Friends Four Life
Gill: A Girl Friend
By Angela Rasch

To have a good friend is one of the highest delights of life; to be a good friend is one of the noblest and most difficult undertakings. - Anonymous

Part One of Seven - Completed

Prologue

My second-story bedroom window looked out over the deck where a brass and redwood wind chime cried out. The light breeze coming off Massachusetts Bay was causing it to make full use of its six notes. Although the wind played a random song it managed to be melodious and pleasing.

Late last night, I had skimmed through a book of names, and had stopped at Gill. It means “girlfriend.”

Once I had set aside a mispronunciation, which prompted the mental image of a fish, the name “Gill” seemed quite pretty. Coincidentally, fish oil is a fixative for perfume. A Gill by any other name would still smell as sweet.

Gill it was. Gill, as in Gill — ette, with a French-like soft “j.” I looked sharp, and I felt sharp, too.

Gill had been with me for as long as I could remember. She was to be with me permanently.

I sat at a two-drawer Shaker worktable that I used for a vanity. Its simplicity contrasted with the intricacies of my life. At times, I had made things more complex than needed. Instead of getting something simple from Chadwick’s, I had indulged myself with the antique, peach, silk-satin dressing gown that I was wearing.

My mind meandered through the tortuous journey from Jim to Jill to Gill while I painted my nails, in a shade suitable for travel. There had been a time when applying nail polish required my full concentration. With thousands of repetitions, the brushstrokes had become ingrained.

Or was it possible that my feminine actions had been instinctive? Instinct. . .or learned behavior? Had I chosen my life, or had the choice been made for me?

That wasn’t a simple question.

I thought again of another warm Saturday afternoon. That had been the day I had been forced to take my first decisive steps toward becoming Gill -- a girlfriend.

Chapter One
Who Wants To Be “It”

“Jim, you have no choice,” Debbie said. “If you don’t do exactly what we tell you to do, we’ll file suit. The scandal will ruin your marriage and career. You’re going to pay. You shouldn’t have embarrassed us the way you did the night of the Taste of France.”

I glared across the living room at Debbie, Sarah, and Anne, while realizing how badly I had misjudged them. They sat together on a large couch opposite the overstuffed chair that held me. The oatmeal and raisin cookie Debbie had served had lost its taste and was catching in my throat.

I don’t often misjudge people. My career had been built on quickly assessing abilities. I had fought my way up the ladder to a $200,000-a-year job by accurately judging how far I could push people to do things that were in my best interest.

In 1962, Warren Buffett purchased for $31,000 what became his life-long Omaha home on Farnam Street. My house was a short distance away from his. It cost sixty times that amount. We struggled under the mortgage -- but I loved the pressure. So what, if I habitually worked overtime? My family had a nice home and all the economic advantages. Sure, occasionally I had to finesse my staff. But overall -- I was good to my people.

The three girls who were blackmailing me apparently didn’t appreciate the fine line between motivation and manipulation.

They should have.

Perhaps they hadn’t been listening the many times I had recited one of my favorite maxims, “Every once in a while to move ahead, you have to do something you don’t want to do, something you might even fear.”

What was a little embarrassment compared to all the good we got out of that office party? I thought. Doesn’t the end sometimes justify the means?

Debbie, Sarah, and Anne all reported to me. We had been partners at one time. The four of us had worked together for Weston Law, before we resigned en masse to create our own little company. It had been a risky move. We had to work 60 - 75 hours weeks, in the beginning, to create a client base.

Within two years, our business became successful. We attracted the attention of the owners of National Corporation, who paid us what we thought was a lot of money to sell out and then work for them.

The closing had been sort of weird. National Corporation had made a mistake in their due diligence and had arrived at the closing with a check for almost $150,000 too much. We had agreed upon a formula for the purchase based on eight times pretax profits, for the past twelve months. My partners and I corrected the profit number they had used, as soon as we saw their error, even though our attorneys said that there was no way they would ever know the difference. We cut a check to them to square the deal, and then inked the contract.

I oversaw our division, which employed just over one hundred people. Our divisional office was in northwest Omaha. Although we weren’t lawyers, we dispensed wide-ranging legal advice acting as out-sourced paralegals for small law firms. We researched the law for attorneys who lacked adequate time or staff.

My people had agile minds and were very good at creating esoteric, innovative, and effective answers that were backed by accurate research.

Debbie, thirty-three, had been through a messy divorce after her first husband was ruined by cocaine. They had been members of the international jet set. Because of his drug abuse, they had lost their home -- and their love. She had moved two states away, and then quickly married the first man that would have her and her three-year-old daughter.

Her life went from taking the Concorde to London to see the latest Andrew Lloyd Webber opening, to searching the racks of Barnes and Noble to read about other peoples’ adventures. Debbie was attractive, in a once high school cheerleader / now den-mother kind of way. She dressed in Brooks Brothers, left over from the economic good times of her first marriage. She was the closest to me in age -- and in most arguments.

Sarah was already a confirmed spinster at twenty-nine. In her late teens, she had partied nightly with bikers. She could surprise you with her intelligence and sensitivity -- if she wanted to. I called her “Fergie” when she was out of earshot, or when I wanted to get her attention.

Sarah didn’t always react well to teasing or being compared to the Duchess of York, even though there was a strong physical resemblance. A sign over her desk said, “Whatever women do - they must do twice as well as men to be thought half as good. Luckily, this is not difficult.”

It was a direct affront to -- that I elected to ignore. We were good at ignoring one another.

Anne was also single and just five years out of college. She was intelligent and had moved quickly to the top in our organization. Her fantastic body and long golden hair drew instant attention. Anne dressed like Erin Brockovich, but was guilty of false advertising. She taught Sunday school and was most likely still a virgin.

The event where Debbie said I had embarrassed them, the Taste of France, had been my idea. I had wanted to entertain two hundred of our most important clients. We had rented a large banquet room and had caterers serve an elaborate French meal. To provide the final touch, I had Debbie, Sarah, and Anne serve clients champagne, while dressed in French-maid outfits.

My immediate supervisor with National Corporation, Tony Warran, had flown in for our soiree. He later suggested in an inter-divisional memo, that the managers of the other divisions hold similar parties. Per his memo, everyone had a wonderful time, with the night offering “unique opportunities” for him to “make meaningful contacts.”

I had heard things about Tony that bothered me, but not enough to disturb our working relationship. At forty-one, he was five years older than me. He loved to party. Other than his ability to go for the jugular when he had a distinct advantage, he was a bit of a lightweight as a businessman.

Tony was a throwback to the era of the three-martini lunch. He was the master negotiator for the company.

As Sarah put it, “Tony’s very good at dangling the bait and landing the fish. He’s a master-baiter.”

The girls and I laughed at his outdated attitudes and ever-present wingtips.

The girls had initially refused to wear their costumes.

Sarah flatly told me to “Put my French-fried ideas where the sun doesn’t shine.”

I dismissed their blatant (an anal-oriented) challenge to my authority as protesting too much. Every woman secretly wants to dress sexy when she can get away with it.

“Now that you bring it up,” I said. “Maybe. . .I guess I was a little insensitive.”

“A little insensitive?” Debbie asked. “Try totally-without-a-clue. You reduced us to waitresses. We looked horrible in the eyes of our most important clients, not to mention our subordinates.”

It might have been better had I not invited the entire office, when only Debbie, Sarah, and Anne were dressed as whores. I was decked out in a tux and, per my directive, all the other employees had worn formal attire.

“Deb — bie?” I asked. “Don’t you think everyone had fun? Sarah? Anne? Anne, what’s the big deal with you? Your everyday wardrobe can be pretty outrageous.”

Anne’s head snapped back as if I had rolled up a newspaper and smacked her, across the nose. If there had been a chance Anne would have relented, I had lost her. Dressing like she did must have caused her some pain somewhere along the line. She evidently was sensitive about her wardrobe.

Can I help it she has a Frederick’s of Hollywood sense of fashion? People can be so funny about their clothes.

“Don’t you girls know by now? I would never ask you to do something I wouldn’t.”

Knowing looks flashed between the three. Obviously, I had stepped into something.

“We’ve heard that ‘I would never ask you to do something I wouldn’t’ thing one too many times,” Sarah said. “Do you really think you’re that fair?” She spoke for the first time. Up until that point, all she and Anne had done was bob their heads in agreement with Debbie’s rant. “Jim, do you EVER hear yourself when you call us your ‘girls?’ Have you ever considered how demeaning the word ‘girls’ is to career women?”

I had pushed Sarah to take a Dale Carnegie course to help her express herself. It appeared I had created Frankenstein’s bride.

When had she formed the self-image of a career woman, and when was it decided I needed P.C. lessons? So what? The “career women” need to move the meeting along, so I can get out on the golf course, for my Saturday afternoon tee time. I’m not about to miss it because of a bitch session.

Debbie’s air-conditioner was laboring outside her patio door. Her husband had taken her daughter to the country club, for a swim. I was dressed in shorts, a polo shirt, and sandals, and they were all similarly casually dressed. I was drinking a Coke Debbie had offered with the cookies when I came in the door. They had asked me to meet them at Debbie’s house for a discussion. Although I considered them friends, I had never been to any of their homes.

I had gone to Debbie’s house after jogging five miles, followed by a quick shower at my home. I didn’t belong to a health club, as I didn’t feel all that comfortable when I was naked around other men. I had assumed the meeting had something to do with work, but I hadn’t suspected an ambush.

I lifted my drink to my lips, more to gain thinking time than to quench my thirst. Debbie must have left the pop open in her refrigerator for too long. It has an aftertaste. As I sipped, large drops of condensation trickled from my glass to my lap.

She hadn’t asked if I wanted anything stronger, because she knew I preferred not to drink alcohol before 6:00. I had watched Debbie pour the Coke straight out of a half-full liter bottle she had taken from the refrigerator. There wasn’t any liquor in my drink -- but I felt a buzz behind my eyes.

“You embarrassed the shit out of us,” Sarah said. “You’ve harmed our reputations with those who are the most important to our careers.”

“I’m the most important person to your careers.” I wink trying to lighten the tone of our conversation. “You wore those outfits to please me, although I think each of you secretly loved the opportunity to show a little T&A.” Oops! I shouldn’t have said that. Unanimous frowns and sighs came at me, from the other side of the room.

“Jiiimmmm.” Debbie stretched my name. “There isn’t any hope for you. You just don’t get it.”

I was fed up with their non-constructive criticism and felt lethargic. Perhaps I overdid my jogging. I’ll skip golf, and take a nap, as soon as I cut short their meeting. After a nap, maybe I’ll finally take Jackie and the kids to the zoo.

Debbie whined on. “We need to set things right. We’re prepared to take this matter to court if you don’t. . ..”

“Court? Wow! Give three little girls a fraction of a legal education, and they go hog-wild. ONE! You haven’t told me your terms. TWO! I haven’t the slightest idea what sort of legal position you think you have, and THREE! I’m a friend of every attorney within five hundred miles. Even if you really do have some half-assed legal theory, no one would represent you.”

I like to verbally number my arguments, letting people know I can think, count, and talk — all at the same time. Pulling myself out of the chair, I started for the door.

“Hey asshole! Do the words 'sexual harassment' mean anything to you?” Sarah asked.

I turned, walked back to my chair -- and glared at each of them. Glaring is one of the ways I intimidate people.

Sarah calling me an “asshole” was nothing new. However, the tacit approval she had received from Anne and Debbie was unnerving.

“Jim,” Debbie said, “When you hired me -- I was a mess. My nerves were shot. After the way my first husband treated me when he was wired, I had lost all my confidence. I’m not sure why you hired me, but I’m indebted to you.”

“Same here,” Sarah said. “I was stuck in the typing pool when you came to work for Weston Law. You saw my potential. I could still be in a dead-end position. I owe you big time.”

“You’re one of the few guys who have given me respect,” Anne said. “I thought that when I graduated with a 3.85 overall, with a double major in computer science and economics that businessmen would look past my body. Like that would ever happen? Same as Sarah and Debbie, I’m grateful you took a chance on me, and allowed me to have so much responsibility.”

“And yet,” I said. “You three are willing to sue me for sexual - - freaking - - - harassment! What a bunch of cunts. When I’m done with you, you’ll all have to move out of the country to find gainful employment. Sexual freaking harassment! You clowns!”

It was very quiet in the room. Everything that had been said hung in the air. The years we had been friends, all we had been through -- they were throwing it down the drain.

I would hate to do it, but they could be replaced.

Debbie was cooking something that smelled like pot roast. I decided to stop at McDonald’s on the way home to get a Big Mac, fries, and a vanilla malt.

Anne broke the silence. “Jim, I think you need to. . ..”

“No!” I cut her off. “It’s you three jerks that ‘need to’. . .‘need to’ think. If you shut up now, I’m going to pretend this never happened. You would think that you three would know enough about the law. What the hell are you thinking with? You can’t go around threatening people, especially when you don’t have a leg to stand on.”

“That’s just it, Jim. We do know the law,” Anne said. “We know what you did was horribly wrong. What you made us do would look terrible to a jury. We have the facts and the law on our side. This is a lot like the Hooters case.”

The Hooters case had involved a chain of bars that had hired well-endowed waitresses and dressed them in tight T-shirts. “You can’t use your employees to titillate and amuse your customers.” Anne was looking me right in the eyes, without a trace of fear in her voice. Although Anne was smart, she was also feminine. It was unusual for her to trust her abilities enough, to be strong in her convictions.

“Tit — il — late?” I asked. “I didn’t tell you to do anything sexual, with any of the clients. If any of you screwed a lawyer, you did it of your own volition.”

“Jiimmmm! Really!” Debbie was beginning to twitch around her eyes. She did that when she was upset. “We have our demands and you’re going to agree to them -- today. If you don’t, we’ll file the papers on Monday. If we file, your career will be over as soon as the World-Herald hits the streets. You need. . ..”

“The papers,” I broke in on her, “aren’t going to give a rat’s ass about a suit filed by three bitches looking for instant riches. Hey, that would make a good headline. Bitches Look for Riches.” I’m well aware what words like bitch and cunt do to girls. I used them purposefully to throw them off-stride.

Debbie’s house was charming and not overly large. When I sat down again, we were all within ten feet of one another, which was much too close.

Anne’s Eternity, which was a perfume that usually turned me on, had become strangely annoying. She was wearing a conservative white blouse, however, clearly showing through under it was a black, frilly bra.

Sarah restarted the conversation, which had ground to a halt. “You just don’t understand, do you? You pompous little twit. You’re up shit creek.” She turned to Debbie and Anne. “I told you he would be bull-headed. Show him the complaint. He’s not going to listen until we shove his nose into it.”

Debbie reached into her leather attaché, which had been a Christmas gift from me. What she handed me appeared to be a summons and complaint.

I balanced on the edge of my chair, as I gave it a cursory review. I had reviewed hundreds of complaints. Their shock value had diminished, as they were commonplace in our business. However, this one carried my name and the name of my employer. My sphincter muscle involuntarily tightened.

“Okay, okay. Good joke. You really outdid yourselves. This thing looks like the real thing. Okay. I apologize. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made you wear those outfits. Do you accept my apology? Are we friends again?”

I was beginning to feel dizzy. The words on the complaint were blurry. Squinting, I made out the words “sexual harassment.” Upon flipping to the last page, I saw they were asking for fifteen million dollars in actual and punitive damages. Holy shit!

“Jim, it’s not a joke,” Anne said. She could have been a model for Alberto Vargas with her big eyes, pale skin, full lips, and sensual body. Her tone sounded friendly.

Maybe I didn’t offend her too much with my clumsy remark about her clothes. It’s Anne’s nature to forgive. She takes a lot from her boyfriend. I would never allow anyone to boss me around like that.

“We’re serious. If you don’t agree to our terms, you’re screwed.”

“Screwed” sounded extremely offensive coming out of Anne’s mouth. Sarah threw around foul language like confetti. Debbie could swear like a trooper after downing enough rum and Coke. But Anne always watched what she said, keeping her vocabulary immaculate and pristine.

I had been sweating for some time. I collapsed further into the easy chair, resolved to reach an understanding with them. Debbie’s massive furniture must have arrived with her marriage. I would have thought her living room to be light and airy. The heavy wooden arms on my chair are making it hard to find a comfortable position.

“Let’s say you talked some ambulance chaser into preparing these papers,” I said with a laugh. “Without a good lawyer involved, the newspapers wouldn’t dare report on a frivolous suit. Unless you retain a top-gun attorney, you have a one-in-ten chance of getting this case to court, and you’ll never win.” I was thinking, actually bluffing, out loud.

The local papers would run darn near anything to boost their circulation. Despite the spot I was in, I chuckled as I visualized the probable headline. Local Businessman Brought to His Knees by Sexual Harassment Suit. Sexual harassment usually involved a woman “brought to her knees,” with a cock in her mouth.

I looked from Anne to Debbie to Sarah expecting them to show signs of agreeing with my evaluation of the case. They normally did.

Given the intensity of the discussion their passive faces betrayed a lack of interest in my opinion and indicated careful joint-planning on their part.

If they can convince a few of the people who had been guests at the Taste of France to testify as to how demeaning the costumes had been, I was “screwed.” Harassment cases have a way of being decided for the plaintiff.

“Laugh all you want, shithead. You’ve had your fun and now it’s our turn.” Sarah used a tone of voice on me she reserved for attorneys who tried to weasel out of their bills. “While you’re laughing, look at the signature.”

I looked for the name Walt Dorner on the complaint. He was the only ham and egger I knew who would consider filing a suit against me. Dorner was a real dirtbag. He would paper his mother, if there was a dime in it for him.

“RA - FREAKING - BECCA!” Damn. Rebecca Turner has never lost a case. She’s a ball-buster.

I had helped her win most of her trials. In addition to almost always calling her Ra-freaking-becca, I also called her “Belt and Suspenders Becca.” She was never satisfied with one solid precedent when she could have two, three, or four. She planned for every possible contingency. Her preparation stopped only when the gavel came down ending the trial.

She was also a friend.

“This isn’t Rebecca’s signature. Do you think I’m that naive? Rebecca wouldn’t sue me. You’ve really stepped in it. When she sees this sham complaint, she’ll help me build an airtight extortion case, against all three of you.”

“You don’t understand sisterhood,” Sarah said. “You’ve let your prick do your thinking for too long. I’m going to enjoy teaching you a good lesson.” Sarah bent over the coffee table that separated us, and jabbed her index finger at me. “She’s really furious at the way you had us dress. She suggested that night that we sue you. She’s doing the legal work pro bono. Rebecca’s had it in for you for years. You really screwed up when you told her law partners it was your work that won several of her cases.”

I had made a few remarks along those lines to RA-FREAKING-BECCA’s partners at a charity smoker. It had been the scotch talking. Those were the kind of things guys say to guys. I would have to have a word with them about their lack of discretion.

What is it with women attorneys? They’re either ultra-feminine -- screwing every judge on the circuit, or they tend to be Marine lesbos with short hair and sensible shoes. Rebecca definitely isn’t a Marine. Her shoes are normally three-inch, Italian-made stilettos. She has short, but feminine hair. She’s been the object of more than a few fantasies I’ve enjoyed. I wonder which judge she’s bedding?

“She doesn’t think much of that disgusting nickname you’ve given her, either.” Anne said.

Anne’s too sensitive. Rebecca is a big girl. If there’s something about me she doesn’t like, she’ll let me know.

“I’m not buying it,” I said. “You’re bluffing. Maybe Ra — f. . .Rebecca did help you write this pile of shit. So what?”

Debbie looked at me like she did her daughter when she needed her nose wiped. “So -- here’s what, Jiiimmm. You’ve got no prospect whatsoever of landing another job at even half the package you’re getting from National Corporation -- not within five hundred miles of here, anyway. Jackie’s family is all within fifty miles. She isn’t about to move. If you lose this job, your marriage will be over. You’ve got approximately $225,000 in the bank and in stocks. Your chances in a divorce court, once this suit has disgraced you, would be nil. The money will all go to Jackie along with custody of the boys. You’ll be toast.”

Jackie? What will Jackie say and do? I love that woman, but she can be unreasonable. The kids are great, but without my job, I won’t be a decent provider. I have to figure a way out. Jackie despised the costumes I made the girls wear. She chewed me out, before she left the party to do volunteer work at an abused women’s shelter. Jackie doesn’t like the way I act at work, and normally avoids office functions.

“Once we sue, Tony will turn on you in a flash,” Anne said. “You screwed up bad. That guy will fire you to protect himself. He’s such a jerk.” Anne’s mouth looked like she had sucked on a lemon.

I leaned forward in my chair, to signal I was willing to be reasonable. Maybe it was stress, or maybe it was too warm, even though I was furious and full of adrenalin, I had to stifle a yawn.

“Okay,” I said. “You don’t know shit about how Tony or Jackie would react, but I’ll listen to your demands. Let’s talk this out.”

Debbie assumed her role of office manager. “This is the release you will sign.” She shoved another legal document in front of me. It was a release based on several conditions. I glanced at the back page and saw RA --- ahhh -- Rebecca’s signature. It looked official. I was surprised there was no money mentioned in their demands.

It appears they wanted a moral victory. The fifteen million dollars they had demanded in the complaint had been strictly for bargaining.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

What a bunch of twats. I’ll sign their silly-ass paper and pretend to go along. Then I’ll pick them off one by one, tossing them out on the street.

According to the release, I’m to admit I had acted egregiously. As long as I meet their ongoing demands, they won’t file the suit, or notify National Corporation. During the next two years, I’m to do everything necessary to become compassionate in regards to the “horrible and painful experience” I had put them through the night of the Taste of France.

I’m to follow their instructions explicitly. If necessary, they can take punitive action. I’m to give them my credit cards, to pay all incurred expenses. If I fail to make every effort to understand Anne, Sarah, and Debbie’s humiliation, and if I didn’t come to real and true contrition, they will immediately file suit against my employer and me.

I’m to agree I won’t contest their suit, if it has to be filed, due to my non-compliance. I’m to agree to stipulate the facts of the case, as outlined in the complaint Pacta Sunt Servanda, under which the parties agree to observe all the conditions of the contract without fail. I’m to plead Nolo Contendere if they decide to also seek criminal charges against me.

“Criminal charges?” I asked.

Anne’s beautiful blue eyes and saintly face beamed at me. “Rebecca thinks we can create some new law in that area. Rebecca thinks we can successfully plead to the state’s attorney that you inflicted mental anguish on all of us. Rebecca thinks they might name a new kind of criminal act after you. Rebecca thinks you will be classified as a sex offender.”

Rebecca thinks. Rebecca thinks. Obviously, they think I’m someone who cares what Rebecca thinks. Unfortunately for me, they’re right. Damn! I’m over a barrel. Having a felony named after me isn’t the kind of fame I’ve been seeking all my life. Given my slight build, I can imagine what would happen to me in jail as a sex offender.

I have to sign. I’ll take a few sensitivity courses to heighten my awareness of the female condition. I haven’t done anything reprehensible, but I’ll take the high road by signing the release. Once they let down their guard, I’ll fire them.

I have to save face. I can’t agree too easily. “This doesn’t seem to be very specific. We need to add something to limit your ability to cause damage to my reputation. The contract needs something that would allow arbitration of your intended punishments.”

Taking the release from me, Sarah held it in her hands, as if she was preparing to rip it in half. “Screw you. All the crap we’ve done for you over the years, and you repay us by making us look like freaking whores. Up yours! We’re not here to negotiate.”

“Sarah. . ..” Debbie reached to stop her. “Give Jim a chance to reconsider. We have to think of Jackie and the kids.”

“Is that your tactic?” I asked. “Do you think you can push me into a dumb decision by reminding me of my duty to my family? That’s cheap. Debbie, I’ll bet you’ve got extra copies of the release in your briefcase, in case Sarah actually did rip that one.”

Bull’s-eye!

Anne and Debbie reddened.

Sarah slammed the document down on the table and settled back in her chair. “So Needle-dick, how do you like it? Remember when you used peer pressure to make us wear those outfits? You threatened to cut the discretionary employee benefits, if we didn’t agree to wear them. You even put that happy horseshit in an office memo. You were such a prick. Had we refused to wear those damned skirts, everyone in the office would’ve suffered.”

The peer pressure had worked. I can see why Sarah is upset. She’s overweight and her costume called attention to her thighs, but Debbie had looked darned good and Anne had been breath-taking.

“Rebecca tells us,” Sarah continued, “that your memo will be marked as exhibit A. When you read that memo for the jury, they’ll know exactly how you forced us into doing the things that eventually caused Anne so much pain and suffering.”

Evidently, Sarah had said more than she should have. The twitch around Debbie’s eyes told me I didn’t know everything that had happened that night. Their complaint wasn’t specific about what had occurred.

Anne turned away, to wipe a tear from her cheek.

I hate tears. Anne and Sarah are quick to cry when things don’t go their way. I admire Debbie’s ability to hold back her tears.

Even Debbie cried, if the facts in a case that she was researching were particularly appalling. Debbie specialized in divorce law. Whenever the divorce involved abusive behavior, out came the tissues.

What a bunch of ninnies. Women have no pride.

“Maybe I should sign the release and make things right, if that’s what you want. It looks like I might need some sensitivity training.” Yeah, right; I hope they’re buying my bullshit. I’ve done nothing the boys in Boston wouldn’t have done. Taking some courses to improve myself might even look good to the home office. “You do realize I can’t sign anything as open-ended as this! What if you told me I had to parade down Dodge Street in one of those maid outfits? I couldn’t do that. I’m too much of a man to do such a thing. It wouldn’t be right.”

No one offered to reword the agreement. The automatic icemaker in Debbie’s refrigerator clattered new cubes, into its bin.

“Aw freak it,” I said, grabbing the papers. “We’ve been friends for a long time. I’m going to sign this, and then count on you to be sensible. If it’s an apology you want, it’s an apology you’ll get. I’m a man of my word. I’ve always been, and will always be, a man of my word.”

As I signed, fatigue battered me. I sagged back into my chair and drifted toward darkness.

A voice came from behind me, “Jill, you did the right thing agreeing to their terms, but I doubt that you’ll always be a ‘man’ of your word.”

Jackie’s in the room.

She had called me by my female name. . .Jill!

Jackie only used that name begrudgingly, during our lovemaking, when I begged her. Then she would only say it in the dead of night, in a whisper, in our bedroom, where no one else could hear. I turned my head to her voice.

My sweet Jackie is standing in the back of the room with her arms crossed.

The world dissolved to black.

(In Chapter Two, Jim wakes up naked in a motel room and finds two letters on the table. One letter is from his wife. The other is from his three “friends.” The boxes scattered around the room are filled with his secret wardrobe.)

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