Well I hope you know me well enough by now that you have figured out I wasn’t going to take THAT without putting up a fight.

PART FOUR

“Her name is Madame Inger,” said Heather handing me a stiff formal business card. “She lives in New Jersey, a place called Jefferson Township. Jess got a FedEx package from her containing the spell after she called in the order in but I think you will want to speak to her personally.

“Telephone order magic, how modern,” I commented sarcastically. “Operators are standing by, And isn’t Inger a Swedish name?”

“I don’t know, I guess?” Heather answered twirling her finger in her hair.

“A Swedish Gypsy?” I asked mystified.

“So, there are Black Irish too, not… the... point,” she gasped out at me irritated at my male reasoning.

“Right,” I agreed just to move the conversation along. “I’ll just find a gas station and I’ll hit the road in the morning. I can be there in time for lunch. ”

“Um, it will already be gassed up.”

“No it won’t,” I countered, confused at her confidence. “It was on a quarter tank when I drove it up the mountain, I don’t get the best efficiency...”

“What are you talking about?” she asked me confused.

“What are YOU, talking about?”

“My car service, I’m having them drop off a sedan for you. You can keep it a week, if you need it longer just call me and let me know and I’ll get it extended.”

“Thank you, I do appreciate the offer Heather all things considered. But I’ll just drive my own car.”

“Um…” she hesitated ominously.

“My…,” I stuttered suddenly realizing the implications. “Car… oh shit.”

I dashed up out of my chair and toward the door before Heather knew what hit her. She followed me moments later to see me on my knees in front of an empty parking space.

So there I was, reposed on the cement, shirtless, shoeless, pretty much everythingless except for a skimpy borrowed bathrobe cursing up a storm while Mr. and Mrs. retired school teacher looked up from their tea and if they had a good angle, right at my bare backside.

I had saved up for years, I cut lawns on three continents to help pay for that car and its ruinous insurance. Including four summers fighting in the jungle in Southeast Florida, which had to count as hazardous duty in anyone’s book. My first taste of combat was dealing with a frisky caiman (the alligators less famous and more ugly cousin, who subsequently had a perpetual chip on his shoulder) who wouldn’t take no for an answer… don’t tell anyone. They are technically on the endangered species list.

I had found Rocinante, or most of her anyway, laying forgotten in my Uncle Dave’s back 40. He let me have her for salvage price. Her body was rusted but her bones were sound, and my eyes, burning with the fire of inner vision, could see the potential. The General and I worked on it whenever we could and we used to make weekend road trips all over hell and gone tracking down pieces from several different makes and models. We made a Frankenstein’s monster of a car, including a hemi from a barracuda which has to be some sort of sacrilege, but I didn’t care. When it was all said and done I owned 1975 Firebird Trans Am with a 455 up under the hood. It was my pride, it was my passion…

Jessica was never gonna make it as a guy, its man code #4 on a pretty damn short list. You don’t mess with a man’s ride! It was right after not dating a guy’s sister if you knew him for longer than 30 minutes. And right before a man should never help another man apply sun tan oil.

Of course I should have realized she would have taken my car with her. She wasn’t exactly going to walk to Maryland. And anyone who knew me would see the missing car as a red flag. If Jessica was going to pull of the charade she needed it like she needed my face. And there was nothing I could do about it. I could just see it, yes officer my car was stolen and the girl who took it looks just like the boy who owns it! I just hope she treats her right, finds a good garage, feeds her high test, pets her in the right place when she purrs just so… my car never hurt anyone, and she deserves the best.

“Come on inside,” said Heather picking me up off the ground. “We’ll get you something to drink and I’ll help lay out your clothes for the morning.”

***
Heather did her best by me, but she had her own life to live and a career that could not be put on hold. She emptied out all of Jessica’s suitcases and organized them into outfits and then took photos of each set with her phone and emailed them to mine. Which I guess was now Jessica’s former phone. It was one of the new iphones and it had a camouflage case, but the effect was somewhat spoiled by the color scheme. Instead of the more usual tan, the maker of this camo pattern had decided on pink which I think wasn’t going to fool any insurgents unless they were from the valley.

I didn’t feel pleased on the whole picture menu method of ordering. It made me feel like an illiterate which I guess when it came to women’s clothes I was. But since I didn’t have anything else to wear I was treating it like it was an undercover mission behind enemy lines and thought of the skirts and blouses as a costume. A… DEEP undercover mission. Half the reason I think women fought so hard to get into the military was that subconsciously, they wanted to wear the uniform and have the tricky problem of what clothes to wear solved for them each morning.

Of course, I haven’t exactly TOLD that opinion to any women I knew.

I had, against all expectations got a good night’s sleep, though I had woken to use the bathroom under my new arrangement. I was grateful to have the benefit of a toilet this time but my gratitude lasted only long enough to feel the resentment over yet something else being taken away from me. I wasn’t one of those guys that was obsessed over his genitalia but I did have a reasonable fondness for it, we had been through quite a lot together over the years. And until recently, we were sort of attached to each other. And it was just so much more damn convenient when pregnancy made you piss like a racehorse. Why some geek girl hadn’t rigged up some sort of attachment I didn’t understand, maybe I could think one up and make my fortune?

I stared at myself in the room’s mirror that morning, long after my breakfast had gotten cold. With the full length mirror and the privacy accorded this was the first time I had seen it all at once. She was a looker my girl, and hopefully I could return her in the same condition I found her. I put my hands over my belly trying to feel something, anything. Though from what I remember from health class that was still some ways away. As near as I could figure it I was about two months gone and had another seven months till it would be over. Or rather I had seven months and eighteen years, or never over most likely, if my own parents were any indication.

I couldn’t really see any expansion of territory, though I tried moving and getting a couple of different angles. I was still taut and trim and could pull off a non gravid status at least for a while. I looked at the pile of clothes and started getting ready. The panties were not functionally any different than the briefs I had worn my first twelve odd years before I convinced my mom that only losers wore them and to buy me some boxers. The sensation when they were in place was almost-sort-of-familiar and since it completely covered THAT WHICH SHALL NOT BE NAMED, and there was no telltale bulge like I was used to I could almost pretend it wasn’t there. Of course, something that wasn’t there was also a bit of an issue.

The bra was truly terra incognita. It didn’t come with an instruction manual, or if it did, Jessica was just like me and tossed it as soon as it was out of the box. According to the tag on the side though I now had custody of a model 34B, and for some reason I always thought Jess was bigger? I fervently hoped that it was too early to develop an inferiority complex, and moved on. The principle involved was obvious enough once I thought about it. The cups supported the breasts, the straps supported the cups and the, straps were tightened as needed around the shoulders. It rather reminded me of the times I had to sort out the horse tack at the farm, which gave new meaning I suppose to the phrase “in the harness.” I was amazed that I was able to stretch and bend behind myself like that, if I had tried to do the same thing before the swap I likely would have pulled something. Once done, it was oddly pleasant and even though it seemed like it should be the exact opposite, wearing the bra made me feel less like a girl. It secured the breasts and made them feel less obvious. I gave myself a couple of test jumps up and down and decided never to do that again. It seemed modern materials still had certain design limitations.

I’d held the line with Heather last night, and the first women’s clothes I would wear would not be a skirt or a dress. Jessica had packed a few pairs of jeans so that’s what I would start with. It was a snug fit, and I had to force them over the hips a bit which I hoped wasn’t an ominous sign of things to come. There were loops for a belt but I was told on pain of sarcasm that this particular pair should never be worn with one, though that logic escapes me. The top was a white and blue striped polo that could have passed for a guys shirt if their hadn’t of been the plunging neckline leading toward the forward protrusions. I pulled it over my head tucked it into my jeans and then rescued my hair that had got caught between the shirt and my shoulders, brushing it out with my fingers. Once done the clothes felt tight, emphasizing what there was to emphasize, which was also an off experience for me. I hadn’t exactly dressed like a slob before. The General wouldn’t have tolerated it, but guys clothes are just generally much more loose fitting. It’s probably the reason we slouched so much.

Heather recommended that I generally avoid makeup, and I was all for it and at the same time grateful my shiner had receded enough to be dealt with a small amount of a substance marked concealer. Make up was just too complicated for the time allotted. Jessica hardly ever used any anyway and didn’t really need it much. As long as I was careful to wash my new face and otherwise keep it clean of oils and other buildup I should be reasonably ok carrying off the “natural” look. Jewelry was also similarly on the sedate side. A pair of gold studs and a silver ladies wristwatch worked for almost everything. Jess also had one of those heart shaped lockets with a photo inside. It was a picture of my former self, I kept the photo where it was and put the necklace around my neck. I hoped this would all be over before I forgot what I looked like, but it pays to be prepared. The locket rested between my breasts and as a mixed metaphor I really didn’t want to dwell on it.

And then there was her wedding ring.

I remember buying it, everything that happened since made it feel like a year ago and not the four days it actually was. $289.99, gold, 14K but still gold, and cubic zirconium encrusted around the edges. It wasn’t worthy of her, I knew that then, but the next level up was out of my price range and I resolved to save as much of my Navy pay as I could to buy her something proper. I know it shouldn’t have surprised me, or hit me in the gut like it did, seeing that Jessica had left it behind when she left behind the body that went with it. But it did hit me in the gut, and then twirled the intestines around while it was at it. I first thought about tossing it, even if I still had the return receipt for it. I didn’t want to have to see it again. But then I thought about my oldest sister Anne who had purchased almost the same sort of thing for herself. Whenever she didn’t want to take part in the daily grind of the singles scene and just wanted to hang out with her friends she would slip the fake band on her ring finger and it was like a cloaking device against boozed up lotharios. And besides, soon enough if I didn’t find a way back I would start showing. And I didn’t want little old ladies hissing at me or wagging their fingers as they called me a hussy. Sure, I thought initially, that seemed like just the sort of justice Jessica was due but then thought better of it. As hard as I wanted to work against it I still had enough feeling for her that I didn’t want anyone saying that about my girl, particularly if she was me.

To hell with it! I thought as I slipped it onto my finger. The world would see before them a respectable married woman. And I’d kick anyone’s ass anywhere, who said otherwise.

I made sure the bill was settled with Jessica’s card which I hoped had enough room on it. I couldn’t even tell if it was debit or credit I just handed it over to the clerk and tried not to wince. The car left for me was a silver colored Nissan Altima, one of those Japanese rice machines that would run forever on a thimbleful of gas and never require you to spend half your Saturday with your hands in its guts. It was a car that didn’t NEED a master. And so I had decided to name it Bob, he didn’t deserve a girl’s name nor any real claim on my affections. It also didn’t have enough room in the trunk for all the cases and bags so I had to use the backseat to store the rest along with the laptop case and purse. I spent a good five minutes messing around with the seat and the seatbelt before I gave up and came to the realization that there just WASN’T a comfortable position where the strap wouldn’t pinch my boobs. Yet another woman’s engineering failure I thought that should have been rectified years ago.

New Hampshire to New Jersey, while still being in the same part of the country where almost every other place was called new something, was still a bit of a drive. Doing it in and strange foreign car without even enough room in the trunk for a respectable amount of bodies was disheartening. I decided to take the western approaches along I-84 and circle back. I didn’t want to have any part of New York City traffic. Somewhere past Hartford I felt that evil little, apparently walnut sized bladder of mine, betray me. It used to be I could make 8 hour road trips without stopping once, but I guess those days are behind me for now. I pulled off at the next exit and came to a reasonably prosperous looking BP station. Getting out, I made sure that Bob was still in racing form, which of course he was, the annoyingly reliable little prick that he was. And then headed toward the woman’s restroom.

I didn’t make the mistake of heading into the men’s room. I had been doing nothing the last twenty minutes BUT think about going potty in the ladies room so it was hard to unconsciously slip up. Matters were helped by the fact that there was a line to get in and I had to wait for several minutes before a slot freed up. When the door opened and it was my turn I was across the tile floor with jeans down before I even thought to worry of some sort of hall monitor like matron who would shout out ‘IT’S A BOY!’ Once the immediate bodily process was taken care of I looked down to the pair of satin panties, resting on top of the women’s jeans wrapped around a pair of soft and shaven legs and just sort of left higher brain functions behind.

Picture if you will, the mind of a teenage boy.

Hey look! Some girl left her panties here… oh shit they’re mine.

Hey baby, nice legs, how bout I?... Fuck.

I must have been in there a long time suffering that causality loop, because the usually staid New Englander’s revolted. I was brought back to earth with a sharp thud upon the door, “Hurry up in there!”I grabbed some toilet paper and dried up as best I could, yet ANOTHER damned design flaw. And pulling my pants up quickly and went to the sink to wash up. I didn’t feel too much guilt, I just did a quick wash of my hands and no primping at the mirror or fixing of makeup so time spent probably averaged out. I ignored the angry glare from a mousy looking woman in her thirties and headed back to Bob and the open road.

***

Jefferson Township is a little place nestled in the North Jersey hills located apparently, right next to the Picatinny Arsenal, which is where the Army field tests its chemical weapons. I resolved to get the hell out of Jersey as soon as I could and try not to take any deep breaths while I was doing it, borrowed lungs or not. The address on the business card for Madame Inger led me to a storage unit complex off the state highway. Gypsy work must not be full time and I inferred that she needed a steady passive income to make ends meet. There were three rows of numbered concrete pillboxes and at the end of the lane was an old three story aging farmhouse that must have been the original family seat before using the land to let other people store their junk. A big sign next to the garage said office and I confirmed that the address numbers were the same as on the card before I got out of the car and walked to the front door to ring the bell. It was a good two minutes before anyone could be bothered to answer.

“Yes?” asked the man, who unless she was sampling her own product, I assumed was not a Madame ANYthing. He was wearing a too tight T-shirt with “Lake Hapatcong Storage” stenciled on it and was about a foot taller than I used to be, and I was pretty damn tall. He was also about as wide shoulder to shoulder as an LAV.

“Um,” I hesitated still not used to the sound of my own voice and hating it in comparison to the troglodyte’s deep bass. “I’m here to speak to Madame Inger.”

The man gave a little wince so I could tell he wasn’t pleased either at me or his erstwhile mistress I couldn’t say.

“Yeah, look, did you make an appointment? Cus whoever did with you needs to learn better. Grandma doesn’t do any work after three, not since I got her that TiVo, gods help me.”

“Um,” I hesitated. Trying to think if it would be better to pray on his customer service skills and pretend I did have an appointment but then thought better of it. “No I’m sorry, I wasn’t told I needed one. Could you perhaps squeeze me in, it’s rather important. I’ll try to make it up to your grandmother.”

“They are all important, or at least think they are,” said the man with a weary sigh. “Look, are you dying?”

“Not at the moment,” I answered, though YOU’RE life expectancy is getting shorter by the minute.

“Someone you know dying?” he continued uninterested.

“No.”

“Then it ain’t that important and can wait till tomorrow,” he declared with a curt nod of his massive head.

“But this is an emergency!” I said, and stamped my foot in exasperation. I couldn’t help it and was embarrassed as hell when I realized what I had done but quickly passed it off as a normal bodily process and continued. “Please…you have to help me.”

“Are you pregnant?” he asked.

“…Yes,” annoyed at him for his sexism. Why must he think that a pretty girl in trouble who starts going into hysterics be pregnant? Even if it was in this particular case true.

“And you want a spell to wreck vengeance on the father, or something? Or perhaps just a plain old love potion to make him do the right thing?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing of the sort,” I answered disgusted.

“Oh really special snowflake? It’s always love or vengeance I’ve seen it a thousand times. Why else ask to speak to grandma?”

“Because … I’M the father” I stated forcefully.

“Oh,” he said, scratching his auburn head with a smile and then laughing. “One of THOSE, then she definitely doesn’t have time for you. There’s an “Army Wives” marathon on at the moment. The only way she misses an important TV show is if the house is on fire, I’ll make that appointment for you tomorrow at 10:00AM. Good bye.”

“Wait,” I shouted to a closed door. “You don’t even know my name!” not that I knew which one to tell him.

I spent about twenty seconds ignoring the bell and pounding on the door, but eventually got the message when the light to ‘come in, were open!’ sign was cut, and the blinds lowered. I sulked back across the driveway to Bob and kicked him in the tires for looking all smug and reasonably priced. I sat in the car and contemplated my options for a few minutes. I had no home, a borrowed car, borrowed BODY. All the friends I could turn too would see themselves as HIS friends. Double that for my family. I had introduced Jess around to them a few times, my mother rather liked her. But Jess’s relationship with them wasn’t anywhere near the ‘drop everything and come help without even checking with Tommy first’ stage. I had about $90 in cash in my purse and plastic that could be turned off at any moment. It was only a matter of time before I had to go pee again and trees had gotten so big around here that there wasn’t even a convenient bush to hide behind. And to top it all off, my bra strap was itching… I had just about had it up to here, playing the polite damsel in distress.

The hell with it, I thought finally, as I looked at a particularly prominent oak tree next to the house, which was just finishing its full spring growth. This is Jersey, who would notice?

***

Down the road about three miles was another gas station and I went in to get the several supplies I would need and paid for it with my dwindling supply of dollars since I remembered that these particular items flash up on several watch lists and if paid for with a card so would a name. And since I didn’t want Jess or myself to lose out on any time to the hospitality of Homeland Security, I paid cash. I was just about to shut the rear door and drive off when I thought better of it, and heading back into the station for preventative maintenance.

Damn bladder.

I drove back to the storage lot and parked far away from the house. Grabbing my recent purchases and heading toward the oak tree. It looked like it was upwind of the house and probably far enough away.

Probably far enough… but I wasn’t in any sort of mood to give them any breaks.

I started throwing toilet paper rolls up and catching as many branches as I could trying to hurry before granny or her bodybuilder butler looked out the wrong window. Then I grabbed the gas tank and upending it, I started making circles around the trunk of the tree letting the fuel soak into the ground below all that kindling and splashing as much of it as I could against the bark. When all five gallons were about to run empty I started walking the trail of gasoline away from the tree toward my car. When that finally ran out I tossed the can aside flippantly and pulled from my tight jeans a 79 cent Bic lighter to set fire to a hundred year old tree.

It went up quick all things considered, the fuel heating the leaves and branches, and then it started feeding itself. The nice thing about oaks is that they get so big and so dense that the shade kills off any lighter foliage for a good area around it. Its funeral pyre was accomplishing my goal of sending a billowing cloud of black smoke at the farmhouse but was otherwise safe from spreading. I was rather pleased with myself.

I walked back to Bob, and got up and sat on the hood. I crossed my legs in what I remembered was a feminine manner placed my hands on my knees and otherwise tried to affect the look of an innocent virgin. Which I guess, technically speaking in this body, I was. Tiny the doorman was the first out, and he quickly headed off toward an outbuilding likely to get something to put out the fire, and then followed several other men and woman all bearing a more or less familial resemblance. The last, almost being forced out the door by two of her progeny, was an old woman, wrinkled, blond hair turned almost white but she was still big and mean looking enough to be the ancestor of that Viking I met at the front door.

She shook off the offered arms and strode angrily toward my parked car. She made good time considering the distance….granny was spry.

“Madame Inger I presume?” I said with a sweet and angelic voice, bowing in her direction.

***