“Who controls the past controls the future.” --George Orwell

Musing on my son’s sexually suggestive tattoo on his exposed lower back along with his obvious preference for black, lace panties didn’t allow me much contemplation or speculation because almost as if scripted by a screenwriter, Sara’s telephone rang. My ex wife answered it on the first ring. Was this the result of a premonition of ill tidings on her part or quick reflexes? I soon found out and it was the former. The conversation was one-sided and Sara did most of the listening. This did not bode well as I saw Sara’s face turn ashen as she asked in staccato burst succession: “What?” “When?” and “Are you sure?” Then all hell broke loose.

She hung up the phone with a slam, turned to me, and in a frantic voice said, “They’re coming for Michael.”

Michael’s reaction, of course, was “Huh?” He alternated his quizzical look from Sara to me like it was a prolonged volley between two players in a tennis match. He had no inkling of the danger that he was in.

There was no doubt in my mind, however, that “they” were the Russian mobsters who had been duped of several million bucks by Sara’s missing husband, David Cronenberg, as part of Bernie Madoff’s Ponzi scheme. It would soon be reminiscent of Cossacks razing a defenseless village. We had to act fast!

“Was that Lana?” I asked in a tone more panicky than I had intended. Although I wasn’t sure of Lana’s motivation as the owner of the beauty salon that Sara frequented, my ex wife had told me that Lana was connected to the Russian mob and I took that at face value. Now was not the time to question her credentials.

“Yes,” Sara gasped more than uttered.

“Do you trust me, Sara?” I asked.

“Yes. Please tell me what to do.” A sense of semi-calmness had returned to her person. This in turn caused my inner gyros to stop tumbling.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” I said. “We have about five minutes or so to do a makeover on Michael. Until this nightmare is behind us, he’s going to be my daughter and not your son.” To emphasize my point, I rose abruptly from the couch, grabbed a confused Michael, by the arm and shepherded him into Sara’s bedroom. She followed rapidly in trail.

“Michael, strip down to your panties,” I commanded.

He started to protest, but I cut him off: “Michael, I know all about your cross dressing. Believe me, dear, this is no time for discussion. Just do as your mother and I say. We don’t have much time.” With that his mouth closed, his polo shirt came flying off, and his cargo pants dropped to the floor. So far, so good!

“Ditch the shoes and sox, too,” I directed. He did and they joined the accumulating litter, which Sara quickly scooped up and dumped in a clothes hamper minus the shoes. They went under her bed. While this drama was playing out, self-consciously, he crossed his legs and covered his non-existent bare breasts. I wasn’t sure if I was staring at a boy-girl or a girl-boy! The British model, Twiggy, when she was young, immediately came to mind.

“Sara,” I commanded, “Get Michael something simple, a blouse and skirt outfit would be best.” Simultaneously, I was rummaging through one of Sara’s lingerie drawers looking for a bra and slip. Most of the bras were too big, though, and the slips too long. Finally, I settled on the smallest bra I could find (an older one?) and a half-slip. Tossing them to Michael, I said, “Put these on, quickly.”

Deftly, he slipped into the bra and fastened it. This boy had had practice! Once the bra was installed on his thin frame, though, his empty cups looked like a deserted city. For what it’s worth, I had downtown Detroit in mind. Fortunately, some stuffed hose on each side soon gave him the appearance of a prosperous Motor City suburb. The half-slip was still too long, but Sara rolled it up at the waist to adjust it to the proper length. Then she had him don a multi-hued, long sleeve blouse that was simple, yet, stylish. He then stepped into a blue flat-front skirt with a back-kick pleat and a hemline just below his knees. In the meantime, I was poking through Sara’s shoe selection for a pair of flats and selected a pair of Navy blue loafers. We didn’t have time for hose. Nor for much makeup other than lipstick, some subtle eyebrow attention, and a blue, floral print hair scarf that did wonders for his “updo.” Before our very eyes, Michael had disappeared and a yet-to-be-named female teenager had taken his place. As we rushed back into the living room and grabbed seats, we hoped the Russians would feel the same way.

Within moments of our return, a loud, pounding knock was heard on the front door. Sara looked terrified, Michael looked confused, and my facial expression was somewhere in between. I flashed a false smile to Sara and gave her an “okay” hand gesture with my left forefinger and thumb. This was followed verbally by, “Get the door, Sara, and stay cool. Remember, Michael is not here. This is my daughter, Margo.” I smoothed my skirt nervously, crossed my fingers, and said a silent prayer. As Sara reached for the doorknob, I whispered to Michael, “Remember to answer to Margo and to call me Mom.” Where did the name, Margo, come from? It was strictly spur-of-the moment. We would shortly see if it worked.

Apparently it did, because the three, burly Russians males who entered Sara’s apartment like a blast of cold, Siberian-swept air soon thawed at the sight of three non-threatening females, one of whom was a young girl, and nary a trace of Michael. Margo’s scream, “Mom!” helped to tilt the mise-en-scene in our favor. So did her subsequent play acting hug of me. Our potential assailants were perplexed and obviously caught off guard because their information was wrong. Instead of malevolent thugs, they came across as polite, albeit rough-around-the-edges stooges. They had been briefed to expect that Sara and Michael would be there alone. Instead two middle-aged women and a teenage girl met them. In disorganized response they proffered guttural apologies to the effect in broken English that they were in the wrong apartment and stumbled back out. So much for the sophisticated images we see of high-tech and organized criminals on TV and in Hollywood thrillers. Surprise, Surprise! Life does not always imitate art.

We waited a few minutes for a Russian encore, which didn’t happen, before I told Sara, “I’m going to take Margo home with me for a few days or until this drama plays itself out. We’ll stay in touch by cell phone. No visual contact. Okay?”

She nodded consent. “Okay. It’s 4:15, now. After you leave, I have an errand to attend to. I’ll call you tonight around seven.”

By now, Margo knew that bad events beyond the disappearance of the man he knew to be his father, David Cronenberg, were in motion that he did not understand, but that he had best leave his fate to me. Margo and I departed Sara’s apartment hand in hand; however, it was not a clean break. All of us were worried. To my dying day, I’ll never forget the expression on Sara’s face as we made our way to the elevator after she had embraced Margo and clasped my arm. It was a portrait of innocence, resignation, and bewilderment. Her parting words to us were, “Take care, both of you. God bless.” All of us hoped that He would.

With a sharp sense of uncertainty, Margo and I walked over to Powell Street and caught a cable car down town. If he was going to masquerade as my daughter, he needed some clothes. Macy’s was my store of choice for convenience. Just before entering, I asked him, “Have you ever shopped dressed up like a girl before?”

“Gosh, no. Do you think I’ll pass?” was his nervous reply.

“We’ll soon find out. So far you’re doing great.” I smiled and squeezed his hand in further affirmation. “Let’s try the lingerie department first.”

Talk about the proverbial fox in the chicken coop. Margo went from hesitant and unsure to eager and confident as he fingered the various clothing intimates. This was a wet dream come true! I literally had to pry him away to other departments after selecting a wide array of panties, bras, slips and hose for purchase. “Aunt Micki,” he whispered, “This is so much more fun than shopping for boy stuff. You probably don’t know what I mean, though.”

I laughed as I answered, “Yes, I do, dear. Believe me, I do. And don’t forget to call me, Mom.”

“Yes, Mom.” His face lighted up like brilliant flare on a dark night. “Wow, how many kids have two mommies? I’m lucky.”

I only winked back at him. I couldn’t think of an appropriate comment.

An hour later, we left Macy’s with both of us carrying his new wardrobe in shopping bags in each hand. Nothing elaborate, just the essentials, which for a 14-year-old girl is a lot. His mood had gone dramatically from subdued to effervescent, as our shopping sojourn had progressed. So had mine. It was like watching a caterpillar become a butterfly. It also took my mind off of Sara and those Russian goons.

When we got back to my apartment, I ordered Chinese food from a local restaurant, which Margo and I dove into with gusto. It had been a long day. Next, seven o’clock came and went with no phone call from Sara. Nor did she answer when I called her. This had me anxious. I became even more anxious when my phone did ring and the caller who asked for me identified himself as Richard Dawson, Sara’s personal attorney.

After his brief introduction, he asked, “Have you seen the evening news?”

“No,” I answered. “We were watching a movie.”

“All the local stations are reporting that Sara’s been killed,” were the next words out of his mouth.

“What?” I exclaimed loudly. My worst fears had been realized. Margo turned to look at me. His newly shaped eyebrows were raised in question-like anticipation. As he sensed the implications of my exclamation, his smile faded.

“That’s right. Apparently it happened just after she left my office about 45 minutes ago.” He paused to inhale deeply before he continued. “Hit and run. No witnesses. We need to talk. Given that Sara’s husband was David Cronenberg, an associate of Bernie Madoff, the media’s going to have a shark feast with this. Plus, if they find out that you were Sara’s first husband, it will only add more blood to the orgy. Most importantly, we need to protect Michael. Agree?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Good. I’ll see you in about 15 minutes.” Click, the receiver went dead. Sara had obviously given him my address. I hung up the phone and turned to face Margo. The task before me would not be pleasant.

And it wasn’t. How do you tell a 14-year-old boy who is happily dressed as a girl that his mother has just been killed, and that his real father is a transsexual woman now posing as his Aunt Micki, and not David Cronenberg hiding out in Southeast Asia? You don’t, and I didn’t, at least not completely. That would take time, love, and lots of discretion. Instead, I only told him about his mother’s death. That was more than enough. Despite my deep sorrow, a small ray of optimism prevented my complete emotional overcast. Michael/Margo still had one living parent to care for him. A loving parent as well, I thought, as I went to the door to meet Mr. Richard Dawson, Attorney at Law.

EPILOGUE

RUSSIAN ORGANIZED CRIME (ROC) goes under many names, for example, Russian Mafia, Red Mob, etc. Since the fall of the USSR in 1991, ROC has accrued considerable influence and power worldwide. This “brotherhood” operates in Russia, Europe, Canada,
South America, and the United States. It deals in drugs, murder, theft, extortion, theft identity, assault, prostitution, and so forth. In San Francisco, it is believed to be lurking in the Tenderloin and Richmond Districts.

LANA, the proprietor of Lana’s beauty salon where Michelle and Sara met by coincidence after an absence of 15 years, was a member of the large Russian community in San Francisco and lived in the Richmond. Despite some bloodlines to the ROC, she was an FBI informant. At substantial risk to herself she warned Sara that Russian Mafioso were coming to abduct Michael. This allowed Michael to escape disguised as Margo in Michelle’s company. It also put Sara at risk because the Russians would not be happy over the bungled kidnapping.

SARA alternated between being a “bitch” to Michael, now Michelle, when she discovered him cross dressing early in their marriage and a good mother to their son, Michael, now masquerading as Margo. She didn’t understand transgender issues or how to cope with them. She had lost her first husband to the thrill of wearing heels and hose and desperately did not want to lose her son to the same fixation. To her credit, however, she unhesitatingly went in harm’s way to save her child as he swished out her apartment door a few steps ahead of the pursuing mobsters. In fact, her last action before she was gunned down with a car had been to visit her lawyer. There she had made Michelle the executrix of her sizable estate on behalf of their son until he reached the age of 21.

DAVID CRONENBERG, Sara’s second husband and one of Bernie Madoff’s accomplices, who defrauded ROC of millions, has yet to be found. I doubt that he ever will be. The Russians through underworld connections will probably get to him first. His death will be slow and painful. If his body ever turns up, it will be missing fingertips and teeth. The ROC leaves nothing to chance.

MICHAEL (also known as) MARGO is entering an entirely different world from the one he left at the Clay-Jones Apartments with his mother, Sara. There his cross-dressing was elective and furtive. Now, with ROC always in his rear-view mirror, it is mandatory and open. We will soon find out if he really wants to be Margo. If he wants to stay in San Francisco, he will have to. At this point, I think he does. Either way, Michelle will support and protect either him or her.

MICHELLE will be busy whatever decision Michael/Margo makes. Parents know that raising a child is not easy, especially, under circumstances as traumatic as these. Already Michelle is consulting appropriate medical persons with regard to the Benjamin Standards that are associated with Sexual Reassignment Surgery. Administering Sara’s estate in her child’s interest also keeps her on the go. So too, is the need to invent plausible cover stories for both of them and to stay off the media’s radar screen. From her own transwoman experience, she understands George Orwell’s astute observation that “Who controls the past controls the future.” Guiding Michael/Margo into the future will be her life’s most important work.

FINIS