Chapter 7: Troubled Relationships

Even though Karen had only two glasses of wine, she still felt a bit light-headed when she returned to her room. It had been an exhilarating evening, with all three girls exchanging stories about how their holidays had been.

“My mom is still wondering why I have no boyfriend,” Sonja said. “She thinks my job here with you girls is an abomination and that it’s a sin and I’m doomed to hell.” Sonja, of course, was the only genetic girl in the group, but still found that some family members and friends were shocked that she was working with girls in transition.

Daphne nodded: “My dad still chides me for no longer being out there on the field banging heads. A big guy like you shouldn’t be afraid of getting hurt, he says, usually calling me a coward.”

“You a coward? I saw you play, I’d hardly call you a coward,” Sonja said.

“I don’t think I was a coward, ‘cause I wasn’t worried about getting hurt,” the large girl said. “I just didn’t like all that macho stuff. Even as a kid, I enjoyed playing with my sister, but dad kept telling me I had to be playing football.”

“That hardly makes you a sinner,” Sonja said.

All three were into their second glasses of chardonnay and the thought that Daphne and Karen were sinning due to their transitioning caused them all to giggle.

“I don’t feel like I’m sinning,” Karen said, almost sneezing out the words in an effort to stop snickering.

“Well, I was raised in the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church,” Sonja said. “And mom was only 18 when she married, and 19 when I came into the world. She’s been stuck on the farm halfway up north raising all six of us. No wonder she doesn’t understand.”

Almost as an afterthought, Sonja added: “But I really love my mom. She means well and she loves me, I know it. But here I am only 25 years old, and mom’s already fearing I’ll be an old maid.”

“She’ll get over it, Sonja,” Daphne said. “And you’re hardly the old maid type; you’ve had a couple boyfriends since I’ve known you.”

Sonja laughed. “I wouldn’t want any of those guys as my future mate. They were so immature; aren’t any of these guys today grown up? Won’t they ever hang up their clothes?”

“Guys are no good,” Daphne giggled. “Let’s toast that.”

All three raised their glasses, they tipped them together to touch and then each sipped their wine. Karen’s giggling suddenly switched into sobs, drawing the attention of her mates.

“What’s the matter, darling? Did I say something wrong?” Daphne said.

Karen’s sobs became louder, and both girls surrounded her, enveloping her with their hugs.

“What caused this?” Sonja said, addressing no one in particular.

Karen continued her sobs for a few moments, finally composing herself and shaking herself free from the grasps of her two friends.

“Daphne, you didn’t know. My Mark is not like other guys; he’s smart and caring and he picks up his socks.”

Daphne’s large round face turned into a frown.

“I’m sorry, Karen,” Daphne said, placing a comforting hand on Karen’s smaller, daintier hand. “Tell me about this marvelous man of yours.”

“Oh Daphne, Sonja, you’d love him. Mark is so sweet and loving, but now he’s half-paralyzed in a hospital in Milwaukee,” Karen began.

“Why? What happened? Was he in an accident?” Sonja asked.

“Not quite,” Karen said. “Did you read about that player from Iowa State who was injured in a bowl game?”

Daphne looked astonished: “You mean Hamilton? That’s your Mark, boyfriend?”

Karen nodded, and she felt she’d begin crying again.

“I watched that game, Karen,” Daphne said. “That was a vicious hit, but apparently it was not illegal.”

“It wasn’t, and Mark doesn’t even blame the boy who hit him,” Karen said, sensing she had put a bit of pride into her voice.

“I saw that,” Daphne said, her own eyes beginning to tear up.

“He may never walk, much less play football again,” Karen said.

“Oh you poor girl,” Daphne said. “Now you know why I quit football. I remember giving hard hits to other players, and several times they lay flat on the ground after my hit. I was known as the ‘crusher’ by my teammates. Oh how I hated it, but the harder I hit other players the more the crowd roared and the bigger the ‘hi-fives’ from my teammates. I thought I wanted that, but after I knocked that Minnesota running back out of the game, I cried and cried. I hated myself.”

Tears flowed down Daphne’s round, pinkish cheeks as her voice trialed off.

“And Mark doesn’t want to see me anymore,” Karen continued.

Both Sonja and Daphne looked at Karen in momentary wonderment. Daphne dabbed at her moist face with a tissue, and her crying seemed to have ceased.

“Why, dear?” Sonja asked.

“He feels he’ll be a burden to me. Mark says he wants me to have a real man, not a cripple,” she answered, feeling ready to begin crying again.

“That just goes to show how sweet he is, Karen,” Daphne said, placing a huge, chubby hand over Karen’s.

“I know, Daphne. He’s really so generous.”

There was silence for a minute; finally Daphne picked up her glass, held it high and said, “Here’s a toast to a real gentleman and may he recover and bring joy into the life of our dear friend, Karen.”

Karen knew such a hope might be impossible to realize; yet, she felt comfort in the support of her two friends and joined in the toast.

“Do his parents accept you?” Sonja asked.

“Not at first, but now they do,” Karen said. “Well, maybe not his dad so much, but he’s Ok with it, I guess. But his mom’s a sweetheart and I think she likes me.”

“What’s not to like?” Daphne said, giggling.

“Right now,” Karen said, “I’m kind of lying low, seeing if he’ll change. Maybe I’ll write him a chatty letter. You know, a real letter on paper and with a pen. Like in the olden days.”

“That’s sweet,” Daphne said.

“Sounds like a girl from ‘Pride and Prejudice,’” Sonja joined in.

“I almost want to dress up in one of those early 18th Century dresses, all fluffed out with petticoats.”

“That would be so darling,” Daphne said.

*****

Dear Mark,
I want you to know that if this letter seems a bit disorganized, you can blame it on two things: first, I’m not too sure about whether you want to read this letter from me. But, Mark, I hope you do. Second, I’ve had two glasses of wine, and you know how giddy this girl becomes with just the slightest bit of alcohol.

I returned to school and to Susan’s Place yesterday. Today I met with Dr. Bargmann and began hormonal treatment. He’s satisfied that I’m more a girl than a boy, as if you didn’t know that already. (Smile)

The people here are sooooooooooo nice to me; the doctor’s PA is a woman named Moira, and she seems to understand me perfectly. The Gender Clinic here seems first-rate.

Oh, there are only two of us at the House here yet. The manager Sonja who is tall lovely woman (yes, she was born a girl!) and Daphne. You’d love Daphne, and you maybe heard of her from her former life. She was on football scholarship here at the University and made all-Conference in her freshman year as a hard-hitting lineman only to quit before the next season. She’s such a lovely, sweet girl and I dearly love her. Besides, she’s a marvelous baker, and I’m afraid I’ll be a chubby girl soon if I don’t watch out. (Ha! Ha!)

Tomorrow, I start work for Professor Fenstrom of the drama department. It’ a good-paying work-study situation and I’m lucky to have it.

It’s been real cold since I returned to school; haven’t seen a reading above zero, yet. It’s tough on a tender girl like me.

I think of you, Mark, and have great faith in you. I know so many people are supporting you and you deserve their backing. I love your family and am so glad you are now close to them. You’re sweet and generous.

Oh, but I’m so tired. (Must be the wine, Ha! Ha!). I hope you don’t mind me writing. You don’t need to respond.

Thinking of you,

Karen

She looked over the letter, and, while she was pleased with what she wrote, she wondered whether to send it on. Would he really want to read it? Would it make him sad? She didn’t want to bother him and slow his recovery.

Karen smiled, however, as she looked at the stationery that she had gotten from Daphne; how adorable it was! Light yellow, flimsy parchment-like paper adorned with blue, green and pink spring flowers in the upper right hand corner. She used an old-fashioned fountain pen (it was a gift from her grandfather when she was 14 years old) with a blue ink; the use of the pen made it possible for her to write in small dainty letters garnished with girlish flourishes.

She knew the post office had stamps with the word “love” emblazoned on a heart, and she wondered whether to take time the next day to purchase such stamps. No, it was best she not do that, she realized, partly since she was trying to keep her relationship with Mark a bit neutral, so as not to face rejection. Also, she knew she’d be working all day and would hardly find time to get to the post office.

She went to her purse, found a glassine envelope containing simple “Forever” stamps and affixed one of those to the envelope.

Karen slept peacefully that night.

*****
“Dress warm, dear,” Daphne advised, as Karen prepared to leave for her first day of work as Professor Fenstrom’s work-study assistant in the drama department. “The weather guy says it’s 18 below right now, and the coldest day of the year so far.”

Karen nodded at her large friend, who sat bundled in a heavy robe and fur-lined boots at the kitchen table.

“I wish we could get that old furnace in this place to work better,” Daphne continued. “I swear I could see my breath in my room this morning.”

Karen giggled; it was frigid in the house, and she had hurried in and out of the shower, careful to keep her hair dry. It was too cold to linger in the bathroom, even though the place steamed up from the hot water of the shower. She had shaved the light fuzz on her face, under her arms and in the modest cleavage in her breast.

The cold weather proved to be a salvation for Karen; she could dress in slacks, a blouse and heavy sweater, which would be standard for any girl on the job. It was really too cold to even think of wearing a skirt. She hoped her heavy clothing would keep her looking unattractive and dowdy to the professor.

“I got nearly a mile walk,” she informed Daphne.

“Cover your face, dear,” the girl said.

“Yes, mother,” Karen said, giggling.

*****
The University’s drama department was tucked into the back portion of the third floor of the Arts Building on campus. Karen had been astonished at the cramped conditions that professors had to endure in their offices; even the most renowned professors on campus, those who were celebrated authors and experts — some even Nobel Prize winners — were crammed into tiny rooms where their books and papers were untidily stacked into overburdened shelves, many filled to an extreme that Karen worried that the slightest bit of shock — such as a sonic boom — would send them into an avalanche of paper and cardboard and books.

Professor Eric Fenstrom’s office was no exception, and Karen knew that she’d likely be spending lots of time in the tiny room, forced into close proximity with the professor. The prospect frightened her, not because she felt fear of any physical assault but rather she worried that his constant flirting would force her into uncomfortable situations.

“He promised to behave,” she told her therapist, Moira, during her interview on the previous day.

Karen had related to Moira how she had been kissed and caressed by the professor after they finished the play in the previous semester. It was Moira who had armed Karen with advice and paraphernalia such as a whistle and pepper spray to ward off unwanted advances.

“Karen, dear, a pretty girl like yourself is going to have to be prepared,” Moira said with a warm smile. “Actually, all girls, not just the pretty ones like you, face that sometimes. Some men just can’t seem to help themselves.”

Karen recalled the attacks she faced when she lived in the dormitory, as well as the many advances she faced while waiting tables at the Olympus. It was to be a fact of life, she realized. Being so pretty was both a curse and a blessing, but then weren’t most things in life?

“I’m Karen Hansson,” she said, as she entered the front office of the drama department. “I’m the work-study student.”

She was ten minutes early; her start time was to be 9 a.m. A middle-aged woman, somewhat stocky and with a jovial demeanor was seated at one of the two desks crammed in the tiny outer office. She had a head of curled hair, apparently prematurely gray, and a smooth complexion.

“Welcome, Karen, you must be chilled to the bone,” the woman said.

“I had to walk over a mile to get here,” Karen said, taking off her parka and removing her wool cap, shaking her hair free as she did so.

“Oh you poor dear,” the woman said. “Hang your coat on that clothes tree.”

“Thank you, but the walk wasn’t too bad, I was dressed pretty warm,” Karen said.

“Good for you, but maybe we can arrange for a ride for you in this lousy weather.”

“That’s not necessary. The walk is good for my health,” Karen said, immediately suspicious that the ride the woman was suggesting would be given by Professor Fenstrom.

“I’m Debbie, Debbie Johannes, the drama department secretary, and you’ll be working both for Dr. Fenstrom and assisting in the department as a whole,” the woman said.

Karen was assigned to the other desk in the room; it was closest to the door, and Karen immediately felt comforted by the fact that there’d be a door between her and the professor, as well as another woman in the office. She was further comforted to notice that Debbie was dressed not too differently than herself; she wore dark blue slacks and a lavender woolen sweater along with comfortable shoes. Her graying hair was tied in a ponytail and she wore a minimum of makeup.

*****
Professor Fenstrom didn’t enter his office on Karen’s first day until after lunch; it was just as well, Karen thought, since Debbie had been shown to be a patient and pleasant mentor. As it soon appeared, Karen’s chores would be more secretarial than she originally expected. Fenstrom had indicated Karen’s role would be as his “assistant,” sort of a “Girl Friday” role, to use an ancient sexist term.

If Debbie had any idea that Karen was not what she appeared to be, a lovely young lady rather than a onetime boy in transition, she didn’t let on. Karen and Debbie engaged in short bursts of “girl talk” during the morning.

“That’s a lovely scent you’re wearing,” Debbie said at one point as she hovered over Karen’s shoulder to point out an item on the computer screen.

“Oh, I hope it’s not too strong a scent, Debbie,” Karen said quickly. She was so worried that the scent might be overwhelming in a small office. Yet, Karen rarely went without at least a touch of scent; it just made her feel dainty and feminine. That morning she had been particularly judicious in keeping the application modest.

“Not at all, I can hardly sense it, but it’s in good taste, dear.”

“It’s called Casual, by Paul Sebastian. My little brother got it for me for Christmas,” Karen volunteered.

“How sweet of him to buy such a nice gift for his sister,” Debbie said.

“It’s not much like him,” Karen giggled. “He considers himself a big, tough macho football player. I doubt very much that he bought it personally. Probably my mom bought it, and let him give it to me as a gift.”

“Well, it was still nice of him. You have any other brothers or sisters?”

“No, it’s just Sonny, my brother, and my mom. I hardly ever knew my dad; he left us when I was about 4.”

Debbie nodded, and then pointed to the spreadsheet that Karen had brought up onto the computer screen.

“You’ll want to add a column entitled something like ‘Source’ to indicate how the donation was made, whether it was made online, through the mail or other method,” Debbie said.

Karen’s job that morning was to create a database of donors to the Theater Program, which would be used to seek private donations needed to supplement University funds in order to stage regular theatrical productions. Fenstrom, as a former Broadway and Hollywood actor, had proven to be particularly adept at encouraging wealthier persons — usually women — to donate to the program.

As the morning went on, Karen began wondering about Debbie and her relationship with Professor Fenstrom. It was obvious that the woman must have begun working there as a young girl, directly after completing school. And, she apparently had been the departmental lead secretary when Fenstrom arrived at the school eight years earlier.

Her references about Fenstrom were always formal, calling him “Professor Fenstrom” or “the professor.” Never did she use the word “Eric” or indicate she had any kind of a personal relationship with the man.

Knowing Fenstrom’s proclivities to make advances to women, Karen wondered if Debbie had ever been so approached. Even though Debbie had taken on a middle-aged chubbiness, the woman had a lovely face and still retained a curvy and enticing body; her full breasts and round hips must certainly have excited the professor’s libido. And Karen thought Debbie must have been even more attractive in earlier years.

Karen felt she’d like the work in the office, and loved the idea of being an “office girl,” even though that nomenclature reeked of sexism. She had excellent typing skills, partly as a result of having taken secretarial classes in high school (one of two boys in her class) and her own slender fingers, already proven to be agile as she had became a crochet and knit expert. No, Karen thought, it’s best to be wary of Debbie, in spite of the woman’s apparent pleasant demeanor and her willingness to help Karen settle into her work in the office. She vowed not to get too personal with the woman, partly because Debbie might indeed have a closer relationship with Fenstrom than was apparent.

“Care to join me for lunch, Karen?” Debbie asked. “We close the office from noon to 12:45 each day when school’s not in session.”

The two bundled up and trundled a short block amid piled snow, their breath showing as they walked on the clear, sunny day.

“My how the sky sparkles,” Karen said, looking at the vast expanse of blue that was framed by the massive stands of the University’s nearby football stadium.

Both wore sunglasses, since the bright sun was intensified by reflections off the whiteness of the snow cover. The University’s streets, normally teeming with rushing students, cars and busses was eerily quiet and somber during these days before classes would begin for the semester.

“It’s such a picture-book setting,” Debbie agreed. “Maybe that’s why we can find winter bearable.”

Karen smiled. “This may sound goofy, but I like a cold, snowy winter.”

“Yes, it is goofy.” They both giggled.

Both women chose the salad bar at the student union’s cafeteria. Karen topped hers off with sliced chicken, shredded cheddar cheese and low-cal ranch dressing while Debbie skipped the cheese, but heaped on regular blue cheese dressing. The older woman also picked up a milk shake, while Karen chose herbal tea.

“No wonder you’re so slim,” Debbie said when she got to the table. “I can’t seem to resist good food. I’m getting so chubby.”

“Enjoy it, Debbie,” Karen said. “I never was much of a foodie.”

“You’re lucky, I guess, but I love the taste of good food,” the other woman said, laughing. “Can’t you tell?”

Karen smiled, but decided to change the subject. “Do you have a family, Debbie?”

Debbie was in the middle of chewing on the garlic bread she had taken to supplement the meal, and raised her hand to ask for a moment to answer.

“Yes, I have a son, Evan. He’s 20 and a junior here at the University,” Debbie said, taking a sip from her milk shake.

“What’s he studying?” Karen asked.

“English, though I don’t know why. How’s he going to get a job when he’s all done?”

Karen nodded. She loved English literature herself, but explained she was going into Social Work just because she knew she had to make a living. “I also like the theater, too,” she added.

“Keep your eye on social work, honey,” Debbie said. “You’ve got all the beauty in the world I can see, but the acting profession’s a lousy way to make a living, dear. I know I tried it myself. Believe it or not, I once was skinny and had a body like a model once myself.”

“I believe it, Debbie. You’re still a beautiful woman.”

“But a fat one, too,” she said, her eye twinkling with amusement. She lifted her milk shake as it in a toast.

Karen raised her tea cup and the two touched glasses, a moment of sisterly bonding.

*****
“Glad to see you joined us,” Professor Eric Fenstrom said, as he entered the office just minutes after she and Debbie had returned from lunch. He wore a puffy, expensive parka with a brightly colored scarf tied rakishly about his neck, topped off with fur hard with the ear flaps turned down.

Nothing like frigid weather to take the “Hollywood” out of a man’s desire for stylish clothing, Karen thought as she rose to greet the professor who still liked to indicate to the natives of this hinterland that he once had been a top star of great sophistication.

“I’m happy I did, sir,” Karen said dutifully.

“Take the professor’s coat, Karen,” Debbie said. “There’s a small closet in his office where you can hang it.”

“Damn Eskimo country this is!” the professor said. “I’ll never get used to this cold.”

Karen followed the professor into his office, and he pointed her to a narrow closet in a far corner of the cluttered room; she opened the door and hung up the coat and placed his hat and gloves on the top shelf. She closed the door.

“Wait, dear,” Fenstrom said. “Help me off with these boots.”

He plopped down on the office chair and held out one foot and Karen kneeled to wrestle the boot off his foot, exposing a woolen sock covered foot; she did the same to the other foot and moved to put both boots on the closet’s floor.

“Now you can help me on with those slip-ons,” he said, pointing to a pair of moccasin style shoes without laces.

Karen was about to ask: “Can’t you do this yourself?” but thought the best to obey the order.

As she finished the task, which was more difficult than she figured it would be because the woolen socks were thick, she felt a hand on her shoulder.

“You’re as pretty as ever, Karen,” he said. She felt his hand give her shoulder a little massage, and she stiffened, feeling a tinge of both excitement and fear.

Karen said nothing, and continued to wrestle with the shoe, finally getting both of them fitted. She stood up and asked:

“Is that all, sir?”

“Sir? Please call me Eric, Karen. We need to be friends, dear.”

With that Karen stood up, mustering up courage she didn’t know she had, and looked Professor Eric Fenstrom — the big movie and Broadway star — directly in the eye, and said:

“I’d like to thank you for giving me the privilege of working here, sir. As you know I need the money and I hope I am worthy of your trust in me. I prefer to call you ‘sir’ or ‘professor,’ if you don’t mind.”

Fenstrom looked nonplused. He obviously was not used to people speaking up to him. “You may go now, I’ll call you if I need you for anything,” he said sarcastically, as if he’d ever call her again for anything. Karen thought his words sounded like those of pouty little boy who wasn’t to get the toy he wanted.

“By the way,” he said, suddenly, just as she was about to leave the room. “You think that by dressing down, by being in such drab peasant costume that you’ll be any less of a beauty. You can’t fool me. You did that just so I wouldn’t find you attractive, but you can’t hide it, dear.”

Karen turned red and was about to turn back and answer, but decided it was best to leave. Nonetheless, she was angered that the man would go back on his word to leave her untouched if she agreed to work in his office. A second feeling overwhelmed her: she was excited by his attention and she hated herself for feeling such excitement.

To her relief, Debbie was on the phone deep in her conversation as Karen returned to the front office and her desk. She appeared not to have heard the exchange between Karen and Fenstrom, and Karen grabbed the key to the staff ladies’ room, waved it toward Debbie to signify she was leaving for a moment. The older woman nodded and continued her conversation. Karen charged out of room, fighting back tears and entered the ladies’ room, found it empty and entered a stall. She sat down without downing her slacks and sobbed, stifling the noise by crying into gobs of toilet paper she had crumpled into her hands.

How could she be so enthralled with the intentions of a man three times her age? She knew it was wrong, that he was wrong and that she was wrong for considering it, even for a moment. Was she nothing better than a harem wife?