Part 22, Acceptance (Finale)

Pansy rejects George, and accepts that her destiny is to be a peasant wife, to cook, clean, and bear and raise children--exactly as George had considered proper for a woman.
 
 
May 26
-- On her wedding day Pansy got up early. She hadn’t slept much. Her emotions were utterly confused. She wanted a husband, a man to hold her and love her and take care of her; she believed Hector would do these. Her body yearned for a man, and Hector could satisfy her need. She remembered Rico and their plans for marriage, and knew that God had intended her for a man. But a stubborn residue of Seá±or Cualquiera recalled how Seá±ora Arias had promised her newly feminized victim that he’d spend his life as a campesina, and that he’d become the wife of a campesino, doing his laundry and bearing his children. “Some man will be delighted to get you into his bed,” she had told him only four months ago. “And you’ll want a man, as much as you ever wanted a woman.” To know that his body needed a man…. It was incomprehensible, but it was true. “I’ll attend your wedding, when you become a blushing bride.” It was happening exactly as Seá±ora Arias had predicted. Seá±or Cualquiera would walk to the altar in white satin and lace, and would freely agree to become the wife–wife!!–of a Honduran peasant. It was a nightmare.

She rejected those thoughts. Let Seá±or Cualquiera squirm; it was his nightmare, and she wasn’t him. She was Pansy, and she wanted a husband. She needed a husband. Hector was a good man, the best she could hope for, and she was lucky to get him.

Once up, she donned a white blouse and red flowered skirt, then tended to the babies, who had also awakened earlier than usual. After an early breakfast, the Ariases arrived to pick her up; Hector traveled separately. They drove to La Libertad, where Seá±ora Arias had rented the parish hall. The morning was sunny and already hot by the time they arrived in town at 9:30 AM. By 10 o’clock they were in the municipal building, where they met the groom at the office of the Civil Registry. In a small drab room, in the presence of the required two witnesses (Felipe and Susana Arias), Pansy printed her name PANSI VACA in crude block letters on the marriage certificate–although the N and S were backwards. Hector added his signature, and a bored functionary in shirtsleeves declared them to be officially man and wife. The civil ceremony completed, they quickly left for the hired hall, where Pansy put on her wedding gown. Marta had lent it to her, telling her, “I’ve put on too much weight. I can’t fit into it now, and anyway, I’ll hardly be needing it again.” The gown was ivory satin with white embroidery, but it wasn’t fancy. Pansy was a little shorter than Marta, and larger around the bosom, so some alteration had been needed.

A little after 11, Petunia and ’Tonio arrived, but they brought two other guests with them. Pansy recognized them immediately. She ran to her mother, crying, “ ¡Mamacita!  ¡Mami!” and they embraced.

Rosa Baca wept with joy as she held her daughter. “After you left us to work for Seá±or Ovando, I lost track of you,” she said. “ ¿Why didn’t you keep in touch with us?” Pansy began to explain that she had been isolated, and unable to send a message, but her mother broke in: “No matter.  ¡I’m just so happy to find you again!  ¡And you’re getting married! A church wedding, too.  ¡I’m doubly happy!” She stepped back to look at Pansy. “ ¡You look so wonderful! I only wish your father could be here to see his little girl in her wedding dress. And ’Tunia tells me you made me a grandmother again, last year.” She pulled a tissue from her purse and dabbed at her eyes. “You got to tell me all about what’s been happening to you later. First say hello to your brother Tomá¡s.  ¡He ain’t seen you for so long!”

Tomá¡s embraced her in turn, and kissed her on both cheeks. “We’ve missed you so much, wá¼ri irahá¼,” he told her, using the family pet name for her. “Our little girl ran off, and we couldn’t find her. I see that, whatever else happened, she grew up to become a beautiful woman.  ¡Your new husband is a lucky man!”

While Pansy was chatting with her family, a photographer approached them and introduced himself: “Excuse me, but I’m Albert Bianchi. Seá±ora Arias hired me to take the wedding pictures.  ¿May I start with the radiant bride and her family?” His accent marked him as a norteamericano, and for a moment Pansy thought she had met him before–but of course she couldn’t have. They agreed to his request, and he lined them up with Pansy in the center, Mamá¡ Rosa to Pansy’s left, and Petunia and Tomá¡s to her right. As the bride posed for the photo, surrounded by her beloved family, she wondered how she could ever have doubted her true identity.

The ceremony was brief. Petunia, now obviously pregnant at six months, was Pansy’s matron of honor, and Hector chose one of his cowboys as best man. When Father Villeras asked Pansy whether she took this man to be her lawful wedded husband, her “Yes, I do” was soft, almost inaudible, but Hector’s response was loud and confident. After the priest pronounced them man and wife, Hector took her in his arms, lifted her veil, and kissed her firmly; she softened in his embrace, and returned his kiss with ardor. She was his wife now, and she’d be a good wife, she promised herself.

After the wedding, the guests moved to the parish hall for the reception, where they congratulated Pansy, telling her what a pretty bride she was, and how lucky Hector was to find a girl like her. She blushed at the remarks, but inside she was delighted. Having paid for the entire affair, the Herrera family attended, of course, and Don Pablo and his sister Doá±a Mariana accompanied Seá±ora Arias and her husband. Seá±ora Arias showered Pansy with fulsome praise, telling her that she was every man’s dream, that she had found her destiny in the arms of her true mate. With a sweet smile she advised her maid, “You can still be my maid–I know you need the money–but your first duty is to Hector, and to your children. He’s your lord and master, the center of your life. I know you’ll be a dutiful wife to him, and a willing partner in bed.” Petunia congratulated her sister, telling her that Hector was a fine man, and that he’d treat her and her children well. Mamá¡ Rosa also lent her approval, carefully not asking why the ceremony was held with so little notice; and her old Best Friend, Mará­a Carrillo, for whom she had served as a bridesmaid, hugged her. On the other side, Hector’s cowboys teased him with coarse comments about his ability in bed, and he returned them in kind. At last they escaped, and Hector drove back to Los Ocotes. It was well after dark when they arrived.

Pansy held Hector’s elbow as he led her into his house. It was near the Arias casa, set in open pine woods. It was sturdily constructed of wood with a red tile roof. There was no electricity, but Hector had rigged a pipe from a nearby stream for running water and indoor facilities. Kerosene lamps provided light. A wood stove was used for cooking and heat. Chickens were penned in the back yard, and Pansy thought she was fortunate that her mother had taught her how to slaughter and prepare a chicken. The wooden furniture was locally built, but well crafted. Compared to the homes of other campesinos, the Trujillo residence was comfortable enough; but Pansy recalled her circumstances only a year earlier, before fleeing to Honduras. Jack Cualquiera’s apartment had been modest, but middle-class, with a library, central heat, A/C, and a good sound system. He had been able to hire a young latina–like Pansy Baca, it occurred to Pansy–to keep it up for him. But that all belonged to someone else, it seemed, long ago and far away. It was just a fairy tale to Pansy. She was a campesina, and this was her life.

Her reflections were interrupted by her husband: “ ¿What do you think, Pansita?”

He was obviously proud of the home to which he had taken his bride, and she felt obligated to praise it. “Oh, it’s a fine house, Hector. I’ll see that it stays neat and clean for you.”

He laughed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you wasn’t listening to me. Never mind. You’re my wife now, Pansita. You’re about the prettiest damn woman I ever seen, and now you’re my woman. And I think I want you now. I want you real bad.” Grinning, he took her arm and led her into the bedroom. The shades were drawn. A lacy white nightgown was laid on the bed. He released her arm and stood facing her. “Take off my clothes,” he ordered her; “I want you to see me naked, and then I’ll take yours off.”

She obeyed. Once naked, he was fully aroused. Meticulously he undid the hooks and buttons on her dress, then slipped off her lingerie until she stood nude before him. He reached out, stroking her breasts gently, and she began to feel the familiar goad of lust. Hector watched her with clear pleasure and handed her the nightie. “I bought this for you. It’s real pretty, so it’s just right for you.” She slipped it over her head. Picking her up and laying her on the bed, Hector kissed her ardently, forcing his tongue between her lips. He caressed her body, breasts to hips, and she reacted as she had with Beto, burning with her need for him; she forgot all her inhibitions, her past, everything except her desire. She was a woman, his woman, and she couldn’t, she wouldn’t change it for anything. She wanted nothing more than to feel him inside her. Her own hands stroked and encouraged him, as she made small inarticulate cries and soft moans. His strong arms seized her and he took her fiercely, leaving her powerless to resist if she had so wanted. Ecstatically she arched her body against his as they clutched each other. Nothing else mattered. Afterwards she laid her head on his shoulder. She felt loved and secure, and knew this was exactly where she belonged. They fell asleep in each other’s arms.
 
 
May 27
-- Pansy awoke long before dawn when her husband kissed her. She had been dreaming that she was still a man, playing poker with friends in Atlanta, and she was horrified to find herself suddenly female. The horror was compounded when Hector initiated foreplay, and her body responded enthusiastically. Then she recalled her marriage. This man was her husband, and this was her home. She was Seá±ora Trujillo, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health–and that was exactly how she wanted it. The dream was a fraud, the dying legacy of that norteamericano trapped in her head. Hector was loving and tender in bed, if demanding, and when she awakened further she responded passionately to his firmness and physical strength.

Later she arose before Hector. She’d need to care for Lilia, make breakfast for Hector and herself, and then get back to the casa to care for Josecito before she and Hector left for church.

Hector caught her by surprise from behind, cupping her breasts as she was frying eggs. “I think I like having a wife,” he told her. “ ¡Damn, but you’re good in bed!”

Against her will she blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl; her passion began to rise again. How could she work if he waylaid her like this? She told him so, and he laughed. “Flor de mi alegrá­a, you’re my bride.  ¡I’m entitled! And besides, your job’s to keep me happy. I ain’t going to let you forget it.  ¡Ever!” He carried her to bed, where he dumped her, petting and stroking her body until she was frantic with lust. When he took her, she forgot everything but the waves of ecstasy that rolled over her, submerging every thought. Nothing existed but the two of them.

The rest of the day was anticlimax. Pansy accompanied her husband to church, carrying Lilia in the sling. She held Hector’s elbow as they entered to sit with the Los Ocotes worshipers. As they passed the Arias pew, she thought she detected satisfaction in Susana’s eye; certainly there was a smile on her lips. Phrases from weeks ago flitted thought her mind: “Seá±or Cualquiera trapped in a dress… His sexy new breasts… Mooning over a husky young campesino… You’ll know you were once a man, that you held a pretty girl in your arms. But you won’t able to resist the demands of your pretty new body–that’s what I want to see.  ¡I’ll see you pregnant!” She had done it. Susana’s seducer was transformed to a pregnant campesina bride, and Susana’s maid. And her body did rule her. She couldn’t deny it. She couldn’t imagine giving up the pleasure that Hector gave her in bed.

Well, there was no help for it. Besides, being a maid–or a campesina–was no disgrace. She was married; there was nothing wrong with being pregnant. And the part of Pansy that recalled growing up female, said, “ ¿So what?” She was young, healthy, pretty, and loved. Her future was secure, if humble. An English phrase came to her: “If you have a lemon, make lemonade.” Briefly she frowned. Someone had told her that not long ago, but she hadn’t a clue who. No matter: so thinking, she smiled at her sweet lemonade husband, and he grinned at her.

After Mass they returned to Los Ocotes, and Hector dropped her off at the casa. She didn’t have Sunday off, and there was work to be done. Susana complimented Pansy when she arrived to begin work, telling her she made a radiant bride. “I think you and Hector make a perfect couple, and I wish you many fine children.” Pansy smiled and thanked her mistress, telling her, “Yes, Hector’s a good man. I expect he’ll be a wonderful husband, and a good father. Thank you for getting us together.” She knew that Seá±ora Arias was gloating over the fulfillment of her desire to see Seá±or Cualquiera married off to a campesino–“You’ll be some man’s sex toy,” she had said–but in the end she had done Pansy a favor. She did need a husband, and Hector was a good man. In fact, her present state put her on a par with Seá±ora Arias: both married to good men, and both pregnant.

Her principal difficulty with her own husband was his presumption that he, as a man, was the boss by divine right. He made it absolutely clear that Pansy might or might not be consulted in family matters, but that his would be the final word in any case. Pansy–or George in Pansy–wanted to insist on equality, and she resented his arrogance, but as Seá±ora Arias had predicted, she had to obey him. Even worse, a part of her implicitly accepted her inferior status, as though it was right and proper. Her girlhood upbringing and Seá±or Cualquiera’s opinions were both urging her to accept a subordinate position as only proper. And her body itself betrayed her. Like Beto, Hector roused her passion easily. In fact, she found herself desiring him more than she had imagined possible. She had neither the power nor the will to resist; rather, she found herself using the arts of seduction to tempt him to bed. A vestige of George fought to assert himself, to keep her from slipping into permanent subjugation. What had Susana done to him, to make him slide so easily into the role of a willing and submissive peasant woman? It felt so right, as though he had been a woman for years, not months; and as though he had been taught how to pleasure a man. Pansy rejected the thought, telling herself, “It’s right for a man to be the head of the family. The Bible says so, just like Father Villeras told me Eve was subject to Adam. The woman’s job is to cook and clean and raise the children, while the man works to support them and makes the decisions.” The fact that Pansy knew Seá±or Cualquiera’s opinions on the subject, subverted George’s efforts to prevent Pansy from subjecting herself completely to Hector’s authority.
 
 
June 7
-- Out of habit, Pansy awoke as the sky began to brighten. It was Thursday, her day off, and she wouldn’t work at the casa. It didn’t matter much: there was no time off for leisure. She had to fix breakfast for Hector, and then she’d spend the day working around their own home, doing all the cleaning, the laundry, the sewing, that she hadn’t been able to do during the rest of the week. She rolled out of bed quietly, careful not to awake Hector. He’d be up soon enough; it wasn’t his day off, and he needed to be up at the casa by 7:30.

As she showered, the familiar nausea struck. At least she knew to expect it. Mamá¡ Rosa should’ve warned her about this, she thought. But then, not all women were equally afflicted. Marta said she had never been troubled by morning sickness. Just a bit of bad luck. At least she didn’t have to worry about her period now.

She thought about Jack Cualquiera. It was over five months since Susana had magicked him. He was foreign now. If not for the scar on her arm, she wouldn’t believe she had ever been him. Seá±ora Arias had asked if Pansy still wanted to know his identity, and she had replied “ ¡Of course!” without thinking. After all, she was him, and she needed to who she was. But later, she asked herself, “ ¿Why?  ¿Why do I care? Whoever he was, I’m Pansy Baca de Trujillo.” Suddenly, in spite of the scar and her memories of New Year’s Day, she knew she had always been Pansy. It might be only five months since Jack had awakened to find himself female, but in another sense it was ages. The horror and pain he had felt were still clear in her mind, but they didn’t seem to belong to her any more. And the same was true of his earlier history. She knew him–she knew him well–but he was irrelevant.

Hector appeared while she was frying his eggs. “Good morning, corazá³n.  ¿How are you feeling?” He pulled a shirt over his hairy torso, and she felt a touch of lust at the sight of his shaggy chest. “ ¿Are you still throwing up?”

She nodded. “Don’t worry, mi amor. It’s normal. I’ll get over it soon.” She poured him a cup of coffee and kissed him on his stubbly cheek, and he accepted both gratefully. In a couple of minutes breakfast was on the table, and she sat and joined him. He had to work hard during the day, she thought, and as his wife she needed to make things as easy as possible at home. That was one of the few things that Jack Cualquiera had gotten right.

After Hector left and Pansy had begun doing the laundry, she wondered why she had thought of Jack at all He seldom crossed her mind, now that she was Seá±ora Trujillo. Of course, she was too busy to think of much except her tasks, and his existence, his memories, just weren’t relevant to her life. She tried to recall where he had been a year ago: he had been in La Ceiba then, loafing on the beach. No, it was Tela. That was before he had met Susana. But Josecito was almost two! How could he be the son of Seá±ora Arias and Seá±or Cualquiera? She gave up trying to work it out. This happened whenever she tried to figure out when something had occurred; there was something funny about the timing. Maybe that was another reason she seldom thought about Jack.

At 4:30 she finished cleaning and began supper. Hector would be home at 6 o’clock, and he insisted on having a hot meal waiting for him. After supper he’d take her to La Libertad for her class. It was going much better now, even if she was slow. She could sound out simple words, if only with effort, and Seá±ora Marcos told her the worst was past. “It’s just a matter of practice now. You’ll see.”
 
 
June 8
-- Lifting a snifter of brandy, Jesáºs Ibarra toasted their project: “To our Pansita.  ¡May she have a long and productive life!”

Roberto Ibá¡á±ez seconded the toast, but cautioned his colleague that their ultimate success wasn’t yet assured. “We need to follow her closely, Jesáºs. It’s a long-term project–and she’s been stubborn.”

“Of course, of course.” Ibarra sipped his brandy. “But that’s over. There’s no question that we’ve succeeded. No question whatsoever. I wondered about the stability of Pansita’s new persona when she ferreted out an approximation of what happened to Seá±or Deon, even after we erased her memory of it.”

“She may yet work it out again. Don Pablo doesn’t want us to erase any more, you know, and the story Seá±ora Arias gave her–that she was transformed by sorcery–isn’t plausible.”

“But she never really found out that ‘Pansy’ was a construct.”

Ibá¡á±ez laughed. “You grasp at straws, Jesáºs. She came close to working out what we did–if not how we did it. Back in December, just before we performed the grand erasure, she claimed that the knowledge of her original identity would be a barrier to her complete integration into her new life. And I think she was right. By mid-April she had recovered more than I’d’ve believed possible. If she does it again…“ He shrugged. “We may fail yet.”

“Ultimately it won’t matter. It won’t matter in the least. The pressures are too great. In the end her personality will adapt, whatever she thinks. It has to adapt. She has to live the life of a campesina.”

“No doubt. But that’s irrelevant, Jesáºs. She’d’ve been trapped in the body of a campesina, forced to live the life of a campesina, but she never would’ve truly become a campesina. Or not for a long time. Remember, even born campesinas don’t always have the character traits that we tried to develop in her.”

Ibarra granted the point. “True, true. Seá±or Deon’s ideal woman was a caricature. A cartoon. Completely unrealistic.” Then he shook his head and corrected himself: “Not entirely unreal, I suppose, but certainly an extreme. And the typical campesina’s closer to that ideal than most women in his own society.” He took another sip of brandy and gazed out the bay window towards the garden, where zinnias bloomed in the hot morning sunlight. “I still think Pansy was sliding inexorably towards the personality we planned for her, even in April, although I have to grant your point, that it was a slow process. She was fighting tooth and nail to escape what Don Pablo had planned for her. Now, though…” He smiled. “Now, though–she seems to be accepting the life we planned for her.”

“We shouldn’t claim all the credit, my friend. Remember all our failures. Don’t forget, Pansy’s a special case. She had just received a a shock. A really nasty shock. I think it pushed her over the edge. Her attempt to catch a well-to-do husband to help her escape her fate was manipulative and selfish behavior, typical of Seá±or Deon, and it was the direct cause of that shock. I believe her subconscious came to understand that fact, and rejected what was left of the Deon persona. Pansy killed Seá±or Deon, not us.”

Shrugging, Ibarra conceded the possibility. “But that’s just the sort of thing I was referring to when I spoke of the pressures that would act on her. She’s learning that she doesn’t have any real alternatives. She is a campesina now, for better or for worse. But no matter. I visited Los Ocotes yesterday and spoke both with her and with her mistress. There’s no question now but that she’s accepted that she’s really Pansy Baca. She seems to be adapting well–very well indeed–to life as a peasant wife. I think that consciously she still may reject what’s happened to her, but as you said, her unconscious has decided that her essence, her soul if you will, is that of the Honduran girl she appears to be. That’s in spite of the memories of Seá±or Deon that still persist. The last obstacle to our success was her pride and ambition. Now her self-esteem is consistent with her new status, and she’s satisfied to be a mother, wife, and maid.”

“ ¿‘Satisfied’? I’m not so sure.”

“It’s cut and dried, Roberto.” Ibarra set his brandy on a table. “I said she fully accepts that she’s Pansita now–but I admit she doesn’t know if she’s always been Pansita, or if Seá±ora Arias created her.” He grinned. “She’s stuck with a nasty dilemma: she was either a slut or a scoundrel. If she’s always been Pansita–and you’re right, her reason tells her there’s no way Seá±or Deon could’ve been changed to a campesina–then she’s personally responsible for her past life as a prostitute. And if by some miracle she was Seá±or Deon, then she knows he was a cabrá³n, and his present low station is a well-deserved penalty. Her experiences as Pansita have changed her attitude towards George’s behavior. Completely and permanently changed it. In either case, her new life as a wife and a maid is better for her self-esteem than her past life, and I’m not surprised that she’s accepted it. Not at all surprised.”

Ibá¡á±ez changed the subject. “By the way, since you spoke with her recently,  ¿what’s your opinion of our joint effort to improve her Spanish?”

His colleague took a drag on his cigarette as he considered his answer. “I’d say the results are mixed. She still has the trace of an English accent. It’s faint, but it’s still present. And her speech is curious. She absorbed most of the local version of peasant Spanish we imposed on her, but she sounds just a little odd–her vocabulary especially. It still reflects Seá±or Deon’s education.” He stubbed out his butt and added, “And I tried to speak with her in English too. She retains a few words, but not enough to communicate effectively. She lost most of her vocabulary and almost all irregularities–as you know, since you did the erasing–but she kept a few words. Especially technical terms. And of course her accent is terrible.”

“I’m surprised she doesn’t seem to be especially bothered by what happened to her English. After all, language is a pretty basic part of one’s identity.”

Ibarra picked up his brandy again. “I’m not at all surprised. Not at all. First, her only opportunity to speak English is when we run one of our tests. She doesn’t use it any other time, and the loss doesn’t have any practical consequences. Second and more importantly, as I said, she no longer sees herself as Seá±or Deon in a woman’s body. She’s resolved the conflict in her identity–her self-image–in favor of ‘Pansita Baca’. The ability to speak English isn’t a part of that image.”

Ibá¡á±ez chuckled softly. “ ¿She chose her identity? I beg to differ, Jesáºs. You and I chose it. She accepted it, perhaps, but it wasn’t her choice. She fought it as long as she could.”

“Granted–or at least it’s true in part. But it’s a recent acceptance, and as you yourself pointed out, her recent disaster with Seá±or Sáºlivan probably had as much to do with it as we did.” He sniffed his brandy, then sipped it. “I remain convinced that her self-image as a norteamericano in a campesina shell was ultimately unsupportable, and if it hadn’t been the Sáºlivan affair, it would’ve been something else. With the mental assets we left her, with the pressures we put on her, her choice was foreordained. Only the timing was in doubt.” He looked out the window. “We’ll have to follow future developments, of course, but I think it’s safe to say you’re right: what’s left of Seá±or Deon is doomed. Now I look forward to seeing how her daughter turns out. Remember, Lilia is George’s clone–his identical twin–except for sex and except for rearing. It’ll be an interesting comparison.”

They raised another toast, then fell to discussing their next experiment.
 
 
June 12
-- After Hector had left for to hunt for six head of cattle that had strayed, the kitchen had been cleaned up, and Lilita had been changed and fed, Pansy walked to the Los Ocotes casa. Normally, Seá±ora Arias would be gone by the time she arrived, but this morning she was still there. “Good morning, Seá±ora,” Pansy greeted her with a smile. “You’re here late this morning. You don’t got no problem,  ¿do you?  ¡You look good!”

“No, no–but Marta had to take ’Lina into La Libertad for an earache, so I stayed to watch Josecito until you arrived.”

“I hope it’s nothing serious. She shouldn’t miss school–I know she got some trouble with numbers.”

“Probably it’s nothing, but the doctor should be able to fix her up. Anyway, I want to talk with you. Please, sit down.”

Suddenly Pansy was worried. Had she done something wrong? Or was Seá±ora Arias still determined to bait Jack Cualquiera some more? “Of course, Seá±ora.” She gathered her skirt beneath her and sat at the kitchen table.

Susana sat opposite her. “Pansy, you’ve been married a little over a month now, and I recall that you were a little reluctant to go to the altar with Hector. Tell me,  ¿how do you feel now?  ¿Are you happy with your husband?”

Not certain where Susana was leading, Pansy nodded: “Yes, I’m happy with him. Like you told me, he’s a good man and a very good husband. Don Pablo done me a good favor, when I was too dumb to know a good man when I seen one.”

“ ¡Good! Your Seá±or Cualquiera didn’t seem to think he’d be a suitable match.”

“Seá±or Cualquiera was a bad man, Seá±ora. He didn’t know it–he wasn’t trying to do bad stuff–but he didn’t care about other people, and you got to do that to have a good life.” She forgot her worry as she told her mistress, “Hector ain’t perfect, I know that. But I ain’t neither–and besides, I love him, he loves me, and he’s good to me and the baby.”

“I’m glad to hear you say that. As you know, I don’t like Seá±or Cualquiera–for good reason–and sometimes I let that dislike spill over onto you. I’m sorry about that. Pansy, I’ll try to forget that he’s in your head–or some small part of him is–and I’ll treat you like you deserve, not like he does. You’ve been a good woman, as my maid and as a mother and a wife. I know you made some mistakes, but I won’t hold them against you, and I wish you the luck you deserve in your marriage.”

“Thank you. I…” She looked down at the floor. “I still got Seá±or Cualquiera in my head, like you said. And I know what he done to you. He thought–he really thought–you was trying to trap him with a baby. He was stupid, and it don’t excuse him anyway. I can’t blame you for how you feel about him.” She looked back up and smiled again; her worries seemed to be baseless. “ ¿Is there anything else, Seá±ora?”

“I don’t think so, Pansy” So George was dead. Or at least he was defeated in the struggle between him and Pansy, and he’d likely be fading away, as the everyday life of a campesina maid, wife, and mother eroded every basis of his existence. It was inevitable, Father had said–and he had been right. “I’ll leave for the office now. Josecito’s in his room. Better go check on him soon, or he’ll just leave a mess for you to clean up later. Then make the bed, do the breakfast dishes–all the usual. And I left some clothes that need to be mended on the bed.”

“OK, Seá±ora, it’ll be done when you get back.” She curtsied automatically and left.

As Susana drove down to the valley, she wondered what had finally broken George’s will. No matter, she finally decided; Pansy reigned supreme now.
 
 
June 17
-- Juan Sáºlivan scratched his head. He looked at the letter in his hand, forwarded to Petunia by her uncle in Comayagua. Who was this Roland Perry? And why was he writing? The stamps and return address told him the letter was from the United States, and he had no acquaintances, nor business, there. Well, Petunia could help. After all, it had been forwarded to her. And she could read English. He called, “Corazá³n, I need your help.”

She appeared with Margarita in her arms. “ ¿What is it, dear?”

“I have a real funny letter here. It was sent to your Uncle Juan from the United States, and he sent it on to you. It’s in English. I have no idea what it’s about.  ¿Can you translate it?”

At first Petunia was puzzled. “Let me see it, dear,” she told him. The letter, from one Celia Perry in Decatur, Georgia, was short and simple.

Dear Sir:
Three years ago a man fled from here in Atlanta. We are searching for him, as he owes a considerable sum of money. We are told you might have information on his whereabouts. His name is George Deon; he worked as a chemist before his flight. He was reported drowned, but we have reason to believe the report was false. There is a reward for information leading to his apprehension. Thank you in advance for any information you might be able to provide. Sincerely, Celia Perry
Petunia read the letter. George Deon? The name wasn’t familiar, but she knew it had to be Jack. He had been a chemist, she knew. She had thought he was dead–drowned, as the letter said–and then Pansy had shown up, claiming that Jack had been put into her body–that his memories were in her head. Or maybe that he’d been changed into a woman, into Pansita. Both were impossible, of course, but Pansy had provided strong evidence to support her claim.

“ ¿Well?  ¿What’s it say?” Her husband stood impatiently, looking over her shoulder.

“A norteamericana, no one I know, is hunting for a man,” she told him. “George Deon, she says. A norteamericano. Someone told her to ask at my uncle’s place.” She translated the letter for him.

’Tonio shook his head. “I don’t know the fellow, and this is an unlikely place to look.  ¿Why did your uncle send the letter here?” He took it back, puzzled. “ ¿Do you know this man?”

She nodded: “Yes I did, but he’s dead now. He was ’Rita’s father–the man I was going to marry.”

Frowning, ’Tonio replied, “Yes, I remember. You told me about him. But I don’t recall this name.”

“I don’t know whether I ever told it to you. It didn’t matter–it still doesn’t.”

Speaking more to himself than to Petunia, he wondered aloud, “ ¿Why do you suppose they think he’s still alive?  ¿And how did they know to ask here?”

Petunia began to worry. She hadn’t lied about Seá±or Deon. She had thought him dead, and for all practical purposes, he really was dead. But it seemed that it wasn’t exactly the truth either. Or not the whole truth, anyway. The whole truth was hard to credit. As a matter of fact, she wasn’t sure herself how–or why–they had put him into her sister. She still thought it was impossible. “Well, I don’t know,” she told him. “I can guess, though. Probably someone told Seá±ora Perry that I knew him.” She looked out the window. “ ¿What should we do now?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Tell them he’s dead, I suppose.”

“All right. I’ll write a letter to Seá±ora Perry.”

As she sat down, a thought occurred to her. Was the request legitimate? Don Pablo had deceived her about Jack’s death. Was this some sort of trick? Then she rejected the notion. This seemed to be a simple inquiry, and she couldn’t think of any illegitimate reason why Don Pablo–or anyone else–might send it to her. No, she was fairly sure that the letter was authentic, and that Seá±or Cualquiera’s original name had been George Deon.

She had to tell Pansy. Now that her sister was married, they hadn’t had a chance to see each other. She understood why: Pansy didn’t have the opportunity. She understood because she had the same limited mobility. She could write a letter, but Pansy couldn’t read, and she might not want this information read to her. Moreover, a letter to Los Ocotes might fall into Susana’s hands, with possible repercussions. But there wasn’t any other way to reach her. She decided at last not to write to Pansy after all, but to address the letter to her husband, and to couch the news in language that would be meaningless to anyone else.

She finished a letter to Seá±or Perry, telling him that she thought she might have known George Deon under another name, but that she had last seen him over two years ago and that she believed him dead. Then she wrote the second letter to Pansy, care of Hector Trujillo.
 
 
July 2
-- Catalina Ruá­z knocked on the door of the Trujillo home in late afternoon. Pansy answered, and was delighted to see ’Lina. “Hello, chica.  ¿What can I do for you?”

The girl held out an envelope. “I have a letter here for Seá±or Trujillo, Seá±ora. It says it’s from Petunia Sáºlivan. Mami asked me to bring it here.”

Pansy smiled at the girl. “Well, thank you. And thank your mother for me.  ¿How is school going at La Libertad, ’Lina? I hope you’re studying hard.”

“I’m doing good, Seá±ora,” her messenger answered shyly. She thought that Pansy looked the same as ever, but she was a little different, somehow, now that she had become Seá±ora Trujillo instead of just Pansy. Even though she was still just a maid for Seá±ora Arias, she was more grown up, living with a man. “I try to study, but there are so many other things to do.”

Laughing, Pansy said, “I know, chica, but be sure you fit it in. It’s important. Thanks again; I’ll see you at the casa when you get home. I got to get back to my cooking now.” Catalina left, and Pansy looked at the letter. It had to be for her, not Hector. Petunia knew her problem and sent it to Hector so he could read it to her. Well, she had worked hard, and now she could read her primer, if only slowly and painfully, sounding out each word. Maybe she could read this letter. She looked at the front of the envelope, where Petunia had addressed it and written her return address. It was in script, and it was hopeless; she could read printed letters only with difficulty, and script was still beyond her. She sighed; best wait for Hector. Knowing that he would read the letter, Petunia wouldn’t’ve said anything that should be kept from him. She returned to the kitchen.

As usual, Hector returned shortly after 5, and she had dinner waiting for him. He hugged her, gave her a kiss, and was about to wash for supper, but she caught at his sleeve as he turned away. “Dear, ’Lina Ruá­z brought me a letter addressed to you. It’s from my sister Petunia, and I’m pretty sure it’s really for me.  ¿Would you read it for me?”

Her husband replied cheerfully, “Of course, corazá³n, but I’ll wash up right now. And I’d like to eat first– ¡I’m starving!”

She nodded and sighed. It could wait a bit longer. The table was set, and she began bringing the food from the stove. Hector was at the table in a few minutes, freshly scrubbed and wearing a clean white shirt. She felt a slight stir of passion as she watched him sit. Even after two months of marriage, with sex almost every night, she still was roused just looking at him. Now that she had the opportunity–no, the need–for sex, she couldn’t imagine how she had ever managed to suppress her natural desires. When Susana had put Jack Cualquiera into a woman’s body, she made certain her victim would experience sex from the other side. She had told her so in that horrible hotel room, and she had told the truth–but she hadn’t told her what a joy it would be!

She ate her meal without tasting it, distracted by her thoughts. What was in the letter? Had Petunia found Jack Cualquiera’s real name? Did it matter? Did she care?

Hector noticed her preoccupation and asked, “ ¿What’s wrong, Pansita?  ¿Are you all right?”

She forced herself to smile back. “Nothing wrong, dear. I was just wishing I could read the letter myself.”

Annoyed, Hector told her, “Pansy, you can wait. I worked hard all day. I should be able to sit down to a good hot meal when I get home.”

Automatically she deferred to her husband. “Yes, dear, I’m sorry.” She tried to thrust the letter from her mind. “I think Lilia’s come down with something,” she informed him. “She seemed to be fretful today. Nothing serious, I think, but just in case I thought I’d let Marta see her tomorrow, if you approve. She’s pretty good with things like that.”

He leaned back and smiled, his annoyance forgotten. “Hell, yes. She’s doctored half the babies within five kilometers of here. Don’t worry, Lilita’s pretty healthy. She’ll be OK.”

After supper Hector asked to see the letter. He read slowly and carefully. “Dear Pansita,” he began. “I hope everything is good with you, as it is with me. ’Tonio is upset with his cattle again, as he often is. He thinks some of them are sick from eating a bad plant. ’Rita talks a lot now, for a baby just over twenty-one months old. I am sure she is a very smart child. She takes after her father, I think. He was a norteamericano. You knew him: his name was George Deon.” He stumbled over the English name, mispronouncing it like its Spanish equivalent. “I was reminded of him today when I received a letter that asked about him.  ¿How is Lilita? I wish I could see you and the baby more often, but I know that you cannot leave easily. I have the same problem, unfortunately. Maybe some Sunday I can come up to see you at church in La Libertad. Love, Petunia.” Hector looked up and told Pansy, “That’s all.”

“I miss ’Tunia,” Pansy told him wistfully. “She’s my best friend as well as my sister, and she helped me a lot. I wish so much to see her and her baby again.” Then, more briskly, she added, “I know: she lives too far away, and visits ain’t practical. But that don’t mean I can’t want it. Thank you, dear, for reading it to me.” After a pause, she asked, “ ¿Would you write a letter for me, darling? I’d like to send an answer. Not right now, but some time next week, maybe.”

“Of course, dear. But now you got to get ready for school. We got to leave in half an hour.  ¿You be ready then?”

“Yes, after I clean up and do the dishes. And take care of Lilita. Thanks again for watching her while I’m at the church. You’re a wonderful husband, Hector, and I love you. I should’ve married you long ago!” After telling him this, she realized it was true. He was a good husband–better than she deserved–and to her surprise, she did love him. He and Lilita had become the center of her universe. She was happier now than she had ever been, and certainly happier than Seá±or Cualquiera had been.

While she worked, she thought about Petunia’s message. So “Seá±or Cualquiera” was named Jorge Deon. It was almost funny: after all her concern about who he had been before Seá±ora Arias had performed her sorcery, she finally found out–but only when she no longer cared.
 
 
July 4
-- A summer thunderstorm had just passed over Decatur when Rollie and Celia came back from their holiday shopping at the mall. They checked their mail on the way back into the apartment, and Celia picked through the junk mail. She exclaimed at one letter with a gaudy stamp. It bore a return address of Já­caro Grande, Comayagua, Honduras. “Rollie! Look at this!”

Obediently he looked. “I guess they got our letter,” he commented. “I’d about given up. Well, let’s see what they say.” He unlocked the door and they sat on the couch. He tore the letter open with a pencil point and read it. “It looks like a dead end, dear. This Petunia woman–she must be the girl he mentioned in his letter. She says she knew him, but he’s dead.”

Celia exploded. “Bullshit! He didn’t write that note from the grave!”

Her husband shrugged. “Probably not. But maybe she doesn’t know different. We know he went to Honduras, we can be sure he knew a few people there, and when he went for dead, a lot of them were probably fooled too. Including her. After all, it would’ve been easy for her to ignore our letter, and she did answer us.” He looked at his wife, who sat stiffly on the couch, tense with frustration. With an air of resignation he asked, “I suppose you want to keep at it?”

“Hell, yes!” Then she slumped back. “Rollie, I’m sorry. I know you’re right, it won’t do any good even if I do find him. And if it’s too expensive, I’ll give up. But damn it, I want to find him! Let’s see what it’d cost to hire someone in Honduras to chase him down.”

“I’m way ahead of you, honey. I checked on it last May, right after we received that letter. It’ll cost a few hundred bucks, and there’s no guarantee, but if you want, I’ll start the ball rolling.”

Her face lit up and she ran to him, threw her arms around him, and kissed him. “I love you, Rollie! I think the best thing that bastard George ever did was to run off, so I could marry you!”
 
 
July 6
-- Don Pablo looked up from his desk, where he was reviewing end-of-the-week sugar-plantation receipts. Sometimes he thought he should have tried to keep Suzi as a manager for his sugar. She’d been doing well, before that fellow Arias had spirited her away. Jaime stood at the door, awaiting a chance to speak. “ ¿Yes, Jaime?” he asked with some annoyance. “ ¿What is it?”

Jaime bowed slightly. “Sorry, Seá±or, but you wanted to know if anyone tried to trace a man named George Deon.”

The don considered that affair to be over at last. His doctors still retained an interest, and they wanted to study Pansy more intensively, but he himself wanted only to leave her alone now, to make her own way. He had told Ibá¡á±ez and Ibarra that they’d be able to interview her only at infrequent intervals, and reluctantly they had agreed that she’d settle into her new identity more firmly if she were left alone. Now it appeared that Seá±or Deon hadn’t quite managed to cover his trail to Honduras. Frowning slightly at Jaime, the don said, “Yes, of course. Go on.”

“A Seá±or Martá­n asked about George Deon at La Ceiba, and also at Tela. He seems to have some reason to believe that this Seá±or Deon, whoever he is, didn’t drown.”

“ ¿Who is Seá±or Martá­n?  ¿What is his interest in Seá±or Deon?  ¿Why is he searching?”

“I don’t know the answer to the last question, Seá±or, but the first two are easy enough. He works for an investigation firm in San Pedro, and someone in the United States hired them to trace Seá±or Deon.”

“ ¿Has he found anything?”

Jaime spread his hands wide. “I don’t know.” He wondered who Seá±or Deon was and why Don Pablo was interested in him, but he wouldn’t ask. The don would tell him if he wanted to.

While Jaime stood waiting patiently, Don Pablo considered. Without aid, it was unlikely that the man could turn anything up. George Deon had been wiped from the memory of most of those who had known him. A few remembered him under the name “Jack Pinkerton”, and Pansy might herself rediscover that name, but George was gone. It had to be a search originating in the United States, as Jaime has said. But who? His family? A government agency? And why now? Maybe Pansy had succeeded in sending a message. But the doctors had said that most of her possible contacts had been erased, or scrambled so badly that she’d be frustrated in any attempt to reach them. He decided to check on the matter. “Jaime, arrange it so that I meet with Seá±or Martá­n.” Jaime nodded and started to acknowledge the order, but Don Pablo held up his hand. “Do not tell him I want to see him. Just get in touch with Umberto Gutiérrez at Morazá¡n Palm Oil in La Ceiba.” Jaime nodded. “Tell him that I want Seá±or Martá­n to be aware that I arranged to hire Seá±or Deon as a teacher there. He’ll come to me.”

“Very well, Seá±or. I’ll see to it.”
 
 
July 8
-- Pansy followed her husband out of Todos Santos Church. Sunday Mass had become an occasion to be anticipated eagerly. Since her marriage ten weeks earlier, it was the only opportunity to leave Los Ocotes. Hector didn’t seem to understand why she’d want to leave at all. He even did the grocery shopping, telling her that in her condition she shouldn’t risk the bumpy ride to town any more than necessary. Reluctantly she had stopped attending her Tuesday and Thursday evening classes. Seá±ora Marcos had told her at her last class that what she needed now was practice, and that if she persevered in reading her primer, she could resume classes after the baby came. Hector would’ve liked to keep her from La Libertad on Sunday too, but that tradition was too strong, and she had been able to keep at least that one trip.

At four months, Pansy was beginning to show, or at least she could detect the increase in her waistline. Her milk had dried up long ago and the morning sickness was gone. She felt a euphoria that Marta told her was common among pregnant women, but that she attributed to Hector’s love for her. Pansy had stopped marveling at how swiftly she had adapted to being a woman, or wondering exactly how Seá±ora Arias had performed her miracle. Although she knew that a part of her had once been a man, most of the time she unthinkingly accepted the past that had been imposed back in January. The transition from the her earlier Baca existence–her schoolgirl years, her adolescence in San Pedro, her reluctant early service as a maid–to her present was smooth and plausible. It was much more credible than metamorphosis at the hands of Seá±ora Arias, however vivid that memory was. If her previous–or alternative?–existence as Seá±or Cualquiera hadn’t been confirmed by Seá±ora Arias in occasional remarks, and by her scar, she’d have thought her memories of manhood to be a hallucination or a dream. She had always been a campesina, it seemed, even if some memories insisted otherwise. Well, she thought, she had always been a campesina. Her sister had confirmed it, if her own childhood memories hadn’t been sufficient. Seá±or Cualquiera hadn’t–but that was his problem.

Hector was good to her, if too firm. Her subservient position upset her, but she knew deep within herself that it was right and proper. She felt safe and secure with him, and he was affectionate with her and Lilia. They loved each other, she thought. His sexual appetite was strong, but no more so than hers, and their mutual need cemented their bond. Besides, men were not too difficult to steer. The memories from that man planted in her head often assisted her in finding the right lever to pry Hector in the right direction. Sometimes she still dreamed of becoming a teacher, but she didn’t see how it would be possible, as long as she had to care for the babies, including Lilia, the new arrival on her way, and the child–the son–that Hector had made clear he wanted. Besides, she didn’t think she’d ever recover her literacy. Not enough to become a teacher, anyway. No, she’d stay at Los Ocotes for the foreseeable future.

Pansy had gone about twenty meters from the church door when she heard a familiar and well-loved voice calling her. She called back, “ ¡Petunia!  ¡It’s been so long! Just a minute.” Turning apologetically to Hector, she told him, “Dear, it’s my sister Petunia. I ain’t seen her since… well, since January, except for just a moment at the wedding. She was my matron of honor, if you remember. Please, I got to speak with her, to exchange news.” He patted her rump possessively and told her to go ahead, he’d wait over at the restaurant.

She ran to Petunia as quickly as possible, encumbered as she was by Lilia in her sling. The sisters embraced. Then Pansy stepped back to look at her friend. Antonio stood nearby with Margarita in his arms. Now a cute toddler sucking her thumb, she stared at Pansy distrustfully and clutched her stepfather for security. Pansy looked at the child a little wistfully. It should have been her, or her alter ego Jack Cualquiera, holding his daughter. Petunia had her own burden, a newborn infant boy fast asleep in a tiny portable cradle, now laid on the ground in a patch of shade. “ ¡How precious!” Pansy exclaimed, delighted. “ ¿How old is he?”

“Just two weeks,” Petunia replied proudly. “He’s Juan Sáºlivan, after his father.”

The name had a double meaning, Pansy knew immediately. Petunia’s husband Juan Antonio was Margarita’s adoptive father, and the infant boy’s biological father. But she understood that little Juan’s name was partly in remembrance of Jack, or Juan, Cualquiera. Her eyes filled with tears again. “I’m so happy for you and ’Tonio, Petunia.  ¿And Margarita?  ¡She looks wonderful!”

Laughing, Petunia told her that Margarita was a handful. “She’s stubborn and curious. I can’t keep track of her, she’s always into something I’d rather she kept out of. Gets it from her father, I think.  ¿And you?  ¿When are you due?  ¿Some time early next year?”

“February; maybe mid-February. I don’t know how I’ll manage, between Lilita, Josecito, and the new baby. Not to mention Seá±ora Arias’s new son–he’s due in the middle of August.” Looking at ’Rita, she realized she was tied to her sister by the oddest assortment of bonds. In addition to her blood ties, she had been Petunia’s lover, she was the father of Petunia’s daughter, and she was pregnant by Petunia’s brother-in-law. She wondered just what term could describe the relation between Margarita and her own coming child. “Cousin” seemed inadequate.

Petunia’s face became more serious and asked, “ ¿Did you get my letter? It seems your Seá±or Cualquiera, and ’Rita’s father, was named George Deon. His old girlfriend Celia sent a letter to Uncle Juan. She’s still looking for him.”

Pansy vaguely recalled sending Celia a letter. She didn’t recall much about it, except that she had expected little from it, thinking that her effort would be wasted, just like the others. (“ ¿Others?  ¿What others?” she asked herself. She knew somehow there had been other attempts that had failed, but she couldn’t remember anything about them. She was accustomed to holes in her memory.) “ ¿She is?  ¿Did you reply?  ¿What did you tell her?”

“Yes, I replied. Actually, it was a fellow by the name of Roland Perry who wrote. Her husband, I guess. Anyhow, I told him that George Deon was dead, as far as I knew.”

“ ¿Is he? I don’t know, Petunia.” She looked away, and muttered, “Zhorg… Zhorzh Dee-on.”

“Yes, George Deon. ‘George’ is the English version of ‘Jorge’  ¿Didn’t you get my letter?”

“Yes… Yes, of course, and thank you,” she told her sister. “I got it, and at least now we know. It’s just that the name’s unfamiliar. I didn’t know how to pronounce it. Hector didn’t say it like that.”

“George.” Petunia pronounced the name slowly and clearly. “Like George Washington.”

“Oh.” She thought, “ ¿Who’s George Washington?” It didn’t matter. “I doubt Celia will drop the chase. But you were right. He’s dead. She can’t find him. I can’t find him any more.”

Petunia sensed Pansy’s mood. “That’s true, Pansy, but you still got a life. You have a decent husband and a beautiful little daughter. You’ll learn to read again. You’re strong, Pansita, and you’ll survive.”

Pansy nodded. “Of course I will. But there are things I miss.” Her voice became lower and she seemed to draw into herself. “Partly it’s the material things: the house, the car, the long vacations. Jorge Deon wasn’t poor.” She still used the Spanish name; the English was too difficult. “But I miss his education most.” But then she looked at Petunia and smiled broadly. “But you’re right; I’m not bad off at all. Seá±or Deon was was alone. He didn’t see his family even when he was home, and he had no real friends. He wasn’t really living a good life. I have a good husband, a beautiful little girl–and you.” She hugged her sister and told her, “I don’t think I’d’ve been able to manage without you, Petunia.”

“Yes you would.” She pulled back and grinned. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Celia. Her quarry’s well hidden. She wouldn’t believe where he is.” She noticed that Pansy unconsciously spoke of George in the third person. Pansy wasn’t George any more, not in her own mind. Petunia had known that George would lose the battle, and it was good that it had happened so soon. Now Pansy could get on with her life.

Laughing, Pansy agreed. “I don’t really believe it myself. No, you’re right. And even if she did,  ¿so what?” Then a question came to her mind: “Petunia,  ¿how much schooling did I get?”

Her sister wrinkled her brow, then replied, “I think… Fifth grade, I think. You were ten or eleven. Mamá¡ needed help.  ¿Why do you ask?”

“I…” She shook her head. Susana really had taken away her high school years. They had never happened. “It ain’t important. For a minute I just wasn’t sure–not exactly.” Then she noticed the earrings her sister was wearing. They were familiar. “’Tunia, those earrings… I… Seá±or Deon…” She took a breath. “They’re topaz. Seá±or Deon gave them to you for Christmas, in the city square in Siguatepeque. I… remember buying them.” Briefly she was taken back almost three years, to the exchange of gifts. “You… you gave me a book to learn Spanish.” Returning to the present, she told Petunia, “I have to say, that book ain’t… isn’t needed no more. Seá±or Deon, he learned Spanish real good.” Those memories of Seá±or Cualquiera were so clear–but she was Pansy Trujillo, even if Seá±or Deon still lived in her head. She smiled at her sister. “I’m happy to see that the earrings are still used, even if the book isn’t. But thanks again, Petunia. I got to go now. Hector’ll be getting impatient. Please, come see me again. I’m stuck here, I’m afraid. My day off is permanently spoken for.”

“I know, and I’ll be back.”

Pansy turned to find Hector, then glanced back. Petunia waved to her, then disappeared with Antonio and the children. She hurried; Seá±ora Arias expected her back soon. Josecito required all her attention now. He couldn’t be left alone for a moment. She loved him, though; he was another reason she couldn’t leave Los Ocotes. She wondered how he and Margarita could be two years old, when Seá±or Cualquiera–no, Seá±or Deon–had fathered them less than a year ago. Of course, the legerdemain of Seá±or Deon’s calendar paled in contrast to what Susana had done to Seá±or Deon himself. If his soul could be stuffed into Pansy’s body by waving a hand, then time could be bent into knots.

Susana noticed Pansy’s pensive mood that afternoon and asked her, “ ¿Why so quiet, Pansita? You seem very thoughtful today.”

“Nothing important, Seá±ora. I think I may know the name of Seá±or Cualquiera.”

Raising her eyebrows, Susana asked, “ ¿You think so?  ¿Why is that? And if you’re right,  ¿how did you ever manage to find it out?”

Her maid, holding her baby in her arms and giving her a bottle as she watched Josecito play with a plastic truck, gave her a twisted smile. “I’ll tell you that, Seá±ora, when you tell me how you took it away.”

Susana laughed. “Touché. Every so often you surprise me. I’d swear Seá±or Cualquiera is entirely gone, and then he surfaces unexpectedly. No matter. Whether you really know his name or not, you’re not him any more, and you understand that as well as I do.” She began to leave, but turned at the door and asked, “ ¿Does it really matter to you, Pansita? I don’t really care now if you know or not. I reached my goal when you married Hector. George is trapped as my maid now, and his personality, his mind, is being reshaped to match the body, as intended. He wanted me to follow the rules of Seá±or Cualquiera, and now he follows them himself, willy-nilly. Hector does agree with your old self,  ¿doesn’t he?”

Pansy shrugged and ignored the question about whether Seá±or Cualquiera’s identity still mattered. “Yes, I suppose he does. And I think you told me some time or other–I don’t know when–that you still had to follow some of those rules yourself.  ¿What was it? Anatomy is destiny, that’s it. You’re a woman too, Seá±ora. I’ve adjusted to the fact of my sex.” Or at least Seá±or Cualquiera had adjusted; Pansy herself had never needed to adjust. “You can see that.  ¿Have you reconciled yourself to being a woman? I think you resent it.” She thought for a moment, then added, “You have another baby coming, so I suppose you have accepted it–but I don’t think your acceptance is uncon… unconditional.”

Susana’s temper stirred, but she held it and left. There was no point in getting angry. In fact, she reflected, Pansy’s lack of proper respect was a welcome sign that George still lived, after she had thought him gone. It wasn’t important, she tried to tell herself; George had paid enough for his arrogance, and Pansy was a good maid and a wonderful nanny. She was even a nice person. Still, when she chafed under the unjust restrictions imposed on her, a woman, by a male-dominated society, it was a comfort to know that George was suffering from that same chauvinism. As she consoled herself, a niggling doubt assailed her. Was George really suffering? Maybe her worry about the efficiency of the doctors was justified, even if George’s ego persisted. Maybe they had molded him so effectively that he fit into the campesina mold without discomfort. Pansy seemed quite happy with her shotgun marriage and her vaquero husband. In fact, she seemed happier than George had been. Maybe they should’ve left George’s personality alone, she thought. His unmodified personality would’ve been much less content with Pansy’s lot. But then, he wouldn’t’ve become so useful a servant. On the whole, she decided, her gift of a docile and efficient maid was ample recompense for the absence of the lifelong torment that she had wished for George. Pansy’s barb stung, though. She had told Felipe she’d prefer to wait a bit before they had a child, but he wanted one as soon as possible. He, of course, wouldn’t have to bear the burden, both figuratively and literally. It wasn’t fair! Still, she knew she owed him at least one child–and, truth be told, she wanted another herself. Perhaps next year? She decided: Yes! After all, she had someone to whom she could shift most of the postpartum burden. By the time the baby arrived, Pansy would be quite recovered from her own child, and she’d be fully able to care for another infant. Father had assured her that Pansy’s milk supply would be sufficient to nurse both babies. Dear Felipe would be happy to hire an assistant for Marta (perhaps ’Lina?), as Pansy’s time would be almost fully occupied in caring two toddlers and two infants–as well as cooking and cleaning for Hector. And he of course would want his own family as soon as possible. It appeared that George’s destiny was inescapable: he had become the Baby Machine he had described to her so long ago.
 
 
July 15
-- Doctor CantẠsat alone in her office, shaking her head. Pansy Baca–no, Pansy Trujillo now–had just left after her four-month checkup. She had lost all interest in Seá±or Pinkerton, and seemed perfectly happy to be a new bride. Don Pablo’s team appeared to have succeeded in creating their campesina, and Seá±or Pinkerton seemed to be dead. Doctor CantẠhad accused the team of psychic murder, and now she was even more certain that her accusation had been correct. But what to do about it? There was no point in trying to resuscitate Seá±or Pinkerton, even if it were possible: any attempt would simply harm Pansy, who was the only persona able to live comfortably in that body. And certainly Don Pablo wasn’t vulnerable to any outside pressure. Besides, wasn’t Pansy a more useful member of society than her predecessor? That didn’t excuse the crime, in the doctor’s mind, but she could understand the reasoning. Or better, the rationalization. Finally she decided that there was nothing that could be done. Pansy would just have to make the best of her situation–which was, after all, better than that of most peasants. In fact, it was better than that of many middle-class Hondurans. She put the problem out of her mind and prepared to see her next patient, due in ten minutes.
 
 
August 1
-- Pedro Martá­n wiped his brow, sweating from the morning humidity and heat of the coast, as he left Morazá¡n Palm Oil’s high school. His shirt stuck to his torso, wet with perspiration. He was originally from a village near Danlá­ in the high cool pinelands of El Paraá­so, and he’d never get used to this enervating coastal climate. Still, it was part of the job.

He was glad he had come back for another attempt to dig up information on George Deon. Two leads had developed at last. The obituary had said that Seá±or Deon taught in La Ceiba. Seá±or Gutiérrez had recalled that a man fitting the description of Seá±or Deon had been at the La Ceiba school, but under the name of John Pinkerton. At first the investigator assumed that Deon had worked under a pseudonym, to avoid apprehension. But no, that wasn’t true: according to the obit, he had worked under his own name. Now Gutiérrez told him that Seá±or Pinkerton had been hired with the approval of Don Pablo Herrera, and Ernesto Magá³n, one of the students, mentioned that the teacher had been seeing Seá±or Herrera’s daughter Susana when he had suddenly vanished. No one recognized the name “George Deon”, and he was sure that several people were afraid to discuss him under any name. Now he needed to speak with Seá±or Herrera and his daughter, after he reported his results to his supervisor in San Pedro.

That afternoon he drove up to Las Rosas. It had proven surprisingly easy to arrange an meeting with Seá±or Herrera. His partner was amazed, telling him that Don Pablo was the most powerful man in the department of Comayagua. “I’m sure he has his own reasons for seeing you,” he had been told. “You’d never get near him if he wanted to avoid you.” Now he was at the door of the casa, a traditional, even old-fashioned, home. A stout mestiza maid answered his ring. “Good afternoon, Seá±ora,” he greeted her. “I have an appointment with Seá±or Herrera.”

“Come in, Seá±or. You’re expected.” She led him through the house into a library cum office. The don, a small neat man with an air of power about him, sat behind a desk covered with papers. There was no clutter; the documents were neatly arranged. The don arose and they shook hands. “Seá±or Martá­n, welcome to Las Rosas,” Don Pablo greeted his visitor. “Please be seated.  ¿Can I provide a cup of coffee? I’m rather proud of our home-grown blend.”

“Yes, thank you, Seá±or.”

Don Pablo rang for Jaime and told him to fetch coffee for their visitor. Then he turned back to his visitor. “I understand you are looking for Seá±or George Deon, who taught at La Ceiba.”

Respectfully Martá­n replied, “Yes, Seá±or. As you know, he was reported drowned thirty months ago. Several matters were unresolved, and there’s reason to believe his demise was faked. He may still be in Honduras. My company was hired to find him.  ¿Can you help me?”

Don Pablo was skeptical. “I doubt you will find him. You may or may not know that he was seeing my daughter Susana. He seduced her and then left La Ceiba suddenly, abandoning his teaching post. I have my own reasons for wanting to find the man, but I also have good reason to believe him dead.”

Jaime arrived with coffee, cream, and sugar. He poured two cups, and Martá­n added a touch of cream and sugar. He sipped it, complimented the don on its flavor, and returned to his quest. “Perhaps he is, Seá±or, but perhaps not. My client received a letter he believes was written by Seá±or Deon early this year. Internal evidence suggested that the letter was authentic.”

Don Pablo nodded. George Deon had been ingenious. “If I may ask, Seá±or,  ¿is your client a woman by the name of Celia Tolliver?”

The private eye shook his head. “You can ask, but I’m not authorized to answer. And besides, I don’t know. My supervisor told me who I’m hunting, but not the name of our client. If you ask him, I’m sure he’ll tell you that it’s confidential.”

“I suspect you are right. However, there is no impediment to your carrying a message to your client. Inform her–or him–that I do have information concerning George Deon–after all, I did carry out my own investigation–but that I would prefer to deal with your client directly. Although I still maintain that Seá±or Deon is no longer with us, my information will definitely be of interest.” He rose from his armchair and dismissed his visitor: “I think your client will be pleased with your work, Seá±or Martá­n, but I will say no more now. I look forward to hearing from your client.”

Recognizing that he had gotten all the information possible, Martá­n stood to leave. “Very well, Seá±or. Thank you for assisting me. I’ll see that your request reaches its destination.”

On the way down from Las Rosas, Pedro Martá­n thought about what he had discovered. There was almost reason to suspect Don Pablo of doing away with George Deon himself. He had the motive and the opportunity, and certainly the man was missing. On the other hand, the Perrys had been certain that he was alive. Don Pablo had known about Celia Perry–the name appeared with that of her husband Roland Perry on his retainer check, and Tolliver was undoubtedly her maiden name. What would he tell them that he didn’t tell their investigator? He dismissed the question. It didn’t matter, as long as he was paid. Tomorrow he’d talk to Susana Herrera de Arias. He had found that she was married now, and living at a coffee finca even more isolated than Las Rosas. She’d be his last contact, unless the Perrys came up with more cash. He doubted they would. He had done his job, though, and they’d have no reason to complain. He hadn’t guaranteed he’d find the man.

At Las Rosas Don Pablo told Jaime, “Call Suzi. Tell her to expect a visitor asking about George Deon, probably tomorrow. Tell her she can tell him whatever she likes.”

“Yes, Seá±or.” He left without asking any questions. The don reflected on the inquiry. If Seá±or Martá­n was at all competent, he would interview Suzi next. His white lie concerning the identity his client was excusable; it would have been unethical to give that information. It was Celia Tolliver, he knew in his heart.
 
 
August 2
-- The casa at Los Ocotes was less imposing than that at Las Rosas, but it was still substantial and prosperous-looking. Pedro Martá­n rang the bell, and in two minutes a maid answered. A toddler pulled at her skirt; she looked harried. “ ¿Yes, Seá±or?  ¿How can I help you?” she asked. Her voice was girlish, but her pregnant figure wasn’t at all girlish. He suppressed his libido and told her, “I’d like to speak with Seá±ora Arias, if I may.”

“Yes, she’s here, Seá±or. Come in and wait for just a moment, and I’ll fetch her.” Pansy disappeared through a door, and within a minute Seá±ora Arias appeared. She was also pregnant, and very close to her delivery date, judging from her She showed no surprise at his arrival. “My father told me you’d probably be calling. Very well, Seá±or Martá­n,  ¿what can I tell you?”

He shrugged mentally. He might not have been able to contact Susana Arias beforehand, but her father could. No matter, he was here now, and he’d ask his questions. “Seá±ora, if Don Pablo told you I was coming, he probably mentioned the reason. I’m looking for a norteamericano by the name of George Deon. I believe you knew him.”

She laughed, a light silvery sound. “Yes, I knew him. First, tell me:  ¿Did you get a good look at my maid? I mean, the girl who met you at the door.”

Puzzled, Seá±or Martá­n told her, “Yes, of course I did. She’s a pretty little thing, Seá±ora, a short morena with black braids, maybe in her late teens. Pregnant, I’m pretty certain.”

Amusement crossed Susana’s face, perplexing the detective. “I thought so,” she announced as though it were significant. “That was Pansita. Yes, she’s seventeen weeks pregnant. Seá±or, George Deon is gone. I’d guess you know my connection to Seá±or Deon.  ¿You probably saw a young child with Pansita?” Pedro Martá­n nodded uncertainly, not sure if he was wading in dangerous waters, and still confused, but content to let her lead him. “He’s my legacy from Seá±or Deon.” She invited him back into her home office, and they sat in privacy. Susana asked, “ ¿Why are you looking for this man now, Seá±or? He died a couple of years ago.”

Her father had asked the same question. Martá­n decided to take a different tack. “Everyone seems to be sure of Seá±or Deon’s death, Seá±ora.  ¿Why is that?  ¿Couldn’t he have faked it? After all, he had a very strong incentive, from what Ive been told. He very much wanted to disappear from my client in the United States, and probably from you and your father as well.  ¿Did you or your father see his dead body?” He had been unable to find a record of anyone who had seen the putative corpse of the late Seá±or Deon.

“No, Seá±or, we did not. Or at least I know I didn’t, and I’m quite certain he didn’t; he wouldn’t have known Seá±or Deon by sight anyway. At the time I’d cheerfully have spat on his dead body, but I was in the United States then. My father had the matter investigated, and I trust his judgment. Over the years it’s proven to be good.”

“ ¿But how could he be so sure, Seá±ora?”

She raised her shoulder, indicating a definite lack of concern. “I suggest you ask him, Seá±or Martá­n. As I told you, I’m content to trust his judgment.”

He left with a sense of having been close to an answer. The woman knew more than she was telling. Her seduction and abandonment should have left her bitter and angry, eager to make her betrayer suffer. Any suggestion that he might possibly have escaped should leave her furious, and happy to assist in his apprehension. She knew what had happened, and it wasn’t the official story. He had done what he could, though. He’d report what he’d found, and leave it at that.

August 13 -- The mail arrived at 2:30. Celia glanced at it with little interest. Since the report from the Honduran agency had arrived, she had almost given up hope again. The private eye had done his job, all right. She couldn’t complain that they had been cheated. And he had relayed a message from a Honduran gentleman who wished to contact them about George; the detective said that George had seduced the man’s daughter. But according to the report, Pablo Herrera also claimed that George was dead. Still, they had given permission for this Seá±or Herrera to contact them. Maybe they could arrange some sort of joint effort to track down the fugitive.

Her eye fell on a foreign stamp. Sure enough, it was Honduran, and bore the return address of Pablo Herrera. Her interest rekindled. He was their best hope now. Slitting open the envelope, she scanned the lines quickly. The letter was in English, but slightly stilted in flavor, and extremely interesting.

My Dear Mrs. Perry:
We have a mutual interest in George Deon. Your search for him has come to my attention. I have information concerning his fate. Although he is beyond any retribution you might wish to impose, I can inform you that he paid his debt to my daughter, and to you, in a way that I am sure you would find most satisfactory. If you wish to confirm this admittedly unlikely statement, contact me at the return address, and we can discuss the matter. --Sincerely, Pablo Herrera

This isn’t the letter of a man seeking revenge, she thought; he’s taken his revenge already. And he says I’ll be happy with it too. George may be “beyond any retribution”; but he very conspicuously does not say that George is dead. When Rollie arrived from work, she showed him the letter. He read it and scratched his head. “What do you make of it, darling?” she asked. “I can’t figure out what he means. Is George dead or not?”

“Damned if I know, dear. I’m reading the same letter you are.”

“What should we do?”

“That question I can answer. Do exactly what this guy says. Write back and tell him you want to know what the hell happened to George.”
 
 
September 2
-- Jesáºs Ibarra looked down at the report he had just finished. It was most unfortunate that Doctor Ibá¡á±ez had been so careless: the Ovid Project would be set back for months, at the least, until they could find a replacement for his late colleague. Their latest subject, a serial rapist, was being conditioned to feel disgust at the thought of sex with a woman, but he had proven to be recalcitrant, and they had decided to feminize him. Hormone treatment had advanced far enough to give him small breasts, and of course he had lost all male response. Somehow the subject had found and hidden a knife, and he had stabbed Ibá¡á±ez five times before he was knocked out with a relay. The doctor had died within the hour.

Don Pablo had been informed immediately, of course, and had decided to continue the transformation, telling his doctors to hasten the project, and to impose the personality of an insatiable slut. They had tried to do so, but the subject had succeeded in slitting his own wrists only a day later, dying before he could be saved. So far, only Seá±or Deon had been an unqualified success.
 
 
October 17
-— Josecito scampered unsteadily through the open pine woods. Susana had asked Pansy to take the babies outside after breakfast, before she did the dishes. “It’s Saturday, Pansita, and for once I want to be free of the din that Josecito makes. If he runs around outside, where there’s nothing to break, maybe he’ll use up some of that excess energy. And little Pablito should sleep–he’s just been fed.” Pansy had dutifully taken the children out. Josecito had spent the last hour chasing butterflies with enthusiasm but a notable lack of success. Lilia slept peacefully at her side, and two-month-old Pablito was also sleeping as promised, in a tiny portable crib.

She had been content to sit on a pine log, working on embroidery and watching Josecito carefully to see that he didn’t get into trouble. Josecito could find the most ingenious ways to create problems for her. He seemed to know that she couldn’t catch him as easily as before. Now that her pregnancy was advanced, she was afraid to dash after him for fear of harming the new baby. Besides, it was impractical to dash anywhere, at her present size. It caused other problems too; she retained her sexual appetite, but her husband was reluctant to take her in bed, explaining that he was afraid of harming the baby. At times it left her writhing with frustration. Even more infuriating, she thought that a more likely explanation for Hector’s lack of attention was that she wasn’t as attractive with her bulging midriff–even if, at seven months, it had yet to reach the ultimate immensity that she knew was approaching. Hector was probably relieving his urges with some tart in La Libertad. Men were like that. It wasn’t fair. But she was in no position to remonstrate, and she had to repress her anger; it might not even be justified. At least her duties were lighter, and she had more time to struggle with her reading. She had kept working at her primer, and as Seá±ora Marcos had promised, she was making progress. She could read now, after a fashion, sounding out the words painfully, letter by letter. It wasn’t reading, she told herself, it was decoding. Still, it was progress. She recalled what Seá±ora Marcos had told her: At first, reading would be difficult, nothing like what she had been accustomed to (although the memory of what it had been like to pick up a book and skim through it was fading). “If you could remember what it was like in first and second grade, Pansita, you’d know what to expect for the first couple of years.” She understood, but it was frustrating.

A tanager flitted into a pine above her. She glanced up with no great interest. Seá±or Deon had been interested in birds, and even more in flowers, but lately she couldn’t understand why nature study had ever attracted him. Maybe it was the abundant leisure that Seá±or Deon had enjoyed. He needed something to fill his time. She didn’t share that problem. Between her duties to Seá±ora Arias, her duties to her husband, and the demands of the children, she was generally exhausted. Well, Mamá¡ Rosa had warned her. “The work of a woman never ends,” she had said. “Your husband won’t understand. He’ll think you have it easy, and you won’t even get sympathy. Enjoy yourself now, Pansita, while you’re free.” Her mother had told her that on her quinceaá±era, only… She counted on her fingers. It was only a little over three years ago. That had been such a wonderful day. In her memory, it seemed as if it had been only a week ago! She smiled in reminiscence.

The contradiction between her pasts didn’t bother her much lately. She knew she had somehow been both Pansy and Seá±or Pinkerton–or maybe Jorge Deon, as Petunia had told her–but the norteamericano wasn’t real to her. She was Pansy Trujillo–wife, mother, and maid–and that was that. Her present life was connected with the little girl Pansy, who was clearer in her memory than the young Jorge. Indeed, his name had no resonance for her. It was unfamiliar; but then, she recalled Seá±ora Arias in that horrible hotel, telling Seá±or Deon that he’d forget the name, that he’d even forget what it was like to be a man. Well, however she had bewitched him, it had been effective. Men were an alien race, difficult to comprehend, even if she loved one of them dearly. And even if she herself retained memories of being a man, once upon a time.

Petunia had been in La Libertad twice more, most recently last Sunday. Petunia had told her that an investigator had asked ’Tonio about Seá±or Deon, but of course he didn’t know anything about Jorge, or about the letter, and nothing more had come of it.

As she sat on the log she heard Susana’s voice calling her. She responded immediately, “I’m coming, Seá±ora. I’ll be there in a minute.” Seá±ora Arias usually found some extra tasks for her during the weekends. Life was easier during the week, when the Seá±ora usually worked in town. She put away her needlework and stood up. Picking up Lilia in the sling and Pablito in the crib, she fetched Josecito over his loud protests and headed back towards the casa. Walking wasn’t difficult yet, but she knew from experience that her body would become progressively more and more unwieldy over the next two months. She didn’t look forward to it.

Seá±ora Arias waited impatiently. Pansy almost apologized and explained how chasing Josecito slowed her down, but thought better of it–Seá±ora Arias was quite aware of the problem–and merely asked, “ ¿What can I do for you, Seá±ora?”

“Pansita, I sent Hector to town to pick up a guest for lunch, and you’ll need to do the serving, since Marta’s got the day off. We’ll have some of the spaghetti you made the other day. Felipe’s gone with ’Fredo, so at least you’ll only have the guest and myself to worry about. I want you to make a good impression, though, so put on clean clothes. She’ll be here in an hour.”

“Yes, Seá±ora.  ¿And the children?  ¿Do you want me to take them to the nursery.”

“No, leave them in the living room. I’ll watch them. Now, go change.”

Pansy curtsied and left quickly. In the brief time available she redid her hair, put on a clean white cotton blouse and a red floral skirt, and touched up her lipstick. The image in the mirror pleased her, showing a young woman who was still attractive in spite of her pregnancy. A red hair ribbon set off her black hair, arranged in a single neat braid down her back. She finished her preparations and returned.

“Very good, Pansita,” Susana complimented her. She had taken the time to freshen up, and looked quite pretty in a sleeveless light-blue top that Pansy had embroidered for her, and a dark blue calf-length skirt. “Now get the table set. She’ll be here any minute, and everything needs to be perfect.  ¡Hurry now!” Quickly and efficiently Pansy obeyed. When the bell rang, all was prepared. Susana, sitting in a comfortable chair, told her, “Answer it, girl.”

A young norteamericana at the door, carrying a small paper bag with a pink-and-orange logo, announced in English, “I’m Mrs. Perry, and I’m looking for Susana Arias. She’s expecting me, I think?” The visitor was surprised by Pansy’s striking green eyes, incongruous in her dark face.

Pansy shook her head for a moment. She thought she recognized the woman, but she didn’t know from where. And the language… It was English, she knew, but she understood hardly any of it. Still, she had been told to expect a visitor, and she invited her in. At first Pansy tried to address her in English, but she failed. English had been Seá±or Deon’s language; it wasn’t hers, although she knew a few words. Giving up, she told the guest, “Entre Usted, por favor. La Seá±ora Arias está¡ en esperar de Usted. Lonche…” Her forehead wrinkled as she again tried to find some English, then shook her head. “Tendramos lonche cuando Usted está¡ lista.” The visitor seemed to follow the gist of her words.

They entered the living room, where the two toddlers played quietly in separate playpens and Pablito still slept. Susana met them there. Pansy introduced the guest: “Seá±ora Arias, aquá­ está¡ Seá±ora Perry.”

Susana arose and smiled. “Pansita, espere aquá­ un ratito. Mrs. Perry, I am delighted to see you. Please forgive my English if I make a mistake. I go… I went to school in the United States, but lately I have little chance for practice it. Sit down, please. I have much to tell, and a little bit to show you.”

Her guest sat in an armchair, and Susana took another. Celia’s pronunciation of “Gracias, Seá±ora” left no doubt that she hadn’t mastered the language. She held out the bag. “Your father gave me this. It’s for someone named Pansy. He told me…”

Susana interrupted. “Forgive me, but please call me Suzi. We have a lot in common.”

That was well understood by her visitor. Seá±or Herrera had told her that this young woman had also been betrayed by George. “Yes, of course. And please, call me Celia. But like I was saying…”

She was interrupted again, this time by the maid, who gasped and turned pale. Unperturbed, Susana finished Celia’s sentence for her. “Don Pablo told you I might know something about what happened to George Deon.”

“Yes, exactly. I’m confused, though. Is he dead or alive?” She looked over at Pansy, who appeared stunned. “Excuse me, Seá±ora–Suzi–but is something wrong with your maid?” Pansy stood stiffly and didn’t respond to Celia’s comment.

“Oh, she’ll be OK. She’s just had a bad shock, I think. Excuse me for a moment.” She turned to her maid. “ ¡Pansita!  ¡Wake up! You have work to do.”

Pansy recovered a little. “Y…yes, of course, Seá±ora. I’ll be… I’ll be OK.”

“You’d better be.” Turning back to her guest, she asked, “Would you like something to drink? How about we discuss George over a rum punch?” Celia agreed, and Susana ordered Pansy, “Bring us rum punches, girl. Bacardi, and the juice mix in the refrigerator. Not too heavy on the rum, and put some ice in them.” Pansy curtsied clumsily and left, and Susana asked, “What would you like to know?”

“First, is George dead or alive? And if he’s alive, where is he?”

“How did I guess that’s what you wanted to know?” She took a deep breath. “That’s not a simple question, Celia. Or rather, the answer is complicated.” Celia started to speak, but Susana interrupted: “Don’t worry, I’ll answer it to your satisfaction, but first, let me tell you a little about George’s visit to Honduras. After he arrived, he fathered three more children, on three different women–counting you, that’s four pregnancies in two years.”

“Damn that man! He should’ve had his dick cut off with a butter knife!–pardon my French. I want his balls on a platter!”

Susana giggled as the clink of ice in a glass came from the kitchen. “Would you accept them pickled, in a jar?” she asked, and then continued: “My father–Don Pablo–caught him and found an even better punishment. Seá±or Deon isn’t quite dead, but he’s dying–sort of. You’ll get to talk to him soon. What’s left of him.”

“Talk to him?” Celia thought. This was unbelievable! “But four women? Never mind–what do you mean, he’s sort-of dying? What did your father do to him? And where is he now?”

Susana laughed out loud. “Patience, patience! I’ll answer those questions in order. First, the four women: you first, of course, then me, then another girlfriend–a local woman you don’t know–and last, my maid Pansy. My own child and Pansy’s little girl are right here. Your child is their half-brother. Second, sort-of dying: his body is healthy enough, but his mind–no, his personality, his ego–is fading away. He’s still there, partly, and that’s why you’ll be able to speak with him. Third, my father did cut off his dick. And fourth, he’s very near here. Very near!”

Pansy arrived with the drinks on a tray and handed Celia a tall glass of well-iced punch, then handed another to Susana. “Here are your drinks, Seá±oras.  ¿Can I get you anything else?”

“Not just yet, Pansita. Go finish mending my skirt, but stay in the next room. I’ll call when we need you again.” Pansy curtsied and left, and Susana asked, “Do you have the doughnuts in that bag? Father said you’d bring some.”

“Yes, but that’s another thing. Why on earth did he ask me to bring jelly doughnuts from Dunkin’ Donuts? That’s really odd! And is Pansy the girl serving us?” Then she laughed. “I’m sorry, Seá±ora–Suzi–I seem to have no conversation besides questions; but my curiosity’s killing me! Please, please, help me! Don’t let me die!”

Susana giggled again. “I’ll save you, have no fear. Yes, that’s Pansy. But let me go back to where my father caught up with your boyfriend and mine. Father runs a research project for the rehabilitation of nasty people–he remakes their personalities, totally remakes them so they’ll never repeat their crime–and he needed a guinea pig. George turned up at just the right moment, and Father decided George would be rehabilitated.”

Celia sipped her drink and frowned. “Rehab? That’s hardly what I’d call enough punishment for the bastard!”

“Part of the rehab was cutting off his balls, just like you wanted.”

Celia’s face cleared. “Now that’s what I call effective rehab! So he’s a–what do you call it? A eunitch?”

“No, he’s not a eunuch. Even better. He got a radical makeover.”

Thoroughly confused, Celia stuttered, “But… but… I thought… didn’t you… You said he was castrated. And you said he’s fading away. Please…” She took a long pull on her rum punch.

“He was castrated–but now he’s not a eunuch, he’s a she. That makeover was about as radical as it could be, and a part of it was a forced sex change. George was reformed all right–re-formed into the very model of a Honduran peasant girl. He–she–works as a maid. A very good maid, too.”

“A maid? George? Wonderful!”

“He calls himself Pansy now.”

“Pansy? That’s so totally cute! George is a pansy!” She giggled and began to sip her punch, then set it down. “But wait a minute… Didn’t you say George got your maid Pansy pregnant? How…?”

“It wasn’t his idea, so he can’t really be blamed for the fourth child. I don’t know the details, but Father’s doctors arranged an in vitro pregnancy. That little girl in the playpen? George is both her father and her mother.”

“I think…” Then Celia connected the dots. “But your maid… You just told me she’s named Pansy. That girl who served us–you’re telling me that’s George?!?”

“What’s left of him, yes.”

“That’s… That’s not possible! She can’t be him! She’s too short, she’s black, she doesn’t speak English, she… Well, there are too many reasons why she can’t be George!”

“She isn’t George, actually. Not any more.” Celia looked confused again, but Susana went on: “Father explained it to me this way: ‘George’ was a pattern of memories, habits, and such–a pattern stored in the brain–housed in a specific body. Pansy has a different body–that’s obvious, as you noticed–and a very different set of patterns in the brain. In computer terms, ‘George’ is an old program that’s been replaced. A very little of the original programming is left over from George’s previous life, but it’s incompatible with the new hardware, and it’s fading. That’s why I said George is dying.” She smiled and added, “I’ll miss him. As you can imagine, I enjoyed watching him doing my laundry and fetching my drinks when he was still there.”

“But he… You can’t just…” Celia downed the last of her punch, took a long breath, and started over. “Is there a way to prove any of this?”

“Of course. But Father made sure it wouldn’t be easy–especially for George. He wanted to make sure George would be trapped as a Honduran peasant, unable to reclaim his old identity. In fact, for Pansy, it’s virtually impossible. She’s lost the technical knowledge that would identify her as the late lamented George Deon–it’s totally erased. Fingerprints won’t do it; Father gave her new ones. Dental records won’t help; Father went as far as redoing her fillings. There are other physical markers, like George’s crooked finger, the scar on his arm, and his birthmark, but they might be faked, and certainly aren’t sufficient to prove identity. I suppose the best way might be DNA analysis; but of course she can’t demonstrate that–and neither can we, here and now.”

“How do I know she’s George, then?”

“Father has records–medical records, photographs, videos, that sort of thing–of the whole process, but I suppose those might be faked too. The best thing might be for you to talk with her.”

Celia looked dubious. “She doesn’t seem to speak English, and my high-school Spanish is almost worthless.”

“Yes, that’s a problem–you’re right, her English is almost all gone–but I can translate, if you don’t mind.”

“I guess that’ll have to do.”

“I’ll bring her back, then. But first: I have to tell you, she doesn’t identify herself as George any more, or think of herself as a norteamericano. She thinks of herself as Pansy, a Honduran girl. If you want to speak with George, we’ll have to work to call back, to remind him of who and what he was. Your presence here should help, and so should those doughnuts–that’s what they’re for.” She set her drink down and called, “ ¿Pansy?  ¡Pansita!  ¡Vená­!”

In a moment Pansy appeared from the next room. “ ¿Si, Seá±ora?  ¿Qué quisieras?”

“Por favor, café–tres copas–y un plato de frutas. Prepare las copas como prefirimos–creo que sabés las preferencias de la Seá±ora Perry. Una es para vos. Después, Celia quisiera hablar con vos de tu historia. Traduciré la conversaciá³n.” Then Susana translated for Celia: “I told Pansy to bring us some coffee and a fruit plate, and then she can tell you her story. I said I’d translate.”

As Pansy headed back to the kitchen, Celia watched the pregnant young woman. “She can’t be George! It’s just not possible!”

Susana raised an eyebrow. “Of course you think it’s impossible. That’s part of what traps George as a peasant girl. No one could believe it.” She lifted her punch again and finished it. “In fact, George couldn’t really believe it either. Every time he looked into the mirror and saw Pansy, a little more of him died. Some part of him is still there, but my father’s psychologists predict that in another year–or maybe two–there won’t be any of him left, or nothing of significance. Pansy will have persuaded herself that she was always a campesina. Like I said, she’s not far from that now.” Pansy reappeared with three cups, a pot of coffee, and cream and sugar, and Susana told her to serve the cups as their various preferences dictated.

Celia received hers, sipped it, and raised an eyebrow. “Exactly right!” she told Susana. “Black, but with a level tablespoon of sugar.”

“Of course. I expected that George-within-her would remember how you took your coffee.” She turned to Pansy and explained, “I apologize, Pansy, but Celia deserves to know what happened to the pendejo who left her alone with a baby to support. I know you’re not him–not any more–but you have some remnant of him in your head, and I have to ask you to bring him back as much as you can. Please, answer her questions as well as you can, in George’s place.” Pansy agreed reluctantly, and Susana told her guest, “Now you can ask Pansy whatever you like.”

Celia watched, still incredulous, as Pansy gathered her skirt beneath her, seated herself carefully, and poured her own coffee. “Very well, Suzi, ask her who she thinks she is.”

When Suzi translated, Pansy replied with her full name: “Yo soy Pansy-Ann Baca Gá³mez de Trujillo, Seá±ora.”

“But Suzi tells me you’re George Deon.”

Pansy shook her head. “No, I got some of his memories in my head, but I ain’t him.”

Susana sipped her coffee before she translated, then took Celia’s bag and offered Pansy a doughnut. “This was a favorite treat in your other life. You used to take a bag of these for morning snacks at the office,  ¿didn’t you?”

“Sá­, Seá±ora,” she replied. “I remember well.  ¡Thank you!” She took one and bit into it. A thin dribble of raspberry filling dripped down her chin. Closing her eyes, she sighed as she remembered George’s office and the camaraderie George had shared with his co-workers. She had almost forgotten what his life had been like.

Susana turned to Celia. “You worked at George’s office, I understand. Ask Pansy–no, ask George–something about the office. But nothing technical. Like I said, that’s all gone.”

Celia sat back and thought briefly, then addressed the girl in front of her, “Tell me, did you ever win any of those rummy games you used to play over at Bob Martin’s house?” Susana translated.

Bob… Martin? Pansy didn’t remember the last name, but she remembered the card games. She shook her head. “We never played no rummy there, we played poker. Yes, I won a few times, but I lost most of the time. They was good players, better than me.”

Celia’s eyes widened, How could this peasant girl know that? Maybe Susana had told her? But how would Susana know? “Do you remember where he lived?” she probed.

“Yes, he lived on the edge of Atlanta, in…” Pansy thought for a moment. “In Adamsville, on the west side, off Bakers Ferry Road. I think the address was 4005 Doster Drive.” The address was given in English, but with a heavy Spanish accent. “He has a nice house, made of brick, with… with spring flower trees, pink and white, in the yard.” She took another bite of the doughnut, then a sip of the strong sweet coffee.

When Susana translated, Celia recalled the redbud and dogwood that bloomed every April in Bob’s yard. She didn’t remember the house number, but the rest of the address was correct. She looked hard at Pansy, who looked back into her eyes, then dropped her gaze. The vivid green eyes, the faint scar on the left forearm, the crooked finger… they were all there. It was impossible, but suddenly she believed: George was seated in front of her, trapped in the body of a young Honduran woman. “You are George!”

Pansy caught the meaning of Celia’s exclamation, and before Susana could say anything, she denied it: “No, I ain’t George, I’m Pansy. I got George in my head, but I ain’t him.”

Upon translation, Celia turned back to Susana. “What does she mean, she has him in her head?”

Susana spread her palms out in a gesture of ignorance. “That’s what she tells me too. Father’s psychologists say, she has dissociative identity disorder. Two different personalities have been fighting for control of one body. I read about it after they told me, and it doesn’t fit the classic picture–but then, Pansy and George are unique.”

“You mean, like multiple personalities?”

“Exactly–and Pansy is winning the fight. That’s why I said George is dying. Or maybe dead–I’m not sure. I don’t even know how to decide.” She shrugged. “Who–or what–is the definition of ‘George’?”

“But…” Celia shook her head in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“To me, now, the girl in front of you is just Pansy-Ann, my maid–and a good maid, too, a hard worker. For a long time I saw George in her, and I teased him badly–tormented him, really. He deserved it! But now… Now I think she’s just what she says she is: a young peasant woman with some of the memories of a norteamericano in her head. And a good woman too, by George’s own definition, or by anyone else’s.” She speared a slice of papaya. “But you’ll have to decide for yourself. Ask her some more questions.”

Celia turned back to Pansy, who sat patiently with her hands folded over her rounded abdomen, in the classic pose of a pregnant woman. “You say George is in your head. Can I speak with him, instead of with Pansy?”

It was Pansy’s turn to be confused. “I… He…” She looked out the window. “Yes, Seá±or Cualquiera–George–can talk with you. He…” She bit her lip and took a deep breath. “I can answer you for George, I think.”

“You are George, then?”

“Yes… no…  ¡I don’t know!” Her distress was clear. “I’m partly George, or I got George in my head, like I said. I’ll try to answer for him.”

“If you’re him, how did it happen? I mean, how did you become a peasant girl? Or get trapped in her head?”

“I don’t know. I wish I did. You got to ask Suzi that question.”

Susana translated and added, “I’ll fill you in on the details later. It was a fascinating project!”

Celia let it go and continued, “You used to think women should do all the cooking and cleaning, and taking care of the kids. What do you think now?”

“I… Yes, I still think so. Somebody got to do it, and men got to work outside, to make money and support the family.”

“Are you happy, being a girl? Wouldn’t you rather be a guy–and an American, with a nice job and a good income, rather than just a maid?”

Pansy shrugged. “I ain’t got no choice. I got to take what I have.” But then, to Celia’s surprise, she smiled. “But yes, I’m happy to be a girl. I got a man I love who loves me too and takes good care of me and my baby. I got a good life, and I think maybe I’m happier here than I was in Atlanta. Family is more important than a big house and lots of money. I was stupid in Atlanta, I didn’t know it then.” She finished the last piece of doughnut and licked a bit of jelly from her finger. “I’m sorry, Celia. I mean, for what I done to you, leaving you.  ¿Do I have a child in Georgia?”

“Yes, you were a damned shithead, leaving me there alone with the baby!” Celia felt herself becoming angry again, and forced herself to calm down. “I wanted to cut your damn balls off! But I guess someone else did, so at least I have that satisfaction.”

Pansy looked away. “Yes, I was a real pendejo. And yes, I lost my balls. I deserved it. But I got a new life now, a second chance, and I’ll do better. But Celia, please,  ¿did you… did we have a boy or a girl?”

“We have a son, that you abandoned.” But her tone softened as she added, “Jimmy’s a lovely little boy, and he looks like you.”

Pansy commented wryly, “No he don’t. Not now.  ¡I don’t look like me! …Especially with lipstick and eye shadow on.”

Susana giggled. After her translation, she added, “George really has changed more than a little. I guess you might say, he just hasn’t been himself lately.”

Also giggling, Celia agreed: “I think his makeover was all to the good.” Then she asked Pansy, “Where were you born? And where did you go to school?”

“I–George–was born in Oklamo. I think it was in a place called Ovid. I don’t know where I went to school.” She added, “But I was really born in Comayagá¼ela. I mean, Pansy was born there.”

After Susana translated, she explained, “Father’s doctors changed some of George’s memories–like his birthplace–to keep him from tracing his old identity, and gave him new ones. For instance, Pansy thinks she was born in Comayagá¼ela, a town just outside Tegucigalpa, and that’s what’s on her birth certificate.”

Celia looked puzzled. “That’s another thing. If this is George, how did he lose so much of his memory? His birthplace–I know he was really born in Ohio–his education… His language, even!”

“I don’t know the details, but I watched it happen. Like I said, the doctors did it. They erased it, little by little. George knew it was going, and he fought to keep it–he knew those losses would doom him to peasant status–but he couldn’t hang on to it. Father could tell you more.”

“But she’s so… so feminine! And… well, I think she wants to be a maid. Like it’s a good deal for her. I can’t see how George could accept that.”

“It is a good deal. The best deal Pansy could hope for–as a peasant girl. A campesina. And no, George can’t accept that–neither the femininity nor the career. It’s one of the reasons he’s disappearing.”

“OK, so I’ll assume that, somehow, George is in there. I asked him–or I guess it’s her–how this happened, and she said she doesn’t know, to ask you. So tell me: How? Fill me in, like you said.”

“In just a minute. First, would you like a little spaghetti for lunch? I had Pansy prepare George’s specialty, spaghetti Calabrese. You’re familiar with it?”

“Spaghetti Calabrese? I haven’t had it since George left! It reminded me too much of the bastard.”

“If you’d rather something…”

“No, no! Under the present circumstances, I’d love it!”

“I thought you might.” Susana turned to her maid. “Pansita, go fix lunch. We’ll have the spaghetti now. And fetch the Concha y Toro merlot.”

As Pansy left, Susana turned back to Celia and explained the physical changes. “But that was the easy part. Father’s real goal was a complete reconstruction of George’s psyche. Brainwashing, if you will. Giving him the body and face of a peasant girl was only a means to that end. He wanted to transform George’s personality, to remake him into someone who would be a good maid for me.”

“And how did he hope to do that?” Celia selected a fragment of papaya.

“I can’t tell you all of it. Some I don’t know myself, and some of it, Father wants kept secret. Part of it’s memory control–adding new ones, subtracting old ones–and part is old-fashioned conditioning with new-fashioned technology. Pansy’s been conditioned to femininity, docility, and a liking for men and babies.”

After wiping a dribble of papaya juice from her chin, Celia commented, “So you think it succeeded–George became a…” She paused. “You said, a campesina?” purpose

Susana laughed. “No, not completely …and yes.”

Another slice of papaya disappeared. “OK, I’ll bite. How no, and how yes?”

“The complete transformation was supposed to be done in two years, by agreement with several backers–Father has some outside support for the project. After that two years, George’s manipulative personality persisted, even though he–now she–was trapped in that body, with no education left, no assets, nothing but a cute face, a sexy body, and an active libido. She agreed to remain as my maid, for lack of an alternative, but she set her mind to trapping a rich husband. She found a boyfriend with sufficient money, and was going out with him regularly.”

“And?”

“And she got pregnant. That’s the bulge you see in her belly.”

Celia grinned. “And?”

“And he dropped her. After all, she was just a peasant girl–a good lay, but not at all suitable for a wife. She–or at least the ‘Pansy’ part of her–should’ve known that.” She finished her coffee. “And the ‘George’ part had been told, but couldn’t accept it. All this was last March.”

Celia clapped her hands. “Wonderful!”

At that moment Pansy called from the dining room, “Seá±oras, please, the lunch is ready.”

Susana arose and motioned Celia to join her. As they walked towards the dining room she asked Celia not to gloat too much over George’s downfall. “As I told you, I think George is almost gone, and Pansy doesn’t deserve to be punished for his sins.” As they sat down she added, “Besides, while he was with us, George himself received quite enough punishment!”

The spaghetti was excellent, Celia agreed. “It’s just like the last time I had it. It’s George’s special recipe.”

“Of course it is.” Just then Josecito began whining, and Susana told Pansy, who was standing by the table, “It sounds as if the children are ready to eat too. You’d better get the high chairs and feed them.”

Pansy gave her habitual curtsy and left, and Celia shook her head in amazement. “I can’t believe that George would accept such a position so cheerfully! Even if he were forced, I’d wonder if he wouldn’t just kill himself!”

Susana finished a mouthful of spaghetti and dabbed at her lips with a napkin. “Yes, I think you might be right. And if he did accept it–was compelled to accept it–he’d be a terrible maid. Or at least that’s my own opinion.”

“But just a minute ago you just told me George’s personality is still there.”

“No, I said it was there–after the two-year process was completed, but before Pansy got herself knocked up.” Pausing, she added, “Some of him’s still there, but he’s disappearing, like I said before.”

“I guess I understand, sort of.” Pansy returned with two high chairs and deposited the two children in them. Celia watched as Pansy set a small dish of shredded chicken, beans, and rice in front of Josecito, fastened a bib around his neck, and returned to the kitchen to fetch a bottle for Lilia. “But it’s confusing. Please, tell me: why did George start to disappear just this year, if he survived after the two years of the project?”

Susana shrugged. “The psychologists aren’t sure.” Then she grinned. “But they have a pretty good theory. Remember I told you about the two personalities?” Celia nodded and Susana continued: “When Pansy got pregnant, she blamed herself–that’s to say, she correctly blamed George, who was as manipulative in the new body as he had been in the old. She rejected him and finally accepted the identity of Pansy, a simple peasant girl, as Father had wanted.” She twirled a spool of spaghetti onto her fork and added, “And then in May, Pansy became a teenage bride. She married one of my laborers,” before lifting the forkful to her mouth.

Celia nearly choked on her spaghetti. “He what?”

There was a moment of silence, broken by the babbling of Josecito, while Susana finished her mouthful. “You heard me right. You met Hector–he’s the fellow who picked you up. Pansy’s his wife. I was at the wedding last May, and I watched her agree to love, honor, and obey him.”

“You mean… You’re telling me George agreed… I mean, he has to have sex with a man? He’d never do that!”

“You’re absolutely right. Or at least, that’s how he was at first, right after he became fully female..” She swirled her wineglass and sniffed it approvingly. “My father told him at the very beginning that he’d be able to have sex after they were done with him–but it’d have to be with a man. After George’s balls were cut off, he swore he’d never have sex again, not as a woman. A couple of months later, he–she–found herself admiring the local men and flirting with them. She was horrified, but it had been wired into her, and she couldn’t help it. That was a terrible blow to George, but it didn’t completely destroy him.” Lifting her glass, she sipped the merlot, then continued: “I told you, Pansy isn’t George, even if a little of him survives. Actually, I’ve come to like her quite a bit. She’s a good maid; but more important, she’s a good person. For a long time I felt like you must feel–angry and vindictive–and like I told you before, I harassed her badly; but then I saw that George was disappearing. It takes a special effort to bring out what remains of him, and even then, he’s more Pansy than George. She’s a good wife and a good mother–and an excellent maid!”

“But…” Celia looked over at the young woman at the end of the table, smiling down at her own baby as she held a bottle to her mouth, then carefully wiping Josecito’s face. “I mean… He… she…” She took a quick drink of the wine, hardly tasting it. “She’s not resigned to a… to a punishment. She’s happy! Or at least that’s how she seems to me!”

Susana took another twirl of spaghetti. “Yes, she is–and why not? She has a good marriage, a beautiful baby girl, a handsome little son, and a secure position. For a peasant girl, she’s well off.” She popped the spaghetti into her mouth. After it was swallowed, she repeated, “George is dead, or dying. The girl you see there is Pansy Baca. Yes, she was George Deon–but that’s not relevant any more.”

“But she knows she was George! He had a good job, money, a future… How can she be happy, to give that up for… for this?! For the life of a peasant!”

Susana sighed. Were all norteamericanos crazy? Did they care only about career and money and a big house? Then she caught herself: she had lived there, and she knew better. “She was George. Now she isn’t. She doesn’t even like him! She blames him for her problems, and rightly so–it was the remnants of George’s personality that nearly wrecked her life. Once she realized that, she rejected him, and everything associated with him.”

Celia looked over at Pansy, who was still feeding Lilita. “I suppose you’re right,” she agreed. “It’s just that… Well, it’s so hard to believe.” She waved her hand in negation as Susana began to speak again, and went on: “I’m not denying it. The evidence is good enough. But you have to realize my frustration: I’ve been hoping to make George pay for his sins, and now you’re telling me he isn’t really here.”

“That’s right–but I’m also telling you, he did pay, you just weren’t here to enjoy it. But Father’s willing to show you the videos, and you can see how he suffered before he faded away.”

“I guess I’ll have to be satisfied with that.”

“If it’s any consolation, Pansy’s life won’t be all that easy. Hector loves Pansy, but he’s still really macho, and he insists on making all the decisions. Her salary goes straight into his pocket, and she gets just enough to run the household. She doesn’t much like that, but that’s the way it is. But it’s probably just as well.” She finished the last of her meal, and washed it down with a sip of Concha y Toro.

“Why is that?”

“Pansy’s not equipped to make serious decisions. She’s ignorant and almost illiterate–she’s taking a literacy course, but I’m told she’ll probably never reach a third grade level. Even worse than that, she’s not very bright.”

“Oh? George was fairly smart. A bastard, but smart.”

“Not any more. All that messing around with her head–especially the memory removal–affected her general intelligence. She’s got an IQ of, maybe, 95. Not really stupid, but not up to any heavy intellectual lifting.” Susana smiled. “And she knows it. She dreams of doing something besides domestic work–maybe teaching–but in her heart she realizes it’ll never happen. Her husband wants children, and for the next few years she’s going to be carrying a baby, either in her arms or in her belly.” A satisfied smile spread across Susana’s face “Truly, she’s the proverbial baby machine that George used to speak about. After that ten years or so of diapers and laundry, and deferring to her lord-and-master husband, she’ll be even less able to break out of the stereotypical role of maid and housewife and mother.”

“A minute ago you were telling me that she’s got a good marriage, that she’s happy–that everything was wonderful! Now you’re saying she’s frustrated and trapped in a life she doesn’t want. So which is it?”

Susana shrugged. “Neither. Both. Some of the one, some of the other. It depends on who you ask: Pansy or George, and both are still there now. For George, life isn’t so good. He’s frustrated and trapped in a life he doesn’t want. For Pansy, it’s mixed, but on the whole it’s not too bad. Her highest ambitions are probably beyond reach, but that’s true for most people. You have certain paths open to you, and you make the best of them. Pansy’s path is better than those of most peasants; Father will see to it that she and her children have a secure life, which is more than most poor people have. It’ll be nowhere near what George could’ve had, of course, but she’s not George and doesn’t identify with him. I said that she’s a baby machine–she was designed to be a baby machine, and she’s pretty well trapped in that position–but that design included her personality, so she finds satisfaction in it.” She glanced again at Pansy, who was cleaning spaghetti off the floor where Josecito had dropped it. “For example, the psychologists succeeded in giving her a strong libido. And whenever she’s around a man, she acts like a flirty schoolgirl, all coy smiles and giggles and batting eyelashes. She can’t help it–it’s conditioned into her. Her husband’s trying to break her of that habit–he’s rather possessive of her–but so far, without success. Mostly he deals with it by limiting her social contacts–she stays mostly in their house or mine, and she hardly ever talks with men. Her only unsupervised social contact is her literacy class; the students are all peasant women, and the teacher is female too.”

The two women ate in silence for a few minutes, watching Pansy as she continued to feed the children. When Celia finished her plate, Susana asked, “Would you like dessert?

“No, thanks. I’m still trying to get my head around the idea that George Deon is sitting there in a skirt and blouse, pregnant.”

“I don’t blame you. I watched George as he slowly was changed to a girl, and I had trouble believing it even as I saw it happening. Now I have the opposite problem: I have to accept that George is dying–or fading–and she’s well on the way to being nothing more than Pansy-Ann, a Honduran peasant girl.” She chuckled. “So as soon as you get your head around the idea that George is pregnant, you can forget it.”

Celia turned to Pansy. “Suzi tells me you’re married. You ran away from being a husband. Tell me, how do you like being a wife?” As before, Susana translated.

Pansy looked up from Josecito and smiled. “I like it a lot. I got a good man. He works hard to support me and the baby.” Understanding that Celia was venting her frustration with George, she didn’t repeat her claim that she wasn’t George, but Pansy.

“And is he good in bed? Do you keep him happy there?”

She giggled and blushed. “Yes, Seá±ora, we please each other. I hope you got yourself a good man too–better than George.” She put a cloth over her shoulder, lifted Lilia, and burped her. Lilia spit up a little milk, and Pansy wiped her face clean.

“You’re going to have your hands full with children, I think. How many do you think you’ll have?”

“I don’t know.” She shrugged. “As many as God sends me, I suppose.” She laid Lilia back into the crib, where she whimpered for a moment, then lay quietly. Turning to Celia, she said, “Seá±ora, I know you was badly treated. I’m sorry. George was punished. Now I got to live my own life, one George would hate, but it’s not a bad life. I got friends here, a baby I love, a man I love. Yes, I got to work hard, but I don’t mind. I’ll have more babies–but that ain’t no punishment, it’s a blessing from God. I think I’m happier than George was. He was alone. He didn’t know it, but all his money and education didn’t make up for that, and his life was… it was empty.” Turning back to Susana, she asked, “Seá±ora,  ¿are you done eating?  ¿Shall I begin cleaning up now?”

“Yes, please. I’ll let you know if Seá±ora Perry wants to speak with you some more.” Susana translated to Celia, then added, “You asked about babies. Large families are common here, and I know her husband wants her to have four or five more. My father will see that she and her children have good medical care–which is more than many peasant women have–and with any luck Pansy will be the mother hen for a large brood.”

“That’s a bit much for her, I’d think. I mean, a full-time job as a maid, and six or seven kids to take care of?”

“Yes–too much, really. Even now, with just two children, she has a lot of work. When the load becomes impossible, I’ll hire another maid, and then she’ll be able to spend all her time on family chores. After all, there’s all the cooking and cleaning for her own home.” She grinned. “Her husband certainly can’t be expected to do all that ‘women’s work’. In some ways, he thinks like George.” But then she tempered her judgment: “That’s unfair to Hector: he works hard all day to support his family–and it’s hard physical labor, too. He does his share, and Pansy has to do hers.”

“And how well does she do it?”

“Amazingly well. I don’t know all the details of how Father’s people trained George, but by the time I got Pansy, she was well trained–and what’s more, she wanted the job! Inside her head, she was still George then–a pregnant George begging to become my maid! I loved it!” Susana chuckled. “It wasn’t that George had always had a secret yearning to work as a maid, of course. It’s just that he knew the alternatives were so much worse.”

Celia laughed. “I wish I’d been there!” Then she asked, “What were those alternatives?”

“I never inquired. I don’t think I want to know. But actually, how many girls dream of being maids when they grow up? It’s the same for them: no better alternatives.”

“Yet Pansy seems to be cheerful enough. She said she’s happier than George was!”

“She’s a special case, of course. Her personality has been custom-designed so she’ll be happy as a maid–and as a wife. Father told me early on, when George was still male, that he was trying to provide me with a… How did he put it?” She thought briefly, then smiled. “George would become ‘a faithful and industrious maidservant–someone who’d be a virtual member of the family’. I told him I’d see a flying pig sooner.” She waved towards the kitchen, where Pansy was scrubbing a blackened pot. “Behold: my winged porker!”

Celia nodded. “Your father told me that George’s debt had been paid, and that I’d be satisfied with the result. I have to say, he showed a lot more imagination than I would have. I’d’ve just shot him dead.”

“So you’re pleased with George’s fate?”

“Very much so.”

“Good!” Susana paused. “I have a couple of gifts for you to bring back. Pansy’s rather a good seamstress, and her needlepoint is excellent–it’s especially remarkable if you think of her as George. I’ll give you some of her work. The second…” She smiled. “I’ll show it to you. You can decide for yourself if you’d like to have it.”

“Thank you! I’ll take a look, but then I have to be going. I’ll see your father tomorrow, and then I have a flight back to Atlanta.”

“You could stay here tonight. We have plenty of room.”

“Thanks, but I have a reservation at the Hotel Casagrande in Comayagua.”

“OK. Hector will be waiting when you’re ready. Now, come with me and I’ll give you your gifts.”
 
 
October 19
-- Roland Perry was waiting at Hartsfield Airport when Celia emerged from the secured area. “How was your trip?” he greeted her, picking up her bags. “Did you find out what happened to George Deon?”

“Oooooh, yes!” She had a grin on her face as she hugged him. I did better than that–I actually found him!”

“You what? You mean, he was there?”

“Of course, silly! Hard to find him otherwise.”

“What in Hell was he doing there?” They headed towards the exit to the parking garage.

“He works for Don Pablo’s daughter now. He’s the guy who sent us that letter,” she added unnecessarily.

“George is working for the girl he knocked up? What the fuck’s going on?”

She giggled. “It’s a long story. For now I’ll just tell you that George is alive and well, and that he’s finally gotten married. Happily married too, it seems. I’ll fill you in on the details when we get home.”

“Must be a good story. I never thought I’d see you mention his name with a smile on your lovely face.”

“It’s not a good story–it’s a great story! You won’t believe it at first–I didn’t–but I have proof.”

“Come on, sweetheart, don’t leave me hanging!”

She giggled again. “You can wait an hour. I waited for over three years to find out.”

After they arrived home, Celia took out the gifts from Susana. “She gave me this needlepoint. It’s a picture of her house. It’s a beautiful place!”

Roland sighed. “Yes, OK, it’s very nice. But George?”

“George did the needlepoint.”

“What? You’re telling me he took up needlepoint? What kind of fag is he, anyhow?”

“I suppose you could call him a real Pansy,” she replied, then broke out in a fit of uncontrollable giggles. When she had recovered, she continued: “Like I said, he’s working for the girl he fucked over. He does the laundry, makes the bed, changes the baby’s diaper–all that sort of thing.”

“OK, what’s the punchline? You’re leading up to something.”

“I am.” She pulled a small jar out of a suitcase. A brightly-colored label proclaimed the contents to be “Pickled Nuts”. Within, two gray-white marble-sized spheres floated in a yellowish liquid. “Here–take a look.”

He peered at the contents suspiciously. “These don’t look like nuts to me. Celia, please, what’s going on…” A horrible suspicion occurred to him. “Don’t tell me… These can’t be what I’m thinking!”

“Exactly what the label says: George’s nuts.” She giggled softly. “Don’t you just love that label? With the pansies? The daughter–Susana–gave them to me; she said she doesn’t want them any more–after all, she has the rest of George–and it gives me something to remember him by. Don Pablo told me I might get them through Customs easier, packaged this way. Not that there’s any regulation against it, he said, but it’s not exactly what the Customs people deal with every day. I think the real reason is, he just has a nasty sense of humor.”

“But… Wait a minute–you said he got married there. If he lost his balls, how…”

“You’re right, he can’t really be a husband. But that’s no problem. You see, he’s a she now. Don Pablo didn’t just cut off George’s nuts, he gave George a pussy to to replace them. And all the associated plumbing. He has a new name too; George is now called Pansy. He doesn’t have a wife, he is a wife–the wife of a stablehand peasant–and he’s seven-plus months pregnant. It’s his second child.” She giggled again; it was too delicious! “George makes a very pretty girl–I never would’ve believed it! Of course, right now his figure’s gone to hell–advanced pregnancy’ll do that to a girl–but I saw photos taken just after he became she. He was a fox, in a tight skirt! You’ll love these pictures that Susana gave me–he’s got great boobs!” She pulled out two photos. The first, taken when Pansy first awoke after her recapture, showed Pansy in her low-cut hot-pink “Princess of Love” top and tight denim skirt; the second showed her nursing a baby.

“That’s not possible!” He sat down.

“It’s possible, just very hard to believe. Actually, it’s worse than that, for George.”

“Worse? What could be worse?”

“Well, first, he–no, she, Pansy’s definitely a she–anyway, she lost George’s education. It was erased. She’s illiterate and ignorant–she agreed to work as a maid because there’s nothing else she’s qualified to do. Maybe she could clean toilets, but not much else. Second, there’s no way she can get back into this country; all the records–like her birth certificate, for instance–prove that she’s a native-born Honduran, and she doesn’t speak English any more. Third, she’s very sexy–and quite fertile. Over the next few years, Don Pablo tells me George’ll probably have another half dozen kids or so.”

“No! You’re shitting me!”

She smiled. “George thought women are no more than baby machines. I suppose in a way he’s right–we are the ones who bear the children. God help us all if it were up to the men! But you could just as well say that men, with, you know, all their raging hormones, are no more than nature’s device to give women babies–and then to support them afterwards.” She kissed him. “Of course, you’re more than that, dear. And most of us women want to be–and can be, and are–a lot more than that. Not George, though–now that he’s Pansy, his main purpose in life is to get pregnant, and then to raise the kids. He won’t be able to do much else.” She paused, then added, “That’s not quite true. He does a lot of cooking and cleaning and laundry too.” She pointed to the jar. “He’ll never need these any more. But his new female equipment works just fine, and it’ll get used a lot. His husband’s real macho–and he sort of agrees with George on what a woman’s for, except he’s a good provider. And he wants a bunch of kids. During the next ten or fifteen years, George’ll either be pregnant or nursing–and for another fifteen or so years after that, he’ll be kept busy raising a litter of rug rats. After that he’ll be a grandma, helping with the grandkids. For the rest of his life, George’ll put into practice his own ideas about a woman’s proper rá´le: a Baby Machine indeed!”

Rollie was horrified. “My God! The guy’s a bastard, but… That’s over the top! He must be suicidal!”

Celia had a puzzled look on her face. “That’s the funny part. George knows what the rest of his life’s going to be like. There’s no way he can escape. And yet… He’s accepted it.” But it hit her then: George hadn’t accepted it, Pansy had.

Her husband shook his head in disgust. “How could any man–any real man–ever accept that? He must’ve been a pansy, just like you said, before they ever touched him!”

“He’s not a real man, and he hasn’t been one for a couple of years. He accepted it like a real woman.” Slightly annoyed, she added, “…and you know, dear, that’s not such a bad thing to be.”

“But still… Diapers and laundry and keeping house–and spreading his legs for some horny peasant–when he might’ve had a real life, a good career, doing important things?”

Suddenly she realized: Rollie would never understand–he was absolutely clueless. She couldn’t really blame him. He was just a guy, after all. George–Pansy–had finally understood that being a woman, and doing all the things that a woman does, was just as satisfying and just as important as being a man, doing manly things. She had a good marriage, a family, and work that satisfied her–exactly as Susana had tried to explain during the visit to Honduras. It wouldn’t have satisfied George, but Pansy really had become a woman in her head. George was dead. There was no point in trying to persuade Rollie, though. He was a good husband, and he loved her, but his imagination was limited. “I suppose you’re right, dear.” She kissed him on the cheek. “Poor George’ll be in a skirt for the rest of his life, washing dishes and making babies. And he deserves it!” But if Susana was right, Pansy would be secure in her health and her job–a job she now liked–and she would rejoice in the love of a good man. She would watch her children grow up and marry and give her grandchildren to enjoy in her old age. No, the life of a woman could be very good indeed–but only for someone with the good sense to appreciate it. Rollie walked away, shaking his head, and Celia thought to herself, “Fortunately, most of the people with good sense happen to be women, so it all works out well in the end.”

[A challenge: What years does this story cover? There are clues within the story, sufficient to answer it.]