Chapter Ten: Rejection and a New Love

For my visit to the Nordquists I wore a white peasant blouse, embroidered with light blue and pink designs, peach-colored Capri pants and flat sandals. I brushed my hair so that it flowed freely and fixed a blue hair band over the top of the head. When I arrived to the Nordquist home, I was welcomed by Susie at the front door and led to a seat in the living room. “Just wait here, Julie, I’ll tell mother you’re here,” Susie said, leaving for the back of the house. I heard what sounded like a screen door open and close and then heard Susie say, “She’s here.”

Susie returned and offered an explanation that sounded a bit contrived. “Mom’s having trouble fixing her hair,” she said.

I thought that was a weird explanation, largely because Heidi Nordquist, who was a naturally pretty woman, seemed to take little care in how she looked; she wore little makeup, her clothes were tasteful enough but hardly what you’d call stylish and she rarely appeared to have put her blonde hair up, apparently brushing it to let it flow naturally to her shoulders. Sometimes, she tied it into a ponytail.

After some halting attempts at small talk, Susie rose and said that I should follow her. She led me through the dining room and kitchen and out the backdoor. I walked into the sunshine and my eyes sought to focus on the figures before me, when I heard a chorus of “Welcome Julie.”

I was taken aback from what appeared to be a chorus of voices of my neighbors. I almost fell down the three stairs from the back porch, but was grabbed by a strong young man before I fell awkwardly onto my face.

“Thanks,” I mumbled, trying hard to regain my dignity.

Then I was surprised to look into the face of Bobby McCloskey, the same teenager who had taunted me mercilessly a week earlier.

“You’re welcome, Miss Pearson,” the boy said politely.

“Surprise!” the group yelled, and then broke into singing in voices lacking harmony but full of spirited enthusiasm: “For she’s a jolly good lady!”

When they had finished a couple of choruses, Heidi Nordquist led me to a plastic picnic chair that was part of a circle of folks gathered in the Nordquist backyard.

“I don’t know what to say,” I said. It was overwhelming and I fought back the urge to burst into tears.

“I hope you don’t mind, Julie,” Mrs. Nordquist said. “This was all Susie’s idea.”

“Not at all, I’m happy to see you all,” I said, finally having regained my composure.

“Do you know everyone here?” Heidi asked.

“I think so, and thank you all for coming and understanding me,” I said.

One by one the neighbors greeted me, offering warm welcome of varying sorts. Among those present were Paul and Marian Phillips, my next door neighbors; Mr. and Mrs. Gettleman who had been friends with my mother and for whom I had mowed their lawn for several summers; Don Chambers and Francis Proski, two middle-aged, balding men who shared a house together; Bobby McCloskey and his older sister, Carol; and Wynona Winfield, a woman attorney with whom I often joined in walking to the train in the morning.

“I’m sure there would have been more folks here, but it’s all I could round up in such a short notice,” Susie explained.

There a few awkward moments before Bobby McCloskey spoke up, his tone hesitant and apologetic.

“Miss Pearson, I hope I’m right in calling you that,” he began.

I nodded and said that was fine, then quickly added, “I’m not in the classroom and you – all of you – may call me Julie as well.”

“Well . . . ah . . . Miss Julie . . . I can only say I was so sorry for what I said to you the other day,” the boy continued. “Susie here told me I was wrong . . . that we were all wrong . . . even her.”

Susie rescued the boy from his attempt to explain himself. “Yes, Julie, when mom heard what we kids did to you that day, she climbed all over me. We must respect everyone, even when we may not like them or we think they’re different. Then she told me to look up transgender on the Internet, which I did. Then we had a long talk, and I understand now.”

“Tell me Julie, how does it feel to be a woman?” Bobby blurted out.

“Bobby, how could you ask such a thing?” Susie scolded him. It was clear the boy was “hot” for Susie and was desperately seeking her favor, most likely explaining his change of heart. It was likely, too, that his older sister, Carol, who had short, cropped hair and favored male clothing, influenced him as well, overcoming the narrow-minded thinking of their mother.

Bobby reddened at the rebuke and I felt sorry for him. Susie, who seemed always to be a leader among the kids, must be leading him a merry chase, I presumed.

“That’s OK, Bobby, but first of all let’s remembers I’ve always felt I was a woman, and when I was younger, a girl, too. And, also, I must tell you it feels good, mighty good to be able now to live outwardly as a woman. Thanks for the question.”

He smiled and I walked over to him, kissing him lightly on the cheek. Blushes colored his pale face. Everyone cheered and soon the party morphed into what so often happens at neighborhood picnics as folks began to gather into smaller conversational circles. Another set of teenagers joined the party and soon a makeshift basketball game developed on the Nordquist garage slab shooting at a basket attached to the garage front. They urged me to join the game where, of course, I proved totally inept, causing Bobby whom I was attempting to guard to tease me that “the way you play you really are a girl, aren’t you?”

At that point, Susie – who may have been the best athlete on the court – stole the ball from him and dribbled to make a basket.

“And you were just beaten out by a girl!” Susie taunted Bobby. It was a light-hearted jab, and soon we were all laughing and good-naturedly pushing and punching each other.

When the game ended, the two male partners came up, offering me a beer from the cooler that they had brought. I know I was sweaty and gladly accepted the bottle, which felt cool and moist in my hand. I was breathing heavily; I was not used to such exercise.

“We’ve never really met, Julie,” commented Don Chambers, the taller of the two.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you, Julie,” added his partner, Francis Proski.

“We’ve made no secret of the fact that we’re a gay couple, soon hoping to get married, and I know some of the neighbors aren’t happy about that,” Don said. “I can only imagine it might be worse for you.”

“That’s why we came to show our support,” Francis added. He was a short, nondescript man with a pudgy tummy on a small frame, in direct contrast to his tall, muscular partner.

“I’ve heard some of the neighbors may be trying to start a campaign to force you to move, and we just don’t want to see it,” Don said.

“Yes, we’ve always thought this was a welcoming friendly neighborhood in the six years we’ve lived here,” his partner said.

“Mom and dad bought that house the year when I was four,” I said. “So my family has been here more than twenty years. We’ve never had a problem, even though mom lived here as a single mother. My dad left when I was five.”

“You can see most of your neighbors adore you, Julie,” Don said.

Bobby McCloskey and Susie joined the conversation. “I wished Carol and I could do something about my mother,” Bobby said, referring to his sister.

“Yes, she’s among the folks trying to get a petition signed to get Julie and you two to move,” Susie added, nodding to Don and Francis.

“Carol and I argued with mom, but she’s gotten religion with the Evangelist Church and can’t see beyond that,” Bobby said.

Don said he had heard that perhaps three families, besides Mrs. McCloskey, might be involved. “They can’t petition us to move. We all have our rights. Francis and I have good jobs, we pay our taxes and break no laws and I’m sure that’s true of you, Julie.”

The party continued and I was glad that the conversation soon moved off my transition; instead the neighbors began to learn more about each other. There was much laughter as well as earnest conversation about jobs, families and the always unpredictable weather of the area.

Eventually the party broke up and I thanked Heidi Nordquist for her thoughtfulness in getting the neighbors together.

“I’m glad we did this,” Heidi said. “It’s about time we all got to know each other.”

“It made me really happy that I don’t have to be ashamed of who I am,” I said. “I feel part of the neighborhood again.”

“And don’t worry about Mrs. McCloskey and her small group. I think we showed that you have plenty of support here,” she said, giving me a sisterly kiss.

It was hard not to worry about the small group of neighbors who might do something that could disrupt the feeling of neighborliness that I had felt while at the Nordquist party. I thought about all sorts of gimmicks they might pull, such as picketing at my house or trying to get some phony housing code violation leveled against me. I knew Mrs. McCloskey’s crude lout of a husband was a city housing inspector who I suspected might be taking a bribes on his job; I could see him succumbing to his wife’s pleas to find some violation at my house.

*****
For supper, I decided to fix myself a salad, slice a few pieces of sharp cheddar cheese and mix together a veggie smoothie. I was still feeling a bit full from the snacks and two beers I had at the Nordquists. It was a lovely early Saturday evening and I had no plans, and I thought I’d eat in my backyard, taking along the latest Debbie Macomber romance novel to read. She had become my favorite author when I wanted to read for pleasure; I guess I always enjoyed her heroines who rarely fit the description of being “beautiful” and always had some flaw but always found love in the end with men who appreciated their honesty, empathy and love. I often mused that I could easily become one of Macomber’s heroines.

As I brought the fixings for the salad from the refrigerator, the phone rang. Hurriedly putting the lettuce, kale, radishes and cucumbers on the counter, I rushed to grab the phone off its hook next to the kitchen door.

“Julie? Is that you?” The voice paused, before responding to my “hello.” The voice sounded muted, almost too faint to hear.

“Yes,” I answered, growing impatient, before I realized it was Hank Duke on the line.

“Hank, is that you?” I said, hardly disguising my eagerness to talk to him. We hadn’t talked privately for nearly two months. For the last six weeks of the school year, we had agreed not to be together, largely to avoid the gossip that surely would have erupted among our fellow teachers and possibly even among the students. Both of us had agreed that given my transition and the future of both of our teaching careers it was best to remain distant, greeting each other in school only when necessary for school business, which hardly ever occurred since he was in physical education and I was an English teacher.

“Julie, I debated whether to call you. It’s been two weeks since school let out, and I should have called you sooner, I guess,” he said.

“Yes, you should have Hank,” I said rather harshly, not trying to hide my disappointment in not hearing from him.

“I’m sorry. I’ve missed you.”

“If you missed me, why couldn’t you have called?” I said.

There was only silence on the other end of the line. He didn’t answer the question.

“Hank, why didn’t you call?” I pressed. “I thought you must have found another girlfriend or something. Maybe a real girl instead of a phony like me.”

My anger turned to a full-blown crying jag. Each night, I had debated with myself over whether to call him, but decided it wasn’t the girl’s role to call a guy; if he still wanted me, he knew my phone number, I figured. Many nights, I fell into depression thinking about him. Often my thoughts turned in desperation to Randy, but I knew that any love with him was out of the question. It was Hank I loved. I missed him terribly and every night I dreamed of being in his arms again, of having my slender, soft body engulfed in his hugs, his full lips upon mine. I missed the scent of his male sweat, the salty taste from his skin and the rippling muscles of his back as I drew him close against me.

“Oh, Julie, Julie. Please don’t cry. I’m sorry.”

My sobbing continued making it difficult for me to respond other than to repeat his name several times between sobs. Finally I got my crying under control and he suggested we go out to dinner that night, unless, he said, “you have another date for tonight.”

I told him that I was free for the night, but was not interested in a full dinner since I had just come from a picnic where I had filled up on snacks and had two beers. Finally we agreed that he’d pick me up in a half hour and we’d go to a sandwich and dessert shop located along the shoreline. “They really have great cheesecake there,” he said, which helped me come to a quick decision. Cheesecake and Hank: what a sweet and yummy combination!

I gave myself a quick sponge bath to wash off the dried sweat from my sorry basketball adventure. I put on a fresh bra and panties under a flowing peasant skirt and a simple light pink blouse that buttoned down the front, adding a single strand faux pearl necklace and matching earrings. I let my hair flow freely as I had earlier in the day. Adding a touch of light citrus perfume, I felt as “fresh as a daisy.”

“I am a pretty girl,” I said to myself when I finished, shamelessly letting myself fall into a narcissistic mood.

*****
I was eager to see Hank and I finished dressing, fixing my hair and applying makeup with minutes to spare before Hank was scheduled to arrive. Something gnawed at me during Hank’s call; though he had said all of the appropriate words, he seemed cold and rather matter-of-fact. I didn’t feel the same warmth in conversation that I had felt in our earlier private moments together. I reasoned with myself – more with hope than with evidence – that he felt ashamed for having put off calling me for so long after school had ended for the year.

To make matters worse, Hank was twenty minutes late in picking me up. He was polite and gentlemanly, as he always was, telling me how lovely I looked, holding the doors for me and assisting me into his sports car. It was impossible not to expose a bit of my thigh regardless of how careful I was in fitting myself into the bucket seat. This time, however, Hank made an obvious move to avert his eyes so as to avoid seeing the soft white flesh.

It was a warm June night with a soft breeze off the water and Hank and I decided to take an outdoor table with an umbrella canopy of pink and light green with dainty lettering of the establishment: “Karen’s Cakes ‘n Stuff.” The table was off to the side of the patio, overlooking the beach, and with the noise of the waves, cars and other talking patrons offered an intimate setting with a degree of privacy, if we kept our voices low and sat close to each other.

Our conversation was awkward, almost like we were a couple on a “first date,” having been thrown together by two friends who told us both that “we’d be perfect together” but then discovering that each of us was disappointed in our “perfect” dates. We talked mainly about what we were doing for the summer, me about summer school and Hank about the summer recreation program he was running for the city’s teenagers.

“I’ve been busy setting it up,” he said, repeating his earlier telephone apology for not having called.

“That’s OK, Hank, I’ve been busy myself,” I said. It was partly true; I was busy with the classes and cleaning the house, a chore I had neglected during the school year. Yet, I found plenty of time to think about both men in my life, Hank who hadn’t called, and Randy, whom I was hoping would not call.

“This cheesecake is to die for,” I gushed after savoring the last bite of my caramel rum cheesecake.

“I thought you’d like this place, Julie,” he said. It was a flat, emotionless statement.

I looked down at the half-full cup of coffee before me, thought for a moment, and then looked up at him. His eyes had a dull, sad look.

“Hank, what’s wrong, honey,” I said, reaching over to touch his hand.

He pulled his hand away abruptly, my surprise at his rejection exceeded only by melancholy. I felt I was about to cry.

“Don’t do that,” he said.

“What’s up, Hank? What did I do? Tell me, for God’s sake,” I said, tears beginning to flood my eyes.

He said nothing for a moment; I looked out at the water, noticing the sun had gone down, seeming to throw a dark blanket on what just minutes before had been a bright cheerful place bouncing with activity. I noticed most of the patio’s customers had left, leaving us somewhat isolated in the growing chill of the evening.

“We can’t see each other anymore,” he said finally.

I looked at him; his face betrayed no emotion.

“What’s going on with you? I thought you said you missed me,” I finally said.

“Julie, please understand,” he began. “I do miss you and I have fallen in love with you. You’re truly amazing, not only beautiful, the most beautiful girl I’ve ever known, but also so warm and friendly and smart. Oh, this is awful . . . “

His voice trailed off into mumbles and he looked down at his coffee.

“But why? I think I’ve fallen in love with you.”

“Oh darling, my darling Julie,” he said, taking both my hands and holding them across the table.

I could see tears forming in his eyes, too. I wanted to break out into full blown sobs, but realizing we were likely to cause attention I forced myself to hold back.

“Have you got a girlfriend? A real girl, not a freak like me?” I asked finally.

“Don’t call yourself that, Julie, but I don’t have another girl. You’re the only girl I’ve ever felt l truly loved, but we can’t see each other. It’ll ruin both of our careers.”

Hank finally explained that when he found out that I’d likely get a contract to teach the next year at Farragut High it would compromise us both; the fact was that while he denied I was a “freak,” it was a reality that my transgendered status was the barrier that would separate us forever. I could understand Hank’s situation: he was involved in the macho world of sports where everyone was supposed to be heterosexual, strong and masculine. In addition, he had been offered and accepted the job as Farragut’s football coach, a job that would put him in the spotlight. His friendship with me, particularly since most people in school would know that Miss Pearson once was a male teacher named Mr. Pearson, would cause him no end of humiliation and difficulty.

I argued with him, of course, stating I would try to go to a different school, maybe even a school outside of the district. He met most of my suggestions with a grunt or a noncommittal statement like, “I guess that might work.”

“Forget it, Julie, we just can’t meet anymore. I will treat you with respect in school, and maybe even say ‘Hi’ to you from time to time, but we can never date again.” His words were definite and final.

“Then you’d better take me home,” I said, getting up abruptly.

He did not open the door to his sports car this time and let me struggle into the front seat. He made no effort to assist me at the house, letting me open the door by myself as he stared straight ahead.

“I guess this is it, then?” I said as a moved out of the car.

“Yes, Julie, for us it is. Best of luck, girl. You’re a real special person and you’ll always be in my thoughts,” he said, his voice tender for the first time that night.

“Thank you,” I said, closing the door of his car. I walked directly and purposefully up to my darkened house. I didn’t look back to follow the red lights of his departing car. Just hearing the even purr of his engine gave me pangs that a lovely chapter in the short life of Julie Pearson had ended on this warm, June night.

*****
Though she was thirty years older than I was, we seemed to mesh perfectly. Through her friendship I learned about being a woman. Not only did she have a particularly keen sense of how to dress and make herself look attractive and appealing to all persons, but she demonstrated that being a woman is not easy and that it takes fortitude and patience rarely found in a man.

“You’ve already faced one such incident that ended in rejection,” Harriet Simpson said one Saturday while the two of us sat in the coffee shop at the Botanical Gardens where we had gone to view the lush, fresh green that is vivid in the month of June in the northern climates.

I waited for her to continue; it had been a week since Hank summarily dumped me and I was fretting over my decision to transition, going into despair that I may headed for a life of loneliness. How could anyone fall in love with such a person who was half man and half woman?

“Oh, I know what you’re thinking, Julie. You’re thinking that Hank dumped you because of your gender issues. Well, you’re wrong. Men dump women all the time and it’s usually because of their own vanity. God, men are terribly afraid of challenging the norms. Look at our friend, Jon; he’s one of the most courageous men I know since he’s living his own truth, the fact that he’s gay. So don’t blame yourself and think you’re worthless, dear, because you’re not.”

“That’s all well and good, Harriet, but the fact is that I’m not a complete woman and never will be,” I said. “I can’t blame a man for wanting a woman who could give him children.”

Harriet looked at me; I could sense she was getting exasperated at my continual expression of self-loathing. After all, I had unburdened both my sadness and shame at losing Hank in both of our outings that week. Harriet and I decided that Thursday nights would be a “girls night out” and that usually meant a visit to a jazz club (if one of our favorite groups was performing) or to a movie. Saturday afternoon usually meant a visit to a museum or art gallery or shopping. It had become our routine and broke the loneliness that summer often brings to female schoolteachers who are single.

“You’re a natural woman, honey, and you’d be just as feminine in a pair of slacks and with no makeup on,” Harriet.

“You’re just trying to cheer me up,” I said.

“Dammit, Julie, quit beating up on yourself,” she said.

“OK.”

“And just to prove the point,” Harriet continued. “You see those two young guys over there eying us up and down. You can rest assured they aren’t looking at an old bag like me.”

I had noticed the two of them; they were tall, broad-shouldered and well-tanned. Both wore polo shirts and shorts that exposed muscular calves. They were accompanied by a tall young woman, also tanned and hard-bodied, who apparently had left them momentarily, perhaps to use the facilities or make a purchase at the concessions. After she left, I noticed the two of them looking in my direction, leaning across the table to whisper. The one with longish, blonde hair caught my eye, and seemed to give me a guarded wink. I looked away and blushed.

“They are hunks, I guess,” I said, feigning an interest in them, though at the moment I was in no mood to entertain a liaison with another “hunk” unless it was Randy (who would have had to miraculously turned eighteen).

“They probably think I’m your mother or else the one without the girl would have already been over here to hit on you, Julie,” Harriet said with a giggle.

“That’s just what I need,” I said sarcastically.

“Give it time, Julie. You’re too lovely a person.”

Quite apart from my gender issues, I had always thought I was a generous, caring person who was usually open to befriend other people. I had always felt that mom had such qualities and I hoped that I could be half as good as she was. I looked across the table at Harriet and saw the same warm qualities in her. I had seen during my first semester of teaching how the students adored her; I had even sat in on one of her school play rehearsals and was impressed with the way she got the students to follow her directions, using humor or praise to correct a flaw or to suggest a movement.

Harriet was a handsome woman, still trim and firm in her mid-fifties. She kept her hair short, and it had developed strands of gray. In spite of wearing little makeup, her face maintained a smooth quality that was only now beginning to show lines. She had none of the stereotypes that accompany spinster schoolteachers; she was not a sour person, but rather one that enjoyed a good laugh, that had had her share of love affairs, both male and female. In truth, Harriet Simpson lived a full life.

“Harriet, you are a lovely person and I’m so happy for your friendship,” I said.

“Julie, I’m your friend because I want to be with you. You’re interesting and except for today when you’re mooning over Hank Duke you’re a helluva a lot of fun.”

“OK, I’ll forget about Hank Duke right now . . . well, at least for today.”

“Well that’s a start,” Harriet said with a laugh.

Suddenly I felt an urge to kiss Harriet, to embrace her passionately as we snuggled together. Why was this happening to me? I’m supposed to be a woman and now I felt the need to caress her, to examine her body and all of its enticing crevices. She smiled at me and I instinctively reached over and grabbed both of her hands and began to tear up.

Harriet must have sensed my feelings, though I said nothing. She was silent, too, and I felt her hands, coarser and larger than mine, caress slowly, her thumbs massaging my palms.

“I guess we’d better pay the bill and get out of here,” she said finally.

As we left the Botanical Gardens, she suggested that I join her for supper at her place, a fashionable condo along the river that drained into the harbor. “I’ve got a pizza in the fridge and the makings for salad. How about it, Julie?”

We never got to the pizza or the salad. Even before we finished our first glass of wine in her apartment, we were in her bed.

We kissed and caressed voraciously as we helped each other undress, sometimes giggling over the contortions we had to go into while taking off our outer clothes, before getting to the lingerie. I marveled at her lean, firm body, her muscular arms and her long legs. I felt weak and insignificant before this elegant woman. We fell together onto the bed.

“I’m so inexperienced, Harriet. I hope I don’t disappoint you,” I said. In truth, I was scared; I felt so helpless with this strong woman and I had no idea what I was supposed to do.

“Just be yourself, darling. You’re doing fine,” she said, her hands kneading my fleshy inner thighs.

“I’m still a virgin,” I confessed suddenly, letting out a shame that I had reached the mid-twenties never having had sex with anyone of either sex.

“My darling, darling Julie,” Harriet said in a low, soothing voice.

We continued like this for a long time, gently running our hands up and down each other’s body, alternately kissing gently and then with urgent passion as our tongues entered the other’s mouth and played and intermingled.

“You’re so soft and tender, Julie,” the older woman said as I surrendered myself in her arms.

I nestled my face into her armpit finding myself strangely aroused by the scent of her deodorant. Her body was unusually smooth. Even her smallish breasts remained firm in spite of her age but as I caressed the left breast I could feel its nipple harden and grow and the woman began panting heavily.

As we cuddled and caressed, Harriet’s body began to churn and move excitedly and she let out occasional moans, even gasping “oh yes, yes, Julie” as my fingers found her vagina and entered. I could feel Harriet’s hand move down my soft tummy to find my tiny, sorry piece of manhood, now soft and largely unresponsive due to the hormones. Yet, in the excitement of the moment the piece had grown semi-hard.

“We don’t need to have sex, Julie,” Harriet said. “Just play with me down there and let me caress you.”

“I’m probably not capable anymore anyway,” I said.

She had three orgasms that night, each one more violent than the one before it. Eventually I fell sound asleep, having grown excited but never able to reach my own climax. I couldn’t wait to have my own vagina.

The next morning, Harriet cooked bacon and eggs; I made pancakes and we gorged ourselves after our wonderful evening together.

*****
Harriet and I became constant companions as the summer wore on. I learned that until recently she had a live-in boyfriend, a tall, handsome man of her same age with a becoming mustache and full head of hair (to judge from the picture she kept on her dresser of the two of them at some type of formal dance). He had proven to be so irresponsible that she had kicked him out.

“He was great in bed, but that was about all,” she told me one night. “Couldn’t keep a job. He still calls me, but I refuse to talk to him.”

She was troubled by her sexuality, she confessed. “I guess I’m bisexual, but maybe all I crave is a loving partner. What do you think?”

I thought about that for a moment, wondering if perhaps might explain my own sexual adventures, such as they were. My first infatuation was for a high school boy, then a somewhat older male physical education teacher and now an older woman. What did they have in common and what was it that brought me to their arms and warmed me to their kisses? Perhaps it was because my feminine beauty, my weakness and my fragility intrigued all three of them. I hoped that was not all; I wanted, too, to be loved for more important qualities such as being a complete, generous, intelligent human being. I wondered if I was such a human. I hoped, too, it was not vanity.

We went out together to eat supper, go shopping and attend outdoor concerts that had become popular in our community. Both of us liked the “oldies” stuff from the Beatles, Led Zeppelin and Pink Floyd. We also loved going to the ethnic festivals to wander the grounds, enjoy a few beers and maybe down a few brats or hamburgers to totally destroy our diets. We giggled a lot – like a pair of school girls – and Harriet sometimes embarrassed me by hooting loudly, even letting out a piercing whistle in cheering a band.

Of course, we ended many nights in bed together. I never attempted to try to use my pathetic male organ to penetrate Harriet. First of all, it might not have stayed hard long enough to accomplish the task, obviously due to the hormones; secondly, I wasn’t quite sure how it was done. Soon I came to the realization that in perhaps a year’s time I would exchange that organ for a vagina and would never have had the experience of performing that masculine function.

I lived in wonderment thinking about Harriet. Of course, I was infatuated with her, and she was in fact the most interesting person I’d ever met. At the high school, she was strict, firm and correct, almost the stereotype of the “old maid teacher.” Yet, I now knew her as a complete, vibrant woman.

Harriet had also had a tragic life, I learned. Quite by accident, one night while waiting for her to get ready for a night out, I noticed I had a run in my stocking and she had a couple of new pair I could use. “Wear one of those, Julie,” she suggested. “Go help yourself; they’re in the top dresser drawer in my bedroom.”

The stockings were buried among her panties, and while rummaging about I ran into a framed picture at the bottom of the drawer. I brushed aside the panties enough to see it was a picture of a young soldier, standing in front of an armed car in what appeared to be a desert background. He was smiling, and in the fat strokes of a marker there was written in a neat script: “I love you mom, Kevin.”

“Having trouble finding them?” Harriet entered the room. I looked up and grew red in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t find the stockings at first, and I saw the picture at the bottom of the drawer. I didn’t mean to pry.”

She came over to me and hugged me and began to cry; I rarely saw her cry before and I wondered if I had stumbled upon some terrible secret.

“That’s OK,” she said, trying to hold back tears.

“I’m really sorry,” I said again. I was at a loss for words.

“I should have told you, darling. That’s my son, Kevin. My only son and wasn’t he just about the handsomest thing?’

“Yes.”

“Killed by sniper fire in the first year of the Iraq war. It’s been eleven years now, and I tried to bury all my thoughts about him. I loved him, Julie. So much and he had so much promise. I urged him not to volunteer for the Marines, but he felt it his patriotic duty. And such an unnecessary war. So shameful.”

She confessed that in her first year out of college, while teaching English in a smalltown high school, she fell in love with the school’s athletic director, health teacher and football coach. He was a handsome man, but also a bully and a womanizer, a fact that Harriet learned after she had become pregnant. When she refused to get an abortion, the boyfriend dumped her, and Harriet moved off to her current job, where she had been ever since. Kevin was but one month old when she started teaching at Farragut.

“Maybe I should bring out my pictures of Kevin,” she said.

We decided not to go out that night after all. Instead, she and I pored over several albums of photos she had buried deep in a clothes closet. She and her young son made a truly handsome family. There were pictures of Kevin from his first day of life, his various birthdays, in his Little League uniform, in the school play, in his graduation gown and finally in his Marine Corps blues.

Her reminiscences brought joyous laughter and twinkles to her eyes as she relived the happy moments of her life. It was obvious that Kevin had been the center of her life; now all she had were memories and a drawer full of pictures.

“I’m sorry if this brought you pain,” I said.

“No, honey, I needed to do this,” she said. “It’s about time I quit trying to bury my sadness.”

Our love-making that night was slow and gentle. For the first time in our relationship, I was in the role of comforting her. That evening, I never felt closer to anyone than I did with her, except of course my mother.

*****
Fortunately the early weeks of the summer break were busy ones, giving me little time to dwell on my strange willingness to seek kisses and warm embraces from several persons at once, and of both genders. My summer school classes – telescoping thirteen weeks of work into six – took most of my time, along with the regular chores about the house. While I never had any problems falling asleep, I did find myself waking early, sometimes as early as four-thirty in the morning, with my mind racing in all sorts of directions: my constant yearning for the strong, maturing body of Randy, or the more hairy muscular frame of Hank or the sinewy curves of Harriet.

In each relationship, I was weak and submissive, content to feel engulfed by warm arms and comforting caresses. I relished my soft, physical helplessness that brought out the protective love from the other person. Did it matter to me that I didn’t care who or what was protecting me? A strong teenager, a muscular giant of a man or an angular older woman?

Since mother had died my life had been empty. She had been my protector and the director of my life. Because of her I found myself as a girl and then later as a woman. My mother knew me and understood me. Perhaps what I craved now was the same kind of protector and lover.

No, that can’t be, I puzzled, as my mind raced ahead, changing courses. Is all I can offer in a relationship is soft, flabby feminine weakness? Have I no other qualities?

Who is this person emerging from within myself? What defines the real Julie? Certainly she has more to offer. Maybe she will never discover herself.

These thoughts haunted me as early light of summer dawn began seeping through the shades. I had many questions, but no answers.