him.
“I think you did him some good, Marcus,” she smiled for the first time that day.
As Marcus left the foster home, he felt lighter than he had at any time during his short span of work at the agency. He wanted to twirl and turn like a ballerina as he skipped along to his car. Only, he didn’t; after all, he had to remind himself that he’s a man.
*****
Latesha and Mollie announced at the next girls-night-out session that the two of them had joined a softball team that scheduled its games on Wednesday night conflicting with their weekly get-togethers. Because of various conflicts facing each of them on other evenings, it was decided that Amy and Miranda (it was expected that for these outings that Marcus would be dressed as Miranda) would attend the games and cheer the team on, gathering later for after-game drinks.
Mollie had suggested that perhaps Amy and Miranda might want to join the team. “We still have some vacancies,” she announced.
“Not me,” Amy protested, claiming she had never played the game.
“How about you, Miranda?”
“You wouldn’t want me on your team.”
“Come on Miranda,” Mollie pleaded. “I bet you’re good. You were a guy once, weren’t you?”
Marcus reddened. Reminded that he was male embarrassed him since he had absolutely no athletic skills. He had been teased and taunted for “throwing like a girl,” which he did, and for his “pussy” swings at the plate. Rather than face constant humiliation, Marcus had simply stayed away from playing baseball or basketball with boys.
“No way,” Marcus said. “Your pitchers throw too fast and that ball is hard. Why do they call it softball?”
“Good question,” Mollie answered, holding up her right hand which contained a taped fourth finger which she had jammed in a practice game. She played catcher, a position prone to bruises and torn fingers.
“At least you two girly girls can cheer for us, right?” Latesha said, smiling.
Mollie and Latesha played for the Flashes who were sponsored by the local chapter of the National Association of Social Workers; the two had joined the team in mid-July, after two of the team’s key members had married in June and found their marital obligations interfered with softball. The team played at a popular athletic facility with four well-lighted softball fields, two hardball diamonds, tennis courts and basketball courts. The Flashes wore Navy blue uniforms with the word “Flashes” and a lightning strike emblazoned in gold on the front. Their shorts exposed their sinewy thighs and they wore sleeveless tops. They wore white socks trimmed in blue and gold that reached to just under their knees.
Marcus marveled at how muscular the girls’ legs and arms appeared. Even their pitcher, a tall chunky young lady they called “Crusher” for her crushingly fast pitching style, had beefy arms that were solid and firm. No way, Marcus knew, could he join with this group of young women with his puny, soft, almost dainty body.
Latesha quickly had become one of the team’s most valued players due her obvious hitting skills and graceful and accomplished catches in centerfield.
“Did you ever imagine that our stylish, well-dressed Latesha could be such an athlete?” Amy asked Marcus as they sat in the second row of the five-tier bleachers that were erected behind the benches of each of the two competing teams.
“She’s really good,” Marcus agreed. “I never thought she’d do anything so physical.”
“Nor I, since it might ruin her makeup,” Amy said, laughing.
Marcus saw how by end of the third inning that Latesha was perspiring as she ran in from centerfield glistening in moisture in the warm, muggy night. What particularly impressed Marcus was the spirit of the girls on the Flashes team, quick to congratulate and hug a girl for a particularly good play or to encourage a girl who might have struck out at the plate or made an error in the field. He enjoyed the togetherness of spirit shown by the girls and hoped someday that he might be fully accepted into such a family of femininity.
*****
On his way to work the following morning, Marcus dropped off his CD of Frank Morgan’s “Easy Livin’” album for LaGrande Marquis. The boy’s foster mother, Florence Jenkins, met him at the door.
“I don’t know if it was your visit or not, Mr. Whiting, but LaGrande seems to be a changed boy,” Mrs. Jenkins said. “He’s off to school now, and he went without a fuss.”
“That’s great, ma’am, I think deep down under all his resentment there’s a good kid,” he said.
“I do, too, and that’s why I keep taking these kids in, even though it so often feels hopeless.”
“All we can do is to try, Mrs. Jenkins.”
*****
As the weeks went on, Marcus visited Jefferson at Hope Place whenever he could. Normally, he would stop by about seven o’clock, though sometimes he’d visit after work in the late afternoon or early evening. He was pleased to see the boy was attending school regularly, largely because Tatiana, his caseworker at the shelter, had arranged for him to transfer to the School for the Performing Arts, a specialty high school.
Though Jefferson still refused to talk about the two times he was found dressed as a girl late at night, he began to open up to Marcus about other things.
It was on the third visit that Marcus found the boy in his room deep in concentration. He was looking at what appeared to be a makeshift scrapbook made out of a school notebook. Jefferson quickly closed the book as Marcus entered; the boy’s face reddened and Marcus wondered if perhaps the boy was looking at porn. After all, Jefferson was fifteen years old, and such perusing might be normal for a boy his age.
The notebook was bulging; obviously, Jefferson – or someone – had pasted many items into the book, expanding it to twice it’s normal size. Marcus did his best to look like he never saw the boy guiltily shut the book.
“How you doing, Jefferson?” Marcus asked, hoping he had disguised his interest in the notebook.
“Cool, Mr. Whiting,” Jefferson replied.
“Great, had a good day myself,” he said.
“Mr. Whiting, I wasn’t looking at anything dirty or anything wrong, sir, really?”
Marcus laughed. “Don’t worry, Jefferson. That’s your business, as long as you’re not looking at how to build a bomb or something like that.”
“No, no, no,” the boy said quickly. “Just something I like.”
“Can’t see anything wrong in that. A boy has a right to his dreams. I always was dreaming about something I’d like to do, but maybe I couldn’t.”
“Really, like maybe going to New York to see a play or something,” Jefferson asked eagerly.
“Is that what you’d like to do?”
“Sort of, I guess.”
“You want to be an actor, Jefferson?” Marcus asked.
“Maybe, but not really, more like . . .ah . . . ah . . . you won’t laugh, will you?”
“Of course not, whatever it is if it’s legal go for it,” Marcus encouraged. “We have to have our goals, Jefferson. That’s a good thing.”
“Mine are kind of different or maybe weird. Please tell me you won’t laugh.”
“Why should I? We all have dreams,” Marcus said.
“What are yours?” the boy asked.
Marcus smiled. “Oh, mine’s a silly one,” he said.
“What? Tell me,” the boy pleaded.
Marcus paused for a second; he hesitated to tell Jefferson his long-standing dream, but thought that perhaps if he did, the boy would open up and tell us why he was out late at night dressed as a girl. He drew out his cell phone, and began clicking through a series of pictures, found one, smiled to himself and then showed the picture to Jefferson.
“Wow, she’s pretty,” Jefferson exclaimed. “Who is she? Your girlfriend?”
“No, look a little closer, maybe you’ll know her,” Marcus said.
Jefferson scrutinized the photo more closely and suddenly his eyes lit up. He looked at Marcus and smiled broadly.
“That’s you! It’s you. You’re so pretty.”
Marcus smiled. “Yes, that’s kind of my secret. I sometimes wish I had been born a girl and I occasionally dress up as a girl named Miranda. Does that seem wrong to you?”
The boy shook his head, “No, you’re just like me.”
“You feel better as a girl, Jefferson?”
“Uh huh. Don’t you?”
“I don’t honestly know, but I feel more like myself,” Marcus replied. “When I’m trying to be a boy, it’s hard. It’s like I’m on my guard all the time, trying to prove to myself that I’m a normal boy.”
“Me too. I’m so glad you told me, Marcus. Maybe I’m not such a weirdo and freak,” Jefferson said. He began to sob softly.
“It’s tough being yourself when it’s not being what everyone thinks you should be.”
Jefferson took a tissue that Marcus handed him smiled. “I like being Margot.”
“Margot? Why?” Marcus wondered about why Jefferson chose a name that was far from typical for an African-American girl and also one that is usually identified with an older generation.
“For Margot Fonteyn. You know, the great ballerina,” Jefferson spoke excitedly.
Marcus had heard the name, but had no idea about Fonteyn’s greatness. He had never watched any ballet, except short excerpts that appeared occasionally on variety shows on television; then, he turned away, feeling he’d best not show an interest in ballet since it was associated with femininity and sissy boys in the typical male mind.
“Really, you should see her,” Jefferson eagerly continuing. “There’s a YouTube clip of her dancing the Pas de Deux from Act Four of ‘Swan Lake’ with Rudolf Nureyev and she’s on pointe for just about the whole four minutes and so graceful. To dance like Fonteyn, wow!”
The boy got up from his seat and began to dance about his room, raising arms gracefully as he twirled about. The boy was lost in his dance, as if he were the famed ballerina.
“Oh, how I wish I could go on pointe, but I need special shoes for those and they’re so expensive,” he said when he finished.
“You’re very graceful, Margot,” Marcus said, using the boy’s chosen girl’s name.
“I was so happy that Tatiana got me into the arts school. I’ll be in dance. Maybe they’ll let me dance the girl parts, I hope,” he said.
Jefferson reached over a picked up the notebook he was examining when Marcus entered the room. “Look at this,” he said, opening the book to a picture of four girls in white tutus dancing together holding hands.
“The dancing snowflakes. I’d love to be the sugar plum fairy, too, but I’d have to be really good for that. Margot used to be the sugar plum fairy all the time.”
Marcus took the boy’s slender hand in his own, marveling at how his own smallish and dainty hands matched Jefferson’s.
“I hope you get to do that someday,” he said. “But won’t they want you to dance boy roles?”
“No, I’m a girl and I want to dance as a girl,” the boy said resolutely.
“Is that why you were out late at night as a girl?” Marcus asked, abruptly changing the subject, hoping that Jefferson would finally confess about his strange activities.
“No, I didn’t want to be out there.”
“Then why did you go out at night like that?”
“I can’t tell you. I’ve already said too much,” Jefferson said. His demeanor suddenly changed and he looked frightened.
“You can tell me, Margot,” Marcus said. “I’m not here in my official capacity. I’m not your caseworker. I just want to be your friend. You can tell me and I won’t break your trust, unless you say it’s OK.”
“I can’t. I can’t. I’m sorry. They’ll . . .” Jefferson his words were interrupted by uncontrollable sobbing.
Marcus let the boy sob; he held the boy’s hands in his. Finally, he said gently, “They’ll do what, Jefferson?”
The boy’s crying continued for a few moments before Jefferson muttered, “It’s nothin’. It’s nothin’.”
Before he left, Marcus hugged the slender boy. He whispered, “You’re a beautiful person, whether you’re Jefferson or Margot. You’re protected now.”
The boy’s sobbing subsided. “Maybe,” he said.
Marcus left the room, convinced the boy was frightened about something.
*****
The next morning, Marcus called Tatiana at Hope Place, questioning how closely the staff at the shelter was watching Jefferson.
“The boy is terribly scared and I’m worried he’s growing more depressed,” he said.
“I assure you, Marcus, we’re aware of Jefferson’s situation,” she replied. “As I’ve told you before, we’ve got him tagged as potentially suicidal and his room was covered twenty-four hours a day with a video camera. Anything that he could use to hurt himself has been removed.”
“You can’t watch him constantly, I know, but he seemed to be down last night.”
“Actually, Marcus, we think he’s better, now that he’s at the Performing Arts school. You know he made friends with Elias and that seemed to help.”
“Yes, but I understand Elias been sent to a new foster family, and I think Jefferson misses him,” Marcus said.
Elias was a sixteen-year-old transboy that had been completing his stay at Hope Place when Jefferson was admitted. The agency had a special unit for children who favored alternate lifestyles; usually the youngsters were gay, but there had been transgender children there as well. Most of the children in this unit had been found on the streets, often having been abandoned by their families due to their sexual orientation and behaviors.
“Marcus, you know, virtually all the kids we have in the alternate unit could be considered suicidal and we keep all of the materials that they could use to hurt themselves well out of reach.”
“Jefferson really likes ballet, I noticed,” he said, changing the subject.
“Yes, and we’ve made it possible for him to use a room to practice and Elias had started practicing with him. Jefferson wondered if I could find a short skirt that he could wear like a tutu and I’m bringing one of my old skirts from home for him. He does make a cute girl, you know.”
Marcus hung up the phone, pleased to hear that the Hope Place staff was encouraging Jefferson’s dance desires. He felt it offered a lifeline to the boy and help to get him out of his depression. Nonetheless, he worried that Jefferson was still frightened about something. It largely stemmed, he felt, from the boy’s two night-time adventures as a teen girl into questionable areas. Why was the boy out there? What was he scared of?
Chapter Ten: A Boy’s Story
Marcus relaxed into the strong grasp of Amy; the two had enjoyed a dinner of eggplant creole prepared by Miranda at Amy’s apartment, cleaned up the dishes and after a few sips of Drambuie retired to Amy’s bed. As usual for these once-a-week dinners at Amy’s, Marcus dressed carefully, choosing an outfit from his limited wardrobe of women’s clothes that he felt Amy would most like. On this particular evening, he chose a casual light blue and green summer belted dress that featured spaghetti straps, a ruffled bodice and a flared skirt that ended in mid-thigh. He was bare-legged and wore ballet flats. He tied his hair into a high ponytail and donned a light blue baseball cap, tucking the tail of his hair through the gap in the back.
“My, oh my, you look like you’re fifteen years old,” Amy gushed when Marcus, as Miranda, entered the apartment.
Marcus giggled and did a little twirl.
“Jail bait, if I ever saw it,” Amy teased.
“Kiss me,” he said.
In bed, the two snuggled, kissed and caressed each other passionately. Marcus felt safe and warm in the older woman’s arms as Amy’s strong hands massaged smooth soft flesh. Both were naked and they satisfied each other so that Amy gave out with several, loud and excited orgasms and Marcus’ small penis emitted short spurts of semen.
After a while, the two fell asleep. Marcus’ sleep was interrupted by a repeated buzzing; confused as to where he was, he soon realized it was his cell phone ringing. Before he could react, the phone quieted, only to begin ringing a few moments later.
“Is that yours?” Amy asked, awakened by the ringing.
“Yes, I guess I better answer,” he said.
Marcus grabbed the purse he used when dressing as Miranda. It was resting on the floor next to the bed. The purse was already filled with those things most women carry about, and he rummaged about in the contents before finding the phone.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice thick from the deep sleep.
“Mr. Whiting, you gotta do something,” the high-pitched, excited voice said.
“Who is . . . Jefferson is that you?”
“Yes, you gotta do something.”
“About what?”
“It’s Mrs. Harrison and Mr. Harrison. They’re going to sell Larry, just like they sold me,” the boy said in a rush.
“What do you mean? Sell you and Larry?” Marcus said. The boy’s urgent phone call quickly sobered him. He was no longer Miranda, the submissive young lady engaged in a lesbian affair with his boss. Now, he was Marcus, the caseworker. He realized that Jefferson must have been talking about Larry, the eleven-year-old foster child also being raised by the Harrisons.
“Where are you, Jefferson?” he asked.
“Still at Hope Place, but I got this call from Larry just a few minutes ago. He’s scared Mr. Whiting,” the boy said.
“He called your cell phone?”
“Yes, I told him to call me anytime he was in trouble or something. Even if Larry sometimes like to tease me, I liked him. He was always being egged on by Melody who liked to call me a girl,” he explained.
“Well you’re gone from there now and we’ll find you a nice place, I promise,” Marcus said, not too certain that he should promise that. Foster homes for teen African-Americans were hard to come by. “But what’s this about being sold?”
“I can’t talk now, but you have to come tomorrow and I’ll tell you everything then, OK?”
“You’re not on my case now, Jefferson. It’ll have to be Latesha or Amy.”
“No, you. Only you. It’s important. Please,” the boy said and Marcus could hear the urgency in his voice.
“I’ll talk to Miss Dacosta my supervisor about this and one of us will see you tomorrow.”
“No, Mr. Whiting. Only you. I have to hang up now. I’m not supposed to be calling on my cell phone at this time.”
The conversation ended. Marcus looked at the digital clock on the small table next to the bed. It read “2:40 a.m.” Amy by now had awakened and was sitting upright in the bed, covering her naked upper body by holding a sheet up against her breasts.
“What’s that about?”
Marcus summarized the call; the two discussed it before Amy said, “Marcus, go over there tomorrow. See what the boy has to say and then we’ll decide what should be done. Just go as his friend, not his caseworker. I’ll alert Latesha.”
*****
Marcus found Jefferson the following morning curled up in the fetal position in his room at Hope Place. “He refused to get up for breakfast this morning,” commented the young receptionist who led Marcus to the room.
“I thought breakfast was mandatory here,” Marcus said.
“It is, but Jefferson’s been acting like he’s frightened. He’s shivering all the time and he won’t even go to the nurse to be checked. He’s been cowering in this room since lunchtime yesterday, even skipping dinner,” the woman explained.
“Damn, he sounds desperate. I hope you’ve kept an eye on him,” Marcus said.
“Oh yes, we’ve watched him on our screen at the desk constantly. The log shows he got up once to go to the bathroom and our security guard ran to the room to assure he wouldn’t do anything to himself.”
“Good, but how could he phone me at nearly three in the morning if you were watching him?” Marcus asked. Obviously, their surveillance must not have been as tight as they said it was.
“I don’t know. I wasn’t on duty then and I didn’t see anything in the log book,” the woman said.
Marcus assured her that he’d be able to handle Jefferson and she seemed happy to leave him in the room with the boy. The room carried a sour odor that could only be traced from the sickly sweat of the boy in the bed; Jefferson’s breathing was heavy and thick. Marcus approached the bed and quietly. “Jefferson, it’s Marcus here.”
The boy didn’t answer; his breathing labored on. Marcus was convinced the boy heard him and was only pretending to be asleep.
“Jefferson, my friend. It’s me.”
Still no response. Marcus knelt down next to the bed and touched the boy lightly. “Margot, dear. Answer me.”
The boy stirred and opened his eyes. He smiled, obviously responding to the female name he had chosen for himself.
“You came, Marcus. You came,” the boy said, grabbing eagerly at Marcus, who responded by wrapping the boy in his arms. The boy’s nightgown – he wore a girl’s beige shift – was damp with the boy’s sweat and the room smelled with a mixture of sweet perfume and musky body odor. Marcus was pleased the boy had ceased addressing him as “Mr. Whiting,” but now used his first name.
“Your call frightened me, Margot,” Marcus said. “I don’t get many early morning calls like that.”
“I’m sorry, but I needed to talk to you right then, really I did. I’m sorry,” Jefferson said. He started to cry.
“No need for being sorry, Margot, dear. I’m here for you now. Let’s get you into the shower and cleaned up and then you can tell me what this is all about.”
It took nearly the entire morning, forcing Marcus to cancel his appointments with several families, for Jefferson to tell the story of his life. What Marcus learned as the boy related his story often brought Marcus near to tears.
The Story of Jefferson Turner
Jeanine Taylor was a well-educated, talented young African-American woman. Unlike so many of her girlfriends from the poor neighborhood in which she had been born, Jeanine resisted the lures of men, drugs and sexual pleasures to pursue a career in dancing. Spurred on by a teacher in the public high school she attended, Jeanine won a partial scholarship to the performing arts program at the local university. She got a waitress job at Antonio’s, an upscale restaurant, to both help her mother out and pay for her college. Her shapely long legs, lovely face and a bright, cheerful personality made her an instant success in waitressing, easily winning generous tips. Though the flirtations by men were constant, she learned to deftly deflect the advances using good humor. In addition, she proved to be an excellent server and congenial work partner.
Due to the pressures of work, it took Jeanine six years to complete her degree. While at the university, she often was the principal dancer in several of the university dance group performances. After graduation, she had been an off-and-on professional dancer, performing in a modern dance group and taking supporting roles in the well-regarded local ballet company. To earn a living, however, she continued to work at Antonio’s.
One customer, however, was not so easily discouraged. Khalil Turner somehow found a way to be given a table that was served by Jeanine during his frequent visits to Antonio’s. Always dressed modestly in a blue suit, white shirt and conservative tie, Khalil was known as a successful real estate developer with a reputation of using his skills to improve the future for the African-American neighborhood sadly in need to jobs.
Khalil’s persistence paid off and eventually the two began dating sporadically, both too busy with their careers to spend much time together. After a couple of years, they married and a year later, Jefferson was born, coming into the world at under six pounds. Sadly, however, his birth had been difficult for Jeanine, resulting in the announcement that she should never attempt to get pregnant again since it would almost likely result in the death of both her newborn and herself.
Fortunately, Khalil’s business provided him with enough income to support a wife and child and Jeanine was able to leave Antonio’s to concentrate on raising her son and do occasional dance gigs. Khalil worked many hours, leaving the young mother at home with young Jefferson and his ears were filled with the ballet music of Prokofiev, Tchaikovsky, de Falla, Copland and others. He loved to mimic his mother’s dance moves and she often took him to rehearsals where he charmed the adult dancers with his own childish dance moves.
“He’s so graceful,” he was told repeatedly.
At age six, he was enrolled in ballet classes, often as the only boy. It never bothered him and he was happy to learn the basic moves of ballet dancers, even though they were focused on developing young ballerinas. It was an idyllic time, as mother and son found much comfort with each other. Khalil was seldom home, though Jefferson never thought much about his father. All that ended when Jeanine died, six months after being diagnosed with cancer. With his wife’s death, Khalil brought his off-and-on mistress into the house to care for Jefferson.
The mistress cared little about Jefferson, ignoring him even when she was supposed to be caring for the boy. She indulged herself instead by constantly fixing her makeup and hair, or taking Jefferson on long shopping sprees at the mall or gossiping on the phone with her girlfriends. Left to himself, Jefferson found his mother’s old dance costumes, soon comforting himself by putting them on and prancing about as if he were a prima ballerina. He looked ridiculous, of course, in the oversized outfits, but he enjoyed his mother’s familiar scent from the clothes. And he cried a lot.
The boy became rebellious and his pseudo stepmother complained to Khalil when he got home.
“Your mother’s gone, boy. Dead. Buried. Never coming back. Don’t forget that. Francine is your mother now,” his father yelled at him.
“She’s not my mother,” Jefferson cried out. “She’s nothing but a . . . a . . . slut.”
And the beatings began.
Not long after that, the mistress Francine discovered Jefferson dancing about in Jeanine’s costumes. She tore the clothes off him and threw them in the trash. Jefferson went into an uncontrollable tantrum and he was locked into his room where he pounded and kicked at the door, eventually giving up and heading to his bed where he cried and cried. He wanted to join his mother in heaven. Yes, how could she not be in heaven? She was a saint. He saw himself dancing with her, wearing peach-colored tutu, matching tights and looking pretty and feminine. Some nice old gentleman looked on as the two danced and Jefferson was convinced it must have been God.
His lovely dream ended when he felt himself being jerked up sharply by his arm. “No son of mine is going to be a sissy!” he screamed.
Jefferson was pulling this way and that, his father slapping him hard, all the time holding onto his arm.
“Dad. Stop. You’re hurting me,” Jefferson yelled.
“You’re going to start treating Francine with respect, you despicable child,” his father screamed, slapping him even harder.
Jefferson felt a sharp pain in the arm as his father jerked him about angrily. He screamed loudly, drawing even only more and harder slaps from his father. The beating ended with Jefferson being thrown down harshly onto the bed and left there in pain. His father walked out of the room, locking the door behind him.
The pain had subsided in his arm, but Jefferson couldn’t move it. It was limp and felt dead. He was happy the pain had been reduced and he soon fell asleep. His dreams were not happy ones that night.
When he awoke the next morning, Jefferson realized that his arm was hurt badly. Maybe it was broken, he thought, but he felt he shouldn’t complain since it might bring on another beating. He readied himself for school; neither his father nor Francine had ever assisted him to get up in the morning, made sure he had washed and brushed his teeth, had his breakfast and got to the school bus stop on time. He had learned to take care of himself.
In truth, he was happy to go to school that day, even though he knew he couldn’t use his right arm. He couldn’t move it, but felt it would probably get better as the day wore on. He was glad to be out of the house, away from his father and Francine. He hated the sweet stifling smell of her heavy perfumes, a stench that permeated the whole house.
When his second-grade teacher Miss Trent saw he was attempting to write with his left hand, she knew something was wrong. The boy’s face was puffy and his right arm appeared limp. She walked closer to Jefferson, finally noticing the bruises on his face; they had not been easily seen on his black face. She took him to the school nurse. Child services and the police were called and Jefferson became a ward of the state.
*****
When Jefferson finished his story, Marcus said nothing at first and remained silently contemplating the boy's difficult life. It surprised him how strong such a tender young boy could be in the face of all this abuse and humiliation.
Since the age of ten, Jefferson had been in a series of foster homes, often being switched because of behavior that ranged from periods of reclusive silence to times of highly manic rebelliousness. He was labelled as “hard-to-handle” as one foster caregiver after another gave up on the boy. He was shifted around between caseworkers, seeming never to have one that lasted more than a few months.
“No one wanted me around,” he told Marcus. “No one. I never again saw my father, which is just as good because then I’d have to be with that Francine.”
It turned out Khalil Turner fled the state, not only to avoid child support payments to the state but apparently facing financial difficulties in his development company, and was considered a fugitive. His mother had been an only child and he knew his grandparents on his mother’s side were both deceased; he never knew his father’s parents. He was alone, rarely able to make friends; perhaps it was that he never stayed long enough in any of his foster homes or perhaps because he was “a different child.”
When he was twelve, his disruptive behavior caused the Child Protection Bureau to send him into a home for boys, St. Jerome School for Boys, apparently named for the patron saint of orphans, St. Jerome Emiliani. Marcus was aware of the School, which had a good reputation among the area’s social workers in trying to do the best with too few staffers to deal with some seventy-five hard-to-manage and often destructive teens. It was really more of a glorified detention center, with housed the children in dormitories, providing them school classes and opportunities for recreation.
As one of the youngest boys in the center, Jefferson was constantly beaten up. His growing effeminacy likely didn’t help. Marcus wanted Jefferson to tell him exactly how he was harmed, but the boy wouldn’t. Marcus didn’t press him to talk about it, knowing Jefferson’s memories of the incidents likely caused him not only to relive the horrors but to reinforce his own feelings of inadequacy and failure.
“If it wasn’t for Brother Benedict I don’t think I’d be alive,” he told Marcus, tears flowing into his eyes.
Benedict was a youngish monk who came upon Jefferson while the boy was being attacked in one of the storerooms at the school. He had been pushed into the room by three boys who took his clothes off, laughed at his weak body and played with his tiny penis, trying to arouse it by tweaking it, kissing it and finally slapping it so hard that Jefferson screamed, a high girlish sound that caused Brother Benedict to check into what was happening.
“They were trying to put some girl’s dirty old panties on me when Brother Benedict charged into the room,” Jefferson related.
It was Brother Benedict who took the boy under his wing, got him assigned to a smaller dormitory where he’d be under closer supervision and alerted Amy Dacosta who had been assigned to Jefferson’s case by then. Brother Benedict pleaded that she look more closely at the boy’s situation, claiming that if Jefferson could be placed with a loving foster family he’d likely become more settled and flourish. By coincidence, the Harrisons’ oldest foster child just turned eighteen and was off on his own, leaving a vacancy in the Harrison household, already well-regarded as an ideal foster home for troubled youth.
“I loved it there at first,” he told Marcus. “They were nice people and I liked Melody and at first I spent lots of time with her, doing mostly girl type stuff, y’know. I guess after a while, she got a whole bunch of new friends and she forgot about me and even began teasing me. I was so alone.”
Jefferson began to sob, and Marcus reached over to hold his hands. The contact seemed to calm him down and Marcus suggested taking a break to see if Hope Place might have something to eat; the boy had missed breakfast and Marcus understood the boy barely ate anything the previous night. He looked hopeless and frail, thinner than Marcus had ever seen him.
He shook his head. “No Marcus, I have to tell this to you now,” he said. Marcus gave him a tissue and he wiped his eyes, brushed his face. Marcus felt Jefferson needed food and left the room briefly to find something to eat. The Hope Place receptionist summoned Tatiana who rounded up several doughnuts, orange juice and milk for the boy and a bagel and cup of coffee for Marcus.
*****
“I think Mother Harrison saved my life then,” Jefferson continued after the brief interlude to eat. Interestingly, Jefferson asked if he could have the bagel and coffee; Marcus gave him the bagel, but said he really needed the nourishment of the juice and milk.
“Why do you say that?”
“I didn’t think my life was worth saving, Marcus. I really didn’t and I’m still not sure it is. Look at me. Such a . . . what can I say? Who will ever want me? I’m nothing.”
Marcus held up his hand as if to halt the boy’s laments. He wanted to protest, to tell Jefferson that he was a bright, likely talented young man with lots to offer the world, but Marcus knew his words would do nothing to change his mind at the moment. He had to convince himself of his own worth and Marcus needed to show him that by continuing his story he’d be showing how courageous and worthy a young man he was. Marcus was convinced the boy had the strength to come through if only he would be given a chance.
“Mother Harrison told me I should really be a pretty girl and that deep-down I wasn’t really a boy,” he said. “How could she know that? I always felt I was a girl but I couldn’t tell anyone that.”
Jefferson said that at first he denied wanting to be a girl, but that Mrs. Harrison (the boy persisted in calling her “Mother Harrison”) one day brought in some girl underclothes, a cute skirt, blouse and nylon stockings and suggested he dress up in them. No one else was home that day and after some hesitation Jefferson said he agreed to put them on.
“Mother Harrison fixed my hair, helped me put on lipstick and light makeup,” he said. “I really looked pretty.”
He smiled as he related his story. It must have been the highlight of his troubled life, Marcus suspected.
In the ensuing weeks, Jefferson said his foster mother brought him more feminine clothing, taught him how to do his own makeup and helped him refine his already effeminate mannerisms.
“All the time, she told me not to tell anyone, even my foster brother and sister or my social worker who was Amy then about dressing as a girl,” he said. “I was to do it only in my room with my door locked.”
“So, no one else discovered your dressing?” Marcus asked.
He smiled. “Melody suspected something was going on. I was acting more and more girly and one day she asked me, did I want to be a girl since I acted and even looked like one.”
He continued, “I denied it at first but she grabbed my arm and twisted it until a said ‘yeah I wanna be a girl.’ She’s so strong.”
“Weren’t you angry at her?” I asked.
“No, because then she helped me become a real teen girl, even let me borrow her clothes. When Mother Harrison found out, she actually seemed pleased and let us do these girly things together. Soon Larry was joining with us and he, too, was dressing up. He’s so cute, Marcus.”
“You hid all this from outsiders, including Amy your social worker?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, we were sworn to secrecy.”
*****
“Leah, that’s Larry’s girl’s name, and we spent lots of girly time together, even playing with dolls, trying on different clothes,” he continued. “We giggled a lot and pranced about trying to see who could be the prettiest girl of all.”
Mama Harrison approved it as did Papa Harrison, when he was around, Jefferson said. “He said I was the daintiest of all the girls in the house. Larry is a bit stronger than me and Melody is like a cow,” he volunteered proudly.
“No one else knew about this, then?” Marcus asked again.
“No, the Harrisons were careful that we’d never go out of the house except as boys, until one night and that’s when it happened,” he said.
“What?”
He hesitated. “Well, that’s the night the police found me in the street.”
“Yes?”
Jefferson paused at this point, tears formed in his eyes and he turned his head to lower it onto the back of the couch upon which he was sitting. He began shaking as his sobs mounted in intensity. Marcus was seated next to him on the couch and wanted to hug him and comfort him, but he knew such affection to be not only unprofessional but perhaps even causing him to be accused of molestation. He put his hand softly on his throbbing, slender shoulder.
After a while his shaking calmed and he sat up. Marcus handed him a tissue and he wiped his eyes and dried his face.
*****
“You poor girl,” Marcus said as Jefferson sobbed. He had completed telling his story of being beaten and thrown into the street where he’d be viewed as “just another tranny whore.” Marcus no longer fought his need to hug the boy, and his took the boy into his arms, letting Jefferson’s tears to fall on his shoulders.
The story was horrific. Marcus wondered how human being could treat a defenseless tender young boy with the cruelty and too humiliate him so deeply. Marcus believed his story; it took Jefferson nearly half an hour to tell him of the event and Marcus let the boy relate the happenings of that evening without many interruptions.
“Mother Harrison told me that because I had been such a good girl she had a treat for me that evening,” he said to begin his story. “By then, everyone in the house knew I was dressing as a girl when I was home. And, I had been doing more and more of Mama’s housework, helping in fixing meals, cleaning up and even the laundry. I didn’t mind doing it, because Mama Harrison began favoring me a lot, being real nice. And I seemed to be good at all this stuff, I guess.
“Melody was also being real nice to me, too, since it meant she was relieved of a lot of the chores she had been doing. She even gave me some of her old clothes that she had grown out of and helped me learn how to do makeup and be a real girl. And, Larry, you know he’s only eleven, he even began wearing girl stuff more often. I guess he felt left out. Mama said she was proud of her three girls one night, too.
"For a while, I was never happier. Being a girl was so much nicer than trying to be a boy. But I was teased and even bullied in school, but I always knew that when I’d get home after school I could be a girl again.
“One night, mama helped me dress up real pretty, like I was a model and she took some pictures. Papa Harrison then took me out, dressed like that, to a McDonalds and bought me a sundae and I saw lots of boys looking at me. At first, I thought they were looking at me because they must have seen me as a boy, but no that wasn’t it. I thought maybe it was because Papa Harrison is white and I’m black. Papa saw that I was troubled and he told me it was because I was so pretty.”
“How were you dressed?” Marcus asked, hoping the question wouldn’t stop the flow of his story.
“Oh,” Jefferson said, a smile crossing his face. “I guess you’d say that I was sexy. I must have looked older, too. Short skirt and blouse with a scooped neck. My hair was fixed into cornrows and parted down the middle, with a bun fixed on the back. I was real cute. I even had heels, about three-inch, and white pantyhose.
“Papa was so nice to me and then when we left McDonalds he didn’t return to his car but went toward a big black car and before you know it I was rushed into the backseat and placed next to a lady. She was white and even in the poor light in the parking lot, I could see she was pretty and dressed nice. And she smelled nice. There were two big guys in the front, and one was driving the car.
“I started to scream, yelling for papa, but no one was around and the lady put her arm around me, comforting me, telling me that no one was going to hurt me and that I’d like where they were going. I tried screaming some more for papa, but she put her hand over my mouth. She didn’t hurt me but I found she was too strong and by then we were out in traffic. ‘Where are we going?’ I asked and she merely said, ‘It don’t matter. You’ll like it when we get there.’ I could tell she wasn’t educated because she said ‘don’t.’”
I laughed that the boy could make such an observation while in a terrifying situation. Jefferson continued:
“She put something over my eyes so I couldn’t see where we going, all the time telling me not to worry. ‘You’ll love it there with the other girls you’ll meet.’
“I was scared. Was I being kidnapped? I had heard about human trafficking. We had a lecture in school to be wary of strangers now that we were teens. They often took pretty girls who were like me, kind of without family and put them out as . . . ah . . . I guess you’d say as . . . whores. I guess I must have been seen as a pretty girl. Pretty ironic, right?”
Marcus nodded, again impressed with Jefferson’s powers of observation and his perceptions. The boy’s intelligence never ceased to amaze Marcus.
“Next thing I knew I was inside a mansion, you know, like the biggest mansions you see in movies or on television where rich people live. They took off my blindfold once we were inside the house. There was a big staircase and house smelled nice and the woman took me up the stairs into a huge bedroom where there were two other girls. One was brushing the other girl’s hair. They were white girls, maybe my age, or older. I wasn’t sure.
“The woman introduced me to the girls, telling me that they ‘were just like me.’ At first I wasn’t sure what she meant and looked at her and she then explained they too were boys. I couldn’t believe it they were so pretty and . . . ah . . . I guess you could say soft-looking like real girls. Their names were Prissy and Pansy, the woman said, and the two girls just giggled. She told them my name was Margot.
“Then the woman said her name was Kerry and that we three girls needed to be made pretty for the fun we were due to have that night. Even though Kerry was kind of crude, she seemed real nice. She told Prissy and Pansy that they weren’t to tease me, just because I was the new girl there. They both giggled again; they seemed to giggle a lot. Kerry looked at me closely and smiled. She told me I looked just like a whore and that wouldn’t do for the night.
“Prissy said that I’d have to dress like them. I frowned since I felt that they looked like sluts with both wearing extremely short peach-colored skirts that exposed their lace panties when they bent over. Prissy who was tall and a skinny wore a halter top that showed her tiny, but obviously budding breasts. Her long legs had no muscle definition and were clad in dark mesh stockings; she wore spike heels that appeared to be at least four inches high. She had long blonde hair that appeared to be natural judging from her pale complexion. No way was this slim person a boy underneath.
“The other girl was a different type all together, short, cute and curvy. Her legs were bare of stockings with stocky, soft looking thighs. She wore a multi-colored peasant blouse with a low scooped bodice that exposed considerable natural cleavage. She had darker skin and jet black hair. She smiled easily and I liked Pansy immediately. Again, I couldn’t believe she was anything but a pretty girl.
“Surprisingly, neither was heavily made-up; they both wore modest, almost natural lipstick and the eyeliner was tastefully applied.
“Kerry told me that we girls needed to preserve an innocent teen girl appearance and that she would soon find a nice change of outfits for me. That didn’t make sense to me, since both Prissy and Pansy were dressed like sluts, but maybe they thought our faces were innocent-looking. My head was reeling about and felt the whole thing must have been a dream. I didn’t think Mama and Papa Harrison would send me into any place where I’d be harmed. Yet, I couldn’t get over the feeling I’d been kidnapped. I had to find out what I was doing here.
“I asked Kerry, ‘What’s going on? Why am I here?’
“And she said, ‘To entertain some very nice gentlemen and you’ll be rewarded well, won’t she girls?’
“Pansy and Prissy just giggled and nodded their heads. I tried to ask more questions but Kerry just shooed me into another bedroom, loaded with girly outfits. She had me strip all the way done, even to the nude; I was so embarrassed because I have such a tiny pee pee.”
Marcus smiled at Jefferson now; he fully understood the feeling since his own penis was small in comparison with most young men. He couldn’t help saying to him, “Jefferson, it’s not the size of our male organ that’s important, it’s the size of your heart.”
Jefferson nodded. “But I still hate to show my male organ.”
The boy explained that Kerry had him put on a gaff under a pair of pink satin panties and a training bra. Rather than a skirt, she had him put on a pair of tight cream-colored shorts that ended about two inches below his crotch, exposing his slender and lovely legs. She left his legs bare and had him wear a pair of ballet flats. She had a teal green tee-shirt with a panda bear on front; its sleeves were short. Then she found a matching ribbon to fix to the bun at the back of his head, leaving the cornrows intact.
“She told me that I looked like I was thirteen and that I was very cute. She said they’d all like me and I asked who ‘they’ were, but she told me I’d find out soon enough.”
Jefferson paused in his story.
“Do you want to take a break?” Marcus asked.
“Please, I do. This is hard to tell,” Jefferson said. He looked like he was about to cry, but excused himself to go to the bathroom. Marcus was worried the boy might hurt himself in the bathroom and wanted to go in with him to prevent anything to happen. Jefferson must have sensed Marcus’ uneasiness and said, “Marcus, I won’t hurt myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. I do want to continue to tell my story.”
“OK, I’ll be here,” he replied. “Why not take a few extra minutes and get out of the nightgown and put on some clean clothes, Margot?”
The boy nodded in agreement and Marcus used the phone in the room to ask for an escort to return Jefferson to his room. Marcus spent the ensuing twenty minutes phoning several of his families to let them know that he’d be unable to visit and to inquire whether they had any issues that were urgent.
Marcus couldn’t get over how pretty Jefferson looked as the boy entered the room after the break. Though he wore only dark blue Capri pants and a pink tee shirt, the boy exuded feminine loveliness.
“Let’s get back to your story, now, Margot,” Marcus said, still addressing the boy in his feminine name. “You were at the point where you had been dressed as a thirteen-year-old girl.”
“Yeah, that’s right,” the boy said. He continued his narrative:
“At first, it was kinda sweet and nice, Prissy, Pansy and me were all prettied up and then we were led into a huge really big room. It looked like we were in some sort of palace, you know with chandeliers and high decorated ceilings and all. I was in awe and then I saw about a half dozen older men sitting on sofas and chairs eyeing us over as we walked in. Kerry told us to walk like we were models on a runway showing off new clothes. I loved the idea until I saw the men. They were all old white guys, and all dressed in suits and looking very dignified like they were senators or something.
“One by one Kerry sent us out to walk among the men and she said to me, ‘Let them touch you, honey,’ and then I wanted to run, but she pushed me out into the room and I guess I felt I had no choice so I recovered myself and tried to walk as dignified as possible. I heard one man say as I walked in front of him, ‘delicious,’ and then reach to grab me, but I sort of shook my ass at him and sashayed on. I wasn’t so lucky with the next guy who grabbed my arm and drew me to him and I cursed myself for not being quick enough to avoid him. Oh, it was awful, his hands were all over me and before I knew it he was carrying me up the grand stairway and into a bedroom.”
Jefferson began to cry and Marcus let him sob for a moment. “That’s OK, Jefferson, I get the idea. You need not go any further.”
“No that’s all right, I got more to tell you,” he said.
“I tried to fight back, but he was a big man and strong and he held me in his arms like I was a baby or a doll. I tried to hit him and he just laughed and called me his sweet little girl. Finally, I gave up and he sat down on a bed, putting me on his lap. He caressed me sort of gently then and asked my name. I told him ‘Margot,’ and he said that was a strange name for a girl like me since I guess black girls weren’t usually given such a name.
“He told me I didn’t have anything to fear, that he wasn’t going to hurt me. He ran his hands all over me, under my skirt and blouse, his fingers playing with my skin and I could tell he was getting excited. He found my little pee pee and he played with that for a while. He said I was the softest sissy boy he’d ever had.
“He was so gentle, I almost believed this was going to be all right and then he forced me down onto my knees so that I was kneeling in front of him as he took down his pants and exposed the largest, fattest penis I’d ever seen and it was all hairy around it. Suddenly I felt my head being pushed between his thighs and he ordered, ‘put it in your, mouth, my little girl’ and I didn’t move. ‘Take it now, little sissy boy, you’ll love it,’ and he pressed down so hard on my shoulder, pinching between his huge fingers. The pain was terrible so I took the ugly thing in my mouth. Oh, Marcus it was awful and I tried to enjoy it, but I wanted to throw up, y’know, to vomit. I didn’t know what to do, I was too weak. Finally, I bit down on the thing as hard as I could, my teeth cutting into it and he let out a scream and pushed me away, calling me a ‘worthless cunt.’ I got up to run out of the room but as soon as I got out the door I saw Kerry and those two guys who picked me up. I guess the man’s screams must have brought them.
“He roared out of the room cussing and pulling his pants up. ‘I thought these girls were supposed to know they had to satisfy a man,’ he yelled at Kerry. Then, he looked at me with disgust and told Kerry to dispose of me. He called me just worthless sissy trash.
“Next thing I knew they dragged me into another room and one of the big guys slapped me hard, knocking me onto a bed where they held me down. A moment later, Kerry came in and she had a syringe in her hand. I protested, but I couldn’t move, the man held me down so hard and then I felt the needle go into my arm.
“The next thing I knew I was lying on the street where the police picked me up. I don’t know how I got there. I was hurt, but the police didn’t seem to care. They were rough on me. I guess they thought I was a whore. It was awful.”
Jefferson broke into deep sobs at this point and Marcus hugged him, rocking this sweet, tender boy-girl as if he were a young child who fell and skinned a knee. Marcus let him cry.
*****
“Why didn’t you tell us this at the time?” Marcus asked after another short break.
Jefferson had recovered from the crying; Marcus had taken him outside into a small grassy area that formed sort of a patio for the youth and the Hope Place staff. Since most of the others were in classes at the time, the place was empty and they found a park bench among a small grove of trees. The day was warm and the shade provided relief.
“I didn’t think anyone would believe me,” he said.
“Is that the only reason?”
Jefferson shook head negatively. He didn’t say anything and I decided not to press; I knew he’d eventually tell me. Whatever it was, it was gnawing at him, I expected.
“Mama Harrison said I shouldn’t tell no one about it, otherwise I could get hurt and so might the others,” he mumbled.
Marcus smiled at the double negative in his explanation, and then immediately chastised himself for worrying about his grammar when he was revealing something sinister and frightening.
“Did she tell you why?” Marcus finally asked.
“Not really, but she was very firm about it and she said it might force me to be sent to another foster family and I didn’t want that. No way. And she was so nice to me and treated me like I was her real daughter. I liked that.”
“Hmmm. When she said ‘others’ might be hurt, what did she mean?”
“I dunno, maybe the other girls who were at that house with me.” Marcus presumed by the other “girls,” he meant both Melody and Larry at the house.
Jefferson looked sorrowful. “I’m sorry, Mr. Whiting. I just couldn’t tell you then. I just couldn’t.”
Marcus held the boy’s hands; they were shaking. “That’s all right, Jefferson. You’re telling me now. And you know you’ll have to tell all this to the police.”
“I know. But I don’t wanna hurt the other girls,” he said.
Marcus assured him that police would protect the others, but that those men were causing harm to young people and were committing a crime. “They need to be stopped and brought to justice.”
The park area was suddenly being filled with teenagers along with adult staff from the agency.
“Guess the morning break is starting,” Jefferson said.
Marcus believed any chance for more information ended for the time being and decided against asking Jefferson about the second incident when the boy was picked up at the park site in Madison Heights. That would have to wait, since Jefferson’s appointment with a therapist was scheduled to start.
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading and his valuable story suggestions.)
Chapter Eleven – Flirtations
Marcus left Hope Place feeling angry that there were men who would exploit young boys just for their own sexual pleasures. He remembered vividly an old video that he saw in his sociology class, called “The Culture of Justice,” which showed clips from the 1950s Army-McCarthy hearings in which the attorney Joseph Welch looked at Senator Joe McCarthy and said with contempt, “Have you no sense of decency, sir?” Had those men who apparently were wealthy no shame?
Amy and Latesha shared in Marcus’ anger when he related Jefferson’s story to them later that day.
“Apparently, these guys were successful businessmen types, all well-dressed and polished,” Marcus said. “How could they?”
“Those poor boys,” Latesha said. “They are so sad and vulnerable. Often, picked on by their families, other kids and just about everyone and then to be taken such advantage of. I could castrate all of them.”
“I’ll hold them down, Latesha, while you wield the knife,” Amy said.
“Those mother-fuckers!” Latesha cursed.
If it weren’t so tragic, Marcus felt he’d want to laugh. He’d never heard such language coming from either of them; they were always thoughtful and reasonable in their discourse; yet, here they were cursing like longshoremen. He couldn’t blame them since these men of privilege deserved the worst that a civilized society could give them, and then some.
“Should we call Sgt. Simbach or Officer Jelacic?” Marcus asked.
“Maybe not yet since you seem to be able to get Jefferson to talk,” Amy said.
“You don’t want to spook the kid,” Latesha added.
“And we need to find out about that second incident, too,” Amy said.
“I still think the Harrisons are mixed up in this,” Marcus added.
“Yeah, it’s good we got him out of there, and we’ll have to have Melody and Larry removed from that house immediately,” Amy said, indicating that she’d be contacting the State’s child welfare bureau to remove the three children to safer places.
“It won’t be easy to find other places for those three,” Latesha said. “There are few foster homes for such troubled teens.”
“I know,” Amy agreed, “but it’s got to be done.”
*****
Amy and Marcus sat together at Crandall Field, one of the city’s premier recreation fields, watching the Flashes in the city women’s league softball championship game. It was a warm late August night and Marcus was there as Miranda, wearing a light blue tank top and shorts that revealed his slender legs; Amy was similarly dressed. Because of the large crowd that had jammed into the small stands surrounding the field, the two were pressed together, their thighs unavoidably touching.
They were there to root for their friends, Latesha in center field and Mollie playing second base, for the team that represented the local chapter of the National Association of Social Workers. Even though the night was warm, the players on both teams wore striped pants, rather than the shorts they wore earlier in the year. Mollie explained that since the team had unexpectedly qualified for the championship that they had begun to take the game seriously. “We need to wear long pants in case we have to slide on the base paths or dive to field a ball,” she said.
“Yeah, we need to show the girls from the tractor works that social workers aren’t just a bunch of namby-pambys,” Latesha added.
To be sure, the girls from the other team, fittingly nicknamed the “Tractors,” looked tougher; they were mainly husky young women who were loud and enthusiastic. They were defending champions and the more diminutive looking Flashes looked like a poor match.
Yet, the game was close, due mainly to the skill of the Flashes pitcher, Marni Cjaka, alias the “Crusher,” whose fast pitching style bamboozled the Tractors’ batters. The Flashes had little success as well against the Tractors pitcher, a tall girl called simply “Bullet,” perhaps because her pitches came with the speed of a bullet.
Going into the sixth inning, the Flashes led, 2-0, having scored in the fifth after Crusher who had been batting got to first base on a dropped third strike by the catcher. She moved to second after stealing a base and then to third base on an error by the shortstop. Latesha came up; so far, she had been the only Flashes batter who had been able to hit Bullet’s pitches into the outfield. With a count of two strikes against her, the young man who had crammed in next to Marcus yelled out, “Latesha, you can hit her. She’s throwing wiffle balls. Go girl.”
Bullet wound up and threw her next pitch; there was a loud crack of the bat and the ball rose high in the sky.
“Go, go, go,” yelled a young man who was sitting on the other side of Marcus. The young man had said “hi” when he plopped himself down at the start of the game and Marcus realized that his cute girl persona might have stimulated the man. He tried to ignore the man’s periodic furtive glances, but it became more difficult as the game wore on. As Latesha’s ball soared up and over the outfielder’s head, the young man stood up, cheering loudly.
All wrapped up in the excitement Marcus and Amy also stood, and Marcus squealed as the ball sailed over the fence, “A home run!”
He jumped and hugged Amy. The young man next to Marcus, a mountain of blonde manhood, turned and hugged Marcus, who felt smothered in his grasp. He only came up to the young man’s shoulders and Marcus could smell his manly sweat and it was intoxicating.
“You know Latesha?” he asked when the excitement settled down.
“I work with her at Opportunities,” Marcus said.
“She’s quite a ballplayer,” he said.
“You know her?”
“Marni is my sister, y’know, the pitcher. Met Latesha while working with the team in practice.”
“Nice,” Marcus said.
The man began talking about the game and then about his family of athletes before asking about Marcus’ work. It turned out the young man also was a social worker employed as a counselor at the county jail.
“You play ball?” he asked Marcus as the game wore on.
“No hardly,” Marcus laughed, knowing how totally inept he was at the game.
“I guess you wouldn’t,” he said, looking at Marcus’ slender frame.
The Flashes won the game and the championship, beating the Tractors, 2-1. The Tractor girls were great losers, coming over to hug the Flashes when the game ended. Both teams and many of their fans gravitated to Bottoms Up, a large sports bar where the Flashes would cheer over their beer and the Tractors would moan and groan.
It was there that the brother of Crusher sidled up next to Marcus, much to Amy’s displeasure, and began a conversation. Before the night ended, Marcus had given him his phone number. He had no doubt he’d call sometime, and Marcus immediately felt guilty. What would he do if the man asked Marcus, whom he knew only as Miranda, out for a date? Marcus left the bar that night, musing about being Miranda and being the girl in the arms of a man he knew only as Marni’s brother and that his name was Peter.
*****
That night, at Amy’s apartment, Marcus and Amy showered off the sweat and steamed out their alcohol-stuffed systems. Together, of course. They had grown to enjoy each other’s bodies with Marcus finding Amy’s firm flesh a pleasure to caress while she seemed to relish his own soft fragility.
“You’re still mad at me, aren’t you, Amy?” Marcus asked when as they lay together, naked of course. Only a light sheet covered them; neither one liked air conditioning and were content to having the window in Amy’s bedroom open to allow the slight evening breeze to bring a degree of comfort. They could hear the traffic some nine stories below, along with occasional sirens.
“You were flirting with Peter. What the hell was on your mind?” Amy responded.
“I was not. He just wanted to talk.”
“My God, you were flashing those big blue eyes at him, Miranda,” she exclaimed, pushing herself away from Marcus.
“I was not. He’s fun to talk to, that’s all, Amy,” he protested.
“Damn I hate you pretty girls,” she said.
“Amy, enough of that. How many times must I tell you how lovely you are? Besides I thought you didn’t like guys,” Marcus replied, wondering why she was so upset by the casual conversation he had with Peter. Yet, Marcus was happy she didn’t see him give out his phone number; then she really would have been pissed.
“Well, I like you and you’re a guy,” she said, breaking out in low laughter.
“But . . . but . . .”
“Well, you’re really not much of a guy,” she said, her laughter dwindling into snickers. “Don’t you see I love you Miranda?”
Marcus froze at the mention of love; Amy had never even suggested that she felt so strongly about him. Their relationship had truly been one of convenience, he thought, giving both some needed hugs and opportunities to fulfill their sexual passions. It had been nothing more. Besides Marcus considered himself a freak, half-male and half-female, still uncertain as to his future. He felt most likely he would eventually live as a woman; that seemed assured. Yet, he couldn’t envision having a lifetime partner, a love-interest, of either sex.
Perhaps if Marcus had ever found love in his screwed-up life, it would be Amy. No one before had expressed much desire for him until Amy came along. Both shared much in common, even though they differed in many ways. No, he wasn’t ready for a commitment and Amy with her jealous reaction to his conversation with Peter appeared to want to create just such a life-long commitment, perhaps even marriage.
Marcus remembered, too, Amy’s earlier reaction to his mentions of Heddy, that is, Officer Jelacic. Amy seemed to bristle or make some gratuitous comment whenever he mentioned the police officer’s name, as if he were in a romantic relationship with her. Marcus had to admit he had grown to like Heddy greatly and truly enjoyed working with her, and the idea of romance had entered his mind, but he usually rejected the thought as being ridiculous and fanciful.
“We’re only colleagues who work well together, Amy, and nothing more,” Marcus tried to convince her.
As the night wore on and they found comfort in each other’s arms, Marcus felt Amy may have become convinced of his own affection for her. But, could it be love?
*****
It wasn’t until the Labor Day weekend, more than a week after Jefferson told Marcus about his first nightly experience as a would-be prostitute, that he found time to visit Jefferson at Hope Place. His schedule had been loaded with home visits, along with a few court encounters, plus exhausting bouts of completing the innumerable online forms required by the state. Marcus felt bad about neglecting the boy, but he had little choice. Nonetheless, he had time to call Jefferson occasionally, having made arrangements with Tatiana at Hope Place to get through the switchboard, since such calls from outsiders were usually blocked, due both to security and treatment reasons.
Jefferson kept insisting he was OK, but Marcus could sense he was still afraid of something. Tatiana assured him that the agency was keeping a close eye on the boy so that he wouldn’t do something to hurt himself. Jefferson had complained about the fact that they had taken belts and shoelaces or anything else that could be used to hurt himself from his room. There also were no razors, scissors and knives in the room.
“I’m not going to do anything foolish,” he protested. “I need to tell you more, Marcus.”
*****
Marcus got up early on Saturday morning, hoping to get his laundry and other necessary chores done by ten o’clock when he was scheduled to meet up with Jefferson. Of course, he had a mixture of male and female clothes to wash and dry; actually, there were more panties and bras and camis in his wash than briefs and tee shirts. He always figured he would tell anyone who was curious about the women’s stuff in the laundry that it was stuff for a fictional sister or a girlfriend (unless he could mean Amy).
The weird thing about Labor Day weekend in the area’s climate is that you never know what the weather will be like; some of the holiday weekends have been downright frigid and a grim reminder of the six months of chilly weather to come, while other weekends have been hot as the tropics. This particular Labor Day weekend promised to be hot and stifling. The morning sun was intense as Jefferson and Marcus walked into the patio area at Hope Place. They were fortunate to find that the bench at the shady edge of the small wooded area was vacant.
“This so pleasant here. I could sit here forever,” Jefferson said softly.
Marcus knew the boy had never been out of the city, had never experienced the scent of wildflowers or newly mown hay, or had never wandered into a forest and heard the chipmunks and squirrels scamper through dead leaves. Marcus told himself that someday he’d drive to the State Forest that was located not too many miles out of the city.
“Jefferson, you wanted to tell me more,” Marcus reminded him. “Are you ready?”
He nodded. “Hold my hand,” he said. Marcus took his hand; it was cold and clammy. He needed reassurance and Marcus felt it necessary to hold his hand, even though it might look like a compromising action to a passerby.
He continued his story.
“After I got back to the Harrison house, Mama was really nice to me. She bought me several cute dresses and a really pretty ‘baby-doll” nightgown. I continued to help her out with the household chores, just like I was her daughter. In fact, she said to me, ‘Margot, honey, I’m not sure if I had a natural daughter she’d be as sweet as you are to help out so much.’ I liked being complimented.
“And Melody really helped me with my makeup, though Mama Harrison sometimes said she made me look like a slut. I didn’t want to look like a slut. I wanted to be a nice girl, but I really didn’t think Melody was doing too bad a job. Sometimes, Mama argued with me over how much makeup we’d use. It was like Melody and I were sisters. I really liked that.
“One day, Mama told me she had a special treat for me and that if I continued to be a ‘good girl,’ that was the phrase she used, I’d get a chance to go to a place where I would be able to get some training for my ballet and even be provided with good quality ballet shoes. I asked for more information, since I was beginning to feel weird about all this talk about ‘someplace special,’ and I remembered it was Papa Harrison that left me in the hands of those awful men. But Mama was treating me so nice, I could hardly say ‘no,’ and besides I only had some old ballet shoes and it was impossible to practice going on pointe.
“Then one night, she had me dress up in a pretty skirt and blouse – the same clothes I was wearing that night when you picked me up in the park. She told me I looked really lovely in that outfit. I liked it, too. I liked being dressed like an ordinary girl, you know, like a girl going to school.”
Marcus nodded, signifying that her understood Jefferson’s feeling. Except for the fact that she (yes, Marcus was beginning to think of Jefferson now in female terms) was quite unkempt and messy-looking that night when he found her hiding in the woods, he could see that she could be a lovely young girl.
Jefferson stopped in his narrative as a slender Hispanic boy and a chunky woman (likely the boy’s mother or aunt) wandered down the path toward them. Jefferson greeted the boy, “Hi Jorge,” and the lad responded with a quick, ready smile, “Jeffsie, how’s it hanging, man?”
“You’re making friends here, Jefferson?” Marcus queried after the pair passed.
“A few. I hang out with Jorge quite a bit,” Jefferson replied. “That’s just a friend of his mother’s. She died. Jorge is sort of alone. He’s not very happy, and I try to cheer him up.”
“Good,” Marcus said, patting Jefferson on his hand. He was pleased to see Jefferson’s unselfish response to another boy’s troubles.
Jefferson resumed his story, explaining that Papa Harrison drove him to the parking lot of a community center where he was then transferred to what appeared to be the same black car that had taken him to the house on the night of his first encounter. Again, Jefferson was blindfolded; it wasn’t removed until he was in the same mansion.
“I tried to protest, saying it wasn’t necessary to blindfold me, but the men didn’t say anything,” he continued. “They just kept driving ‘til we got to the house. I was scared, really scared again. How could this be a ballet practice? I suspected Papa Harrison had betrayed me again and Mama, too. How could they?
“But, just as I was about to panic, they led down to a lower level in the house where there was this huge gym, with lots of exercise machines, you know, treadmills and bikes and weights. But best of all, there was a barre along a wall that was all mirror – floor to ceiling. This was a real ballet setup. I’d never been to one before. And there was a man down there in a ballet outfit. He said his name was Dimitri Petrovsky, my trainer for the night. And Mr. Petrovsky treated me as a ballerina.”
Jefferson smiled as he related this part of the story.
“He led me into a small locker room, with a shower, and helped me get into a leotard. Then, he provided me with really nice slippers and Mr. Petrovsky said he was going to make me dance like Maria in ‘West Side Story.’ I loved the outfit and was so excited that I momentarily forgot my fear. And, you know, I looked like a sweet teenaged girl.
“And it was strange, he knew all about me, that I had done some dancing and wanted to do ballet. First, he showed me a clip from a video of the movie, where Natalie Wood plays Maria and dances in the basement of the tenement. He said he wanted me to dance to that song. I think it’s called ‘I Feel Pretty.’ Then he worked with me and we set up a short dance duplicating some of the routines of that dance. He really pushed me and I got real tired. Then he led me back to the locker room and I had to shower and he produced a schoolgirl outfit, complete with a plaid skirt and white blouse. And, he made up my face like I was going be dancing in a real show. I’ve never looked so . . . ah . . . divine.
“He told me I was going to perform that dance now before a small audience and that I shouldn’t be afraid. He said I had done well in our practice and he knew the audience would like it. He even whispered to me that the men in the audience didn’t know anything about ballet. ‘Just be graceful and girly and they’ll like you,’ he said with a wink.
“Now I was really scared and I led upstairs into what appeared to be a small theater, with a little raised stage. There were lounge chairs and sofas occupied by about a half dozen men – I think some were the same men I saw the first night, including the man who attacked me. The men all looked at me and smiled as they led me to a small room behind the stage.
“And in that small room there were four other girls, including Pansy and Prissy who I recognized from the first night. The men told me I was not to talk and when I nodded at Pansy, she didn’t even respond. It was weird. It was all silent.
“Finally, one of the men told all of us that when we finished our performances, we were to circulate among the men and if one of them wanted it we were to sit on their laps. I objected and started to argue, but the biggest guy just slapped me across the face, not hard, I guess he didn’t want to hit me too hard so that it would show. But I could tell I better shut up. And I did.
“While we waited, I looked around the room, I saw a door in the back. I had noticed it was slightly open so it wasn’t locked, I thought. I didn’t know where it led, might only be a closet, but I wondered if I could escape that way.
“Anyway, I decided maybe I should play along with these guys. They could hurt me, I knew. Besides, how was I to fight back? I started to flirt with the big guy that hit me. He was sort of good looking and younger. He responded as if to tell me he was sorry he had to slap me, I guess. I even sidled up against him and he smiled at me.
“I was the last girl to perform.”
Marcus smiled, finding pleasure in hearing Jefferson talk of himself and the others as “girls,” even though the boy had told me earlier that he knew the four others were also boys, though all were as slender, soft and girlish as he was.
“Did the others dance, too?” Marcus asked.
“No,” he replied. “Pansy sang ‘A Tisket, A Tasket,’ and sounded just like Ella. She was great. Prissy did a short comedy routine and she sounded so girly. The other two girls did a dance routine and after each girl finished, I could hear the men applaud and cheer and ask them to ‘come on and sit here, dear.’
“I could see the girls’ performance on stage, and when they finished their routines they all stepped off the stage and went to sit with one of the men. No way was I going to do that; I’d probably be set up with the asshole from the first night and after what I did with him, I doubted he’d be very nice to me. I figured I’d give it a try to escape the ordeal and devised a plan. It probably wouldn’t work, but I had to try something.
“Then it was my turn to perform and the big guy, you know the guy I was flirting with, he was the only man backstage with us and he announced each performance. I couldn’t figure him out, he was obviously just one of the guards, I guess, but he seemed smart, like he’d been to college or something. Anyway, he announced me as ‘Candi,’ and said I was going to do a routine from “West Side Story.” I could hear the men groan ‘cause I guess they wanted a striptease or something lewd. But as I danced out on stage, I paused before the guard and then kissed him on the cheek, drawing cheers from the men. The guard blushed and in that moment, I charged off stage and out that open door I had spied earlier, praying that it led to freedom.
“I guess they were surprised because I was out the door and through a short hallway to an outside entrance before they must have realized I was running away. It looked like the outside door led to a small loading dock and I ran around a big garage and into the woods. It was only then I heard the men chasing after me, but I was already hidden by the bushes. I got all scratched and it was dark and I stumbled and fell a few times and soon came to a fence that lined the property; I was able to get over it, but I tore my outfit, as you saw.
“There was a road and across that street was another woods and I darted into it. I could hear those guys after me, but I found some real dense bushes and hid in there. They came within feet of me a couple of times, but I just curled up into a ball, hoping they’d not see me. I could hear them cuss, calling me a ‘bitch,’ ‘whore,’ ‘sissy’ and such. But they didn’t see me. I was glad my dance outfit wasn’t white, like it probably should have been. If it had been white, I’m sure I would have been seen.
“I must have hidden there for over an hour. I got cold and shivered, even though it was a warm night and bugs crawled on me and I got a few bites, but I didn’t dare move.”
“Finally, I heard one of the men say that they’d better give up. He said they were in a public park and that if the cops showed up there might be trouble. Another one said, ‘Let her go. No one would believe a whore. Besides, if she talks, she’ll be in trouble. The Harrisons have her under control.’”
“You heard that?” Marcus interrupted.
“Yes, they were just a few feet away from me. I was shocked. I had begun to love the Harrisons. It was the first foster home I’d been in where I was treated nicely. I trusted them. It just shows I can’t trust nobody. Not even you.”
Jefferson looked at Marcus sharply and then began to cry. Marcus wanted to protest to say he was wrong, but realized that at that point whatever he said would be taken wrong. He just needed to be hugged. Which Marcus did.
*****
“Do you believe the boy’s story?” Amy asked Marcus. He went to her apartment in the early afternoon, just a couple of hours after leaving Jefferson. He was worried about the boy and told the staff at Hope Place to be sure to keep an eye on him since he appeared to be troubled. Marcus was fairly confident they would; like so many of the staff at the agencies that handled young people, the folks truly cared for the kids, even though they tended to be short-staffed and underpaid.
“Of course,” he said. “The boy poured out the story, occasionally hesitating and tearing up. He even outright cried several times through the story. It just sounded too sincere to me.”
“But he could be just a very good actor,” she replied.
“No way, Amy. It was coming from the heart.”
“I’m sure you’re right, Miranda,” she said, using Marcus’ girl’s name. For the rest of the day, he was to be Miranda. Because it was a nice, sunny, warm day, the two were to meet Mollie and Latesha at Shoreview Park for an afternoon picnic. He and Amy were preparing potato salad and other snacks along with some ham and cheese sandwiches while the other two girls were to bring the drinks, most likely wine and beer.
“I asked Jefferson if he’d repeat the story to the police,” Marcus said. “But he wasn’t too sure he wanted to.”
“He’s scared, isn’t he?”
“Yes, scared of what they might do to him if they located him. He said the guys were big and tough and mean. And he’s not ready to trust anyone. He’s trusting me, but he’s still wary.”
Amy shook her head. “I don’t know if we’ll get to the bottom of this, but we have to, Miranda. Apparently, we’re dealing with a pedophile ring here and it must involve wealthy and influential perverts. If Jefferson’s right, they’re violating any fragile boys they can find.”
“I know, but I think if we’re gentle with Jefferson, he’ll tell his story to the authorities.”
For the next few minutes, they dealt with mixing the mayonnaise, potatoes, hard-boiled eggs, bacon bits, veggies and spices into the potato salad. “Yummy,” Amy said, as she sampled the finished salad.
“You said he called you on his cell phone, Miranda, right?” she asked.
“Yes, he did.”
“But how could he have kept a cell phone on his person while changing into the tutu and where would he keep it?”
Marcus laughed. “Stuffed into his fake boobs.”
“You’re kidding!”
“No, as he told me, he was not too sure of what the Harrisons had in mind for him and he wanted to be prepared. His cell is just a tiny one that he uses just for phoning and he was able to place it into the padding of his breast forms.”
“Wow. I was beginning to think this was all a setup, but it seems the kid was being careful. Lucky for him.”
“Yeah, he had even programmed my cell phone number into his phone so he could call quickly.”
Amy smiled. “I think you’ve got his trust, Miranda.”
*****
Mollie and Latesha had already arrived at Shoreview Park and had been lucky enough to have found an unoccupied picnic table right at the edge of the sandy beach. The parking lot was nearly full when Amy and Marcus drove up, wondering if they’d be able to find a spot to picnic among all of the families that were taking advantage on what likely would be the last warm weekend before the autumn chill claimed the area. The city abutted Lake Michigan and Shoreview was on the eastern shore, always offering lovely sunsets if you were there at dusk.
“Wow, you look like jail bait,” Latesha exclaimed as Amy and Marcus approached with their baskets of goodies.
“Who? Me?” Marcus said, doing a flirtatious wiggle for her.
“Yes, you. God, you look like you’re fifteen,” she said.
He smiled and sat down next to her, giving her a peck on the cheek. He was wearing tight shorts and a tank top. Amy had fixed his hair in pigtails and Marcus guessed that helped to add to the illusion.
“You’re getting cuter every day, Miranda,” Mollie gushed.
“Enough, enough,” he said. “All of you looked just as cute, and I see we’ve attracted more than a few looks from guys around us.”
Latesha giggled. “Don’t sell yourself short, Miranda. I’ll bet that before the day is done, some pimply-faced high school kid will hit on you.”
“Well I do have my standards,” Marcus said, giggling in a cute teen-girl manner.
Marcus was glad he didn’t take Latesha up on her bet; within a half hour, a gangly boy who couldn’t have been more than sixteen ambled up; he singled Marcus out among the girls and said that they were putting together a boy-girl volleyball game. “We need another girl on our team,” the boy, looking at Marcus. “Wanna play?”
The boy blushed as he said he was sorry for being so forward, but that he came with three other friends with their girlfriends and that he was alone. “My girlfriend broke up with me last week,” he said. “I’d like it if you’d just play with us.”
“I can’t. I’m with my friends, besides I’m no good at volleyball,” Marcus said.
“It’s just for fun,” he said. “I don’t think your friends would mind.”
“No, we wouldn’t, Miranda,” Latesha said, a mischievous grin covering her face. “Go, have some fun.”
“Yeah, go, Miranda, but she’s right, she’s no good at sports,” Mollie said, suppressing a giggle.
Marcus looked at Amy, hoping she’d say that he shouldn’t play, but she surprised me. “Go, make a fool of yourself, Miranda.”
He played the game, pathetically, of course. The other three girls were passable players. The teams had two couples on each side. Marcus was teamed with Michael, the gangly boy who invited him, and a boy named Josh and his girlfriend, Melissa. Thanks to the pathetic play of Marcus, his team lost all three matches.
Michael was a nice boy, very solicitous of Marcus’ ineptitude. He said he and his friends all went to Monroe High School; Marcus kept my own identity vague, stating, “I’m from up north and I’m visiting my auntie. She’s the short woman over there.”
He blushed with the lie he just told, but figured it was plausible since he was dressed so that he could easily be a sixteen-year-old girl.
As Marcus left to return to his friends, the boy, Michael, wondered if he could call Miranda sometime. “Sorry, Michael, but I have a boyfriend back home.”
“OK, he’s a lucky guy,” Michael said. He led me back to my friends and said a cheery goodbye.
“I played miserably,” Marcus admitted to his friends.
“Did they catch on to you?” Amy asked.
“No, how could they? No real boy would be so pathetic at the game,” Marcus said, mocking his lack of athletic abilities.
“That boy seemed interested in you for more than volleyball,” Amy questioned.
“I guess he was, but I told them I’m your niece and I go to high school up-state. He said he wanted to call me again, but I said I had a boyfriend.”
“I’m sure you could have many boyfriends without even trying,” Mollie said. “You’re so damned pretty. If you weren’t such a nice friend, I could really be jealous.”
Latesha laughed and said, “You met Peter, Crusher’s brother at the game, Miranda, and he’s been asking after you.”
“About me? I hardly talked to him.”
“Well you left an impression and he said he wanted to call you, but I told him you had a boyfriend, so I don’t think you’ll hear from him,” Latesha added, winking at Amy.
Marcus smiled, thinking of the huge, husky and handsome man who sat next to them at the softball. He was becoming intrigued by his ability to draw the attention of young men and Peter Cjaka was certainly had been an interesting prospect.
After a while, Marcus left his friends and wandered about in his bare feet along the shore, letting the waves wash over his toes. He began thinking about Jefferson and his frightening story. Realizing how easily he had been accepted as a teenage girl gave him an inspiration. Maybe it would take a high school girl (like him?) to figure out what and who was behind the pedophile racket that Jefferson had been lured into.
(The author is grateful to Eric for his proofreading and editing help.)
Undercover Girl – Chapter Twelve
Chapter Twelve – A Hare-brained Scheme?
“Everyone who saw me Saturday at the park thought I was a high school girl,” Marcus argued as he sketched out an idea he had. It was the Tuesday morning after the long weekend, and Amy and Latesha sat quietly in Amy’s office, listening.
“But, you could get beat up or even worse, killed,” Amy said, her voice rising in angry disbelief that Marcus could be serious about the scheme. “It’s a hare-brained idea.”
“Maybe and maybe not,” he said, trying to deflate the danger.
In his own mind, of course, Marcus was not as certain that the plan was such a good idea; yet, it intrigued him. He had also been a scaredy-cat as a boy. He never rode anything more exciting than the merry-go-round at the fair and, even then, he was afraid he’d fall off the wooden pony. He remembered screaming once when he saw a spider on his book in school and Billy Evans accused him of acting like a “scared little girl.”
For some reason, as Miranda, he found himself summoning up all sorts of courage. Of course, he was determined to find out about this ring of wealthy, evil men who were preying upon young boys and girls and to give Jefferson Turner some sense of security. Maybe, however, he was motivated by his own selfish needs to justify himself as a worthy human being, instead of being a needy, pathetic, weak man.
Perhaps because of his persistence, Amy and Latesha let him continue to outline the plan. Even though Marcus didn’t go into detail, they agreed that it might just work, even though Amy said the agency could not be directly involved in what he’d be doing.
“Look, Marcus,” Amy explained, using his male name as she always did during working hours, “If you get hurt or injured or you cause others to be harmed, the agency will be sued. I’m going to have to forbid that you perform such an activity, you understand. What you do on your own time, I don’t have any control over.”
Marcus nodded. He had expected that he’d have to do this on his own and to spare them connection with his actions he didn’t go into further detail.
“For the record then, let me say that I have told you not to act outside of your normal duties on this case and that you are to do nothing that involve the agency without my direct approval,” Amy said, her tone quite matter-of-fact. “Latesha White has witnessed this.”
“I understand,” Marcus said.
He got up to leave her office, but Amy ordered him to sit down. “I want you to call Sergeant Simbach and tell him what Jefferson told you. The police will have to interview him now.”
“But I’m not sure he’s ready to talk to the police,” Marcus argued, worried about the boy’s fragility.
“Nonetheless, the police need to be informed,” Amy said firmly. He could see she was acting like a boss now; he didn’t like this side of Amy, but he understood that she had to occasionally assume her role as stern supervisor. She ordered Marcus to call from the phone in her office.
“Do you need me anymore? I’ve got a ten o’clock home visit,” Latesha said, rising from her chair.
“No, go, Latesha. We can take it from here, but if you have any thoughts let me hear them, OK?”
“OK, Amy,” Latesha said, leaving the office.
When she was gone, Amy asked Marcus to close her door to the outer office. “I’m sorry I had to act so bossy, Marcus. I know you want to do all you can to help Jefferson. But, I care for you so much and I don’t want to see you hurt. Please take care.”
“I will and I’m really frightened over the whole idea, but I have to do it, Amy. I just have to.”
“I know, dear,” she said. Marcus could see tears forming in her eyes.
Amy said nothing but got up from her chair and directed him to her desk to call Sergeant Simbach. She knew of his reluctance to involve the police at this point and he guessed she wanted to make sure he would make the call.
The sergeant accepted Marcus’ call and expressed his pleasure at Marcus’ ability to finally get the more of Jefferson’s story. Marcus said he was worried that Jefferson might refuse to talk to the police just yet. “He’s scared stiff, sergeant,” Marcus said.
He only gave the police sergeant the general outline of Jefferson’s story, not even indicating that there was a chance there may be a major pedophile ring that recruited fragile young boys.
“Maybe I might scare the boy off from talking,” Simbach said when Marcus finished. “Might not it be better to have Officer Jelacic have a try at him? Maybe he’d accept a woman a bit better.”
“I don’t know, since she arrested him in the first place,” he said. “And she treated him a little tough, but I think she could probably win his trust. It’s worth a try.”
He told Marcus to set up a time for Officer Jelacic to meet with the boy, along with Marcus, preferably at Hope Place. Marcus agreed and thanked him for how he was handling of the case.
*****
Heddy Jelacic greeted Marcus warmly when they met in the waiting room at Hope Place. He was pleased to see that the police officer was not wearing her uniform, but instead wore a dark brown pencil skirt, beige blouse and violet cardigan sweater. Her blonde hair was brushed, and he found her to be warmly attractive. As Heddy approached, Marcus was talking with Tatiana, the caseworker who had been assigned to the boy.
“I don’t know how cooperative he’ll be this morning,” Tatiana said. “He’s been sort of morose since your visit on Saturday.”
“Really? He seemed so upbeat when I left, like he had gotten a burden off his soul,” I said.
“I thought he was as well, but his attitude changed Sunday,” she said. “He got a call from Melody, his foster sister at the Harrisons. And, you know, he didn’t have to accept any calls, but he said he’d like to talk to her and we didn’t see any harm in letting the call go through. His attitude changed after that.”
“Oh no,” I said.
“Yes, Saturday after you left, he got in a game of Monopoly with a couple of the girls here and they had a great time,” Tatiana said. “Can you imagine, Monopoly? Such an old-fashioned game, but one of the girls found the game buried in a cabinet in the game room and wondered how it was played. And, Dennis, our security guy on weekends knew how to play it from his youth. You know Dennis is older than dirt.”
Heddy laughed. “Actually, I played the game a lot as a kid, with my grandpa. He lived with us and he liked to play the big capitalist, which was a lark, since he’d picked up garbage for 35 years for the city and never had a pot to do you know what in.”
“Anyway, Marcus was fine until he got that phone call on Sunday, and then something changed,” Tatiana related.
Marcus was concerned; obviously, Melody told Jefferson something that caused him to go back into a funk. The whole business was troubling and this further convinced Marcus that the Harrisons were somehow involved in this whole mess. Even though both Melody and Larry had been removed from the Harrison household and placed into other homes, it was possible that they may have held some threat over them.
A few minutes later, Tatiana led Jefferson into a cheerful room that had a sofa, two side chairs and a table with four chairs at one corner. Officer Jelacic and Marcus were already seated at the table, both with coffee and several mini-Danish sweets on a plate in the middle of the table. Jefferson said he wanted tea, which Tatiana fetched for him.
The boy kept looking downward after they sat at the table, glancing up only perfunctorily to acknowledge any comments. His response was grudging and more like a grunt. He refused to look anyone in the eye.
Heddy was quick to recognize the boy’s mood and tried a little small talk to warm up the meeting. Jefferson answered using only one syllable words, often grunting his replies so that they were barely audible. The only time he warmed up was when Heddy mentioned the Monopoly game.
“Yeah, I won,” he said. “I was the richest since I got Boardwalk and Park Place early in the game. Just like Donald Trump.”
Marcus scowled at the answer. Jefferson knew Marcus’ feelings about Trump and he quickly added, “Well, rich like Donald Trump, but not nasty and mean like him.”
“OK that’s better,” Marcus smiled. “Now, Jefferson I want you to tell Officer Jelacic just exactly what you told me Saturday, OK?”
“I’ll try,” he said, looking down at the table top, averting his eyes from the others.
The story he told that day hardly matched his earlier account. He did describe the scenes at the house and his escape pretty much as he had told Marcus, but he became strangely vague as to how he got to the mansion in the first place.
“Didn’t you tell me that both times Mr. Harrison took you to a place where he met up with another group of men and then they put you in another car and drove you blind-folded to the house where the men were? Didn’t you tell me that, Jefferson?”
He nodded, still looking down. “Maybe I did, but I was lying. I just wanted to place the blame somewhere else. I wanted to go to that house since I heard they were nice to boys like me and so they picked me up in a car and I didn’t look out the window so I don’t know how I got there. That’s all. I lied.”
Jefferson never looked up as he talked.
“That doesn’t make any sense, Jefferson,” Marcus said. “Why can’t you tell Officer Jelacic what you told me?”
“I’m not lying now,” he said, finally looking up at Marcus.
He started to cry and Marcus sought to put his arms about the boy, but he shied away. “Leave me alone,” he said, bolting from the room. They could hear his sobs as he darted down the hall.
They didn’t pursue Jefferson realizing that he would have nowhere to go and that the staff at Hope Place would seek to calm him down and comfort him.
Heddy looked at Marcus, who merely shrugged his shoulders, apparently uncertain what to think.
“He’s lying now, I’m sure of it,” Marcus said.
The police officer nodded. “I think so, too.”
“Obviously, something Melody told him made him change his story. It’s made him scared, either for himself or for Larry and Melody, or for all three.”
“And you’re convinced the story he told you Saturday is true?” Heddy asked.
Marcus nodded.
“It sounds like we got something deeper going on here than merely one boy getting violated,” she said.
The two discussed the case for a few more minutes, deciding to share the Danish sweets that had not been touched. Jefferson’s tea also was untouched.
Heddy agreed to share her and Marcus’ suspicions with Sergeant Simbach; Marcus said he would be discussing it further with Amy and Latesha. Both had to return to other cases; Heddy had to get to juvenile court for a twelve-year-old girl who had been arrested for soliciting and Marcus had an appointment to see LaGrande Marquis and his foster mother, Florence Jenkins.
*****
It seemed that LaGrande had violated the city’s eleven o’clock curfew for teenagers, having been found by a police squad car returning to the Jenkins home around midnight on Sunday night of the Labor Day weekend. To make matters worse, he had argued with the cops, causing them to handcuff him and take him to the station; fortunately, Mrs. Jenkins was able to persuade them to release the boy, explaining that he had been returning from a jazz concert where LaGrande had “sat in” with a jazz group and dazzled them playing a sax loaned to him by one of the band members. (LaGrande always carried along his own mouthpiece just in case such opportunities might develop.)
Nonetheless, LaGrande was to appear before juvenile court to face possible penalties which could jeopardize the boy’s chances of going to the Performing Arts High School. Mrs. Jenkins called me to ask if I’d vouch for LaGrande’s otherwise good behavior before the court and I decided to stop by to discuss the matter with them.
*****
“They even drew their guns on me, Mr. Whiting,” LaGrande said. “I was only coming home from the jazz concert and they stopped me for no reason at all. I wasn’t doin’ nothing.”
As he told of the experience, LaGrande was still resentful over his treatment. “They just stopped me ‘cause I’m a black kid,” he protested. Marcus had no doubt the boy was correct, since the Jenkins house was in a neighborhood that was largely white.
“It was past curfew, LaGrande,” Mrs. Jenkins said.
“But why pull guns on me?” the boy protested.
LaGrande, Mrs. Jenkins and Marcus sat at the kitchen table in the Jenkins home, a comfortable 80-year-old bungalow that was well-maintained, as the boy explained how he happened to be stopped by the police. Both Mrs. Jenkins and Marcus were worried that hopes of aiding the boy’s potentially positive future might be dashed by the incident. It could grow hopeless, they knew, if the juvenile court system decided to punish him.
The more the boy told of his arrest, the more Marcus began to boil over at how the police escalated the situation. If what LaGrande said was the full story, Marcus felt that perhaps he could get the ACLU or some other advocacy group interested. After all, the Trayvon Martin incident in Florida and similar police shooting incidents still reverberated in urban communities; Marcus was aware that the city leaders had hoped to avoid similar incidents and were working with law enforcement officers to show more understanding in dealing with minority populations.
Marcus said he’d check with the police and the district attorney’s office to see if he could block any further court action against the boy.
“School starts tomorrow,” Marcus told LaGrande, “And you’re still to start at the Performing Arts School. Make sure you get there tomorrow and don’t get into any trouble until we get this straightened out. OK?”
“I promise, Mr. Whiting. I promise.”
*****
Marcus called Sergeant Simbach the first chance he got, and he quickly agreed to check on the LaGrande Marquis case. Simbach called back less than an hour later.
“Sorry, Marcus, but I can’t get anything much on the case,” he said. “It turns out it’s become a very sensitive case here and it’s been turned over to an assistant chief.”
“Oh, that is not usual, is it?” Marcus asked.
“Right. It only gets to the level of assistant chief if it’s got the City Hall involved. Your best bet is to go to the DA’s office. Try the juvenile division there, ask for an assistant named Harrington,” he advised.
Marcus thanked him and hung up. He felt a slight bit of excitement and fear since he was certain the sergeant was referring him to Emery Harrington, with whom he had worked on the Ethel Mitchell case several months earlier. He had been easy to work with then, Marcus recalled. A few weeks after that case, Harrington was introduced to “Miranda” at Luke’s while he was having after-work drinks with Amy, Latesha and Mollie. He openly flirted, until Amy reminded him that “Miranda” already had a “significant other.” It didn’t stop him from giving “Miranda” a discreet wink as he parted then.
It was fortunate that Luke’s has very low-level lighting, and Emery Harrington never linked Miranda and Marcus. Now, if Marcus was to meet Harrington in person in the bright light of the juvenile court building, he feared he’d see the connection. And, then what?
*****
As it became September, the Wednesday “girls’ night out” adventures ended, partly because of the heavy workload everyone carried; also Mollie had begun working toward her masters at the local university and had classes three nights a week. Latesha in the meantime found her evenings often being occupied by a new boyfriend, a tall, broad-shouldered and extremely handsome sheriff’s deputy named Mohammed Ahmed.
Thus, it was that Amy and Marcus, who was dressed as Miranda, were together at Paddy’s Irish Pub, a sports bar convenient to Amy’s apartment. Most Wednesday nights, after drinking, the two would often spend the night in Amy’s bed, both half drunk on pinot grigio and enraptured with each other’s bodies.
As is usual whenever they went out for drinks, Marcus was asked to verify his age; rarely were any of the others asked. That problem was solved the first time it occurred; Marcus knew his male driver’s license would cause questions to be asked and Amy and he decided to tell the bartenders or waiters something that bordered on the truth, that Marcus was a male who was planning to transition to female. In these days and in larger cities, bars and restaurants were growing used to customers sporting IDs that didn’t match their gender appearance. Of course, Marcus hadn’t yet decided to transition, but it certainly was something he was considering, so it wasn’t a complete lie.
The barmaid at Paddy’s identified herself as Colleen and her pale, freckled face fit appropriately into the Gaelic theme of the place. She was indeed a pert Irish lass.
“I’ll need to see your ID miss,” she said, a gruff tone seemingly at odds with her cute appearance.
Marcus produced it from his purse and Amy, as she usually does, quickly explained my situation. She closely examined the picture.
“You’re the same young lady in the picture, I see,” she said, handing my license back. “But I can’t believe you’re twenty-three. You look like a high school freshman.”
Marcus smiled back at her, adding, “Thanks, you know we women always like to look younger than we are.”
It wasn’t the first time that Marcus was accused of being a high school girl when dressed as Miranda. Even as Marcus, he was often accused of being young-looking for his age, and apparently when he wore a dress he looked even younger. That realization reinforced his decision to go undercover in trying to find the secrets that were troubling young Jefferson Turner, alias Margot.
*****
The District Attorney’s Juvenile Division offices were in the euphemistically-named Children’s Welfare Center that housed Children’s Court and the holding cells for juveniles being held for hearings. Security was strict, requiring everything short of a strip search for anyone entering the building. Emery Harrington was called to the lobby to greet Marcus and led him back to his tiny private office, where his desk was stacked with file folders and his desk chair was crammed between file cabinets. He beckoned Marcus to one of two simple straight-backed chairs. His smile was warm and beguiling and even though he looked tired (it was four in the afternoon and he was obviously exhausted) he still looked as handsome as he did that night in the pub.
“You look familiar, but I can’t figure out where. Have we met?” he asked.
“Yes, just once. I had a case with you several months ago,” Marcus replied, not telling the whole truth.
He shook his head. “Yeah, I remember that case, but still I think a met you somewhere else. Oh well, I guess I’m mistaken.”
Marcus was tempted to blurt out that he was “Miranda” and that they met at Luke’s.
“Now tell me about this case you’re interested in, Marcus,” he said, apparently satisfied the two had only met once before, and that was in their professional capacities.
“Actually, it’s two cases,” Marcus began.
“You’ve been busy, it seems.”
“Well, the first involves a boy named LaGrande Marquis, one of my foster clients,” Marcus said. “Seems he was out after curfew, but he wasn’t into mischief. He was stopped by the police and they began hassling him and he got defensive and they had to handcuff him. Now, he’s being charged with several things and if he gets a record, I’m afraid his whole future will be ruined. Besides, I think the police escalated the case, just because he’s black and wears dreadlocks.”
“Don’t throw that discrimination stuff into this, Marcus.”
“Just check into the case and judge for yourself, Mr. Harrington.”
Harrington nodded, “OK, but what was he doing out after curfew?”
“Returning from a jazz gig and that’s just it,” Marcus continued. “We’ve got him enrolled at the High School of the Arts, and you know they’ll kick him out if he gets a record. He’s got a great brain and he’s truly talented. He’s had a tough childhood, but I think he can have a great future. Please look into it.”
“I will, Marcus, but I hate to buck the police if I don’t have to.”
“I know the NAACP and ACLU are both interested in what happens here.”
Harrington scowled. “We don’t have to go there, do we?”
“We’ll see,” Marcus said.
“Now what’s your other case,” the assistant DA said, leaning back in his chair.
“It involves another of my clients.”
It took about fifteen minutes – including his interruptions with questions – for Marcus to complete the story.
Harrington, still leaning back in his chair, sighed. “I’d really like to help you in this case, but you really haven’t enough evidence here for us to pursue the case.”
“It just seems so obvious . . .” Marcus argued.
“Being obvious is not evidence, Marcus,” he said. “Besides, do you know how busy we are, how many kids we’re trying to save here? Look at this desk. These are all active cases.”
“But . . .”
“There are no ‘buts,’ I’m sorry.”
Marcus got up and didn't know how to respond. He had thought the young prosecutor truly cared about matters involving those who are often overlooked in the justice system. He headed to the door.
“Marcus,” Harrington said. “I’m really sorry I can’t help you. You do have a case of this kid being mistreated, but as it stands now, there is not enough evidence. Bring me some more and we’ll try to help your young man out.”
Marcus turned back to look at Harrington and was surprised to see the concern on his face. “Thank you, I’ll see what I can do.”
Harrington smiled. “By the way, Marcus, why don’t you stop by some Wednesday night at Luke’s. I know the women from your agency used to be regulars there on Wednesday, but I don't see them much anymore. I’ll buy you a drink, if you’d like.”
Marcus left the room, feeling inspired to continue his efforts to get to the bottom of Jefferson’s ventures, but also amused by the fact that Harrington had seen him at Luke’s several times, but only as Miranda, never realizing who he really met.
(To be continued)
(With valuable proofreading and editing help from Eric)
Undercover Girl – Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Thirteen – The Sting
The railroad tracks where Jefferson had been found were near Grove Street, an area well-known as a hangout for prostitutes waiting for their johns who were certain to come. At one time, it was an area of small industrial plants and warehouses. In recent years, it had become gradually populated with bars, restaurants and a few boutique shops. At night-time, as the shops closed, the prostitutes moved in; Marcus had learned from Heddy that transvestite or transgender prostitutes hung out at the north end of the Grove Street strip.
The fact that, on the first incident, Jefferson had been found near Grove Street indicated that he might have somehow been linked to the prostitution of the area. From what Marcus had been able to learn, most of the girls, and he supposed that included those in drag, had been either runaways or were recruited by their pimps from bus stations and other locations. Jefferson was none of these; as far as Marcus could tell he lived in a stable, well-run foster home.
He became obsessed with Jefferson’s story and had to find out what had caused the boy to be found late at night in such questionable circumstances. Since no one else seemed to care, it was up to him to act.
Perhaps, Marcus reasoned, he could in filter into the ranks of the girls and boys who worked the Grove Street circuit. Of course, he’d have to be in his Miranda mode and figured he could easily pass himself off as one of the girls. All of his friends had convinced him that he could easily be accepted as a teen girl. The thought both tickled and frightened him. Didn’t he realize that dressing as a prostitute might open him up to all sorts of compromising situations, including possible arrest, physical abuse or even rape?
That night, he went through his limited closet and realized he didn’t own anything close to a mini-skirt that would be typical of a street girl; nor did he have mesh stockings or anything that would be sexily enticing. As for heels, a three-inch pair of conservative black pumps were the most outrageous ones he had.
He thought of asking Latesha for such an outfit; surely, she might have one from her high school days. He quickly rejected that idea, knowing full well that she’d try again to talk him out of his clandestine adventure. He could imagine her saying, “Darling, you could get killed or raped out there.” Marcus had to do this on his own.
The next day, he used his lunch hour time to visit a second-hand store, hoping to find a few items of clothing that could be worked into a convincing outfit. Before he entered the store, located at the far south side of the city where he felt assured he’d meet no one who knew him, he loosened his hair from its more masculine-appearing ponytail and let it flow in a more feminine fashion. That morning, in anticipation of his noontime shopping trip, he had put on women’s slacks to help accentuate a more androgynous look. He even applied light touches of lipstick and eyeliner, adding to his girlishness.
It worked, and he left the store twenty minutes later with two miniskirts, one a lavender skater style and the other a dark denim; he also bought a peasant blouse with a scooped neck and short cup sleeves and a pair of four-inch sandals with bejeweled bands on the straps across the instep. Later, he would stop to get several pairs of hose to add to the illusion that he was a “lady of the night.”
Latesha and Mollie invited Marcus to join them for dinner that night after work, but he begged off, saying he had to do laundry and clean up his room that night. He was lying, of course. He had to prepare for his evening mission as a young girl working Grove Street.
*****
He parked his car on South Third Street, leaving him about a two-block walk to join the girls lining Grove Street. That night he chose the denim miniskirt and topped it with the peasant blouse under which he wore a size 34-A cupped light pink lace-lined bra, only a hint of which was shown over the top of the peasant blouse. To emphasize his quest to look like a teenager, he wore a pair of black ballet flats. He knew it would set him apart from the other girls on the street who would likely all be wearing unnaturally high heels.
His parking spot was in a rather fearsome area, a place dark and bereft of life in the blocks of abandoned factories and warehouses. As he walked toward Grove, Marcus began questioning his quest. He had no real experience dealing with the girls who led a life of prostitution, other than what his imagination told him. Certainly, he would be outed immediately as the naïve, innocent girl scared for her life. It was the image he wanted to portray. What he hoped wouldn’t happen was that he’d be found out as a young man dressing as a girl.
When he crossed South Fourth Street that took him to Grove (which had been renamed from its original South Fifth Street designation for some obscure reason), he almost turned back, wanting to run back to his car and return to the safety of his home. But, he didn’t; he merely quickened his pace, probably due to his own nervousness, and soon arrived on Grove Street.
The street was lined with a motley array of two-story storefront buildings. Nearly all dated from the 1880s, Marcus observed, based on the ornate, aging architecture. It was early, and he was surprised to see there already were huddles of young women on the street.
It was time, he felt, to begin to act like a prostitute, or as he thought a girl would look while awaiting to be picked up by a john. He sashayed north on Grove toward Tyler Avenue, where he had learned most of the male transvestites and she-males did their business. Maybe he’d learn something there, he felt.
Marcus had to pass two black girls, both wearing scanty outfits in spite of the gathering coolness of the approaching darkness. They were leaning against one of the buildings, smoking demonstrably, giving Marcus a fearsome look.
“Yo’ too young, kid. Go back home to yo’ crib,” sneered the taller girl.
“Yeah, the johns on this street don’t cotton to yo’ jail baiters,” echoed the other. They both laughed.
But Marcus moved on past them, ostensibly paying them no attention though his heart was beating fast. There were virtually no cars on the street and suddenly he felt vulnerable from attack; the two prostitutes looked strong and could likely beat him senseless if they wished.
Their remarks, however, also reassured Marcus. He had hoped to pass himself off as a teenage girl, presumably one about the age of Jefferson Turner, and it was obvious that he had been successful. His girlfriends from the agency all had commented on his cherubic, youthful face, soft and unblemished. He had no beard to speak of, having to shave no more than once a week. He was always “carded” as being under 21.
Yes, he felt, maybe his scheme would work and he’d learn more about Jefferson’s activities and who might have been to blame for the boy’s injuries.
He shivered as he walked along a block of darkened buildings, several of which thrived with activity during daylight hours, one as a truck repair facility, another as a warehouse of some sort and the third as a wholesaler of tavern furnishings. True it was a bit chilly, but he knew his jittering came from fear of what he was to encounter; he was beginning to wonder whether he’d survive the night and that perhaps his best option was to run like hell back to his car.
“I have to continue on to show I’m not a coward,” he told himself, not too convincingly.
The next block was brighter thanks to the lights emanating from two bars, both housed in buildings built nearly 150 years ago. “The Ball Game” and “The Golden Pheasant” were known gay bars in the community. On the block beyond the bars, Marcus could see several figures lingering near street lights, and he presumed they were transvestite or she-male prostitutes.
He pranced past the two bars. He tried not to over-exaggerate the sexual character of his gait but still he hoped it showed him to be one of the street girls.
“Fresh meat,” he heard one of the girls say as he approached them.
“Real tender,” giggled the other.
“Better run along, kid,” said the first girl, trying to look tough. She was dressed in rough clothing – torn denim shorts, mesh stockings, unusually high heels and a team jacket over some sort of a grey blouse. She was heavily made-up and her dirty blonde hair hung unkempt.
She was tall and her muscular legs gave her away; she was obviously a guy.
“Nothing here for you, girl,” said the other. She was shorter, a bit soft and chubbier and wore mini-shorts that were so brief and tight that it seemed her butt could pop out at any moment.
“Girls like you belong two blocks down,” said the first girl gruffly.
“Like me?” Marcus asked, his voice coming out tentatively in an embarrassing squeak, not sure why he didn’t belong with these would-be girls.
“Yeah, honey,” said the second girl, her clearly masculine voice inflected with the lilt of obviously phony feminism. “You pussies work down the block, you know.”
“Pussies?”
“Damn you’re a naïve one aren’t you! Yes, real girls, y’ know.”
Marcus smiled, realizing again that he was so convincingly feminine that even an experienced transvestite like this chubby girl in front of him was fooled.
Just then, an aging Ford pickup truck pulled up and the first girl yelled “See ya’ Trixie. Better send that little girl packin’.” She hopped into the passenger side of the truck and sped off.
Marcus looked puzzled as the girl called Trixie explained. “That’s Kandi’s Wednesday night john. He’s got the biggest cock Kandi ever sucked.”
Marcus wanted to stay in this block since he was convinced this was where Jefferson may have been the first night he was found beaten up.
“I’m like you girls,” he finally said to Trixie.
“You can’t be, little one.”
“I am. Wanna see?” Marcus asked, hoping he wouldn’t have to show his penis that he had tucked.
“I guess you are, honey,” Trixie said, apparently accepting Marcus’ word. “Why are you here dear? You don’t look like a girl who has to be out here to pay the rent. You best go home to your momma.”
Marcus turned to leave Trixie, when she was startled to hear a man’s voice behind him, command, “Don’t let her run, Trixie.” It was a stern voice, cold and fearsome and Marcus felt weak and defenseless.
He felt Trixie’s firm hand grab his thin forearm, restraining him from running. “I told you to go, little one,” Trixie said whispered in his ear, obviously expressing a warning that Marcus should have been able to recognize earlier.
“Don’t hurt her, Nighthawk,” Trixie said, loosening her grip on Marcus’ arm.
“What’s your name, little girl?” sounded the booming voice of a tall, muscular pale-faced man who hovered over both Marcus and the streetwalker. Behind the large white man, stood an equally large African-American man. Marcus wanted to run, but knew it was fruitless.
“Hand her over to Henry and get down the block to do your stuff Trixie,” the man called Nighthawk ordered gruffly.
Trixie let go of Marcus’ arm and he felt the large hands of the black man grab his soft upper arm and steer him into an alley where they faced him up to a wall, surrounding him with their huge bodies. Marcus was never so scared before in his life, and he began to cry.
“That’s OK, honey,” Henry said. “Just behave and you won’t be hurt.”
The black man’s voice was soft and gentle, somewhat stilling Marcus’ fear about what his fate would be.
Nighthawk’s voice was firm and cold. “What’s your name, kid?”
“Ah . . . ah . . . Mmm … ah … Mariah,” he mumbled
“Mariah,” Nighthawk scoffed. “Not the sexiest of names, eh Henry?”
“It’s all right, boss. She’s virgin and the name fits,” Henry said, smiling at Marcus. The man’s words astonished Marcus. How could the man know he’s virgin?
“How old are you?” Nighthawk pressed.
Marcus didn’t know how to answer; he was trying to pass himself off as fifteen or so, like Jefferson, but he knew that maybe he should give a legal age, eighteen or over.
“You hard of hearing, bitch?” the man repeated, giving Marcus a light slap across the face.
“Nineteen,” he finally answered.
This time the slap was harder. “Don’t lie to me, bitch. You don’t look a day over sixteen.”
“Let me go, sir,” Marcus finally squeaked.
Nighthawk disregarded Marcus’ plea and ordered Henry to take him deeper into the alley to examine him further. “She claims he’s a boy, but we need to be sure, Henry.”
“Right, boss. I suspect she’d be perfect for our client,” Henry said.
Nighthawk smiled and gave a nod of his head, as if to signal Henry to lead Marcus back into the darkened alley. Marcus grew more intensely frightened as he listened to his two captors. Henry encircled him, the large black man engulfing him with his hold, which in spite of the man’s obvious muscular strength was surprisingly gentle, though firm.
“Now, come little lady, don’t fight me and you won’t get hurt,” the man said softly, leading Marcus down the side street, appearing for any who cared to look, like a young couple, the huge black man with the tinier girl at his side.
As they parted, Marcus noticed Nighthawk bring a cell phone out and begin making a call. It was an action that bothered him. Obviously whatever call Nighthawk would be making would involve him. He was jolted out of his thoughts as Henry pulled him further into the dark side street.
“Here we are, Mariah,” he said as they approached the end of the block, where a large, black SUV was parked. Marcus tried to see the license plate number, but it was too dark.
Marcus was led to the SUV and Henry padded him down, smiling as he did. “So tender and fresh,” he said. Marcus shivered as he felt the man’s hands caress.
He removed the small purse Marcus had hooked to the belt that held his miniskirt up. Henry opened it up, finding only a lipstick, compact and several facial tissues.
“You’ll need this,” he said handing it back to Marcus. “No ID, I see. Wise girl. Now get into the car and don’t scream out or do anything to draw attention.”
“But . . .” Marcus began, only to feel Henry put a hand over his mouth.
“No trouble, or it’ll go bad for you, kid,” the large man said, using a gruff tone for the first time. “Now get in and shut up.”
Henry used a remote to unlock the car’s doors, opened a rear door and moved Marcus into the back seat, ordering him to put on his seat belt. He tried to sit down gracefully smoothing his skirt as he did so, but Henry’s action of thrusting him into the seat made it impossible. His skirt rose up exposing nearly his entire thigh and he could hear the huge man mumble, “Nice.”
He started to help Marcus buckle up his seat belt, but Marcus said, “I can do it myself.”
Henry watched closely as Marcus struggled with the belt, finally getting it hooked up.
“Let me check that,” Henry said, reaching over to double check the clip. As he finished, Henry’s hand gently caressed Marcus bare thigh, lingering on its soft flesh momentarily.
He smiled at Marcus, the man’s face being lit by a nearby street light. For a moment, Marcus thought the man was about to kiss him. The man’s face was so close Marcus could smell the spicy scent of Henry’s cologne and could see the rough pores on the man’s well-shaven face.
“You’re a lovely one, girl,” Henry said.
He closed the door and headed around to the front of the car and sat into the driver’s seat. When the car door closed, the inside overhead light went out, and the car was plunged into darkness. The other man was gone apparently headed back to oversee the action of his “girls” on the Grove Street strip. He was alone with Henry in the SUV; he wasn’t certain if that bode well for him or not.
The SUV was not ordinary on the inside, Marcus quickly discovered. There were no handles on the inside of the backdoor, making it impossible for him to open the door himself. There was a plexiglass barrier between the front and back seats, just as Marcus had seen on many taxis in the city. He had noticed as well that the windows of the SUV were blackened, making it nearly impossible to see out.
He castigated himself for this foolish adventure, for putting himself in a situation where he was a captive. My God, he finally realized: He was being kidnapped, and there was nothing he could do about it. And the sad fact was that he’d likely not be any closer to finding out what had happened to Jefferson Turner.
Henry started the SUV and then turned back and looked at Marcus, the smile on his face illuminated by the dash lights in the car. He pulled a shade down to block Marcus from looking out the front window as they drove.
*****
Marcus broke into a sweat as the car moved at a moderate speed, going where and in what direction he could not tell. Fear mounted as the drive continued and it seemed like hours. He tried to tell from the sounds as to where he was being taken, suddenly he felt the car speed up and he could hear the whoosh of other cars and the unmistakable roar of trucks and Marcus knew they were on a freeway of some sort, headed out of the city. After a while he could feel the car turning and slowing down, returning to the earlier moderate speeds; they had obviously left the freeway.
He had no idea of what Henry had in store for him, but it seemed he was involved in some sort of trafficking scheme; he remembered from an in-service training session that human traffickers preyed upon teen girls and wannabe girls as possible candidates for the sex trade. The prospect made his fate seem even more problematic: what would happen when they learned he was not a 15-year-old sissy boy, but rather an adult social worker? He’d be killed, for sure, and his body probably ground up for dog food. His imagination ran wild, his fear growing more intense.
He was torturing himself by conjuring up all sorts of bad outcomes, he finally realized.
“It’s time to get a grip on yourself, Miranda. Maybe you can figure out a way out of this predicament.”
Slowly his mind began to focus and he recalled a video he’d seen that advised how a woman – or a young girl – should act when accosted by a strong man. Slowly his mind began racing on how to escape.
*****
As Marcus was formulating his plan, the car slowed down, turned and stopped abruptly. He heard Henry shout to somebody: “It’s Henry with a package. Buzz me in.”
Marcus realized they must be at some sort of gate or door and Henry must have spoken into a speaker phone. The car moved forward slowly and seemed to be turning slightly as it rolled along. He felt they must be at his destination. If his plan was to work, it was now or never, he knew. He had one advantage: Henry’s overconfidence in that he was so strong that he’d have no trouble controlling a pathetically weak girly boy. Yet, even if everything went as he hoped, his escape would be no cinch and he wondered whether to chance it.
“Oh, well, why not? What have I got to lose?”
Marcus felt his heart racing as he heard Henry get out of the car; soon he saw the right side back door open. Henry leaned in and said, “Let’s get out of there, girl.”
“I can’t. My seatbelt is stuck or something,” Marcus said as appeared to be struggling to open the buckle, which he had already opened.
“Come on. It can’t be that difficult.”
“I need your help, Henry,” Marcus said, speaking in a whiney, girlish tone.
“All right. Let me see there.”
Henry leaned over me, his face again so close Marcus could again smell his male cologne.
“I don’t see anything wrong, honey,” he said.
“Just wanted you close to me. I love your cologne, Henry,” Marcus said flirtatiously. His plan was working. Eureka!
He paused. “You just wanted a kiss, I bet, you horny little bitch.”
He moved closer, his lips puckering and suddenly he was on Marcus, kissing hard and firm. Marcus opened his mouth to accept Henry’s tongue, taking it between his teeth, and bit down as hard as he could. Henry squealed in pain, “Yeee . . . ow. You bitch.”
Henry jerked back in pain, hitting the back of his head on the top of the car door jam. He pulled Marcus out of the car roughly, continuing to cry as the hurts from the bite and the crack from hitting his head seemed to grow. With the man momentarily distracted, Marcus knew he had to use the only weapon that a weak little girl had. Mustering all his strength, he kneed Henry in the crotch, adding more pain to the already struggling strong man.
Marcus felt the man’s grip loosen and he pulled his arm away and for a moment he was freed. He began to run, knowing he had but seconds of freedom. He had no idea where he was, where he’d go, but he knew his only choice was to vanish in the darkness now. He ran down the drive, thankful that he’d worn flats.
There was a fence and gate at the end of the lighted driveway and Marcus knew that he’d never scale the fence quickly enough to avoid recapture. Where to go?
Off to his left, there was nothing but darkness so he headed there, scared about what he’d face there. He had no choice and he ran into the darkness.
Behind him he heard Henry yell out, “Stop, you bitch.”
Then he heard other voices, several yelling over each other.
“She got away,” he heard Henry yell. “She’s headed into the woods.”
Marcus plunged into heavy brush, stumbling over roots, fallen trees and stones but somehow staying upright. And, he ran, his bare legs, arms and face were being constantly scratched. He moved ahead and heard several men in the background.
“I think she went in there,” yelled someone.
Marcus knew he had only one strategy -- run.
*****
“Fuck, I’ll never get away,” Marcus thought, cursing his own physical weakness. Already, even after a few short moments he was breathing hard, wondering if his exhaustion would stop his heart.
He could hear rustling in the woods behind him, accompanied by shouts of “I think she went this way” and “she can’t get far.” A few “son of a bitch” and “motherfucker” expletives filled the night air. Marcus slowed down; he couldn’t breathe. Also, the woods had become so thick and dark, he kept stumbling over fallen logs. His only consolation was that his pursuers were having the same challenges he was.
Marcus found what he thought might be a path, and began to run but had only gone a few steps when the woods again seemed to close in on him. It seemed hopeless. He bent down and tried to figure out what was blocking his way, finally after feeling with his hands he guessed it must be a huge tangle of broken tree branches, bushes and bramble. His only hope, he felt, was to bury himself into the mess of forest debris.
His pursuers were nearing. Getting down on his hands and knees, he crawled into the musty, damp conglomerate, burying himself deep inside. Marcus, who had a fetish to be clean, steeled himself to put his face into the damp leaves, smelling the dampness, realizing he might be exposing himself to tiny forest creatures like worms (oh, how he hated touching the slippery, squiggly things), beetles and assorted ticks. And, he knew his lovely clothes would be ruined.
*****
Marcus had no idea how long he laid in the forest dampness; he remembered shivering mightily, hoping against hope that his teeth-chattering wouldn’t betray his location to the searchers. He heard the searchers rustling through the woods for some time, occasionally getting near. Never did their flashlight beams quite reach the tangle; even if the lights hit it, Marcus had hoped that he had covered himself up enough with leaves and branches that he’d not be seen. Evidently, it had worked.
At one point, he heard one of the searchers – it sounded like Henry – yell out: “Guess she’s ditched us. Can’t stay out here all night.”
“Let’s call it quits, boss,” a whining voice said.
“OK, five more minutes,” replied Henry. “God damn her.”
Marcus felt a sudden remorse. He’d liked Henry at first. The big man had seemed kind and gentle and understanding; yet, it was obvious that he could also be cruel and brutal when provoked.
His mind wandered to the horrors that Jefferson Turner had endured, apparently having escaped by the same manner. The more foolhardy he felt this evening’s adventure had been the more Marcus felt he was right in trying it. He had learned a lot about how Jefferson must have been similarly treated and, more importantly, he had a pretty good idea about where he had been taken. The image of the mansion to which he had been spirited was etched in his mind, even though had had had only a brief glance at the place.
It seemed like far more than five minutes before Marcus heard Henry’s voice from a distance. As far as he could hear, it sounded like they were giving up the search and that Henry had said they weren’t too worried about the escapee going to the police. “Those girls hate the coppers,” he had yelled out in ending the search.
Just to make sure, Marcus remained still for a long time before finally stirring and wrangling his way out through the mess of limbs, branches and live elder bushes.
From one direction, he could hear an occasional car, and he figured there must be a street nearby. He tried to walk in that direction, even though he was often drawn off course by occasional tangles of bushes that blocked his way. Now he was shivering hard; though the night wasn’t cold, it was cool and damp deep in the woods. His fear likely added to the intensity of his shivers.
Eventually, however, he emerged from the woods and onto a grassy area that ran alongside a roadway. He wasn’t too surprised to see he was not too far away from the exact site where had had picked up Jefferson Turner several weeks earlier, convincing him that Jefferson must have followed somewhat the same route he did.
A new fright hit Marcus. He was alone in this place called Madison Heights where the police were none too friendly; he did not have his cell phone, it had been taken from him by Henry. Perhaps a friendly motorist might pick him up and let him call Amy on his cell phone.
Too late, however, he spotted a police car approach. He knew he couldn’t flee; they’d be suspicious.
The car stopped several feet from Marcus. An officer got out from the driver’s side of the car; it was the same officer who had picked up Jefferson weeks before. He was the mean officer.
(To Be Continued)
(Eric proofread and offered important improvements. Thanks to him.)
Chapter Fourteen – Complications
Marcus knew the only strategy that would save him from the brutality of the officer was to feign being a naïve, shy girl; it wasn’t too far from his own personality he knew and it worked.
The officer grabbed Marcus’ forearm and said firmly, “What are you doing out here this so late? It’s past curfew for kids.”
Marcus began to cry.
“Answer me, girl,” the officer said again shaking Marcus, still with a steely firm tone.
“I was . . . ah . . . ah . . . kidnapped,” he finally mumbled through the sobs.
“Don’t give me that shit, girl,” the officer said gruffly.
In the partial light given off from a streetlight, Marcus could see the officer’s badge: “42 – Cpl. Matt Smith.” He made a mental note of it, and then burst into a full-blown crying jag. His histrionics were not all faked; Marcus was truly frightened as to what was in store for him.
“What’s your name, girl?” Corporal Smith asked.
“Mir . . . anda,” Marcus said, finally calming down from his crying spell.
“Miranda? Miranda what?”
“Miranda . . . ah . . . Hartley,” he replied, suddenly remembering the name of one of the foster families he’d been serving.
“No ID, either?”
“They took my ID from my purse and they took my cell phone, money, everything,” he whined.
“What kind of story is that?” Corporal Smith asked.
Marcus was led to the squad car and shoved into the back seat. “Oh, my God,” he said to himself. “This is like the car that picked me up.” There was a heavy screen partitioning off the front and back seats. He tried the door handles, but they were rigid and moved only slightly; he realized he was locked inside the car.
The corporal pulled out a cell phone and began calling someone. The windows in the car were open and with the corporal leaning up against the car as he phoned Marcus could hear some of the conversation.
“Another runaway from the Browning estate,” he overheard. Then there was a pause as the officer listened to the party on the other end of the call.
“Yeah, OK.”
*****
A few minutes later, Marcus found himself in a familiar place: the Madison Heights police station in the identical same interrogation room in which he had found Jefferson Turner several weeks earlier. There were some routine questions by an Officer Heilemann, who called herself a juvenile officer. Marcus stuck to his story: His name was Miranda Hartley and he was a teen girl, aged sixteen. He said he was in foster care and he wanted to talk to his social worker.
Officer Heilemann was a middle-aged woman, tall and husky; she had a stern demeanor, but her tone of voice was surprisingly gentle. Marcus suspected the woman was a mother. She agreed to let Marcus call his “social worker.” She left the room, returning with a phone that she plugged in.
“You may make one call and one call only,” she said. “No more than three minutes.”
She left the room.
Marcus hurriedly dialed Amy’s number, hoping she hadn’t gone to bed for the night. It was only ten-thirty.
Amy answered on the second ring, and in a tired voice said, “Yeah?”
“Amy, it’s me, Marcus.”
“Yeah, why are you calling to so late? I was just climbing in bed, wishing Miranda was here with me now.”
“Listen, Amy, I don’t have but a minute. I’m in the Madison Heights police station and I’m here as a sixteen-year-old girl in foster care and you’re my social worker. My name is Miranda Hartley. I’ll explain later. I think they’ll release me to you . . .”
“What are you saying? Marcus. Are you drunk?”
“No just come and get me. Please play along with me. Remember I’m Miranda Hartley and I’m in foster care with your agency, OK?”
“But . . .”
“Just come, Amy, please. I’ll explain later.”
The door opened. Officer Heilemann walked in. “Time’s Up,” she said.
“This is my social worker on the line,” Marcus said. “She’ll come pick me up, if it’s OK.”
The officer smiled and took the phone. She and Amy talked for a few minutes and for the most part it sounded like a friendly conversation.
“She’ll be here in about forty minutes, Miranda,” the officer said.
“Is that all, then? Are you releasing me?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, dear. Just don’t find yourself out here again.”
“But, I was kidnapped,” he protested.
“Drop that story, kid. You’re practicing prostitution and we don’t take kindly to that out here. Just thank your lucky stars we’re releasing you to your social worker.”
“You don’t care that I was kidnapped.”
“Drop that line, kid. Nobody will believe you.”
*****
“Damn it all, Marcus . . . or should I call you Miranda?” Amy said. “I should have never given you the slightest opening to get yourself into such danger.”
She was visibly upset with him for going off on his own to pass himself off as a teen girl prostitute, but also with herself.
“Nobody would follow up on Jefferson’s abduction,” he replied, as Amy pulled her car out of the police department’s parking lot. Marcus looked at the digital clock on the Madison Heights Community Bank, “12:40 a.m. – 63 degrees.”
“Shit,” Amy said, her round face still registering disgust.
Marcus hated to anger her; she had become his closest friend and he realized he had never had such an intimate relationship with anyone in his life, unless it was his mother. He wanted to please her always and not only because she was his immediate supervisor, but because he respected her for her wisdom, her knowledge and her basic honesty. He wondered if he was in love with her.
He said nothing, realizing his friend needed time to settle down after receiving the call late at night and hearing that he was in police custody. They drove in silence for several minutes, eventually passing one of those cutesy signs so typical of nouveau riche suburbs. It read: “Leaving Madison Heights. Glad you enjoyed your visit. Come back.”
“That place gives me the creeps,” Amy said, breaking the silence.
“Trying to be so nicety-nice but so phony,” Marcus agreed.
Suddenly, Amy pulled to the side of the road; they were now in the central city itself. She stopped the car and leaned over and pulled Marcus to her, hugging him tightly and smothering him in kisses.
“You scared the shit out of me, Miranda,” she said, smothering his fragile body into her husky grasp.
“You could’ve been killed, darling,” she continued. “I love you so much, Miranda.”
Marcus began crying, finally understanding how close he may have come to such a fate. There was no question the folks who spirited him to the house in Madison Heights meant business. He felt comforted in Amy’s arms, protected from anything that could harm him.
“I need you, Amy,” he said. He knew she needed him as well, but not as Marcus but as a sweet tender girl named Miranda. And, most vitally now, he realized he was Miranda.
“I want to be your Miranda,” he said, lifting his face to take more of her kisses.
“You stink, Miranda, and your hair is a terrible mess, but I love you just the same,” she said, the words bringing forth a giggle.
From the heavy sweat he developed during his escape he knew he smelled badly; the mixture of the heavy perfume and dried perspiration, not to mention whatever stench he picked up from burying himself in the forest debris, formed a putrid mixture. Obviously, he looked bad, too, since the Madison Heights police never gave him a chance to clean himself up.
“Those scratches on your face and your legs and arms?” Amy said. “Tell me dear, what happened.”
As they resumed their drive back to Amy’s apartment, Marcus related the night’s experiences, including his suspicions as to what they intended for him inside the sumptuous Madison Heights mansion.
“You think it’s a ring for child sex, Miranda?”
“What else could it be? Look they picked up Jefferson through an apparent deal with the Harrisons who must be supplying them tender young boys like Jefferson and then they picked me up off the streets, just ‘cause I too looked like a tender teen girl,” he speculated.
“Is that why you dressed so outrageously, darling?”
He laughed. “I wasn’t outrageous, just wanted to look like a newbie on the streets, young and tender.”
She smiled. “You succeeded masterfully.”
“From the little Jefferson told us, and from what I experienced tonight, I think there’s something like that going on at that mansion and I think those keystone cops in that fancy suburb are being paid off. Perhaps, too, our model foster parents, the Harrisons, as well.”
“You’re making a lot of suppositions there, dear,” Amy replied.
They arrived at Amy’s apartment building, where Amy had an underground parking space; they took the elevator from the parking level to the apartment without being seen by other residents of the building. Marcus realized that his appearance as a banged-up teen girl might compromise Amy’s reputation in the building.
“Let’s get you into a shower, dear, and let’s look at those cuts,” Amy said once they entered the apartment.
She led him into the bathroom, pulling a fluffy pink towel out of the linen closet on the way. Despite his mild protests, Amy helped him take off his clothes, leaving him stark naked in front of her.
“I just love looking at your lovely body, Miranda,” she said. “Now let’s examine those cuts.”
She slowly ran her finger up each leg, looking at the many scratches; her touch was light and caressing and it excited Marcus causing his male part to stiffen. Fortunately, even at its stiffest, it was not overly large and intrusive. He loved feeling her fingers massage his skin as she moved to look at the marks on his arms and face.
“They look just like scratches,” Amy said. “Just wash each them fully and they should heal OK.”
“Maybe you can help me wash up in the shower,” Marcus suggested.
“Hmmmmm.”
*****
Later in Amy’s bed, the two held each other, neither initiating any overt sexual maneuvers. They talked softly to each other, Amy still expressing how worried she had been, while Marcus sought to assure her that he was able to defend himself.
“I think you’re right in your suspicions,” Amy said finally. “But how can we prove them?”
“Get Jefferson to testify,” Marcus suggested.
“Maybe, but will he?”
“He might, after I tell him my experiences.”
“But could you find that place again?” Amy asked. “You said you couldn’t look out the windows of the car, right?”
“Yeah, and that joint was off the road, probably hidden from sight by trees.”
They were silent for a minute.
“I just remembered something one of the officers said,” Marcus said. “He said something like, ‘she – I guess he was referring to me – must be one of Browning’s girls.’ Maybe that’s the name of the guy who owns the mansion.”
“Browning?”
“I’m pretty sure that was the name. Do you know it?”
“Haven’t you heard of Browning Investments?” Amy asked.
“Yeah, I’ve heard of them.”
“Well they’re based in Madison Heights and Paul Browning the founder lives there, too.”
“I didn’t know that,” Marcus admitted. “Weren’t they involved in one of those hedge fund scandals?”
“Yeah, they were, but they were cleared,” Amy said. “Now, they’re struggling to clean up their image.”
“Let’s tell all this to Emery,” Marcus suggested.
“Emery who?”
“You know, Emery Harrington, the assistant DA. You know, we’ve met him at Luke’s and I’ve had a few cases with him. He seems like a pretty dedicated guy.”
“Guess that’s a start,” Amy said, drawing Marcus to her. Neither were wearing any night clothes and they enjoyed the rest of the night relishing each other’s bodies.
*****
After Marcus explained that he had a “delicate” situation to present, Emery Harrington agreed to meet with him and Amy at four o’clock the next afternoon. They were led into the same tiny office they had visited before and Harrington’s desk was still covered by the same thick file folders and books. Amy had to remove several file folders from one of the room’s two straight-backed chairs before she could sit down.
“Sorry for the mess, but you can see we’re cramped for space out here,” Harrington said.
For a prosecutor who was gaining a reputation for being a fierce competitor in the courtroom, Harrington seemed to always display a warm, friendly demeanor in their meetings, Marcus observed. He was no less accommodating today, even though both Marcus and Amy sensed he’d had a harrowing day of work. They knew the DA’s office was short-staffed.
“Remember the Jefferson Turner situation, Emery?” Marcus began.
“Yeah, very well, Marcus, and I told you I needed more solid evidence, didn’t I?” Harrington responded.
“I think I’ve got it for you.”
Harrington nodded as if inviting Marcus to proceed. Instead, Amy took over the explanation.
“First of all, I need to ask you, Emery. Do you remember the lovely girl who has been drinking with us at Luke’s? Miranda?”
Emery smiled. “So?”
“I knew you would, Emery. You seemed to be quite taken with her, as I recall, and I kidded you about telling your Pauline?”
Harrington’s expression darkened, apparently at the sound of his longtime girlfriend’s name.
“Yeah, I remember. What has that got to do with this case?
“Well, Miranda’s here with us today,” Amy said, turning her head toward Marcus. “Meet Miranda.”
The assistant DA grew puzzled, but he examined Marcus closely, not saying anything at first. Then, as if a sudden realization had hit his mind, he nodded.
“My God! You,” he said accusingly at Marcus. “I thought you looked familiar. Of course, you could be Miranda.”
“It’s not against the law, Emery, for a guy to dress like a woman,” Amy said quickly.
“No, of course not, but still. Damn I can see how you could be a beautiful woman.”
Marcus smiled and then, assuming his more feminine voice, he said, “Care to buy me a drink, darling?”
“Anytime, Miranda,” Harrington responded with a smile.
“Let me explain all this, Emery,” Marcus began, but the assistant DA stopped him.
“Some other time, just tell what this has to do with the Turner case,” Harrington commanded.
Marcus and Amy spent another ten minutes, outlining how Marcus – dressed as a teenager named “Mariah” – had been literally kidnapped, taken to a mansion in Madison Heights, escaped and then picked up by the suburb’s police. They speculated, too, that the Madison Heights police department acted strangely, not seeming to care that they may have had a kidnapping case on their hands or that a child prostitution ring may be operating within their municipality.
“And your evidence is your own testimony, Marcus?” he asked when they were done.
“Well, yes, but then there were two girls who must have seen me pulled into that car. I sure we can find them, they seemed like regulars along Grove street.”
“Maybe we can get Jefferson to fully ‘fess up now, once we tell him what Marcus has learned,” Amy suggested.
“Possibly, but he’s not wanted to talk about it, particularly to anyone in law enforcement,” Marcus agreed.
“OK, sounds like you have a good lead, Marcus. Would you be able to find this mansion you talk about?”
“Not sure, I couldn’t see out of the car at all, but I did get a good look at the place just before I escaped, and I overheard one of the officers refer to it as the Browning place.”
“Browning?” Harrington said, unable to hold back the shock at hearing the name.
“Yeah, the big hedge fund guy apparently,” Amy said.
“No wonder the coppers out there wanted nothing to do with it. If it’s the Brownings, you have to know, that family runs the town,” Harrington said.
“Then you’ll look into it Emery?” Amy asked.
“This may be a case for the County Task Force on Prostitution,” he replied.
Harrington told Amy and Marcus to not do anything further; he promised he’d get action started and keep them informed.
“But Miranda,” he said, looking directly at Marcus. “Don’t do any more amateur detective work like that. You could easily have been hurt or even killed, but not before they’d have raped you. Lie low.”
Marcus and Amy got up to leave and Emery Harrington offered to lead them to the exit. As they walked he said cheerfully, “I still need to buy Miranda a drink sometime.”
Marcus smiled at him; it was flirtatious.
“Let’s say next Friday after work at the Irish Pub,” Harrington said, mentioning another popular spot not too far from the Opportunities, Inc. office.
Marcus look questioningly at Amy, who scowled but seemed to shrug her shoulders as if to tell him to do what he wanted.
“I’d like that,” he said.
“Ok, then, but you’ll have to dress like an adult, though. No more teeny-bopper look.”
“What about your Pauline, Emery?” Amy said, referring to the man’s apparent girlfriend.
“Oh her,” he said disdainfully. “That’s over. We’re done with each other.”
“That’s too bad, Emery,” Amy said. “She was a pretty girl.”
“Oh, she’s pretty enough,” he said, “But she dumped me after I turned down an offer to become a junior partner at Quinten and McBride. I don’t think she wants to live on an assistant DA’s income, but I couldn’t see myself working for such a hoity-toity law firm. As frustrating as this job is, I feel I’m doing some good here.”
Marcus was impressed with his explanation. As they got to the door, he looked to Emery, “See you about five-thirty then at the Irish Pub on Friday.”
“Wear something that’ll cheer me up, Miranda,” he said smiling.
As they exited, Amy grabbed Marcus’ arm, angrily pulling him out into the hallway.
“What was that all about?” she hissed at him, her words said in low volume.
“What do you mean, Amy?” he said, puzzled at her reaction.
“Never mind,” she said, seeming to retreat into a pout.
The pair had reached the screening post, where the three deputies charged with checking in everyone to assure no weapons were brought into the juvenile building were standing idly by. Since it was late in the day, few persons were entering the building. They waved at Amy and Marcus as they exited into the parking lot.
*****
“Since when do you like guys, Marcus?” Amy said as they began their drive from the juvenile center.
“I don’t like guys. I’m not gay,” he said, astounded by her question.
“My God, you were flirting with him.”
“Flirting? No, I wasn’t. He asked me for an after-work drink. What’s wrong with that?”
“No, he asked Miranda for a drink. Not Marcus,” Amy said, her voice rising in anger.
Marcus was puzzled by Amy’s reaction. Hadn’t she encouraged his dressing up as Miranda, supported his growing femininity? Hadn’t they spent hours together while he was in his Miranda persona?
“Well, either way, I’m just going to have a drink with him. I’m not going to bed with him.”
Amy said nothing for a few minutes. They continued back into the center the city, as if they were headed to Amy’s apartment. “Are we going to your place?” Marcus finally asked.
“I don’t think so,” Amy said. “I’ll just drop you off at your apartment. I’m tired tonight.”
“OK,” Marcus said simply. He wasn’t ready to accept Amy’s excuse; in the past, Amy had wanted Marcus (as Miranda) even when she was tired.
When they reached, 5th Street, Amy turned right, and headed to Marcus’ apartment. She said nothing more, except for a curt “Good night” as she dropped him off.
*****
Marcus had an empty feeling as he entered his apartment; the place was stuffy and felt oppressive; the windows had been closed and the afternoon sun shining through the windows had obviously heated the place up. Frankly, it had become almost routine for Amy and he to be together at night, often tumbling into bed together when they first entered Amy’s apartment from work. After a round of love-making, the two would shower together and then make dinner.
Always, Marcus would turn into Miranda, often wearing only panties and a light, airy nightgown that had spaghetti straps. He loved the gown since it left his slender shoulders and pretty arms exposed. Amy loved seeing him in it, often telling him, “You’re the daintiest of girls, Miranda.”
For her part, Amy often wore only a bra and panties that showed her strong, firm husky body. Miranda (for he was totally Miranda on these evenings) was enthralled by the soft rolls of fat around her tummy and the woman’s full thighs. But not on this evening. Marcus realized Amy’s outsized reaction over Emery’s invitation for a drink must have been jealousy. He realized that Amy may have been thinking that Miranda might lose interest in her in favor of a handsome young man.
Marcus took off all of his clothes and flopped naked onto his bed. He hadn’t turned on the window air conditioner and the room continued to be hot and stuffy. For some strange reason, he seemed to enjoy wallowing in the sweat that began to cover his soft flesh. He began to wonder what it would be like to be a defenseless woman in the embraces of a vibrant young man like Emery Harrington. He imagined himself without his male organ, with a flat crotch and a vagina. Perhaps, too, he’d have modest breasts, not big and full like Amy’s but rather, tidy, smallish breasts like a budding teenage girl.
The image excited him.
He looked at the ceiling, his eyes following a crack in the ancient plaster that went from the overhead light in the center of the room toward an outside window.
“I love being Miranda,” he said out loud. “I’m all woman.”
He fell asleep.
*****
Marcus awakened in the morning, smelling awful after his night of sleeping in his muggy room; he turned on his room air conditioner and rushed in to shower to prepare himself for the coming day.
Amy came in late to work that day. She walked through the office, greeting her co-workers, but doing so in a most curt manner, unlike her usually more garrulous morning entrances. She ignored Marcus, however, who had wondered how Amy would act after the previous day’s meeting with Emery. Marcus had expected that Amy might still be upset over his acceptance of a “date” with Emery, but he was unprepared for what he saw. Even in her rush to get by his desk, Marcus could see the woman’s face was flushed and her eyes red; it was obvious she had been crying.
The other women in the office obviously noticed the snub Amy gave Marcus, with Latesha and Mollie exchanging looks that gave away their conclusions that Amy and Marcus – already the subject of office gossip over their apparent “affair” – must have had a fight.
Marcus tried not to let his current issues with Amy interfere with his work. He had a busy day ahead with visits scheduled for the Hartley and Jenkins households. He felt he had neglected both families due to his efforts to uncover the apparent trafficking ring that involved Jefferson Turner. Yet, as Marcus attempted to review the status of the foster children in both households, his thoughts were interrupted by reflections upon how he may be betraying Amy, a woman for whom he truly held great affections and one that didn’t deserve to be cast aside by him.
Last night in bed, he had been enthralled with the notion that he was a fetching young woman who had won the fancy of a vigorous young man. Guilt flooded his mind. He was so confused. It was then the realization hit: his attraction to both Amy and Emery were those of a young woman. Yes, he was Miranda. Perhaps, Marcus no longer existed.
(To be continued)
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading and helpful story suggestions)
(As a young social worker embraces his femininity, he becomes an attractive young woman, creating complications in his love life, while facing danger in seeking to ferret out a human trafficking racket.)
Chapter Fifteen – Growing Danger
Marcus was jerked out of his reverie when his desk phone rang. It was Officer Heddy Jelacic whose voice he immediately recognized. She spoke in a raspy, crisp voice that sounded almost angry in tone.
“Marcus, I heard about your escapade,” she said without beginning with any of the usual small talk the two usually shared in their conversations. “What were you thinking? You could have gotten killed.”
“I thought I might learn some . . .”
His reply was shut off by Jelacic’s sharp voice. “Well, anyway, you’re going to have to come with me to the County Courts building to meet with the Task Force.”
“Oh?”
“Seems you stirred up a hornet’s nest and the Task Force brains need to talk to you and Jefferson Turner. And the Commander here is pissed and ordered me to work fulltime on this project.”
Marcus smiled. Perhaps, his escapade, as Heddy had called it, had achieved its purpose by getting some action out of the authorities.
“OK. When?”
“Tomorrow at ten in the morning at their office,” she said. “Let’s meet before for coffee.”
He agreed they’d meet at “Kaffee Klatzsch,” a popular coffee house near the Courts building at nine.
Officer Jelacic changed the subject suddenly. “I understand you make a pretty attractive young woman,” she said.
“So I’ve been told,” he admitted. He felt embarrassed to admit his cross-dressing to Heddy since it exposed his lack of masculinity to a woman who was obviously stronger and more fit than he was.
“I’d love to see you in a dress,” she said, her voice taking on a teasing quality.
“I have my admirers,” he laughed.
“Maybe you should come as a girl tomorrow. By the way, what girl’s name do you use?”
“Miranda, but I think I’ll come as Marcus.”
She laughed. “Guess you’re right. Some other time. See you at nine tomorrow, then.”
Without another word, Officer Jelacic hung up and was gone, leaving Marcus to wonder what she truly felt about his feminine nature. He turned to his computer and up-dated his calendar, realizing he’d have to miss the usual eight-in-the-morning Thursday staff meeting, something that was a “no-no” in the eyes of Director Rodriguez and Amy, his supervisor.
He fretted over how to tell Amy about his need to miss the meeting, hoping she’d stop by his desk and he could bring it up casually; otherwise, he realized he’d have to go into her private office, stand in front of her desk and make his request. He felt intimidated to stand before a superior – as Amy in reality was.
He had to leave by nine-thirty to get to his appointment with the Hartley family and he waited until he had about ten minutes to spare before entering Amy’s office. She looked up at him as he entered, saying nothing but fixing him with an expression that expressed annoyance. She still looked puffy and red-eyed.
“I’m going to have to miss the staff meeting tomorrow,” he said in a rush, feeling terribly inadequate. “I’ve been asked to be interviewed by the County Task Force looking into that Jefferson Turner case.”
“What time?”
“Ten, but I have to meet Officer Jelacic at nine.”
“You better come to the staff meeting at eight anyway. You can leave at ten to nine.”
“But . . .” he started to protest.
“No buts. See you at eight tomorrow morning and be on time. Good bye.”
She turned her back on him to look at her computer. He was dismissed.
Marcus wanted to cry.
*****
Amy’s reaction to Emery’s invitation troubled Marcus the rest of the day, haunting him through his home visits to the Hartley and Jenkins families and into his evening. He stopped by a nearby sandwich shop and picked up a turkey breast sub sandwich that would constitute his whole supper along with a diet cola drink.
He wanted to avoid getting into his tiny apartment that evening, feeling so confused and perhaps a bit depressed so he stopped at the small urban park, finding an empty picnic table. He set down his sandwich and drink. The food sat uneaten before him for a long time and he sat forlornly, staring blankly at the scene in the park that constituted a green respite amidst the tall buildings of the city. A gray half-light had already descended upon the area due the shade from the tall buildings that blocked out the setting sun. The park benches and occasional picnic benches were nearly all occupied, some with young couples cuddled together and others with old, unkempt men, possibly homeless individuals killing time. But Marcus didn’t see them; all he saw was Amy’s angry, dismissive actions that morning.
Perhaps to keep peace with Amy, he should call Emery and cancel their get-together, using an excuse that “something came up a work.” Yes, that’s what he would do; but, Emery would only seek to set up another date. Marcus continued to ponder the dilemma, then asking himself the question: what was wrong with having a drink with Emery? He wasn’t committing to a relationship or even going to bed with him. Besides, he and Amy weren’t engaged or anything. They’d made no promises to each other, had they?
His thoughts were interrupted when a voice said: “Mind I sit here? All the other tables are full.”
“Ah . . . oh . . . yeah. Go ahead,” Marcus replied, finally shaken out of his stupor.
The man was well-dressed in a blue business suit, white shirt and a tie opened slightly at the neck. He was middle-aged with a full head of black hair, a bit a gray showing at the temples. He smiled at Marcus and said, “Thank you. Hope you didn’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Marcus said, turning quickly to his sandwich that still lie unopened before him.
“My name’s Quincy . . . or Quin, for short,” the man said, holding out his hand from across the picnic table. The man also placed a paper bag with the printed symbol of a well-known fast food place on the table.
“Mir . . . ah . . . Marcus.”
“Marcus, can I call you Mark?”
“Marcus is what everyone calls me.”
“Alone, too, tonight, Marcus?” the man asked after several minutes. Marcus still hadn’t opened his sandwich.
“Ah, yes.” Marcus said, simply without any further comment.
Both men ate silently and Marcus quickly became deep in thought oblivious to the stranger and the park surroundings. Marcus grew more depressed as he realized his potential loss of Amy as a lover, and he rubbed his eyes as if to brush away a tear.
“Something bothering you, Marcus?” the stranger named Quincy asked.
“Huh?”
“You seem also sad tonight,” the man repeated.
“I guess.”
“Care to share your concerns?” It was a kind suggestion and didn’t seem intrusive.
“Nah, it’s OK. Just a personal matter,” Marcus said, hoping the man would just go away.
“It’s none of my business, I know, but sometimes sharing your worries with a stranger can help,” Quincy said, a warm smile accompanying the comment.
“No, I don’t want to bore you with my problems,” Marcus said.
“I’ve got nothing but time tonight. Go ahead.”
Five minutes later, Marcus finished telling of his apparent breakup with Amy and how it affected him. For some reason, Marcus even admitted that he sometimes dressed up as Miranda. The revelation didn’t seem to shock the man, who continued to ask questions in an empathetic manner that prompted Marcus to tell the man about things he’d rarely admit to anyone else.
“You must have made a very pretty young woman,” Quincy volunteered at one point.
“That’s what people keep telling me. I kind of like being dressed as Miranda,” he agreed, immediately sorry that he admitted to his feelings.
“I’d like to see Miranda sometime.”
Marcus laughed. “I don’t know about that. I’ve got enough complications in my life, Quincy.”
“I sense you’ve got nothing to do tonight and I have no plans. My apartment is just a couple of blocks down and I have a bunch of my old girlfriend’s stuff. She’s supposed to come by and get it, but hasn’t yet. Why not give it a try?”
Marcus was shocked by the invitation. No way would he agree to go to a strange man’s apartment.
“Thanks for the offer, but I don’t go to anyone’s apartment I don’t know,” Marcus said.
“It’s a shame, my ex has some really great looking dresses and you’d look divine in them. You look about her size.”
Marcus smiled. “Sounds inviting, but no thanks, Quincy.”
“Fair enough,” Quincy said. “I don’t go about making invitations like this. In fact, this is the first time, but you looked so sad and I don’t plan anything nasty. Just two guys sharing their lives for a brief moment. Let me tell you something about myself then.”
“No, Quincy, that’s not necessary,” Marcus said, determined to remain firm in his decision not to accompany the man to his apartment.
“I do social work, too,” Quincy said.
Marcus was growing suspicious of the man’s insistence that he go to his apartment. Did the man have sexual desires he needed satisfied? Possibly, Marcus figured. He’d been approached before by man who were apparently gay who invited him to go off with them, but usually they accepted rejections fairly quickly once the learned Marcus was not interested in a gay relationship.
“Quincy, I’ve got to go,” Marcus said, gathering up his partially eaten sandwich and drink and lifting himself off the picnic bench.
“But, Marcus . . .”
“Nice talking with you. Bye.”
Marcus walked away, dumping his drink cup and the remains of his sandwich into a trash can. He kept looking straight ahead and it was only after he rounded a curve in the park walk and was somewhat shrouded by bushes that he looked back to see if he was being followed. The trail behind him was empty and Marcus picked up his pace, hoping to put distance between him and the well-dressed man.
It was when he reached the street and looked to hail a cab that the realization hit him. Quincy knew that Marcus was a social worker; he was certain he hadn’t mentioned that fact when telling his story. How did the man know? And, why had he sat down on his bench? The more he thought about it he also knew that the meeting in the park had not been serendipitous. He had been targeted.
Though it was warm, Marcus shivered as he awaited an empty cab; he knew the chill came from his own fright. He stood on the avenue for several minutes, growing more and more impatient and frightened. Finally, one stopped and Marcus hopped in, giving the driver his address. As they pulled away from the curb, Marcus looked out the back window of the cab to see if there were any signs of him being followed. Aside from the normal street traffic, he saw nothing suspicious.
Yet, he didn’t feel he could breathe easy. Something was up, and it must have been due to his escapade into the adventure of teen girl trafficking.
*****
His small apartment was hot and muggy, but Marcus still felt chilled and he took off his clothes and totally nude flung himself onto his bed, pulling a sheet and comforter over him. He curled up in a fetal position and tried to warm up.
It was obvious; he was a hunted man. No doubt, the men who had abducted him were concerned about what he had seen that night, just as they had gone after Jefferson Turner when he escaped. Young Jefferson was probably safe in the confines of Hope Place, but Marcus was exposed. And, he was known to them.
When he finally warmed up and stopped shivering, Marcus began to consider his next steps. Normally, he’d call Amy, but given their recently cold relationship he didn’t feel that would help. He considered calling Officer Heddy Jelacic, but he only had her police number and she’d obviously not be working. Maybe Emery might help, he thought, but quickly rejected that since he had no proof that his meeting in the park with a man called Quincy was anything more than a casual park chat.
“I’ll have to do my own detective work,” he said out loud.
The idea scared him. He didn’t know where to start. Most of all, he was worried about what he’d find out.
*****
Marcus awoke the next morning to the sounds of a lone cardinal singing his cheerful song outside his partially opened window. Buoyed by the lyrical melody, he felt momentarily cheery. His reverie was short-lived as he recalled his encounter the previous night with the strange man named Quincy. His thoughts began to race and he tried to put himself at ease as he completed his shower and readied his simple morning breakfast of yogurt, a banana, a bit of granola and a single cup of tea.
“I still alive, at least,” he said to himself. The words caused him to laugh and begin to wonder if he was being silly by even considering that Quincy might be part of a mass plot to eliminate him – gangster-style.
Temporarily satisfied with the rationalization that he had nothing to fear, he set off to work hoping to get to the office early enough to check his emails before the eight o’clock staff meeting.
*****
Amy was all business as she opened the morning staff meeting; there was none of the usual small talk that often took up at fifteen minutes at the start of the meeting. All eight social workers who were part of Amy’s team were present and they looked at each other in wonderment, curious as to the cause of their supervisor’s unusual dour behavior. It was a practice each meeting that each worker briefly outline one case – usually their most troublesome situation – and then open up for discussion on possible solutions to the case. As she does at every meeting, she assured the workers that they should feel free to be open and frank.
“We look to this case-sharing to be a learning experience for all of us,” she began. “We are not looking for criticism from other workers. Each case is different and we don’t want any of you to feel a worker has made a mistake. Perhaps the worker did make a mistake, but then don’t we all? When you’re dealing with human beings there never is an easy answer.”
In spite of Amy’s warning, the workers nonetheless were wary of giving information on any case where they could be accused to being wrong or where they could be accused of being lazy. Marcus, who was the newest on staff, always felt uneasy in presenting his cases since he was always questioning himself on his own abilities.
This morning, however, he was totally ignored; Amy refused to acknowledge him when he tried to speak up to offer a suggestion in one of Mollie’s cases. Aware of Amy’s unusual cool demeanor that morning, all of the workers kept their comments short and concise. One by one, each worker described a case, except for Marcus. Amy never gave him an opportunity to discuss his case and adjourned the meeting.
“But Amy, I didn’t get a chance to . . .” he protested.
“Mr. Whiting, we’re done here. Adjourned.” Amy’s works were sharp, angry.
As he left the room, Latesha came to his side and whispered, “What’s up, Marcus? Did you two have a fight?”
“I guess,” was all Marcus could reply, holding back his need to burst into tears.
“I won’t pry, Marcus, but if you need a friend, I’m here . . .”
Latesha’s words were interrupted as Amy yelled out, “Mr. Whiting, you’re to report to Mr. Ramirez now. Don’t go back to your desk, don’t talk to anyone. See Mr. Ramirez now.”
The whole office staff was silent and Marcus felt every eye was upon him. He never felt more rejected in his life.
*****
Marcus stopped dead in his tracks; he was only ten feet from his own desk. Nonetheless, Amy’s command was specific and demanding. He paused for what seemed like minutes, but in reality, it was just a few seconds. No longer did he feel like bursting into tears. Instead he was filled with a mixture of fright and anger. It just didn’t seem fair that he was being treated with what seemed like sheer contempt, even though his actions had been aimed at trying to help Jefferson Turner and young people like him. That angered him and now he was being summoned to what was certainly to be a reprimand of some sort.
Hector Ramirez had an “open door policy,” meaning that any staff member was free to knock and enter his office if he was alone and not on the phone. Marcus rapped on the door.
“Come in and close the door, Mr. Whiting,” said the director looking up from his computer, his expression serious. Gone was the director’s usual cheerful face; he seemed always to have a sparkling, pleasant demeanor. Marcus saw only a dour face on the handsome man.
“Mr. Whiting, as you know, you’re still in your probationary period here,” he began.
“It’s six months, isn’t it, sir?” Marcus asked. “I’m just a week short of that, I think.”
“You’re still in your probation period, though, and your behavior recently will endanger the reputation and efficacy of our agency. Therefore, I am terminating you immediately.”
Marcus was shocked. He was prepared for some kind of reprimand, even though he felt he’d done nothing wrong.
“But . . .” he protested, holding back tears that would soon burst out.
“I’m afraid I have no choice, Mr. Whiting. You’ll have to go.”
“Why? What did I do? Is it about my crossdressing?”
“No, what you do in your own private time is no business of ours, as long as it’s legal. But, engaging in prostitution is illegal and we can’t have a prostitute here. Your actions the other night were despicable, and now you are trying to accuse other reputable citizens of a crime. We can’t be involved in anything like that.”
Marcus wanted to explain that his escapade was nothing but his own personal sting operation against a group that seemed to be targeting vulnerable young boys and girls.
“We thought you had promise here and you seemed to be fulfilling my belief that men could be effective workers in that program, but you disappointed me, Mr. Whiting,” the director continued.
Marcus continued to look directly at the director; he had successfully held back from crying. He decided he would not plead to keep his job, but would hold his head high. As the director continued talking, Marcus could see the man was growing uneasy, likely due to Marcus’ stolid response.
There was a knock, and Ramirez yelled “come in.” Two persons entered and Marcus recognized them as Patti Hettely, the agency’s human relations person, and Malik Lincoln, the chief building security officer.
“Take care of this Patti and Malik. I want him out of the building in thirty minutes. Let him get his personal belongings from his desk, but make sure he doesn’t take anything else, particularly a flash drive or CD. Got it?”
“Yes, sir,” Malik said, not looking at Marcus.
“Patti, arrange for him to get two weeks’ pay and complete any termination papers you need to,” he ordered.
“Come on Marcus,” Malik said, gently, helping the young man to his feet.
He was led from the director’s office; Ramirez said nothing as he left.
*****
Patti asked Marcus a few simple questions, such as where to send his check. She advised him that the agency would not approve his application for unemployment compensation since he had been terminated and not laid off. Likely, too, because the state’s Republican administration had so tightened compensation rules Marcus figured he wouldn’t qualify anyway.
Marcus mused that Patti Hettely was terribly unsympathetic for a person designated to be “human relations officer,” even though she was a trim looking woman in her early thirties, with long blonde hair. She could have been a beautiful woman, except for the firm, tight expression around her mouth. His conclusions about her were further confirmed by the curt way she dismissed him from her office. Not even a word about how her office might assist him in finding a new job or adjusting to the cruel fate of being “fired.”
“You’re done here. Go,” she said without emotion.
Malik Lincoln, however, was sympathetic, whispering in his ear as he led Marcus to his desk that he was sure there was “some sort of misunderstanding.” In his nearly six months at the agency, Marcus had come to like the huge, muscular man – a onetime professional wrestler – who routinely had some pleasant words to say to him as he entered the building or left the building from his position in the building’s lobby.
*****
Out of uniform, Heddy Jelacic was a strikingly statuesque and attractive woman; her short light brown hair was fixed with a few curls helped to form a face that could only be described as cute. She suggested they meet for dinner at the Café Danzig, a popular restaurant that featured Polish and German entries. “It’s out of the way, Marcus, and no chance of being seen there.”
In her phone call, she had explained that it was important the two not be seen together by anyone connected to either the police department or Opportunities, Inc.
“So, you’ve been both fired and told to stay away from Jefferson Turner and not to have anything to do with Madison Heights?” she asked.
“Yes, and Mr. Ramirez was especially firm about that,” Marcus said.
“This is not only strange, but it sounds a bit scary, doesn’t it?”
"I guess we need to act in a ‘cloak-and-dagger’ fashion, and the restaurant sounds good for that,” Marcus said. Briefly, he toyed with telling Heddy about being approached by the man in the park and his own growing suspicions that the man may have been stalking him.
Café Danzig was located in one of those changing urban neighborhoods; for more than one hundred years the area had been home to the city’s huge Polish population, but recent immigration was causing the stores in the area to display its signs in Spanish, replacing the old Polish language signs. The café was in a nondescript large concrete block building; window frames in ornate style showed a small intent to add some Polish character to the outside façade.
Marcus was impressed with how lovely Heddy Jelacic was when dressed up. He mused that a woman as attractive as she was that night deserved to have a man at her elbow that was more handsome and masculine than he was. If his wimpish looks bothered her, she gave no clue. Instead, she greeted him with a huge smile and opened her arms for a hug. They stood eye-to-eye as they exchanged a chaste kiss.
“Let’s not worry about calories tonight,” Heddy said as they studied the menu. “The pierogi here is great, the dumplings aren’t too heavy and I usually choose the pork shank.”
She was right; Marcus chose the pierogi and found it every bit as delicious as Heddy had promised it would be. Yet, he feared it would add an inch to his waist. Marcus found himself enthralled with the uniforms worn by the waitresses. He wondered how he’d look in the colorful, full skirts, the white fluffy blouses and bib-like vests, with all the embroidery and frilly lace.
Heddy must have read his mind. “Their outfits are lovely, aren’t they?” she queried.
He reddened with her comment. She smiled warmly, as if to reassure him it was OK for him to imagine himself as Miranda in one of the outfits.
“You know you were both stupid and courageous, Marcus,” she said once the two had finished their meals; they both passed on dessert, settling for coffee.
“For what?”
“For venturing out as a teen prostitute. You were crazy to do it, but it was gutsy, proving you don’t have to be a big strong crude guy to be brave,” she said.
“Something had to be done,” he replied. “No one seemed to care.”
Heddy nodded. “And now they want this whole thing to be swept under the rug,” she said.
“Maybe that’s behind my firing,” Marcus replied.
“I wouldn’t doubt it. When I asked about you when we first started investigating, Amy said you were the greatest new worker she’d ever had. Now, you’re fired and for what? Certainly not for incompetence. It just doesn’t compute. Could it have happened to stifle the investigation?”
Marcus wasn’t certain Amy’s change of heart had anything to do with the investigation of child trafficking that may have involved Jefferson Turner and most likely many other youth. More likely, he felt, it was her jealousy over his acceptance of meeting Emery Harrington. Yet, it was probably a combination of both, he felt.
“We need to check into the Browning link,” Heddy said. “You said you heard one of the thugs use that name?”
“Yes, and then he caught himself, like he said something he shouldn’t.”
“Hmmm, that’s interesting. The Brownings practically own that town, you know,” she said.
“Do you have a picture of the Browning mansion?” he asked.
“You did get a glimpse of it, you said. Do you think you saw enough to recognize it?”
“I think so, but I can’t find a picture of it in my online search,” Marcus said. He had done some cursory checking of the name and learned how politically powerful the family was in the area.
“I’ll see if I can find a picture,” she said. “There really must be. And, you know, something else sounds suspicious. Madison Heights police said they had no record of you being picked up that night. None at all.”
“My God, they even took my fingerprints,” Marcus replied. “They’re lying.”
“I smell a cover-up.”
That new information prompted Marcus to relate the story of the man in the park. Heddy grew alarmed. “Oh, my God,” she said. “You could be in danger.”
*****
As they left the restaurant, Marcus noticed they were eyed, mainly by the men in the place. It was obvious they were eyeing the tall woman in front of him. Heddy’s form-fitting cocktail dress displayed her truly remarkable figure, trim waist, attractive butt and hips and modest, but firm and erect breasts. Her muscular arms and legs may have detracted a bit from her femininity, but they left the impression of a confident, determined woman.
Marcus wondered if he, as Miranda, would ever draw such admiring – perhaps even lustful – glances. Certainly, he was softer and exuded more femininity than the police officer in front of him, but he wondered if he would be as sexy. The couple shared a hug in the parking lot, with Marcus feeling the more fragile of the two. Officer Jelacic held Marcus close to her and he smelled her perfume.
“I love your perfume, Heddy,” he said as they broke apart.
“Thank you. I’m pleased you noticed. It’s not too expensive and you can get it at Macy’s,” she smiled.
She gave him the perfume’s name. It was a French name and Marcus wasn’t certain how it was spelled, so he asked her to spell it out. She did and then smiled, “You’re very much a woman, aren’t you?”
“Maybe.”
“From what I’ve seen of your pictures, you’re a true beauty. I’m jealous.”
Marcus laughed, remembering the reactions of the men in the café. “You got nothing to be jealous about, Heddy.”
“You’re sweet,” she said. Giving him a kiss on his cheek, as she turned to enter her car.
Marcus held onto her hand, preventing her from moving toward the car. He enjoyed her company and was reluctant to let go. “Well, I enjoy your company and I like you very much,” he said, surprising himself with his sudden forwardness. He felt comfortable being with her.
She smiled, quickly bringing her other hand over to grasp his. Her grip was firm, but gentle and his hand felt small and weak in her grip.
“Well, I like you, too,” she replied with a smile. “Maybe we can do a girls’ night out sometime, right Miranda? I’d like to see the lovely girl in real life.”
“Really?” he asked astounded that she’d entertain him dressed as a young woman.
“Of course,” she said, releasing his hand, and turning to enter her car.
“Good night,” he said.
“Now Marcus, you be careful and keep an eye out. Report anything you see that might be suspicious, even if you think it might be trivial,” she warned, standing at the opened door of her car.
“I will,” he assured her.
“And I’ll check out that Browning lead, too,” she said, entering her car.
As he drove to his apartment, Marcus forgot the apparent danger he was in, but concentrated instead on Heddy’s desire to see him again – as Miranda. The thought excited him as he imagined walking into a club with the statuesque Heddy Jelacic at his side, hoping that his own feminine beauty would attract as many admiring – and lustful eyes – as Heddy had that evening. He wondered if Heddy visited lesbian bars. He knew he’d be the femme in a lesbian couple, with Heddy the butch.
He didn’t notice the black SUV that followed several cars behind.
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading and great suggestions in the plot)
Chapter Sixteen – The Ruse
In his apartment, which was hot and stuffy, Marcus stripped down except for his Jockey shorts before he turned on the ancient and noisy window air conditioning unit. He lamented that nearly all his female clothing was in Amy’s apartment; all he had on hand were a few panties and a flimsy nightgown. He wondered whether Amy would balk at letting him retrieve his outfits.
He knew he must phone his mother and tell her that he had been fired but wondered how to go about it. He was her only child and she had doted on him as much as she could; he was just turning two years old when his father bolted the family, leaving his mother to raise him on her own. At the time, she was a young teller at a community bank in their small city in rural southwest Wisconsin. It had been a difficult time, but Marcus never realized it as a young child since his mother somehow had shown him love and affection that easily made up for the desperate surroundings of their tiny two-room upper flat they rented above a store along the main street of a small village that sat along the shores of the Mississippi River.
Since then, his mother had shown the drive and intelligence that had propelled her to become the vice-president and chief loan officer of the bank. She had had only a few male friends since her separation since eligible single men were rare in the area. “You’re my pride and joy, Marcus,” she told him many times. She gushed over him when he graduated just the year before in social work from the nearby state university branch and then again when he got his new job with Opportunities, Inc. in the City.
Marcus sat on his bed, the sweat on his body beginning to dry off as the air conditioner’s cooling breeze finally began to take effect. He held his cell phone in his hand, debating how he’d tell his mother the bad news. Just as he began to dial his mother’s number, the cell phone rang; it was an incoming call identifiable only with a “restricted” message. He wondered whether it pick it up, having been warned by Heddy – and his own suspicions – to be careful of strangers.
After the fifth ring, however, he took a chance and punched his “call” button to receive the call.
“Hello,” he said, his voice tentative and rather squeaky.
“Marcus?” the caller asked.
“Yes.”
“It’s me, Emery. I just heard. I’m so sorry,” Emery Harrington said.
“Oh? Ah, yes. Thank you,” he replied, uncertain how to respond.
“It doesn’t seem right to me, Marcus. As far as I could tell you were doing a great job. You truly cared about the kids.”
“I thought so, but I guess I overstepped my bounds.”
“Perhaps, but you certainly didn’t deserve this. Are you going to fight this?”
“How can I? I was still on probation,” Marcus said.
The two discussed the possibility of an appeal and concluded it would be a fruitless exercise and then discussed Marcus’ future. It didn’t sound like either Director Ramirez or Amy, his former supervisor, would give him a good reference.
“I might be able to see if I can find something for you,” Emery concluded.
“That would be great,” Marcus replied, though he wasn’t confident that even a respected attorney like Emery Harrington would be able to help him much.
“There’s one more thing I need to tell you, Marcus,” Emery said. “I’ve been ordered to drop this investigation on human trafficking and to withdraw your and Jefferson Turner’s experiences from the Task Force. I’m to tell them your story and Jefferson’s were mere fabrications.”
“What? I didn’t lie,” Marcus exploded, “And I know Jefferson didn’t and he hasn’t yet told us his full story. He’s scared Emery, just as I guess I’m supposed to be. But I’m more angry than scared right now. Those bastards!”
“And I’ve been also ordered not to have any contact with you,” Emery said. “That’s why this conversation never happened, OK?”
“Of course,” Marcus agreed.
“These orders came straight from the DA himself, not in a memo or in an email. He came right into my office, closed the door and told me in no uncertain terms to drop the case. And when I questioned his order, he quickly shut me up, telling me, ‘Emery, this is a direct order. Obey me on this or quit.’”
“My God. The big boss himself?” Marcus said.
“Yup. I smell a political cover-up. It’s something you might check on. Start with the DA’s political donors.”
“I don’t know what to do, Emery,” he said.
“First of all, take care of yourself and Miranda.”
Marcus smiled to himself at Emery’s reference to his female persona and replied he was alert to the danger he may be facing.
“You know, I wasn’t told not to see Miranda,” Emery said unexpectedly.
“I guess you weren’t,” Marcus agreed.
“I know a quiet little restaurant on the west side where we’d be not likely to be noticed,” the assistant DA said. “Do you like Serbian food?”
“Never really had it, but Miranda has an adventurous spirit.”
Emery laughed. “How about Saturday night?”
“Why not? When and where?”
They made elaborate arrangements in the hopes of throwing off anyone who might be watching Marcus’ apartment; he agreed to take a nearby bus to a stop on the near North Side where Emery would pick him up as he got off the bus. Of course, it would be Miranda alighting the bus.
Marcus felt better when he terminated the call, realizing that he had a sympathetic ally. Then, he smiled to himself, with the understanding that it was Miranda – not Marcus – who had the ally.
Marcus still had to telephone his mother. How much should he tell her? He still wasn’t sure. The fact was that she didn’t know he had ever dressed in female clothes. If he was to be truthful with her, he’d have to admit that his role as a woman had much to do with his unexpected firing. With a beating heart, he punched the code number “3” on his cell phone to automatically dial her in Wisconsin.
*****
“Marcus, so nice to hear from you. It’s been nearly a week.” Marcus knew that his mother saw his number come up on her “Caller ID” and answered without even saying the usual “Hello.”
“Sorry, mom, but I’ve been busy,” he said. He was surprised by his mother’s reaction; she never before had nagged him about his failure to call her regularly, having vowed when he left that she was “not going to be one of those whiny mothers who badger their kids for not calling.
“I know you are darling, but I got worried. Usually you call every other night and I missed hearing from you.”
“Oh, mom, you know you can call me,” he volunteered.
“I hate to bug you, darling, and I do know you’re working hard, but I’ve got some good news for you.”
“Oh?”
“Yes, you know Bill Postle, the bank president, is retiring?”
“Yeah, but what does that mean for you?”
“Well, they’re doing a search for a replacement, and I’ve been one of the three who are in the running for the job. Can you imagine it? Me, a bank president?”
“Oh mother, that would be great!” he said, truly excited. “I can picture the sign on your door: ‘Jean M. Whiting, President.’
“Now, now, I don’t have it yet, and I don’t have as much education as the other finalists, you know. The other two are talented with degrees.”
“But, you have the knowledge and experience. The whole town loves you, mom,” he said, truthfully.
“It’ll mean lots of work, Marcus, and lots of pressure, too. I’m not sure I’m up to it,” she replied.
Marcus knew his mother well enough to know that she never felt she was good enough for the work she was doing. He was the same way. Yet, both were succeeding, largely because of their own self-doubts they worked hard to prove to themselves that they were good enough. Perhaps, that desire to do the “extra” was his own undoing at Opportunities, Inc.
“You’ll do it, mom. You always have,” he said.
“Now, how about you, son?”
Marcus paused unsure how to begin.
“Well, what’s up? You getting engaged or something?” she laughed.
“Hardly,” he replied.
“Mom, I got fired,” he said directly, realizing it was fruitless to pussy-foot around the answer.
Jean Whiting was surprisingly calm about his news, responding that she was fired from her first job, too, as a supermarket clerk, largely because she wouldn’t cavort with the boss who was tantalized by her round bottom and lively disposition.
“I don’t know the whole story, Marcus, or what you did or didn’t do to be let go, but if I know you as I think I do, I can’t imagine you won’t end up better off in the long run,” she said.
“It’s too long a story to tell you now, mom, but I have lots of supporters,” he replied.
“Why don’t you come home, honey? I’m sure you could find a job in this area.”
“I don’t know, mom.”
The truth was he had an offer to do child protection work for Crawford County upon his graduation from the university; and, he had good references from the school itself. Besides, his mother had plenty of connections throughout Southwest Wisconsin who could assist in finding him a good position.
“I know, honey. You never felt comfortable in our small city. I understand.”
Marcus and his mother had had this discussion several times through his high school and college years. He felt out of place while growing up in a rural community where the boys were supposed to be strong and tough; he never did well in their sports and was laughed at because he tended to dress in neat, well-pressed clothing – a great contrast to the baggy jeans and plaid shirts of the others. He was often tagged as a “faggot” or “sissy” and even sometimes as a girl. Jared Nicholson, who had become the town high school’s most accomplished bully (the large, heavy, sweaty boy had made an art of his verbal put-downs) tagged Marcus with the name “Mary,” singing made-up verses to the old kid’s rhyme, “Mary, Mary. Quite contrary.” The boys – and even some of the girls – laughed whenever Jared began his taunting, spurring him to even greater heights of bullying.
Marcus’ only refuge at the high school was with the school’s drama club that each year staged two plays, one just before the Christmas holidays and the other in late April. He became quite accomplished at stage settings and even in costuming. In these roles, he had found two friends, Miracle Edwards, one of the few African-American children in the school, and Helene McKay, a large, heavy girl who was unusually strong and able to out-lift Marcus and many other boys in the school. The two worked with Marcus on the stage crew and they enjoyed being backstage.
The three began to commiserate together about being shunned for not being part of the gang. Marcus, of course, was mocked for his gentle, almost dainty mannerisms, Miracle a victim of outright racism and Helene because of her plain, large body. Soon, however, their commiseration became a matter of a mutual joke. All three were getting superior grades in school. “You know, we’re kind of special,” Helene announced one day.
The three were backstage at the time and came together in a group hug with Miracle proclaiming, “We’re like the Three Musketeers.”
Then she reconsidered. “No, we’re the Elites.”
All three giggled. Marcus often figured his friendship with Miracle and Helene made it possible for him to get through high school; he had been on the verge of leaving school many times before. Helene even put an end to Jared’s bullying, threatening him with physical harm if he continued his mocking of Marcus. Jared was smart enough not to test her threat.
Both girls had left the town. Miracle got a near full scholarship to the state university, had graduated in philosophy and was now enrolled in law school, specializing in civil rights law. Helene had won an athletic scholarship at the University of Iowa, where she starred in track, winning third in NCAA women’s shotput competition. She graduated in secondary education and had gotten a job in Green Bay where she attracted the eye of a young and upcoming lineman for the Packers; the two had become lovers – he was her first boyfriend.
“No mom, I’m definitely not going to work around my hometown,” he said firmly. “I have no friends there anymore.”
His mother didn’t push; she knew better, since it would only turn him off. Yet, she loved him deeply and dearly longed for more time with her boy, sharing their occasional movie nights when they’d load their VCR with a chick flick or some dramatic film, uncork a bottle of cabernet sauvignon and munch on popcorn.
He promised to come home for a few days a week later when he’d tell her the full story. And, he’d reveal Miranda to his mother. His felt ill as he considered how his mother would react. Would she view him as he viewed himself right now as a pathetic young man who failed? Or, as the lovely young woman he was quickly becoming?
As matters turned out, however, Marcus never was able to return home to display his feminine self to his mother.
*****
Heddy Jelacic called him that evening, informing him that Sergeant Simbach, her superior, had given her a couple of days to look into the Jefferson Turner case.
“He’s violating a direct order, Marcus,” the police officer said. “Both he and I are suspicious about this whole thing. It smells like a cover-up to us.”
“He’s sticking his neck out, isn’t he?” he asked.
“You bet, though his order was a bit vague, telling me only that he had nothing for me for two days and that I should pursue a couple of my other cases. He even added that he didn’t have to know what I was doing.”
“So, it’s your neck that’s out there, Heddy? I hate to see you jeopardizing your career on my suspicions.”
She laughed. “Well, you jeopardized your career and your own safety, didn’t you?”
“But . . .”
“And, besides, we have Jefferson’s story, too,” she said.
“Yeah. I wish I could talk to him and get him to open up, but you know he’s off-base to me. They won’t let me see him,” Marcus said.
“I know,” Heddy said. “But I have set up a meeting with Jefferson tomorrow at ten in the morning at the Hope Place, and I persuaded Tatiana there to let you join us.”
“You have?” Marcus replied, astounded. “That agency could lose its contract with the County if they found out.”
“Tatiana cares about the kids, Marcus, and she thinks Jefferson has been troubled by holding back on his story.”
“OK.”
“But you’ll have to come in disguised as Miranda,” she said. “I told Tatiana I was having you join me as a social worker named Miranda. I think once Jefferson heard of your maneuvers he’ll open up.”
“But I don’t have any of the kind of women’s clothes I would need. They’re all at Amy’s and she won’t talk to me now,” Marcus said.
“Why? I thought you two were. . .”
“Never mind that now. It’s a long story and the fact is that I have no appropriate clothes.”
There was silence for a moment; Heddy finally suggested a solution. She asked Marcus his sizes in female clothing, including his shoe size. She’d purchase some clothing in his size that evening; it would be typical clothing for a young female social worker, nothing fancy.
“Can you sneak out undetected?” she asked.
“I’ll see. I have one idea, but I’ll have to check it out and let you know.”
“OK, call me,” she said.
******
The only windows in Marcus’ apartment looked out upon the brick façade of the neighboring ten-story apartment building – a less than inspiring view. He normally had the drapes drawn as he knew that the folks in the neighboring building could easily look into his second-story apartment in the ancient mansion it occupied. If he had an eastern exposure, he could have seen patches of blue from Lake Michigan peeking between the buildings; plus, it would give him a view of the street where he could see if anyone was spying on the building.
His suspicions about his own well-being were aroused by all the talk surrounding the possible conspiracy that was seemingly aimed at stifling any investigation of the possible activities of human trafficking involving the mansion in Madison Heights. He was constantly told to be alert and careful.
He peered out his apartment window to the street out front, but he had only a sliver of a look between the buildings. He saw nothing suspicious, but with his limited view that proved nothing. If someone was watching they’d be waiting for him to leave. There was a rarely used back entrance; if he was adventurous, he could likely leave and be undetected, but he’d have to scale a high solid wood fence into the backyard of another house. He wasn’t certain he was physically up to it, but he was determined to try, if necessary.
To check out the feasibility of leaving through the rear, he ventured out his apartment and down the rarely used back door on the first floor. There was a sign, “Emergency Exit Only. No re-entry possible.” Taking a chance, he opened it and then closed it after a few seconds. He smiled. That meant the door was not alarmed and he could leave through that door. He called Heddy Jelacic to tell that he felt he could get out of the apartment undetected, although it might be hard. She agreed to pick him up on North Hillside Avenue – the street behind Marcus’ apartment – at nine o’clock the next morning.
“I’ll take you to my apartment and you can change and become Miranda, a social worker.”
*****
Knowing he might have difficulty scaling the fence since he doubted his arms were strong enough to lift his body, Marcus emptied out a wooden crate in which he stored books and carried it the next morning as he left the apartment. He got out of the building without seeing anyone; he didn’t think he would since it was nearly nine o’clock and most of the other tenants, he knew, would have already left for their jobs.
Even standing on the crate, he couldn’t lift himself over the fence; he figured it was about six feet in height. Luckily, he found two concrete blocks resting among the weeds and was able to drag them to form a base upon which to place the crate.
He set the blocks down next to the fence to form a solid base and then placed the crate in its narrow end, giving him enough height, he thought, to make it possible to scale the fence. He was concerned it might topple, but that was a chance he had to take.
He hoisted himself up to the top of the crate, helped by grabbing the top of the fence to provide extra leverage. He felt the crate begin to topple under him and quickly pulled up with all his might, lifting one leg up and over the top of the fence. Just as the crate fell under him, he brought the other leg up and he flipped himself over the fence. Unable to hold on, he fell onto the ground on the other side, surprised to find himself landing on a pile of brush, leaves, grass clippings and yard waste.
“That was lucky,” he said to himself, as he lay on what he believed was a compost pile.
He took a moment to catch his breath and then realized he was in the well-groomed backyard of a home, obviously one of the high-priced homes fashioned out of the 100-year-old houses of the upscale neighborhood.
Gathering himself, he moved off the compost pile, brushing himself off, hoping he didn’t scratch himself in the fall. He started to run to the front of the house.
“Hey, what are you doing here?” a gruff voice sounded.
A tall, older man came from the side of the house and stood blocking him from continuing to the street.
“I asked you,” the man ordered again.
Marcus was shocked. Did the man think he was burglarizing the place?
“I’m going to call the police,” the man said as he pulled his cell phone from his pants pocket.
“No don’t please,” Marcus said, seeking to come up with a story that would convince the man he meant no harm.
“Well?” the man pressed, grabbing Marcus by the arm. His hands were large and strong, easily holding Marcus’ thin arm making it impossible for Marcus to move.
“My girlfriend . . . my ex-girlfriend, that is, is stalking me,” he blurted out.
“Stalking you?”
“Yes, I live in the apartment building behind and I know she’s out front. She’s mad I broke up with her,” Marcus explained, hoping he didn’t have to invent further details.
“You’re lying,” the man challenged.
“I’m not, my older sister is waiting for me in a car out front. My ex is nuts, sir.”
The man wasn’t convinced. “Let’s see if you have a sister and if she’s out front,” the man said.
Marcus was relieved to see Heddy was parked at an empty space next to a fire hydrant, obviously having to wait there due to the lack of parking spots on the narrow street.
“Here’s my sister, sir. You can let me go now,” Marcus said.
“Not ‘til your sister confirms your story,” he said, dragging me to the car, motioning to Heddy to roll down the passenger side window.
“This is my sister,” Marcus said, hoping Heddy heard him and would take the hint and assume the role of “big sister.”
To her credit, Heddy understood the cue and said, “What’s the problem little brother?”
Before Marcus could answer, the man said to Heddy, “Why is this young man running through my yard?”
“I don’t know. He just asked me to pick him up today at nine,” Heddy said. “I thought it was weird.”
“Oh, come on,” the man said. “Are you the getaway driver?”
“Getaway driver?” Heddy said.
“You’re a burglary gang,” the man said.
“I’m calling the police. Don’t try to run on me.” The man held up his cell phone and began to dial.
“Hold on, sir,” Heddy said. “We are the police.”
She pulled out her badge and her identification, holding it up for the man to see. He reached in to examine the ID more closely, nodded and then gave it back to Heddy.
“Officer Connery here is undercover, staking out a resident in one of those apartments,” she said. “Afraid I can’t give you any more details on that, sir.”
“He doesn’t look like much of a cop,” the man grumbled, finally letting go of Marcus’ hand.
“Thank you, sir, for your cooperation,” Heddy said. “We’re sorry we alarmed you.”
“OK then, but it seems like an awfully strange way for the police to work,” he said.
*****
“Oh, that was close,” Marcus said, as they drove away.
“Right, baby brother,” Heddy said, smiling.
“Officer Connery? Where did that come from?”
She laughed. “Sean Connery. That was the first name that popped into my mind.”
“He’s your favorite?”
“He’s hot, wouldn’t you agree?” she asked.
“Yes, but he’s a bit old for you, isn’t he?”
“I like my men mature,” she laughed.
“So much for me scoring with you then?”
They came to a stoplight at Division Street. “Don’t count yourself out yet, Marcus. You’re kinda of cute, you know.”
*****
Marcus was disappointed by the outfit Heddy had chosen for him; it was plain, almost dowdy. He had grown fond of how sexy and appealing he looked in women’s clothing and had hoped Heddy’s choice of outfits might have been less pedestrian and ordinary.
“You don’t like what I got you?” Heddy asked, obviously sensing his displeasure.
“No, it’s fine, I guess,” he said in a less than enthusiastic tone.
“You must really be becoming quite a girl and a clothes horse, but Marcus you’re a social worker today and it wouldn’t look good to appear dressed as Britney Spears.”
Marcus nodded. He knew Heddy was correct: the social workers he knew rarely wore stylish clothes on the job, with the exception of Latesha. Mostly the workers wore slacks or long conservative skirts and modestly colored blouses and sweaters. And certainly, none wore heels much higher than two inches, even Latesha.
Heddy had provided a complete outfit, even the underthings that included plain white cotton panties and a white bra with no lacy trim. He used her bathroom to strip down and put on the bra and panties, returning to Heddy’s bedroom to put on the outer garments.
“Damn, you have a figure most girls would die for, Miranda,” Heddy said.
Feeling a bit giddy – even though he had been tense over their activities that morning – Marcus did a bit of a prance, as if to model his lingerie.
“You are hot, girl, but hurry up, we need to get there on time. We have a ten-thirty appointment to see Jefferson,” Heddy said.
The police officer had chosen a full, flowing knee-length print skirt with pleats in navy blue with a narrow floral frieze at the hemline. That would be topped off with a floral chiffon short sleeve blouse with a high collar with a slit down the middle to the top of the breasts. She provided no stockings, likely due to the warm weather. There was a pair of ballet flats in dark blue.
Marcus quickly put on the clothes and looked in the mirror, surprised at how much of an authentic-looking young woman he had become. Even without makeup and without styling his longish hair, he looked ordinary, yet still unexpectedly attractive and feminine.
“You’re a natural, Miranda,” Heddy said, smiling.
“Yeah, but I’ll need some makeup and to fix my hair.”
“You shouldn’t put on much makeup; perhaps a little neutral lip gloss and some powder to take the shine off your skin. Remember, you’re just an underpaid social worker.”
“You’re right about that underpaid part, Heddy,” he said, chuckling.
She brushed his hair, leaving it straight and without much shape.
“I think you’re ready, Miranda,” she said finally.
“Don’t you think I should do more with my hair?” he asked, worried that he looked too plain.
“No this is just about right, Miranda,” Heddy said, persisting on using his feminine identity. “Besides, you’re just naturally a very beautiful woman.”
She then ordered Marcus to stand up against a blank wall in her bedroom. “I need to take your picture just as you look now,” she said. “It’ll be for an ID card you’ll need.”
“OK.”
“Don’t smile. Pretend you’re at the motor vehicle department getting your photo for your license.”
She took several shots, told him to relax for a few minutes while she went to her computer that had been sitting on a small desk in her bedroom. In less than ten minutes, she had produced an ID card that she slid into a plastic badge.
“Now clip this to your blouse. For today, you’re Miranda Fredericks of the Stonewall Community Center,” she announced.
“Stonewall?”
“Well, it doesn’t really exist, but it’ll get you through the security at the Hope Place.”
“But what if we’re caught?” he asked, wondering if this charade was needed. He knew Heddy risked the possibility of being discharged.
“Don’t worry, I’ve cleared this with Tatiana and her boss at the Hope Place. They both know this is necessary as part of our investigation. This is to get you into the meeting, that’s all.”
Marcus still didn’t feel comfortable with the arrangement.
Marcus and Officer Jelacic had been greeted by Tatiana at the reception desk. Marcus registered as “Miranda Fredericks” on the sign-in sheet and he was pleased that the receptionist took only a quick glance at his forged ID badge; similarly, the tall, husky security officer hardly glanced at the badge as he waved them through at screening process.
“My, you’re lovely, Miranda,” Tatiana said with a wink, acknowledging that she was aware of Marcus’ disguise.
She led them to a small conference room with a table and five comfortable desk chairs and then left, promising to bring in Jefferson shortly. A few minutes later the boy was brought in and led to a chair opposite Marcus and Heddy and told to sit. He had been warned in advance of their visit, but, Tatiana reported, only agreed to meet with them after vigorous encouragement. The boy held his head down, sneaking only glances at Marcus and Heddy, but saying nothing. Tatiana and the security officer who brought the boy into the room left after instructing them to use a button to summon the security officer if they needed help or when they were about to leave.
“Who’s she?” Jefferson mumbled. He nodded in the direction of Marcus.
“Miranda is here to help you, Jefferson,” Heddy said. “And her name is Miranda Fredericks and she’s with Stonewall Community Center.”
“Never heard of it,” he mumbled.
“It’s a gay rights place,” Heddy replied. “Named after Stonewall Inn. You heard of the place. That’s where the gay rights movement was first made famous. The riots there in 1969 in New York.”
“I guess. She a social worker?”
The boy kept his head down, but Marcus could see him steel a view looks in his direction.
“She’s too pretty to be a social worker,” the boy said. “All the previous ladies were kind of ugly, well, except for Latesha.”
“That’s rude, Jefferson,” Heddy scolded gently.
“Well, it’s true,” Jefferson persisted.
“I’m not the prettiest social worker, Mr. Turner,” Marcus said, speaking for the first time. He used his soft, feminine voice, careful to use girlish inflections.
The boy looked up directly into the face of Marcus. A puzzled look appeared on his pretty face.
“I seem to know you,” he said.
“You might,” Marcus said smiling. “But you know me as Marcus, right?”
Jefferson Turner burst into broad smiles. “Oh, my God. Marcus, I remember that picture you showed me. You’re the prettiest woman ever.”
“Not really,” he replied.
“I missed you, Marcus,” the boy said. He stood up and moved toward Marcus, who also stood up to greet him. The two hugged, with Jefferson holding on to Marcus, exhibiting great urgency. He felt the boy caress his back as he held on.
Finally, the two broke up and Heddy suggested both return to their seats.
“Isn’t Latesha treating you OK?” Marcus asked.
“She’s fine and I like her, but I think you really understood me.”
“Perhaps I did, but give her time, Jefferson,” Marcus reassured the boy. “She’s very conscientious and she can be of more help than I would be. She has more experience.”
“Look, we don’t have much time, girls,” Heddy Jelacic interrupted.
“I’ll tell you why we’re here today and why Mr. Whiting is dressed as Miranda. We need your help, Jefferson. We truly do.”
Jefferson flared up. “Are you using me?” he protested.
“We need your help, dear,” Marcus said, still using his female voice in an appeal to favor the boy’s feminine nature.
“You just dressed up like this to trick me,” Jefferson said, aiming his remarks at Marcus.
“No, I didn’t. I like dressing as a woman, just like you do. I feel I am a woman just like you feel you’re a girl. But for the time being I have to live as a man just like you’re living as a boy.”
“But I’m a girl. I know I am,” Jefferson said, tears forming in his eyes.
“Maybe someday soon you’ll be a pretty girl for real and I’ll be a woman,” Marcus encouraged.
“Could we be best girlfriends forever?” the boy asked.
“I think we are already BFF. Now let Officer Jelacic tell you what brought us her and why you’re seeing me as Miranda Fredericks,” Marcus said.
It took the better part of twenty minutes for Marcus and Heddy to relate how Marcus became concerned over Jefferson’s encounter in Madison Heights and decided to dress up as a teen-aged prostitute. Marcus explained how he had been taken off the street and taken to the Madison Heights residence and escaped.
“You did that?” Jefferson said, astounded.
“Yes, because I felt that was the only way to find out what’s going on,” Marcus replied.
Jefferson looked at Marcus and then shook his head. He began to cry, putting his head down on the table in front of him. Marcus went over to the boy, pulled a chair up next to him and drew him up into a tight hug. Jefferson sobbed strongly, laying his head against Marcus’ upper chest and Marcus gently patted the boy’s back.
“You could have been hurt,” Jefferson said, once his crying ended. “And I’d have been the cause of it all.”
“No, I didn’t have to do it. I did it of my own free will, Jefferson. Don’t blame yourself.”
“But if I hadn’t been so scared and told you everything, you wouldn’t have had to do that, to put your life in danger like that.”
“Well you can help now,” Heddy said.
Jefferson Turner dried his tears and then asked, “What do you want to know?”
(Many thanks to Eric for proofreading and valuable story suggestions.)
Undercover Girl - Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Seventeen – Jefferson’s Story
Marcus suggested that perhaps Jefferson might want to take a break before he began relating his story. Marcus and Police Officer Heddy Jelacic had joined in interviewing Jefferson at a comfortable counselling room at Hope Place. Jefferson nodded, agreeing to taking the break and wondered if they could find him some cranberry juice. Heddy volunteered to seek a can and left the room. Jefferson turned to Marcus and smiled. “You’re very pretty.”
“Thank you and you are, too,” Marcus replied.
“I’ve been reading about how we can become real girls, about the operation and all that,” the boy began tentatively.
“I’m aware of all that, but it’s so expensive.”
“I know, but I need to get it someday or else I’ll want to kill myself. I can’t live anymore as a boy.”
Jefferson began sounding morose and Marcus wondered if perhaps he might be changing his mind about telling his story.
“Jefferson, you can live perfectly well as a girl even without the operation, you know,” Marcus said in hopes of encouraging the boy.
“It’s not the same,” Jefferson said, tears forming in his eyes.
The conversation was interrupted as Heddy Jelacic entered the room. “I got you your cranberry juice, Jefferson, and I got some diet Cokes for us,” she announced.
Jefferson quickly composed himself, accepting the can of juice and said simply, “So what do you want to know?”
“Why don’t you start at the beginning,” Heddy Jelacic said.
Jefferson looked at Marcus, smiled and began his story:
I was really happy when I first got to the Harrisons. It’s like they understood me. I guess they let me be me. You know, Mr. Harrison didn’t try to make me play baseball or do those boy things. Melody, my older foster sister, let me play with her make-up sometimes and even dressed me as her little sister – just like it was play-acting. We all giggled. Even my little foster brother dressed up sometimes.
The Harrisons seemed to have a lot of girls’ clothes. They said it was from when their daughters were little. I don’t think that was true.
“What led you to think it wasn’t true, Jefferson,” Heddy asked, interrupting the boy’s narrative.
“In all the time I was there, I never saw any family photos with little girls and I never saw any relatives visit them,” he replied. “Besides, those clothes looked almost like new and not something girls wore back twenty or thirty years ago.”
“Interesting,” Marcus mused.
“Continue with your story, Jefferson.”
Soon Mama Harrison began helping me dress up as a girl, showing me the finer points of makeup and how to do my hair. I think she must have been a hairdresser.
“You’re a pretty girl, Jefferson,” Mr. Harrison used to tell me.
And, Larry, too. They dressed him but at first he didn’t like it and cried. But suddenly, he seemed to like being a girl and playing with dolls and stuff.
Marcus frowned at the boy’s story, breaking in to say, “In my visits, I only saw boy stuff and I don’t think either Amy, Ms. Dacosta that is, or Ms. White ever mentioned you boys playing with dolls.”
Jefferson smiled. “They only let us be girls when they knew you guys wouldn’t be stopping by, like at night or weekends,” he explained. “And then they hid everything in an empty storage room. You guys never looked there, I don’t think.”
Then one night, Mama Harrison got me all dolled up and with the shortest little mini-skirt. And she did my hair real cute in cornrows. Can you figure – a white woman knowing how to roll my hair.
“You’re ready, dear,” she told me.
“For what?” I asked.
“You’ll see you’ll like it. Where you’re going they’re going to treat you like a princess. They really made me feel like a princess. I was a girl and I knew that’s what I wanted to be forever on. Even Melody said she was jealous of me, that I was prettier than she was. But she was just lying, ‘cause I think Melody is really pretty.
They didn’t tell me nothing, just put me in Papa Harrison’s car and drove me out to some fast food place where I was led to another car. It was big and black with windows so I couldn’t see out. And I was alone in the backseat. It scared me. But the big man in the front just yelled at me telling me if I didn’t shut up they’d get me transferred to another foster home. I didn’t want that. I loved the Harrisons. I guess I really loved that I could be a girl there and not be teased or scolded. So, I shut up.
I ended up at this mansion, but it looked real scary when I got out of the car and I started to scream. I knew something was wrong and I might get hurt. I kicked and screamed some more. They took me in and a nice older man tried to talk to me to calm down, but I said I was scared. He said no one was going to hurt a sweet little girl like me if I cooperated. I asked him what did I have to do? “Just be a good little girl and do what the nice man tells you to do and you’ll be rewarded. You’ll love it.”
“I just want to go home,” I told him and I started to cry. I couldn’t stop. The old man pleaded and soon he brought in the big man who was the driver of the car. He treated me rough, slapped me across the face and everything. I tried to run from him, but he caught me. My stockings tore and soon he tore my top a little bit. I cried and cried. And then you know I bit that man’s cock when he asked me to suck it. And then they got real rough and took me and a big man came into the room and dragged me to another room where they held me down and stuck a needle in me. The next thing I knew I was lying in the middle of the street back in the city, where I was later found. You know the rest of that story.
“Was the big man black or white?” Marcus asked, wondering if it was the same African-American who drove him during his escapade and who had been gentle and rather nice.
“White,” Jefferson replied.
“And you were too scared to tell us then what happened?” Heddy asked.
“Oh, my yes. I wanted to stay with the Harrisons and if I said anything more I know they’d be nasty and could hurt both me and maybe do something to Larry. They’re scary guys.”
“What about the car? What kind was it?”
“One of those big long black cars. Not like a limo and not like an SUV, but even bigger, almost like a truck.”
“Not like a big pickup truck?” Heddy continued the questioning.
“No, just like a big station wagon.”
“Possibly a Lincoln Navigator or big Chevy,” she suggested.
“I don’t know much about cars,” Jefferson said. “Sorry, but I did see part of the license plate, the first three letters, ‘H – W – Y and then I think an eight. Sorry, I couldn’t see any other numbers.”
Heddy brightened. “Jefferson. Don’t be sorry. You did fine.”
“What happened when you got back to the Harrisons?” Marcus asked.
Both Mama and Papa Harrison were mad at me. Mama didn’t even try to help me change the dressings on my wounds and Papa grabbed me by the arm and twisted and said I would get hurt even worse if I didn’t do what they say.
Well they had me dress up again and several weeks later they took me out to meet the same car in a different parking lot, this time at a mall. There were two men in the car, a big husky black man who seemed nice and talked to me . . . like . . . friendly like. The black guy drove the car and the other man didn’t talk much, but he acted all mean.
I knew I had to obey, or else there’d be more beatings and who knows what they’d do to Larry?
They led me into that same mansion and put me into a room where there was a large mirror. There was a lovely bed or couch or something like it, and a straight chair. The room was decorated with lavender and pink drapes. It was strange.
Then I heard a voice talk to me like it was coming from a speaker in the room. “Welcome lovely girl. I want you to pose now. Follow my orders. OK?”
And I said yes and they had me do all sorts of girlish poses, both standing up and laying in various positions. Like sexy, you know.
“Good girl,” they said to me after about ten minutes of posing. I guess that mirror was really a one-way glass and they could see like those cop shows on TV.
Then I was led out of the room and into another room where things got like horrible.
Jefferson broke down in tears and Marcus went over to hug him and let him cry for a few minutes.
“I’m scared, Marcus,” Jefferson said. “If they find out I talked, who knows what’ll happen to Larry?”
Marcus was astounded at the boy’s concern for his younger foster brother, even though in might have been Jefferson who would be targeted by the violent people involved in what was appearing to be a human trafficking group.
Hearing the boy’s comments, Officer Jelacic leaned over and put her hand over Jefferson’s. “Larry’s going to be safe, Marcus, as will Melody. Both were removed this morning from the Harrisons’ house and put into a temporary foster home while we sort this all out.”
The boy brightened. “Really, I don’t want anyone to get hurt.”
“We’ve protected you, haven’t we?”
“Yes ma’am.”
“We really need to hear the next part of your story, Jefferson, so we can stop these people from abusing young people. What happened when you got to the next room?” Heddy asked, urging him to continue.
“OK,” Jefferson said.
There was a man there. He was wearing only his underwear and he was big and strong and kind of smelly. Well, not bad smelly, more like he was wearing perfume and it was overpowering. I think it was because he was sweating.
“Hello, little girl,” he said to me.
He was smiling, but I didn’t like how he smiled. You know what I mean? Like he was going to hurt me. He told me how pretty I was and would I pose for him, which I did, even though I didn’t want to. He asked me to twirl around like I was in a fashion show and I kind of liked that. He said I had lovely legs and pretty arms. I just didn’t like the way he said it.
Then he told me to kneel before him and that I didn’t wanna do that. But he ordered me, “girl, do as I say or you’ll be beaten.” He was real mean, but he looked ugly and fat and I didn’t want get near him. But I did. I was scared.
He took down his shorts and spread his legs. And there was his cock. It wasn’t too big, but it was hard and he was breathing heavy. He had a hand on the thing and he was working it and moving back and forth.
“Suck it, little girl,” he ordered me.
But I shook my head ‘no.’
“Put your mouth on it, you sorry cunt,” he repeated.
Oh, God it was ugly. How could I? I had never done anything like that before. Then he grabbed my head and pushed it down on his cock and yelled, “Suck it, damn you!”
So, I did as he said, but I knew worse was ahead and that I had to get out of there. I had to think of something. As I took the wet thing into my mouth I got an idea. I bit hard into the cock and the man let out a scream and pushed me away. And then before he could do anything I stood up and as he stood up to confront me I jammed my knee into his balls, real hard. He doubled up.
I ran for the door and to my surprise found it unlocked. As the man bent over in pain I opened it, looked out and didn’t see nobody. So, I ran off. I knew we were in the basement and thought there might be an exit and there was one. There was a basement door and since the house was on a hill I was able to escape out into what seemed like a patio. Then I ran into the woods and hid in some bushes. And I heard them search, but after a while they must have given up because I didn’t hear them anymore. That’s when I called you Marcus and you picked me up.
Marcus was puzzled, wondering how the boy was able to keep his cell phone. Certainly, they would have search him. “Did they let you keep your cell phone, Jefferson?”
The boy assumed a mischievous smile. “No, they searched me for it, but it was small enough for me to hide in the bra under the breast forms.”
“Just like a girl to think of that,” Heddy said, laughingly. Then she became serious, asking, “Can you tell us anything more about the man?”
“Well he was big, with muscles and he had a big belly. Hairy, but bald.”
“You mean his body had hair on it? Dark or light hair?”
“Dark.”
“How old would you say?”
Jefferson thought for a minute. “It’s hard for me to say. He looked sort of old, like maybe forty.”
Marcus smiled. While he was still to reach thirty, he still considered forty to be quite youngish. He realized a teenager like Jefferson might have difficulty determining the age of an adult.
“Did you hear any names?” Heddy said, continuing her interrogation.
“I think his name must have been Mert, or Curt and Bert or something like that. I heard one of the guys say ‘Mert, or whatever his name, is ready for the girl,’ I guess referring to me.”
“Any other names?”
“No, I don’t think so,” the boy said.
“OK, Jefferson, you did fine. Anything else you can tell us?”
“I don’t think so . . . oh yes . . . I did hear the name ‘Mr. Browning’ said by one of the men who drove me.”
Marcus recalled that was the same name he heard. It seemed obvious now to Marcus that both he and Jefferson had been taken to a house likely occupied by the wealthy Browning family.
“Would you recognize the house if you saw it again?” Marcus asked.
“I think so, but I don’t want to see it again,” he pleaded.
“OK, I’ll remember that, Jefferson,” Heddy said with a smile.
“Thank you, Jefferson,” Marcus said as he and Heddy Jelacic arose to leave.
“You’re very pretty, Miranda,” the boy replied with a smile, arising and rushing into Marcus’ arms.
The two hugged for a moment. “Two pretty girls. What a lovely picture,” the police officer said.
*****
“What do you think, Heddy? Do you have enough now?” Marcus asked once they got into Heddy’s unmarked police vehicle.
“Normally, I’d say we do, but you know the DA’s office wants nothing to do with this case, so I guess we better get more evidence.”
Marcus shook his head in dismay. Since Officer Jelacic was busy trying to find a break in the traffic along the busy street, he decided to say nothing.
“Yeah, it stinks, Marcus,” Heddy said once they were moving along easily.
“I think it must go deeper than just the Browning guy,” he responded.
“Me, too. There’s obviously a cover-up,” she said.
Marcus looked out the car window as they cruised north on Plato Boulevard watching the heavy pedestrian traffic; most were young African-American men gathered in knots on street corners or lounging in front of liquor stores and convenience outlets. He mused that most were unemployed, victims of the blight that has attacked many neighborhoods in America’s rust belt cities.
“I bet half of those guys have jail records,” he said out loud.
“You’d be right,” Heddy nodded. “It’s an American tragedy.”
“How many prostitutes out there, do you think?” he asked, pointing to a few of the women, who wore shirt skirts and heavy makeup.
“What? Are you looking for work now that you’re fired?” she quipped.
“It’ll pay better than social work,” he said laughing.
They continued their drive, heading toward Officer Jelacic’s apartment where Marcus could change back into his male clothes. Heddy explained that she’d review her progress with Sergeant Simbach to see if he could suggest a next step.
“You better stay here the next few nights. You’ll be safe here,” Heddy said once he had changed. Heddy had a small apartment, but it had a tiny second bedroom that had a daybed with her computer desk, a chair and a small dresser.
“Is that necessary? I don’t want to put you out.”
“You won’t be. You can sleep here on the daybed. It’s not the greatest, but it sleeps pretty good. My mom sleeps here when she visits.”
“I suppose, but I’ll be inconveniencing you,” he said.
“Nonsense,” she replied. “Look they’re after you and you need to stay safe. They’re watching you and you know they’ll be there if I drop you off at your place now.”
“But I don’t have any clothes or personal items,” he argued.
Heddy thought for a moment.
“Tell you what. I’ll take a uniform with me and I’ll make a big show of having a search warrant and we’ll go into your apartment and bring out some of your necessities, including your computer, as if we seized it,” she suggested.
“But maybe I should go somewhere else,” he suggested. “You could get in trouble, couldn’t you?”
“Not really? There’s nothing in the regs that say I can’t have a roommate.”
*****
Marcus wondered whether Officer Hedwig Jelacic might have some idea that perhaps she and he could become lovers. It was true that the two of them seemed to have developed a friendly companionship, but he couldn’t imagine himself as her lover. Certainly, she would want someone who would be more masculine than he.
Heddy’s plan to rescue his clothes and computer by re-enacting a police raid worked to perfection. She had arranged it with the full support of her police sergeant, both knowing that the action placed their careers in jeopardy. Marcus quickly learned that Heddy had no romantic interest in him, regardless of what gender. The first night, he saw several pictures of a burly young man in army combat clothes, posing in front of Humvees, at a barracks and before a canteen.
“That’s Mike, my boyfriend,” she explained. “We’re engaged, but he’s in Afghanistan for the next four months.”
“Does he know about me staying here?”
“He knows about Miranda,” she said, smiling. “And he thinks you’re hot. I showed him that picture I took of you the other day.”
“He looks like a hunk,” Marcus said.
“Hands off darling. He’s all mine.”
“Awwww,” Marcus said, feigning disappointment. The two laughed and hugged each other.
*****
“Damn, you’re a great cook,” Heddy said to Marcus.
“Lasagna is easy to make,” he said. “Glad you like it.”
“I can see having you as a roommate has paid off,” she teased. “My house has never been this clean.”
“Now that I’m without a job and basically confined to quarters, I got time. Besides, I like doing housework.”
It was his second straight day at Heddy’s apartment and he already felt comfortable. Most of the time he dressed in female outfits, finding he and the officer wore clothes approximately the same size, even though Heddy was about an inch taller.
As he lay in Heddy’s daybed that night hoping to find sleep, Marcus found he missed Amy immensely; he longed to hold her firm, husky body in his arms. He wanted again to feel weak and soft next to her. He wished to kiss her heavy breasts and round tummy as he moved his lips down to her moist, musty crotch. He was her lesbian lover.
*****
Despite the fitful night he had, he awoke early the next morning, the cheerful song of a cardinal entering the room through a window left open to bring the cool evening breeze into the apartment. He lay for a moment, listening the bright lyrical chirps, enjoying the moment. Heddy had found a short nightgown for him to wear, his thoughts wandering over the pleasure and contentment he felt as a woman. He wondered whether Heddy was awake and listened closely but heard nothing from her room.
After few moments of heavenly reverie, he got up and tiptoed into the bathroom and sat down on the commode to pee (he rarely stood up now to relieve himself). When finished, he rose, looked at himself in the mirror, saw only a young woman with disheveled hair and sleepy eyes in the glass. She was pretty, wasn’t she, Marcus mused. It was not a question – it was the truth.
He took a quick shower, dried himself off and fixed his hair into a high ponytail, creating what appeared to him in the mirror as a spirited college girl. “Good morning, Miranda,” he said to the mirror image.
“You all done in there, Miranda?” Heddy asked, her voice coming from her bedroom.
“Yep, you ready for some bacon and eggs this morning?” he yelled back through the closed door.
The door opened and Heddy walked out, wearing only panties; she was bare-chested, her smallish breasts standing firm with the nipples pink and pointed.
Marcus realized his eyes must have betrayed his shock at seeing her body exposed since Heddy was quick to say, “What’s the matter with you. We’re just two girls here, aren’t we?
“Huh. Yeah. I guess . . .” he replied, still fumbling for words.
“Look, honey, you don’t have to make me breakfast. I usually just have a yogurt and a banana.”
“But I’d like to make you a nice breakfast, Heddy, that’s if you have time.”
She smiled at him. “I have time, but I didn’t expect you to do that.”
“It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, OK?” Marcus said.
Heddy walked up to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. “By the way, you look cute this morning, Miranda.”
Marcus looked at her in surprise. “But my hair is a mess and I don’t have any makeup on,” he protested.
“Just like a girl,” she said, and turned to go into the bathroom.
Entering the kitchen, Marcus open the window so that he could hear the cardinal sing and then turned to the refrigerator to get out the bacon and eggs. He was enjoying these moments of blissful domesticity, his thoughts far removed from the possible danger that awaited him.
*****
That morning before she left for work, Heddy insisted that Marcus needed to dress in disguise if he left her apartment during the day. “I don’t see any sign of anyone tailing you this morning,” she said after she took a quick walk outside to check for the presence of any suspicious cars and people hanging around.
“Good, guess we ditched them then,” Marcus said.
“It looks that way, but they’re a resourceful bunch and they may want to check into this place eventually, so if you go out you better be in a disguise, but it’d be best if you stay put here.”
“I’m supposed to meet Latesha for lunch today,” he said. “Don’t worry. She won’t give me away and we chose a small diner over on 13th Street called ‘Miss Mattie’s.’ No one will suspect we’d be there.”
“Miss Mattie’s. That’s a great soul food place. Sounds OK, but you going out as Marcus or Miranda? These guys know you as both.”
Marcus smiled. “I’d like to go out as Miranda.”
“I thought you would,” Heddy laughed. “That’s OK, but don’t get all dolled up. You’re so damned cute and pretty you’ll draw attention to yourself. I don’t know how you can dress to look dowdy.”
The two went into Heddy’s bedroom and after some indecision agreed that he should wear a pair of well-worn, but untorn, women’s jeans, a camisole under a simple beige blouse and moderately soiled gray running shoes. Over that, Marcus would wear a simple dark windbreaker.
They decided to fix his hair into a bun, similar to that worn by the stereotypical librarian.
“Well, you look halfway ordinary, Miranda,” Heddy said. “But dammit, you’re so fucking cute.”
Once Heddy had gone off to work, Marcus went to work on his computer, seeing what he could learn about the Browning family of Madison Heights. Even though he was deeply engaged in his search, his mind still wandered to his apparently doomed relationship with Amy.
(To be continued)
(Thanks to Eric for skillful proofreading and constructive suggestions to clear the Author's sometimes confused plot)
Undercover Girl – Chapter Eighteen
By Katherine Day
Chapter Eighteen – Suspicion of Conspiracy
The Browning family, he quickly learned, was notoriously private, and whatever publicity they seemed to gain came from the philanthropic endeavors of Paul Browning, Sr. and his wife, Cindy Lou. Much of their charity work, it appeared, was focused on the suburb of Madison Heights. There was the Cedric Browning Library, named after Paul’s deceased father; the Cindy Lou Browning Youth Center, and the Browning Concert grounds, a well-groomed park with a lavishly appointed bandshell with backstage buildings.
The Browning fortune, it appeared, came largely from the regional food market chain developed by Cedric Browning after World War II. There was also a small inheritance from Cindy Lou’s family. She had been the stereotypical Southern belle with a rich plantation heritage (and a later fortune built on property development) and met young Paul Browning during a spring break vacation along the Florida beaches while both were college students. Apparently, it was true love and after a couple of years, the two married and she moved north. With funds from Cindy Lou’s relatively modest inheritance and his father’s estate, Paul Browning jumped into the hedge fund business. It was a timely splurge and the family fortunes burgeoned in the dot.com upswing, apparently avoiding disaster in the market bust in the early 21st Century.
Apparently, the Browning marriage was a smooth one; at least, there were no embarrassing news stories concerning it. They had children, but strangely, Marcus could find little mention of them. The only confirmation came in a picture from the weekly Madison Heights Journal of May 21, 1992 at the dedication of the Cedric Browning Library, showing Paul and Cindy Lou Browning with three youngsters at their side, identified as Dorothy Anne, 10; Marie Lynn, 7, and Paul Jr., 5.
A Google search of the name “Paul Browning Jr.” came up with three responses that could be linked to the little boy in the photograph. The latest listing was a clipping from a Boston area suburban weekly about a raid of a fraternity house on December 2, 2008, about a Paul Browning Jr., aged 21, a senior at Amherst, being arrested for alleged sexual assault of a minor boy. Young Browning was the only one named in the story; the newspaper explained others were arrested on lesser charges since none of their partners were underage. Marcus checked further but could find no further mention of the incident, making him wonder if somehow the Browning family had managed to shut down additional news coverage. The other stories referred to an honor young Paul had gotten at his high school graduation from the Codington Academy in Massachusetts and a picture of him in an ROTC uniform as part of an honor guard, also at the same academy.
Marcus thought about the arrest story. Was young Browning a budding pedophile? Or, was the incident an innocent one that resulted in a wrongful arrest? Did young Browning favor boys, particularly young ones? Maybe dainty, cute boys like Jefferson Turner and Marcus himself were his fancy? And why was the Browning family so secretive about their family life as the same time it was putting its name on buildings all over the area? Was there something lurking in the family closets?
He recalled seeing a slender young man, effeminate in appearance, standing at the mansion to which he had been taken on that fateful night after which he escaped. Could that have been Browning Jr.?
So engrossed was Marcus in his computer research that he nearly forgot about his lunch date with Latesha; it was well after eleven o’clock when he finally realized he’d have to hurry if he was to be on time to meet his former co-worker at Miss Mattie’s.
*****
It had warmed up by the time Marcus left Heddy’s apartment and he decided to leave the windbreaker behind, hoping a sudden chill might not come up from an unexpected windshift that would bring cool breezes off the lake. Heddy had left her car for Marcus, since Marcus’ own car had been placed into a garage, hidden from the eyes of whoever was tailing him. The generosity of the woman was truly impressive, he felt; she seemed to have no ulterior motive other than to protect him in a time of peril and to resolve the apparent child trafficking scheme, if that’s what it was. She obviously showed no romantic attachment to him since her love for her soldier boyfriend seemed genuine.
Miss Mattie’s was located deep in what was typically called “the hood” by its own inhabitants. Most whites, particularly from the suburbs, were frightened to enter the area, even taking out-of-the-way streets to avoid driving through. Since most of the families he served while at Opportunities, Inc., lived in or near the hood, he had grown used to the streets of the area and by and large he felt comfortable there. He was aware that crime was prevalent there, and stayed alert, but most of his encounters with residents had been friendly and open.
The parking lot adjacent to Miss Mattie’s was full and he was forced to park Heddy’s ten-year-old Chevrolet Malibu on a side street nearly a block away, requiring him to walk along a street where children were playing while some adults sat on the front porches of century-old frame homes that were crammed into narrow city lots.
From his travels in the hood, Marcus had occasionally seen young white women on the streets, most always dressed casually, if not scruffy. He presumed most of them were either working as prostitutes or were staying with their black boyfriends. He knew most folks would dismiss the girls as “losers,” but Marcus knew each one had a story to tell explaining their unlikely presence in the hood.
“Hey, you. Come here to daddy,” one older man yelled from a porch. “Got somethin’ for ya’.”
Marcus ignored the remark and continued walking. “Think you’re too good for this ol’ nigger?” the man chided.
He couldn’t ignore a younger man, tall, slender with almost a childish, sweet face, who was approaching on the sidewalk. Marcus could see the man eying him, but Marcus, having been trained in the job to present a confident business-like demeanor to avoid problems, straightened himself and looked straight ahead.
“Say, miss. I have a question,” the man said, stepping in front of Marcus, forcing him to stop.
Marcus suddenly felt frightened. Even though the man spoke articulately and looked harmless, he detected something sinister in the man.
“What’s a pretty girl like you doing here? You need company?”
Marcus realized that even when he dressed in rough female clothes, he became a lovely, attractive young woman. He could never hide his natural female beauty.
Thinking fast, Marcus summoned all his courage and looking up at the taller man and said, “Let me by. I’m meeting my boyfriend at Miss Mattie’s.”
“Your boyfriend? You’re spoofing little girl.”
“He should come by any minute and he’ll kick your sorry ass from here to Lake Michigan. Now get out of my way,” Marcus said. In his excitement, his voice rose into a natural feminine range, surprising himself by being able to speak for forcefully. Meanwhile, he was shaking and feared he’d be wetting his panties.
“Whoa. Whoa. You’re a feisty one, you are,” he said, moving aside to let Marcus pass.
Marcus was still tense as he entered the restaurant.
*****
There was a short line of customers awaiting their turn to see the hostess. Marcus looked about the room in vain to see if he could locate Latesha. He saw mostly African-American folks, though there were occasional whites sprinkled about in the large room. Most of the whites tended to be middle-aged men in business suits, obviously politicians who needed to retain their creds in the black community or else real estate or insurance salespeople out hustling customers.
“You must be Miss Miranda,” the hostess queried.
He nodded.
“Latesha said you’d be joining her, dear. Follow me.”
The hostess, a large, middle-aged matronly woman, led Marcus through the large room into a smaller backroom with partitioned booths.
“Miranda!” Latesha squealed as Marcus approached.
She rose and hugged him firmly.
“Thanks, Wanda,” Latesha said, as the hostess turned to leave the room.
When they had settled into the booth, Marcus spoke, “It’s good to see you, Latesha. I’ve missed you all, and you’ve always been particularly nice to me.”
She smiled at the comment, but then shook her head, “No, it’s not me. It’s you. You’re easy to be nice to, Miranda. I understand now you’re living a bit in the dark, as Miranda?”
“Yes, it seemed best and I’m trying not to stand out. That’s why I’m dressed as scruffy as I am today. It wasn’t any disrespect to you, Latesha. Just a necessity.”
“I understand. And knowing your need to remain . . . what shall I say? . . . undercover, I asked Wanda if we could get a table back here.”
“Wanda? You know her?”
“She’s my auntie,” Latesha smiled. “She runs this place and she can be a real terror if things don’t go right, but otherwise she’s loved by everyone.”
“Well, it looks like she’s got a smooth operation here,” he said.
The two shared small talk as they ordered and ate their meals. Marcus let Latesha order for him and he was pleased learn how tasty soul food was.
“Now, here’s what I really want to talk about,” Latesha began as their plates were cleared away and they both sipped on their refilled glasses of iced tea.
“Well, here I am,” Marcus said, sipping his tea.
She began by lamenting over the decision to terminate Marcus, stating how the entire staff confronted Amy Dacosta, noting how unfair it was that he was let go.
“We all thought you had more than proved yourself and that you were a caring, hard-working staffer,” she said. “But Amy got really defensive and just said the decision was made on top, by Hector, and she could do nothing about it. If we had a problem with it, she said we should go to him. We did, but all he said was that the reason for your termination was none of our business, that you were still in your probationary period and that was that.”
“So, it wasn’t Amy letting me go?” he asked.
“I guess not, but none of us think she fought hard enough to keep you. I knew you two had a falling out, Miranda.”
“You did?” he asked, astonished, thinking both he and Amy had kept their night-time affairs private.
“Well, we don’t know exactly what you and Amy were up to, but it became obvious just from the way the two of you acted toward one another. God, before you’re cooling off, it was sickening at times to see how smoochy you guys could be.”
Latesha laughed.
“We were that obvious then. Damn, Latesha, I loved her, even though we could hardly be termed ‘right’ for each other, given our age and my lack of masculinity. But I never felt so comfortable with anyone else before. I really miss her, but she has rejected me out of hand. We haven’t talked.”
The waitress dropped the bill on the table and Latesha grabbed it, quickly pulling out a credit card from her purse. Marcus tried to object, but Latesha said, “Look you’re out of work and I still get a paycheck.”
She continued, “Things have really gone to hell at the agency since you left. Amy never talks to us, just closes the door to her office. Never even says ‘good morning’ or share in any of the office jabbering like she used to. You two have to make up.”
Marcus shook his head and began to tear up. Ashamed of his reaction he looked down at his iced tea glass and judged he had about one-third of the glass still to drink. Latesha reached over and put a hand on his left wrist, holding it firmly, but gently, lightly stroking his smooth soft skin. She said nothing, just held his wrist and continued to caress his forearm. It was comforting and he slowly composed himself.
“I want to make up with her, ‘tesha,” he mumbled, using a shortened name that he had heard the girls in the office sometimes call her.
“I know you do. Maybe you should call her.”
“I can’t. She fired me and she wasn’t very nice about it, either.”
Latesha removed her hand from his wrist, straightened herself a bit. “You know, ‘randa,” she said, “she didn’t have a choice. Hector forced her into it.”
“But, why would he? He has praised me over and over.”
“Maybe he was forced into it.”
“Who would force him?”
Latesha didn’t answer immediately. Instead, it looked like she seemed to have lapsed into momentary reflection, her eyes going blank. Finally, her eyes gained focus and she looked directly at Marcus, her face taking on a serious look. “Can I trust you to never repeat to a living soul what I’m going to tell you, Marcus?”
He nodded “yes,” a bit hesitantly at first. Yet, he knew she was serious, particularly since she reverting to using his masculine name.
“I’m serious, Marcus. This has got to be between you and I until I tell you otherwise. OK?”
“Right, OK.”
“There’s been a lot of strange coincidences going on for some time in the agency, but I never saw them until recently,” she began.
*****
The “coincidences” Latesha mentioned were strange, Marcus realized when she had finished.
First, why did Jefferson Turner’s foster family, the Harrisons, seem to be assigned with boys of an effeminate nature, like Jefferson? Their youngest foster son, Larry, was apparently being groomed for a similar role. Latesha said she had noticed the boy’s growing girlish behaviors in just the few months she had been visiting the family.
“I never did much about it, since our policy is now to be open to transgender youth and it’s always good to have foster parents who understand such behaviors, but still I wondered why one family would have two such boys,” she said.
Secondly, Latesha said Jefferson and Larry were not the only foster sons that the Harrisons had cared for who were noticeably effeminate. She checked with Maria Gonzalez, who used to work in their section as a home-visitor and had served as the social worker serving the Harrisons. Gonzalez told Latesha that she, too, noticed several other boys fostered by the Harrisons had similar tendencies. Gonzalez also said she sensed a similar situation with another foster family, named Wirth; she had visited them only twice (subbing for their usual worker) and saw a remarkedly matching situation with the Harrisons: the houses were clean and inviting, the atmosphere open and welcoming and the children outwardly pleased with the settings.
“Yet, I noticed, as did Maria, that when she interviewed the children they seemed to be holding back on us, even though each kid praised their foster parents,” Latesha said. “It was uncanny. I’ve never seen ‘perfect’ foster homes, but both the Harrisons and the Wirths seemed to be just that. Too good to be true.”
Thirdly, in Latesha’s narrative, Hector Ramirez, the agency director, seemed to be prospering financially. Ramirez, she said, had recently bought an overly plush Cadillac Escalade and that just a few months ago he moved his family from their rather ordinary bungalow in a largely Latino neighborhood into a large home on the city’s posh North Shore area.
“How does a poor kid from the streets get enough money on his social service agency salary to afford to live like that?” she asked. “And, did you notice how expensively he’s been dressing recently. Where’s his money coming from?”
*****
Marcus mulled all of this over in the drive back to Heddy’s apartment, his mind becoming occupied first with thoughts about his affection for Amy Dacosta and then with what appeared to be a conspiracy involving the trafficking of young, usually effeminate boys. His suspicions grew intense, even to the point that he wondered whether Amy was a party to all of it.
He grew restless as the afternoon wore on; he tried for a while to do research on the internet, vainly hoping that his “Googling” would lead him to an answer about the Brownings, but all he could find were stories of the family’s seemingly overly generous philanthropy, plus boring stories in the business section about the family’s hedge fund, Browning Investments and the genius of the family patriarch, grandfather Cedric T. Browning. Cedric’s obituary, written in the year 1995, told how the boy was born an orphan and was adopted by a Union City, Indiana, railroad worker’s family. As a young man, Cedric rode the rails, lived in hobo camps during the Depression and somehow cobbled together enough money to buy a small grocery store in 1938 that many considered a foolhardy venture in those troubled days. Somehow, Cedric made it all work and early on came onto a new concept – a self-service grocery with cashiers at the door, thus saving on the need for clerks. Thus, he became the first in the city’s metropolitan area to establish the modern supermarket. After World War II (he was spared from service due to his age and family with its three children), he soon expanded to erect eight stores throughout the area, rivalling the two giants of retailing then, the A & P and National Tea stores.
Cedric turned the stores over to son Paul on his 70th birthday in 1975. Ten years later, Paul tired of the grocery business and sold out to a national chain, grabbed the hundreds of millions of dollars in proceeds and set up the hedge fund, becoming filthy rich. Soon the news clippings were of Paul’s yachting adventures, but little was said of his wife, Cindy Lou, and the couple’s three children.
This was all interesting, Marcus found, but did little to enlighten him on a possible child trafficking conspiracy. Growing restless, he rummaged through Heddy’s clothes to see if what he could find something else to wear. Even though she had suggested he could wear any of her things – except for a few dresses she wore for special occasions – he took advantage of her invitation, even if he felt a bit guilty.
He had dressed particularly ordinary, or even dowdy in his mind, for his luncheon date with Latesha and wanted desperately to put on a skirt and blouse to feel more feminine. Finally finding an outfit he liked, Marcus took off the slacks and top he was wearing, stripping down to his bra and panties. He caught a glimpse of himself in this disrobed fashion and smiled at the slender, lovely figure he saw in a mirror.
He emerged from the bedroom in a calf-length flowing print skirt in white with stylish pink starburst designs and a purple sleeveless top. He undid the bun into which he had tied his hair, and brushed it so it fell to his shoulders, straight with a slight bob. He felt totally feminine.
“Miranda, dear Miranda,” the slender young man mused as he paraded in front of the full-length mirror that Heddy had placed on her closet door. “You’re lovely, a true beauty.”
No longer was he Marcus; he was now Miranda. He desperately wanted Amy to see him as he was now – dainty, soft and feminine. He mused about the hours he had been engulfed in Amy’s strong arms, how lovingly she caressed him and how passionately she had said, “Miranda, Miranda, my Miranda.”
He thought over Latesha’s description of Amy and how much she had changed since Marcus had been discharged from the Agency. In Latesha’s eyes, Amy’s uncharacteristic behavior stemmed from the breakup between the two of them. “You have got to call her,” Latesha had urged Marcus.
Marcus remembered that nearly all his feminine clothes were at Amy’s. Perhaps, he mused, he could call her to see if he could arrange to pick them up some time.
“Yes,” he said aloud, using his soft, breathy feminine voice. “I’ll do that. Tonight, I’ll call her and maybe we can talk.”
He smiled into the mirror. He was a beauty, even more so when he smiled.
*****
Heddy came home briefly at the end of her shift, changing out of her uniform into a short, pleated skirt, modest heels and a pullover blouse with a v-neck. It was Friday night and she had a dinner date with a man she described as “an old high school friend.”
Marcus was surprised to learn she was dating; hadn’t she been in love with her boyfriend serving in Afghanistan? His skepticism must have shown.
“It’s nothing serious, Marcus,” Heddy explained. “He’s back home from the East, visiting his parents and we are just friends. Sorry to leave you alone tonight.”
“It’s no problem. I’ll finish up that leftover pizza and make a salad. I’ll be fine,” Marcus said. Furthermore, he was happy for be alone for his call to Amy.
Marcus punched Amy’s cell phone number three times, ending the call even before the rang began. He began to question whether he should make the call. Finally, recalling Latesha’s advice, he punched in the number for a fourth time.
After Marcus agonizingly endured six rings from Amy’s phone (all the time fighting the inclination to hang up), he heard the woman’s answering machine message. In a shaky voice, he said, “Amy . . . ah . . . this is Miranda. Call me . . . ah . . . just a quick question. Please.”
He hung up. He knew Amy had a practice of checking caller ID before answering her phone. She knew his number, of course. She wouldn’t call back, he knew it.
But she surprised him. Fifteen minutes later, his cell phone buzzed and the caller ID said only “Restricted.” It could be Amy, since she blocked her ID when she called folks, largely due to the need to protect her from agency clients. (The job of serving families often requires making tough decisions that anger families even to the level of violence.)
With his heart beating heavily, Marcus answered his phone after letting it ring five times – just before the automatic answering service took over.
“Hello,” he answered, his voice quivering.
“What’s your quick question?” Amy was curt and direct.
Taken aback by her coldness, Marcus had to pause.
“Well? I haven’t got all night?” she pressed impatiently.
“Amy. I’d like to stop by and pick up my clothes at your place . . . that is, if you haven’t thrown them out.”
“No, they’re still here in the closet.”
“Oh, that’s good. Tomorrow’s Saturday. Can I come by about ten in the morning?”
“Make it four in the afternoon. OK?” Her voice was still cold and unfeeling.
“I can do that?”
“Be here on time,” she warned, hanging up abruptly.
There wasn’t a hint of warmth in her voice and as he ended the call, Marcus wondered if there was any hope at all that the two could resume their friendship. He broke into tears. He was heartbroken.
*****
Marcus had trouble sleeping that night, his mind mulling over conflicting explanations to explain Amy’s cold behavior in the phone call. Was it, as Latesha speculated, that she felt guilty for having terminated him? Maybe she really did love him – or love Miranda, at least? No, perhaps she was embarrassed to be associated with an effeminate, girlish man like himself? Or, was it because he truly did act unprofessionally by pursuing the causes behind Jefferson Turner’s situation?
Fortunately, Mollie and Latesha called the next morning and invited him to lunch where they reinforced his decision to follow through with his trip to Amy’s apartment. They met at Sterling’s, a family restaurant famous for its special salads and pies. Marcus came as Miranda, dressed purposely in jeans and a pink sweatshirt adorned with bunnies so as to not attract attention. The three laughed and giggled through lunch with no mention of Amy Dacosta. Once coffee was served the conversation turned toward Marcus’ coming visit to Amy.
“She’s still in love with you, Miranda,” Mollie insisted.
Latesha agreed. “Just give her an opening, Miranda.”
Marcus and the young women shared a group hug and Marcus returned to Heddy’s apartment, looking carefully around the street to see if he saw anything that would indicate his pursuers had located him. There was a plumbing firm’s truck parked at the curb; it had been there when he left several hours earlier and Marcus saw no activity coming from the truck. It looked innocent enough; yet, he couldn’t be too careful.
*****
It was time to see Amy, Marcus realized, and he readied himself to visit her. Heddy was gone for most of the weekend, having gone on a camping trip with friends, one of them apparently the young man who she knew from high school. He left a note, informing Heddy that he was spending the weekend with Amy, and that she shouldn’t be alarmed. “I’m in safe hands,” he wrote.
It was only on impulse that Marcus – dressed as Miranda in a knee-length print skirt, a burgundy-colored blouse, a cardigan and flats – stopped at a small florist’s shop located about a half-block from Amy’s apartment. Being a bright, sunny, cool afternoon in early fall, he spied the mums lined along the storefront. He bought a plant of mums, spending $16 of the $20 he had in his purse, figuring he’d present it as a token of his appreciation for Amy’s early support at the agency and their previous affection for each other.
As he carried the plant into her apartment building, his anxiety over the meeting Amy seemed to subside; whether it was the sunny day or the bright yellow of the mums, his mood was calmed.
“Come on up,” Amy said simply through the speaker as she buzzed him into the foyer of the building. He could detect no hint of warmth in her tone. Amy was standing at her apartment door, awaiting as he stepped off the elevator. She was not smiling.
“What’s this?” she said as he approached with the plant in his arms.
“I thought you might like this plant for your balcony. That’s all.”
She said nothing and merely nodded for him to put the plant down on the floor, near her entry door.
“Sorry, I thought you’d like this. I’ll take it home then if you want me to,” he said, suddenly feeling embarrassed for arriving with this floral gift.
“Leave it here,” she said stiffly.
The two stood, looking awkwardly at each other. Neither spoke. Marcus felt an urge to hug her, to rush into her arms, to feel her comforting hands caress his own feminine softness. They avoided each other’s eyes for a moment; finally, Marcus looked toward Amy and was surprised to see that Amy was now looking straight at him. He wanted her so badly; yet he stood there silently, his hands nervously playing with the cloth of the cardigan.
He watched in amazement as Amy’s eyes began to moisten and soft tears began to run down her cheeks. He felt his own eyes grow moist and soon he felt the tears move down his cheeks.
“I miss you, Miranda,” Amy said finally.
Marcus said nothing for a moment, resisting the urge to rush to her side, but all the time looking to be held by her, to smell her always soapy, clean scents and experience her hands kneading his mushy flesh.
“Oh my God,” Amy said, rushing to him, locking him into a firm muscular embrace.
(To be continued)
(Thanks to Eric for proofreading and other suggestions.)
By Katherine Day
Chapter Nineteen – Love Rekindled
Marcus awoke, the stench of sweat and sex in his nostrils. It was dark and as he lay on his back he felt a weight on him. He was momentarily puzzled as to where he was. The firm arm of Amy Dacosta pinned him down and he heard the woman’s steady breathing and felt her breath on his chest. He was in Amy’s bed and it felt heavenly and natural. It was where he was meant to be.
He glanced at the clock, its digital face reading “1:48.” They had been in bed nearly five hours, he realized. Their mutual passion for each other exploded and they entered into a night of intense love-making – not boy-girl love-making but girl-to-girl. Marcus ejaculated twice during the evening, but the juices flowed only when Amy praised his soft, smooth body and admired his femininity. She was strong and he loved how she commanded the love-making; both tried to ignore his penis. How much he wanted a vagina. He loved Amy’s juicy opening and to bury his mouth onto it, bringing its salty, but oh so sweet, nectar.
His stirring awoke Amy and she suggested they take a shower. They carried their love-making into the bathroom amid warm water, sweet soap, soft caresses and wet kisses.
“I wish you didn’t have that thing, Miranda,” Amy said as she soaped him down in the shower, playing with his penis. It was not large and he had only sparse bits of pubic hair but still it seemed to be a reminder that his femininity was not complete.
“Me either.”
“Darling, I was terribly jealous when I heard you had a date with Emery,” she said. “I’m so sorry. It was awful of me.”
Marcus didn’t answer and instead placed his mouth on one of her nipples; the water cascaded down his face has he mouthed the hard nub.
“Ohhhhhhhhh,” Amy moaned.
“You weren’t awful,” he said, having raised up from her breast as both stood in the shower, looking at each other. “I love you Amy.”
“I love you, my dearest Miranda.”
They kissed as the water continued to flow down their bodies.
When they had finished the shower, they dried each other off, slowly running towels along their bodies, relishing the tender caresses that accompanied the process. Within minutes, the two had returned to Amy’s bed, both nude.
*****
“It’s time to get up, Princess.” Marcus felt a gentle nudge on his shoulder and tried to focus with his sleep-encrusted eyes, realizing it was morning and Amy was at the bedside. Even the digital clock was fuzzy as he squinted to try to read it.
“It’s after eight o’clock . . . in the morning, my beauty,” Amy said.
“You’re up,” he said huskily.
“Yes, had my shower and now it’s your turn,” she said. “I almost woke you to join me in the shower this morning, but you looked so cute sleeping like that. Even your snoring is cute.”
“I don’t snore,” he protested.
“Don’t worry, it’s a dainty girly snore.” Amy leaned down to kiss his forehead. When she finished the kiss, she pulled him up out of bed.
His mouth tasted sour and he sensed his body odor wasn’t too pleasant. A night of love-making would do that to a person. As he stood up, still holding Amy’s hand, he moved to adjust the nightgown he was wearing; it was lacy, gauzy affair with thin straps over the shoulders. Truly feminine.
“I must look a sight,” he said.
“Not to me. You’re gorgeous,” she said, kissing him again, but being careful not to hug him and soil her fresh clothes against his body, sweaty and stinking from their sex adventures. Amy was wearing a beige Capri with a teal-colored sleeveless blouse and a high neck.
“Better dress a bit warm today, Miranda,” she told him as he moved into the bathroom to shower and clean up.
“Thanks, but I better get going right after my shower. I know you must be busy today,” Marcus said.
“Nonsense, it’s Saturday, and my washing can wait a day,” she said. “Let’s be girlfriends today, OK?”
“You really want me to stay?”
“More than anything in the world, darling.”
Amy was not much of a girly-girl and that was reflected in the soaps and cosmetics in her bathroom. He soaped down with yellowish bar of Dial to shower and soon was standing in the hot water singing in his soft, sweet voice, “It’s a Wonderful World.”
When he left the shower, feeling great, he sensed the smells of coffee, bacon and toast coming from the kitchen and realized he must hurry. He rummaged through the clothes that he had stored in Amy’s spare bedroom, finding a flowing, pleated dark skirt that ended just below the knees, a tan cami and a bright yellow cardigan sweater. Not taking time to fix his hair, he drew it back into a ponytail and tied it with a rubber band. He was not satisfied but felt it would do for the time being. He put on his fluffy pink slippers and padded into the kitchen, as if drawn in by the scent of breakfast.
“You’re adorable,” Amy said as he entered.
“Not,” he retorted.
“No, not not. You really look cute, even without your hair being fixed. So natural.”
He smiled. “Well, love is blind, they say.”
She laughed. “I hope you don’t mind a breakfast like my mom would serve on the farm. I know you girls like your smoothie junk and yogurt, but this is what you’re getting.”
“I guess you know me then.”
“Well, I felt we’d both be hungry after all the exercise we had last night.”
He sat down at the table. “I’m famished. Bring it on!”
*****
They had lingered over coffee, leaving the morning dishes in the sink, unwashed. Amy moved her chair closer to him, grabbed his hand and said, “Miranda, I had no choice when I terminated you. I’m so sorry.”
“I know. You said it was Hector’s orders, right?”
“I tried to talk him out of it, but he was adamant. Either I let you go or I’d face the consequences.”
“Like getting fired yourself?”
“I don’t think he’d have gone that far,” she muttered. “But he was pretty firm and determined.”
Marcus nodded his head agreeing that Amy had little choice in the matter.
“Yet, I felt I failed you, Miranda,” she continued. “And I quickly began to feel guilty. Damn, I became so miserable with myself and felt I couldn’t face you again. And I missed you so much.”
She began to cry and he moved over next to her and leaned down to hug and comfort her. She nestled her head into his chest and he held her tightly until she settled down.
“I never held it against you,” Marcus said, once her crying ceased.
“I don’t know why he was insistent on getting rid of you. I’d always given you glowing reports. You were effective with your clients, they all seemed to like you and certainly you fit in well in the office. Damn, I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a new worker progress as well as you did.”
Marcus said nothing for a moment, reflecting on how much he had grown to like his work with Opportunities, Inc., and particularly how he liked dealing with the families. It was particularly distressing to be laid off just a few days before his probation period ended.
“He never gave you a reason for firing me?”
“Only that you violated protocol by getting dressed up like a prostitute. He said it shamed the agency. But I argued you did it for a good reason to help out a child in trouble,” she said.
“It probably wasn’t the smartest thing I ever did,” Marcus agreed.
“It wasn’t, Miranda,” Amy said, continuing to use his feminine name.
“I didn’t want to involve the agency in any way, and I didn’t. No one ever really found out about it, except the police. How could I have shamed the agency?”
“That’s just it. It didn’t. And I don’t think he let you go because of your Miranda stuff, either.”
“Did he know about Miranda?” Marcus asked.
“Yes, I had told him several weeks earlier, since I did know it could affect your status in the future, but he was cool with it. He really was.”
Amy further explained that Hector Ramirez even went so far as to encourage Marcus to eventually live full-time as a woman, if he decided to go that far. “He told me there are lots of transgendered youth in our community and with a TG worker like you we could offer lots to those who are in foster care or are just running loose without families,” Amy related.
“Wow,” Marcus replied. At first, he had wondered whether Amy had betrayed his crossdressing, but as he considered it he realized that as supervisor she had probably done the proper thing. It only bothered him that Amy had revealed his secret without first consulting him, although on second thought he knew that Amy wouldn’t have done so if it would have caused him harm.
The two talked on, finally concluding that the whole excursion that took Marcus – dressed as a young prostitute – out to the Browning household in Madison Heights was the reason for him being terminated, largely because his excursion might lead to expose some sort of scandal.
“There’s something more going on here, Miranda,” Amy said.
“Yeah, like why do we have so many boys being referred to this agency who seem to be girlish, like Jefferson?”
“And why are they always sent to families like the Harrisons that are so perfect? Those families seem to have impeccable environments for the boys,” Amy said.
“Doesn’t Hector make all the assignments of kids to families?”
“Yes, he does, which seems strange to me, since it’s a job that a program manager should do.”
Marcus thought for a minute before speaking. “I’m just wondering. Ramirez seems to be living pretty high these days, that new Escalade and his new home on the North Shore. He doesn’t get paid that well, does he?”
“Not at all,” Amy agreed. “We’re a nonprofit and I’ve seen our financial reports. A director like Hector doesn’t get that much.”
“It makes you wonder if he’s getting a pay-off, doesn’t it?”
*****
Because Amy had obligations that day, Marcus left and returned to Heddy’s place that morning. Marcus busied himself cleaning up the room he was occupying, tidying up Heddy’s apartment and doing laundry.
Marcus wore shorts, a tank top and sandals as he toiled, singing along with Judy Garland and Sarah Vaughn as he played CDs. His reverie was shattered when his cell phone rang.
“Mr. Whiting?” it was a boy’s voice.
“Yes, this is him.”
“LaGrande Marquis. Remember me?”
“Of course, how could I forget you?” Marcus answered, ashamed that while he had not forgotten the troubled but talented teenager he had pushed the boy’s precarious situation out of his mind. He had been too busy with other matters, hadn’t he?
“Can I talk to you?” he asked tentatively.
“Yes, of course, you can.”
“Well,” the boy began. “Thanks to you, Mr. Whiting, I did get into the Performing Arts School and they accepted me into the jazz band, too. But you know, they’re some real dudes in that group. They can really jam. I’m in the lowest group.”
“You’re just a freshman, LaGrande. Give it time. Listen to those dudes and you’ll get there.” Marcus smiled, knowing in his heart that if the boy kept focused on music, rather than the streets, he’d likely succeed.
Marcus had heard that LaGrande’s case in juvenile court had been dismissed, thanks to the involvement of the ACLU, and that he had agreed to attend counseling for 90 days.
“Anyway, I met Jefferson and he told me how much he admired you, but that he was under orders not to talk to you, Mr. Whiting. Is it true you’ve been . . . ah . . . fired?”
“Yes, it’s true, though the word is I didn’t pass my probation, so I guess I technically was not fired,” Marcus clarified.
“Well, Jefferson trusts you and he wanted me to call you for him. OK?”
“Sure, but what’s his message?”
“He’s scared.”
When LaGrande finished his story, Marcus learned that Jefferson had been also been accosted in the boys’ room at the school by a pair of big guys and told to “keep his mouth shut or else.” When Jefferson asked what they were referring to, the toughs merely told him, “you know what.” He said he was also told not to mention the incident to anyone “or else.”
“But he told you to tell me, right?” Marcus asked when the boy finished.
“Yes, you’d know what to do, Mr. Whiting. They told him they’d scar his ‘pretty face’ if he snitched. He is pretty, almost like a girl, isn’t he?”
*****
Marcus immediately called Amy, and she responded angrily. “Those filthy, dirty sons of bitches,” she began, streaming off a series of expletives and ending, “those rich, damned Brownings think they can do anything they damn well please.”
“This is something big, Marcus,” she said, reverting to his male name for the first time that weekend.
He had received the call from LaGrande about three o’clock on Sunday, just as he was about to remove his laundry, mainly his delicates, to place in the dryer.
“I know, and Jefferson can’t return to that school, at least for now,” he said.
“Right, I’ll call Tatiana over at Hope Place to assure he stays protected in the agency on Monday.”
“He’ll miss school, I know. LaGrande told me he’s been put into the drama program at the school, working with the costuming and makeup girls. He loves it.”
“It’s too bad. His safety is more important.”
Heddy Jelacic returned to her apartment that evening glowing and gushing over the great time she had hiking in the woods, cooking over an outdoor fire and trying to stay warm while sleeping in tents.
“We had so much fun. I love the outdoors, Marcus,” she proclaimed.
He paused for a moment, not sure whether he should spoil Heddy’s warm and sweet reverie with the news about Jefferson Turner. Finally, he decided he should confide in her; after all, she had stuck her head out to urge continued investigation of the case, even getting grudging support from her sergeant who had to defy orders from above that he should close the case.
“I’ll see if I can interview Jefferson first thing Monday,” Heddy said when he had finished his story. “And, I think we should inform Emery, too. Even though he was ordered off the case, I think he’d be interested.”
“You think he wants to be involved? He was pretty adamant that he wanted nothing to do with it,” Marcus said.
Heddy smiled. “I think he has been doing a little snooping on the side, because I’m sure he cares.”
“Even though he was ordered off the case?”
“Yep. When he got so much pressure he was sure there’s politics involved. The Browning family was a heavy contributor to the DA’s campaign.”
“Hmmm, that’s interesting,” Marcus said.
*****
Marcus couldn’t stay away from Amy and on Sunday afternoon he returned to her apartment. The two enjoyed another night of high-spirited girl-to-girl lovemaking, and Marcus awoke on Monday morning relaxed and mellow. He had arisen and still in his flimsy nightgown made a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon and toast for the two of them.
“You didn’t have to do that Miranda,” Amy said as she entered the kitchen, already dressed to go to work.
He was at the kitchen sink and she came from behind, grabbing him her hands reaching around and playing with his soft breasts. Her fingers tickled his nipples and they grew hard.
“You have the cutest little breasts, my darling,” she cooed into his ear.
It was true; his body was soft and fleshy and he had developed breasts much like those of a maturing twelve-year-old girl. He loved how her fingers massaged him, kneading him.
He turned and the two kissed; he tasted the mint from her recent tooth-brushing and hoped that the sour taste in his mouth didn’t turn her off. Their kisses became passionate and only stopped when they heard the toaster pop, meaning the toast was ready.
“Wish you didn’t have to go work, Amy,” he whispered.
“I know, but there’s lots to do today and I should get going,” she said.
“Let’s eat.”
*****
After his shower, Marcus busied himself in the bathroom, playing with his hair, trying to figure out what style in which to wear his long hair. The light brown strands had grown to hang several inches below his neckline and he brushed them vigorously. Fortunately, his hair was thick and lay down easily. He had watched Heddy work with her hair, often without great success, largely because her blonde locks were thin and tended to grow frizzy and not stay in place.
When he let his hair flow unrestrained, it seemed to stay in place; he knew a light spray of conditioner would all he’d need. He smiled at his reflection in the mirror; he was naturally feminine.
Realizing that he promised Amy he’d spend the morning cleaning the apartment, scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors and scouring the sinks, he decided to tie his hair into a ponytail. He donned a light application of light pink lipstick and a bit of eyeliner and headed for the bedroom. For his household chores, he put on a pair of tight shorts and tee shirt. A glance in the mirror told him he was all girl.
The work exhausted him and by mid-morning he took a break to make himself a glass of iced tea. As he was heating the water for the tea, he mused how comfortable he was as a woman. Amy had treated him as if he was a girlfriend and she took the commanding lead role, both in their love-making and in their daily activities. That morning, though he didn’t realize it at the time, changed his life forever. From that moment on, he knew he was a woman and must live as one from now on.
*****
Emery Harrington had not given up on his quest to take Marcus, as Miranda, out, either to a movie or dinner or even a drink, but Marcus continued to turn him down, conjuring up a plethora of excuses some of which defied logic. Yet, Emery took it all in stride, recognizing that Marcus was undergoing significant strain. The young man certainly must be at the crossroads of his life, he reasoned.
Emery was curious about this strange young man, who looked and acted more like a woman, a very lovely and dainty woman. He had returned to the internet in his few moments of free time, repeatedly drawn to the pretty, feminine transgendered creatures who were all over the social media sites. Miranda Whiting certainly could have won any beauty contest she might have entered as he examined the photographs of scores of tender, soft, lithe boys and young men. Emery’s search took him to a few scholarly and lengthy descriptions of what he quickly learned what is meant to be “transgender.” He was surprised that many drag queens and street prostitutes in drag were not considered transgendered, even though they might be parading around in overly garish feminine attire and makeup.
Emery had met with Marcus as a male social worker and had enjoyed the sight of Miranda who always looked fresh, lovely, dainty and truly feminine. He liked both Marcus and Miranda; both exhibited intelligence and warm demeanors. He was pleased that Miranda always dressed modestly; no way could she be mistaken for a drag queen or prostitute, except of course on the two nights in which she went on the streets, presumably to set up a trap for the gang who had been using Jefferson Turner.
It had been a foolish endeavor for her to take; yet, Emery couldn’t help but admire Miranda’s courage. She was weak as a kitten, as the saying goes, and obviously couldn’t fight her way out of a tight spot. Nonetheless, she exposed herself to harm, and even now was hiding out in fear of being attacked and perhaps killed. It was because of Miranda’s brave adventures that the epidemic of teen trafficking for sex had been exposed. And by such a lovely girl, too!
Emery smiled, realizing that in his thoughts Marcus had become Miranda. Though he had been warned by the District Attorney – his boss – to leave the case alone, Emery couldn’t get the case out of his mind. He knew both Jefferson Turner and Miranda Whiting were the keys to cracking the case.
“It’s Sunday and I’m on my own time,” Emery thought. “Besides it’s nobody’s business who I see in my personal life.”
Hoping that Miranda’s cell phone was still active, Emery called the number and was surprised to hear her answer in a voice that was vaguely feminine.
“Hello,” she answered, using a soft, tentative voice.
“Miranda . . . ah . . . or should I say Marcus. This is Emery Harrington,” he said.
The reply was soft gasp, followed by a question? “Are you asking for Miranda? Or Marcus?”
Emery detected a more feminine lilt to the voice.
“Miranda, how are you?” he answered.
“Hiding out, as you know. What do you want?” Marcus’s voice took on a stern tone.
“If you’re free today, I thought we could go out for a drink and maybe we could have dinner somewhere. How would you like that?”
“Can’t,” was the instant reply.
Then he heard a voice in the background ask who she was talking to. He figured she must have covered the mouthpiece to talk with the other person. There was a pause with Emery several times asking, “Miranda are you still there?” and no getting a reply. It was obvious the two were still connected and that there was some sort of discussion going on in the background.
Eventually, Marcus returned to the phone. “Sorry about that. Had to clear my schedule,” his voice was still a bit stern.
“No problem,” he said. “There’s an Italian place, ‘Mariano’s,’ on Cedar, near the lake. I can be there at five o’clock. That OK?”
“I know the place. Good choice,” Marcus replied. He had never been there but had heard they offered an especially tasty lasagna.
“Come as Miranda, OK?”
“What else?”
*****
Marcus was surprised that Amy agreed to him meeting Emery dressed as Miranda. In fact, Amy had to talk him into going out on the dinner date. Marcus had protested, asking her, “Didn’t you break up with me because I might accept a date from Emery?”
“Yes, my darling,” she said, kissing Marcus’s cheek. “I was wrong and hateful. I know I can trust you, dear.”
“I don’t want to lose you again, Amy. Please, I shouldn’t meet him.”
“I have no doubts about our love for each other. You’re so precious to me, dearest ‘Randa.”
“I love you, Amy. You want me to go, really?
“Please go. Perhaps you can talk about the case with him. I think he’d like to do more, but he’s on a gag order,” Amy said.
That afternoon, before Marcus set out to prepare for his date with Emery, the two found themselves back in Amy’s bed. Both were exhausted from their afternoon athletics and had fallen asleep. Marcus awoke bleary-eyed and squinted at the old-fashioned alarm clock that Amy stubbornly kept at her bedside. Through the wetness in his eyes it appeared that the hands of the clock pointed to four-twenty.
Within thirty minutes, Marcus had showered, dried himself off and with the help of Amy tied his hair into a high ponytail and put on light makeup. He put on a pair of jeans that framed his cute feminine ass, sandals exposing his pink-painted toenails, a camisole and a pink Detroit Tigers sweatshirt. He donned a baseball cap, tucking the ponytail through the gap in the back.
“Wait,” Amy said when they had finished and Marcus was anxious to leave to meet Emery.
“But I’ll be late,” he protested.
“This will just take a minute, but it’s important.”
“OK, but what?”
“I love you dear, but I love you as Miranda. I don’t think Marcus exists anymore. You are Miranda and I think you should begin living fulltime as Miranda.”
“You do?” Marcus was puzzled. Living fulltime as a woman? That had been a lingering desire. Now, Amy said it should become a reality.
“Yes, dear. From now on you’re Miranda and only Miranda.”
He thought for a moment and then smiled. He kissed Amy.
“Better go now, dear, or you’ll be late,” Amy said
Marcus kissed his friend again and was out the door, dressed casually and, it was to be hoped, not at all sexy. He didn’t want to arouse Emery’s active libido. But from now on, he would be Miranda.
(Grateful thanks to Eric for proofreading and important editing suggestions.)
Undercover Girl – Chapter Twenty
By Katherine Day
Chapter Twenty – Dinner Out
You’d hardly guess that Mariano’s was one of the city’s most renowned restaurants. It was tucked into a small warehouse-like building in an area that once had been buzzing with small manufacturing installations, most of which had closed or fled to other areas and even overseas. Weeds and debris filled many of the lots and empty gray and grimy buildings stood as decrepit sentinels, their windows either boarded up or broken out.
Cedar Street, the location of Mariano’s was lined with the parked cars, mostly late model SUVs or luxury sedans, of owners who were inside the restaurant. Miranda eased her aging Ford Focus into a spot between two well-polished sedans, her car a sorry sight in comparison. She would have been too embarrassed to have pulled her junker of a car up to the valet station. As she exited her car she saw a small security car patrolling the neighborhood, apparently to protect the fancy cars from possible theft.
“We’ll keep an eye out for your safety, miss,” the rent-a-cop yelled from the car. “You really should use our valet service, miss.”
Miranda waved back at the officer and yelled “thank you,” continuing her walk to Mariano’s.
She was already five minutes late and she was greeted by a large, well-dressed man, obviously a security person hired by the restaurant to assure finicky affluent and suburban customers of their safety in this nondescript urban neighborhood.
“Welcome to Mariano’s ma’am. Are you meeting someone here?” the large man asked, his voice kind and gentle. Yet, Miranda understood the question; the restaurant obviously was not interested in single women entering the place with designs to practice their street trades. Miranda was well aware the high-priced prostitutes dressed in fashionable good taste in hopes of snagging a well-heeled “john” for the night. She smiled that she must have fit such a description.
“Yes, I’m meeting Mr. Harrington,” she said quickly.
“He’s already here, ma’am. I believe you’ll find him just in the front, probably talking to Peter . . . er . . . Mr. Mariano,” he said, opening the door for her.
She entered and before she could focus her eyes, Miranda found herself engulfed in a quick hug.
“Miranda, so happy you could make it,” Emery gushed.
She turned her head to avoid a potential kiss; thankfully, he pulled away just as quickly, turning toward a tall, fiftyish, impeccably dressed man with a full head of dark hair, accented by graying at the temples.
“Miranda, this is Peter Mariano, a longtime friend of father’s and the owner of this joint,” Emery said, introducing the man.
Peter Mariano looked at her and smiled. “Welcome to Mariano’s, my dear. Didn’t know Emery had such good taste in women.”
Emery laughed. “Flattery will get you nowhere, Peter.”
Miranda looked at the older man and mouthed a “thank you,” giving him a smile. She wondered whether her actions might have been a bit flirtatious. She felt a bit shamed that she was exploiting her newly-found talents as a lovely young woman.
*****
Emery gently held onto Miranda’s arm as he guided her through the maze of tables, hoping to avoid bumping up against the chairs holding the diners. The hostess directed them to a banquette alongside a wall in which they’d be forced to sit next to each other, a setting made for couples, particularly those seeking intimacy. Miranda scowled, knowing full well this would be a sign that Emery was seeking a romantic evening, something she wasn’t ready for.
They settled into their seats, Miranda trying vainly to stay as far apart from her companion, but still she felt his warmth. She ordered a cosmopolitan while Emery ordered a “Jack” on the rocks, causing Miranda to muse that the young attorney had ordered a drink (Jack Daniels bourbon) she associated with “real men.”
There was an awkward silence while they awaited their drinks, both ostensibly studying their menus. Miranda’s mind was wandering, wondering about how to behave that evening, what to say or why was she there. She was uneasy.
When their drinks arrived and their meal orders taken, she decided it was time to be bold.
“Tell me Emery, why are you interested in taking me out. Certainly, you know about my status?” she asked.
“Why, Miranda? Why not? You’re an attractive, intelligent young woman,” he responded, as if he was surprised by the question.
“You know I really am Marcus, the caseworker from Opportunities, Inc., or should I say former caseworker.”
Emery smiled. “I know Marcus, a very hardworking young man, but I like Miranda better.”
He placed his hand on hers. “You know, I could see the woman in you even when you’re Marcus,” he added.
“But I’m not really a woman, am I? So why would you even want me?”
“I think you are a woman, Miranda,” Emery said.
Miranda reddened, not expecting such an answer. Certainly, the sharp-minded young man sitting next to her must know that her plumbing system was male and that a close look might show that even with her light facial hair she was forced to shave at least once every other day to keep her skin soft and smooth.
“Miranda, I understand about persons who are transgender,” he said, his tone serious. “I’ve tried several cases against men who have assaulted transwomen and I had to learn and understand the victims, to realize that while they may have male physical features they truly are female in their minds, in their psyches and in their behaviors. I presume you’re such a woman.”
Miranda didn’t answer right away, truly not knowing what to say. At the moment, she was unsure of what her future was. She had only recently discovered her feminine nature; while she had long exhibited effeminate behaviors, she had not considered that she might eventually live as a woman until her experiences in the recent weeks had made that a real possibility.
“I’m not sure what I am right now, Emery,” she said dropping her head, unwilling to meet his eyes. She knew he was sympathetic, yet she felt embarrassed about her gender, her failures as a man.
“I don’t mean to offend you, Miranda. Please believe that. Let me help you, if I can. As a friend, nothing more.”
“Thank you,” she said, her eyes filling with tears.
With a quick “excuse me,” Miranda fled to the ladies’ room, which was empty, entered a stall and cried. After a few moments, she fixed her makeup and returned to the table, offering Emery a smile.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“No, it’s me who owes you an apology. I brought this on. Let’s change the subject and enjoy our lasagna.”
The food was delicious and their conversation turned to movies and she was pleased to learn that Emery enjoyed watching old musicals, like “Guys and Dolls,” “South Pacific” and “The Bells Are Ringing.”
“I love those, too,” Miranda gushed.
Soon they found themselves comparing favorite songs and scenes from the movies, even finding moments of shared laughter. It soon became a comfortable dinner for both.
“Now for another reason I asked you out, Miranda,” Emery said then they had finished their meals and relaxed over after-dinner drinks.
“Hope you’re not going to ruin our lovely evening together,” she said. “I don’t know when I ever enjoyed a dinner more than tonight.”
“Me too, but I think I need to ask you a few things about the Jefferson Turner case,” he said.
*****
Miranda had hoped that she could discuss the case with Emery that evening and was surprised that he brought the topic up. Hadn’t he been reluctant to take the case, claiming he was precluded from doing so by “orders from the top,” obviously meaning the district attorney?
“What is it you want to know, Emery?” she asked, hoping she didn’t sound too eager.
“First of all, Miranda, whatever we say tonight about this case is just between us, OK?”
“Yes, of course, but why the secrecy?”
“You know I’ve been ordered to have nothing to do with this case, right?” he queried.
“Yes, I know that,” she agreed.
“I’m still not to have nothing to do with this case. And, they’ve made that very clear, but this is Sunday night, right?”
She nodded.
“This is my own personal time so I figure I can talk about anything I want, right? Thus, the secrecy.”
She smiled. “I understand, Emery, but how can I help?”
“I want you to know that I feel you are a brave and courageous young woman,” he began. “You put yourself in terrible danger, Miranda. You should know that.”
Miranda thought back to those terrifying moments as she fled into the woods, away from her captors. She had never been so frightened at any time before in her young life.
Emery took her hand and looked sympathetically into her eyes and spoke. “I don’t want your pretty face to be damaged in any way and those people mean business. Get in their way and they’ll cut you up to make you worthless on the street. Besides, leave the police business to the police.”
She was angered by his comments.
“What was I to do when you and everyone else in law enforcement was looking the other way? I had to do something and I was desperate. Do you think I wanted to be a prostitute?”
“God no, I didn’t mean it that way, but when you posed as a street person those thugs would just treat you as they would any girl of the streets, cut her up so she can’t even earn a living on the streets.”
He asked her to relate what she was able to learn about Jefferson Turner’s actions and her own exploits at the estate in Madison Heights.
“Do you think there is any human trafficking going on there?” he asked when she finished.
“I couldn’t say,” she answered. “They’re obviously finding girls and young girly boys for sex, so I guess it’s human trafficking.”
He nodded, then asked, “Could you tell if any of the girls were brought in from out of state?”
She shook her head “no,” and commented, “But maybe Jefferson could tell you. Why is that important?”
“If they were bringing in girls from elsewhere, Miranda, then you could get the Feds involved.”
“Like the FBI?”
“Yes, ‘cause there is a federal campaign against trafficking and for the Feds to get into the case there has to be action across state lines,” he explained.
Miranda thought for a minute, finally realizing where Emery was headed in his questioning.
“Your hands are tied, right, Emery? And, you think there’s some sort of conspiracy going on and that it might include some key leaders of the community, maybe even your boss.”
“I don’t want to think that way, Miranda, but yes, I’m worried that it does.”
“You admire him, don’t you, Emery?”
He nodded: “Yes, very much. He’s always been a crusader against crime and he cares for the poor, always ensuring that our prosecutions are not discriminatory against the minorities or gay, lesbian or transgender individuals. If he’s involved in any kind of conspiracy, it’s very much against his character and there must be a special reason for it.”
Miranda realized the difficult position Emery was in. She was convinced he was a principled and idealistic person, committed to enforcing laws with a compassionate and effective manner. Yet, his hands were tied, likely by a boss who might have been compromised by an organized human trafficking ring, possibly because of the need for political campaign funds.
“I’d like to get to the bottom of all this,” she said. “Some of the girls in our office at Opportunities, Inc., are also concerned that Hector, our own boss, might also be involved.”
“This might go deeper than we all realize,” he added.
Miranda didn’t speak for a moment, her mind broiling with thoughts about how she could help. Didn’t Emery say that if kidnapping had occurred – particularly if it went across state lines – there’s be reason to involve the FBI and take the investigation out of the hands of local authorities whose efforts were stymied by the influence of Brownings and others.
“What are you thinking?” Emery said, impatiently.
“Maybe, I can find out a bit more about the girls I met in my last escapade, see if they’re from out of state, or how they got there,” she said, more as a random thought than any firm plan of action.
“No way,” Emery said. “I know what you’re thinking, but you’re not to endanger yourself any more. You hear me.”
“But it might be the only way, besides I need to get some better information for you, since Jefferson’s testimony isn’t enough.”
“Don’t even think about this, Miranda. Please,” he said, taking her hands in his. His eyes took on a pleading look.
“I can handle myself, Emery.”
He merely shook his head. He knew the young woman was headstrong, but he desperately didn’t want her taking any more chances. He tried a few more arguments, telling her that she was dealing with dangerous people who would think nothing of injuring her or even killing her.
In the end, Miranda answered that she’d consider everything he said.
“I like you very much, Miranda, and I’d like to continue seeing you, if you’d like,” Emery said, his grip on her hands growing firmer.
“And I enjoyed tonight, really this was so nice, Emery.”
Miranda looked at Emery, seeing him as the marvelous human being he was. She was aware, too, that this handsome man had moved closer to her and she felt a strange excitement grow within her. Emery had grasped her left hand that now felt tiny and soft in his larger hand. She looked down, admiring the sinews and veins that seemed to want to burst out of the taut skin on his thick wrist. She imagined the muscles that must be rippling under his loose-fitting shirt. No, no, no, she told herself: don’t let this happen. Don’t find yourself in love with this man. Her true love was Amy, wasn’t it?
*****
Back at Heddy’s apartment, Miranda readied herself for bed, wishing that she could be resting in the arms of Amy Dacosta. She needed the comfort of her friend to remind her of their warm love for each other. She was pleased that no further intimacy occurred that evening with Emery; he hadn’t even given her a “good night” kiss, content with a parting hug that could at best be described as brotherly.
Even so, Emery Harrington was very much in her thoughts as she tried to sleep, but sleep didn’t come easily. Her mind raced vigorously, jumping first to the attraction she seemed to have for Emery and then contrasting it with her feelings for Amy and then again moving to the discussion of how to proceed to learn whether there was a grand conspiracy that was fostering human trafficking in the city. She was still awake when she heard Heddy return from her evening out with her girlfriends. Miranda wondered as she looked at the digital clock, “9:18” it read. Usually, Heddy didn’t get home until well past ten o’clock.
Because it was early, Miranda wondered whether Heddy might have wanted to talk. She wondered whether Heddy might want to share something about her boyfriend in Afghanistan, but also Miranda wanted to discuss her night with Emery and some thoughts about the Jefferson Turner situation. She got out of bed, and wearing only her sheer nightgown over her dainty, slender body she padded out of her room.
“You’re home early. Anything wrong?” Miranda asked.
“Hi sweetie. Nothing’s wrong. Both Marie and Cindy have to be up at four in the morning. They’ve got some sort of special assignment tomorrow.” Heddy’s friends both were in law enforcement as well, working with the county sheriff’s department.
Miranda smiled. “Got time to talk, maybe?”
“Sure. let me change into something comfy. Why don’t you fix some tea and we can chat a while?”
Fifteen minutes later, Miranda began to summarize what she and Emery had discussed about the Turner case.
“You know, I think you two are on to something, Miranda,” Heddy said when Miranda finished. “You know Simbach, my sergeant, has stuck his neck out to let me continue on the case. He got orders from the chief’s office to lay off, you know.”
“Why would these guys, like your chief, Emery’s boss and my former boss all seem to want to look the other way?”
“It’s mighty suspicious, particularly since there have been threats against both Jefferson and you,” Heddy said.
“I agree, but Emery said that if we can prove they may be bringing in girls from out-of-state then maybe we can get the Feds involved,” Miranda explained.
“How do we do that?”
Miranda had an idea, but she hesitated to suggest it. It would mean putting herself in danger, exposing her to the guys who are trying to tail her and likely hurt her. Besides, she would think Heddy would only nix the plan; so would Amy. Yet, Miranda knew that it had a good chance of being able to provide the proof needed to bring in the Feds and crack the human trafficking conspiracy wide open.
Heddy looked at Miranda, wondering why her friend was in deep thought.
“You have an idea, don’t you Miranda?” she asked.
“I do,” Miranda admitted.
*****
Two nights later, Heddy Jelacic drove Miranda to the Grove Street area that was a known area of prostitution. She dropped Miranda off a block from the street along a barely-lit side street lined with vacant or darkened warehouse buildings.
“I still think you’re being stupid, Miranda,” Heddy said. “And I’m stupid for letting you do this. God, you could get cutup, raped or, damn, even killed.”
“Just give me two hours, OK?” Miranda said, opening the door.
“I’ll come by at eleven o’clock then, looking very much like a john and I’ll make it look like you’re my trick for the night,” Heddy said.
“I know. I know, Heddy. We’ve been over this a hundred times.”
At first, Heddy Jelacic had adamantly opposed Miranda’s idea to flush out those perpetrating the human trafficking cabal as not only being foolhardy but also being extremely dangerous. Miranda suggested that she head out onto the street of known prostitution and see if she could find any girls (or drag queens) who might indicate any out-of-state activity. Heddy’s objections were sensible ones, but Miranda’s constant conversation soon wore her down into agreeing with the adventure.
Miranda argued accurately that they couldn’t trust the city’s vice squad team to investigate. It was generally known that the squad had taken a hands-off view on prostitution with the not-so-unreasonable theory that if the police kept prostitution in one area and maintained contact with their pimps they could contain the practice of the “world’s oldest profession.” No other law enforcement agencies seemed interested in investigating the possible human trafficking conspiracy.
As she walked from Heddy’s car, Miranda began her flirtatious walk and mannerisms. Her heart pounded heavily. She shivered, probably as much out of fear as from the chill of the mid-autumn night. Despite the fortyish temperature, she wore a tight mini-skirt that exposed her crotch if she bent over too far and her legs were covered with flesh-colored tights. She wore a cream-colored blazer of faux fur that provided some protection against the chill. Her light brown hair was piled high on her head. Again, seeking to portray herself as a zaftig teenager, she wore ballet flats, realizing that she didn’t quite fill the image of a street worker and she hoped her apparent innocence might prove enticing.
She saw three women – all obvious street girls – hanging around a street light, taking turns hailing motorists as they passed slowly by. Miranda shuffled up to them.
“You one of Danny’s girls, hon?” asked one of them, a husky girl whose tiny skirt exposed heavy thighs and wide hips.
“Ah . . . Danny?” Miranda replied, her voice coming out weakly.
“She’s not, Autumn,” the other one, whose curvy figure was packed into a tight mini-dress, covered only by a grimy beige sweater.
“Get the hell outa here, kid,” said Autumn. “Danny’ll be by shortly and you’ll be toast.”
“Yeah, it’s slow tonight. We don’t need a teeny-bopper taking our tricks. Get, girl, before I scratch your eyes out.”
“Leave her alone, Melody,” said the third woman. She was older, perhaps in her forties, Miranda could see. She had a hard, lined face; yet, the woman had warm, friendly eyes.
“Aww, I was just scaring her, Annie,” the girl called Melody said.
Annie pulled Miranda away from the group, moving to an empty doorway.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Miranda, but I like being called Randi.”
“Look Randi,” the older woman began. “You don’t want to do this, this street work, dear. Don’t start. You’ll end up like me, and you don’t want to do that.”
“But I don’t know what else to do. I need money,” Miranda said.
It was then Miranda spewed out her cover story, claiming she had come by bus after leaving her home in Iowa. She said her cousin who was only fifteen ran away from home and was apparently working the streets in the city.
“I don’t know what name she’s using. I need to find her. Do you know of any out-of-state girls working along here?” she asked.
“Yeah, there was a young one working her a few nights ago and I think she was from some place, maybe Indiana or Iowa. Don’t remember.”
“What happened to her?” Miranda asked.
“Don’t know for sure, but I saw her get picked up by some guy in a black SUV. This guy comes by every so often and seems to target the young ones. Then we never see them again. For all we know they’re dead by now.”
“I’ve heard of that,” Miranda said, basing her comment on her and Jefferson’s experiences of having been picked up by a guy in a black SUV.
Annie reached into her small purse and pulled out a business card. “Here’s a place you can go for help, Randi. They can give you a place to sleep, some food and maybe help you get settled. They’re good people.”
Miranda didn’t look at the card, but she took it.
“No, I just wanna find my cousin.”
“You dumb bitch! No use talking to you,” Annie said, walking away, shaking her head.
*****
Miranda stood for a while in the doorway, fairly well hidden from the eyes of the other girls and any passing johns in their cars. She considered what to do next, realizing that she couldn’t stand for long in the doorway and that she had to keep moving to keep from getting chilled. She wandered down into the next block, staying close to buildings so as to not encourage any pickups.
She carefully moved along the several blocks, using her same cover story and asking the girls she encountered if they had seen her fictional cousin from Iowa. Most grunted unintelligible replies and told her to move on; several asked her if she was a “Danny girl,” obviously, this Danny character had control of the streets. Judging from the heavy traffic and the repeated scenes of cars pulling to the curb, summoning one girl or the other and then driving off with the girl, this Danny guy must be cashing in big time. she thought.
One girl stood alone, apart from the others. She looked to be no more than fourteen, thin as a rail with dirty blonde hair, was shivering as Miranda approached. She wore the requisite tight, short skirt and black mesh stockings that exposed slim, almost formless legs. She wore a light tan jacket, hardly enough to ward off the cold.
“Going to be a cold one tonight,” Miranda said, seeking to develop a conversation with the girl.
“Better get a trick soon or I’ll freeze to death out here,” the girl replied. “Name’s Precious, what’s yours?”
Miranda was pleased to find a girl that seemed to want to talk.
“Call me Randi. Been here in town long?”
“Me? How did you know I was from out of town?” the girl asked, fear creeping into her voice.
Miranda sensed that the girl was becoming wary of her questions. She quickly replied, “Oh I was just hoping I’d meet another from out-of-town, like me.”
“Oh,” Precious said, apparently satisfied by Miranda’s response. “Yeah, got here from St. Louis last week. Saw you talking with Annie up the block. Met her at bus station, tried to get me into one of those shelters, but I couldn’t do that. Annie’s nice and doesn’t want girls like us to get into street work. But I thanked her. Wanted no part of those agency people. They’d just send me home.”
“I know, same here. Came in from Iowa, and heard I could pick up a few bucks here. Don’t wanna go back to that hick town in Iowa.”
“You’re just like me then. I’m fifteen.”
“Seventeen,” Miranda lied.
“But I tell the cop squad I’m nineteen and they leave me alone. These cops leave us all alone, as long as we’re one of Danny’s girls.”
Miranda eyed Precious carefully. She was skinny, almost anorexic in appearance. Already her mouth displayed empty sockets where she had lost teeth, a strange sight on a girl so young. Miranda wondered whether Precious lost the teeth due to physical abuse or malnutrition. Probably she was beaten.
“Danny’s trying to take care of me,” Precious continued. “He said if I clean up a bit, fix my hair and put on a few pounds he could put me in touch with a really neat place to live and service rich people. I don’t know whether to believe him.”
“You can’t trust these guys,” Miranda warned.
Just then and car with two occupants, a middle-aged man and a younger woman, pulled to the curb. The car was an aging Taurus and the woman who was in the passenger seat summoned Miranda and Precious to the car.
Miranda was hesitant to move, but Precious pulled her along, saying, “They’re just vice. They won’t bother us.”
Precious leaned into the car and said something to the woman, who nodded toward Miranda. Precious responded and the woman smiled back and the car moved on.
As the car moved away, Miranda took a quick note of the license number, hoping she’d remember it. When she could get to some place where she could pull out her smart phone and text Heddy, she would send her the car information. Certainly, that would lead to identifying the vice squad coppers who were obviously looking the other away to the obvious prostitution going in the streets.
“What was that all about?” Miranda asked Precious.
“They’re just looking for strays, newcomers. I told them you’re nineteen and that I’m hooking you up with Danny. That’s all.”
“They’re cops. Don’t they care what we’re doing here?”
“Nah, I think they’re on the take, but they leave us alone, except that one copper. He takes his liberty with some of the girls at times. Fortunately, I must be too ugly for him, or something.”
“You’re not ugly, Precious,” Miranda replied.
“Sweetie, I don’t kid myself. Now you, that’s a different story. My guess is that old Stinkpot will be asking Danny for you soon. You’re quite a doll.”
“Stinkpot?”
“Yeah, that copper in the squad. Apparently, he sweats and stinks,” Precious said. “At least that’s what Annie said.”
“I suppose Annie’s been with him?” Miranda asked.
“Oh yes. Annie’s like a mother to all of us her and I think she takes old Stinkpot just to spare him doing one of the other girls. Thank God, he’s never asked for me. I’m not good enough for him. I guess I’m just a bargain-basement lay,” she quipped.
“You’re better than that,” Miranda said.
Miranda was shocked at the girl’s assessment of herself; yet, she liked this girl, particularly for her apparent honesty and truly intelligent assessment of her own situation. “What a waste,” Miranda mused.
Precious smiled. “Take care of yourself, sweetie.”
Precious moved away from Miranda, heading to the curb, placing herself in a way that she was inviting passing motorists to stop. She truly offered a tempting figure to the passing johns and it was only when they looked at her face and saw her largely toothless smile that the poor girl lost her appeal . . . as well as the price should could charge for her services. She had confessed to Miranda that she had a few regulars who sought for her specifically because they knew she’d offer an exciting sexual experience. Yet, Precious said they probably wanted her because she was “cheap.”
Miranda moved deeper into the shadows and continued to watch the activity on the street. In less than five minutes a dust-covered older pickup pulled to the curve and Precious got in. Miranda heard her say, “Hey Dwayne,” as she hopped eagerly into the cab to greet a bearded man who wore a cowboy hat.
Miranda wanted to cry as she watched Precious being led off into the night.
“Hey you,” she heard a gruff voice.
A large man who wore a topcoat was next to Miranda. She was startled, having not heard or saw the man approach.
“What you doing here?” the man said, grabbing her arm roughly.
“Ah, what?”
“My, you’re a pretty one,” the man said, taking a prolonged look at her.
Miranda stumbled for an answer, but none came. She looked at the man more closely now. He was African-American and looked to be the size of one of the offensive linemen of the Detroit Lions. And strong, too.
“I think you need a friend, dearie,” he said more kindly. “Bet you need something to eat and a bed, right?”
“No, I’m OK, sir,” Miranda replied. Her voice was soft and hesitant and she hoped it would fool the man into thinking she’d be weak and compliant. Her belief was that if she appeared powerless that the man would be lenient and perhaps even careless, giving her an opening.
“You better come with me, honey. It’s for the best.” Again, his tone was gentle and kindly.
Miranda’s heart began racing and she shivered, her fear overcoming whatever confidence she had. She said nothing and the man took her by the arm and led her down a side street. She could see only one car parked on the otherwise deserted street: a waiting large black SUV. Realizing that the man was taking her toward the SUV and she’d likely be given another “ride,” Miranda decided to alert Heddy that she was likely in trouble. She punched a button on the cell phone she still had in her jacket pocket that opened the phone line to Heddy so that she could hear what was going on.
She tried to see the license plate of the vehicle, but due to the shadows was only able to see the first three digits, “735.”
“Let me go. I don’t want to get into that black SUV,” she said, hoping that Heddy could hear clearly enough. She began to cry, partly as an act to cover up her phone trick but also in true fright. The man opened the back door of the SUV.
“Now, get in, Honey,” he ordered. He gently, but firmly guided her into the backseat, shoving her to the center and up against another man. He piled in next to her, squeezing her in the middle.
After the chill of the night, the warmth of the car was welcoming as it was stifling. In the faint light, Miranda saw the man was fairly young, maybe in his thirties. He wore light tan slacks and a polo shirt, was neatly groomed and had a ponytail.
“You’re lovely, dear. What’s your name?” the man said.
“Randi,” she said, sniffling.
“Pretty name. We’re not going to hurt you, honey,” he said.
“OK,” she nodded. “Maybe you’re right.”
“Glad you believe that.”
The big man gave her a tissue and Miranda dried her eyes and brushed away the tears.
“Thank you. Maybe I’m in for some luck, finally,” she said.
“Why’s that?”
“My life has been rough, sir, and I saw your license plate number ‘7 – 3 -5’ and ‘7’ and ‘3’ are my lucky numbers,” she said. “Now maybe my luck is changing.”
“You like numbers, Randi?”
“Yes, sir. I’m good at math, smarter than all those dumb teachers,” she said, her voice assuming a teenager’s defiant tone.
The man said nothing, but rapped on the plastic shield that separated the front and back seats of the car, apparently signaling the man who was sitting stiffly in the driver’s seat.
Suddenly the car began moving, and Miranda took a deep breath, hoping that Heddy had heard the conversation through the questionable cell phone hook-up and would be alert to her situation. She knew that by now Heddy must have been furious with her. Miranda had said her only reason for carousing among the Grove Street prostitutes was to get information that would prove there was interstate human trafficking going on. Yet, she knew she had lied to Heddy because she hoped to get picked up again and taken to the mansion where she could get even more proof of the terrible crimes being committed against young boys and girls.
(Eric proofread and offered constructive suggestions and his help is gratefully appreciated.)
Undercover Girl – Chapter 21
(Miranda has accepted the fact she is a woman and grows confused about her relationships; meanwhile, she embarks on a dangerous escapade to uncover a suspected child trafficking ring.)
Chapter Twenty-One – The Rescue
“I think we have an exceptional opportunity for you, my sweet little street urchin,” the man said.
The man sitting to Miranda’s left in the back seat of the black SUV was well-groomed and carried the faint scent of a tasteful cologne. He spoke in a crisp, articulate tone that was warm and welcoming. He placed his hand softly upon her left hand, using one finger to caress the inside of her wrist. His hand felt smooth and cool, but firm and hard. The man obviously was trying to portray a feeling of calm, that Miranda had nothing to fear.
Miranda smiled back at him, hoping she was hiding her tense, terrified feelings. “What shall I call you, sir?” she asked timidly, still hoping Heddy was hearing their exchanges.
“Just keep calling me sir, my dear Randi. My name is not important,” he said. The voice continued to be kindly and warm.
Miranda stirred up her courage and decided to have one more try at eliciting some information from the man. “Are you the man the girls say is Danny?”
Suddenly, Miranda was grabbed by the large man on the right, who put his hand under her chin and twisted it to look at her. He squeezed hard on her slim neck and she had difficulty breathing.
“You ask too many questions, girlie,” the man said.
“Please . . . I can’t . . . ah . . . breathe,” she gasped.
She began to squirm in an effort to escape his grasp, but he was too strong and the harder she tried the firmer his hand tightened and she began to panic, unable to get any air into her lungs.
Her mind began to grow blank and all she could sense was the spicy scent of the other man’s male cologne. She felt herself float away and everything ceased.
*****
Miranda awakened, confused, not quite certain where she was. She seemed to be floating and she sensed a brightness; yet it was foggy. Not quite awake, she heard some voices but they seemed far away, as if she was listening in on a bad telephone connection. She tried to move, but realized her hands and feet were tied down, giving her just enough freedom to move them several inches, but not enough to let her rise up. She felt nauseated and had a strange taste in her mouth.
She remembered being in the backseat of a car and smelling the well-dressed man’s cologne. And, that he wouldn’t give her his name, only that she must call him “sir.” He seemed nice, but she was sure that underneath that fancy façade must lie a nasty, creepy man.
“Where am I?” she said aloud, her words coming out garbled, likely due to her dry mouth. As she spoke, she felt pain coming from her neck and she remembered that she was being strangled. Am I dead? she wondered.
“She’s awake,” she heard a voice.
She turned her head to see two men seated nearby. She realized she was in a windowless room and the two men apparently were guarding her. They didn’t look like nurses. One of the men got up and approached her. He was the large man who had grabbed her on the street and had strangled her and then possibly drugged her into her blackout. She tensed.
“Thought you were being clever, bitch?” the man said gruffly. He grabbed her hair and forced her to look at him.
Miranda tried to avoid his eyes and terror mounted within her. She was still confused, her mind foggy with whatever they’d drugged her. Her mouth was dry and felt like it was full of cotton.
“Who were you hooked up to on the phone?” he demanded, pulling her hair so that she would concentrate on his face.
“Huh?” she responded, too scared now and confused to understand what he was asking her.
“You know. We found your cell phone and it was on, hooked up to somebody. Who was it?”
Miranda finally felt her mind clear a bit; she remembered she was in a car, crammed between this man and a man who smelled of cologne. The cell phone? For an instant, she was puzzled; then she remembered she was on the street, posing as a prostitute and Officer Heddy Jelacic was listening in on her cell phone.
The man shook her again, more roughly this time, demanding she answer.
“My boyfriend,” she answered, quickly forming an answer as she began to think and remember how she got into this situation.
“Your boyfriend? He vice?” the man asked. Miranda looked at the face of the man who spoke. As her eyes cleared, she saw the man’s small grey eyes set into a heavy round face with what appeared to be a nose that had been busted over and over. The man was bald.
Miranda laughed. “Hardly.”
“And he wants you out hustling johns?”
“We need rent money,” she said, hoping it didn’t seem too illogical to the man.
“What’s the matter with him working? The lazy lout.”
“Ellis is not lazy,” Miranda replied, creating a fictitious name. She put on a defensive tone, indicating she was offended by the man’s characterization of the boyfriend. “He just got out of Green Bay and can’t find a job,” she said, mentioning a Wisconsin prison.
The man laughed. “This girl’s a real winner, she is,” he said sarcastically. “Got an ex-con as a lover, she has. You can do better than that, sweetie.”
“Certainly not with you,” Miranda responded tartly.
He gave her hair a hard tug, making squeal out, “That hurts.”
“Stop that!” she heard a loud voice command. It came from the other man who had been in the room, still seated near the door.
“She’s a wise-ass bitch,” the man, said tugging her hair again.
The man by the door spoke again, “Mister D wants her cleaned up and made pretty. I hope you haven’t bruised her.”
Finally letting go of her hair, the man pushed her back down onto the narrow bed and walked away. Both men left the room without saying anything, and Miranda heard them lock the door from the outside. She was still tied down and left in a locked, windowless room. She wondered about shouting out for help, but knew it would be fruitless. She closed her eyes, pondering her fate, hoping that Heddy had sensed she was in trouble and was going to help.
Though she was tied down, she still had the ability for limited movement of her arms and legs. The bed was surprisingly comfortable and she had been covered with a warm comforter that kept her from freezing. She could see two grates in the ceiling and heard the whir of fans that likely brought warmth into the room. From what the other man had said, it sounded like they didn’t want to hurt her and apparently had plans for her as a participant in their prostitution ring.
Suddenly, it dawned on her. She wasn’t a young woman; she was still a guy. Miranda had become so comfortable in her female role she had lost any realization as to her original gender. And her captors still thought of her as female. What would happen if they learned differently, she wondered. She became sleepy, fatigued from the stress of her kidnap and assault upon her. She lay there, growing drowsy, awaiting her fate. But no one came. Soon she slept.
*****
“Come now, wake up, my sleeping beauty,” the words were whispered. Miranda saw a figure lurking over her. She was no longer frightened; the hushed tone of the speaker calmed her, comforted her and she knew she was safe.
The room was all fuzzy in her mind and the figure that was now leaning down, face to face. Miranda was not sure where she was and her thoughts turned back to sometime in the near past, a time when she was frightened as she awaited being attacked, being raped or even killed. The face moved into sharp focus.
“Emery?” she said.
“Shhh,” was the only response.
But it wasn’t Emery. He didn’t have long hair. But, the eyes were Emery’s, blue and bright. No, it wasn’t Emery, she realized. It was Amy. Miranda reached up and touched the soft, round face of her lover, Amy.
“Amy?” she asked.
“Shhh, we’re setting you free, but you must be quiet.”
Miranda was confused. “We” the figure said, but she could see only one person in the room. It was Emery’s face, slender, masculine and square-jawed. But she felt Amy’s firm, marvelous breasts and saw her sweet-smelling brunette hair.
“We love you, Miranda,” the figure said, as it set about freeing her from the straps that had tied her down.
Her arms finally freed from, she reached up to hug this benevolent creature, this thing that was either Amy or Emery, or both. But there was nothing to grasp. The creature was gone and Miranda realized she was floating upon a soft cloud, free as a bird.
*****
She suddenly awoke with a start; light flooded into her eyes as she opened them, bringing sharp pain. She shut them and then remembered she was locked into a room somewhere and she couldn’t get up. She felt someone was fumbling around with her restraints and she forced her eyes open.
"Ah, you're awake, my beauty," the voice was soft, kind.
Through the haziness of her eyes, Miranda saw a stern-faced woman apparently fumbling to open the restraint around her ankles.
"Just be patient; I'll get you out of these leg straps, dearie," the woman said. Miranda saw the woman was tall, husky and muscular. "Now, I'll be kind and gentle with you, but if you try anything, I guarantee you I'll be tougher on you than the guys. Understand?"
Miranda nodded, as if in agreement. Her mind was still a bit groggy, and she wondered why she wasn’t already free of her straps; hadn’t the creature freed her and placed her upon the clouds? No, no, she realized, the creature who had saved her was but a dreamy hallucination. She was still a captive who was headed into becoming a sex slave.
Yet, her dream troubled her. It was so real, even the Janus creature who could be Emery or Amy, but more likely was both. She loved both of them and they loved her equally.
She felt the straps around her ankles being tugged and pulled when reality set it. She was still a captive and she had to clear her mind and think of how she can save herself.
Miranda watched the woman as she struggled to remove the ankle restraints, and asked, "Who are you?"
"Dearie, call me Kerry if you'd like," she said. "Now I've got your legs free, let's get you up."
Miranda wanted to sit up, but felt dizzy and plopped back down. "Let's take it slow. You've been sleeping."
Trying to get herself orientated, Miranda asked, "How long have I been sleeping?"
"It's six in the morning and you've been here since about eleven last night."
It took a few minutes, but Miranda finally was able to sit up and dangle her legs off the side of the bed. It was then she noticed she was in a flimsy nightgown; she shivered a bit, not sure whether it was due to having the warm blanket removed or the sudden fear that filled her. Someone must have dressed her. That realization panicked her: whoever dressed her would have seen her penis and might have been angered over the fact that she wasn't a complete woman.
"Now, I can see you're scared, Randi, but don't be," Kerry said soothingly. "We know you're a guy, but darling, you're hot stuff and I'm going to clean you up and pretty you up for the boss. He'll worship you, my dainty one."
Miranda's hope for rescue dimmed. She had been in the custody of these strange people for more than eight hours; there appeared to be no way out for escape. There was nothing for her to do, she knew, but to play along with the program. It was obvious she would be treated as a sex slave; the prospect was frightening. She began to cry.
"They won't want you all red-eyed with tears, Randi, so pull yourself together," Kerry said.
“What do they want to do with me?” she asked. Miranda was confused; hadn’t the men found her cellphone and connected her with the police? Perhaps they had believed her story that she was hooked up with her fictitious pimp of a boyfriend, and they wanted her prettied up to be just another slave girl in their sex-trafficking ring.
*****
When freed of her bindings, Kerry led Miranda out of the room, up a flight of richly carpeted stairs and into a small pink bedroom that carried a sweet perfumed scent. It was smaller than the tiny dormitory room she had in college, but it was tastefully decorated in frilly curtains and a girlish duvet. A vanity, draped in pink, sat at one side, with a purple-cushioned vanity chair. She noticed the drapes, duvet and other parts of the room were accented in purple that concentrated with the blushing pink.
“Lovely,” Miranda couldn’t help but observe as she entered.
“We want all our girls to feel right at home,” Kerry observed.
“It’s small,” Miranda said.
“It’s all you need, dear, and you have your own bath and shower. Now take off all your clothes, you’re going to have a shower and shampoo and then we’ll get you ready for your debut. You’ll be a beauty, I’ll assure you.”
“Can I have some privacy?”
“No, dear. I’ve seen all of the girls naked before, and I’ve seen all shapes and sizes. I won’t hurt you.”
“But . . .”
“You’ve got a cock, I know that, so just go ahead and take off your clothes.”
*****
Kerry was good to her word. While she never let Miranda out of her sight, she never said anything hurtful nor did she embarrass her by laughing at her sorry, tiny penis. Several times, however, she commented how lovely Miranda’s body was and that she might become a favorite in the house.
It turned out, too, that Kerry was a trained cosmetologist and was skilled also in fixing her hair.
An hour later, Miranda emerged as a lovely teen girl in a pink play dress with a purple and teal floral design. Underneath she wore a training bra and panties that matched the play dress. Miranda rightly was afraid that if she were to bend over, the cute panties would show. She also was surprised that Kerry applied only light makeup, including a natural shade of lip gloss with a slight blackening of the eyebrows and lashes.
“You have lovely hair, Randi,” Kerry said as she brushed it, forming so that it hung straight to just below the collar line and creating a bang that flowed from the left to the right.
“But I look like I’m fourteen,” Miranda said when she finally saw herself in the mirror.
“And that’s what the men all like,” Kerry said.
“What men?”
“Have no fear, darling. They’ll be nice to you.”
“I don’t want any men?”
“Listen to me. Do what you’re told and you’ll be safe and protected, Randi. You’ll like it here,” Kerry said.
Miranda saw it was hopeless to argue. There seemed to be no escape. Where were Heddy and the police?
“And, you’re to tell everyone you’re nineteen,” she ordered.
“But, I’m really . . .,” Miranda began to protest.
“I peg you at about sixteen, honey, but now, if anyone asks, you’re nineteen. Don’t forget that.”
“OK, I’m nineteen,” Miranda agreed.
Kerry leaned over and hugged her. “You’re a sweet young thing, just what he needs.”
“Who?”
“You’ll see soon enough and if you act nice and sweet and innocent as I think you are, Randi, he’ll treat you like a princess. Wouldn’t you like that?”
“I don’t know,” Miranda replied, fear growing inside of her at wondering what lay in store for her.
Kerry led her out of the room and the pair headed up two flights of stairs. Given the bare, uncarpeted stairwell, Miranda surmised she was being taken up what might have been the back stairs for the servants and maids of the house.
The stairwell door opened into a luxurious hallway lined with decorative faux candle lights and ornate door frames that were heavily polished. Gilt inlays lining molding along the top of the walls brightened the image. She remembered visiting a 19th Century mansion of one of the robber barons during a motor trip to St. Paul with her mother.
“Here we are, Randi,” Kerry said when they appeared in front of a double door, heavily decorated in a rococo style.
Kerry opened the door and shoved Miranda inside, locking the door firmly behind her. Miranda was surprised to find two other girls seated in the room. Both were dressed in a slutty style, short dark skirts, mesh stockings, high heels and revealing blouses.
“Hi, I’m Randi,” Miranda said, hoping they could get into a conversation and one or both of the girls would tell more about why they were in the mansion.
“We’re not supposed to talk,” the taller girl said in a low voice.
“She can’t hear us. That door’s thick as a bank vault,” said the other who was short and buxom. “I’m called Pansy, and this here’s Prissy.”
Miranda noticed a distinct Southern accent in Pansy’s voice.
“Those aren’t your real names, I suppose?” Miranda asked.
“Nah. Who’d want names like that?” said the one called Prissy, her voice betraying a definite Eastern accent.
“Randi’s not my real name either, and they picked me off the streets here in this town. I think they drugged me,” Miranda said, hoping that if she volunteered her information, the others might also open up.
“Same with me,” said the girl who called herself Pansy. “They got me in Little Rock in boring, dumb ol’ Arkansaas.”
Miranda looked to the girl called Prissy, who said nothing. “She’s from Jersey,” the other girl volunteered.
“Shut up, Pansy, you talk too much,” Prissy said.
Their conversation was cut short by a clicking noise at the door that obviously signified it was being opened. Kerry appeared at the open door and looked at Miranda.
“Randi, come with me,” she beckoned.
She led Miranda out of the room and down the hallway past several doors, also ornate, until they came to a room near the end of the hall. She turned to Miranda and said, “Now, always address the man you’re going to meet as ‘sir’ or ‘Mister Deacon.’ Never any other name.”
“Who is he?”
“Never you mind. He’s ‘sir’ or ‘Mister Deacon.’”
Miranda nodded. Kerry rapped lightly on the door and then opened it without hearing a response. She held the door open and Miranda hesitated for a moment and then walked in, taking tiny steps, her heart pumping ferociously. Kerry closed the door and Miranda was in huge room.
*****
The room was dimly lit and Miranda noticed heavy drapes in brocade covering what likely were huge windows in the ballroom-sized room. A sweet, spicy scent filled the room and she puzzled briefly about the smell, concluding it must be a heavy dose of male cologne. She saw no one.
“Come over here, let me see you,” a high-pitched male voice said.
Finally, as her eyes became accustomed to the dark room, Miranda saw a man seated on a large, overstuffed couch. He beckoned her to walk over to him. She didn’t move immediately.
“I won’t bite, my sweet,” he said, his voice sounding girlish now.
Comforted by seeing a man who appeared to be soft and pudgy and with such a non-masculine voice, she walked over toward him. He told her to stop when she was about five feet away.
“Now just stand for a minute and let me see you,” the man said.
Miranda stopped in her tracks, feeling uneasy and not sure how she was to stand. Suddenly she was bathed in light and she found herself blinded by several stage lights that beamed down upon her.
“What’s your name, honey?”
“Randi.”
“A lovely name for such a deliciously tender girl. Now walk back and forth in the lights, just like you’re on a runway. You know how to do that?”
Miranda nodded. In the privacy of her home, she had often enacted the role of a fashion model, practicing how to walk a runway. She began her modeling for the man, growing comfortable in her feminine role as a model.
“Oh, you’re divine, Randi. Now come join me on the couch,” he said. Miranda noticed the man was breathing hard. Though she was unable to see the man who was in the dark, she was certain he was masturbating as he watched her.
“I’m scared, sir,” she said. She stood stiff and held her hands together in front of her, looking all the bit like a shy preteen girl.
“Oh my, you’re so sweet. You excite me just standing there, but please comes sit here,” he said, breathlessly. His panting became more audible.
She didn’t move.
“Now, be a good little girl,” he panted. “Do you want me to call the guys in to make you come here?”
“No, sir,” she said moving over slowly.
Before she reached the couch, she heard a loud squeal. It sounded like it came from a loud-speaker somewhere in the room.
“Damn,” the man said.
The door burst open and two black-suited huge men charged in, followed by Kerry.
“Come with us, sir. It’s a raid.”
The man on the couch quickly composed himself. One of the men pulled him from the couch, and the men, accompanied by the man, fled out of the room, leaving Miranda alone with Kerry.
“Come with me, sweetie. I’ll lead you out of here.”
“No,” Miranda said. She was certain it was a police raid and soon she’d be safe.
“Come, I’m going to free you. You’ll be safe with me.”
Kerry grabbed her arm and pulled Miranda, who tried in vain to resist.
“Listen, Randi, bite me here on the arm. Real hard, leaving marks,” she commanded.
Miranda was astounded. What was this, some kind of a sexual fetish?
“I’m serious, Randi. Bite me, hard. I need a mark. I’m releasing you, but I need to show that you forced me to let go of you. Please, bite me.”
Miranda could see the women was serious. She took a chance that Kerry was trying to help and bit on the woman’s forearm. She was reluctant to bite too hard, but Kerry pleaded, “Quick, bite hard, make me cry out with pain.”
Miranda clamped down as hard as she could and she heard Kerry scream.
“Good,” Kerry said. She led Miranda out the door and pointed to the right. “Randi, head that way. You’ll be safe. And take care of yourself and get the hell off the streets and get back to school.”
With that hurried advice, Kerry was off running in the opposite direction.
Miranda wanted to run after her, to thank her for her kindness. She wondered what made an obviously decent woman like Kerry to get involved with this human trafficking gang. She turned and ran as directed by Kerry and came to the top of stairs. She heard commotion before her and soon saw a phalanx of jacketed police headed up toward her. In their midst, she saw Heddy Jelacic. Miranda stood at the top of the stair and awaited their arrival.
As the police swat team members stormed up the stairs, Miranda broke into tears. Never was she so happy as to see her rescuers.
“Where are they, miss?” the first man to reach her yelled urgently.
“They went that way,” Miranda struggled to say, pointing toward what she believed was the rear of the house.
“Handcuff her,” the police officer instructed another officer as he instructed the other police to follow down the hallway in the direction that she had pointed.
Before the officer could apply the cuffs, Heddy was next to Miranda, instructing the officer to back off. The officer gave Heddy a puzzled look and protested, “But, I was ordered . . .”
“Never mind, she’s my CI,” Heddy yelled
“Your confidential informant?” the officer questioned.
“Yes, let’s see what she can tell us.”
*****
Miranda was taken by the police officer and Heddy Jelacic to the Madison Heights police station where she was led into an interview room and offered a drink.
She chose skim milk and something to eat. She was terribly hungry.
“Not coffee, dear?” asked the young officer who wore a Madison Heights uniform.
“No. I’m hungry.”
He returned with a Styrofoam cup, apologizing that they only had two percent milk, and a doughnut with maple frosting – her favorite! She devoured it, washing it down with the milk.
She endured nearly two hours of questioning by two detectives, who identified themselves as representing the County Sheriff’s Department organized crime unit; they asked several questions over and over, often changing the form of the question, apparently in the hope of tripping her up. After a while, Miranda broke down and began to cry, “I’m not a criminal.” Her body began to shake in frustration. All she knew was that she wanted to get out of this hated place.
In the midst of her sobbing, the door to the interview room burst open and Emery Harrington entered, “That’s enough detectives. We can leave it for now.”
“But, we’re getting lots out of her,” the detective who led the questioning protested. He was a large middle-aged man with a wide nose that must have been broken several times and Miranda had wondered whether he must have been a football lineman in his younger years.
“Go, I’ll take care of her,” Emery ordered.
The detectives left and Emery lifted Miranda to her feet and hugged her, letting her sob into his shoulder. He held her tenderly.
“When Heddy told me what you were doing, I was furious,” he said.
“I was trying to help,” she said through sobs. “No one was doing anything.”
“I was worried about you,” he said. “I know what these people are capable of. Dammit girl, you were in danger. God, you could’ve been killed.”
“Oh Emery,” she cried.
“You better not go to your own place, yet, Miranda,” Emery had warned her. “These people will go to great lengths to stop any prosecution.”
Miranda shivered. “I’m so scared, Emery.”
“I know, and we’re going to protect you. Soon this will be over.”
*****
Miranda spent a tearful night at Heddy’s apartment; even though she knew that Paul Browning Jr., the man she was told was “Mr. Deacon,” had been caught in the raid along with several of the men who had earlier kidnapped her. Certainly, they should no longer be a threat to her, but she also remembered Emery’s warning that “these people will go to great lengths to stop any prosecution.” She knew that the Brownings had nearly unlimited resources and could possibly pull enough strings to set free the whole bunch, loosing these perverts and pedophiles out into the public again, ready to victimize young girls.
Once she was at Heddy’s apartment, Miranda had no appetite and declined every suggestion made to get her to eat. “A nice bowl of chicken soup might be just what you need, Miranda,” Heddy pleaded.
“No thanks, Heddy. You’ve been so generous.”
“You’re my friend, Miranda,” Heddy replied with a warm smile. “We were all scared for you and I would have never forgiven myself for letting me talk you into that crazy exploit of yours.”
Both young women were sitting together on the couch in Heddy’s living room, Miranda having tucked her feet under her and leaned into Heddy. She found comfort there.
“Let me go to bed, Heddy,” Miranda said after a while.
Heddy led her into the bedroom, assisted in removing her clothes and putting her into her nightgown. She opened the covers and assisted getting Miranda into bed, just as you might a four-year-old.
“What took you so long to rescue me?” Miranda asked after she was settled into bed.
“We had to get a search warrant, and its seems most of the judges in the county must get donations from the Brownings,” Heddy replied. “Emery finally roused a judge he knew from his law school days to get the warrant. I’m so sorry, but if we’re going to nail these guys we have to be absolutely on a solid legal ground. You know they can hire the best defense lawyers in the country if they have to.”
“I guess you’re right. I was so scared.”
Miranda curled up in the fetal position and sobbed quietly. Heddy covered her with a blanket and kissed Miranda on the forehead. She left a small lamp burning on the vanity, since Miranda had long been afraid to sleep in the dark. After Heddy left, Miranda’s thoughts turned to the frightening events at the Browning mansion that still haunted her. She yearned to be comforted, to be hugged and kissed and protected. She remembered the warm hugs from Emery Harrington, his firm sinewy body. Would he put her at peace? No, she realized. She desperately needed the firm, commanding presence of Amy Dacosta. Her crying grew intense.
Undercover Girl – Chapter 22
(Copyright 2019)
(Finally, Miranda has accepted the fact she is a woman and grows confused on her relationships; meanwhile, she embarks on a dangerous escapade to uncover a suspected child trafficking ring.)
Chapter Twenty-Two – Protection
Miranda awoke the next morning, still tense and jittery from the horrors of the previous day and the uncertainty of her future. Right now, only the generosity of Heddy Jelacic stood between her and starvation, unless she wanted to return to her small town in Wisconsin where her mother awaited to see her son, Marcus. The sight of Miranda in all her feminine glory would not only be unwelcome to her mother (who knew nothing of Miranda) but to her friends and neighbors in the picturesque tiny hamlet of Riverview, nestled at the foot of the wooded bluffs overlooking the Mississippi River.
She lay in bed, wondering what her next step was to be when Heddy wrapped on the bedroom door, “Better get up, darling.”
Miranda responded by curling herself into the fetal position and mumbling, “Let me sleep.”
“No, you have to get up, Miranda. The Feds are coming by in an hour,” Heddy yelled through the door.
Miranda didn’t answer and buried her head deeper into her pillow. Heddy rapped again, louder and more insistent. Finally, she opened the door, walked in, sat down on the bed and caressed the prone Miranda.
*****
“You’re not safe, Mr. Whiting, and we need to keep you safe,” the trim, clean-shaven man said.
Miranda looked around the room in the regional office of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, located in the U.S. Courthouse building. Two FBI men had stopped by Heddy’s apartment and picked Miranda up to take her in for further questioning, assuring her that she was not being charged with any crime. The good-looking thirtyish man before her had identified himself as Agent Jamie Truscott of the FBI. Next to him sat a woman, as trim and erect as Agent Truscott. She was dressed in a dark blue suit with a knee-length pencil skirt. She had introduced herself as Agent Debra Bellsen.
“I feel safe with Officer Jelacic and can you please call me Miranda or at least Miss Whiting,” she said.
“No, Mister Whiting,” Agent Truscott said. “All of your IDs identify you as Marcus Whiting and that you’re male . . . even though you’re acting more like a fa . . . .”
The agent’s voice trailed off and it was clear he was on the verge of identifying Miranda as a “faggot,” phraseology that would likely violate the department’s equal rights code. Miranda nodded, deciding not to argue with the man. She could see the agent was clearly disgusted with her self-identification as female. He must have slept through sensitivity training classes, she mused.
She was questioned for three hours that morning, beginning with the two FBI agents and then with two attorneys from the U.S. Justice Department. Miranda was growing tired and cranky at having to repeat her story over-and-over again.
They informed her that they were treating her only as a witness. It was obvious from the intensity of their questioning they must have needed her testimony; it was also obvious that the case must have bigger consequences beyond merely catching a perverted rich guy who indulged his sick fetishes by kidnapping young boys and girls off the streets.
When the questioning ended, Miranda was led into an office and introduced to Agent-in-charge Quinlan, apparently the head guy in this FBI office.
“For several weeks, you’re going to have to stay undercover,” Quinlan told Miranda. “I understand that you prefer to identify yourself as a woman, right?”
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“OK, then. And, from your file I see that you also excelled at math and even took some accounting, right?”
“Yes.”
“That’s a strange connection, I must say. Social work and math.”
“Guess I’m just a strange woman,” Miranda said, even ending with a small giggle. She was beginning to like this man.
“Perfect then. We’ve got a good place for you to be as safe as possible, Ms. Whiting,” Agent Quinlan told her. Miranda was pleased to see he had addressed her as a woman. “You’re a key to ending this trafficking ring and these people will not stop at anything to silence you.”
His words should have chilled her, but after the last few days of staying under cover, she felt she must have become immune to this revelation.
“I understand, sir, but what about my friends, Officer Jelacic and Amy? Are they going to be safe?”
He explained the police department had assumed protection of Officer Jelacic and that Amy Dacosta was being protected by the U.S. marshals.
“You know about my mother in Wisconsin?” she asked. “Is she safe? Might they go after her to get at me?”
“We’ve thought about that. A marshal from Madison has been sent to keep an eye on your mother.”
Miranda thought about her mother, wondering what the marshal would tell her. She knew nothing about her son’s transition and would never have heard about Miranda. Then, to be told that Miranda – her only child once Marcus – was being pursued by gangs would not only confuse her but frighten her badly.
“Mom doesn’t know about Miranda,” she said.
“Oh?” Quinlan said. “That’ll complicate things.”
“Let me call her, sir,” Miranda said, immediately regretting the request. What would she tell her mother?
Quinlan shook his head. “No, we can’t risk that. You’re not going to be able to talk to anyone, or email anyone or get on Facebook or do anything to let others know where you are.”
“Not even Amy?” Miranda asked, beginning to cry.
“Not even Amy or any of your friends. We’ll inform them that you’re temporarily in protection and that you’re safe.”
Quinlan moved from behind his desk to the chair next to her and grabbed both of her hands in his large, hard-callused hands. Despite their roughness, his hands felt gentle and reassuring. She sobbed openly for a few moments, before he removed his hands, reached for a tissue and helped her dry her eyes.
“You’re just like the father I never had, Agent Quinlan,” she said when the tears finally stopped.
“We’ll inform your mother gently, but for now we’ll instruct the marshals in Wisconsin to refer to you as Marcus. It’ll be up to you to tell her about Miranda.”
“Thank you.”
“But Miranda you should have told her before this, you know that, don’t you?” he asked, not unkindly.
“I know, Mr. Quinlan,” she said, beginning to cry again.
“Call me Don.”
*****
That night, two U.S. marshals took Miranda by car to Gossen, a middle-sized city in the north central part of Illinois, where she was deposited in a low-priced but comfortable chain hotel along the interstate. She was given Room 308 on the top floor of the three-story hotel, flanked by Marshal Harry Feld in 306 and Marshal Maria Jimenez in 310. Both were friendly on the trip, but said little, other than to complain about being forced to spend their days guarding a witness in “some farmer town.”
The hotel was a new one – it even smelled new – and the rooms were all mini-suites, with small refrigerators, a stove and microwave. A partial wall created a small sitting area near the entrance; it was there that one of the marshals would be stationed, giving Miranda a modicum of privacy while they stayed on guard.
Three days later, the marshal’s office, with Miranda’s agreement gave her a new name, “Trudy Selery.” It was under the new identification that she began work in the financial department of a large social service agency in Gossen. In the interim, Miranda had been given a makeover, had her hair cut short, dyed into a dishwater blonde shade and given a boyish style. She cried as they cut her hair and even assurances that it will grow out did not comfort her.
Marshal Jimenez had accompanied her to a salon where the makeover was done on Saturday night. The salon’s proprietor was alone when they arrived, and Trudy got the impression that the she was not the first to have a makeover while under U.S. Marshal protection.
“We’re going to try to make you as ordinary a young woman as possible,” Maria Jimenez said. “We don’t want you to stand out.”
“But . . .but . . . I don’t want to lose my femininity,” she protested.
Maria smiled at her. “You will never lose your femininity, dear. You’re a woman, regardless how dowdy you may dress and present yourself.”
“Won’t people think I’m a guy, then?”
“No,” she said laughing. “Your features are totally feminine and soft and lovely.”
Thus, it was on Monday morning, Trudy Selery went to work, wearing brown slacks, a white blouse with a beige cardigan and short hair. She wore only modest pink lip coloring, neutral colored foundation and a light touch of eye black to accent her face. Hardly a fashion statement, but one, it was hoped, would not make her stand out.
The agency was the largest in the community and it served low-income families in just about any issue such families might face: housing and homelessness, health and disabilities, child welfare and utility bill payments. Its waiting room was filled each morning with desperate families and single individuals facing terrible personal needs; sometimes the mixture of sweat and alcohol and even vomit created an almost gagging stench in the room. Most people sat like zombies, awaiting their turn to be called by a social worker and led to small interview rooms. There was little talking, although occasionally one of the individuals would argue loudly with a social worker when he or she couldn’t get the needed help. Somehow, the workers of the agency maintained their patience and cheerfulness. Surprisingly, Miranda in a few short days found it a surprisingly congenial and satisfying place to work. Perhaps, she mused, it was because each day workers would find satisfaction in knowing they were doing good work as they attempted to assist persons in need, even though they couldn’t always find ways to assist.
Though it wasn’t advertised, it became generally known that Trudy Selery was a transwoman. Since workers at the agency were used to dealing with people of all types, that knowledge hardly raised an eyebrow; indeed, it made a convenient cover story in that Miranda would have an excuse to hide her past.
Also, on that Monday, Marshal Harry Feld began work as a security guard at the agency. His shifts were identical to those of Trudy Selery.
Two days later, Miranda, along with Marshals Feld and Jimenez moved out of their hotel rooms and into an old farmhouse, located on a quiet country road two miles out of town. The nearest home was a quarter mile down the road. On the horizon, there appeared to be endless corn and soybean fields, dotted by occasional silos.
*****
“I feel like I’m in captivity,” Miranda complained to Marshal Feld one night about two weeks later as the two completed washing the dishes and cleaning up the kitchen. They’d had a lasagna prepared by Marshal Feld, who turned out to be quite a cook, good enough for Miranda to tell him that he could be the chef for one of Chicago’s poshest eating places.
“I know, but Maria and I are giving you more freedom to get out than we probably should,” he said referring to his partner, Marshal Jimenez.
Miranda nodded, well aware that the two marshals were trying to make her time in protective custody as pleasant as possible. Both were always cheerful and friendly, though both were getting antsy at being on assignment that kept them separated from their homes. Feld was an intriguing character, a onetime defensive lineman for the Detroit Lions and a Desert Storm veteran with a huge muscular body that was beginning to grow soft as he aged. Yet, he was surprisingly gentle, a master in the kitchen, a voracious reader and a lover of classical music and jazz.
“I got a guy hitting on me,” she confessed to him when they had finished and moved into the living room.
“That’s not surprising,” he replied. “I’d be surprised if some guy wasn’t. You’re really a beauty, Miranda. I know if I were younger and not married, I’d be after you, too.”
“Even if you knew I still had my boy parts?”
“Oh my, yes,” he said, a teasing twinkle in his eye.
“Are you flirting with me, Marshal Feld?”
“I’m tempted to, but no, I’m not, although I do miss Cynthia a lot right now.”
“She’s your wife, right?”
“Yes, married 25 years now and both the kids are away at college, so she’s lonely, too,” he said.
“Must be tough to have a job like this that takes you away from your family,” Miranda said.
“I know, but it’s a good living and I like knowing I’m doing something that helps keep the peace.”
He led her to his laptop that was sitting on the dining room table and showed her photos of his family, smiling photos of his handsome pleasant looking wife, a husky woman and their two boys, all shown at various ages.
“You’re so fortunate, Harry, to have such a beautiful family,” Miranda said, tears beginning to flow into her eyes.
“Why are you crying?” he asked sympathetically.
“Because . . . because … I’ll never be able to have babies.”
Miranda’s crying became intense and he took her into his arms, letting her tears fall upon his shirt. He patted her gently as she cried.
“I’m sure you and your partner will be able to adopt,” he said softly.
“Who’ll . . . ever want . . . a . . . ah . . . freak like me?” she stammered through her sobs.
“I know you miss your friends, Miranda, especially Amy,” he said, hoping to comfort her.
“Poor Amy, she must think I’ve deserted her,” Miranda said, her thoughts returning to her friend.
Miranda’s sobbing finally subsided, and Marshal Harry Feld released her from his grasp, but held her slender hands in his massive hands and said, “We’ve assured her that you’re safe and that your absence is not your fault.”
“She must still wonder. Can’t I communicate with her? A phone call, or Skype chat?”
“You know you can’t, but if you want to write her a note, we’ll get it to her. But you know, we’ll have to read the note before sending it out. We can’t let you give her any clue about your location.”
She nodded and planned later that night to write a note.
*****
“My dearest Amy,” Miranda wrote at the top of the packet of pink stationery that Maria had purchased for her. The paper’s margins were printed in dainty white floral borders. It was appropriate for a feminine woman.
Miranda wondered if beginning the note “My dearest Amy” was too openly affectionate and would reveal too much of her relationship to the marshals who would read the note before passing it on. She crumpled the note up and tossed it aside, grabbing a new sheet and starting over. She decided she’d write in a more neutral tone.
Dear Amy,
I miss you dearly and think about you constantly. I’m hoping you haven’t forgotten me, but if you have, I guess I’ll have to live with it and move on. I wouldn’t blame you. How can you care for a freak like me?
I believe our friendship is special, truly special. Knowing you has been the highlight of my life and I hope you feel the same about me.
I am safe and secure now. I have no idea how long I must be gone. It could be for many months and I don’t expect you to wait around for me.
I’m sorry about whatever harm my actions may have caused for you and the agency. I only wanted to help and to correct some serious wrongs.
You have been the “rock” of my life, helping me become “one of the girls.” Please pass my love on to Latesha and Mollie. I miss them, too.
Love, Miranda
Miranda read the note over several times, wanting to write more, but the marshals had said she could only write a short note and to keep it general and with nonspecific references. Satisfied with what she wrote, she pressed her heavily lip-sticked lips to the inside of the back flap of the envelop. It left a distinctive kiss. She smiled and inserted the note inside.
She wrote a similar short note to her mother, signing it “Marcus,” of course. Her continued deception of her mother bothered Miranda and she knew that she needed her mother’s love more than ever. It relieved Miranda to learn that the marshals had reviewed both notes and sent them off without change.
*****
Miranda had been hired – using the name “Trudy Selery” – by the Carrier County Community Center (CCCC) as an assistant to the Financial Officer, a woman by the name of Kayla Lemke who was in her early thirties. Miranda was surprised both at how quickly she mastered the art of bookkeeping and that she truly enjoyed the work. Perhaps it was because of the ease with which she learned mathematics in school, but she suspected it was that bookkeeping proved to offer some fascinating mysteries that needed to be resolved. There were tax forms to complete, government reports and often grant proposals, each one asking for different financial information.
Kayla Lemke, a tallish, heavy woman, with a surprisingly tiny voice, soon became impressed how easily her new employee, Trudy Selery, learned the bookkeeping system. Ms. Lemke began to rely on her more each day.
“Trudy, we need to reconcile these grant accounts and we need to get the work done by Saturday,” Lemke informed Miranda on a Wednesday morning.
“Is there a problem?” Miranda asked.
“Yes. I can’t seem to reconcile them. Maybe you can have a crack at them, Trudy.”
“Me? I’m not an accountant like you,” Miranda answered, worried that she didn’t have the skills.
“Maybe a fresh look will help.”
By Thursday afternoon, Miranda was able to square the accounts; she had to call on various department heads of the agency to gain an understanding of their accounts and had won the admiration of most of them for her thoroughness and the pleasant manner in which she sought information. Kayla was pleased when Miranda sat down with her on Friday morning to show how she had handled the accounts and made them work.
“You’re a genius, Trudy. It’s a shame you’re only temporary here,” she said. “Maybe I can see if they’ll make this a full-time position for you.”
“Thank you, but I’ll eventually I want to return home,” Miranda said. “I have friends back there and a career that I love.”
“I’d still like you to consider staying here,” Kayla said. “Is there anything I can do to make you happier here? Introduce you to new friends, perhaps?”
“I’m still getting used to my transition. Not everyone likes the idea, you know.”
Kayla Lemke, of course, knew nothing about Miranda’s protective custody status or that she was in the U.S. Marshal’s protective custody. Only the CCCC executive director and human relations person knew; to others, Miranda (as Trudy Selery) was merely a temporary employee, working for several months while she awaited her planned sexual reassignment surgery. The marshals had created a backstory for Miranda, even creating a tall, handsome Army First Lieutenant named Josh Taylor who had fallen for a transwoman named Trudy, and was soon to be returned from Afghanistan.
Having a make-believe fiancé was convenient for another reason; it gave Miranda good reason to fend off men looking to date her. She’d already had to use First Lt. Josh Taylor as an excuse several times, displaying an engagement ring that had been purchased for her to reinforce the deception.
Her only male companion in those months was Marshal Feld who brought her to and from work each day. She welcomed her time with Feld as he proved to be a willing listener and sometime counselor. Though initially skeptical of Miranda’s “transwoman” status, he listened patiently as Miranda began to relate her story to him.
He was the father Miranda never had and she grew terribly fond of him.
*****
Miranda spent the winter in Gossen, missing her traditional trip home to enjoy both Thanksgiving and Christmas with her mother and their small family. At Thanksgiving, she was in near tears in the morning and she found she was missing her family’s traditional Thanksgiving celebration at her grandparents’ farm in Wisconsin. In recent years, she had dreaded those family celebrations, since her grandfather and several of her uncles tried to interest her in the day’s televised football games. They were always critical that this young man (Marcus) was growing more effeminate. On this day in Gossen, however, she found she missed the gathering and Harry Feld caught her crying that morning.
Feld had found a small Thai restaurant in Gossen, and in the early afternoon he dragged Miranda out of the house and the two entered the restaurant that was nearly empty of customers. That they ate Thai food that day instead of turkey and all the stuffing seemed to be a source for humor to both and they loosened up with a bottle of wine.
“I wish I could let you call your mother, Miranda,” Feld said when they had finished their meal and were lingering over their wine.
“She must be wondering, Harry, but I guess it’s necessary,” she said, fighting back tears.
“I’m so sorry for you,” he said.
Miranda looked into his eyes that had grown moist, and her affection for the older man grew.
“You’re wonderful to me, Harry. When this is all over I’m going to miss you.”
He smiled. “To me, you’re the daughter that Cynthia and I never had.”
Feld was referring to his wife who was growing lonely in the family home while he was in Gossen guarding Miranda. The couple’s two sons had left their hometown, one serving in the Army and currently in Afghanistan and the other already a successful young lawyer with a white-shoe law firm in Chicago.
Miranda was pleased that Harry Feld had eventually accepted her as a young woman, never referring to her transgender situation. Surprisingly, Marshal Jimenez never had accepted Miranda as a woman and the two had developed a cold, distant relationship. Marshal Jimenez was always professional and she was never unkind, but she constantly mixed up her pronouns, often referring to Miranda as “he” or “him” and then pointedly correcting herself. Miranda felt she was doing the word game on purpose, just to shame her.
That night, Harry and Miranda watched a movie, sitting together on the couch. It wasn’t long before Miranda put her legs up under her and leaned into Harry Feld’s large, hard body. His arm encircled her and she settled her head into his lap and slept. She awoke to a light kiss on her forehead and for a minute puzzled where she was, before looking up and into the eyes of Harry Feld.
“Oh, my God,” she gasped. “I’m sorry.”
He patted her gently. “You fell asleep.”
“Is the movie over?”
“Yes,” he laughed. “The young couple in the movie are going to get married.”
“So, they lived happily ever after?”
“Of course, and so will you when this is all over Miranda,” he said.
Miranda was fond of this sweet man; rarely had she felt such comfort and peace. With Amy, she was never relaxed, but always inspired and stimulated. With Harry, she found sweetness and light.
Undercover Girl – Chapter 23
By Katherine Day
(Miranda has accepted the fact she is a woman and grows confused on her relationships; meanwhile, she builds a new life while hiding from merciless gang of child sex traffickers.)
Chapter Twenty-Three – Becoming Trudy
Five months later – in early April – she was returned to the city to give testimony to the Federal Grand Jury. She was registered as Trudy Selery in an off-the-beaten-track motel where she stayed with U.S. Marshals Feld and Jimenez. They were in adjoining motel rooms. The motel had all the markings of having been built in the 1950s, but it was clean and solidly constructed. A diner was attached to the motel. The food there was simple and unadorned but well-prepared and the place was popular with residents of the neighborhood.
Trudy Selery looked nothing like Miranda Whiting, except in the fact that both were beautiful women. Miranda’s once flowing brown hair had been turned into a dirty blond shade and was trimmed short and fixed into a boyish style. While Miranda dressed stylishly and wore bright colors, Trudy wore drab, almost ugly clothing, favoring slacks instead of skirts and rarely displaying her lovely legs.
She had made some acquaintances at her new workplace, even though she was careful not to divulge her real reason for taking employment at the agency. One of them, the agency’s main receptionist, Carrie Jamison, repeatedly told her that Trudy should reveal her beauty, recommending that she wear more revealing and colorful outfits and begin using additional makeup.
Trudy always thanked her for the advice, most of which she agreed with. As Miranda, she loved lovely, colorful clothing, but she knew that she needed to stay undercover and to remain a “plain Jane” so as not to attract attention. Instead, she would reply to Carrie that “I’m a shy girl, Carrie, and I’m more comfortable the way I am.”
“I’m sure your fiancé would love to see you in pretty clothes. He’d really be proud to be with you,” Carrie replied, referring to the young man who Miranda had created to ward off any other advances from other men.
“I suppose, but thank you, Carrie.”
“You know that I see that really you could be the most beautiful woman in this whole building if you’d try.”
This comment caused Trudy (i.e. Miranda) to blush.
For her grand jury testimony, she dressed simply and colorlessly. She wore a brown pleated knee-length skirt, a beige blouse and a grey cardigan sweater. She wore coffee-colored stockings and brown pumps with thick, schoolmarm heels.
“We need to indicate to the jurors that beneath your plain exterior lies an intelligent, sensible young woman, but also a woman who could indeed be attractive and even sexy,” said the U.S. attorney who quizzed her before the grand jury appearance.
*****
Transcript from U.S. Federal Court Grand Jury, April 18, 2017, convened by order of U.S. Judge Henry Simonson.
(Grand Jury transcripts are kept secret. This was smuggled out.)
Prosecutor Stanley Adams: Thank you Judge Simonson and I want to welcome and thank the jurors here today for their public service. I know this task can inconvenience and burden all of you by interrupting the normal flow of your lives. Recognize it, however, as more than an obligation but as a privilege to serve your community. We hope that our nation’s justice system is the fairest and most democratic in the world and it’s through sacrifices like you’re all making that serve to keep it that way. Thank you very much.
The first witness today will not be identified by her real name, but will be called Miss Jane Doe. Testimony later will explain why her identity will remain secret.
[The witness was sworn in.]
Miss Doe: Yes sir.
Adams: Miss Doe, thank you for appearing as a witness. I know you’re taking part in this process at a risk to yourself. Can you explain that?
Doe: Yes sir. I’m in the witness protection program by the U.S. Marshals. They think my life is in danger.
Adams: Do you believe your life is in danger?
Doe: I believe I’ve been under surveillance for nearly a year now. I’ve seen men sitting in cars outside my window and I’ve been followed and warned to keep my mouth shut. I sneaked out of my apartment with the help of the police and was living with a female police officer until I was placed in witness protection.
Adams: Thank you, Miss Doe. I know it must be most stressing for you.
Doe: Yes sir, but the marshals have been kind and helpful and made my life easier than it might have been. I’m grateful.
Adams: Now, Miss Doe, in examining your birth certificate I see you were identified there as male. Is that correct?
Doe: Yes sir.
Adams: But you’re here as a young woman, right?
Doe: Let me explain.
Adams: We’re all waiting.
Doe: Sir, I was born a boy, but I seemed always to be drawn to girl things, like dolls and such. And it seems I always wondered what it was like to be a girl. Finally, after I got my first professional job as a social worker where most of my co-workers were women, I finally realized I truly was a woman. I just fit in, sir, so recently I have begun my transition.
Adams: Transition? From male to female?
Doe: Yes sir.
Question from Juror #14: Is she or he – whatever – a drag queen?
Adams: Thank you juror for the question. What would you call yourself, Miss Doe?
Doe: A woman.
Adams: Wouldn’t you more correctly be called transgender or transwoman?
Doe: Others might call me that. I am a woman, sir.
Question from Juror #21: What does this have to do with this case, Mr. Adams?
Adams: You’ll see, since it does have relevance to the facts that she’ll testify to.
Question from Juror #7: Can I have her phone number?
(Laughter)
Judge: Juror #7. I must warn you and the others here that this is a serious procedure and while humor might have its place in some proceedings it is not here. Even though this is more informal than a courtroom, we must still retain judicial decorum.
Juror #7: I’m sorry judge. I apologize.
Adams: Thank you, judge, but Juror #7 does have a relevant observation. Obviously, Juror #7 considers Miss Doe to be an attractive young woman, maybe even one he’d like to date. Miss Doe, would you say you’re a beautiful woman?
Doe: That’s not for me to say sir.
Adams: I merely suggest the jurors to make their own judgment on that, but I believe all of us in this room find it hard to believe you once were a boy.
(Several pages of testimony followed in which Miranda discussed her upbringing, her education and other matters in her life. She then described how she met Jefferson Turner, referred to only by a pseudonym – Jason. She fully described her venture as a teenage prostitute, being picked up and spirited away to the Browning mansion in Madison Heights. The transcript continues below.)
Adams: Please describe what occurred when the car stopped and you were led out of the it. Please tell us what you observed.
Doe: Since it was nighttime, I couldn’t see exactly where we were, but there were driveway lights on and I could see what appeared to be a large, older house. What you might call a mansion. You know, where rich people live. It seemed like a vine-covered castle and it had what I might call turrets. It was kind of distinctive. It was on a large lot, with woods around it. I know we drove through some gates.
Adams: Miss Doe, I will be showing a picture on the screen of a house and I want you to tell me whether you recognize it as the house into which you were led on that night of Oct. 16, 2015.
(Projector is turned on and screen shows photo of house, identified as Exh. 12.)
Doe: Yes sir, it appears to be the same house.
Adams: I want you to be sure. Not just that it appears as the same house.
Doe: Well, I can’t say for sure. But it has the same details I remember from that night. If it isn’t the same house, it’s one just like it.
Adams: Thank you. I’d like to inform the jurors that the photo shown as Exhibit 12 is that of the home of Paul Browning, Sr. of Madison Heights.
(Miranda had been tense and uneasy as she began her testimony, but as the morning dragged on she became more comfortable. Adams treated her gently, as a prosecutor would do in a Grand Jury hearing where there is no opposing attorney and his only goal is to gain a ruling that there was probable cause that a crime had occurred and that the perpetrators could be properly indicted. Testimony continued.)
Adams: Now, Miss Doe, I will put several slides on the screen and ask you to tell me if you recognize anyone. Are you ready?
Doe: Yes.
(A court clerk posted several slides each showing three head shots of men. When the third set was put up on the screen.)
Doe: That one, the man in the middle.
Adams: Let the jurors know that Miss Doe has identified photo number eight. And where did you see this man.
Doe: He was in the car that picked me up off the street. Actually, he was nice to me. That other two men were kind of mean.
Adams: He was nice, but he still wouldn’t let you leave, right?
Doe: Yes sir. He was big and strong. But I liked him. He seemed sympathetic.
(The court clerk continued showing slides of head shots of men, from which Miranda identified one of the other two men in the car and finally she was shown a set of head shots of women.)
Doe: I know that woman, the one on the right.
Adams: Jurors, Miss Doe has recognized the woman in photo number thirty-three. How do you know her?
Doe: She was the woman who fixed my makeup and groomed me to meet the man I was supposed to see. They called her Kerry, but I don’t think that was her real name. She was nice, too, but she scolded me for being on the streets. Told me it was a rough life.
Adams: You liked her as well, I guess.
Doe: Yes sir.
(More slides were shown of men until Miranda identified photo number fifty-four.)
Doe: That man. He was creepy. He talked nice, but there was something weird about him. I was supposed to have sex with him. The thought of that made me want to vomit.
Adams: What did he do to make you feel that way?
Doe: Well, it’s hard to say. One thing I do remember is that just when I got in there he asked the woman called Kerry about whether something was ready. I wasn’t sure what he meant at first but then he added something making sure it was focused this time. Yes, that’s what he said, “Make sure it’s focused this time.” I remember those words now.
Adams: You mean like they were taking pictures.
Doe: Yes sir. That’s really creepy, isn’t it, sir?
Adams: That’s for the jurors to decide, miss. Was there anything else that would lead you to believe they were photographing the scene? Anything hanging on the walls or suspicious holes in the wall. Anything at all that might strike you as odd?
Doe: It’s was hard to see into the corners of the room, but I did see the man position me and himself, like we were posing. At one time, he told me to stand up and walk back and forth, like I was in a fashion show. You know, like I had to sway my hips.
Adams: Go on.
Doe: He actually had a red carpet in the room and I had to walk on that. He began to shake and moan almost like he was in pain and then he’d scream out. Then, he’d grow quiet and just pant, like he was out of breath.
Adams: Was he masturbating, Miss Doe?
Doe: It sounded like it, but he had spotlights on me all the time making it hard for me to see him. Then he told me to come to him and then they turned the spotlights off and I could see he was now totally nude. He was kind of chubby, sir, and he held a towel in his hand. He told me to kneel before him. I didn’t want to and said, ‘no.’
Adams: What did he do?
Doe: (Beginning to cry)
Adams: Take your time, dear. I know this may be hard and unpleasant, but it’s important to the case.
(Doe is given several tissues. She dried her eyes.)
Doe: I’m sorry for that. Well, he had a whip in his hands and he held it up and whipped it through the air. So, I did what he said, sir. I knelt before him and cleaned him up.
Adams: With the towel?
Doe: First with my tongue. I had to lick his thighs and his . . . ah . . . penis. And then he pushed my head down into his crotch area and it smelled sort of bad. It was awful.
Adams: I think we have enough now about that. Now, do you think he was filming that?
Doe: I suppose.
(Trudy was on the stand for two more hours before she was released into the custody of Harry Feld and Maria Jimenez and returned to the farmhouse where she was held in protective custody.)
*****
“Do you think this will end soon, now that I’ve testified? When can I return to my old life?” Trudy asked Harry Feld a few nights later.
“Hard to say, Trudy,” he answered honestly.
“I can’t wait to see Amy,” she said, and then added as if an after-thought, “or my mother.”
Feld smiled. The two sat at the kitchen table of the old farmhouse in which Trudy had been housed during the period of time in protective custody. She had been spirited to this location outside of the mid-sized Midwestern city of Gossen seven months earlier under the federal witness protection program. Feld and Marshal Jimenez, a female in her early thirties, had served as Trudy’s guards, sharing shifts with asleep and personal time for the entire period, while substitutes came in periodically to spell the two to return for week-long vacation periods to their homes.
It was only natural that Trudy came to know the two marshals fairly intimately during their months together. At first, both had acted professionally and rarely engaged in personal discussions. Trudy first learned about Feld, as he was more garrulous. He had been married nearly thirty years to a school teacher in a city some four hours away; the couple had two grown children, now out of the house.
He eventually unloaded information about his family, about his courtship with his wife, having met her at a party after a football game while in college. They married right out of college and quickly had the two children while Feld had spent one season with the Detroit Lions, playing only sparingly, following that with four years in the Army. Upon discharge, he soon learned that his degree in history was hardly an attractive quality in hunting for a job. He finally answered an advertisement to join the U.S. marshal’s office. For the couple, it meant many weeks of separation during his long career.
“That must have been hard for you two,” Trudy commiserated.
“It was, particularly when the kids were young. My wife was a trouper, though. I never heard her complain.”
“She sounds wonderful, Harry.”
“She is.”
Trudy looked admiringly at the older man. She saw tears flow down his face and she leaned over to kiss him.
Marshal Feld looked up at her and smile. “That was sweet of you.”
“I’m sorry,” Trudy said. “I shouldn’t have done that, but I wanted to comfort you.”
Eventually, Trudy and Marshal Jimenez became more talkative; yet, they failed to build the same close relationship she enjoyed with Harry Feld. Nonetheless, the three occupants of the farmhouse that served as their “safe house” settled into a pleasant, friendly routine, with Trudy and Harry leaving each weekday for their jobs at the agency, while Maria remained in the house. Even though she was still considered temporary in her job, Trudy found herself becoming merely one of the women in the office. She fought off her own inclination to become close and open with people and remained a friendly but somewhat aloof co-worker. She had to avoid getting into close relations with anyone, lest she expose her “witness protection” status.
*****
In August, nearly five months after Trudy’s testimony, the indictment and arrests of six persons in a human trafficking ring were announced. Channel Four News showed U.S. Attorney Nelson Cunningham with Assistant Attorney General Stanley Adams discussing the arrests from a podium set up before the city’s Federal Courthouse. The newscast cut away to show scenes of several handcuffed men being led by a phalanx of law enforcement officers; all of the arrested men held their heads down to avoid the cameras but Trudy was sure she recognized the chubby man who had subjected her. He was identified as Paul Browning Jr., age thirty-five of Madison Heights, and an heir to the Browning Industries fortune.
“This crime syndicate is involved in many areas, even beyond the human trafficking charges that have brought about these arrests today,” U.S. Atty. Cunningham intoned on the screen. “We would like to acknowledge and praise several citizens who played key roles in providing the evidence that has led to these arrests. For now, their identities will remain secret for their own protection. Several of them put their lives on the line and we salute them.”
“Hurray!” yelled Harry. “He means you, Trudy.”
The two marshals and Trudy watched the evening newscast in the living room, while they awaited their evening dinner. Trudy had fashioned a meatloaf that was baking in the kitchen. She had created her own recipe that kept it moist and a bit tangy and became pleased when Harry Feld announced it was “my favorite.”
“Does that mean I can resume my life?” Trudy asked.
“I doubt it, dear,” Maria Jimenez said. “You may have to testify in court, yet.”
Trudy began to cry; she hadn’t seen or communicated with Amy for nearly a year; the same with her mother. She knew Amy must have forgotten her and found someone else.
“You’ll be free soon,” Marshal Jimenez said, hugging Trudy. It was the female marshal’s first showing of warmth and it made Trudy cry even harder as she melted into the firm, comforting grasp of Maria Jimenez.
*****
Often at night, Trudy cried herself to sleep. Her love for Amy grew stronger; even though she knew her love for the older woman might be never requited. Occasionally, Trudy’s thoughts would stray to Emery Harrington and wondered whether he still thought of her and cared for her. For a time, when she first became involved in the Jefferson Turner case, Trudy had a crush on the assistant district attorney and she began to wonder whether her future would include a woman (Amy) or a man (Emery).
As the months in protective custody continued through the summer, Trudy had plenty of time to think about her life. Several facts became clear: First, she was a woman and would remain one until her death, and secondly, she wanted to be with Amy, to be in the comfort of her arms. She loved the gentleness of Amy, the smooth soft feeling of the other woman’s flesh and the fullness of her marvelous lips. She had never been in bed with Emery, and she was frightened of being with a man, even though she knew Emery to be a kind and gentle man. Also, she wondered, could she satisfy a man as he would need to be?
Trudy’s sobs grew intense one Thursday night in August; the evening had cooled down and she had shut down the window air conditioner in the house, opting to welcome in the chilly evening breeze through one of the two windows in her bedroom on the second floor of the old farmhouse.
The door to her room opened.
“Are you all right, Trudy?” It was Maria Jimenez.
“I’m . . . OK,” Trudy said, her voice breaking through the sobs.
“You don’t sound OK,” Maria said gently. She moved next to Trudy and sat on the side of her bed, putting her hand on Trudy’s forehead.
“It’s just . . . that . . . I’m missing Amy. I know she’s not waiting for me.”
“You don’t know that, dear.”
After Trudy finally quelled her crying, she asked, “Why would she wait for me? She’s got her own life to lead. I’m going to be doomed to be in custody forever.”
“Not anything’s forever, dear,” Maria said, moving onto the bed to lay next to Trudy and bring her into her arms.
“That feels so good. Thank you.”
“Now just go to sleep, dear Trudy,” Maria said, holding her tightly.
That night, Trudy dreamed she was again in the arms of Amy. Maria wore shorts and a loose t-shirt – the same as Amy would – and the marshal had the same firm, smooth body. It was a dream that ended too soon.
*****
She awoke the next morning to a chilly room; a cold front had moved in bringing brisk winds from the northwest, dumping temperatures some twenty degrees below normal for an August day. Trudy suddenly felt the chill and moved her arm to look for the warm body that had comforted her last night. She was alone in bed. Suddenly a shiver went through her as she wondered whether she and Maria had sex? Hadn’t she dreamed of having sex? But wasn’t that with Amy? No, how could it be? Oh, my God? Did I do something wrong?
Maria Jimenez was preparing pancakes the next morning when Trudy finally padded into the kitchen, cuddled up in a terry cloth robe and wearing fluffy pink slippers.
“Hope you’re feeling better this morning,” Maria asked.
“Yes, I am, thank you.”
“Good. You sounded pretty bad last night.”
“I’m sorry for that. I’m such a weakling, crying at the drop of a hat.”
“You’re no weakling, Trudy,” Maria said, turning from the stove. “You’ve been terribly brave through all this. And, it’s only natural after all these months for you to break down.”
Maria brought over a stack of pancakes, filled the coffee cups of both and sat down.
“You make the lightest pancakes ever,” Trudy said. “So good.”
“Not as good as Harry’s,” she quipped.
“True, his are the greatest, but where is he?”
“He got up early and has gone to town to pick up some plumbing supplies. You know, to fix that leak in the shower.”
Trudy ate her pancakes, surprised that she was hungry enough to down four of them. So much for her figure, but then the fact was that she had lost weight while in custody, likely due to stress that seemed to curb her eating.
*****
Autumn came and went, and Trudy’s hopes of returning home by Christmas were soon dashed. Instead, she was given a chance to make two video recordings, with one being sent to Amy and the other to her mother. Harry and Maria heavily edited them to assure that Trudy’s identity would continue to be a mystery. Each one was different, of course, since she had to try hard to look masculine in the video to her mother, chagrined and angered with herself since she had yet to reveal her transition.
Harry tried hard to coach her to be less feminine, and largely succeeded. He provided a flannel shirt to Trudy and Maria tied his hair in somewhat masculine ponytail; by and large, she succeeded in passing herself off as a young man, even one whose mannerisms had become noticeably effeminate.
The message to Amy was easier to manage for Trudy.
“Amy, I want you to know that I think of you constantly and miss you terribly,” she began, trying to make her voice strong, though she did feel it began to crack a bit. “But, I would understand if you’ve forgotten me. I’ve been gone a year by now and I have no idea if I’ll ever be able to resume my old life. I’m not sure when I’ll be free again and will be able to see you. So, if you’ve gone on with your life and found someone else, I understand.
“I miss you so much and want to feel you snuggled up against me again. Perhaps it’s our fate to be forever separated. It’s all my fault for getting involved in this, but I felt I could do something for Jefferson and boys like him. Please forgive me. I feel . . . (Trudy began sobbing).”
Eventually, Trudy composed herself and finished the short video by telling Amy she was safe and comfortable and that she had a good job. She apologized for not being able to tell her more but assured that sometime in the future she’d explain the whole thing.
“I love you, Amy,” she said, finishing the video by blowing her friend a kiss.
After reverting to her boy mode, she began her video to her mother:
“Mom, I’m so sorry that I can’t visit you. I know that the U. S. Marshal’s office has told you of my situation, though not all. I will miss you at Christmas. I will never forget the nice tree we always had in our house. Never a fake one. Remember how we used to go out to that tree farm near Prairie du Chien and cut one every year. Remember how we froze every year, but you always wanted us to have a fresh tree. Are you going to have one this year?
“Mom, you were always good to me. You tolerated the weird stuff I did, even when I wanted you to buy me a Barbie Doll when I turned ten. You told me boys don’t get Barbie, but I insisted. I told you there was nothing wrong with a boy having a Barbie and you got me Barbie and some clothes for her. I loved that doll. I loved you for that. Of course, we didn’t tell anybody else I played with Barbie, did we?
“I’m very safe here and living comfortably. I have a nice job and work with nice people and I hope this will end soon and I can see you. I love you, mom, and Merry Christmas.”
Several days before Christmas, Harry Feld returned from his daily trip to the postoffice where they had set up a postal box to receive mail.
“I’ve got a flash drive here, Trudy,” he said. “It’s from both your friend Amy and your mother.”
“Really?” she asked, her face lighting up. “What a great Christmas present!”
She looked at the tape in private. Her mother said little, since she cried through most of it as she stressed her love for her son, calling him “such a lovely boy.” Amy’s message was fairly matter-of-fact, and she said she “loved Miranda” and that she had no new lovers. She was now director of the agency, having replaced Hector Rodriguez who had been fired and arrested for fraud because of his dishonesty in setting up programs so that Paul Browning, Jr. could be afforded a regular supply of young boys for his sex trafficking scheme.
Trudy looked at Amy’s tape four times, seeking to find a hint at the woman’s feelings. Amy said she loved Miranda (Amy knew nothing of Trudy), but did she mean it? She wasn’t sure that Amy would love Trudy Selery.
*****
One Year and One Month Later
It was as if Marcus Whiting (a/k/a Miranda Whiting and Trudy Selery) had vanished off the face of the earth. Amy Dacosta no longer had contact with her; the marshals who had arranged the two to communicate told her that Ms. Whiting had been moved to a new location and given a new identity, both to be kept secret.
“But, I know she cares for me and I miss her so much,” she pleaded with the stone-faced marshal she visited.
“Do you care whether Ms. Whiting stays alive, Ms. Dacosta?”
It had been a blunt question of which there could be but one answer. No amount of pleading, of pledging her own word to keep Miranda’s identity and location a secret could move the marshal. That night and for many nights later, Amy Dacosta cried herself to sleep; in her mind, she worried about the fate of her friend. She doubted Miranda had the strength to survive due to her fragility. She remembered how the slender, soft girl would bury herself and surrender into Amy’s more sturdy body.
So, it was that Amy Dacosta dedicated herself to her job as the new executive director of Opportunities, Inc., where she worked day-and-night to restore the agency’s trust after Rodriguez’s perfidy. She won several new grants, including one to monitor the state’s child protection system to assure the safety of the children, some of which had been compromised in the trafficking scandal. No longer did she handle cases, but she kept a special interest on two of the cases, that of Jefferson Turner and LaGrande Jackson Marquis, both of whom were nearing their eighteenth birthdays and would be “aging out” of foster care. She knew it would be a fearsome time for the two youth, since they would literally be thrown out on the street to fend for themselves without support from the state.
Amy, however, had faith in the two, due principally to the influence of Marcus Whiting. Both were to graduate from the High School for the Arts with honors; Turner who had become Jasmine Turner in her senior year was given a partial scholarship at the State University in sociology in hopes of becoming a social worker, mimicking Miranda (as Jasmine now referred to her). LaGrande had shown skill as jazz saxophonist and himself was looking forward to attending college to further his musical skills.
LaGrande and Jasmine became tight friends, possibly even lovers, though Amy wasn’t sure about that. They often were seen together holding hands and they made a charming young couple. Both boys often asked about Miranda, as they now both knew her. Sadly, Amy could tell them nothing other than she had been told that Miranda was in a safe place and leading a good life.
“She taught me to believe in myself,” Jasmine told Amy during one of her frequent visits to his foster home.
“Miranda’s a remarkable woman,” Amy agreed.
“I thought I was a worthless piece of shit, but it was only her faith in me and in believing me when I was picked up by that Browning crew that saved me, I think.”
“Jasmine, you’re right. There’ll never be another young woman like her.”
“You love her, don’t you, Miss Dacosta?” Jasmine asked.
“Forever and forever, Jasmine dear.”
(To Be Continued)
Undercover Girl – 24
(Copyright 2019)
(Trudy Selery is adjusting to a life in a witness protection program and hoping to renew life with her lover. She continues to face threats from a ruthless mob.)
Chapter Twenty-Four – A New Life
Now in her second winter in Gossen, Trudy had begun to get restless over the constant supervision by the marshals and into the separation from Amy, her life as a social worker and her mother. She had begun to wonder if her mother might have given up on her; the prospect of that was particularly disturbing, a mixture of guilt and regret.
Even the routine of her life was wearing upon her, and the boredom of her evenings in the farmhouse with the two marshals – and their occasional replacements whenever Harry or Maria took their leave periods – was wearing upon her. There were just so many nights of “Scrabble” or rummy that the three could do before it became mindless or episodes of “NCIS” or “The Voice” they could endure.
In mid-winter, it became pitch dark by 5 p.m. every afternoon when Harry and Trudy reached home from their employment. That was the case on a Tuesday night in mid-January; Trudy had just boosted herself into Harry’s black SUV when the marshal’s cellphone rang.
“Maria’s calling,” he announced, glancing at the phone, before picking up the call.
“Guess she wants us to pick something up,” Trudy said.
She was surprised when Harry responded loudly, “You’re what? Under surveillance?”
Harry said nothing, listening closely, his expression growing more somber. “Take care of yourself,” he finally responded. “I’ll call Sheriff Michaelson and get back-up out there. I’ll get Trudy to the place in the corn county.”
He hung up and turned to Trudy, speaking in a strong, firm manner she had not heard before. “We’ve been found out,” he said. “You scrunch down on the seat, so it’ll look like I’m driving without a passenger.”
As shock of fear shot through Trudy and she hunkered down as ordered. “They found us out?” she asked.
“Yep, there’s several men surrounding the place, trying to hide, but Maria has spotted two in the woods out back and there’s possibly more. We’re not going back there, Trudy.”
“What? But all my stuff?” she replied.
“Hopefully, we’ll eventually get it to you, but you’re a marked woman, my dear and we’re headed to a backup spot about 80 miles away. Now, I got to call the sheriff,” he said.
Trudy heard Harry alert the sheriff to the situation, suggesting he and a couple of deputies get to the farmhouse and remove Maria and a few personal items for each of them, including the usual toiletries and a change of clothes.
“Will Maria be safe?” Trudy asked.
“I think so. I’m not certain those guys would be interested in gunning down a federal marshal and still not get you. You’re the prize, my dear.”
The refuge turned out to be an Airbnb along the Fox River northwest of Chicago. It was a river cottage with three small bedrooms, one for Miranda, another to Harry Feld and the third for a third federal marshal, a large, husky woman who was only identified as Peggy.
“Where’s Maria?’ Trudy asked.
“Obviously, she can’t join us for fear that they’d follow her to find you,” Harry explained.
“I’ll miss her. I’ve grown to like her.”
Harry smiled. “Yes, we developed into quite a compatible family.”
“I know, and I’ve been grateful to both of you for making this time of my life easier to endure,” Trudy said.
“Well, Trudy, you know we’ve both grown quite fond of you,” he said, smiling. “You’ve been a pleasure.”
Trudy blushed. Then a sudden realization hit her. It was obvious that her witness protection plan was about to change; she was gone from Gossen and her job there.
*****
“Warsaw?” Trudy asked, shocked.
“No, Wausau. Wausau, Wisconsin,” the woman from the U.S. Marshal’s office replied
“We’ve got a good job for you there, Miss Selery.”
“Oh, my God. It’s cold up there,” Trudy explained, shocked.
The woman in the marshal’s office in Chicago carried a badge that read “Ms. Pontricious” and she was a tall, slender stern woman who constantly seemed to squint through her granny classes as if she couldn’t see well.
“It’s best for you, Miss Selery. The community is thriving, and you’ll be working in the finance department of the local United Way. You’ve proven to be good at accounting and they’re arranging for you to pick up an accounting degree down the road at the University of Wisconsin - Stevens Point.”
Two days earlier, without warning and without a chance to pack up her belongings, Trudy had been rushed from Gossen and taken to another “safe house” in a small town near Chicago with the explanation that Trudy’s cover may have been blown in Gossen. “We need to keep you safe,” Ms. Pontricious said; the agent apparently came from the regional marshal’s office to arrange a more permanent transfer, apparently in the north central Wisconsin city of Wausau. She had already spent more than a year under the federal witness protection program, most of it in Gossen, where she had been mostly isolated, except for her work hours at the social service agency.
Trudy knew of Wausau, of course, having been born and raised about one hundred fifty miles south in southwestern Wisconsin. She had been there once on a trip with her high school choral group for a state competition. Also, she really recalled was how cold she was during that March trip to Wausau; while her own hometown also had cold winters, Wausau seemed to be even more frigid. Yet, the idea of building a new life with a career in finance intrigued her, having found that in seeking to make books balance and in sourcing expenditures opened many untold mysteries. She knew of the University of Wisconsin – Stevens Point campus, where the U.S. Marshal service would pay for her education, and it was well-regarded. It seemed like a good opportunity, since the likelihood of returning to her old job in child welfare work seemed out of the question.
“Do you think it’ll ever be possible for me to go back to my old job and city?” Trudy asked.
“Hard to say, Miss Selery. The feds are still trying to crack the big guys in this gang, and your testimony has been critical,” Ms. Pontricious replied.
“But I don’t know that much, just what I saw,” Trudy protested.
“You know more than you think.”
Several times in her conversations with Harry Feld she had wondered the same thing. It hadn’t made sense to her that she was a valuable witness. Feld explained that the FBI and the Justice Department had let the word out that Trudy’s testimony was more damaging than it may actually be so that they could use ist as a bargaining chip to wangle confessions from some of those they had arrested already.
“So, I’m bait?” Trudy challenged Ms. Pontricious.
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“Playing with my life like that. It just isn’t fair.”
Trudy stood up and to leave, angered at her enforced captivity, but the strong, husky marshal grabbed her arm, yanking her back. “Sit down and listen,” she ordered.
“Regardless what you think your life is in constant danger,” she continued. “This is a big operation, nationwide and your little venture into Madison Heights uncorked the bottle and we’re going to break this evil empire up.”
Trudy covered her face with her hands and began to sob into it.
“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, lifting her face up out of her hands. Ms. Pontricious handed her a tissue to dry her eyes.
“Nothing to be sorry for, dear,” the marshal said, her tone softening. “You’ve been through a difficult time.”
“Still I hate to cry so much.”
The two sat silently for a few moments while Trudy composed herself. Finally, Ms. Pontricious spoke:
“Trudy, we want to make your life as safe and peaceful as possible, and the marshal service will be assisting you in building up a future for you. You know we’ll assist you in getting that accounting degree, if you wish.”
“Thank you.”
“Now we’d like you to know if you’d like your mother to join you? We can arrange that, Trudy.”
Trudy was shocked again. “My mother? I don’t know,” she said, not stating her real fear about her mother joining her. As far as Trudy knew, her mother still wasn’t aware that she had lost a son and gained a daughter. How could she ever tell her mother about that? After all, two years of deceptions?
*****
A month later, Trudy was moved into one side of a double house in Wausau. It was fully furnished, partly based on some of Trudy’s preferences. The other half of the duplex was occupied by a middle-aged police officer, his wife and one teenaged son; they were the owners of the building and Trudy suspected that the selection of a landlord by the marshal service was not exactly a coincidence. It certainly didn’t hurt to have a police officer as a next-door neighbor.
No longer were U.S. marshals guarding her constantly and while Trudy had grown fond of her two regular guards, particularly Harry Feld, she was happy to have her freedom once again.
The rules of her status were strict, however. She was to identify always as Trudy Selery, a 25-year-old woman who was awaiting the return of her longtime boyfriend who was in the Army, serving a tour in Afghanistan. She was eagerly awaiting his return, she told anyone who asked. The marshal service had constructed a whole new history for Trudy Selery, including her high school graduation, early work history and pictures of her at a beauty contest when she was eighteen. She was never to connect with anyone from her previous life, until such time as it was deemed safe, if ever. Unlike her stay previously in Gossen, no one in her new job in Wausau would be told of either her transgender status or that she was under federal protection.
Sgt. Peter Lindstrom, her landlord, was a garrulous, husky police officer, who apparently was well-liked in the community; his wife, who worked as a school secretary, was a plain-looking, somewhat portly woman who almost immediately began to mother her next-door neighbor. Their son was unlike most teenagers Trudy had encountered in her social work; he was tall, muscular, wore a crew cut and was polite. He always seemed to have a blonde teenage girl on his elbow.
The sergeant’s family took an immediate liking to the pretty young woman who moved into the unit next to them; Paula Lindstrom greeted Trudy with an invitation to dinner with the family on her third night in Wausau. It was an invitation that Trudy accepted rather hesitantly. She wasn’t sure she should get too friendly with neighbors for fear of having to reveal her past. The Lindstroms proved to be congenial hosts and the dinner was not only tasty, but the conversation was comfortable, cheerful and warm. It seemed to offer a promising beginning in her new city.
Trudy concluded that it was no mere coincidence that the marshals had located her in a duplex with a police sergeant’s family, and while she was comforted by the feeling of greater safety she was bothered by the fact that the government was going to keep her under surveillance. She was to continue to be overseen by the marshal’s office by a new agent named Chad Redmon, who stopped by about every other week to assure Trudy was not being compromised. He was far younger than Agent Feld had been, and not as open and friendly. Though he was strikingly tall, trim and handsome, Trudy felt no warmth from the man. It was OK with her.
*****
Mary Ann Whiting in Riverview, Wisconsin, quit her job at the community bank, said good-bye to co-workers, friends and neighbors and told everyone she was leaving to live with her son. She explained that her Marcus was involved in “secret government work” and that she could not divulge her new location. Few questioned her story, since the Whitings – mother and son – had lived private lives, with few intimate friends. Many in the small city had remarked that Marcus had been a sort of “weird boy” in high school and it was no wonder he was working in “secret” somewhere. Many gossips in the small city figured the boy might be engaged in something criminal, or shady or sexual. “He always was kind of girly so he’s probably one of those drag queens in Chicago,” chirped Maggie Johnson, who had been a classmate at Riverview High School.
Mary Ann had been told by the U.S. Marshals she could be re-united with her son if she changed her identity and left her old life behind. She was nearing fifty years old, had few close friends and welcomed the changes to come in her life, even if it meant giving up her good job at the bank. “Your son would love to have you join him,” Marshal Redmon who met with her said, “but he will be changed a lot. You may not know him at first.”
“Does he really want me to live with him?” she asked.
“Very much so. He loves you and he is lonely,” she was assured.
The marshals realized, of course, that Mrs. Whiting’s son was now a lovely young woman, but pursuant to Trudy’s desires, they carried on the fiction that her son was still Marcus. Trudy had told the marshals that she wanted to inform her mother firsthand that her son was now a woman. Trudy had felt guilty over lying to her mother for several years about the change and felt her only course of action was to submit directly to the mercy of her mother.
*****
Trudy slept fitfully on the night before her mother was due to arrive in Wausau. She tossed and turned, running over in her mind how best to disclose to her mother that she now had a daughter. She changed her decision numerous times over how she should approach her mother, even considering fudging the truth a bit by saying the change from male to female was done at the behest of the U.S. Marshal service to disguise her identity and then realizing that would have been a lie.
No, the bald truth would be the best: I am a woman and always had been, even though I had some male organs. Her mother, she realized, needed to understand that.
The plan was for Marshal Redmon, who had driven to Riverview to pick up Mrs. Whiting, to deliver her directly to Trudy’s duplex for the meeting. Trudy mulled over what to wear for the meeting: a modest dress? Slacks? Shorts and a tee, since it was to be a warm summer day? She settled for peach-colored capris, a teal sleeveless blouse with a V-neck, a simple gold cross on a slender gold chain, modest gold earrings and short-heeled sandals. She had painted her fingernails and toenails a matching natural pink. She let her hair flow naturally, fixing it with a bang.
“How do I look, Agent Redmon?” she asked.
“Lovely as usual, Trudy. I think your mother will be pleased with her new daughter.”
Trudy had slowly warmed to Redmon who had grown friendly as their time together lengthened. The marshal seemed to understand the difficulty that a person going through gender transition faced and became quite helpful.
*****
It was a hot, sunny morning and Trudy sat in a recliner looking out the front window of her duplex, when Marshal Redmon’s car stopped at the curb. Her heart began to race as she saw her mother get out of the car and was led up the front walk by the marshal. She was dressed in a yellow print dress and wore sunglasses. Her hair, long like Trudy’s flowed in the breeze.
Trudy began to cry. Her mother would now be known as Annabelle Selery in her new life. Her mother’s changed identity could not truly change the woman. He could see she was still slender and beautiful as she strode purposefully up the walk. She always a no-nonsense woman, and it was displayed in how she walked.
Vainly holding back tears, Trudy rose to greet her mother at the door.
“Mother,” she explained as her mother entered, holding her arms out.
Puzzled, her mother brushed Trudy aside and said, “Where’s Marcus?”
“I’m here, mother,” she said still holding her arms wide as tears rained down her face.
“But . . . you’re a . . .”
“Woman. I’m Trudy now, mother.”
“Where’s my son? Where’s Marcus,” Mary Ann yelled, turning to Marshal Redmon.
The marshal took Mary Ann Whiting by the elbow and led her to a sofa.
“Now, Mrs. Selery,” Redmon said, using the name that Trudy’s mother would be using while her daughter was in witness protection. “I know you’re shocked, but I told you that your son would be changed.”
“But this is no son of mine,” Annabelle Selery said.
“Mother let me explain,” Trudy said, having stopped crying and realizing that she had to tell her mother the whole story.
“I’m not sure you can,” Annabelle said. “But try me out.”
“I’ll leave you to sort this out,” Redmon said, arising from the sofa. “Annabelle, please listen to Trudy. She’s truly a remarkable young woman and you should be proud of her.”
Thirty minutes later, Trudy summoned Marshal Redmon from the kitchen, where he had been having coffee. He walked into the living room to see mother and daughter on the sofa, holding hands.
“Mom and I would like to go out together and have some lunch and do a little shopping after she gets settled in her room. Can you help bring in her bags, Chad?”
Redmon smiled and turned to Trudy’s mother. “Isn’t she remarkable, just as I told you, Annabelle?”
“And so beautiful, too!” Annabelle Selery said.
“Like mother, like daughter,” he said, as he opened the door and headed to the car to get Mrs. Selery’s luggage.
*****
Graduation Night: Community High School of the Arts
Amy Dacosta and Latesha White could not hold back tears as Jasmine Turner (previously known as Jefferson Turner) approached the podium in the high school’s auditorium; she had been introduced by the school’s principal to give the school’s valedictorian address, a result of graduating with the highest honors in the school.
The slender girl proudly wore her purple graduation robes as she stood before the assembled audience of fellow graduates, their families and friends. Her voice rang loud and clear as she thanked her classmates, teachers and school staff for supporting her.
“I have many people to thank for saving me from a life of drugs, humiliation and likely an early death. Mostly, however, I need to thank Miranda, a social worker who saw in me a human being worth saving. Sadly, she is not with us tonight because she gave up her life for me and girls like me. She is hidden away somewhere in this nation under a different name living in daily fear for her life. None of us who love her know where she is and we may never be able to thank her in person for her sacrifice.
“I think her sacrifice demonstrated to all of us that the world is full of people who care about others, who are willing to work and struggle to make life better for all of us. I had very little faith in others before Miranda – she was the social worker – located me. Sad to say, I was not always as cooperative as I should have been and gave her a hard time, but she persisted – and even nagged at me – until I acted more sensibly.
“There are many more Mirandas in this world and we all need to find hope in that.”
When she finished her address to a standing ovation, the lovely girl rushed backstage to a dressing room where she squeezed into a leotard, readying herself to participate with the high school dance group in short presentation that would follow. She had become the lead principal dancer in the group and had won a fully paid scholarship to study dance. Yet, she turned it down for a partial scholarship to study social work. She wanted a career in child welfare.
The graduation party held for Jasmine was squeezed into the banquet room at Robinson’s Restaurant, a popular soul food place. Gathered around the honored graduate were several of her classmates, teachers and even the school principal. Amy Dacosta was accompanied by Mollie Johnson and Latesha White who kept close to her fiancé, Assistant DA Emery Harrington.
Jasmine kissed her well-wishers on their cheeks as they greeted her, but she gave a particularly long hug to Hedwig Jelacic, now Detective Sergeant Jelacic.
Standing nearby, always attentive to the pretty young lady was LaGrande Jackson Marquis, a slender, wiry young man with neat dreadlocks. He had graduated a year earlier having become an accomplished jazz saxophone performer, already performing in gigs throughout the area. It was obvious LaGrande was deeply in love with Jasmine.
At one point, Jasmine stood on a chair where she was held up by LaGrande. She loudly asked everyone to be quiet and in her sweet, lovely voice said:
“Here’s a toast to Miranda Whiting, wherever she is.”
The group – their glasses filled with sparkling grape juice – stood as one and toasted the absent Miranda; she was miles away, unaware of the salute.
Amy stood next to Latesha and began to cry audibly; she grasped onto the other woman’s arm for support. Latesha reached into her purse, found a handkerchief and slipped it to her friend. “Will you ever see her, again, do you think, Amy?”
Amy stilled her tears and nodded negatively. “I miss her so much. I can only hope.”
*****
(News from The Daily Journal, June 21)
Posh Suburb Linked to Sex Trafficking Ring
MADISON HEIGHTS – This wealthy suburb’s mayor, several councilmen and two-thirds of its police force have been indicted for corruption involving a multi-state human trafficking scheme, the U.S. Attorney announced Tuesday.
The trafficking of girls as young as 14 had been directed out of the mansion of the prominent Paul Browning, Sr., family of Madison Heights, led primarily by Paul Browning, Jr., according to the 67-page indictment. The activities at the secluded Browning mansion were able to continue as the Madison Heights authorities, including most of its police department, looked on.
Mayor Clement J. Hopswitch has categorically denied any knowledge of unlawful activity, as does City Attorney Martin Simmons. The indicted police officers had no comment for the press.
U. S. Attorney Hannah Hansen contends the evidence is solid against the city officials and most of the police department and has asked the governor to assert his authority under the constitution to bring in the National Guard to assume policing the suburb until a permanent solution can be developed.
“It’s shameful that this trafficking operation went on for nearly ten years and victimized more than 400 young women while the authorities of this wealthy suburb stood by and watched. It’s a terrible betrayal of the public trust,” she said.
One unidentified young woman was credited with providing the key evidence, according to Hansen.
“She’s the real hero in ending this tragic situation and for the time being she will remain unidentified for her own protection,” Hansen said.
Hansen said the young woman persevered to investigate the trafficking ring, several times endangering her own life. “She displayed bravery just as if she were a Medal of Honor hero for battlefield courage.”
*****
In a few months, Trudy Selery had proven herself to be an invaluable addition to the staff of the United Way office in Wausau. More and more, James Krauthaus, the agency director, depended upon her in day-to-day operations, where Trudy demonstrated not only skilled financial assistance but had an uncanny understanding of the social services aspect of the work. Though she kept much of her life private, Trudy proved to be a congenial co-worker and was well-liked.
“I can’t figure you out, Trudy,” Krauthaus said one night while the two were working late in his office juggling allocations they make to various social service groups in the community.
“Why is that, Jim?”
“You’re obviously a whiz with figures, and just what we needed here, but you seem to have a feel for the social service side of things, like you care about the clients. It’s a rare feature among accounting people.”
“That’s a nice thing to say, but I think other financial types also care, except they don’t show it.”
“No, you’re special, Trudy,” he said, smiling.
Trudy began to blush, so she turned her back to the man, not wanting him to see. She had become attracted to Krauthaus, a short, husky man with wide, hard arms and broad shoulders, a physique no doubt gained from his childhood as a son of a logger. For several years, he had labored in the forests of Wisconsin, cutting pulp, before starting college later than most. Only a recent graduate of the social work program of the nearby university college branch, Krauthaus was offered and took this job for the small community agency. He was hardly the stereotypical social worker, with a full head of black hair and bright brown eyes.
The young agency director early on showed interest in Trudy, but thus far had not made any advances, nor even hinted at a possible romance. Trudy was hardly interested in creating any liaisons, particularly with men, since she still had not had sexual reassignment surgery, content to coax her femininity through hormones and cosmetics.
“I think we better finish this up, Jim. You can see the snow’s falling pretty heavy now,” she said, nodding her head toward the window, where heavy white flakes blew nearly horizontally through the darkness.
About an hour later, Trudy donned her light beige parka, wrapped a scarf around her head peasant-style, and joined Jim as the two went out to their cars, now crowned with six inches of new snow. Jim produced a broom from the back of his Ford 150 pickup and quickly brushed off the worst of the snow while Trudy cleaned off the windows with a scraper, fighting off the bitterly biting wind. The two worked quickly and cooperatively; after all, brushing off each other’s cars was routine in Central Wisconsin where each January day was greeted with either below zero and clear blue skies or readings in the twenties with clouds and snow.
Their brushing completed, Jim turned to Trudy, grabbing her parka-covered arm and said, “You know, Trudy, I really like you and you looked so cute wearing that scarf.” His words came haltingly, as if he were fearful he might be out-of-line for the comment.
She was uncertain how to reply, but finally mumbled, “I like you, too, Jim,” her voice soft and hesitant.
Obviously sensing her unease, Krauthaus backed away, and turned to his own car. “Good night Trudy. Drive carefully on your way home.”
“You too, Jim,” she said, getting into her car.
*****
Trudy was quiet when she arrived home, following a slippery drive to her duplex. She was pleased that an attached garage was included in her duplex rental and she entered through the kitchen to see her mother sitting at the kitchen table. Two place settings were on the table.
“Mom, I told you not to wait for me,” Trudy said, shaking the snow off her parka.
“You’re getting snow all over the kitchen. I told you to take off your snowy coat out in the garage,” Annabelle said sternly.
“Yes, mother,” Trudy said, quickly returning to the garage. Here she was, already in her late twenties and holding down a responsible job; yet, her mother was treating her like she was ten years old. In reflection, Trudy knew her mother was correct and there was no excuse for her to shake the snow off her coat in the kitchen.
Annabelle Selery had not yet grown comfortable with her new daughter, occasionally lapsing into calling her Marcus or using the wrong pronoun. Though Trudy never complained over the lapses, Annabelle still felt bad. She deeply loved her child and knew that whether Marcus or Trudy, the child was a strong, good, worthy person.
During their supper (it was Annabelle’s special lasagna), Trudy had remained quiet, meeting each of Annabelle’s questions with a mumbled “yeah” or “maybe” or “no.”
“Something’s wrong darling,” Annabelle finally asked.
“Nothing, mom. We’re just busy at work and I’m tired.”
“I know you too well, darling. Tell your mother.”
Trudy broke down, put down her fork and began crying. “I’m confused mother,” she said through her sobs.
“Now, now, have a good cry and then tell you mother.”
“Mom,” Trudy began after a moment. “Jim’s coming on to me at work and I don’t know what to do.”
“What’s so bad about that? You’re an attractive young woman and he’s about your age and single. And, you’ve said you like him.”
“I do mom. That’s just the issue. I’m not ready for a man.”
Annabelle smiled and got up and walked around the table to hug Trudy. “Honey, you’ll soon be getting the plumbing a young woman needs.”
“I know, mom, but I’m scared.”
Trudy didn’t tell her mother the other reason she was hesitant. She was still in love with Amy Dacosta; she still yearned to feel her warm body next to her. She knew she might never see Amy again, but in absence her love for the woman seemed to grow stronger.
“It’s up to you, Trudy,” her mother advised. “If you’re not eager to have sex, or even a date with Jim, you don’t have to. Just keep yourself professional at work and if he gets fresh just firmly tell him while you like him and enjoy him as a boss but that you’re not interested in a relationship. That’s a woman’s right.”
“I hate to hurt his feelings, mom.”
“Don’t worry. If he’s half as good-looking as you say he is, he’ll do fine,” Annabelle said.
“Thanks, mom.”
“Now finish your meal. I made it ‘cause I know it’s your favorite.”
Trudy smiled and picked up her fork.
“Mom, you’re spoiling me and making me fat. I’ve gained nearly ten pounds with your cooking.”
“Ha! You needed to pick up weight, dear, and besides up in this north country we can use a little extra fat on us to stay warm.”
“Oh, mom. That’s a myth. I’m not a black bear who goes into hibernation in winter.”
“Eat up, dear. I baked my apple pie for dessert.”
“Mommmmmmm . . .”
*****
In the next several months, Trudy was interviewed three times by U.S. Justice Department attorneys. They drove up to Wausau from Chicago, about a six-hour trip, each time to go over the details of her investigation and to ask about Jefferson Turner’s experiences as well. She had repeated the story so many times these visits were becoming boring.
“When can I be released from this witness protection?” she asked in April.
“Perhaps soon, but you’ll always be in danger, even after we get these guys behind bars,” the attorney explained. “I’m afraid you’ll have to keep your current identity for some time.”
“It’s for your own safety,” consoled his partner, a youngish female attorney. “We’re nailing down a nationwide syndicate and they’ve been known to wreak revenge.”
“I suppose I may have to be Trudy Selery forever,” she commented. “Oh well, I seem to be finding a home here.”
Even though Trudy no longer had day-to-day marshals guarding her, she felt quite safe in her new environment. Upon the arrival of Trudy’s mother, the marshals had been relieved of their duties. Life in Wausau was slower-paced, but the community was large enough to offer various amenities, a few theater groups and a community symphony; there were quality food markets and plenty of good restaurants. And, she found a good friend, Hazel Moore, a widow in her late fifties. The two met at a meeting of area social service agencies and hit it off immediately. The two met at least once a week for dinner, joined in attending some of the cultural events and attending a few movies. Sometimes, Annabelle joined them.
Hazel convinced Trudy to join an exercise group, part of the school district’s adult education programs, and Trudy began gaining interest in strengthening her terribly underdeveloped body that was quickly growing flabbier, thanks to her mother’s cooking.
She even accepted an invitation from Jim to attend a local hockey game, where she proved to be a quick learner of a sport she never understood and became an avid fan, squealing in delight at good plays and loudly complaining about bad referee calls. Her closet soon became filled with jerseys and shirts bearing the hockey team’s logo, nestled next to the green-and-gold outfits of the Green Bay Packers, an obsession in the area.
Her friendship with Jim continued to be chaste and the dates mainly centered on sporting events. He had begun a serious relationship with a former classmate of his who lived down the road in Stevens Point and several times Trudy joined the two of them at the sporting events. She refused offers of the two of them to “arrange” a meeting for Trudy with an eligible young man.
Trudy’s true love remained for Amy Dacosta, a love she feared would never be fulfilled. She cried at night occasionally.
*****
Trudy’s life in Wausau took some surprising turns. In her previous life, she never had much fondness for outdoor life, but that changed as she became more physically active, largely inspired by her friendship with Jim Krauthaus. What was more surprising to her was that her growing interest in the outdoors occurred in north central Wisconsin, where the winters were harsh, snowy and seemed to last eight months of the year, followed by summers that brought out mosquitoes, black flies and gnats.
Yet, she had become a jogger, always careful to run with a partner due to her constant awareness that she may be under surveillance. While the Feds felt she was still successfully hidden away, they continued to warn her to be alert and wary.
“Never take a run, or even a short walk, without a companion, especially a strong person,” stressed Marshal Redmon.
Usually she ran with her neighbor, Deputy Lindstrom, or with her co-worker, Jim. One warm Wednesday in June, she and Jim left work to run at a county park just outside of Wausau where the trail encircled a small lake. It was a lovely setting, made more so by the presence of several loons, whose melodious calls echoed across the water.
In northern Wisconsin summers, the sun sets about nine-thirty at night, affording outdoor enthusiasts several hours of playtime after leaving work. Jim and Trudy took advantage that Wednesday night to drive out to the park and begin their run. Having completed nearly five miles, they ended at a picnic bench on the east shore of the lake to watch the sun drop down to the horizon, turning the blue sky into a series of reds, purples, yellows and colors too exotic to describe.
Neither spoke for a while, content to look across at the magical scene, and pleased that the mosquitoes hadn’t yet begun their nightly assault. They sweated profusely from their run, yet the night had remained warm. Soon, however, they expected to feel a chill and the bugs would descend upon them.
Two loons swam on the lake, diving periodically and popping up several dozens of yards away. That night, one of the loons periodically wailed out plaintive call. (To hear the call, go to: https://www.loon.org/voice-loon.php)
“That loon is calling for his lover,” Jim explained.
“You’re kidding me,” Trudy said, suspicious that Jim might be making it up, just to entice her into a romantic moment. While Jim had kept his professional distance from Trudy, she felt he truly was interested in more.
“No, it’s a fact. Look it up if you don’t believe. That’s the ‘wail call,’ sounds a bit like a wolf call.”
The two sat for a while, saying nothing, and Trudy thought how marvelous it would be to be sitting on that same bench with Amy, wrapped up in each other’s arms, their sweating bodies pressing together.
“Perhaps this is a sign,” Trudy said, her words mouthing her silent thoughts.
“A sign of what?” Jim replied.
“Oh, I was just thinking about something. It’s nothing.”
“It must have been more than nothing, Trudy. You were smiling when you said it.”
“It’s personal, Jim.”
Krauthaus nodded and dropped the subject. The two continued to sit in silence until Jim slapped away a mosquito that had settled on his arm.
“Time to go,” he said.
“Yes, time to go. Wasn’t this a beautiful night?” she asked as they walked to Jim’s car.
Trudy felt it was a night that afforded her hope for a great future, maybe even with Amy. Even if she never realized that dream, Trudy knew she had found a blessed life, a life where she found her real self. . . a life in which she met wonderful people in unlikely settings. . . a life where she was reunited with her mother. . . a life where she was rejuvenated by the wonders of nature.
“You’re a lovely woman, Trudy,” Jim said, opening the car door for her.
“Thank you, Jim,” she said getting into the car.
And, she mused, she was also a woman full of hope.
##
(The author has hope that readers enjoyed meeting Trudy and following her remarkable young life. The author feels that Trudy is like most of us who face life never achieving everything we desire; yet, we hope to find contentment, joy and hope. Reader comments of all types welcomed. Here’s wishing all BC readers joy and happiness and offering hope for a world full of Justice and Peace in the Year 2020!)
(The author thanks Eric for his editorial story suggestions and proofreading. Any errors found in this story were due to the author's later changes.)