Synopsis:

A teenage boy, secretly dressing in female clothing, is caught by his parents. And this is only the first surprise of the day.

Story:

A Day of Surprises
by
Valentina Michelle Smith

It was Saturday morning. Marty Lang was in his room putting together a term paper for his high school history course. The subject of "Medical Care and Practice in Colonial America" was a bit dry, but he found ample material in the library and on the Internet to flesh out a 10-page paper. He was grateful for the tools he had at his disposal. The word processor made such items as footnotes, a bibliography, and a table of contents a snap.

"Marty," he heard his mother say. He turned to see her head peeking through his open door. "Dad and I are getting ready to leave for the shore," she said, referring to the family property in Ocean City. "It's a shame you have that paper due on Monday. Are you sure you don't want to come with us and take the laptop?"

Marty smiled. "It' really OK, Mom," he said. "If I came to the shore I'd be too distracted with the beach and the boardwalk to finish. I really should stay and get it done."

"I just worry about you being by yourself," she said. "Will you promise me at least that you'll eat a proper dinner and not just send out for a pizza?"

"Oh, don't worry, Kate," said a voice from the hallway. It was Marty's father. "The boy can handle himself for one weekend. He's sixteen now. And I don't think one little pizza will kill him."

"Dave," she said, "I'm his mother. You know I'm going to worry about him as long as he lives."

"I know, Kate. I worry about him too. But we have to let him out of our sight once in a while. I think we can trust him."

"Mom," said Marty, "don't worry. I'm going to be here at home the whole time getting this paper done. What kind of trouble could I get into?"

"Well, I guess it's okay," she relented. "But with Joanne away at college and you here all weekend, your father and I will be all alone…" She paused for a moment, as a hint of a smile crossed her face.

"That's right, babe," said Dave, "just you and me and the seagulls. I think we can find something to keep us busy."

"Well, when you put it that way," she said, turning to embrace him, "how could I refuse?" They kissed each other.

Marty cleared his throat. "Hey, you two, wait until you get to the shore, okay?" They laughed.

"All right, Marty. I guess we'll all be fine for the weekend. So how about giving your Mom a kiss goodbye?"

"Okay, Mom." He gave his mother a kiss on the cheek, and then gave one to his dad. The Lang family had no shame with expressing familial affection.

"Let me help you with your suitcase, Mom," Marty offered. He picked up the bag and walked out to the family car parked in the driveway. Kate and Dave exchanged another round of hugs with Marty before leaving. Then they drove off as Marty waved goodbye. He watched them drive down the block and turn.

Marty returned to the house, locking the door behind him. He would indeed complete the term paper this weekend, but he had another activity in mind as well, one that would require having the house to himself.

As he climbed the steps, Marty became more excited. His destination was not his own bedroom, but his parents'. As he entered, he went directly to his mother's dresser. He opened the top drawer and removed a bra and a pair of panties. In another drawer he found a camisole and half-slip. He took these items and laid them out on the bed. Next he went into his mother's closet and removed a powder-blue dress, which he also laid on the bed. He then removed a box from the top shelf. This box contained a wig.

Marty now turned to his mother's vanity. He slid open the top. To his relief, Mom had not taken all of her makeup with her. He removed a tube of lipstick and replaced the top.

It was now time for Marty to transform.

First, he removed all of his clothes. He watched himself in the mirror as he pulled on the silky panties with the lace trim, enjoying the feel of the soft material against his skin. Next, he hooked up the bra. He put it on backwards at first, hooking the strap in front of his chest, and then rotating it so the cups were now up front. He then slipped his arms through the straps.

Clad only in bra and panties, Marty now went to the linen closet in the hall. He pulled out some wash cloths and stuffed them into the bra cups. The result was rather lumpy, so he ran his hands over the cups to smooth them a bit.

He stepped back into his parents' bedroom to complete the transformation. He pulled the half-slip over his head and pulled it down until the elastic was at his waistline. All the while he watched in the mirror. Little things like the lace trim at the hem were exciting him. He pulled the camisole over his head, smoothing it as it clung to his bodice and bustline. He stopped once again to admire the more feminine image he presented in the mirror.

Delighting in the feel of the female undergarments, especially his boobs, he turned to remove the plastic dry-cleaner's bag from the dress. He removed the dress from its hanger and admired it. It was beautiful, with an empire waist and small pearls sewn into the bodice and around the hem. He unzipped it and drew it over his head, allowing the soft material to settle over the even softer cloth of the half-slip and camisole. He struggled a bit to pull the zipper completely up, but he managed. Once again, he paused to admire the results in the full-length mirror. His feminine side was emerging from its cocoon.

He sat down at his mother's vanity, pausing to smooth the skirt under his legs. He held his knees close as he sat. He removed the cap from the lipstick tube and applied the color to his lips. He paused a few times to press his lips together, spreading the color. Satisfied with the results, and enjoying the taste of his now red lips, he opened the wig box and removed the wig.

The wig was auburn, and it was big. Curls seemed to tumble over Marty's head as he pulled it on. He fussed with it to try to get its shape right. Then he stood and returned to the full-length mirror.

He saw a girl staring back from the mirror, and the girl was he. Or, more correctly, she. Now was that unique moment of transformation, when pronouns shifted gender. In Marty's mind, she was now a girl.

She vamped in front of the mirror, wiggling her tush in an exaggerated manner. She giggled as she walked back and forth. She would have liked a few more things to make her look complete, such as stockings and high heels, but these things were not available. Mom's shoes were just too small for her feet.

Marty now went to her own bedroom and removed a battered cardboard box from her closet. This held an ashtray, butane lighter, and a half-empty pack of Virginia Slims. Buying the cigarettes had been a particularly daunting task. Not only did she have to find a store that wasn't enforcing the age limits on tobacco, she also had to buy a pack of ladies' cigarettes while in boy mode. Fortunately, the store clerk didn't bat an eye and just took the money in exchange for the smokes.

She removed one of the cigarettes from the pack and held it between two fingers. She posed in front of the mirror, holding the cigarette at what she thought was a sophisticated angle, placed the cigarette in her lips and lit it. She watched herself as she drew the smoke into her mouth. She inhaled, coughing a little as the harsh fumes irritated her throat and lungs. Ignoring the cough, she took another drag, exhaled, and grinned. There were now lipstick marks on the filter.

She gathered up her cigarettes, the ashtray, and her lighter and descended the steps. She placed these items on one of the end tables and proceeded to walk back and forth in the living room, affecting a very exaggerated wiggle and holding the cigarette, pausing for an occasional puff. Oh, how sexy she felt, vamping around with the house to herself! It was so wonderful!

Marty's reverie was interrupted by the sound of a key in the front door lock. She stared, frozen in fear, as the door opened and her mother entered!

* * * * *

Kate felt so stupid! She and Dave had nearly gotten to the turnpike entrance when she realized she had forgotten her insulin. She wouldn't really need it until later in the day, and probably could have gotten it at a pharmacy in Ocean City, but her insulin kit also had her blood glucose monitor in it, and she really needed to test herself when they arrived. Dave did not complain about turning around to return home. He fully understood his wife's need to control her diabetes.

The first thing Kate noticed as she opened the door was the odor of cigarette smoke. It assaulted her nostrils! Was Marty smoking? How could he do this after all she and Dave had…

Then she saw Marty, wearing her blue party dress, holding a cigarette!

At first Kate was too stunned to speak! "M-M-Marty?" she managed to stammer.

Marty was now desperately wishing he could somehow vanish. He had been caught! His mouth opened, then closed, then opened, all without producing a sound. His eyes scanned the room furiously, searching for a possible escape route.

Kate managed to get out a few more syllables. "Just what is going on, here?" she said.

"Mom," Marty said, "I can explain! Honest, it's not what you think!"

"Dave!" called Kate, beckoning to her husband, "there's something you need to see in here!"

Dave came into the front door. The sight of his son in a dress and wig startled him, but the cigarette really ticked him off. "Marty," he said, with some anger in his voice, "put that damned thing out right now!"

Marty stared at the cigarette in his hand. He had almost forgotten it! The ash was now nearly an inch long. "Yes, sir," he mumbled, stubbing out the cigarette.

"Now get upstairs and get changed, mister. We'll talk about this when I've cooled down enough to be rational."

Marty slowly walked up the stairs to his room. Damn! he said to himself, how could this happen? Why the hell did they have to come back? I was supposed to have the place to myself! He started removing the wig, the dress, and the undergarments. He used some tissues to take off the lipstick.

He had finished dressing in his own male clothes when his father knocked on the bedroom door. Marty said, "Come in, Dad," doing a really poor job of hiding his fear.

Dave entered. "Sit down, son," he said, "we have a lot to talk about."

Marty sat on his bed while Dave sat in the chair at Marty's computer desk. "Dad," said Marty, "I can explain…"

"Let me finish what I have to say first, then you can explain to your heart's content. But for now, I want you to listen."

Marty nodded in silent acceptance. He was expecting a really long lecture and a harsh punishment.

"Marty," Dave began, "I can't begin to tell you how disappointed I am in you. You know how your Mother and I feel about smoking. You know we hate the smell of those foul things! What ever possessed you to start smoking, son? Your mother doesn't smoke! Neither do I! And neither do any of your friends! Why? Just tell me why?"

"Well, sir," Marty said, feeling his cheeks begin to redden, "it's kind of hard to explain. I only smoke when I…well…when I wear a dress. It looks sexy. It feels sophisticated." He fell silent in embarrassment.

"I see," Dave said. "Marty, have you ever seen your mother smoke?"

"No, sir."

"Well believe me, son, your mom is probably the sexiest woman on earth. And she's the most sophisticated lady I have ever met. She doesn't smoke. Marty, there is nothing feminine or sexy about smoking. It's just disgusting!"

Marty's head was hanging in that shame. "I'm sorry, sir," was all he could say.

"Have you been smoking very long?" Dave asked.

"N-n-no, sir. Just for a few months. Actually, this is the only pack I ever tried."

"The only one?" Dave asked skeptically. "You mean you never tried smoking before this? Be honest, son."

"Well," said Marty, a little more embarrassed, "I did try once with some of the guys when I was eleven. But that was the last time. At least until…"

"I see," Dave said. "Marty, I really want to trust you, but your behavior today gives me cause to doubt your sincerity. I know I can't stop you from smoking when you get older, but I don't permit anybody to smoke in the house. Don't ever smoke in this house again. And until you turn eighteen, I don't want you smoking at all. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Marty.

"Don't think you're getting away scott free, mister. You are grounded for the next two weeks, and you'll spend those two weeks doing extra clean-up chores around the house. For starters, I'm going to have you shampoo the rug to get some of the cigarette stench out of it."

"Yes, sir," Marty repeated, accepting his punishment. He wondered fearfully about what would come next. He didn't have long to wait.

"There's another matter we need to discuss, Marty. Your Mom is very upset that you took things out of her dresser and her closet without permission. She feels as though you had no respect for her privacy."

This surprised Marty. He listened in stunned silence as his father continued.

"Marty, we try to respect your space. We trust you to do the right thing. We hope that the values we taught you and the example we set for you would be sufficient. We don't go searching your drawers or your closet, out of respect for your privacy and to show we trust you. Don't you think your mother deserves the same respect?"

"I guess I never thought about it that way, Dad," said Marty. He was a little puzzled. When was his father going to talk about the dress?

"Well please think about it. Our closets and dressers are private. We expect you to respect our privacy in the same way we respect yours. Is that too much to ask?"

"No, sir, it isn't."

"Very well. I'm not going to punish you for this, but I want you to think about it."

"Yes, sir." Marty was starting to worry. How was his father going to handle catching his son in drag?

"Now, do we have anything else to talk about, son?" asked Dave. His manner was not at all angry, just concerned.

"Dad, I can explain. It's not what you think!"

"Oh, really? Are you going to tell me that you aren't really gay, that you just like wearing dresses, that you get a kick out of seeing yourself as a girl? Am I getting warm?"

Marty's jaw dropped.

"I'll take your silence for a yes. I'll bet you like to giggle when you dress up. Or even cry. It's a lot easier to let these un-manly emotions out when you think of yourself as a girl, isn't it?"

Marty was so stunned, he could only shake his head in agreement. He managed to stammer out, "How- how- how did you know? I mean…"

Dave smiled knowingly, but a smile tinged with pain. "I know more about what you're feeling than you might imagine. Let me show you something, son." With that, Dave opened the photo album he had been holding and turned to a particular page. "Take a look at this, Marty."

Marty turned the book so he could see the picture of several women at a party. They were all nicely dressed, but there was something about them that just didn't seem right. It was that woman on the left. She seemed strangely familiar in a way Marty just couldn't place. What could it be? Then he realized it was her hair. It was auburn and done up in a style that looked exactly like Mom's wig.

He looked up at his father, then back at the photo. The woman's features were strikingly similar to Dad's. Wait a minute, could it be…?

"Dad! That's you! You're wearing Mom's wig!"

"It's not your mother's wig. It's mine."

Marty was once again stunned. "I'm a crossdresser, son," said Dave.

Marty started leafing through the photo album. It was filled with pictures of Dave in various feminine attire. Sometimes he was by himself, sometimes he was with other women, but in every picture he was dressed as a woman. "Marty," said Dave, "I'd like you to meet Wendy, my alter ego."

"Son, I'm going to ask you some questions. I know these feelings you are having are confusing. I just want you to know that no matter what happens, I love you, and I'm here for you. I'm not at all angry, and I just want to help."

Marty was still shaken. His emotions were on a roller coaster. "I don't know what to say, Dad. I just…" at this point Marty became aware of tears welling up in his eyes. He had always been afraid to cry in front of anybody, especially his father. Now he found it impossible to hold back.

Dave reached out and hugged his son. He felt Marty's tears as they soaked into his shirt. Marty was unable to speak. His tears flowed forth as he felt his father's strong, loving arms encircle him. It brought back memories of when he was a toddler and Dad would lift him up to the ceiling. He felt loved.

The emotional outpouring lasted for only a few moments. Marty soon composed himself. He knew he could tell his father about his secret, without any fear of punishment or of ridicule.

"Whatever you tell me, Marty, I'm not going to be angry. I just need to know a few things. For starters, how long have you been dressing up?"

Marty paused for a second, then said, "I guess it's been about a year now. But I wanted to try for a long time."

"How long?"

"I guess as long as I can remember. I always sort of wanted to try on some of Joanne's things, especially her party dresses. But I was afraid to. I thought…" he hesitated.

Dave finished for him. "You thought people would laugh at you, call you a sissy. You were afraid of being the outsider, of being rejected. Is that part of it?"

"Yes, sir. I was afraid."

Dave sighed. "How well I know that feeling. I thought I was the only guy in the world who wanted to wear a dress. Sometimes I wanted to be a girl so badly, I would even pray that somehow God would transform me. But then I was so afraid that I was some sort of faggot that I tried to bury that part of myself."

"Dad," said Marty, "that's exactly how I feel! How could this be?"

Dave smiled. "You aren't really so unusual. We've all felt the same thing, you know. We know that we're different, but we try to hide it. Even from ourselves."

"So tell me," asked Dave, "how did you feel the first time you wore a bra?"

Marty's cheeks began to redden.

"Don't be embarrassed, Marty. Remember, I've done this too."

"Well," said Marty, feeling his reserve fade, "it felt exciting. I don't think I ever felt anything as neat in my life. I felt so, so, so girlish!"

"Do you masturbate when you dress up?"

Marty felt a little panic. "Well. I guess so, but…"

"It's all right, Marty. That's a natural thing for a teenage boy to do. I masturbated regularly when I was your age, and often while I was crossdressed."

Marty was taken aback by this frank admission from his father. "Dad, do you still…"

Dave laughed. "No, not for a long, long time. Truth to tell, son, your mother and I enjoy a very satisfying sexual relationship. It's been a very long time since I used dressing up for sexual gratification." Dave smiled a very knowing smile.

"I need to know something, Marty. It's important for you to be honest. Do you ever feel like you should really have been a girl? I mean, to the point of wanting to change your sex?"

Marty considered his reply. "In all honesty, sure, I thought about it. But if I'm just as honest, I don't know if I want to be a girl permanently. I mean. It might be neat to be a real girl for a day or two, just to know what it's like. But I guess I like girls too much to want to be one."

"Are you still a virgin?"

"Uh, yes, sir. I haven't used the rubber yet." Marty was referring to the condom Dave had given him when they had "The Talk".

"I see. Do you like the idea of having sex with a woman?"

"Well, sure, Dad!" Marty said emphatically.

"How about the idea of sex with a man? You can be honest with me."

"Gee, Dad, I mean, sometimes I think about it, but only if I was, you know, a real girl. I'm not a Homo or anything like that."

"I see. So the idea of getting your penis cut off to become a woman doesn't exactly appeal to you?"

"Oh God, no!" Marty protested. "No way!"

"Don't get so excited! I'm not going to castrate you, Marty, I'm just trying to figure out how exactly you fit in the transgendered universe."

This was the first time Marty had ever heard that word. "Transgendered? What's that?"

"It's what you are, son. And it's what I am. Our gender identity doesn't quite match society's expectations. It's a label that includes a lot of people, from crossdresser to transsexuals and everybody in between.

"Marty, there's something I want you to realize. There is nothing wrong with you. You are neither crazy nor perverted." Dave tone became somber. "I remember hiding my true nature from everyone, even from myself, for years. The constant denial led to a lot of bottled-up anger. I was afraid!"

Dave turned to his son and clasped his hands on Marty's shoulders. "Marty, I don't want you to ever feel that there is anything wrong with being transgendered. Don't believe for one second that you are any less of a man just because part of you is a woman. You are my son, you are beautiful, and I love you." It was now Dave's turn to cry.

Marty watched the tears form in his father's eyes. Dad had always been so strong for him. Now to see his father cry, to know that this strong man was also sensitive and vulnerable, made Marty love him all the more. He hugged his father, returning all the years of love Dave had given him. At that moment, father and son bonded more deeply than ever.

The tears soon stopped. Neither man was embarrassed. The only thing they felt was love.

"Dad," Marty asked, "did Mom know about it? I mean, like, before you got married?"

"No, she didn't. I was still hiding Wendy from the world and myself when we got married. I tried to suppress my feminine self for years. I would tell myself that as long as I was not actively dressing, I wasn't a transvestite. I almost fooled myself into believing it, too. But it was hell.

"After a few years of this, I started trying things on again. It would always be 'just one last time'. But it never really was the last time."

Marty asked, "Does Mom know?"

"Yes, she does. She actually realized it before I did. At least, she knew something was bothering me. But when I finally told her, she was shocked. It took months for us to talk about it, and years to work it out."

"So what does Mom think of it now?"

Dave sighed again. "She's not exactly crazy about it, but she's not afraid. Sometimes I dress for her. She's come to think of Wendy as a kind of girlfriend."

"What about the pictures, Dad? Where are they from?"

"Those pictures were taken at my support group. There's a bunch of us who get together to try on new clothes and socialize a bit. Mostly, it's nice to know that we aren't alone, and we can let our feminine side out without fear."

"So those were other guys in those pictures?"

"Mostly. Some of my friends bring their wives to the meetings. Your mom has been to some of our parties and seems to like them."

"Wow, that's really great, Dad." Marty paused, wondering whether to ask this next question. "Dad, do you think that maybe I might be able to go with you some time?"

"I don't see why not. But most of the girls there are about my age. You'll be the youngest girl there."

It was at this moment that Marty realized he was going to be accepted as a girl. The thought frightened him. It also excited him. "Do you mean it, Dad?"

"Yes, I do. I want you to accept this part of yourself, to adjust to it. I don't want you to be ashamed, or to live in fear. I don't want you to go through the hell I had to endure."

There was a knock at the door. Dave opened it to let Kate in. "So how did it go, you two?" she asked.

"Everything's all right, honey," Dave said. "It seems that Marty and I share a gender gift."

Kate looked at her son lovingly, but with some pain. She hugged her son in that special way mothers always embrace their children. "I'm not mad at you for this gender thing, Marty. But please, don't ever smoke again. I don't want my boy to get addicted to those things. Promise me you'll never do that again?"

"I promise, Mom. I'm really sorry. I just…" tears began to flow again, as Kate kissed her son's forehead.

"Mom, Dad," Marty said, "I'm sorry I ruined your weekend. I never wanted to hurt you."

"The weekend isn't over yet," Kate said. "I think we can still make it to Ocean City. I'll just have to get my meal and take my insulin before we leave. So how does some dinner sound?"

Marty had totally forgotten about food. Now his stomach asserted itself. "It sounds great, Mom!"

"Good. Let me throw some food together and we can eat. At least I know you won't be eating pizza for supper!" Kate opened the door, then turned. "Marty, I have an idea. Why don't you dress for dinner?"

"Dress?" Marty asked, "what do you mean?"

"Wait here," Kate said. She returned with a skirt and a blouse. "These were Joanne's. We were going to give them to Goodwill, but now I think we'll keep them. Do you want them, Marty?"

Marty couldn't believe it! "Yes, I would! You mean you…"

Kate smiled. "Go ahead, put them on. You can get dressed while I fix dinner." She left the clothes with Marty and went downstairs.

Marty stared at the clothes in disbelief. Dave smiled and said, "Well, what are you waiting for?"

"I don't know! I never expected this!"

"Come on, son, let me help you with your transformation."

* * * * *

It wasn't a lavish dinner, just something pulled together from the freezer, but it was still good. Chicken breasts with baked potatoes and green beans made a good family meal. Kate had just put it on the table when Dave entered the kitchen.

"Just in time," Kate said. "Is Marty ready?"

"I think so," said Dave. "Kate, may I present to you Marty's alter ego, Melissa."

Melissa entered, wearing the teal skirt and blouse Kate had given her. Dave had provided breastforms for her bra, pantyhose, and a pair of mid-heeled pumps. For now her legs were relatively hairless, but Dave promised to show her how to shave them when it became necessary. Some powder, blush, eye makeup, and lipstick completed the effect. Melissa felt absolutely feminine.

Kate smiled approvingly. "Very nice. Melissa, is it? Well come here and give you mother a hug., Melissa. And welcome to the family."

They hugged, and then the family sat down to dinner.

 © 1999 Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

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Synopsis:

America's most covert secret agency is caught up in the events of September 11, 2001.

Story:

A Sky Full of Terror

A Men In Black Dresses Adventure

By

Valentina Michelle Smith

September 11, 2001

The smell of jet exhaust was always present at the terminal. It was a smell that brought back fond memories to Alice Scott. It reminded her of the flight line and morning launches. She would walk around her C-5 to inspect it before she would climb up to the flight deck and take her seat. It was the pilot's responsibility to ensure that the aircraft was flightworthy before taking off. She remembered the thrill of revving up the four powerful jet engines. She would carefully taxi to the end of the runway. Then she would advance the throttle to full military power. The adrenaline rush was a formidable narcotic as the aircraft accelerated to V1. Pulling back on the yoke, she would bring the nose up off its landing gear as the mighty craft accelerated to V2. Then the main gear would lift up as the largest military aircraft in the world slipped the bounds of earth and leaped into the sky. Let the fighter boys brag about their F-15's and F-16's, she would think. It took a real man with real balls to drive a Galaxy!

She watched with a touch of envy as the flight crew made a walk-around inspection of their Boeing 757. How luck they are, she thought. Today they get to fly this behemoth of an aircraft. True, the 757 was not in the same league as a Galaxy, but it was still a massive machine that took the same sort of intestinal fortitude jockeying a C-5 required. Alice originally planned to become an airline pilot after her stint in the Air Force. Funny, she reflected, how her life diverged so radically from the life she had planned.

The obligatory period of Scott Delgado's active service was rapidly approaching its end. Scott had sent his resume to several airlines and already had a couple of enticing offers to choose from. That’s when he received the letter from a Mr. Peter N______ asking him to interview for an undescribed position with an unnamed organization. Scott was intrigued, in part because Mr. N______ was a well-known person of considerable influence. He made an appointment and interviewed with Mary Risberg at an office building close to his base. That meeting changed Scott's life forever.

Ms. Risberg opened a manila file folder and read from a dossier. The document detailed intimate aspects of Scott Delgado's personal life, aspects that most of the world including the Air Force knew nothing about. Scott led a secret life, a life of femininity. In the privacy of his off-base apartment, Scott would transform himself into his feminine alter ego, Alice. As Alice, he would roam cyberspace and occasionally venture out-of-doors for a nighttime stroll.

He thought he had been very careful in hiding his duality from the world. Apparently he had not been careful enough. But Risberg did not attempt to blackmail Scott or punish him for any military regulation he might have broken. Instead, she offered him a job in one of the most covert agencies in the U.S. Justice Department. Scott would have to give up his former existence and live a completely feminine life, providing cover and support for transgendered people vital to America’s interest. But this was strictly a voluntary act. Scott was free to decline without consequence, save that his memory of this meeting would be permanently erased.

The day Scott left the Air Force he kept a second appointment with Mary Risberg at a nondescript building located somewhere in a major metropolitan area. You may have seen this building many times without thinking much of it. It was just one more glass-and-concrete monolith rising from the asphalt terrain of the Urban Jungle.

Of course, if I ever told you its exact location, I would have to kill you.

Scott Delgado officially disappeared from the planet that day, and Alice Scott began her training in America's most covert agency. It had no name and officially did not exist. But for the thousands of transgendered people whose work was vital to America, this agency provided support, protection, and cover.

These memories washed through Alice's mind in a matter of seconds. She never let her attention wander for long. Today she was detailed to provide protection for a high-ranking official of the Defense Department. The protectee had been in Philadelphia visiting friends and was traveling to San Francisco on business. What the world did not know was that this particular official was also going to be making the rounds of the active crossdressing community in the city by the bay. Alice and her partner, Lisa Darling, would be this man's constant companions as he visited the various shops and clubs of San Francisco en femme.

Alice was dressed conservatively in a black business suit with tan hose and mid-heel pumps. She recognized her partner immediately but made no motion to acknowledge her. Lisa had accompanied their protectee through the check-in and security process. Alice considered the airport security to be lax to the point of being laughable, but she cooperated with the agents as her carry-on bag and oversized travel purse were x-rayed. Lisa was dressed a little more casually in a black jumper with a dark blue T-shirt and Birkenstock sandals. Lucky her, Alice thought, I get to fly cross-country in pantyhose and heels. Strange how she once would have given her right arm to do just that. What was once an exhilarating adventure was now an annoying part of her job. But what a job, getting paid to crossdress in public! That made her smile.

The first boarding call was announced. Alice, Lisa, and their charge were booked in First Class. Alice retrieved her carry-on baggage and queued up in line, her boarding pass at the ready. The attendant at the doorway smiled as Alice passed through to the Jetway and up to the aircraft’s hatch. A smiling flight attendant checked her pass and directed her to her seat. She stowed her carry-on bag in the overhead compartment and retrieved a book from her travel purse. She had just become interested in the Horatio Hornblower series. This long flight would afford her the opportunity to put a decent dent in the latest installment of her newfound passion.

Before she stowed her purse she examined its contents. It all looked quite ordinary, much like the contents of any woman's purse. But several of the items were actually high-tech devices so cleverly made as to fool the security devices used to screen passengers. So easy, she thought. I just hope the bad guys don't have access to stuff like this.

She kept one eye on the cabin as she read, splitting her attention between the passenger cabin and the adventures of C. S. Forester’s naval hero. The passenger load was light. There were only about a dozen or so persons in First Class. So much the better, she thought. She could spend more time on her novel and less time worrying about possible threats to her protectee.

The hatch shut and the Jetway detached itself from the aircraft. Alice remembered an Arlo Guthrie concert in which Arlo described the Jetway as the Time Tunnel. The image in her mind of the Time Tunnel attaching itself to the aircraft made Alice laugh to herself. The 757 was pushed back from the gate. The two powerful jet engines slung under the wings now revved up as the plane gently moved forward to the taxiway.

Alice now put her book down to look out her window. She still felt a tingle of exhilaration as the prodigious craft made its way down the taxiway and onto the runway. Traffic was light this morning. Only two planes stood ahead of the 757. Now there was one. And finally the bird turned onto the runway for its own takeoff.

Alice now envisioned herself at the controls of this beast. Given clearance to take off she advances the throttles sharply. The vibration of two jet engines at full power now shook the aircraft as it lurched forward. She felt the nose wheel lift. "V1," she said to herself. The plane picks up even more speed until the force of lift overcomes the force of gravity and the aircraft leaps skyward. "V2," she said as the main gear left the runway. Now she feels the whine of hydraulic motors and the dull thud of the landing gear stowing. She feels the aerodynamic stresses of course correction in her very bones as the pilot skillfully steers the bird into a course over the river. Noise abatement, she thinks to herself. From her window she watches as the flaps retract into the wings. They are climbing to their cruising altitude.

The second-most exciting part of flying was now over. Alice located her charge across the aisle from her partner Lisa . He had moved his seat back to a reclining position and had closed his eyes to get a little sleep. Alice went back to her reading. It would be a while before snacks or breakfast was served. Time was a luxury on these coast-spanning flights.

They had been airborne thirty minutes when all hell broke loose.

It started with two men getting out of their chairs and approaching the flight attendant. She had started taking drink orders and was standing in the aisle when the two swarthy men advanced on her. Before she could say a word the first man raised a metallic object and brought it down on her chest. She screamed as he repeated this action several times, driving the point of the weapon into her body. The flight attendant slumped to the floor bleeding from several wounds. As the other attendant stood frozen in fear, the attacker raised the bloody blade of his penknife. The second man held up a package wrapped in brown paper. "This is a bomb!" he shouted in heavily accented English. "Do as we say or..." He left the consequences unspoken.

Two others now joined the first man who had stabbed the flight attendant. They kicked down the cockpit door and entered, closing the door behind them. There was the brief sound of struggle and several strangled cries ending in a sickening gurgle, then silence.

As Alice stared at the moustached man with the brown package her training took over. Standard hijacking protocol was to cooperate with the hijackers and get them to whatever place they wanted with as little loss of life as possible. Either she or her partner would try to contact the agency as quickly and as secretly as possible. She slowly and quietly retrieved her purse from the compartment under the seat. She opened it, removed a few items, and placed them in her pockets. She mentally reviewed her training.

The door opened. One of the men shouted something in a foreign language and then shut the door. The bomb holder now shouted in English. "Do as I say!" he shouted. "Get up, one by one, and go to the front. Sit there. You first," he said, pointing to Alice. "You, get up slowly!"

Alice rose from her seat. "Hands up!" the hijacker shouted. Alice raised her hands. As she did, she started to cry. "Please, don't hurt me," she sobbed. "I'll do what you say, but don't hurt me!"

"Move! Now!" the hijacker snapped. Tears were streaming down Alice's face as she slowly made her way to the aisle. "Please," she cried, "I, I, I need to use the bathroom! Please! I think I'm getting sick!"

The hijacker regarded Alice with contempt. This painted harlot was a prime example of the moral degradation of society at the hands of the Great Satan America. That America would permit its women to expose themselves so lasciviously, adorn themselves so wantonly, and allow them to freely mingle with men, even to the point of working for salary only disgusted him further. But today the cleansing would begin! The first blow in a holy war of moral outrage would be struck!

"Go," he said to her, "but be quick!" As she passed the hijacker slapped her with the back of his hand. A few passengers started to rise, but the hijacker brandished his package. Alice held back her tears as she made her way to the lavatory.

Once inside Alice locked the door and examined herself in the mirror. Her crying act had made her eyeliner run and a red welt was welling up where the hijacker had backhanded her. She silently swore revenge on the bastard. Then she removed one of the items from her pocket.

It looked just like a plastic compact, even down to the pressed powder and puff, but it was in reality a sophisticated communications link. Alice opened it and spoke into its mirror. "Sierra Charlie Oscar Three Niner Five Oblique. Go secure," she said.

Complex voice recognition algorithms built into the firmware responded to the code sequence and opened a communications channel to agency central. At the same time, agency central applied a one-time-use randomly selected 512-bit encryption key, scrambling the transmission. A listener without the key would be unable to hear anything but gibberish. This channel was only to be used in the direst of emergencies. "Mary's Dress Shop," said the voice in reply. "How can we help you?"

"This is Galaxy," she said, using her code name, "I have a priority situation, code pink."

"Stand by one, Galaxy," said the voice. Alice's reflected image in the mirror disappeared as the plasma display assumed its normal function. It now showed the image of the agency's director, Mary Risberg.

"Galaxy this is Mother," she said. "What's your situation?"

"Mother, we have a hijacking in progress. I am in the lavatory. Amazon is still with Schoolgirl. Three bad guys have entered the cockpit and a fourth is holding a package he claims is a bomb. The bad guys have killed one flight attendant. I think there is a fifth bad guy in the rear. It is also possible that the flight crew has been killed."

Alice could see that Risberg's normally calm exterior had been shaken. "Galaxy, listen carefully. This is not a normal hijacking. Five flights have been hijacked this morning, all taking off from East Coast airports and bound for the West Coast. Two of them have already crashed into the World Trade Center towers. The other three appear to be on a course for Washington, D.C., including the flight you are on."

Mary paused, as though she were trying to compose herself. Then she continued. "Alice, honey, this appears to be a coordinated terrorist attack on America. We have no idea who might be behind it. You and Amazon are to take whatever action is necessary to prevent that aircraft from carrying out its mission. And Galaxy, you, Amazon, and Schoolgirl are expendable. Do you understand?"

"Yes ma'am," Alice answered. She swallowed hard, understanding exactly what Risberg had just told her. If she could not somehow subdue the skyjackers, she was to destroy the aircraft before it could carry out its mission.

"God speed, Galaxy," said Risberg. "Mother out." The connection broke.

Alice closed her compact and put it back in her pocket. She then removed a small metal cylinder from her other pocket. It appeared to be a breath spray. As with Alice’s compact, appearances were deceiving.

Alice paused before leaving the lavatory. She dampened a paper towel and wiped away the eyeliner that had run down her cheeks. In doing so she removed some of her foundation and beard cover. Damn, she thought, I should have had my beard permanently removed. I don't have any foundation with me. She opened her compact and applied some powder, hoping it would be adequate. If one were to look closely, one might discern a blue tinge on Alice’s cheeks and deduce her true sex. She would have to chance blowing her cover. Taking a deep breath, Alice opened the door.

The skyjacker was still holding the brown package. He had made all of the passengers move to the forward seats with the men on one side and the women on the other. He turned around and scowled. "You! Get to a seat! You take too long. Move!" He motioned toward a seat.

It’s now or never, Alice thought. She lifted the breath spray and let a blast loose right into the skyjacker's eyes. Startled, he dropped the brown package. Now he was enraged! That painted American strumpet would pay for this insult! When he was in Paradise this bitch would be one of his houris and serve him for eternity!

As quickly as they had come, all thoughts of rage left the swarthy man. He felt as though he was floating in a sea of tranquil waters, suspended in the clouds without a care in the world. It was so peaceful here!

To Alice and the passengers in First Class, it seemed like the man simply switched off. He wore a stupid grin, stood still, and did not utter a sound. Good, thought Alice. "Lisa," she said, calling to her companion, "are you all right?"

"I'm fine," she said. "That was some stunt you pulled."

"Tell me about it! My heart is still going like a trip-hammer. But we still have work to do. We have to stop these guys."

Alice turned to the passengers. "Folks," she said, "we're Federal agents. I don't have time to explain right now, but we are in grave danger. I'm going to have to ask you to keep still and not panic while my partner and I try to sort this mess out."

Lisa looked at the curtain separating First Class from Coach. "There's another bad guy in the back. Should we take him out?"

"Yes," said Alice, "then we take the cockpit. We have to stop this plane at all costs. Orders from Mother."

Lisa did not wait for an explanation. She just said, "Okay. Get to the seat by the curtain while I try to lure the skyjacker forward."

Alice stood behind the bulkhead while Lisa parted the curtains. One man brandishing a brown package had moved the passengers to the rear of the cabin. "You have to come here," she said to the skyjacker, "your friend is sick. I think he might be dying."

With a scowl on his face, the bearded man strode forward. "No tricks!" he shouted as he entered the First Class cabin. He felt dampness on the back of his neck as Alice sprayed him with the powerful psychoactive drug. Then he stood still, wearing the same stupid grin as his companion.

"Sit down, buddy. You need to take a little nap," said Lisa. The bearded man complied, taking the first available seat. He closed his eyes.

"Just what is that stuff?" said one of the passengers.

"We call it 'Gas,'" Alice answered. "It's a particularly nasty drug that induces a state of euphoria and extreme suggestibility."

"Why don't you rig the plane so that this stuff can flood the whole cabin? That might stop these skyjackers."

"Because that much Gas would be lethal," said Lisa. "It would kill everybody in the cabin."

"Listen, folks," Alice said, "I've been in communication with my superiors and this isn't just a hijacking. These men are part of a terrorist plot to attack America. Two of these teams have already destroyed the World Trade Center. This plane is on a course for Washington D.C. I don't know what their intended target is, but these creeps obviously have no regard for their own lives. We have to re-take control of this aircraft. Failing that, we have to destroy it."

A hushed gasp. One of the passengers began to pray aloud. Another said, "We're with you, sister. But how do we do it? Do you want us to rush the cockpit?"

Alice said, "Nothing that extreme." She turned to Lisa. "Lisa, do you have your Gas with you?"

Lisa produced a small perfume spray bottle from her pocket. ""I was going to try something like this myself. What do you have in mind?"

"A little subterfuge," Alice said. She turned to the first hijacker, the man whose eyes she had sprayed. "You!" she said, "I want you to call your friends. Tell them you need help out here."

The short dark-skinned man arose and pounded on the cockpit door. He shouted something in a foreign language. An answer emanated from the cockpit. There was an exchange of words, then the door opened.

Lisa sprayed the man emerging from the cockpit door right in his face. He fell forward as the Gas took effect. Then Lisa and Alice both burst in to the cockpit. Lisa took the left side and Alice took the right, each spraying the men flying the 757. The Gas soaked into their skin and they were effectively neutralized.

"Get up," Lisa ordered them. They stood. Now Lisa and Alice had a chance to survey the carnage in the cockpit. Both pilots and the navigator had been killed, their throats slashed with box cutters that now lay on the flight deck. The cockpit smelled like a charnel house from the dried blood. Alice nearly lost her breakfast but managed to fight down the nausea. "You bastards!" she shouted.

She grabbed one of then by his hair and dragged him away from the flight controls. She still had her gas cylinder in her hand. One spray, she thought, that’s all it would take. One little spray and the total dosage would be lethal. The son of a bitch would be dead. And he would die happier than his victims had!

Lisa read the expression on Alice’s face and immediately understood. "Don't do it, sis," she said. "If you do it, I'll back you up all the way. I'll tell the world it was an accident caused by the struggle. But think for a minute. Can you live with a death on your conscience?"

"Can I live without one?" she replied. "Why should I let this scum stay alive when he killed these men? Their only crime was a strong work ethic! Tell me why I shouldn't exterminate this rat like the vermin he is."

"Because we're the good guys, hon. If you kill him now, you'll be putting yourself on his level. You're better than that, Alice. You're worth a million of him."

Alice hesitated. Then she lowered her hand. "Go sit down in the cabin," she said to him. Like a zombie, the skyjacker meekly walked back to the cabin and sat down.

Alice surveyed the cockpit. "Lisa," she said, "take these other two creeps back to the cabin and strap them in. Then get my flats out of my carry-on."

"Flats?" Lisa asked. "You want to change shoes?"

"I have to," said Alice as she sat in the pilot's seat. "I don't think I can work the rudder pedals in heels."

"Wait a minute. You are actually going to try to fly this thing?"

Alice grinned. "You bet your ass I am. I used to do this for a living."

Lisa took the two remaining men back to the cabin and strapped them in. They would remain stupidly calm for several more hours. Alice surveyed the instruments and controls. The 757's control panel was not very similar to the C-5's, but there were enough similarities that she felt comfortable.

She found the headphones and put them on. She located the radio panel and set it for guard frequency. "Air Traffic Control, this is hijacked 757. Please respond."

A voice sounded in the earphones. "757, this is Air Traffic Control. Who am I speaking with?"

"Control, this is Galaxy. I'm a Federal agent. We have neutralized the hijackers and regained control of the aircraft."

There was a pause while the controller relayed this information to a supervisor. The controller’s supervisor then instructed Alice to contact a military controller. She was given a frequency to tune to. "Advise them of your situation. Good luck."

"Thank you, Control. Galaxy out."

Alice tuned to the frequency she had been given. It was restricted and classified. "Military controller, this is Galaxy aboard hijacked 757."

"Galaxy, this is Military control. Please advise your situation."

"Control, the situation is bad but under control. The flight crew is dead. We have neutralized the hijackers. Over."

"Galaxy, Control. Understand flight crew is dead and aircraft is secure. Is there anyone aboard with pilot training?"

"Control, Galaxy. I've logged about 4,000 hours flying C-5's. I think I can drive this boat."

"Galaxy, Control. Understand you can fly. Maintain your current airspeed and altitude. Can you change your heading?"

Alice scanned the controls, finally locating the autopilot. "Control, Galaxy. I can turn."

"Galaxy, Control. Please turn left one five degrees and maintain your airspeed. We're bringing you in to McGuire Air Force Base."

"Galaxy, Control. I know the place. Turning now."

Lisa came back into the cockpit with Alice's flats. "You're just in time," Alice said as she removed her heels. "I have to turn this crate."

Lisa looked on as Alice put on her flats. She put her feet onto the rudder pedals and gripped the yoke. "You better sit down, Lisa," she said. "If I over-control this might get a little bumpy."

Lisa sat in the co-pilots chair. Alice pressed a button on the autopilot. A switch dropped down and a warning sounded. Alice pressed a button marked "ACK" and the klaxon went silent. Alice was now in full control.

She gently moved the pedals and the yoke, coordinating rudder and ailerons to put the 757 into a gentle turn. She watched as the gyrocompass turned slowly. She eased off on the rudder and yoke, restoring the bird to level flight. Fifteen degrees left, she told herself. She flipped a switch on the autopilot. "Okay, Control. George is back in the driver's seat."

"Acknowledged, Galaxy. We have a Boeing pilot trainer here who will fill you in on what you need to know to land the 757. You should be in the pattern in about two zero minutes. And by the way, we sent you some company."

Alice looked out to see an F-16 just off her left wing. "Confirm one Falcon escort, Control. Looking mighty nice."

"Galaxy, Control. He has a few friends with him. We want to keep any bad guys that might still be airborne off your back. Please decend to Flight Level two one zero and maintain airspeed."

"Control, Galaxy. Confirm flight level two one zero." Alice eased back on the throttles. "Flight levels automatically adjust for atmospheric pressure," she explained to Lisa. "It will put us at about twenty-one thousand feet give or take a few feet altimeter error."

Alice eased off on the throttles. "The way we gain or lose altitude," she said, "is by adjusting airspeed. We slow down and we have less lift, so we naturally decend. When we get to two one zero I throttle up to maintain our altitude."

For the next twenty minutes, Alice got an extremely compressed course in the finer points of landing a 757. The bird could literally land itself, but everybody felt a little safer with an experienced pilot at the controls, ready to take over if the automatic systems failed.

The controller cleared the local airspace and brought the 757 straight in. Lisa read off the checklist items as the bird went into its final decent. Alice had the flaps out and the gear down as she brought the aircraft into the landing flightpath. Beads of sweat were forming on her brow as she held the wings level and compensated for wind direction. She talked aloud to Lisa to help overcome her nervousness.

"Landing is basically a controlled crash," she said. "I fly as close to the runway as I can. Then when we are just over the end of the runway, I pull back on the yoke." She pulled back just at that moment. The nose of the plane pulled up. "By increasing the angle of attack, I stall the wings. If I do this skillfully we drop gently onto the runway."

Then the main gear touched the runway. Alice applied the brakes and activated the thrust reversers, advancing the throttle to slow the aircraft's speed. It rolled to a stop at the end of the runway with about 200 yards to spare.

"That," said Alice to her partner, "is the most exciting part of flying: landing."

Ground control now sounded in Alice’s headphones. "Galaxy, Control. Follow the truck to the secured parking area and shut ‘em down. And welcome home. Mighty nice flying, Galaxy."

"Control, Galaxy. Thanks for the assist. It’s good to be back on the ground."

A pickup trick with flashing yellow lights and a "FOLLOW ME" sign drove just ahead of the 757. Alice followed it to a remote concrete pad surrounded by Air Force Security Police armed with M-16’s. She brought the aircraft to a stop and shut down the engines. Flight line personnel chocked the wheels to keep the bird from rolling.

Security police entered the aircraft to remove the skyjackers. The passengers were permitted to deplane and were taken to a holding area for debriefing. Alice and Lisa showed their ID’s to the security officer and retrieved their charge.

"This has been a hell of a day," Alice said. "Something to tell my grandchildren."

"If the story is declassified by then," Lisa said. "I have a feeling the details will be secret for some time to come."

September 25, 2001

Lisa was correct. The story of this thwarted hijacking was kept from the public for reasons of national security.

It was two weeks after the hijacking. The President had finally read the report and was speaking to one of his security advisors. "This is incredible," he said. "How long has this agency existed?"

His advisor answered, "It has existed in some form since the 1930’s when it was part of the FBI. Since the early days of the Cold War it has been an independent agency of the Justice Department."

"Well we were damned lucky these agents were on board. It was just plain…" He faltered for the right word.

"Serendipity, sir?" his advisor answered.

"Yes, exactly. Are the agents outside?"

"Yes, Mr. President."

"Good. Send them in. I want to thank them personally."

The door to the Oval Office opened. Mary Risberg entered, followed by Alice Scott and Lisa Darling. The three tall women were wearing black business suits with tan hose and black pumps. They reminded the president of the Secret Service agents detailed to his family and himself. He stood as they entered and offered his hand to each, then bade them to sit. A steward brought coffee around.

"Ladies," he began, then hesitated, "at least, that’s what I’m told is how you are addressed…" He hesitated again.

"It’s all right, Mr. President," Mary said, "Most of us have given up trying to keep pronouns straight."

They all laughed. "Well it’s still hard to believe. If I hadn’t been told that you were really men I never would have suspected. Not for a moment."

"We have a lot of training, sir."

"I guess so. And you have been operating for over sixty years?"

"Correct, Mr. President. During that time we’ve provided cover and protection for transgendered American officials and vital security interests."

"Well, you’ve done a good job of it because I never even heard of you until I took office. And until the events of the last few weeks I thought it was some kind of joke."

"We’re real enough, sir. And we’re serious about our work."

"You did a fine job. I asked you here today to personally thank you and your agents for a job well done. And I wanted to tell Agents Scott and Darling that they have both been awarded an Intelligence Silver Star. Congratulations."

"Thank you, Mr. President," said Lisa, "but to tell the truth, Alice did most of the work."

"Lisa is being too modest, sir," said Alice. "If she hadn’t been with me I don’t think we would have been successful."

"You both earned your medals, agents," the President said, "as well as the thanks of a grateful nation. I’m only sorry that we can’t publicly acknowledge your actions. Security must be maintained."

"We understand, Mr. President," Alice said. "Believe me, sir, we aren’t in this for the glory."

"You more than earned your share of it, Agent Scott. The five men you captured have become our most valuable intelligence leads in tracking down the organization and rooting it out. We have a long, hard job ahead of us, but thanks to you we have a starting point."

"Mr. President," Alice said, hesitatingly, "about that hard job ahead of us…"

The President eyed Alice. "Yes, Agent Scott? Go ahead, speak up."

"I was wondering, sir, that is, I would like to request a transfer and return to active duty in the Air Force."

This request caught everyone by surprise. In the stunned silence, Alice continued. "Sir, I have extensive experience flying C-5’s and maybe it isn’t a glamour job, but moving the stuff we need to fight this enemy is an important function. When I took the controls of the 757, I knew that I belonged there. It’s not that I hate being an agent, sir, I love it more than you could believe. But I can contribute something positive to our war against terrorism. It’s time for me to leave feminine things behind, sir, and take care of more important matters."

The president stood and paced. "Agent Scott," he said, "I appreciate your feelings. I’m a fighter pilot myself. Nothing would give me more satisfaction than to strap on my F-102 and rain some righteous firepower on these bastards."

He looked at her intensely. "But I can’t. I have a more important job. And so do you.

"Because your agency is so covert, you represent an asset we cannot afford to ignore. These terrorists have a vulnerability we intend to exploit. They don’t consider a woman to be a threat of any kind. That’s why you succeeded in thwarting their plans, agent Scott. The foe cannot bring himself to believe that a woman could overpower him."

The president turned to Mary. "Director Risberg, how many of your agents are former military pilots like agent Scott?"

Mary was taken aback. "Quite a few, sir. We recruit a lot of our girls from the service."

"That’s what I thought. Director Risberg, I want you to identify former pilots in your organization. Bring them up to speed on current commercial aircraft so that they can land in an emergency. I want you to augment the Federal Sky Marshals. Your agents will fly on selected high-risk flights and be prepared to take action if needed. You ladies will be our ace in the hole."

The president turned to Alice. "Agent Scott, would you like to be a part of this special detail?"

Alice did not hesitate a second. "Yes, sir. When do I start?"

The president smiled his trademark smile. "You already have, Alice. And thank you."

Everybody stood and handshakes were once again exchanged all around. Mary, Alice, and Lisa left the oval office and the president shook his head, still smiling. Who would have believed it, he thought. Our secret weapon against terrorism turns out to be a bunch of men in black dresses.

November, 2001

Alice took her place in line to board the cross-country flight. Security was a lot tighter at the airport these days. Her purse was opened and its contents were thoroughly searched before she was allowed to enter the departure gates. Lines were long and slower, but most people didn’t complain very much. A few months ago a wait like this would have enraged the meekest of air travelers. Now they seemed grateful.

Alice made her way to the departure gate and waited for the boarding call. She still wished she was actually flying the DC-10 she would be boarding, but she hoped she wouldn’t have to. She spent a lot of her non-flying time in flight simulators these days. And she actually got to fly an agency Learjet to keep her skills current. She loved to fly.

As she made her way to her seat in coach she passed her partner Lisa in First Class. Lisa got to be the "business woman" on this flight. Mary didn’t mind. She stowed her bag overhead, retrieved a few items from her purse, stowed her purse, and took her seat. In her jumper pocket she had a compact, a breath spray, and a lipstick. The compact was a sophisticated communications link and the breath spray was actually a Gas dispenser. The lipstick was just lipstick to freshen up after her meal. Hey, a girl has to look her best, even when dressed casually.

As she sat down, one of the flight attendants handed her a magazine. The cover said Cosmopolitan. The contents, however, consisted of a seating chart and dossier for all passengers flying today. The details were somewhat sparse. America was still, after all, a free country. Despite the paranoid claims of some talk radio hosts, the government did not engage in wholesale espionage on private citizens. It did, however, try to get a handle on potential terrorists.

Alice briefly scanned the passenger list and then looked around to put a face with each name. Nobody looked very suspicious on this flight, but she still took the time to identify anyone who might pose a risk. She would pay these folks extra attention, as would her partner in First Class.

The vibration of engines starting shook the plane. The hatch shut and the plane was pushed back from the gate. As it taxied to the runway, flight attendants repeated the mandatory safety briefing Alice had heard so many times that she could repeat in her sleep. But now neither she nor any other passenger ignored the attendant. Funny how everybody now felt it vitally important to locate the nearest exit. People took this seriously these days.

The plane now stood poised on the end of the runway. The throttles advanced and the thrust of three turbofan engines gently pressed Alice into her seatback. She felt the vibration of the landing gear as the behemoth raced down the runway. "V1," she whispered to herself as the nose wheel lifted off. "V2," she said as the main wheels left the ground. "Gear up," she said as the landing gear folded into the airframe. What had been an ungainly beast on the ground was now an agile bird of paradise as it danced in the air. Alice returned to her book. She was airborne again, and she offered a small prayer that this would be the second-most exciting event of her day.

 ©2001, Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

A transvestite and a transsexual meet and become friends during the Vietnam War.

Some of this actually happened, and some of the people and places are real.

Story:

A Tale from the Wall

by

Valentina Michelle Smith

It was a hot summer day in Washington D.C., almost as hot as I remembered it had been in Thailand. My wife Molly suggested that we visit DC this summer. She had been there before and still remembered how excited she had been visiting the monuments, museums, and the centers of power. For myself, this was my first trip. And our first stop was a monument that had been erected after Molly's last visit, the Vietnam Memorial.

It took us a while, but I soon found the name I was looking for.

EILEEN O'CONNELL

"That's her," I said to Molly, "she's the one I told you about."

I stood silently staring at the name. All around me, people were lost in their own moments of introspection and remembrance, having found the name of a loved one, a friend, a father, a brother, or a comrade in arms.

I started to walk closer, then turned to see Molly standing a short distance away. "Would you like to come with me?" I asked her.

"I don't think I had better," she replied, "I'm still a little, well, nervous about this. Confused. I'm not sure how I feel right now."

I nodded, understanding her hesitance. It was only last year that I had finally revealed my deepest secret to her. She still had a lot to work out. So did I. But first I needed to put an unquiet spirit to rest.

I walked a little closer to the wall, reaching out to touch the name on the black granite. I pulled the paper and crayon I had brought to make the rubbing. As I bent to my task, the tide of memories swelled up and washed over my mental floodgates. I was once again experiencing the exotic smells, sights, and feelings of Ubon Air Base in Thailand.

Thailand was, to be quite blunt, a single man's paradise. As my First Sergeant told me on my first day in country, "You can get any kind of action you want in this town, as long as you can pay for it." He was not kidding. The working girls were available for an all nighter for the lordly price of 100 Baht, which was equal to five bucks in US currency. Other pleasures of the flesh were also available at similar prices. Not that I availed myself of these carnal delights. I had only been married a few weeks when I shipped out, and I took my marriage vows seriously. I still do. This earned me the nickname "Cherry Boy" among the bar girls at the Corsair Club.

I have to admit I wasn't exactly a choir boy. Other pleasures were available. Thai weed was perhaps the finest money could buy, and at the absurd price of a dollar a kilo, as plentiful as mosquitoes. And yes, I did inhale!

Ubon was an altogether pleasant place to be. Except for the fact that I missed my wife so badly that I slept with her picture, I enjoyed my time there. We had all the advantages of being in a war zone with none of the hassles, like being shot at. Okay, there was one mortar attack, but whoever was shooting had such terrible aim that none of the rounds even came close to anybody. It was quite comical, actually.

It was in the third month of my tour that I met Eileen. I had volunteered as a MARS radio operator to help pass the time. MARS was a military extension of Ham Radio. It was supposed to provide an alternative communication scheme if the normal military channels were somehow cut off. What we did in practice was send messages to family and friends back in the USA, and set up free calls home over the radio. Normally you could get a free 3-minute call home every month. The MARS operator in the USA would place a collect call to the family member and patch it through to us in Ubon. I would actually call about once a week, but that was one of the perks an operator got.

I was on duty when Eileen walked into the MARS shack and asked me to patch through a call. She was taller than most women at about 5-foot-9, and was built a bit stocky. Her red hair was wiry and tightly curled. I put the call through to my station in the USA. His answer was surprising, to say the least.

"Lieutenant O'Connell?" I called out.

"I'm here," she answered.

"Ma'am, I'm really sorry, but your party refused the call. Is there anybody else you might like to call?"

She stood silently, looking for all the world like a lost soul. "No, that's all right, Sergeant. There's nobody else I want to talk to tonight." And with that, she walked out of the shack.

A few days later I was in one of my favorite hangouts, the base library. I had picked up a copy of Heinlein's "The Moon Is A Harsh Mistress" and was re-reading it in the smoking lounge, puffing away on a Camel. I was engrossed when I heard somebody say, "Do you enjoy Sci-Fi?"

I looked up. It was Lieutenant O'Connell. "Yes, I do," I answered, "especially Heinlein. How about you?"

"I love Heinlein. 'Starship Troopers.' 'Stranger in A Strange Land.' 'The Puppet Masters.' Have you read 'The Number of the Beast'?"

I confessed that I hadn't. Then she asked, "Could I have one of your Camels?"

"Sure," I said, proffering the pack. She picked one out and lit it, inhaling the smoke. We chatted about Heinlein and other science fiction for a bit. The minutes became hours.

"Say," she asked, "what's your name?"

"Bill. Bill Smith."

She extended her hand. "I'm Eileen O'Connell. Aren't you the MARS radio fellow?"

"Yes, I work MARS sometimes."

"I thought I recognized you. Say, why don't we continue this over a few brews?"

"Uh, well," I hesitated, "you see, I'm married. And I don't think we're supposed to fraternize. I'm enlisted."

Eileen smiled in amusement. "Don't worry, Bill, I won't seduce you. I can see the wedding ring. That wife of yours is one lucky gal. And as for the fraternization," she said with a mischievous grin, "as your superior officer, I am ordering you to come with me and have a good time." We both laughed as we walked outside to hail a taxi to the Corsair Club.

This was my favorite watering hole in town. The music was solid rock from the late 60's. Hendrix. Cream. Airplane. Joplin. There were two kinds of beer in Thailand, Singhai and Amarit. Amarit was a truly fine brew, and was the only brand served at the Corsair. The less said about Singhai, the better. Eileen and I were now talking about our favorite B-movies, when we noticed the bar girls were staring at us and laughing. "What's so funny?" I asked.

One of the girls, Lek, said, "So, Cherry Boy got a girl friend. Round-eye girl. This mean no more Cherry Boy?"

I smiled. A smile was considered to be good etiquette in Thailand. "No, she is my friend. We are just buddies."

Lek laughed. "Sure, GI, you two just friends." And she rolled her eyes as if to say "I don't believe you!"

I blushed and started to apologize to Eileen, but she just smiled and said she didn't mind. "Let them think we are more than just friends. I don't mind. And as long as we know the truth, it doesn't matter."

Her smile and manner were so warm and genuine that, were I not already spoken for, I could easily fall for this girl. But we were bonding on a different level. We were becoming friends.

I asked her where she was assigned, since there weren't many women in Ubon. "I'm a flight nurse," she answered. "I'm part of a Nightingale crew. Every few days we fly into 'Nam and pick up a fresh load of wounded to med-evac to the Philippines. Then we head back here. How about you, Bill?"

I explained that I was an electronic tech and was assigned to the fire control shop. Basically, I repaired the radar sets on AC130 gunships. Our talk then turned to home. I told her about my wife back in Philly, and how we wrote just about every day. I asked her about her family. She looked a bit sad, then said, "I don't have any. Not anymore." And she said no more.

I think we were talking about "Forbidden Planet" having been adapted from Shakespeare's "The Tempest" when last call sounded. There was a curfew in Ubon. "Wow, where did the night go? I have to get back to base, Eileen."

"You can stay at my place in town," she said. "My roommate isn't due back until tomorrow. You can sleep in her room."

"That's tempting," I said, "but I'm on duty tomorrow."

"That's a shame. I'll be flying out day after tomorrow. Maybe we can get together when I get back."

"Okay, how about Monday night at the chapel?"

Eileen looked at me incredulously. "You don't strike me as particularly religious, Bill. Why the chapel?"

"Monday night is Steak night," I answered. "The chaplain gets steaks, we barbecue them, and there's a movie after dinner. This week's flick is 'The Producers'. And since it's the Catholic chaplain's turn to host, we get beer as well."

This made Eileen laugh. "All right then, Monday night at the chapel."

We hailed a cab. I made sure she got to her bungalow, and then returned to base. It was about 1 AM when I finally crawled under the mosquito netting over my bunk and went to sleep.

The next few days seemed to drag on forever. I pulled my shifts on the flight line, debriefing aircrews and repairing the black boxes that let Spectre gunships see in the dark. Every day I wrote home, and lived for the green flag over the post office that signaled the arrival of mail from home. There was always something from Molly. A letter, a card, an occasional tape. Our correspondence was somewhat on the erotic side, describing just what we would do when I returned home. Like so many other GIs in Southeast Asia, I was wishing a part of my life away so I could return home.

Monday arrived at last. I left the shop and walked back to the barracks, where I showered a day's worth of sweat off my skin. I changed into some fresh civvies and headed to the chapel. Eileen was there.

The chapel's barbecue pavilion was nicknamed the Burnt Offering Tent. The way some of the guys cooked their meat, it was appropriate. Eileen and I picked out a couple of nice ones and tossed them on the grill. Father Diamond, the chaplain, had gotten a good supply of Michelob for the evening. Eileen and I took our steaks to the table. I grabbed a few brews while she got some baked potatoes and salad. She attracted quite a few stares, being the only woman there.

"The Producers" was funnier than I remembered. We fell out of our chairs laughing when they sang "Springtime for Hitler". I felt a little twinge of guilt, being with another woman when my wife was on the other side of the world. But being with Eileen felt right.

After the movie, we headed over to The Bunker, which was the 8th AMS snack bar. Again, more than a few stares. An American woman was something of a rarity in a war zone. Eileen and I talked sci-fi all night, comparing notes about Asimov, Bradbury, and even Burroughs.

Somehow, I started talking about home, and about Molly. Her last letter was all about her student teaching assignment. I told Eileen about how much Molly loved teaching, and about how she found the school politics difficult. After a while, I noticed that Eileen had gotten a bit somber. "Is it something I said?"

"No, not really," she sighed, "I was just thinking how lucky you are. Molly sure sounds like a nice girl."

"She is," I said, "but don't you have somebody back home?"

"No. Not really. Look, Bill, if it's all the same, I just don't want to talk about it, okay?"

"Sure," I said. "Eileen, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be a downer."

She smiled at me. "You aren't, Bill. You are probably the sweetest guy I ever met. And a true gentleman as well. No, it's my problem. Let's just not dwell on it."

We talked about other things, books and movies and even Shakespeare. We didn't talk about family again for a long time.

We were spending a lot of time together. Whenever Eileen was not flying we would meet. And people noticed. After a few months, though, I got the surprise of my life. It was from our dispatcher, Bud Sedalis.

Bud was a redneck. If you look up the word "redneck" in the dictionary you might just see his picture. Jeff Foxworthy could have gotten most of his material by observing Bud. He had a southern drawl that sounded like he ought to be an extra in "The Beverly Hillbillies". "Hey, Smitty," he said, "I saw you with yer girl friend the other night."

"Look, Bud, she isn't a girl friend. We just talk."

"Y'all mean ta say ya ain't nailed her? Shit, that's a relief. We all thought you were goin' queer on us."

"Huh?" I said, "what's that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know? Hell, Smitty, I thought everybody knew. She's one o' them thar she-males."

"A what? What are you talking about?"

"I mean she used to be a man. She's one of them fairies what got her dick cut off to look like a chick."

"Wait a minute, Bud, you mean she's a transsexual?"

"Yeah, that's the word. And you didn't know? Y'all prob'ly the only guy on base who doesn't!"

I was dumbfounded. Eileen was as feminine a woman as I had ever met. How could this be? I mean, I knew something about transsexuals. Probably more than most people. But I had never met one. Or had I?

I met Eileen at the Corsair club. We started talking as usual, but she could see that something was bothering me. Eventually, we went to her bungalow. Tomorrow was my day off, so we decided to talk late into the night. But something was clearly troubling me.

"Bill, is something wrong? You have been so glum tonight. Is everything all right at home?"

"It's nothing like that, Eileen. It's just something one of the guys in the shop said. About you."

"Oh? What was it? Did he accuse you of sleeping with me?" She giggled.

"No. It's just that, he said,..." It was hard getting the words out. "He said that you had a sex change."

Despite the tropical heat of Thailand, the temperature in Eileen's bungalow approached glacial levels. "And that makes you feel different about me?"

I was on the verge of tears. "Eileen, I wish I could say I just don't care. You have been the best friend I have in this place. No matter what, you are my friend. That will never change. But I can't help thinking about it."

Eileen was quiet for a minute. Then she said, "It's true. I'm a transsexual."

In my stunned silence, Eileen continued her tale. "I was born Kevin O'Connell. A boy. I knew I was different from when I was a kid. I never liked being a boy. I would always rather play with dolls than play baseball.

"My father was career Navy. He's a Chief Petty Officer in Groton. He got my mom pregnant and married her to do the right thing. We spent a lot of years moving from base to base. Then my mom died.

"I was eight. My old man didn't want to raise me by himself, so his sister raised me. Aunt Maeve. She was a feisty woman. She had a terrific head for business. Made a fortune in the Stock Market.

"Anyway, I kept getting in trouble at school. Mostly getting beat up. Aunt Maeve took me to a bunch of therapists. One of them finally figured out what was wrong.

"Aunt Maeve got me the help I needed. She got me started on hormones when I was still young. She put me in a private school. For two years I lived full time as a girl.

I listened silently as she continued. "It was a happy time for me. My body finally resembled what I knew I really was. Aunt Maeve arranged for me to have the sex change operation after I turned seventeen. Then she paid for me to go to nursing school."

"What did your father say to this?" I asked."

"He didn't know until it was too late. He had no time for me. Once he found out he nearly killed Aunt Maeve. But she had him by the legal short hairs. He had signed over my custody to her years ago."

I spoke up. "Eileen, that night at the MARS shack, were you trying to call your Aunt?"

"No," she answered, "Aunt Maeve died in a car accident soon after I got my R.N. She was smart about a lot of things, but not smart enough to have a will. Her brother, my father, got all of her money.

"The last time I saw him was at Aunt Maeve's funeral. He let me know in no uncertain terms that he was cutting me off without a cent. I remember crying."

"So who were you calling?"

"My father."

I was stunned again. "But why? Why call him?"

Eileen was now in tears. "Because I wanted to have him hug me, call me Daddy's little girl! Because I wanted him to bounce me on his knee! Because I wanted to be his little princess! Because I want him to walk me down the aisle on my wedding day! Because I want him to acknowledge his goddam daughter!" She collapsed in my arms, sobbing.

I held her tenderly, telling her it was all right. I let her sob into my chest, her tears soaking my shirt. She was like a lost child, a helpless little baby. Somehow I managed to summon a latent nurturing instinct and held her close to protect her.

After some time, she regained her composure. She said, "I'm sorry. I guess this changes everything."

I thought for a minute. "No, not really. You shared something with me. You trust me. I promise you I won't ever betray your trust."

I remember her smiling at me as we held each other. For a long time we were silent. Then she asked me about my family. "You talk a lot about your wife, Bill. But what about your parents? Are you close to them?"

"Sort of," I said. "I write to my mom often. Dad was my buddy when I was a kid. He loved taking me to ball games. We both lived and died with the Phillies. Even when I became a teen-ager and went through my rebellious phase, we could always talk baseball."

I paused for a moment. "Dad couldn't understand why I was such a rebel. He hated rock-and-roll, and thought I was too much of a bookworm. Especially science fiction. He thought it was foolishness to read about space travel and that sort of thing."

"Do you ever write to him?" she asked."

"Dad passed away a few years ago," I replied. "He had a massive heart attack."

"Oh, Bill, I'm so sorry!" Eileen said.

"Don't be, Eileen. When I was home on leave after tech school, I could tell he was proud of me. So I guess we got to be friends again."

Eileen was quiet. Then she said, "How old was he?"

"He was 47," I answered. "I think it was the smoking that killed him."

Eileen looked at me. "Bill, let's both quit smoking. I want you to live for a long time."

I thought about it for a few minutes. "Yes, that's not a bad idea. I'll help you if you help me."

She grinned. It was good to see her smile. "Done!" she said. And with that we tossed our smokes in the trash.

It was too late to get a taxi, so I agreed to stay in her bungalow that night. Her roommate was away and tomorrow was my day off. I fell asleep as soon as I stretched out on the futon.

It was hot when I woke up. I was sweaty. I needed a shower. Eileen lent me some soap and shampoo. I scrubbed the sweat off my body. The shampoo smelled of peaches, which made me hungry.

I emerged and toweled off. With the towel wrapped around my waist, I walked to the room I had borrowed to find my clothes.

They were gone.

"Eileen," I called, "my mind must be slipping. I can't find my clothes."

"I had my houseboy wash them. You should have them back in a few hours. Sorry, but they smelled pretty rank!"

I was embarrassed! "So do I have to wear a towel until he brings them back?" I said.

"You can wear my kimono for a few hours," she said. She handed me the silk robe with a very feminine floral design. I hesitated, then said What the hell! I put the kimono on and tied the sash, enjoying the soft feel of Thai silk against my skin.

All at once I began to experience some very familiar feelings. Something I hoped was in my past for good, but also secretly wished would never go away.

"You look good in my robe," she said to me. "Why don't you get one for yourself?"

"Maybe I will," I said. But my pretence at nonchalance was transparent. I was enjoying this!

The cacophony of emotions I felt at that moment was overwhelming. Suddenly, I needed to share something. A secret I had held inside my soul for years. It would not hold back! But could I trust her? The caution that had served me so well almost held the day. But Eileen had just laid her soul bare to me last night. Surely of all people on earth, I could share it with her!

I decided against caution. "Eileen," I said, "can you keep a secret?"

"I have a security clearance, if that makes you feel any better."

I laughed nervously. Then I started. "I need to tell you something. About me." I hesitated, trying to find the right words. "You see, well, umm,..."

"Go ahead and tell me, Bill."

"It's something I haven't even told Molly. I, umm, uh, well, I like wearing women's clothes."

Eileen began to laugh. "That's rich, Bill! That's the funniest joke I ever heard!"

My cheeks reddened as my eyes welled up with tears. Not very many. I was still too nervous to cry. "It's no joke. It's true! So help me God it's true!"

The laughter stopped. "You mean it," she said, almost as a question. "This is for real!"

"Yes." I said, choking back a sob, "I'm a, well, I guess I'm a closet queen."

I sat down. In truth I was close to fainting, and I was shaking like a leaf in a hurricane. But the words came out, taking on a life of their own.

"I guess I started when I was about nine. I wore a dress to go trick-or-treat. I always had fantasies about my mom or somebody making me wear a dress and act like a girl. Then one day when I was about twelve, I was home alone. I borrowed some of my Mom's things to try on.

"I remember standing in front of her mirror as I put on panties, a bra, and a dress. I stared at myself, but it didn't look right. Then I realized what was wrong. I stuffed some socks in the bra to make it look like I had boobs.

"When I saw myself with breasts," I continued, "it was like nothing I ever felt before! I had never been so excited! Then I just lost control."

"Lost control?" she asked.

"Yes. I had my first orgasm."

The redness was fading from my cheeks as my story unfolded. "After that, I was dressing up at any chance I had. Whenever I was by myself, I put on some of mom's things and masturbated. For a long time it was the only way I knew how to get myself off."

"How did it make you feel?" she asked. "Other than the orgasm, I mean."

I drew a long breath. "I felt guilty. My Catholic education had me convinced that I was going to hell. I wondered if I was a queer or something. Then when I read about Christine Jorgenson, I thought I might be like her. A woman trapped in a man's body."

Eileen winced. "God, I hate that phrase! It's nothing like that! I always knew I was female! I hated being born male!"

Then she stopped. "I'm sorry, Bill. I didn't mean to interrupt."

"It's okay. I hope you don't take this the wrong way, Eileen, but I like my male body. I mean, there are times I wish I could transform for just a little while, but I never want it to be permanent."

"Anyway, when I started dating, my need to dress up kind of faded. I really thought it was out of my system. But I was wrong. I started trying on Molly's things when she wasn't home."

"Did it get you excited again?" she asked.

"No. I mean, it's still a kick seeing myself with breasts and all, but I didn't get a sexual thrill. It just felt good. It felt right."

We both fell silent. I wondered what Eileen was thinking. I hoped she didn't think I was trying to mock her. Then she broke the silence. "Bill, I know how hard it must have been keeping this a secret. I know that means you must trust me. I promise that I'll keep it safe."

Then her mischievous grin emerged again. "Don't go anywhere," she said, dashing off to her room.

"Where could I go?"

A few minutes later, she emerged with a handful of clothes. A pair of panties, a bra, and a silk dress. "Go ahead, put them on!"

I hesitated. Then I took them into the other room. I removed the robe and pulled on her panties. They were silky, with a pretty lace trim. The bra was a soft beige, almost pink. And the dress! It was a red silk oriental style dress with a skirt that came up to the middle of my thigh. It was lovely! I emerged, a little nervous. "I hope I don't look too ridiculous," I said.

She looked me over. "Not bad. You look kind of cute. But we have to do something about your boobs." She handed me some wash cloths. "Stuff these into the cups."

It was a strange, almost surreal feeling, having those bulges on my chest again. "That's great!" she said. "That's a 36C and you fill it quite nicely. Now sit here while I do your face."

I sat patiently, my excitement growing while Eileen applied makeup to my face. Some foundation, a bit of blush, eye shadow, and lipstick. "You know, you have pretty eyes. These lashes are so long and thick! Too pretty for a guy!"

The last touch was a wig she had bought in the Philippines. "I love having big hair," she explained, "but it isn't regulation. Why don't you take a look at yourself?"

I walked over to the mirror, hoping I didn't look totally foolish. And I gasped. The person looking back at me was a woman. And it was me!

"I don't believe it! How could I look so good?"

Eileen replied, "I have a lot of practice. I was born male, so I had to learn how to look female with makeup. It's not that hard if you know how."

I stared at the feminine image in the mirror. It felt like hours, but was only a few moments. That face! So different, but at the same time so familiar! Then it struck me! "My God, I've become my mother! I look just like her!"

Eileen was beaming. "So how does it feel, Bill? Wait, we can't call you Bill when you look like that. How about Billie? Like Billie Holiday, the singer."

"Wow, it's a good thing the guys at the shop can't see me now," I said.

"They never will. Billie is our secret, just between us girls."

Well, I can't tell you how great that day was. Eileen and I spent the day trying on clothes, trying different makeup, just like a couple of college girls trading things in a dorm room. It was the most insane sort of irony, a transsexual and a transvestite becoming friends in the middle of a war.

Eventually I had to wash off the makeup and take off Eileen's clothes. Her houseboy had dropped off my stuff at her door. I got dressed and we went to one of the local restaurants to get some fried rice and dumplings.

"Eileen," I said, "this has been one of the craziest days of my life. And one of the best. Thank you."

It was Eileen's turn to blush. "Actually, I ought to thank you, Bill. I never had a real girl friend when I was growing up. And I guess you might have liked one too."

"Yes. I often fantasized about a day like this, when I could let that part of myself out without fear of being ridiculed. It finally happened."

Then I began to panic. "Oh, no, how can I tell Molly about this!"

Eileen said, "Wait until you get home. This is something you should do in person. If she loves you as much as you seem to love her, you two will be able to work it out."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Hopefully she won't want to divorce me over it."

Eileen just laughed. "I don't think you have anything to worry about. Have you told her anything about me?"

"Yes. I told her about how we enjoy the same books and movies. Molly says she would like to meet you some time."

"I think I'd like that, Bill. Maybe we can meet for dinner or something."

"Maybe," I replied. Actually, we both knew that this was unlikely. The military being what it was, we would probably draw assignments on the opposite ends of the country. But it was nice to think about.

In the next few months, Eileen and I spent a lot more time at her bungalow. I was getting a chance to explore my feminine side with the help of a woman. She had me try on a lot of different outfits and makeup, and we would still talk about books, music, and movies. But now we were calling it "girl talk."

I noticed something was happening to me whenever I would dress up. I tended to giggle a bit more, and it was easier to cry about things. Like when we talked about the ending of "West Side Story" and how sad it was, I found tears were running down my cheeks. All of the emotions I felt I had to suppress for so many years were now coming to the surface. And it felt good.

It was on one of our dress-up sessions that Eileen surprised me with a little present; a pair of foam breast forms. "Where did you get these?" I asked.

"I ordered them from supply. They are kept in stock for mastectomy patients. I just looked up the Federal Stock Code and ordered a set. Go ahead, try them on!"

I slipped the forms into my bra and checked myself out in the mirror. It was a definite improvement! My breasts did not have that sort of lumpy look which the wash cloths gave them. And they were weighted, too. "Eileen, they're wonderful! Thank you so very much! Oh, I love them!"

"They look good on you, Billie," she said. "It's a much more feminine appearance. Why don't you finish getting dressed?"

I needed little encouragement. By now I was shaving my legs regularly. So far, nobody seemed to notice. I pulled on some pantyhose. Tonight I was wearing a tan skirt and a matching blouse with a neat pair of sandals. I had finished putting on my makeup and was still pulling on my wig when I emerged from Eileen's room.

That's when I met Eileen's roommate for the first time!

I could feel my cheeks redden! Oh, no! The secret was out for sure! I just stood there in stunned silence, wishing I could somehow disappear. Eileen spoke first. "Patty, what are you doing back so soon?"

Patty was a willowy African-American woman. Her features were those of a classic African beauty with skin like polished ebony. She spoke, staring at me all the while. "We got back ahead of schedule so one of the pilots could take his R&R. Eileen, just what the hell is this guy doing in your clothes?"

I stammered, "Listen, I can explain..."

Patty just ignored me. "Eileen, girl, you aren't recruiting guys into your club, are you? Is this fellow looking to make the change?"

"Patty," Eileen said, "this is Bill. He's the fellow I told you about."

"Yeah, but you left out this part."

"Bill's not looking to change sexes. He's just dressing up. He's a transvestite."

I was looking desperately for a rock to crawl under. None were in sight, so I decided to speak up. "Uhh, hello. I guess you're Patty. I'm Bill."

Patty began to laugh. "Right now you don't exactly look like a Bill."

I wasn't exactly in the mood to laugh. I could feel my Air Force days coming to an abrupt end. The last thing I wanted was to be tossed out on a bad conduct discharge. That's when Patty surprised me again. "Well, you better not go parading around like that outside this bungalow. I know you aren't queer, but some of these military shrinks aren't too enlightened."

"You mean, you aren't going to turn me in?" I said, incredulously.

"Of course not. Crossdressing is not homosexual behavior no matter what those fools might think."

I was relieved. "Thank you, Patty. I really didn't think you would understand."

Eileen then said, "Don't worry about Patty understanding. Her brother is transitioning."

"Her brother?"

"Not for long," said Patty. "Those hormones are giving him a nice set of boobs. He's about ready for the real-life test. He has to live as a woman full time for a year before he gets the surgery. I guess I ought to get used to saying 'she'."

"Patty's the only other nurse who understands what I went through," said Eileen, "and that's because of her brother. None of the other flight nurses have much to do with me. They can be just as uptight and prejudiced as guys."

"Prejudice is something I understand too, sister!" said Patty.

"Listen," I said, "I better be going. Sorry if I upset you, Patty."

"There's no need to go on my account," said Patty. "We can still have some fun together. Just us girls," she said with a wink.

So I stayed. We opened a bottle of white wine and sat down for a little girl talk. We talked about a lot of things. Family back home. Growing up. Patty turned out to be quite a woman, with a somewhat earthy sense of humor.

We were talking about family when I asked Patty about her brother. Specifically, I asked her how her father took the news about his transition. "Not very well," she said. "Black men are just as hung up about their sexuality as white guys. For a black man to have his son tell him that he's going to change his sex, it's like saying he wants to join the Klan. As far as Daddy's concerned, Dwight is dead."

"Yeah," said Eileen, "men are really pigs about that. My old man never had a damn thing to do with me when I was a kid. Now that I'm a woman, he despises me. At least the next time I see that bastard, he has to salute me."

"Hey, watch that guy bashing you two!" I said. "I'm still a guy under all this, remember?"

"No way!" said Patty; "you make too much sense to be a man!"

We all laughed. Then Patty said, "wait a minute." She popped into her room end emerged with a Polaroid. "I just want to get a picture of you two."

Eileen and I stood together while Patty snapped a few pictures. We watched them develop. "Look at that," she said, "two gals having a good time together." The pictures showed us both smiling and laughing while holding wineglasses. It looked like we were at a party. Patty handed me one. "Don't show it to the guys, though," she cautioned.

"Well," I said, "I think I better change and get back to base. I don't think I will be able to borrow your bedroom tonight, Patty."

"Nonsense, "said Patty, "you can stay, as long as you don't mind sleeping on the couch. But definitely shower before you go to sleep. I don't want to surprise Whit tomorrow." Whit was the houseboy. He cleaned the house, made the beds, and did the laundry for several bungalows.

I accepted the gracious invitation. Our girl talk lasted into the night. Eileen excused herself and went to her room. I was alone with Patty.

"You know, Billie, " she said, "you have done a world of good for Eileen. Since she met you she's been a different girl. She was really morose and withdrawn when she first arrived. Now she's happy. Her eyes have a light in them that I never saw before. And she smiles. It's helped her cope with her work."

"Yes, she told me about her work," I said. "About the maimed and wounded guys she has to care for on the Nightingale. In the safety of Thailand, I often forget about the horror going on in 'Nam. You ladies don't have that luxury."

"Having a positive outlook is a survival skill in our line of work. She has one now. I know she'll get through this."

"I'm glad. I'm so glad I helped."

"You did, girl. You did."

Patty yawned. So did I. "I guess I better change now," I said.

"Go ahead. You can change in my room."

I pulled off the wig, washed my face, and proceeded to remove all of my feminine things. It had been quite a night. I had spent the night en femme with two women, and it felt as natural as breathing. As I lay on the couch in my boxer shorts, it occurred to me that I had experienced profound changes in these last few months. I was soon asleep.

As the weeks passed, we were vaguely aware of the changing political situation. The American presence in Vietnam was gradually winding down. This had little effect on us in Thailand, since we still flew in support of the Vietnamese troops. I still pulled my shifts on the flight line and savored my time off.

I was waiting in the shop for my next work order, writing a letter to Molly, when our shop chief, Art Dobson, brought me some good news. "Hey Smitty, guess what? Happy FIGMO day." FIGMO was one of those colorful informal military acronyms. The last four letters stand for "I Got My Orders". I'm sure you can figure out what the first one is. Dobson handed me one of the bundles of sheets he was clutching. "Congratulations, Bill, you drew a slot at Tyndall."

I couldn't believe my luck! Not only did I have my ticket home, but I had also managed to get an assignment on the Gulf Coast of Florida. Dobson continued handing out orders. Four other guys got their orders that day. Two were headed to Minot, North Dakota, one to Loring, Maine, and another to Dover, Delaware.

The orders were standard, authorizing a 30-day leave once I got back to the states. I could get a port call as early as November.

Bud was the second guy to congratulate me. "Way to go, Smitty! We're headed to the same place. I'll write back and let ya know what it's like there!"

That night I was on duty at the MARS station. I had several calls to handle, but I would try to sneak one in for myself. I soon managed to raise a station in Arizona. It was Barry Goldwater's station.

Senator Goldwater was an avid Ham Radio operator. It was always a pleasure to work his station, especially since the Senator would pay for the long distance call. He did this without publicity, preferring not to use his activity for political gain. Not too many people know about this gift he made to GI's in Southeast Asia. Now that you know, I hope you will tell others about him.

The call to Molly was through! "Hi, Molly, I just got my orders! We're going to Florida! Over."

"That's great, Bill! Do you know when you're coming home? Over."

We needed to say "Over" so that the operators on each end knew when to key the mike. I had to listen to many private conversations working MARS. "I don't know yet. I haven't been assigned a port call. It could be as early as November, but I think December is more likely. It's sure great to hear your voice, Molly. I love you! Over"

"I love you too, Bill. I can't wait to see you again. God, I miss you! Over"

"I miss you too, Molly. I'm counting the minutes until I see you again. Over"

My three minutes was running out. "Bill, let me know all the details in your next letter. We have a lot of plans to make. Over"

"I will, Molly. I'll get it out tonight. I have to sign off, now. I love you! Over"

"I love you, Bill! Goodbye, lover! Over"

"Goodbye, Molly. Over" She hung up.

"Hey, sarge!" I heard in the headphones. It was Senator Goldwater. "I have your next call ready. Airman Morris. Is he ready? Over."

"I'll call him. Over"

"By the way, sarge, give her a hug for me when you get home. Over"

I smiled, and then settled into the routine of connecting the guys in the MARS shack with their loved ones back home.

Eileen was back from her latest run a few days later. She met me at the library. "Bill, I have great news! FIGMO!"

"Me too," I said, "where are you headed?"

"Eglin, in Florida. How about you?"

"Tyndall. It's less than 100 miles away! Eileen, that means we could be neighbors!"

"Wow! That's too great to imagine! I can finally meet Molly!"

"That's right," I said, "I know you two will hit it off! I've told her so much about you, she almost knows you."

"Have you told her everything?" she asked.

"No. Not everything. She doesn't know about your transition. Or about our 'girl talk'."

"Thank you. I would prefer to tell her in person. And you have to decide for yourself when to tell her about Billie."

"Yeah," I said, "I still don't know how to break it to her."

Eileen smiled. "You'll know when the time is right. And I'm sure she won't hate you for it."

"I hope you're right," I replied. In all honesty, I was not sure about this. Molly and I had only been married for a few months when I shipped over to Thailand. I wanted to make sure our relationship was firm when I told her my secret. And I certainly didn't want to hurt her. A surprise revelation after being away for a year would not help.

We walked over to the main gate, pausing to check out then port call assignments posted outside The Pentagon. This is the name we gave to the eight-sided building that served as headquarters for the base. A port call was a GI's official reservation on a freedom bird heading home to the real world. Even though our orders had an estimated rotation date several months in the future, we still stopped to check. It felt good.

"So when is your DEROS, Bill?" Eileen asked, referring to the Date of Expected Return from Overseas on my orders.

"22 November," I answered. "If all goes as expected I should get a December port call and get to spend Christmas at home with Molly."

"Your first Christmas together! Oh, how romantic!"

"Well, not exactly our first. We celebrated Christmas in November before I shipped overseas. We set up a little tree and decorated it, and then exchanged presents. We had the family over to visit, too. Everybody seemed to enjoy it."

"I bet they did," she said. "You and Molly seem to have a really special kind of relationship. I can see it whenever you talk about her."

I smiled. We had now walked to the taxi stand at the main gate and hired a cab to Eileen's bungalow. We arrived to find Patty. "Well look who's here," she said, "Eileen and Billie. Time for another night of girl talk." She smiled broadly. I think Patty enjoyed these sessions as much as I did. I didn't notice that hint of mischief in her smile, but I was about to experience something the two of them had been planning for a while.

Eileen said, "Bill, we have a special treat for you tonight. Patty and I both think it's about time you tried on a uniform." And with that, she pulled a WAF's uniform from her closet.

The uniform was the everyday WAF uniform that consisted of a pale blue blouse and a dark blue skirt. This was worn with tan hose and black pumps. A blue hat similar to the male overseas cap was worn with this combination. "Wow," I said. "I never thought about a woman's uniform. Do you mean it?"

"Of course we do," said Patty, "go ahead and try it on!"

I didn't need much encouragement. I shed my male clothing and soon was in panties and a bra. Patty informed me that a slip was mandatory, as well as pantyhose. She quoted the Regulation. "'Women shall wear appropriate undergarments to ensure a conservative, feminine appearance.' That means you don't get to go braless, girl!"

I discovered that Eileen had bought a shorter wig. "Big hair is not permitted in uniform," she explained. "Besides, the hat would look pretty silly over that much hair."

I was done dressing. I remember slinging the regulation black purse over my left shoulder as I went to check myself out in the mirror. It was stunning! "Jesus!" I said, "I almost feel like I have to salute myself! Do I look as good as I think?"

"Billie," Eileen said, "you look good enough to walk over to the Esso station. Those kathoys would just die from envy!" Kathoys are Thai transvestites. They are quite beautiful and routinely manage to fool newly arrived GI's. Their gathering place in Ubon was a gas station although some would wander into the local bars to have some fun. The working girls didn't like them much, but most Thais seemed to tolerate them without a lot of fuss.

"You know," I said, glancing nervously at the Lieutenant's silver bars I was wearing, "technically I'm impersonating an officer."

"Girl, if the brass sees you in this outfit, impersonating an officer will be the least of your problems!"

I laughed, and continued to admire myself in the mirror, an Officer and a Lady. Patty added a few comments of her own. "Lookin' good, hon! You could use a manicure, though."

"I just had one," I said. "I was at the barber's yesterday." Thai barbershops on the base were full-service establishments. For a single fee, a customer got a haircut, a shoeshine, a shave, and a manicure. Lots of guys in Ubon sported clear nail polish.

"I'm talking about color, dear. Let's get some pink polish on you! Something to match your lipstick." Patty pulled out a bottle of nail polish and showed me how to do my nails. It felt funny holding them out to dry, but it also felt good. Once they were dry, Patty had me pose for a few more pictures. I really liked the way I looked.

By this time, Eileen had changed into her Nurse's white uniform. "I don't get to wear it much," she said, "since I normally wear a flight suit on duty." I have to tell you, Eileen looked quite gorgeous in her whites. I think it was the contrast of her flaming red hair with the nurse's cap atop it. Patty insisted on some more pictures of us together.

I kept the uniform on that night as we talked over wine and snacks. We were deep into our "girl talk" when somebody came into the bungalow.

It was Sgt. Max Fisher, one of the corpsmen on Patty's crew. "I'm sorry to burst in here, Lieutenant," he said. "I knocked but nobody answered. I tried the door and it was open, so I came in." He recognized Eileen, but looked at me in bewilderment. Eileen noticed my nervousness and said, "This is my friend Billie. She's visiting from Korat. She has a touch of laryngitis and can't say a word! Lost her voice."

"I know how that feels. I just got over a cold myself. Pleased to meet you, Ma'am," he said, and then turned to Patty. "Lieutenant, I was sent here to get you. There's been some heavy fighting and they need our crew to fly some wounded to Clark. We have to be in the air in an hour."

"OK, Max. Thanks for coming by. I can be ready in about five minutes. Do you know if Eileen's crew is flying tonight?"

"They might be, Ma'am. I heard it was pretty bad, but so far only our crew is flying." He looked over to Eileen. "I wish I could tell you for sure, but I really don't know much more. Sorry to break up your reunion."

Max's glance turned toward me. I watched as his eyes scanned my legs and hips, with a short pause for my bosom. This guy was checking me out! I didn't know whether to be flattered or insulted.

Patty emerged from her room dressed in her flight suit. She was carrying her B4 bag with her. I had a feeling it was always packed just in case of emergencies like tonight. "Girls, I don't know when I'll be back, so don't wait up for me. Max, let's grab a taxi back to base."

Yes, ma'am." Max replied. Then he extended his hand to me. I took it, trying to make my grip as limp as I could. "Nice meeting you, ma'am," he said, shaking my hand.

"And it was nice to meet you, Sergeant," I whispered in reply. He shook Eileen's hand as well, then turned and left with Patty.

When they were out of earshot, I let out an audible sigh. So did Eileen. "That was close!" I said. "I was sure he could see right through me!"

"Well he certainly undressed you with his eyes," Eileen said. "Wouldn't he be surprised to see what was really under that uniform!" That made us both laugh, although mine was a bit nervous.

"I feel so strange," I said. "On the one hand I'm kind of flattered that he thinks I look so good. On the other, I feel so, so violated. Like all my privacy was stripped away."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, Max is the squadron horn-dog. He's hit on every girl in the squadron at least once. It's a good thing he had to leave right away, or he would have tried to talk you into bed with him."

"I don't think he would have much success," I replied. "I might like these clothes, but I sure don't want to have sex with a man!"

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" she asked.

"Well," I said, "I'm curious as to how sex feels for a woman. I wonder how Molly feels when we make love, for instance."

"It's wonderful," said Eileen. "I have to say I really enjoy it. But I think I like the foreplay a lot better. The touching and the kissing."

"Oh," I said. "I guess that means you…"

"Yes, I've had lovers," she replied. "Not many, but some. There's this guy at Clark Airbase in the Philippines. We get together sometimes when I fly in. He's pretty good in the sack."

I was just a wee bit shocked, hearing a woman speak so openly about her sex life, and said as much to Eileen. "Oh, gosh, I forgot for a minute that you're really a guy, Billie. I won't say any more if it embarrasses you."

"It's not that," I said, "I guess I just didn't expect a girl to talk like that."

"Chicks get horny too," she said. "We like to talk about sex as much as guys do. We just don't get turned on by quite the same things."

I was silently mulling over this new insight into the feminine mystique when Eileen asked me "How does it feel for you? I didn't have sex until after I transitioned."

I smiled. "Well, you already know about the closeness, about the warmth of two bodies rubbing against each other. Now try to imagine being surrounded by warmth, by wetness, by love. When I'm loving Molly, I can feel my excitement build up from the base of my spine throughout my body. It's like exploding outward in a series of blasts until I'm totally spent. It's pain mixed with ecstasy. I wish I were a poet so that I could do the feeling justice. It just feels so wonderful!"

I saw Eileen smile. "It's the same for me, but I'm on the receiving end of the explosions." She poured us each another glass of wine. Then she asked, "How many lovers have you had?"

NOW I was embarrassed! "Well, just one. Molly."

Incredulously, Eileen said, "Do you mean you were a virgin on your wedding night?"

"No," I said, "Molly and I have been lovers for years. But she was my first, and she's my only partner. I don't know if I want another. No offense."

"None taken. Sex would only mess up our relationship."

"It's funny," I mused, "but Molly didn't believe at first that I had no experience. Why is it that when somebody says 'virgin', nobody ever thinks of a boy?"

"It's one of those stereotypes men never bothered to deny," she answered. We both laughed again. It felt good to laugh with her, sipping wine and talking. It was while we were girl-talking that Eileen had an inspiration.

"Why don't we take our R&R together?" she said. "Let's go to Bangkok or Hong Kong. I bet it would be fun!"

"I don't know," I said. "Maybe it would. But what made you think of this?"

"Well, you managed to fool Max Fisher. He really thought you were a woman. If we go to Bangkok or Hong Kong, nobody will know us. You could be Billie and walk in the open. What do you think?"

"I think it's the craziest, most illogical idea I have ever heard. When do you want to go?"

We checked our respective schedules and decided to take R&R in the first week of October. We decided to fly down to Bangkok on the first day and check into a hotel, where I would change into my femme clothing. Then Eileen and Billie would do Bangkok, just a couple of girl friends on a holiday.

We started planning our trip immediately. After we got our R&R's approved, Eileen and I began accumulating new outfits. We wanted to have new things for our trip. Eileen did the buying, getting us new things from the Exchange in Clark. We had many sessions trying on new outfits. Day by day, our R&R was getting closer.

It was the day before we were leaving on R&R. I was going to meet Eileen at The Bunker. "The Godfather" was playing at the base theater, and we both wanted to see it before signing out tomorrow, When I walked in, I deliberately wore a hat. The Bunker had one inflexible rule. "He who wears his hat in here buys the bar a round of cheer." I was feeling pretty cheerful, so I decided to treat everybody to a brew. Charlie, our permanent CQ and bartender, was right on the ball and sounded the gong. "Hey, folks, Smitty's buying!"

I took a beer over to Eileen and sat down. "Well I hope you weren't trying to sneak away, Bill. Everybody's going to remember you were here!"

"I don't mind," I said, "I just wanted to treat the fellows." In fact, just about everybody raised his bottle to me to thank me for the drink. "I'll probably do this the day I fly home, too."

Charlie came out from behind the bar to let me know the damages. I pulled some bills out of my pocket and paid up. "Charlie, I'm going to be signing out on R&R tomorrow. I'll be in at 0600," I said, drawing it out to the full military "oh six hundred".

"Speak English, Smitty!" was Charlie's retort. "If you mean six in the morning, just say so. You going to turn in early tonight?"

"No. Eileen and I are going to see 'The Godfather'."

"Good flick," he said. "I saw it downtown with Thai subtitles. The Thais seemed to get a charge out of it. Do you remember the part where Sonny gets shot up on the turnpike? They thought it was hysterical!"

Eileen and I finished our beers, then set off to the base theater. The movie had progressed to Michael's wedding in Sicily when the PA system made an announcement. I really wasn't paying attention and voiced my displeasure at the damned moron who had to make an announcement over the movie. Then Eileen said, "Bill, I think that page is for you."

Sure enough, the P.A. once again boomed out, "Sgt. Smith. Sgt. William Smith. Please come to the phone."

Confused, I walked back to the phone. It was Charlie, calling from the Bunker. "Smitty, I'm glad you told me that you were going to the movies. Listen, the Red Cross has a message for you at the Pentagon. He says it's urgent."

A message from the Red Cross meant only one thing: bad news. A million scenarios raced through my mind. Was it Molly? Did she have an accident? Could it be one of my brothers or Mom? I looked up from the phone to see Eileen. "The Red Cross has a message for me. I have to get over to the Pentagon."

"I'm coming with you," she said. I didn't argue. The Pentagon was only a few minutes away on foot. As we walked in the NCOD and the Red Cross worker met us. The Red Cross guy had one of those sad faces that looked like all he ever did was relay bad news. That probably wasn't very far from the mark. "Sgt. Smith? Hi, I'm Ray Gowen from the Red Cross. I'm really sorry to give you this sad news. Your Mother has passed away." He handed me the telex with the terse message.

I suddenly became very numb to the outside world. I was vaguely aware that people were talking to me, but none of it registered. A very sick feeling came over me, and I excused myself and headed for the latrine where I proceeded to puke up the entire contents of my stomach.

I must have looked as sick as I felt, because when I emerged both Eileen and Ray were waiting for me. Ray asked me if I wanted to go to the dispensary. Eileen said "It's OK, I'm a nurse. I can get him anything he needs."

"I don't need anything," I said, "it's just the shock. Now what happens?"

"We get you home as soon as possible," Ray replied. "I'll confirm an emergency leave tomorrow morning and the admin folks will cut the orders. You should be on the next plane home. We can get you a cash advance if you need it."

I thanked Ray, then Eileen and I headed outside. I was just about lost, so she took me back to her bungalow.

"Eileen, I'm really sorry," I started, "I didn't want to ruin our R&R…"

"Now you just hush," she said, "Right now you need to sleep. Don't worry about the R&R. Just concentrate on getting home tomorrow."

That's when I broke down and wept. The tears came spontaneously. I don't think I cried like that since I was in diapers. Tears are not very manly. But I wept, my tears flowing down my cheeks in rivers. Eileen held me, giving me comfort. I cried without shame for what seemed an eternity. Eileen held me, letting the tears soak into her blouse.

I don't remember falling asleep, but I woke up on Patty's futon. I stumbled out of bed. Eileen was already awake, making breakfast. I protested, claiming to have no appetite, but she would hear none of it. "You have to have something in your stomach for today," she told me, "especially after that job you did emptying it." Somehow I managed to shovel down eggs, grits, toast and coffee before Eileen guided me into the shower. The feel of soap and water on my skin made me feel a lot better. I felt good enough to risk pulling a razor over my face. Showered and clean-shaven, I stepped out of the bathroom.

Somehow Eileen had managed to get a set of my 1505's from my barracks locker. The khaki uniform had been cleaned and pressed as well, thanks to a rush job at the base cleaners. "Thanks, Eileen," I said.

"Well I sure couldn't send you home in MY uniform, no matter how good it looks on you. Now get dressed." Somehow I managed to get everything on.

The rest of that day was a blur. I remember packing a bag with a change of underwear and some toilet items for the trip home. Then I went to several different offices to get all the clearances I would need to board the shuttle and head for the states. Bureaucracy, it seems, did not admit to the concept of an emergency.

Despite the hassles, I soon was in the transportation terminal waiting for the Starlifter that would take me to Clark Air Base in the Philippines, where I would catch the first available flight home. Eileen was there. To my surprise, so was Bud Sedalis.

Bud had a small gift. "Smitty," he said, "the guys took up a collection to buy flowers for the funeral, but we thought maybe you could use the money instead, so.." And with that he pressed a wad of bills into my hand. I didn't know what to say! "Thanks, Bud. And thank the guys for me too, OK?"

"Sure thing, Smitty." He stepped away. Now it was Eileen's turn.

"Do you know any of the details yet, Bill?" she asked.

"Some," I replied. "Father Diamond pulled a few strings to let me call Molly on the AUTOVON network. Molly said Mom had some kind of blockage in her heart. A blood clot broke off or something."

"Myocardial Infarction," said Eileen. "Sorry. I can't help that. It's my medical training. I guess you won't know when you are returning."

"I'm not coming back, " I said. "I already have orders for Tyndall, so they were amended. After leave I report there. Sorry, Eileen. I guess that ruins the R&R plans."

"Don't worry about that," she said. "We'll be getting back together when I rotate Stateside. I can't wait to meet your wife. She seems like such a sweet gal."

"Yeah, she is," I said. "I really love her."

"What about all your things at the barracks?" she asked.

"It's all going to be packed and shipped to me at Tyndall. It will be waiting for me when I process in. Oh, that reminds me." I dug into my pocket for some bills, counting out 30 dollars. "I owe this to Terry Swenson for the guitar he sold me. Could you get it to him?"

"Yes, I will. What else can I do?"

"Eileen, you have already done so much for me! I don't think I could have made it through today without you."

I could see tears forming in the corners of her eyes. "Hey now," I said, "don't cry. We'll be seeing each other soon."

She smiled. I will always remember that smile.

The P.A. announced that the shuttle was boarding. Everybody was queuing up to the boarding gate. I didn't know quite what to do. Eileen then reached out and hugged me. As we held each other, she whispered in my ear, "See you in the States, girl friend!"

I looked back as I walked through the gate. Eileen and Bud waved to me. I turned and walked across the tarmac to the waiting Starlifter.

* * * * * * * * *

My reunion with Molly was bittersweet. She met me at the airport and we embraced so tightly that we must have squeezed the air from between each other. She drove me home and related all of the events of the past few days leading up to Mom's death.

I don't know who invented the custom of viewing the departed's remains. I often thought it rather ghoulish to go look at a corpse. But seeing Mom in her casket demonstrated to me just why this is done. It gave me a chance to say goodbye. I couldn't help but notice the way the undertaker had done her nails in a sort of orange nail polish. Mom hated orange! She wouldn't be caught dead in orange, I found myself thinking. But then again, she was dead. And why do I suddenly take notice of things like nail polish?

After the funeral I spent a few weeks at home with Molly. Except for the funeral, it was like I had never left. Our bodies seemed to remember each other and just how nicely we fit together. But soon the demands of the outside world exerted their force upon us. Molly still had several weeks to go on her final class. So I went on ahead to process in to my new assignment and find a place for us to live.

It didn't take long to find an apartment. It was not too far from the base and had plenty of room. I moved in as soon as I signed the lease. As I expected, my stuff had been shipped from Ubon and was shipped to my apartment.

I started writing to Eileen. I knew it would take a few weeks to start getting letters, thanks to the inevitable lag time of the military postal service. But I never did get a letter. I began to get worried when a shipping crate arrived from Thailand. A letter from Patty accompanied it. Confused, I opened it.

"Dear Bill," it read. "I'm sorry to be the one to tell you this. Eileen was killed in the line of duty."

"She was flying a routine mission from Vietnam to Clark," it continued, "when the Nightingale's engine caught fire. The pilot pulled the fire handle and shut it down. He thought the fire was out.

"He declared an emergency and turned around to get back to the closest friendly base. He made it to NKP in Thailand. But the tower spotted smoke coming from the engine nacelle. After landing the crew had to evacuate.

"Eileen directed the evacuation. She went back several times to get the wounded out of the aircraft. It was on her last trip that the engine finally blew. She caught a piece of shrapnel in the back of her head. I know this isn't much comfort, but it was quick." Patty was right. It wasn't much comfort.

For a moment I was too stunned to continue. It wasn't fair! First my Mother and now Eileen. How many more of the people I love were going to die on me! And why now? The damned war is supposed to be ending. Why Eileen?

I read on. "Eileen didn't leave a will, and she didn't have much in the way of personal effects." Well, I thought, she took after her Aunt Maeve. "I was appointed her executor by the squadron commander. If you are interested, she is buried in California with the Aunt who raised her. Her father, who did not want to claim her body, suggested this.

"I didn't know what to do with her personal effects, so I shipped them to you. I know how close you were to her, so maybe you might know what to do with them.

"I wish I had better news for you, Bill. But before I close, I wanted you to know just how much your friendship helped Eileen. Before you two became friends, she was a very withdrawn woman. She kept to herself and didn't talk with the other nurses very much. After you two became friends, her entire personality changed. She became a lot more outgoing and friendly. You gave her some confidence and self-esteem. It seemed like she had a reason to enjoy her life. It's a shame that it ended so abruptly, but take some comfort in knowing how much better her life was with you as a friend.

"I'm not going to pretend I understand this gender thing you two had. My own brother is becoming my sister and I still don't understand it. But I know that somehow the two of you were good for each other.

"With my deepest sympathy,

"Lt. Patreece Dahl"

By the time I finished my tears were dripping onto the letter. I didn't remember crying, but it happened. I opened the crate and found Eileen's clothes, her uniforms, and all of the things she had accumulated for me.

I don't know whether it was from guilt, or sadness, or whatever, but I found myself putting on her nurse's whites. I pulled the wig over my head and looked in the mirror. I didn't look a bit like her. But I left them on as I sorted through her things.

As I was rummaging through her effects wondering just what to do with most of it, I found a small jewelry box. It contained some rings, earrings, and a locket. I opened the locket and found a picture inside. It was a middle-aged, red-haired man with a receding hairline. His face bore an eerie resemblance to Eileen. Who could this be, I wondered? Then it struck me. It had to be her father!

"Son of a bitch!" I said aloud. Eileen never stopped loving him, even after he turned his back on her. All she ever wanted was to be daddy's little girl.

"Rest easy, girl friend," I said aloud, "I'll always think of you as a princess." With that, I closed the locket.

* * * * * * * * * *

A familiar touch at my arm snapped me back to the present. I was once again in Washington D.C., standing in front of the Vietnam Memorial. Molly was taking my arm. "Hey big guy," she said, "are you all right?"

I felt an unaccustomed moisture on my cheeks which sweat could not account for. "Yeah, I'm okay, honey. I was just reminiscing."

Molly pulled my face over to hers and kissed me. Her kisses still could drive me crazy. They could also give me comfort, which is what this one did. "I'm still not sure how I feel about all this," she said. "When you told me about Eileen, you never mentioned the, you know,..." She fumbled to find the words, but could not.

"I'm really sorry about that," I said. "I meant to tell you, but I kept losing my nerve. Before I knew it, a lot of years had gone by." I paused, trying to find the right words. "I felt so damned guilty about Eileen, I just bottled it up inside me. I tried to stop crossdressing; I even managed to succeed for a long time. At least, I thought I had."

"I know," Molly continued, "I know that's what made you so angry and irritable for so long. I have to tell you, Bill, I don't miss that grouchy person one bit."

"Me either," I readily agreed, "I really hate that jerk I used to be. I much prefer being reasonable."

"Well you ARE much easier to live with," she said. That made me smile, and we kissed again.

I reached into the bag I had brought along to retrieve the mementos I wanted to leave. I stooped to place them by the wall. Molly watched me place the pictures, the locket, and the presentation case by the wall. "Is that her medal?" she asked, referring to the case.

"Yes," I said, "Eileen and the other crewmembers who died were awarded the Air Medal posthumously. Patty sent it to me. I tried to contact her father to see if he would like it. I finally caught up with him. He retired in Virginia."

"I assume he didn't want it," she said.

"No he didn't. He told me that he had no daughter, and that his son died a long time ago. I just wish he could have gotten over that blind prejudice. But he didn't."

"That's, so sad," Molly said. "It must have been rough on you."

I looked at the items I was leaving; Eileen's locket, her medal, and the pictures Patty had taken of us. Then I stood. "It's time to go," I said.

"No need to rush," Molly said. "If you need a few more minutes..."

"I don't," I said. "I know her spirit is at rest. And so is mine. It's time to go, time to heal."

"I suppose I ought to be jealous," she continued, "but I'm not. I know she was just a friend, nothing more."

"She was more than just a friend," I said. "We were girl friends."

Hand in hand, Molly and I left this place of healing. We would now play tourist, haunting the monuments and the museums. In this way, life would continue.

I looked back to see the others who had come seeking the healing power of this site. That's when I saw him. He was an old man, bald, save for wisps of hair at his temples. Using a walker, he slowly and painfully made his way to the area Molly and I had just left. He stopped, facing the wall. It took a great deal of effort, but he pulled himself erect. He then raised his hand sharply to his brow to render a military salute. He held the salute for the space of several breaths. Then his hand dropped, he slumped back into his walker, and slowly shambled away.

 © 1998 Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

She was just another lurker from Downbelow, but on the day she snatched Ambassador Mollari's purse, everything started to change. Just how profoundly they would change nobody could forsee.

Story:

All Alone in the Night
A Babylon 5 Fan Fiction
by
Valentina Michelle Smith

"It was the Dawn of the Third Age of Mankind, ten years after the Earth-Minbari War. The Babylon Project was a dream given form. Its goal: to prevent another war by creating a place where humans and aliens could work out their differences peacefully. It's a port of call, home away from home for diplomats, hustlers, entrepreneurs and wanderers. Humans and aliens wrapped in two million, five hundred thousand tons of spinning metal .. all alone in the night. It can be a dangerous place, but it's our last, best hope for peace. -- This is the story of the last of the Babylon stations. The year is 2258. The name of the place is Babylon 5."

According to some observers, Londo Mollari had two official functions on Babylon 5. The first was to represent The Centauri Republic as its official ambassador. The second was to personally keep the casinos and lounges of the Zocolo solvent. It was in this second capacity that the ambassador could be found today.
For once, the Centauri gods of fortune favored Londo's play. His purse bulged with his winnings at the gaming table, a bounty that he eagerly shared with the patrons of the bar. After several rounds of whatever each sentient race found pleasing and intoxicating, they were quite willing to laugh with Mollari as he regaled the room with his wit.
Well, perhaps not all. G'kar, the ambassador of The Narn Regime, sat silently in the corner while Mollari entertained his current best friends. A waiter approached him. “Ambassador,” he asked, “would you care for something to drink? Mollari's buying.”
“Yes, I would dearly love a drink,” replied G'kar in a voice sufficiently loud to be overheard by Londo. “I would like the blood of all Centauri served in their hollowed-out skulls. I would then drink their health over the burned-out cinder of their home world.”
Mollari, of course, had heard every word, but by this time was far too inebriated to take umbrage. “My dear G'kar,” said Mollari, “relax and enjoy a drink. You know the problem with you Narn is that you take everything so seriously.”
Turning back to his audience, Mollari continued with his repartee. “You know, the humans have something they call 'Light Bulb Jokes.' They really are quite funny. For instance, how many Narns does it take to change a light bulb? Five! One to hold the bulb and four to turn the ladder.”
The bar exploded in laughter, except for G'kar who was doing the Narn equivalent of a slow burn. Londo, sensing that he might have to diffuse G'kar's anger, turned his wit to other targets. “Now, how many Pak'ma'ra does it take to change a light bulb? Six! One to hold the bulb, and five to turn the ladder and then eat the Pak'ma'ra who falls from the ladder!”
G'kar's slow burn cooled a bit, seeing he was no longer the butt of Mollari's barbs. He was not in the mood to laugh as yet, but at least his urge to do painful bodily harm to the Centauri ambassador had cooled.
“Here's another. How many Minbari does it take to change a light bulb? Thirty; one to change the bulb, and twenty-nine to cater the ceremony!”
G'kar could no longer remain angry. That was, after all quite humorous. Curiously, he noticed that the Minbari aide to Ambassador Delenn, a young male named Lennier, was also laughing. This puzzled G'kar. Why would the Minbari laugh at such an insult? He must ask Lennier about this at some future time.
As the levity continued, Jamie Taggart eyed the purse, fat with Centauri ducats, hanging from Londo's waist. She was waiting for her opportunity.
Londo's performance continued. “Here's another one. How many humans does it take to change a light bulb? Fifty; forty-nine to file the paperwork and one to call the electrician.”
More laughter. Clearly Londo relished being the center of attention. “Ah, one more. How many Centauri does it take to change a light bulb? Only one. But, in the great days of the Republic, millions of servants would change thousands of light bulbs at our slightest command!”
This brought down the house, although clearly the jokes played better to an inebriated room. Londo stood and bowed.
It was then that he felt the light touch of phantom fingers at his waist. He reached for the purse that held his winnings. It was gone!
Jamie ducked under some furniture and ran for the door. Londo immediately realized that this urchin was the thief who had lifted his purse. “Stop! Thief!” he shouted, pointing in the direction of the running youngster.
Jamie darted out of the lounge entrance and past a surprised chief of security, Michael Garibaldi. He heard Londo's shouts and ran after the purse snatcher, who ducked under and around the various kiosks of the Zocolo. Garibaldi called for help over his link, but by the time his men arrived, Jamie was gone.
Jamie managed to elude security by jumping through a ventilation shaft too small to allow a grown man access. She had used this escape before. With her prize in hand she started back to the packing crate in Downbelow that served as her home on the station. She never arrived.
As Jamie made her way through the crowded warrens of Downbelow, something strange happened. She began to hear voices. At first she thought it was just the background buzz always present in Downbelow. But this was different. These voices were in her head. Voices plotting unspeakable acts; voices contemplating the worst sorts of depravity; voices of fear; voices of anger. The collected silent inner monologues of Downbelow were overwhelming her.
Then one voice cut through the buzz. “Hey look, it's the faggot!”
Jamie looked up. A gang of toughs had fresh prey in their sight, and it was she. “Look what the little fairy boy got us, fellows? That's a nice purse there, Nancy. Whaddya say you hand it over, and maybe we won't kick your queer little ass?”
“Hey I got a better idea,” one of the toughs said. “Why don't we just take the fruit's purse and then kick his ass anyway?”
They began to laugh. Jamie was suddenly inundated with images of violence all directed at her. She was being deluged with thoughts of horror and degeneracy. As the gang advanced she lashed out. “NO!” she screamed.
It was a shout that rattled the station. The gang was immediately rendered unconscious. The people in their immediate vicinity recoiled at the force of Jamie's mind blast. Everybody on Babylon 5 felt some effect, and it was not pleasant.
Moments later, Garibaldi arrived. He saw Jamie standing inside a circle of unconscious and bleeding gang boys. She collapsed.

* * * * *
MedLab was filled to capacity. Twenty-three people had been knocked unconscious by the raw force Jamie had projected. The gang of toughs had been particularly stricken. Two of the gang-bangers suffered internal bleeding in their brains, and the rest sustained severe concussions. Apparently Jamie was nor very selective in whatever she had done, because the raw force waves had rippled out, dissipating as they traveled.
Jamie lay on a diagnostic table, still unconscious. A very annoyed Garibaldi watched as Dr. Stephen Franklin studied the readings.
“So what's the story, doc?” said Garibaldi, suppressing a strong urge to ask “What's up, doc?”
Stephen frowned. “Well, she seems to be all right. Obviously she's a newly emerging telepath who used some sort of mind blast to defend herself. She's not injured, but whatever she did has drained her. She's asleep for now.”
“Yeah, but what happens when she wakes up? How do we keep her from turning people's brains into jelly?”
“I can help her,” said a voice from the doorway. The two turned to see Talia Winters, Babylon 5's licensed commercial telepath.
“Doctor Franklin,” she said, “this girl is just discovering her talent. She's very vulnerable now and needs help.”
“She seems capable of taking care of herself,” Garibaldi said, “judging by the trail of bloody brains she left in Downbelow.”
“Which is why she needs help, Mr. Garibaldi,” Talia replied. Without guidance she might let loose with another uncontrolled mind blast. I need to show her how to control her power.
“Doctor, can you wake her?”
“She's not sedated,” Stephen said, “but I'm not sure that waking her is a good idea, given recent events.”
“I'll take responsibility on behalf of Psi Corps,” she said. Talia removed the glove from her left hand and gently shook Jamie.
They immediately established telepathic contact.
“Jamie looked into the eyes of the blond woman who had awakened her. “Who are you?” she asked. “Where am I?”
Talia could feel Jamie's apprehension grow, and immediately acted to calm her. “It's all right,” she said. “You're safe in MedLab, and you are among friends.”
Talia's voice reassured Jamie, and she was initially calm. But then she could hear the voices again, and could see the images. A businessman was arriving supposedly to negotiate with the Narn for minerals, but was actually interested in buying arms for Free Mars. A prostitute was entertaining yet another John, outwardly shouting in pleasure but inwardly loathing him. A couple was awaiting departure on the next leg of their honeymoon. An alien was contemplating his next meal, an animal devoured while still alive. A crescendo of thoughts and images came crashing through Jamie's mind, and she began to panic.
Talia immediately understood. “Listen to me,” she said, “and I'll show you how to block them out. Just imagine a wall, big and strong. A big, strong, brick wall. All of the thoughts and images are on the other side of the wall. The wall is strong. Nothing can get through. The wall protects us.”
Jamie concentrated, forming an image of a huge wall in her mind. The voices faded. The images went away. Jamie was safe behind the wall. Confident of her safety, Jamie relaxed.
“How did you learn how to do that?” she asked Talia.
“The Psi Corps taught me to do that,” Talia replied, “and they'll teach you too. They'll teach you how to control your gift, how to let only the right thoughts in, and how to look into other minds. You're very special, Jamie. You're a telepath. You're one of us, and the Corps will take care of you.”
“The Psi Corps will take care of me?”
“Yes, we're your family, the family of telepaths. We'll train you back on Earth to use your gift, to control it. We'll help you to develop your talent, just like I do.”
Jamie thought about it. “I don't know,” she said.
Talia smiled. “It's a lot to take in right now, Jamie, so just relax. I'll help you through any crisis you might have and arrange for you to travel to Earth. It's going to be okay, honey. We're here for you. The Corps is your family, and we take care of our own.”
“I'm still not sure.”
“I know. I was your age when my talent first manifested, right about the time I had my first period. I thought I was going crazy. Without the Corps, I don't think I would have survived.”
Dr, Franklin cleared his throat. “Miss Winters. I think there's a few things we need to discuss about Jamie.”
“Of course, Doctor. Now Jamie, you just rest. Psi Corps will take care of you.” Jamie laid her head back and returned to sleep. Talia and Stephen left the room.
“Now what did you want to tell me, Doctor?” Talia asked.
“I really don't think that MedLab is an appropriate venue to recruit new Psi Corps members.”
“I'm not recruiting her, Doctor, I'm just following EarthGov protocol. All telepaths fall under the jurisdiction of Psi Corps.”
“Yes, but she also has the right to refuse and take the sleepers.”
“Not in this case. Jamie is a minor and, by all indications, has no parents. As such, Psi Corps is empowered to act in loco parentis on her behalf. In any event, she'll be a lot better off on Earth in a Psi Corps facility then she would be in Downbelow.”
“Perhaps, but I think you should know something else before you make up Jamie's mind for her. Jamie is a boy.”
An incredible expression of surprise spread over Talia's face. “A boy? That's impossible! I was in her mind, and it was definitely a girl's mind.”
“That may be, Miss Winters, but her body is definitely a boy's body. She has a penis and scrotum with fully descended testicles and a Y chromosome to boot. Her mind might be female, but her body is male.”
“But what accounts for her breast development and her hips? She looks as female as her mind.”
“According to her blood work and scans she's been dosing herself with female hormones. Obviously she's a transsexual. She's probably been stealing to get black-market hormones. I'll have to have a talk with her about using Narn estrogen, it can have some bad side-effects.”
Talia considered the situation. “Can she start taking human hormones?”
“Yes, it would probably be better for her.”
“Then start the treatment right away. Psi Corps will pay the expense.”
“Actually, Jamie's bill is being paid by Londo Mollari.”
For a second time that day, Talia was astonished. “Why would Mollari pay for the girl who robbed him?”
“Mollari said the girl has pluck, and you just have to admire that kind of pluck. He also said, and I quote, 'Get her well, keep her healthy, and keep her the hell out of my hair.'”

* * * * *
Susan Ivanova had little trouble speaking her mind. “Frankly, Commander, the whole thing sucks!”
Commander Jeffrey Sinclair regarded his fiery second-in-command. Ivanova was a damned fine officer, blessed with that fatalistic Russian temperament and sense of loyalty that he valued so much. But when it came to telepaths, Ivanova's mind was closed.
“Lieutenant Commander,” Sinclair said, “you know that this is an EarthForce station. When it comes to civilian matters we must follow EarthGov protocols. And these protocols are clear. She's Psi Corps' problem.”
Garibaldi chimed in. “And as little as I like Psi Corps, I'll be glad when she's off the station.”
“Garibaldi,” Susan said, “how the hell can you be so hard-hearted? You know what those Psi Corps goons are like. Remember the Jason Ironheart incident? Do you really want to hand her over to the likes of Bester?”
Garibaldi hesitated, trying to come up with a stinging reply. When none was forthcoming, Susan continued, “You see? You're hesitating.”
“Yeah, but I still need to think about station security. What if she has another one of those little mental hissy fits and scrambles the brains of everyone on the Zocolo? I remember what a royal pain it was trying to control Ironheart, and I damn sure don't want to go through that again.”
“So you want to turn her over to Psi Corps? What happens when they decide to dissect her to figure out how she manages to blast brains so effectively?”
Ivanova turned to Jeffrey Sinclair. “Commander, don't let those bastards get their hands on her. Isn't their anything you can do?”
Sinclair thought about it, and came up with a solution that would have made his Jesuit teachers proud. “Technically, Jamie Taggart is a criminal. She stole ambassador Mollari's purse.”
“I don't think I can make that stick, Jeff,” Garibaldi said, “Londo declined to press charges.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, Michael, but didn't you witness the crime being committed?”
“Well, if you stretch the point, I suppose so. I saw her run out of the casino with Londo's purse.”
“Close enough. As a criminal she comes under station legal jurisdiction. Michael, charge her with petty larceny and let's get an Omsbud to set bail. Until she's tried, we can't release her to Psi Corps. Maybe we can figure something out while we stall for time. In the meantime, I'm sure Miss Winters can help Jamie to control her mental outbursts.”

* * * * *
Commander Sinclair's decision did not sit well with Talia Winters. Even in the wake of the Jason Ironheart incident, Talia retained loyalty to the Corps. Psi Corps was the only life she had known since becoming a teen. She remembered how her friends and neighbors and even family members shunned her after her gift manifested. But Psi Corps welcomed her, told her that she was not a freak but was, in fact, a very exceptional person. She belonged in Psi Corps. Somehow, Talia had to get this precious youngster into her loving family.
She spent time with Jamie every day, training her in how to block, and how to let certain thoughts and images in. They also spent time talking, with a touch of telepathic rapport.
Jamie had been discharged from MedLab and was now living in modest quarters in Brown Sector. A single room served as living room, dining room, bedroom, kitchen, and refresher. Cleverly designed to make maximum use of space, it was compact without being particularly cramped. Jamie's few possessions had no trouble fitting in.
Talia had stopped by to visit, and they were having a bit of girl talk.
“Jamie, I'm curious, how did you come to be in Downbelow?”
“My father and I came to the station when I was eleven,” Jamie said. “He was going to work for one of the mining consortiums. But when he got here, the consortium had gone out of business.
“He tried to get work on the docks or doing station maintenance, but there was a long waiting list. He took whatever work he could find, but it really wasn't enough. Then he went to work for some outfit in Downbelow. He never told me what he was doing, but one day he was in an airlock that accidentally cycled.
“After that I just did what I could to survive. Mostly I picked pockets and stole small items up in the Zocolo. I always managed to get by.”
“You managed to get enough to pay for hormones,” Talia said. “When did you start taking them?”
Jamie started to freeze up and withdraw, but a gentle telepathic nudge from Talia reassured her. “It was about a year ago. I guess I always knew I was really a girl, but I had the wrong equipment. I read all I could about transition from the BabCom library, so I knew what I needed. All it took was money.”
“Were you getting the hormones from n'Grath?” Talia asked, referring to the sinister alien fixer who seemed to have his hand (or whatever that appendage was called) in every illegal activity on B5.
“Yes, it was the only way I could afford them. I didn't have enough money for MedLab.”
“Did you know he was selling you Narn estrogen?”
“No, all I knew was that it was working. You can see my boobs growing.”
“Yes, I see, and they are quite pretty, but you really shouldn't use the Narn hormones. They can have side effects.”
“That's what Dr. Franklin said, and he gave me human hormones. That's what I've been taking.”
“Good. Don't stop taking them.”
Now Jamie began to cry. Talia felt the sadness and moved to console her. “What's wrong, dear?”
“It's just, everybody is so kind to me here, but in Downbelow they thought I was a freak. Is that what I am, a freak, a boy wearing girl's clothes?”
Talia wanted to hug Jamie. “No, of course not, Jamie. You aren't a freak. I've been inside your mind, and I can tell you that it's the mind of a girl, a girl who will some day grow into a beautiful young woman.”
“And the Psi Corps won't stop me?”
“Of course not, Jamie. They can see your mind as clearly as I can. The Corps will aid your transition.”
Jamie smiled. “Thank you, Talia. I know you'll keep your promise.”

* * * * *
As it turned out, Talia was quite wrong.
The Psi Cop, Calvin Sloane, arrived on a scheduled Earth transport. He presented his credentials to the security guard for verification, and then proceeded to Talia's quarters.
Talia was expecting a representative from Psi Corps, but had no idea that it would be a Psi Cop. She let him in, and he got right down to business.
“Your timely report on the new telepath is appreciated, Miss Winters. Psi Corps is grateful. I've come to take him to Earth.”
“I'm surprised that Psi Corps sent a Psi Cop for this assignment. Jamie certainly is not a criminal.”
“Correct, but your report indicated that Taggart is potentially very powerful. Until we can properly test him, we must consider him potentially dangerous to mundanes. For this reason, Psi Corps felt it necessary to send a telepath with a sufficiently high rating to prevent any accidents. I am a P12.”
“I have been teaching her how to block, and how to control herself. I'm no instructor, of course, but I tried to help.”
“And I'm sure you have done as well as you possibly could, Miss Winters. You handled the situation admirably. But the boy needs training and evaluation he can only get on earth.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Sloane,” Talia said, “Jamie is a girl. I know. I've been inside her mind.”
“He is still biologically male, Miss Winters.”
“I know, but she has been taking female hormones for well over a year now.”
“A regimen that we shall terminate. I'm afraid we cannot risk the possibility of losing a telepath of such potential power, and continued administration of female hormones represents such a risk.”
“But Jamie's mind is female. How could you possibly consider stopping her treatment? Do you know what this will do to her?”
“It is a hard decision, I grant you, but a necessary one. But Psi Corps is not heartless. Jamie will be provided the counseling he will need to accept his male sex. I know it will be difficult for him, but the Corps does not abandon our own. He is one of us.”
“The Corps is mother,” Talia said, repeating the mantra of Psi Corps, “the Corps is father.” For the first time in her life she said it without conviction. Suddenly she was very grateful for the decision of Commander Sinclair. She hoped that the Omsbud had a lengthy docket.

* * * * *
Although Jamie knew of the arrival of the Psi Cop, Talia never told her about his decision to withdraw her from hormone treatment. To be honest, Talia was not at all in agreement with Psi Corps' judgment. Removing the hormones could cause Jamie irreparable harm.
Under the rules of the Omsbud court, the Psi Cop was prohibited from coming into contact with Jamie. Sloan could have easily used his Psi powers to get into Jamie's mind and force her to accompany him to a waiting transport, but Garibaldi had assigned a shadow to Sloane, and any attempt to kidnap Jamie would find Sloane on the wrong end of a charged PPG.
Jamie remained blissfully unaware of these incidents. She now wandered the Zocolo freely, thanks to the generosity of a certain ambassador who, despite his reputation as a crusty old drunkard, had a soft spot in his hearts for children. It was on one of these trips that Jamie happened upon the ambassador of the Narn Regime and his aide.
G'kar sat at the cafe table with his aide, Na'Toth. They were enjoying some fresh spoo when G'kar spied Jamie and invited her to sit with them. Jamie declined an offer of spoo, but did allow the Narns to treat her to some fresh pineapple chunks.
“You know, my dear,” said G'kar in an affable manner, “your situation is the talk of the station. There are many of us rooting for you. Do you have any thoughts as to your future after your trial?”
“I hadn't really thought that far ahead. I suppose I'll go to Earth and join Psi Corps.”
“Ah, yes, I understand that they are very interested in you.”
“I guess so.”
“My dear child, have you given any consideration to the possibility of, shall we say, competing offers?”
“What do you mean, 'competing offers?'”
Na'Toth actuated a silence barrier to ensure that their conversation would not be monitored. G'kar continued, “What I mean, Jamie, is that we Narns have no native telepaths. This, as you can well imagine, puts us at a strategic disadvantage in our dealings with other races. We would like you to help us, and we would make it very worth your while.”
“How could I help you, and why should I?”
“I have a transport standing by ready to leave for the Narn home world immediately. I can get you aboard and, once on Narn, you would be under our protection. You would be rewarded with a life of unparalleled luxury and riches beyond dreams of avarice.”
“And in return what do you want me to do, spy on Earth? Betray my planet?”
“Of course we would never ask you to do such a thing, my dear, although we might ask you to do that little mind blast on a few Centauri. No, what we would ask of you is genetic material, so that we might breed Narn telepaths.”
“That sounds creepy, like you're going to cut me up.”
“Nothing of the sort, Jamie. The material would be extracted quite painlessly, and only in microscopic quantities. A blood draw perhaps once a month would be more than adequate.”
Na'Toth now spoke. “There is more we can offer you, Jamie. On our home world you would not be considered a freak.”
Jamie became defensive. “What do you mean, a freak?”
Na'Toth answered, “We are aware of your transition, Jamie, and of the difficulties it has presented you among your fellow humans. But among the Narns you would be quite normal.”
“You see, dear girl,” G'kar continued, “we Narn have a very unique ability, one we have not revealed to any off-worlder. Narns are capable of changing their sex.”
“You can change your sex?” Jamie said.
“Yes,” Na'Toth replied. “It is a survival trait, stemming from times when a great deal of one sex would be killed or unable to mate. We would become male or female as the situation required. I understand that there are animals on your world called frogs that are capable of this.”
“All Narns are born female,” G'kar said. “At a certain part of our life we choose to become male or remain female. But it is not unknown for a Narn to change back and forth several times. Rare, but not unknown.”
“So nobody would try to hurt me or insult me because I was once a boy?” Jamie asked.
“Of course not,” said G'kar. “Well, what do you think?”
Jamie hesitated. On the surface the offer sounded tempting, but was there something more sinister going on? She knew she wasn't supposed to, but she reached out and scanned the surface of G'kar's mind.
Hatred! Anger! Images of vile atrocities visited upon the Narns by the hated Centauri! And images of bloody retribution! G'kar wore a veneer of civilization, but just below the surface there raged a maelstrom of fury.
The images hit Jamie like the odor of an unlimed outhouse. She recoiled in fear, running from the table and leaving her uneaten fruit behind. G'kar turned to an incredulous Na'Toth, wondering just what had gotten into that girl.
Jamie wasn't exactly watching where she was going when she ran into Calvin Sloan. The Psi Cop had been keeping an eye on her, just to make certain that Psi Corps would not lose her potentially valuable ability. Jamie looked into the steel blue eyes of the Psi Cop and started to run away.
Something stopped her. Jamie's panic faded as Sloan telepathically reassured her. “You seem frightened, child,” he said. Jamie realized that she was not actually hearing Sloan speak; rather, he was projecting the words directly into her mind.
“I'm sorry,” she replied, also telepathically. “I just, ...I mean...”
“Perhaps you should sit down for a moment,” Sloane said. “Let me get you something to drink.” Sloane guided her to a table and signaled the waiter to bring some orange juice.
They had just sat down when they were approached by Station Security Guard Zack Allen. “Can I help you with anything, Jamie?” he asked.
“It's all right, Mr Allen,” Sloane said aloud for his benefit. “Young Jamie seems to be distressed over something and I was simply offering some assistance.” A waiter arrived with the orange juice. “You are welcome to join us.”
“Thanks, but I'm not thirsty. I just wanted to make sure there's no funny stuff. Chief Garibaldi want to make sure of that, if you know what I mean.”
“I assure you, Mr. Allen, I am not going to abduct the child, but she is distressed. All I want to do is speak with her.”
Sloane turned his attention to Jamie. “You were projecting fear quite strongly. I could not help but feel it. What was it that frightened you, child?”
Jamie took a sip of her juice and said, “I peeked into that Narn's mind, and it was filled with such disgusting, vile images! He is so filled with hatred!”
“You know that you shouldn't be scanning minds without permission.”
“I know, but I couldn't help myself. How could a mind be so filled with hate?”
Sloane sighed. “Scanning an alien mind can be a very frightening experience. I know. One of my first assignments was to scan the minds of Narn representatives. Earth negotiated with the Narn Regime to purchase heavy weapons during the Earth-Minbari War.”
“Are they all so hateful?” Jamie asked.
“To a degree. You have to understand, Jamie, alien minds are very alien. Scanning aliens can be disturbing. That's why you need training. You'll get that training from Psi Corps.”
“Did scanning the Narn upset you?”
“Let's just say it was challenging. But it was also enlightening. I learned much about the Narns, and became curious about them. I studied their history and learned to respect their culture. Did you know that the Narns were originally a race of poets and philosophers, dedicated to peace and harmony?”
“No, I didn't know.”
“Not many humans do, Jamie.”
“How did they become so hateful?” she asked.
“Centuries of oppression can do that to a people, Jamie. The Narn home world was rich and fertile, and coveted by many races. The Centauri were the most recent in a line of conquerers, and were brutal in their occupation. The Narns have only recently won their freedom, and guard it jealously. It's only natural to feel anger at their former oppressors.”
Jamie finished her juice. “Will I have to scan aliens?” she asked.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Psi Corps has many career paths, Jamie, and you will have a wealth of opportunities. You'll find out soon enough. Right now, just let Miss Winters guide you. And if you have any questions of me, don't hesitate to ask.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sloane. I guess I have a lot to think about.”

* * * * *
Jamie was in the Stone Garden, contemplating the rippled patterns raked into the sand, thinking of her telepathic encounter with G'kar, and with Sloane.
It was all so confusing! Oh, if only her father had managed to find a real job on Babylon 5, then he might still be alive and she never would have lived in Downbelow. Why did she have to be a telepath? Why was she born a boy? The entire universe just wasn't fair!
She started to cry. She was sobbing when she realized she was not alone. She looked up to see who was in the Stone Garden with her.
Ambassador Delenn seemed embarrassed. “I am sorry,” she said, “I did not mean to disturb you.”
“You're not bothering me,” Jamie said. “I'm just feeling sorry for myself. I'll go.”
“There is no need to leave. Perhaps we can enjoy the garden together.”
“I suppose so.”
“Let us simply contemplate the patterns in the sand,” Delenn said. She smiled, and sat on a stone bench opposite Jamie.
Jamie tried to concentrate on the rocks and the sand, but found herself distracted by Delenn. The Minbari seemed quite mysterious to her, and soon Jamie was no longer contemplating the stone garden, but was staring at the ambassador.
“Excuse me, ambassador,” Jamie said, “I was just wondering; are there people like me on Minbar?”
Delenn looked up. If Jamie's interruption annoyed her, she did not show it. “Of course, child, there are many Minbari telepaths. For my people, a gift such as telepathy is cherished and nurtured.”
“That's not what I mean. What I meant was, do you have transsexuals?”
Delenn seemed puzzled for a moment, and then realized the meaning of the term. “Are you referring to your transition from male to female?” she asked. Jamie nodded.
“It is not common, but it is not unknown. We Minbari believe that upon death, our souls rejoin the universe until such time as we are reborn. On occasion, a female soul will be born in a male body, or a male soul in a female body.”
“What do you do when this happens?” Jamie asked.
“We recognize that to be born this way is a terrible burden. We help such a person either to bear the burden or, if this is not possible, we correct the situation.”
“You mean that they transition, like I'm doing?”
“Yes. Our healers assist the body to align correctly with the soul.”
Jamie thought for a minute. “Would it be possible to do this for me?”
Delenn was touched by Jamie's plea. “I do not know if this would be possible, child. We have no skill in the healing of human bodies. But perhaps I might help you in another way.”
“What do you mean?”
“Perhaps I can ease your emotional suffering. Minbari are skilled in the techniques of mediation. Perhaps I can help you to realize your true path, and to find the courage to walk it.”
Delenn rose from the bench. “Would you like to come with me, Jamie?”
Jamie hesitated. A lot of people seemed to know what was best for her. She cautiously scanned the very surface of Delenn's mind. It was indeed very alien, but there was a quality about it that Jamie could trust. This alien woman was genuinely interested in helping her.
Together Jamie and Delenn left the stone garden and went to Green Sector, the diplomatic area. Delenn's quarters were considerably larger than Jamie's, a fact Jamie attributed to her rank as an ambassador. It was here that she met Lennier, Delenn's aide.
Lennier bowed and held his hands in the very formal pose of the religious caste as he greeted Jamie. Despite the formality, Lennier smiled. Jamie immediately felt welcome.
“Perhaps we should begin with a simple meditation,” Delenn said. She placed a sort of pyramid containing an oily liquid onto the low table and knelt on the floor. Lennier knelt to one side of the table and indicated to Jamie that she should also kneel.
Delenn touched the apex of the pyramid. A small flame flickered into life.
“Concentrate on the flame,” she said to Jamie. “Try to empty your mind of everything but the flame. Breathe in. Breathe out. Let there be nothing in the universe except the flame.”
It was Jamie's first attempt at meditation. Initially she found it difficult to calm her mind. The events of the last few weeks seemed to race through it, each one competing for her attention. Then, as she managed to put these thoughts aside, the telepathic buzz of voices began to grow. As she emptied her mind she also relinquished the block that Talia Winters had taught her.
Then something quite remarkable happened. The voices did not vanish, but they became much less important. As Jamie focused on the flame, the telepathic background seemed less imposing. Much like being in the center of a crowded room with many conversations going on at once, Jamie managed to screen out the din and focus her attention onto her own center. The flame, she realized, was simply a means of directing her mind in one direction.
How long Jamie remained in that state was difficult to estimate. After a span of time that could just as easily have been second or hours, she looked up. Lennier and Delenn had also raised their eyes. “What did you feel?” Delenn asked.
“I'm not sure,” Jamie replied. “I can hear the thoughts of people, but I don't feel overwhelmed. I don't need to block them.”
“A good beginning,” Delenn said. “If you wish I can continue training you in the art of meditation, and perhaps you can study with one of our telepaths.”
“I think I would like that,” Jamie said.
“I am certain I can arrange it,” Lennier said to Jamie. “You show a remarkable talent, Jamie. Many Minbari could not achieve such a state on their first attempt.”
“Yes,” said Delenn, suddenly very concerned. “Please wait a moment, Jamie, I would like to try something.”
Delenn arose from her kneeling position and crossed the room where she opened a panel. Several polished wooden boxes were visible. She selected one and placed in on the table in front of Jamie.
The box was simple, but ornately decorated with what Jamie assumed was Minbari script. Delenn opened the hinged box to reveal a triangular object. It appeared to be constructed of metal rods that formed a perfect tetrahedron. Rods from each apex converged upon a central globe. Delenn lifted this device from the box and held it close to Jamie.
The globe began to glow with an intense white light. The brightness surprised Jamie, but she did not find it unpleasant. She looked up and saw Delenn share a troubled expression with Lennier.
“Is something wrong?” Jamie said.
“No, child,” Delenn assured her, “nothing is wrong, just unexpected.”
“Is it something bad?”
Delenn's look of concern melted into a smile. “Not at all, Jamie. This may be much better than I had anticipated.”
“Could you at least tell me what it is?” Jamie asked.
Delenn hesitated. “Jamie, what do you know of the war between Earth and Minbar?”
“Only what my father told me, and what I read in the history books. The Minbari nearly wiped us out, but we managed to stop you at the Battle of the Line. Minbar surrendered, and we stopped fighting.”
“Do you know why we surrendered, Jamie?”
“Wasn't it because we stopped you?”
“Jamie, what I am about to tell you is a secret. It is the reason why the Minbari surrendered, despite the fact that Earth was all but defeated.”
“Defeated?” Jamie repeated incredulously, “but how could that be? Why would you surrender if you were winning?”
“Because to destroy humanity would have been to destroy ourselves.”
Jamie rose as Delenn continued. “Your forces fought bravely, Jamie. Despite facing overwhelming odds, they continued to fight on. We Minbari had never witnessed such courage and determination.
“Minbari forces surrounded Earth. EarthForce put every ship that could fight into space and formed The Line, but they knew it would never hold. Our ships sliced through yours as though they did not exist. And yet you continued to fight! We had to know what could motivate a people to continue to fight in the face of certain disaster. And so, we took a human aboard our ship.
“We tortured him, questioned him, but he continued to resist. Finally we examined him using the same device I used just now. It is called the Triluminary, and what we learned shocked us. This human had a Minbari soul!”
“What do you mean?” Jamie asked.
“Do you remember what I told you about Minbari souls. Jamie? When we die, our souls return to the Universe from which they came, and are reborn into a new generation of Minbari. Over the years, we have noticed something disturbing. New souls were being born, but not all souls were being reborn. The best of our souls were not returning, leaving the current generation diminished. But where were they going? Could it be that they were being born as humans?
“We had to know, so we captured additional humans and examined them. Our suspicions were confirmed; Minbari were being reborn as humans. And so, we ordered our forces to surrender. Minbari do not kill Minbari. That is our law, given to us by Valen.”
Jamie now realized the significance of the Triluminary, and why Delenn had used it. “So are you telling me that I have a Minbari soul?”
Lennier glanced at Delenn, who nodded. “Indeed you do,” he said, “and it is a most remarkable soul. Jamie, you are a daughter of Valen.”

* * * * *
Calvin Sloane was not really a ruthless man. Neither was he completely heartless. But where Psi Corps was concerned, he was efficient and dispassionate.
Shortly after his encounter with Jamie, he was confronted by Zack Allen and Michael Garibaldi, who informed him in their own rather colorful manner that future encounters with the girl would be considered a violation of the Omsbud's order and grounds for incarceration. Garibaldi also warned Sloane that any attempt to telepathically resist arrest could possibly be met with extreme force, and Garibaldi would just as soon not have to make out the paperwork. Sloane didn't have to read Garibaldi's mind to realize he meant business. So he requested a private Gold Channel to EarthDome in Geneva.
Gold Channel communications were supposed to be private. Ivanova knew this as she processed the request. She also knew that Garibaldi had a few “security” programs that could decrypt and record Gold Channel messages.
“You know I can't do that,” Garibaldi said to Susan as she stood in his office. “Gold Channel is the highest security available, reserved for military and diplomatic communication. What you're asking is a violation of at least a dozen laws.”
“Garibaldi, this isn't military or diplomatic, it's a damned Psi Cop. You know what he's up to, he's making an end run around the Omsbud to snatch Jamie back to Earth and Psi Corps.”
“What he's doing doesn't matter. He has the authority to use Gold Channel for secure communication. My job is to keep it secure, not to break it.”
“So you're not going to help?”
“I can't, Susan.”
“You can't, or you won't?”
Garibaldi hesitated. “You know, if a one-time snooper program just sort of showed up in your files, from an unknown source, well I sure wouldn't know if you used it, would I?”
“Garibaldi, I could kiss you!”
“Yeah, well maybe you should think about that. I had a hoagie for lunch, loaded with onions.”

* * * * *
Susan did indeed find a program in her files named “peekaboo.” For some reason the trace path had been corrupted, so she could never verify its source, but she had no doubt as to its origin. She activated “peekaboo” and retrieved the communication between Sloane and Psi Corps. It was not good news.
Sloane asked his superiors to seek a summary judgment in EarthDome courts to force the Omsbud's hearing immediately. He was promised that a judicial order would be coming in two or three days.
Susan was both furious and frustrated. Her anger stemmed from the end run Sloane had pulled to circumvent the legal process and spirit Jamie from the station. She was frustrated because if she asked Commander Sinclair to intervene, she would have to also admit to hacking into Gold Channel messages, and the Commander would not look very kindly on any such action, no matter how well intentioned.
The only person she could share this news with was Garibaldi. Michael was sympathetic, but just as powerless as Susan.
“I really wish I could help, but I can't, “he told her. “ In case you didn't notice, I'm the guy who has to enforce judicial orders. Sloane gives me an order from EarthDome, I get to say 'Yes, sir,' and carry it out.”
“So you're just going to hand her over to that Psi Cop?”
“As soon as the trial ends, yes. At that point she comes under the authority of Psi Corps, and there isn't anything I can do about it.”

“This isn't fair, or just,” Susan said.
“You're right, but it's the Law, and if we all start taking the Law into our own hands, this place turns into Dodge City.”

* * * * *
Despite a relationship that spanned nearly a thousand years, the Minbari still knew precious little of the Vorlons. No Minbari had ever seen a Vorlon. In fact, no member of any species had ever seen a Vorlon outside of his (her? its?) encounter suit, save for two humans no longer aboard Babylon 5.
The Vorlon ambassador, Kosh, was every bit as mysterious as his reputation. He ventured out of his quarters in the alien sector rarely. His encounter suit seemed to glide along smoothly as though it were hovering. Whether Vorlons had legs (or any sort of appendages) was cause for much speculation.
Kosh now stood outside Delenn's quarters. The door opened and he entered. Delenn was by now used to the erratic comings and goings of the Vorlon, so his visit was no surprise. His message, however, was.
“It is time,” he said.
Delenn glanced at the crystal device she had slowly been assembling. It came with no instructions. It was expected that the person who would use the device would somehow know how to assemble the pieces, and the final structure would be unique for that person. Indeed, the pieces could fit together in many different patterns. The final pattern eluded Delenn.
“I have not finished the assembly,” she said.
“Not you,” replied the Vorlon.
“Then I am not to assemble it?” she asked.
“Not now.”
“Then who?”
“The girl.”
“Do you mean Jamie?” Delenn asked. “But how will she know what to do?”
“She knows,” was his only reply.
“But what will happen?” she asked.
“If the girl goes to Earth, she will die.”
Kosh said no more. He turned and left. Delenn was surprised at the unusually clear and direct instructions, at least by Vorlon standards. She knew what must be done.

* * * * *
Jamie had been coming to Delenn's quarters for several weeks for her regular meditation sessions. She had seen the crystal device on one of the tables and assumed it was a Minbari sculpture of some sort, or perhaps a kind of puzzle. She was surprised when Delenn presented it to her.
“What am I supposed to do with this?” she asked.
“What do you think you should do?” Delenn answered.
Jamie studies the intricate angular pieces. “It looks like it can be put together in a lot of different ways,” she answered. “Is there a correct pattern?”
“That is for you to decide.”
Jamie thought that it might be another test, or another Minbari object used to aid meditation. She picked up a few pieces and experimentally fit them together. “Is it all right if I move some of the pieces you put together already?”
“Of course, Jamie. Whatever you want.”
Jamie moved some of the pieces, fitting them together in a new pattern. As she tried new pieces in new positions, she became focused upon the object. Without realizing it, she entered into a deep state of meditation. Her mind filtered all sensation, all sound, all feeling, save for the pattern of the crystals as she assembled them together.
She finally fit the last piece into place.
The device began to glow. Gossamer fibers emerged from the light. They swirled around Jamie and clung to her. They accumulated into a cocoon, totally encasing Jamie. All the while, Jamie remained in her meditative state. She was aware of being encased in the silvery threads, but did nothing to resist. Somehow, she knew that she would not be harmed.
Delenn watched the process, knowing that it would soon be her time.

* * * * *
Omsbud Dallier convened this unusual court at the order of EarthDome. He did not understand why so innocuous a matter as petty larceny had become so important to Earth's judiciary, but it was not for him to question the order. He set aside more pressing matters and bumped the case of Jamie Taggart to the top of his schedule.
He had studied the facts as thoroughly as the hasty scheduling allowed. He felt sorry for the orphan girl and was inclined to temper the strong arm of justice with compassion. And if she was an emerging telepath, what better place for her than Psi Corps?
He issued an order to the Tipstaff. “Call Jamie Taggart.”
“The Court calls Jamie Taggart,” the Tipstaff announced to the audience. He was met with silence.
“Jamie Taggart,” the Tipstaff repeated in a louder tone. When she was not forthcoming, Omsbud Dallier became quite annoyed.
“Chief Garibaldi,” he said, “where is Miss Taggart?”
“She wasn't in her quarters this morning, your honor,” Michael said. “She hasn't been seen for several days.”
“This is an outrage,” Sloane protested. “Why was this girl permitted to wander freely? Why was she not confined?”
“Mr. Sloane,” the Omsbud replied, “Taggart was charged with a very minor offense and released on her own recognizance. It is only at your insistence that the hearing was set so quickly.”
“Your honor,” the Psi Cop said, “this only illustrates why speedy adjudication was necessary. The girl is an unregistered telepath and potentially dangerous. Of course Psi Corps would insist on timely adjudication.
“I ask the court for permission to search the station for Jamie Taggart.”
“Permission is granted, Mr. Sloane.”
“I further ask the court for custody of Jamie Taggart upon apprehension, on behalf of Psi Corps.”
“It is so adjudicated. But I warn you, Mr. Sloane, the court will not tolerate random telepathic probing. Confine your search to finding Miss Taggart.”
“Thank you, your honor.”
The court adjourned.
Sloane immediately cornered Michael. “All right, Mr. Garibaldi, where is he?”
Garibaldi grinned back at Sloane with his impish little smirk guaranteed to piss off the Dali Lama. “Where is who?”
“You know who; Taggart.”
“I haven't the foggiest idea, Sloane.”
“You know I could scan you for the information, Garibaldi.”
“Yes you could, and you still wouldn't know any more than I do. Scout's honor, Sloane, I don't know where she is.”
Sloane had as much trust in Garibaldi's honor as he had in a politician's, but a quick and surreptitious scan of Garibaldi's mind revealed he was telling the truth. He stalked away, frustrated and disgusted.

* * * * *
For a while, Jamie's mysterious disappearance was the talk of Babylon 5. Sloane called in a squad of Psi Cops to search for her telepathic signature, but after a few weeks they came away dry. Psi Corps was not happy, but could no longer afford to devote any resources to the search. Reluctantly they called it off.
There was a brief jurisdictional dispute during the search. The Psi Cops wanted to expand their search to Green sector. Commander Sinclair forbade this, citing diplomatic immunity. Sloane, of course, managed to sneak into Green sector where he was met with a group of Minbari telepaths, all very powerful, who blocked his scans and made it quite clear that his presence was unwelcome. Sloane left Green sector reluctantly. Minbar did not lodge a formal protest.
Soon all speculation about Jamie Taggart subsided. There were plenty of developments to occupy the attention of Babylon 5 residents. After a while, nobody gave it a thought. Nobody except Delenn and Lennier, who kept watch over a silvery cocoon.
For the first few weeks, the cocoon remained still. After three weeks it began to move slightly, responding to some stirring within. Then, four weeks to the day of its formation, it began to open.
At first a hairline crack appeared on the surface. Little by little the crack expanded, until an intricate fracture pattern began to appear. Twelve hours after the first crack formed, the cocoon fell away.
Jamie still knelt in the position of meditation. Her body was covered with a dark gray coating. As she arose, the coating fell away. She opened her eyes to a very astonished Lennier. “In Valen's name!” he exclaimed.
“Is something wrong?” she asked.
“No, Jamie. Let me summon Delenn. I'm sure she will want to see you.”
“I had a wonderful dream,” Jamie said. “I dreamed about a time back on Earth when my mother was still alive, and we had gone on vacation to the Outer Banks. It's a seashore community. I was swimming and playing in the sand and building sand castles with my parents. But the most remarkable part of it was myself. I was a little girl, and my mother and father called me their daughter.”
Delenn entered and beheld Jamie. Jamie saw the look of amazement on Delenn's face and asked, “What's wrong?”
“Nothing is wrong, child,” Delenn answered.
“Then why are you staring at me?”
Delenn said nothing. She motioned Jamie to a full length mirror on the far wall. Jamie looked at her reflection. She was totally unprepared for the sight she saw.
Her reflection was that of a Minbari.
She ran her hands over the hard protrusion on her now bald head, feeling the unfamiliar intricate pattern of bone that was her own, unique crest. She was amazed at the deep, alien set of her eyes, and the lower position of her much smaller ears on her head.
She stared at the reflection in amazement, then realized something quite profound. “My crest!” she said. For she now realized that her crest was not the jagged pattern of a male Minbari, but the smooth rounded shape of a female.
“Yes, you are female,” Delenn said. “Your soul is a female's soul, and so you became female.”
“And I'm a girl?” she asked.
“You are female in every way,” Lennier said. “Does it feel strange.?”
Jamie pondered Lennier's question. “Strange? Yes. Different. And something else.”
“What is that?”
Jamie smiled. “Complete; I finally feel complete, as though a missing piece of myself had finally been put in place. I feel whole.”

* * * * *
There was not much attention paid to the departure of the Minbari girl Gentoo. Zack Allen looked over her IdentiCard and it checked out. He smiled at the pleasant girl as she proceeded to the boarding gate.
Lennier and Delenn were there to see her off.
“I'm really very nervous,” Jamie said. “What will it be like on Minbar?”
“You will learn much,” Lennier said. “Minbar is a beautiful planet. You will be taught our history and culture, and will learn to develop your talent.”
“You will be met by one of my teachers, a woman named Vendi.” Delenn said. “You will stay with her for a time, until you are ready to live independently.”
“And will I be in the religious caste?”
“For the time being. When you are ready, you will choose your own path.”
“I can't thank you enough. I will be forever in your debt, Delenn.”
Delenn smiled. “We Minbari have a saying, a philosophy given to us by Valen. It is summed up in two words: 'Pay Forward.'”
“What does it mean?”
“It means that you should strive to be the very best at whatever you do, and work to make the present and the future better.”
Jamie bowed to her friends in the way Lennier had taught her. “In Valen's name,” she said in Minbari.
“In Valen's name,” they repeated. She turned and boarded the transport.

 © 2006, Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Babylon 5, Jeffrey Sinclair, Susan Ivanova, Michael Garibaldi, Zack Allen, Dr. Stephen Franklin, Talia Winters, G'kar, Na'Toth, Londo Mollari, Delenn, Lennier, Valen, Kosh, n'Grath, the Minbari, the Narns, the Vorlons, the Zocolo, spoo, and all related characters and situations, are from the science fiction program Babylon 5, created by J. Michael Straczynski. This is a work of fan fiction and is not written with permission of the creator.Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

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Synopsis:

Gloria Marshall is recruited into a clandestine group of women which exacts a cruel revenge upon the male sex by capturing men and transforming them into feminized maids. As part of her induction, Gloria chooses a man for transformation. The members of the group who call themselves The Sisterhood arrange for this man to seemingly disappear, as though he had never existed.
All seems to be going well for Gloria. But has she and The Sisterhood made a fatal mistake?
(This is the story that introduced Diana Hunter.)

Story:

Best Served Cold
By
Valentina Michelle Smith

Gloria glanced at the dashboard clock as she drove up the driveway. She was early. As she drove up to Regina's home she thought to herself that her old friend had done quite well. Judging by the size of her home, Regina must be somewhat more than slightly successful. The house was rather large and was situated on a sizeable parcel of land in the country. Gloria tried to estimate the price tag and could not believe it was worth less than seven figures.

She parked her car and walked up to an impressive double door. She pressed the doorbell. A female voice from the intercom just above the doorbell button responded. "Tuckett Residence. Who shall I say is calling?"

Gloria spoke into the intercom grille. "This is Gloria Marshall. I have an appointment with Dr. Tuckett."

"Thank you, Ms. Marshall," the voice answered. "Dr. Tuckett is expecting you. I will be right there."

The door opened. A tall woman wearing a maid's uniform greeted Gloria. "Please come this way, Ms. Marshall," the woman said. "Dr. Tuckett is in the solarium and asked me to bring you to see her. May I take your coat?"

"Thank you," Gloria replied, unbuttoning her coat. The maid took her coat and hung it neatly in a roomy closet. "Please come this way, Ms. Marshall," she said, leading Gloria to the solarium.

As Gloria followed the maid to the solarium, she glanced about at the understated luxury of Regina's home. The tasteful appointments all bespoke quality, causing her to revise her previous dollar estimates upward. Gloria also marveled at the maid's bearing in her severe uniform, especially the stiletto heels she was wearing. Her steps were short, sure, and fluid. Doubtless she had a lot of practice.

Regina rose from her seat as Gloria entered the spacious solarium. "Gloria," she said, extending her arms to embrace her old friend, "it's so good to see you. Did you have any trouble finding me?"

"No trouble at all," said Gloria, returning the embrace. "You certainly have a lovely home."

"Why, thank you. Please, have a seat. Would you like something to drink?"

"Mineral water, perhaps?"

"Of course. Beverly," she called, beckoning her maid, "please bring us some Perrier. Would you like ice, Gloria?"

"Yes, please," Gloria replied.

"Fetch some ice with that, Beverly."

"Right away, Mistress," Beverly answered, bustling off to get the drinks.

Gloria sat down in the comfortable chair, taking in the solarium. It was an airy room, full of plants, enclosed in glass that let the sunlight stream in. "I must say, Regina, I knew that you had done well for yourself, but this is beyond my expectations."

"I worked hard for my wealth, so I intend to enjoy it. This room is one of my favorite parts of this house." Regina paused to light a cigarette. "I understand that you have been successful as well."

Gloria frowned a bit. "I wish that were true. I do have an important position at my firm, with a good deal of visibility and responsibility. But it seems like I am hitting the glass ceiling."

"Oh? Why do you feel that way?"

Before she could answer, Beverly returned bearing a silver tray with crystal tumblers and a bottle of Perrier water. Using tongs, she deftly scooped ice cubes into each tumbler and poured mineral water into them. Bending her knees, she held the tray at a convenient level for Gloria, and then Regina. She pulled herself erect, she said, "Will there be anything else, Mistress?"

"Not at this time, Beverly," Regina said. "I'll ring if we need anything. Just leave the tray here."

"Very well, Mistress," Beverly replied, placing the tray on the table and then leaving the room.

"Regina, I continue to be impressed," Gloria said, sipping the cold water. "That maid of yours is a gem."

"Indeed. Beverly needed a lot of training, but she has become absolutely efficient over the years. Now what were you about to tell me, dear?"

"Oh, let it pass. I was about to whine and complain about my job. I'm sure that it will bore you."

"Not at all. I am greatly interested, especially about this glass ceiling you have encountered."

"It's frustrating," Gloria said. "I'm one of the money managers for a financial services company. The deals I have put together have far surpassed any of my colleagues' efforts. And yet, when promotion time comes, I end up being passed over for someone of less experience and far less profitability."

"Let me guess," Regina said. "The promotion always goes to a man."

"Exactly. Most of the other women have quit in disgust. I'm about ready to do so myself. But it's the same at all the financial houses. Promotions go to the good old boys."

Regina exhaled smoke and stubbed out her cigarette in a nearby ashtray. "My dear," she said, "you do so much to earn money for these people. Why don't you do some of this for yourself?"

"I wish I could," Gloria said, "but the kinds of deals I broker require large amounts of cash. I have some investments, of course, and they have done well, but I simply don't have the capital to strike out on my own."

"Have you looked for backers?" said Regina. "Perhaps you could deal on behalf of independent investors for a reasonable fee. Surely you could earn more then your pittance of a salary."

"Yes, I have tried. The Old Boys' Club is still alive and well in the financial world. An independent woman plainly does not get the investment needed to operate. I tell you, Regina, this is frustrating."

Regina sat back, contemplating. Then she decided. "Gloria, what if I were to tell you of a group who would be willing to back you?"

"I would say that I hope you aren't playing some cruel joke on me."

"This is no joke," said Regina. "You can see that I have done quite well for myself."

"So I see. I would love to know how you accomplished all this."

"I have licensed the rights to a number of patents I own to several pharmaceutical firms. This has made me an independently wealthy woman."

"How did you manage to secure the patents?" Gloria asked. "I thought that the rights to any research were controlled by the research lab."

"Normally this is true," Regina said, "but I received backing from an outside source to establish my own research facility. My recombinant DNA processes have made a fortune for my patrons and for myself as well. I have sufficient wealth to satisfy all of my needs as well as my whims. Now I only research those areas which interest me."

Gloria shifted in her chair. "So who are these mysterious benefactors," she asked, "and would they consider adopting me?" She laughed at her own joke with a hint of bitterness.

"That," said Regina, "is precisely why I have invited you here today."

Gloria stared at her old friend. "Are you serious?"

"Absolutely," was the reply. "Gloria, what do you remember about me from college?"

"Well," said Gloria, "you had a reputation for being somewhat aloof."

"I believe many referred to me as the 'Ice Bitch', and that was one of the kinder names."

"I never did, Regina. After all the losers I had for roommates, you were positively wonderful. The others just didn't understand you. They thought you were…" She hesitated.

"They thought I was a lesbian, didn't they?"

"It was mostly the men. They didn't understand why you weren't more social, why you always had your nose in a book or in the lab."

"Typical male arrogance. The poor little dears can't possibly imagine why any woman wouldn't just throw herself at their feet for the chance of gratifying them sexually. In their feeble little minds, any woman who does not behave so foolishly must be a lesbian."

"I know that you aren't," said Gloria. "You just didn't have any use for them."

"I still have very little use for men. But let me continue.

"I had made quite a name for myself in the area of recombinant DNA research. I was very well regarded. But, like you, I found myself encumbered by the glass ceiling. The world of science is also one of male chauvinism. I soon realized that the Boys' Club so feared a successful woman that they would never let my accomplishments advance beyond a certain point. And, like you, I was thoroughly frustrated.

"Then, some years ago, I was approached by two women from old money families with a very tantalizing proposition. They would finance an independent research lab for a percentage of any profits I would generate. In addition, I was to pursue a specific area of research that would remain our exclusive property, not to be shared with the world. I agreed. The results are evident."

"I should say!" said Gloria. "But what was this particular area you kept to yourself?"

"It was a means of utilizing recombinant gene therapy to enhance estrogen receptor sites."

"You've lost me, Regina. I don't have any idea what you mean."

"Well, dear, you know that estrogen is the hormone which causes a girl to become a woman. It stimulates breast and hip development as well as other physiological changes. Estrogen works on areas of the body called receptor sites. My research was aimed at enhancing the action of estrogen at these sites."

"I still don't understand how this might be useful. Nor do I understand why your sponsors wanted you to pursue this line."

"Perhaps a small demonstration is in order," said Regina. She pulled on the bell cord to summon her maid, who promptly answered.

"How may I serve you, Mistress?" Beverly asked.

"Beverly, please remove your clothes," said Regina.

"Very good, Mistress." And with that, Beverly pulled off her uniform to reveal a petticoat and camisole. These she also removed, unveiling a brassiere that strained to hold her breasts in check, as well as lace panties worn over a garter belt suspending fishnet stockings. Beverly reached behind her back and unhooked the bra, letting her breasts fall out over her chest. Finally, she dropped her panties to the floor and stood in front of the two women, clad only in a garter belt, stockings, and stiletto heels.

Gloria stared in disbelief. Beverly had a penis! It was a small, flaccid thing, certainly incapable of achieving an erect state. But this was definitely male plumbing.

"Thank you, Beverly," said Regina, "You may dress."

"Yes, Mistress," said Beverly, who began pulling her clothing back on.

"You see, Gloria," said Regina, "estrogen receptors are present in both men and women. A male treated with sufficiently high dosages of estrogen will soon develop breasts. My therapy enhances and accelerates this process, as well as causing hip development and changes in skin texture, hair growth patterns, vocal cord structure, and other areas."

"So Beverly is a man," said Gloria.

"A feminized male," replied Regina. "A feminized male slave."

"I don't understand why a man would let you do this to him."

"Beverly didn't exactly give her permission to be feminized. This was done against her will. And she was exceedingly headstrong. Her training was a formidable project. But once she realized that she could go nowhere in society, and that she depended upon me for her continued existence, she became much more cooperative. Now look at her. She is a perfect, docile servant."

Gloria still had a hard time believing the evidence in front of her eyes. "Doesn't she resent what you have done? How can you trust her?"

"Let her tell you for herself. Beverly, come here please."

"Yes, Mistress," said Beverly. She was once again fully clothed. Now Gloria noticed some of the male characteristics that had not been totally feminized. Beverly's chin was a bit square and her shoulders somewhat broader than those of most women. But without the knowledge of her former male state, these anomalies would go unnoticed.

"Beverly, tell Ms. Marshall how you feel about being feminized."

"Of course. I am grateful that my mistress has honored me by making me a feminine male. To show my gratitude, I must devote my life to her service."

"And you don't resent this?" Gloria asked.

"My mistress takes care of me, and provides me with food and shelter and clothing. How could I resent such generosity?"

Gloria turned to Regina. "I still don't understand why Beverly still has a penis. If you wished to make her a woman, why did you stop there?"

Regina said, "I'll let Beverly tell you. Beverly, explain to Ms. Marshall why you still have that limp member."

Beverly cast her eyes downward as though she was ashamed. "That is to remind me of my former status as a male oppressor. Men are evil creatures who abuse women and treat them like property. Even though my mistress has made me more feminine, I must always remember that I was born a cruel, wicked, oppressive male."

"Thank you, Beverly," said Regina. "You may perform your household duties."

"Yes, Mistress," Beverly replied, hurrying off to her chores.

Gloria was silent. Regina said, "I know you must have many questions. You also don't know which to ask first. So please allow me to elaborate." She took a sip from her tumbler, then continued.

"I'm sure that you are curious as to my benefactors as well as their motives. They are both wealthy daughters of established families who were exceedingly disenchanted with the men who had courted them. They were disgusted with men who sought to use affection and courting as a means to gain control of their wealth. They were aware of my research as well as my regrettable situation.

"They, as well as I, sought to exact a form of revenge upon the male sex. They each desired to enslave, dominate, and feminize a male. They both felt that to place a man in the position of being the very sex he had oppressed and to then force him to serve their every whim would be a most satisfying form of retribution.

"My dear, it was a heady experience to equip and to staff a research facility. I had seemingly unlimited resources at my disposal. And I made a deliberate choice. The technicians and scientists I hired were all women."

"How did you get away with this?" asked Gloria. "I thought sex discrimination in hiring was illegal."

"The Federal authorities seem to have no interest in so-called 'Reverse Discrimination'," was her reply. "And eventually we did hire a few token males. Beverly was one of them."

Regina continued, "The process we discovered turned out to be rather simple but elusive. By enhancing the estrogen receptor sites of a male's body, we can transform his body form into that of a female in less than one month.

"The first step of the process is an orchidectomy. Our subject will no longer need testes, and the testosterone will only interfere with the estrogen. We then administer the gene therapy and estrogen intravenously. The results are dramatic. Beard growth is totally reversed within hours. Noticeable breasts sprout by the second day. Muscle mass diminishes and the hips widen and flare to female proportions. The structure of the voice box is also affected, producing a feminine quality. By the time our subject wakes up, he is no longer male."

"Wakes up?" asked Gloria?

"Yes. The subject is unconscious during his metamorphosis. Exercise during the transformation could inhibit the process, especially in the area of muscle loss. We certainly would not want our newly minted ladies to look like body-builders. No, I much prefer a feminine, non-muscular appearance.

"In any event, once our sleeper awakes, she is subjected to behavioral modification to render her docile. Given the shock of discovering her transformation, this process is not difficult. We soon break any remaining vestige of male spirit she may have. The result is a totally obedient slave eager to serve her mistress."

Regina smiled. "My dear, you have no idea just how gratifying it is to subject a member of that hated sex to the social repression we women are expected to endure, and to have that same male wait on me hand and foot. It is delightful!"

"I can imagine," Gloria said. "But what does this have to do with me?"

"I'm just getting to that. Armed with my discovery, my patrons and I have each enslaved and feminized a male. The proceeds from my other patents provide a healthy cash flow. We knew that there were other women like ourselves, women who had been the victims of a misogynistic system. So we invited a few of them into our sisterhood. We give them the power and the opportunity to become independently wealthy in their own right. And we facilitated their own personal revenge by enabling them to acquire their own sissy slaves.

"The first new members of our circle were recruited from the scientists and technicians I employed. They, of course, knew of other women desirous of revenge. Our sorority has expanded to fifteen members. We nurture our new sisters and exchange favors with each other. And I would like to invite you, my dear, to join our sisterhood and expand our ranks to sixteen."

"I'm no scientist," Gloria protested. "I don't know how I can help you."

"Your knowledge of finance is what we want," said Regina. "We shall provide the capital you will need to broker your deals. Of course we expect that you shall collect reasonable fees for your services. We shall all benefit from this."

"I am tempted," said Gloria.

"And there is another reward, beyond the merely financial. You shall be able to exact vengeance on the sex that oppressed you all these years. You shall have your own sissy slave. Think about it! Think of the power you will have over this hated male!"

Gloria considered the prospect. She was indeed angry at men. She hated having to report to a nitwit manager far less capable than she. His only qualification was being born with male genitalia. She had more than her share of industrial scar tissue from competing head-on with her male counterparts. But despite her far superior abilities and accomplishments, she was consistently passed over for promotion and recognition.

All things considered, her decision was swift. "Very well," she said. "Count me in"

"Excellent!" said Regina. "Welcome to The Sisterhood."

* * *

Regina was as true as her word. Each member of The Sisterhood pledged a minimum of one million dollars to Gloria's new enterprise. Gloria's first act was to tender her resignation to the brokerage that employed her. She had wanted to give two weeks notice, but Regina talked her out of it. "Would they give you any notice whatsoever if they chose to terminate you? You no longer need them, Gloria. You no longer need pay deference to any man." So Gloria simply marched into her supervisor's office and quit, effective immediately. The stunned look on the face of her former boss was priceless. All he could do was threaten that he would never hire her back. She left the brokerage triumphantly, remembering the encouragement she had from Regina. "Don't worry about him. You will be so successful that eventually he will be knocking at YOUR door."

Gloria set to work by incorporating a private bank. All of the Sisterhood made deposits equal to their pledges. Armed with this capital, Gloria began making trades. The bank's assets grew phenomenally, far outperforming the market. After six months, she could show a return far better than thirty percent. She immediately re-invested this return, compounding the net worth of The Sisterhood's private bank. Within a year she had amassed a fortune for the Sisterhood's bank, and was a multi-millionaire in her own right.

Keeping current with the world market required fast, dependable access to worldwide information. Gloria hired somebody to set up and maintain a computer system to provide such information, as well as a database to keep track of the trades she made. She had wanted to hire a woman for this position, but could not find one with the qualifications she needed. She had to settle for a man.

Jeff Bishop did not quite fit the image she had of a computer geek, but he certainly knew his stuff. He set up a small office network with a powerful server and communication links to all of the major financial markets. Gloria had to admit that Jeff's efforts made her work much easier. She could now analyze market conditions and make trades faster and more efficiently. Jeff was also quick to learn the financial end of the business. He displayed a talent for the market she would not have expected from a techie. But she insisted that he train a woman in the technical end of his work. She felt an obligation to nurture a female.

* * *

Regina came to call on Gloria. It had been two years since Gloria's introduction to the Sisterhood. She now lived in her own country home; not as elegant as Regina's, perhaps, but far more luxurious than her previous dwelling.

Gloria poured Perrier over ice and gave the glass to Regina. "Thank you, Gloria. Do you mind if I smoke?"

"Feel free. Just use the ashtray." Gloria did not smoke, but her home was equipped with scrubbers and a powerful ventilation system. The smoke was drawn into the scrubbers and fresh air was maintained.

"You know, Gloria," said Regina after lighting her cigarette, "you really should get a maid. I know I couldn't manage my house without Beverly."

"Perhaps I should," said Gloria. "Right now I don't think I would have the time to hire one."

"My dear, " said Regina, "why on earth would you wish to hire somebody? I mean that it's high time you collected your revenge. Don't you think it's time to get a sissy slave?"

Gloria paused for a minute. "I suppose I should," she said. "But I have no idea how to proceed."

"The experience of The Sisterhood will be helpful. First, we need to select a subject."

"I have always wondered how this was done," said Gloria. "Doesn't anybody ever notice that these people are missing?"

Regina smiled, savoring her role as Gloria's mentor as well as in anticipation of feminizing yet another hapless male. "We normally target a subject with few connections; a loner with no family and few friends. Then we arrange an 'accident', something that destroys the body beyond recognition. It's easy to make a nobody disappear."

"All right," Gloria replied, "how do I go about finding such a nobody?"

" What do you know about that fellow you hired?" Regina asked.

"Jeff Bishop? Now that you mention it, he might be a perfect candidate. He has no family and keeps to himself. He has no real social life. He spends his evenings playing computer games and watching videos."

"Splendid!" said Regina. "Let us arrange the unfortunate demise of Jeff Bishop."

Gloria hesitated. "I don't know, Regina. He HAS been quite helpful. I don't think I could have set up the office without his help."

"My dear Gloria," said Regina with just a hint of exasperation, "Bishop may be the finest employee you could ever hope to find, but he is still a male. Remember, if he were in the position of power, he would use you without a second thought."

"I suppose you are right," said Gloria. "Come to think of it, he was very reluctant to train Barbara about the computer system. He thought she couldn't understand it. The arrogance!" Once again there was fire in Gloria's eyes. Bishop now represented every man who had ever abused her. He was the lover who dumped her. He was the succession of undeserving men that had been promoted over her head.

"Regina, let's do it."

* * *

Barbara had left for the evening when Gloria summoned Jeff into her private office. "Have a seat, Jeff. I wanted to have a word with you."

Jeff sat and accepted the offered glass of mineral water. Jeff would have preferred a coke or something with a little bit of flavor to it, but these broads seemed to be in love with this stuff. For himself, he couldn't see much sense in paying big bucks for a product he could just as easily get from the tap.

"Jeff, I just wanted to thank you for everything you have done here. Your system has made us a lot more efficient. And profitable."

"I'm glad I could help, Miss M." said Jeff. "I love working with computers." He took a large gulp from his glass and set it down. "This system was a pure pleasure."

"I'm glad you enjoyed it. We're going to be making a few changes here, changes that will effect you, and I wanted to discuss them with you."

"Changes?" said Jeff. "This isn't a layoff, is it?"

"Not at all, Jeff. In fact, you will be fare more intimately involved with the business than you could possibly imagine."

"That's a relief!" said Jeff. "So what kind of…"

Jeff never finished his sentence. The powerful drug Gloria had put in Jeff's glass now had its desired effect, rendering Jeff unconscious. Regina certainly knew her stuff. Gloria picked up the phone and dialed. When Regina answered, Gloria simply said, "Got him."

"I'll be right over," was Regina's reply. Gloria set the phone back into its cradle. The first phase had begun.

* * *

Jeff awoke to unfamiliar surroundings. He was in some sort of a hospital room. Restraints prevented him from moving. By moving his eyes around he could see intravenous bags suspended above the bed. Presumably they were dripping their contents into his veins, but he could not see for sure.

He had no idea what he was doing there. Had he been in an accident? Was it a heart attack? The last thing he remembered was talking with his lady boss. Did she know something about this? He tried to speak, but his throat and mouth were far to dry to allow him to make sounds.

"Well, back among the living again, are we?" The voice, which sounded familiar, came from behind him. "Don't worry, you will be up and about quite soon." The speaker, whoever she was, quietly chuckled.

A straw was held to his mouth. He sucked in the flat tasting water, allowing the welcome moisture to bathe his mouth and throat. "Thank you," he said. His voice sounded funny.

The mysterious woman walked into view and started removing the IV's. She looked familiar to Jeff. Where had he seen her before? Recognition came as she loosened the straps binding him to the bed. This was the woman who visited his boss lady so often.

Regina placed a strap of some sort around Joe's neck. Then she said, "Let's get you out of bed." She reached under Jeff's arm and hoisted him to a sitting position. Then she swung his legs around and helped him to stand. "Your strength will return shortly," she said, "Now walk this way."

Jeff held on to Regina's arm as she guided him to the mirror. Something just did not feel right. He was still somewhat groggy from whatever it was they had given him. He felt as though his body's center of balance had somehow shifted. "How long have I been out?" he asked. There it was again! What was wrong with his voice?

"A little over a month," Regina said, allowing the shock of her statement to sink in before shoving her charge in front of the full-length mirror.

"A month? How could…?" Jeff's question was cut off by his own surprise at the image he now saw reflected. His chest now sported a set of firm breasts, each crowned by a perfect nipple. His waist was much thinner, flaring to a set of wide, feminine hips. His hair now hung down below his shoulders. As for his body hair, what was left was a small tuft of coarse pubic hair. "What have you done to me?" he cried. Then he realized what was so strange about his voice. It was now that of a woman.

"What I have done," said Regina, "is reverse the effects of testosterone poisoning in your body. You have been re-shaped into a much more pleasing image."

Jeff placed his hand over one of his breasts, as though he could somehow make it vanish. It was real. Under other circumstances he might have found the feeling pleasant, but in his current state it just did not register. He dropped his hand down to his crotch, not knowing what to expect. The feel of his penis gave him some comfort. He then felt for his scrotum. It was empty. "My balls!" he cried out in horror!

Jeff's body was suddenly consumed in intense pain. His knees buckled as he fell into a heap on the floor, the burning pain suffusing his body as if every nerve ending was being pierced with a hot needle. It only lasted a second, but felt like an eternity, leaving him too weak to rise.

As he struggled to gather the strength to arise, he heard another voice, that of his employer. "That was not very ladylike of you to touch yourself there," Gloria said. "Only a little slut would touch her private parts that way. That's what you are, you know; a little slut!"

Jeff weakly pushed himself to his knees. He was shaking as he staggered to his feet. "How…?"

Gloria showed him the remote control she was holding. "Pain stimulation via nerve induction. It causes no permanent damage, but it is excruciating. I can control the intensity and the duration. The control collar you are wearing is the receiver."

Jeff reached for the collar, only to feel another bolt of pain sear through his body. He barely managed to stay erect. "Don't bother trying to remove it, slut!" said Gloria. "It is locked, and I have the key. Now come to the mirror."

Jeff's hesitance was rewarded with another jolt of pain. "Do not hesitate an instant when I give you an order, slut. Now come here!" Jeff did not hesitate. In the mirror, he saw the collar around his neck. There was a metal medallion like a dog's tag attached to the collar. It had one word engraved on it: SLUT.

"From now until I say otherwise," Gloria said, "your name is Slut. This is the only name you will answer to."

Jeff protested, "You can't do this to me! My name isn't…" Once again intense, burning pain coursed through Jeff's body. He collapsed.

"Get up, Slut!" Gloria commanded. Still shaking from the last bolt of pain, he brought himself slowly to his feet. "Now," said Gloria, "tell me your name."

"Jeff, err…" The correction came too late to avoid another dose of pain. Tears welled up in his eyes as he said "Slut! My name is Slut."

"Say it again," Gloria commanded.

"Slut! My name is Slut!" He winced, half expecting another spasm of pain to wrack his body.

"There, now," said Gloria, "was that really so difficult?"

Sobbing in fear, Jeff asked, "Why are you doing this to me? What did I ever do to you?"

Gloria whirled and savagely pressed the controls to send more paid through Jeff's body. "Because you are a man!" she shouted. Jeff struggled to remain on his feet while Gloria continued her rant. "All of you men think you are so superior. You think you can lord it over women, keep us barefoot and pregnant. Well now, missy, you are going to find out just how a woman feels!"

Gloria stood inches away from the person now named Slut. "You will find out exactly what a woman must endure. You will be my little serving wench, Slut. You will wear the clothes I give you to wear, live where I tell you to live, and do the work I tell you to do. All of your male illusions of superiority will be shattered. Do you understand me, Slut?"

Jeff hesitated, and was rewarded with more pain. "Yes," he said weakly.

"You will address me as 'Mistress', Slut. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mistress," said Slut. There was another brief jolt of pain.

"I want to see more enthusiasm, Slut. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Good." Gloria still held the remote, but her demeanor softened a bit. "Slut, you look like something the cat dragged in. And you smell like you haven't bathed in a month. Follow me to the shower. I mean now, missy!"

Slut followed Gloria out of the room and down the corridor. She was still naked, but Gloria seemed unconcerned. Gloria opened a door and motioned Slut to enter. Inside was a small room with a locker, a bench, a table, and a stall shower off to one side. "Get inside the shower, Slut. You will find shampoo, conditioner, and soap inside. Scrub that filthy hide of yours clean."

The warm water felt good after the pain. Slut took some shampoo and worked up a lather in her now voluminous hair. She had no idea how to take care of so much hair, but at least it would be clean. She rinsed it out and applied conditioner, again rinsing. Then she started cleaning her body. She ran the lavender-scented bar over her wet skin, allowing the foam to build. Finally she could explore the changes that had been made to her body. The feel of her wet, soapy hands as they ran over her breasts was somehow exciting, especially as she passed over her nipples. She was surprised at just how sensuous this could be

She lathered her arms. This was a shock. While Jeff had never been particularly muscular, he at least had a firm upper arm. It was now sleek and somewhat flaccid. As she continued cleaning herself she encountered her now slim waist and flaring hips. She had a hard time believing that this was her own body.

She turned her attention to her legs. Her ankles were a good deal slimmer than she remembered, and her feet also seemed to have shrunk. Again, her muscles seemed to be soft and weak.

She had waited until the end to clean her crotch. As she soaped up, she felt her scrotum and penis. Her testicles were now gone, and her penis was flaccid. She tried to stimulate it but it refused to become erect. She moaned in despair.

Pain! A brief jolt of burning pain ran through Slut's body. Through the glass door of the shower, Gloria was observing her every move. "I told you that a lady does not fondle her private parts, Slut! Now rinse off and get dried. We have work to do!"

Slut emerged from the shower. She took one of the towels from the bench and dried herself. "Take the other one to dry your hair," said Gloria. Slut wrapped her towel around herself and toweled her hair. It was tangled despite the conditioner.

Gloria directed Slut over to the table where she was instructed to brush the tangles out of her hair. Slut took the brush and proceeded to work it through her hair. The tangles were painful, and she managed to pull some hair out of her scalp before she had finished. An occasional jolt from the remote kept her focused on the task. After what seemed like hours, Slut's shoulder-length hair was free of tangles.

Slut had no time to admire her hair. Inside the locker, she found the clothes she would be wearing. Gloria instructed Slut to first put on the black lace garter belt, and then to roll up the fishnet stockings and pull them smoothly over her legs. "Be careful not to put a run in them!" Gloria warned Slut. Despite her care, she managed to snag three stockings before successfully getting one on a leg and hooked to the garter belt, each snag followed by a shot from the remote.

Lace high-cut panties followed the stockings. Then came the brassiere. Slut fumbled with the snaps, finally closing them and adjusting the straps. It was a push-up bra, hardly needed with the ample breasts Slut now had. She then pulled a petticoat and camisole over her head, followed by a rather skimpy maid's uniform. Finally, Slut was given a pair of four-inch high heels. She started to protest, but decided against it. The memory of pain by remote control held her tongue. As she stood for the first time in heels, she felt more off-center than ever. She had to arch her back to maintain her balance, causing her breasts to jut out even further.

"Come to the mirror, Slut," ordered Gloria. Slowly and wobbly, Slut made her way to the full-length mirror. When she saw herself, she gasped, choking back tears. Her cleavage was thrusting out from under the low-cut bodice of her uniform. The lace from her petticoat was just visible from under her short skirt. Her shoulder-length hair framed the lace cap she wore. She looked like a refugee from a bad porno film.

The door opened and Regina Tuckett entered, followed by a tall woman wearing a maid's uniform far more conservative than Slut's. Although this woman was also amply endowed, the neckline of her uniform was much higher, showing only a hint of her cleavage. The skirt was also longer, reaching to her knees. Her hose, unlike Slut's fishnet stockings, was tan. "I see that you have your little sissy dressed, Gloria," said Regina. "But she really must learn to apply make-up and manicure her nails. She must learn to maintain a proper standard of appearance. Perhaps my Beverly can show her what to do."

"I agree," said Gloria, "Beverly's appearance is always impeccable. She would be the perfect teacher. Beverly, would you like to show my little Slut how a lady should look?"

"I would be honored to, Mistress Gloria. That is, if Mistress Regina approves."

"Of course I approve," said Regina. "Train her well, Beverly." She then turned to Slut. "You would do well, missy, to heed the advice my Beverly gives you. She has been my maid for many years now, and knows how to behave herself. Like you, she was once a male oppressor, but we helped her to overcome that flaw. She knows how to show gratitude for the great favor we have granted her. In time, you shall also realize just how generous we are being."

Regina and Gloria left the room, leaving Slut and Beverly alone. "Come and sit at the vanity," said Beverly. "I'll show you how to fix your hair and apply your makeup. Then we can do your nails."

Slut sat at the table and Beverly sat down next to her. "Is it true?" said Slut. "Were you once a man?"

Beverly cast her eyes down. "Yes," she said, "before Mistress Regina made me a feminine person, I was an oppressor. I'm so glad she changed me!"

"How can you say that?" said Slut. "How can you possibly be glad? We were raped!"

Beverly glanced around nervously. "Not so loud! The Mistress might hear you!"

Slut noticed the velvet choker with the cameo that Beverly was wearing. She had seen it before, but only now did she realize what it was. "That's one of those slave collars! Your Mistress has you wearing one as well!"

"Of course she does," said Beverly, taking the tone of a teacher lecturing a petulant child. "My Mistress must maintain control. If I should misbehave or somehow displease her, she punishes me. But she hasn't had to punish me for a long time." Beverly delivered that last bit with a hint of pride.

Beverly explained the application of makeup to Slut, showing her how to use foundation, concealer, blush, eyeliner, eyeshadow, and lipstick. She had Slut remove and re-apply the makeup several times for practice. Once Beverly was satisfied, they moved on to Slut's nails. They had grown during the month she was unconscious. Under Beverly's guidance, Slut filed and shaped each nail, applied a base coat to each nail, and then a clear topcoat. "You must remove the polish every other night," Beverly told her, "so that air can get to your nails. Otherwise your nails will become Brittle. Now let's do something about that hair."

While Beverly was showing Slut how to manipulate a curling iron, Slut asked, "So who were you before you were changed?"

"I told you, " said Beverly, "I was a male…"

"That's not what I mean," Slut interrupted, "I mean, who were you? What was your name? What did you do?"

Beverly answered nervously, "I try not to think about it. My name is Beverly. That's the name my mistress gave me, and it's the only name I need. My mistress is so kind to me! She lets me sleep in a real bed and not on the floor. And she gives me real food to eat, not dog food like some of the other mistresses feed their slaves."

Beverly paused for a moment, brushing Slut's hair before she continued. "I was a student at the University," she said. "I was in the doctoral program for biochemistry. I worked here at nights to pay for my tuition and rent. Dr. Tuckett was doing some exciting research. I lived in a cramped little apartment with broken plumbing, erratic heat, and loud neighbors. I mostly subsisted on macaroni." She seemed to have a far-off, wistful look in her eyes, as though contemplating a lost paradise. "My mistress took me away from all that. I live well and am cared for."

"But don't you regret not being able to become a scientist?" said Slut. "Aren't you angry that she has stolen your dream?"

Beverly answered, "It doesn't pay to think of such things. I am a slave. My only value is the value my mistress places on me. As long as I please her, she cares for me. So forget whoever you may think you are. You are a slave. Be content."

Slut was silent as Beverly continued to fix her hair. "You must do this for yourself every morning," Beverly told her. "Your appearance is an important reflection upon your mistress. A well-groomed maid is a sign of her status and importance."

"How can they get away with this?" Slut asked. "Won't somebody notice that I disappeared? Didn't anybody notice it when you vanished?"

"The Mistresses are clever and powerful women," Beverly said. "They choose subjects who have no family and few contacts. In my case, I was an orphan. Mistress arranged an accident in which I seemed to die." A strange look came over Beverly; a look of deep, mournful sadness mixed with stoic acceptance. "Nobody questioned the circumstances of my apparent death. Nobody cared. My male identity just ceased to be, and life continued without me."

Beverly then regained her ebullience. "Listen to me, talking such nonsense when I have a generous mistress to provide for me! You will soon learn just how lucky you are, little miss."

Gloria and Regina once again entered the room. Beverly quickly leaped to her feet. Slut took this as a cue and likewise stood. Gloria inspected Slut, who stood with her eyes cast down. "Well, Slut," said Gloria, "has Beverly taught you how to fix your appearance?"

"Yes, Mistress," replied Slut in a deferential manner. Gloria raised her eyebrows in some surprise and turned to her mentor.

"You see," said Regina, "once the slave has been shown that she has no hope save pleasing her mistress, she becomes remarkably co-operative. You should have no trouble with conditioning her."

Gloria looked back at her slave. She had expected more resistance. In fact, she was just a little bit disappointed. But the way Slut now stood before her, averting her eyes, Gloria was convinced of her success in breaking this slave's spirit. The feeling of success Gloria now felt was intoxicating.

"Did you have a nice talk with Beverly, Slut?" Gloria asked.

"Yes, Mistress. Beverly taught me how to put on makeup and fix my hair and nails. I hope you like it, Mistress."

"Why do you want me to like it, Slut?"

"Because my appearance is a reflection on you, Mistress. You are an important woman, and deserve a properly groomed slave."

"I will expect you to be groomed properly at all times, Slut. Do you understand this? No matter how difficult the task I give you, your appearance must always be flawless."

"I understand, Mistress. I hope you will give me the chance to serve you. May I never disappoint you."

"Very well, Slut. You may serve me. But understand this!" Gloria tapped the remote, sending a shot of pain through Slut's body. "You are only on probation, missy! I will not hesitate to punish you if you fail me in any way. You shall have to prove yourself to me every moment of every day. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, Mistress!" Slut replied, once again fighting back tears.

Regina drew herself to Gloria's ear and whispered, "Remember the velvet glove that covers your iron fist, my dear. Balance strength with tenderness."

Taking Regina's advice, Gloria softened her tone, taking the edge out of her voice. "Come with me, Slut," she said with a smile, "It's time for you to see your new home." Slut followed Gloria out of the room. She wobbled a bit on the high heels but managed to keep up with the rapid pace Gloria set. It was difficult to maintain this speed; she had to take short steps in order to maintain her balance.

They rode the elevator to the basement. Gloria retrieved her coat, and then handed Slut a dark raincoat. "Put it on," said Gloria. Slut buttoned up the coat, fumbling with the buttons now on the opposite side of the coat. Gloria then attached a leash to Slut's slave collar and led her to the garage. It was not really necessary. The remote in Gloria's possession gave her far better control of Slut that a leather strap possibly could. But the psychological effect of being leashed was undeniable. This final insult stripped Slut of any vestige of dignity, and she meekly followed her mistress to the car.

The drive to Gloria's home took 45 minutes. Slut sat silently throughout the trip. Gloria glanced over to her a few times. She appeared to be shrinking into her seat, cowering, as though she was trying to hide. The road soon led to open countryside. Gloria turned up a long driveway on a wooded piece of ground and drove up to the garage adjoining her home. She led Slut through the back door and into the kitchen.

Once inside, Gloria removed the leash and hung it on a peg by the door. "Don't even think about running away, Slut. A buried wire that will activate your collar surrounds my property."

"I promise not to run, Mistress," Slut replied.

"Good. Take a look around the kitchen, Slut. I will expect you to prepare all of the meals, and keep this kitchen spotless. You may use the dishwasher, of course. This is the pantry over here," Gloria pointed to a spacious pantry adjoining the kitchen, "this is the refrigerator, and the freezer is here."

"I want you to see something, Slut," Gloria said. She pointed to two dog dishes on the floor of the kitchen. "Pick one of them up." Slut stooped to retrieve one of the dishes. It had a name printed on it: SLUT. "You have behaved well so far, Slut, so I don't think we shall need these. But leave them on the floor just in case."

"Yes, Mistress," Slut said, again stooping to replace the dish. Gloria was confident that her implied threat had its desired effect. She then proceeded to show Slut the remainder of the house and the areas she was expected to remain in unless summoned. Here was the laundry and ironing room. Now she was shown the areas she was expected to keep clean and dusted. Finally, she was shown her quarters.

The small room she would be occupying was bare of furniture, save for a vanity, a chair, and a mattress on the floor. A small bathroom adjoined the room. "You will be given sheets, of course, and I expect your mattress to be properly made up before you begin your duties each day." Gloria opened a closet, revealing a dozen uniforms identical to the one she now wore, as well as shelves holding underwear, hose, and shoes. "You will be responsible for keeping your uniforms clean and pressed, Slut. Remember, I value proper grooming."

"Of course, Mistress. I will make you proud of me."

"See that you do," said Gloria sternly, "or you know the consequences." She held the remote in front of Slut, her fingers playing lightly over the controls."

"I understand, Mistress!" Slut said, her eyes wide in anticipation of another painful punishment. But Gloria smiled, refraining from administering a painful lesson.

"Well, my little Slut, I think it's time for dinner. Get your ass down to the kitchen and prepare a meal. I want a soup course to precede the main course, and a light dessert. Get moving!"

"Yes, Mistress," Slut answered, and she scurried back to the kitchen. As Gloria listened to the frantic clicking of Slut's heels, she smiled to herself. Yes, indeed, this is sweet revenge!

* * *

Dinner proved to be a pleasant surprise. Gloria fully expected that Slut's first efforts in the kitchen would be disastrous. This proved not to be the case. Slut displayed a formidable culinary talent. The soup she prepared was just the beginning. At first glance it appeared to be standard tomato soup, doubtless prepared from the condensed soup in the pantry. But the taste was far from mediocre. A pleasant mix of spices, chiefly basil but with a hint of sage and the mellow richness of cream balanced the tangy acidity of the tomatoes. The main course proved even more toothsome. Bay scallops had been sautéed in a buttery sauce with just a hint of garlic and cayenne pepper, and were served on a bed of angel hair pasta. This was complemented by tarragon carrots and minted peas. The dinner rolls were warm, doubtless fresh from the oven, and were served with herbed butter. The final triumph was a simple dessert of melon and peach slices accompanied by a sweet and tangy dip.

Gloria finished the fruit and dabbed her mouth with the corner of her napkin. She was clearly satisfied. She rang a small bell to summon Slut, who had withdrawn to allow Gloria privacy while she ate. "That was remarkably good, Slut. I am pleased."

Slut seemed happy. "Oh, thank you mistress! I was so afraid that you would be angry when I had to use canned food and dried spices. Fresh food is so much better!"

"If that was all from preserved food, I can hardly wait to see your skill with fresh ingredients."

"Oh, it will taste so much better, mistress. I'm sure you will like it."

"Perhaps," said Gloria. "That will be all this evening, Slut. Bring me a small cognac, then lean the kitchen and you may retire."

"Yes, mistress," said Slut, who began clearing the dessert dishes. She quickly bustled off, and then just as quickly returned with a snifter of cognac. "Will there be anything else, Mistress?" she asked.

"Not tonight, Slut. I will be retiring soon."

"Very good, Mistress," Slut replied. She took the remaining dishes into the kitchen. Gloria picked up her snifter and proceeded to the library.

Slut soon had the dishes washed and put away, and the kitchen was clean. She turned off the kitchen lights and proceeded to her bedroom. She was about to enter when the now-familiar sensation of burning pain throughout her body made her stagger to her knees. She looked up to see Gloria holding the remote, an angry scowl crossing her face.

"Slut," she scolded, "look at your makeup! It's a disgrace! Your lipstick is smeared and your nails are chipped. Fix it now, missy!"

"But Mistress, I…" Her protestations were cut short by another searing bolt of fiery pain.

"Listen to me, little slut!" Gloria said angrily, "you are not to contradict me or argue with me. Not ever. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Mistress," Slut said.

"You know what happens when you contradict me, don't you?"

"Yes, Mistress."

"Just remember, my little slut, your situation can always deteriorate. Remember that I have an empty kennel in this house. You can be my maid, or you can be my bitch. The choice is yours. Now get on your feet and get in your room!"

Slut leaped to her feet and entered her spartan quarters. At Gloria's direction, she sat at the vanity and repaired her makeup and nails. Gloria inspected the final results.

"Much better. You almost look presentable. That is the standard of appearance my maid must maintain. I expect there will be no further lapses. Understood?"

Yes, Mistress. I will not disappoint you."

"See that you don't." With that, Gloria left Slut's diminutive quarters, closing the door behind her. Slut waited for the footsteps to fade in the distance. Then, she collapsed into the mattress and wept bitterly.

* * *

Six months later, Regina Tuckett called on Gloria. She rang the doorbell. The door opened and Slut greeted her. "Mistress Regina, how good to see you. My mistress has been expecting you. Won't you please come in?" Slut's ebullience was decidedly infectious, and Regina could not help but smile. The former computer nerd had been transformed into a bubbly, enthusiastic maid. "May I take your coat?" asked Slut.

"Please do," answered Regina, handing Slut her coat. Slut hung the coat in the hall closet and then escorted Regina to the courtyard.

Gloria's home was built in a Spanish style; all of the rooms opened onto a central courtyard. The courtyard itself was enclosed by a reinforced tempered glass roof, which kept the elements out and permitted the sunlight to enter. The effect was much like Regina's solarium.

Gloria rose as Slut led Regina into the courtyard. Regina marveled at Slut's sure, steady gait across the terra cotta tile, betraying not a hint of wobble in her five-inch stiletto heels. "Regina," said Gloria, embracing her friend, "it's so nice to see you. Won't you sit down? Would you care for some refreshment? Some tea, perhaps?"

"That would be fine, dear," Regina answered. "I would especially enjoy some of your maid's herbal tea."

"Of course," said Gloria. "Slut, please fetch some tea for Regina and myself. And bring some cookies, too."

"Very good, Mistress," Slut replied, running off to prepare the tea.

Regina looked approvingly at Gloria. "Gloria, you have done wonders with your Slut. I can hardly believe the difference."

"I have you to thank," Gloria replied. "The Sisterhood has made this all possible."

"Even so, Slut has been conditioned in record time. You should be proud. Do you find it necessary to punish her?"

"Not lately. After the first few weeks she adapted easily to each new task I set her. She now does all of the laundry, the dusting and vacuuming, and she prepares all of the meals. I gradually increased her responsibility to the point that she now manages the house. She orders all of the groceries and supplies and schedules all of the household repairs and services. Why just last week she had the plumber in to replace a broken toilet. She is most resourceful."

"That is impressive, Gloria. Perhaps its time you showed her off to some of our other Sisters."

Gloria reflected a moment. "Excellent thought. Perhaps a dinner party. But who shall we invite?"

"Might I suggest Elaine and Evelyn. They and I founded the Sisterhood. They would love to see how you have conditioned Slut. And you could show off her culinary artistry."

Slut returned to the courtyard bearing a silver tea service and a tray of cookies. She poured tea for Regina, asking, "One lump or two, Mistress Regina?"

"None for me, Slut; and no cream. I wish to savor this herbal tea of yours." Regina picked the delicate cup and saucer from the serving tray, as well as three cookies. She sipped from the cup. A contented look washed over her face. "Excellent, Slut. Thank you."

You are welcome, Mistress Regina," slut said, pouring tea into another cup which she then served to Gloria. Gloria preferred a lump of sugar in the herbal tea. She savored the aroma, rich with mint and chamomile.

Regina took a small nibble from one of the cookies. "Why, this is delightful! What do you use to make these excellent cookies, Slut?"

"Lavender, Mistress Regina," Slut beamed. "I'm so glad that you enjoy them!"

Gloria said, "Slut has planted a small herb garden behind the kitchen. This is where she obtained the fresh herbs she uses. As I said, she is most resourceful."

"Then I see no point in delaying," Regina said. "Gloria, you must give this party."

"I agree, Regina. Slut, how would you like to prepare a small dinner party for some of the other mistresses?"

Slut seemed energized by this suggestion. "Oh, may I, Mistress? I would be so honored to serve your friends! I do so want to make you proud!"

Gloria smiled. "Very well, Slut," she said, turning to Regina. "When do you think would be a good time?"

"Regina answered, "We usually get together on the second Monday of each month. Why don't we meet here?"

"That would be next week," Gloria mused. "Should be no problem." Turning to Slut, she said, "Slut, do you think you can prepare a dinner party in a week?"

Slut was beaming. "Yes, Mistress, of course. It will be the finest dinner I ever prepared."

"Very well, Slut. Make the preparations and do a good job. If the party is a success I shall reward you."

"A reward, Mistress?"

"Yes. Make me proud and I will let you sleep in a real bed instead of the floor. And if you make me especially proud, I shall reward you with a real girl's name."

"Oh, thank you mistress! I will make you proud! Don't worry!" Slut seemed so excited she was almost jumping for joy.

"Calm down, Slut," said Gloria, "save all of that enthusiasm for the party. Remember, though, if you embarrass me, I will have to punish you. And if you embarrass me in front of my friends…" Gloria's voice trailed off, implying a severe threat.

"Oh, don't worry, Mistress. I will make your party so successful that you shall be the envy of all your friends."

* * *

The week passed quickly. Slut had apparently thrown herself into preparations for the party. It seemed to Gloria that she was busier than ever, baking pastries, ordering food and other supplies. Amazingly, not one other area of Slut's household duties suffered a bit. Slut was the epitome of efficiency.

Finally the night had come. Three luxurious cars pulled up to Gloria's home. In each was one of the founding members of the Sisterhood, each accompanied by her feminized slave.

Gloria noticed that as each woman emerged from her respective car, she led her slave by a leash. The leashes were attached to the control collar each slave wore; all save Elaine, who attached the leash to the rings piercing her slave's nipples. Gloria heard that Elaine had been exceptionally vindictive in seeking her revenge upon men. The rumor, it seemed, was true.

Slut welcomed each of them and hung their coats in the closet. Then she escorted them to the courtyard to meet Gloria and enjoy hors d'oeuvres and cocktails. The leashes had been removed and each slave stood behind her respective mistress, ready to serve her.

Gloria was a bit nervous. Here were the matriarchs of the Sisterhood. Evelyn and Elaine had both inherited their wealth. They both had the arrogant air of an aristocrat who had never lifted a finger to earn a cent; rather, they took their wealth and position as the natural order of things. In some ways Regina seemed just as aloof, but hers was the attitude of one who had struggled for her wealth and position. She sipped at her glass of wine as she produced a long, thin cigarette. Beverly was quick to produce a lighter, as was Elaine's maid, Jamie. Evelyn, the third founder, seemed to prefer small cigars. The air in the courtyard soon resembled a nightclub scene from a 1930's movie despite the best efforts of the air scrubbers.

The smoke seemed to have no effect on Slut as she diligently kept each glass full and replenished the supply of hors d'oeuvres. Gloria felt a wave of pride and relief as Slut attended to her guests.

"Well. Gloria," said Elaine as she signaled her maid, who produced a jeweled snuffbox for her mistress, "you seem to have trained your maid adequately. With time she might even equal my Jamie's standards." Elaine opened the snuffbox to reveal a white powder clearly not snuff. She took a pinch and inhaled it sharply. Gloria guessed that the powder was probably cocaine.

Gloria replied, "I have all of you to thank for this. Without the Sisterhood I would have never been able to achieve this success."

Elaine lit another cigarette and said, "We were delighted to help you, Gloria. And we are grateful for your help as well."

"That's for certain," Evelyn chimed in. "Your financial wizardry has increased our wealth immensely."

"Thank you," said Gloria, enjoying the praise being heaped on her.

Evelyn continued, "Yes, your Slut seems to be well trained. I do wonder, however, if she has been completely broken."

"What do you mean?" asked Gloria.

"What she means," said Elaine, "is that we wonder if your slave is completely obedient. Will she truly obey your every whim without hesitation?"

Gloria smiled. She was prepared for this, thanks to Regina's warning. Tonight would be a test for her and her slave. She was confident that her demonstration would convince them.

"Slut," she called, "come here."

"Slut appeared instantly. "Yes, Mistress?"

"Slut," said Gloria, "my guests seemed to have gotten their shoes dirty. Clean them up. With your tongue, Slut."

"Mistress?" asked Slut?

"I told you to lick my guests' shoes clean. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, I understand," she said. She remained still.

"Well, Slut, are you going to obey me?"

Slut hesitated for a minute, then said "No."

There was a gasp. "What did you say, Slut?" Gloria demanded. "Are you refusing to obey me?"

There was no hesitation now. In fact, there was defiance in Slut's voice. "Yes. I refuse."

Gloria produced the remote. "Slut, I am very disappointed in you. You have embarrassed me before the Sisterhood. Now you must suffer the consequences." She pressed the button.

There was no response.

"Battery dead?" asked Slut, not bothering to disguise the sarcasm in her voice.

"I don't understand," said an astonished Gloria. She continued to press the buttons to no avail. Slut began to laugh.

"You might as well stop wasting your time, Gloria." Slut said. Her deferential demeanor was now gone. In its place was a tone of bravado. "I disabled that foolish thing the first month I was here." Gloria's face betrayed her bewilderment as Slut continued, "I rigged a little vibrator in the slave collar so I knew when to fake a pain reaction. But I don't have to play that game anymore."

Slut reached behind her neck and unfastened the slave collar, dropping it on the ground. "The lock I can't pick hasn't been made yet," she gloated.

Bewilderment gave way to horror as Gloria said, "I don't understand! How could you…" She was interrupted by the sound of crashing glass. She spun around to find Regina unconscious in her chair, the wineglass fallen from her hand. The other women were similarly insentient in their chairs.

"Excellent, " said Slut, "the drugs I laced your food with have taken effect. That's the nice thing about herbs. They mask the taste of knockout drops." Gloria wanted to say something, but was unable. Her legs gave way as the room seemed to spin about her. Then there was darkness.

* * *

The harsh smell of ammonia wafting just under her nostrils abruptly thrust Gloria into consciousness. Her vision was blurred. She struggled to move but could not. She was sitting upright and effectively restrained to permit no movement other than her head.

Her vision gradually cleared. She was still in her enclosed courtyard. Her guests were all conscious and seated in their chairs. They were all secured with dozens of plastic straps. The chairs were all arranged in a circle so that each woman could see the other three.

In the center of the circle stood Slut. She no longer wore the ridiculous maid's uniform she had endured these past months. Now she wore a one-piece black outfit. Her gloves and flat-heeled boots were also black, and her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. The holster at her waist holding an automatic pistol only enhanced the air of menace she now exuded.

"How long…" Gloria stammered, still feeling the after-effects of the knockout drops.

"Just a few hours," said Slut. "Certainly not the month you kept me unconscious."

"Slut," said Gloria, "just what…"

She moved so fast that Gloria was taken completely by surprise. The gun was now unholstered and pressed against her mouth. A black-gloved hand forced Gloria's jaw open. She tasted oil as the gun barrel was thrust into her mouth. "Let's get something straight right now. My name is not Slut. My name has NEVER been Slut. You will not use that word when referring to me. Dig?"

Gloria nodded. The gun was withdrawn. She tasted blood. Something hard was in her mouth. She felt with her tongue. It was a tooth. "What do you want me to call you? Jeff?" she asked sarcastically.

The woman in black laughed. "Diana," she said. "Goddess of the hunt. Yes, I think that will do."

Diana laughed again. "By the way, Jeff isn't my name either. That's the name the Feds gave me when I entered the Witness Protection Program."

Gloria blinked. "Then who are you really?"

Diana smiled, replacing the gun in her holster. "My real name is Joe Rossi." He paused for a moment to let the name sink in. Glimmers of understanding began to appear on the faces of each woman. "That's right. You heard that name before. I'm the guy who fingered Salvatore Mancuso and brought down the whole Mancuso organization."

Elaine started shouting, "That's a lie, you worthless little slattern. Now cut us loose!"

Diana walked over to Elaine and backhanded her. "Lady, you are definitely not in any position to demand anything." She stuffed a rag into her mouth, stifling any more outbursts.

"Our slaves!" Evelyn asked. "What happened to them? What did you do with them?"

Diana smiled again. "Your former captives have been liberated. I took the liberty of transferring your assets to accounts I set up for them." She turned to Gloria. "That was quite convenient of you to put all of that data in your private bank's database. I now know the name, location, and assets of every member of the Sisterhood."

"That system is protected!" Gloria said. "There is no way anybody could have broken it."

"Anybody except me," Diana said. "I designed that system, remember? I put a few convenient back doors in the system for my own convenience. Looks like they came in handy, no?

Diana paused to cut the end off a cigar and light it. She rolled it in the flame to produce an even light and drew smoke into her mouth, letting it linger for an instant before blowing it out. She held it up, seeming to admire it. "Havana. Pre- Castro. Expensive as hell but worth it. Gloria, you really should have supervised the household budget more carefully. It's just shameful how I spent your money."

Diana poured herself a drink, an amber fluid, neat. She sipped. "Ah, single malt Scots' whiskey. Excellent." Another sip, a puff on her cigar, and she sat. "Now, where to begin?"

"You know," Diana said, "I once had a list of things I promised not to do if I ever became an Evil Overlord. One of them was that if I was going to kill my archenemy, I would never say, 'But first, I have something to tell you.' and then proceed to bore him out of his skull; I would simply shoot him. But here I am, Darth Vader in drag, and I find that I have something to tell you. My revenge demands it."

She took another sip of whiskey. "I was just another pimply computer nerd when I hacked into Mancuso's system. He had a mainframe in one of his 'legitimate' businesses. I opened it up and had a little fun, but I made a real rookie mistake and Sal's boys traced me.

"Anyway, Sal recognized talent when he saw it. He scared the hell out of me, then he brought me into his business. I learned a lot, and soon I set up Sal's business to be more efficient than ever. I had his entire operation online, especially the gambling and narcotics. Sal could transfer data and funds anywhere in the world. He was always ten steps ahead of the Feds. The Feds tried to break into our system to get evidence, but never succeeded.

"I became one of Mancuso's top lieutenants. I had it all; wealth, power, and women. But one special girl caught my eye. Her name was Annie. I must have caught her eye, too, because we got married. She was a great woman. We had just bought a home and were planning a family when I got busted."

Diana paused, taking another sip. "The Feds put me away on some minor charge. Normally it wouldn't have netted more than a fine and probation, but they were trying to squeeze me to rat out Mancuso. But I kept quiet. That's the rule of silence; keep your mouth shut, do your time, your family gets taken care of, and you have a job waiting for you when your time is up." Diana sucked smoke from her cigar. Her disposition was turning grim. "Only that's not how it worked this time. One of Mancuso's sons decided to hit on my Annie. When she refused him, he beat her up."

Sadness and anger now tinged Diana's voice. "He beat my Annie so bad she died of internal bleeding. Than bastard killed my wife! And did Sal Mancuso do anything? No! This was his son! He did nothing!"

Her rage was fiercely apparent as Diana continued. "When I found out what happened, I went to the Feds and told them I was ready to talk. I sang like Pavoratti! I told them about the back doors I put in Mancuso's system. I opened it up like a can of beans and gave them all the evidence they needed. Sal and all his goons got put away, and his organization was crushed.

"That's how I got into the Witness Protection Program. They gave me the name Jeff Bishop, a new social security number, some cash, and sent me on my way. I made a living doing some odd computer work until I was hired to put your system together."

Diane rose. Her drink was finished, and her cigar was now burned down to a stub. "You broads didn't have any idea just who you were fooling with. You thought I was just another faceless, nameless geek. That mistake cost you. Just like Sal Mancuso's mistake cost him.

"You see, ladies," she said, sarcastically, "in order to have my revenge I find it necessary to kill you. And after I am done, I will seek out the twelve remaining slaveholders in your sisterhood and execute them. Their prisoners will be liberated, of course.

"So you see, everything you built has come to nothing. You will all suffer the fate you tried to impose on your captives. You shall become un-persons. Nobody will ever remember you, nobody will mourn your passing, nobody will ever know you were here. And the Sisterhood will be gone."

Evelyn, who had remained silent, spoke up. "You can't do this. Our slaves are not capable of caring for themselves. They depend on us for everything."

Diana turned to answer her. "Perhaps I didn't make myself clear. I have transferred all of your assets to your former prisoners. They are all financially independent. The only reason they ever cooperated with you was because they had no other option. I gave them the option of freedom, and they all took it."

"But my slave was loyal to me!" Evelyn protested.

"Loyalty," said Diana, "is a quality appropriate for dogs, not humans. Despite the way you mutilated us, we all remain human."

Panic was taking its toll as Evelyn shouted, "You'll never do it! You can't kill us in cold blood! You just don't have it in you!"

"Sorry to disappoint you, but I do have it in me," said Diana. "I've killed before. You don't rise to the upper echelons of organized crime without making your bones. So don't tell me I can't do it; I already have."

"Well, ladies, the time has come to conclude our little party. I'd like to say it was a pleasure, but that would be a lie. Now, who wants to go first?" Diana held the gun in her right hand. She walked around the circle of chairs, pausing briefly at each one. She stopped at Elaine. "I think we'll start with the coke fiend, eh? Pleasant dreams."

Diana held the gun to Elaine's temple and squeezed the trigger. The side of her head exploded as the pistol's sharp retort assaulted the eardrums of everyone in the room. Evelyn began to wail hysterically. She was begging Diana to spare her, but to no avail. Diana squeezed off another round through Evelyn's skull, silencing her for all time.

She turned to Regina. "And now the good doctor," said Diana.

Regina's reaction was not one of panic. She hawked and let fly, catching Diana on the forehead. "From the heart of hell," Regina said, "I stab at thee. For hate's sake, I spit my last breath at thee."

Diana wiped the spittle from her brow. "Defiant to the last. And a literary quote as well! You are a surprising woman, Dr. Tuckett." Diana held the gun to Regina's face. "I've read Melville too. One little item you forgot. Ahab died." She squeezed the trigger, sending a lead projectile into Regina's brain.

Now there was only Gloria and Diana. Diana walked over to the woman who had imprisoned and enslaved her. "You know the real irony of all this, Gloria? If you had told me about the men who shafted you, who used you and left you in the dust, I just might have helped you get revenge. That's something I understand, babe. I could have hacked into their credit records, bank accounts, credit cards, phone bills, you name it, and we could have ruined them. But you had to go take your rage out on me. I never did a thing to hurt you. Hell, I set up your bank's system! And how was I repaid? You mutilated me! You cut my balls off and turned me into this!" Diana pointed to her breasts. "I'm a man!" she shouted, "and look what you did to me! And that damned pain collar!"

Diana turned her back to Gloria. "In a way, though, you have done me a favor. The Feds think Joe Rossi is dead. They'll never think to look for me now. But this," she said, pointing to her crotch, "is far too high a price to pay."

Diana turned back to her former captor, now her captive. She held the gun to her head. Gloria was saying something almost inaudibly. Diana strained to hear the words.

She recognized them. Gloria was repeating an Act of Contrition. The words stirred memories in Diana of days gone by, of nuns teaching young Joe Rossi the words to this prayer as part of his religion training, of Saturday confessions in preparation for Sunday communion, of First Friday Mass at school and no breakfast until after communion, of Stations of the Cross all through Lent. She never knew until this moment that Gloria had been raised Catholic. Gloria, the self-professed atheist, was now finding comfort in a prayer she learned as a child.

Diana let Gloria finish the prayer before squeezing the trigger. In the silence following the gunfire, Diana wept.

* * *

A nondescript sports utility vehicle wound its way over the mountain road. Diana gripped the wheel securely, one hand on the gear shift lever. She kept one foot on the clutch pedal at all times, ready to shift gears whenever the gravel road demanded it.

The cabin was a safe house comfortably distant from the city and suburbs. The three former slaves she had liberated had stayed there in the last few weeks following the grim event that had freed them. They waited while Diana tied up a number of loose ends.

Diana had disposed of the bodies in a graveyard Mancuso had used for just that purpose. Each woman's grave was in plain sight, marked by headstones bearing bogus names. The blood and gore had been cleaned from the courtyard, and the bloody furniture burned. The gun Diana used was torched into pieces and buried with the corpses.

Certain other matters needed attention. Gloria's bank was bought by a holding company that Diana controlled. The daily bank operations continued, so the remaining members of the Sisterhood had no inkling of the transition, or of what had transpired at Gloria's country home. Bills were being paid automatically. In a few months, the dead women's homes would be sold.

Diana pulled the SUV in front of the cabin. She walked to the door carrying a leather briefcase. Beverly met her at the door and welcomed her in.

The former maids all looked different now, dressed in jeans and sweats, a far cry from the uniforms they had worn for so long. They all sat down with Diana at the kitchen table.

Diana opened the briefcase and handed each of them a manila envelope. "These contain the things you need to start a new life. There's a birth certificate in your new names; Beverly Masters," she looked at Beverly, "Jennifer Fox," she said to Evelyn's former slave, "and Carol Muller," she said, indicating Elaine's former prisoner. "You also have Social Security Cards, bank accounts, credit cards, and passports." Diana grinned. "The passports all have some stamps on them. You girls have been traveling abroad these past few years. I also set up credit reports with all of the agencies that show some activity. Nothing that would indicate that your new identities are anything but genuine."

Beverly spoke first. "Diana, we don't know how to thank you. If you hadn't helped us we would all still be slaves. Now…" her voice trailed off.

"Now," said Diana, "you are free. And you are all sufficiently wealthy that you need never lose your freedom again."

"Freedom!" said Carol, reverentially. "It sounds so good! It feels so wonderful!"

"How did you do all this?" Jennifer asked. "I can understand how you changed the bank stuff, but like, birth certificates, passports, social security cards, like, how did you manage that? That's all government stuff."

Diana smiled. "I had good teachers. The Federal Witness Protection program. I watched everything they did to give me a new identity." She tapped the side of her head. "It helps to have a photographic memory and total recall."

Jennifer said, "Well, however you did it, thank you. I owe my freedom to you."

"Have you made any plans?" Diana asked.

"Well," said Beverly, "I'm going to go ahead and get the surgery to become a complete woman. I think I can find a competent surgeon. Jennifer is going to get it as well."

"What about you, Carol?"

Carol said, "I don't think I'm going to get the surgery. I still need to hope that I might someday…"

"You don't have to say it," Diana said. "I understand. Despite the way my body looks, I'm still a man. I don't think I'll ever like what those bitches did to me."

"I've been female too long to ever go back," said Jennifer. "I don't think I would know how."

"I did some of the research on Tuckett's process," said Beverly. "I don't think it can be reversed. The gene splicing that boosted the receptor sites makes them resistant to testosterone therapy."

"That's kind of what I thought," said Diana, "but I can't give up hope. Who knows, maybe some sharp grad student might just get an internship at Tuckett's labs and find a reversal for the process. One never knows."

"If you mean me," said Beverly, "I just might at that. I think I'd like to get back to my studies. But all of my transcripts are in my male name."

"I took care of it," Diana said. "I broke into the school records and re-named all your transcripts to Beverly Masters. I don't think you should have many problems. And now you can afford to study full time instead of picking up spare change working part time."

Beverly leaned over to give Diana a hug. "But what are your plans, Diana?"

Diana's eyes narrowed a bit. "I don't plan on having a life. At least, not yet. There are still twelve slaves being held by the surviving members of the Sisterhood. I intend to seek them out, free them, and execute their captors. I must do this to fully realize my revenge."

"Let us come with you," said Carol, "I want to help."

"No you don't, Carol," Diana replied. "You don't want to come with me. In order to get my revenge, I must kill all of the Sisterhood. Believe me, you don't want to start killing if you don't have to. Killing changes you in ways that you wouldn't like."

The silence was so thick it could have been cut with a chainsaw. Then Diana smiled. "Let's not dwell on such ugly things, girls. Freedom is beautiful. Let's enjoy ours."

"Amen," said Jennifer. "Diana, we owe it all to you. How can we ever pay you back?"

"Don't pay back, Jen. Pay forward. Live free and stay free."

They had already packed. Jennifer, Carol, and Beverly all left the cabin to ride back to the nearby town with Diana. They would each depart the town separately, in cars Diana had obtained from several different locations. They were on their way to new lives as free women.

 ©1998 Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

This is the sequel to "Best Served Cold" in which Diana seeks to finalize her revenge, only to discover that her life will again be changed.

Story:

Endgame
by
Valentina Michelle Smith

The sun hung low in the sky and a gentle breeze stirred the grass of Wildwood Cemetery. Flat stones dotted the rolling hills, punctuated with well-maintained trees and elegant statues. Near one of the statues, a woman knelt at one particular stone, trimming back the encroaching grass and washing off the accumulated dust and grime. She pinned a bouquet of pink roses to the ground just below the headstone. She read the name on the stone again and again.

ANN CATHERINE ROSSI

Beloved Wife

The woman stood. Tears formed in her eyes as she began to speak softly, as if she expected the woman in the grave to hear her. "Annie, I'm sorry I didn't get here sooner. It wasn't safe. I hope you understand.

"It still hurts so much to be without you. We weren't together a year when I went go to prison. They wouldn't let me out for your funeral. Then I was in the witness protection program for so long. Mancuso's goons were watching here, waiting for me to visit. It tore me to pieces staying away. But just when things started to cool down, those bitches from the Sisterhood kidnapped me."

The woman paused to wipe away her tears. "Look at me, would you? I'm crying. I never used to cry, but now... Now a lot of things are different. I don't think you would recognize me if you saw me today. Remember how you used to complain about pantyhose and heels? Now I understand!" She laughed at her own little joke, a bitter laugh.

"Honey, I know you hated my business and wanted me to get out of it. I still have some business to take care of. But it's almost done. And when it's done, that part of my life will end forever."

She looked at the flowers. "You always loved roses," she said. "I only wish I could see your face again, to see the way you would smile whenever I brought you roses. I love you so much!"

She knelt down again and kissed the headstone, leaving a lipstick print behind. Funny, she thought, you used to leave them on my cheek. She rose, not bothering to wipe the print off the stone. Then Diana Hunter turned and walked back to her car. She had business to finish tonight, and more business to finish later in the week.

* * * * *

Joey Mancuso drove up to the motel. He was alone. Back when the Mancuso family was a power to be reckoned with, Joey would have had several bodyguards with him wherever he went, even to a cheap motel out in the sticks like this one. But that damned snitch Rossi had shattered the family business. Sal, Joey's father, was still in the joint, and would probably die there. Joey lucked out with a light sentence and was now out on parole. He was biding his time, waiting for his parole to end. Then he would get back in business, and the Mancuso family would be big again.

Joey was thinking about the crazy chain of events leading up to this moment. He had met Diana in a bar he often visited. She seemed to know who he was, and was absolutely fascinated with his colorful past. Sure, he wasn't a big mover in the family, but he had an inside track being Sal's youngest son. It didn't take long for her to suggest this rendezvous. And what the hell, if a broad dug him that much, why shouldn't he get a little action?

The motel was out in the middle of nowhere, and was nearly deserted. Joey didn't bother to stop at the desk. Diana had made all of the arrangements. He knocked at the door of Cabin 5. Diana answered.

She was dressed in a black lace peignoir, which revealed little but suggested a lot. She smiled. "I'm glad you could make it. I was beginning to wonder."

"No need to worry, doll. I wouldn't have stood you up for the world." He eyed her appreciatively as he entered. She smiled back at him and locked the door.

"Let's not have any interruptions," she said. "I want this to be private."

"Who would interrupt us out here?" he asked. "This place is so out-of-the-way it might be another planet."

She smiled coyly. "That's why I chose it, for the seclusion."

She walked over to the table and poured some Scotch into an empty tumbler, which she gave to Joey. "You like Chivas, right?"

Joey grinned and accepted the glass. "You remembered! I like that." He took a generous belt of the whiskey, and then put the glass down. "But I don't want to drink too much. I want to be able to enjoy this."

He moved over and took Diana into his arms. She didn't resist. As soon as their lips met, his tongue thrust its way past her lips and into her mouth. They held this kiss for nearly a minute as Joey fumbled with the sash of Diana's peignoir. It fell to the carpet, revealing her flimsy black lace nightgown. He ran his eager hands over her breasts, squeezing the nipples roughly. She moaned in pleasure as he put his hands under the sheer lacy material. Her nipples began to harden and become erect. Joey's excitement grew with his manhood as Diana unhooked his belt and pulled down the zipper of his fly. He pulled one of her ample breasts out of the flimsy nightgown and ran his tongue over her nipple. She cried out ecstatically and unfastened the buttons of his shirt. They fell to the bed, grappling each other in the heat of sexual frenzy. Joey's passion was mounting as he reached under her filmy black panties to grab...

A penis!

The adrenaline rush of surprise stopped Mancuso's lust in its tracks. What the hell was this? "What's the matter," said Diana, "find something you weren't looking for?"

Mancuso bolted out of the bed, nearly tripping over the bedclothes. "Jesus Christ!" he said, "what kind of..."

That was the last thing he said. His face went blank as he sagged to the floor, unconscious.

Diana got out of bed. She started to shiver. Letting Mancuso run his filthy hands over her and worse yet having his foul tongue enter her mouth was making her feel nauseous. But she could not afford the luxury of vomiting just yet. She had work to do.

The stuff she had put in Mancuso's Scotch would keep him out for a while, but she wasn't taking any chances. She quickly changed into a black jumpsuit and proceeded to bind and gag him. If he regained consciousness she would give him a whiff of chloroform to put him back out. She dragged him out of the room and into the trunk of his own car. Then she removed everything she had brought with her from the motel room.

Mancuso's keys were in his front pocket. She removed them and started the car. Pulling out of the parking lot, she drove off to an even more obscure location in the piney woods.

* * * * *

The strong smell of ammonia shocked Mancuso back into consciousness. He was lying on the ground, bound hand and foot. Diana was waving a broken capsule of smelling salts under his nostrils.

He was groggy, but that didn't stop him from getting excited at the sight of Diana in a form-fitting black jumpsuit. "Hey, doll," he croaked through his dry mouth, "what happened? Why are we..."

Then he remembered. Diana looked at him with an expression of amusement mixed with equal parts of disgust. "What's the matter, Joey? Don't you recognize your old buddy, Joe Rossi?"

"Joe Rossi is dead," Mancuso answered. "And even if he wasn't, you ain't him. Rossi is a..." Mancuso hesitated.

"A man?" asked Diana sarcastically. "And I'm not a man, am I? A man doesn't have tits, does he? A man has a cock. But hey, I have a cock! Now what do you suppose that means?"

"You're some kind of freak!" he said.

Diana gave Mancuso a vicious kick in the groin. He screamed in agony.

"Watch who you call a freak, Joey. Besides, who is more of a freak, a woman with a dick, or a man who beats up women?"

Mancuso was in tears. "Well, well," said Diana, "look at our brave macho man now. How's it feel to be on the receiving end for a change?" She kicked him hard in the ribs. "How's it feel to hear your own bones break?" She aimed another kick to his stomach. "How's it feel to be beat up by a woman?"

She grabbed his hair and pulled his head up off the ground. "You don't know how I've been anticipating this day, Joey boy. Ever since you killed my wife, there's been one thing that kept me going. That was the thought of how you would suffer like you made my Annie suffer." She slammed his head into the ground.

Mancuso groaned. His vision was blurry. He tasted blood. "Look, whoever you are, maybe we can make a deal."

Diana answered with another swift kick to his balls, followed by an open-fist smash to his nose. Mancuso was in more pain than he thought possible! "A deal!" Diana shouted. "What kind of deal would give me my Annie back? You think you got that much influence, Joey boy?"

Mancuso was desperate. He had to think of a way out of this! How could he buy himself some time? "Just tell me one thing, Rossi," he said, "how did you end up like that?"

Diana smiled. "You like my new look?" she said sarcastically. "I bet you didn't know that the Witness Protection Program could do this."

"So it was the Feds?"

Diana laughed. "No it wasn't the Feds, Joey. But in a way it was. Looks like you bought yourself a few more minutes, because now I'm gonna tell you my story."

She paused to pull a flask from her hip pocket and took a short swig from it. Replacing it, she began her tale. "You know, Joey boy, none of this would have ever happened if you could have just kept your fly zipped. I was ready to tough it out in the slam. I kept quiet for a year before you tried to get fresh with Annie. But when she wouldn't put out, you beat her up. And it wasn't good enough for you to just rough her up a little, you had to beat her so badly that she bled to death from internal injuries. Did that make you feel more like a man, Joey? Did it assure your masculine ego?

"Then your old man covered for you. He got you the best alibi money could buy. I was doing time for the family, protecting Sal and the whole organization with my silence. This is how he repaid me for my loyalty. You call that honor, Joey boy? I call it betrayal.

"That's why I ratted you bastards out, Joey. I brought down you and your whole slime-ball family, and I made sure that the Feds knew every little aspect of Sal's business dealings, just so they could crush all of you. It still wasn't enough. It would never be enough until I made you suffer like you made my Annie suffer. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

"I was given a new identity by the Feds. I still had to lay low. I knew the Mancuso family was through, but I also knew that your goon buddies would still try to find me. That's when the Sisterhood kidnapped me.

"These bitches were some kind of secret society that hated men. What they did was find some nobody they figured the world would never miss and they arranged a little 'accident' to make it look like he was dead. Then they turned the poor bastard into a woman. Well, almost. They left the guy's dick attached."

Diana took another swig from her flask. The memories were still painful. "I was number sixteen in a long line of guys they snatched and feminized. I was working for one of these broads, setting up her computer system. She had this private bank she set up for the Sisterhood. All of the data about their assets was in the bank's database.

"This babe was some kind of financial wizard. I learned a lot from her. I make more in legitimate operations now than the family ever made in the rackets. But the real brain behind the Sisterhood was Dr. Tuckett. She discovered a process that turns guys into women. She used it to get some kind of insane revenge on the entire male sex by making slaves out of men. I was her last victim. Lucky me. Not so lucky for her."

Diana paused to draw an automatic pistol from a holster in the small of her back. She leveled this at Mancuso, who had started to wiggle in an attempt to get away. "Don't even think about moving, Joey boy, or you might be minus your balls." As if to emphasize, she thrust the barrel of the gun into his groin. "That's better," she said as he froze.

"Now where was I? Oh, yeah. I got the special treatment from these bitches. I was unconscious for a month while they put me through the process. In the meantime they arranged for a little traffic accident and made it look like I died. When I woke up, I had these," she said, pointing to her breasts, " and a slave collar that zapped me with unimaginable pain. That's how they trained me to be a maid."

She thrust the gun into Mancuso's ribs. "Don't laugh, Joey, or you're gonna have some fresh ventilation.

"They forced me to wear this maid's uniform complete with 5-inch heels and fishnet stockings. They used the slave collar to try to break my spirit. They thought they had. I was a good little maid. But inside I bided my time. I knew they'd slip up sooner or later. And they did.

"Ya know what kept me going, Joey old pal? It was you. I wanted my revenge on you so bad that I was willing to endure anything just to have this moment. I could take the pain, the humiliation, anything, as long as there was even the slimmest chance I could break out and get even with you."

Diana looked at Mancuso with amusement. "I managed to get even with them as well. The bitch that enslaved me threw a party for some of the other old bags in the Sisterhood, including the big brain herself. She was showing off to them how well she broke me down. But I managed to spike their food and kill every one of them.

"Remember that bank I told you about? When I set it up, I made sure it had some special features. I had dozens of back doors that only I could access. I used them to transfer all their assets to the bitches' former slaves and myself. Ever since then, I've been knocking off the Sisterhood one by one. It's easy, too. The stupid broads are all recluses. They're all scared shitless that their dirty little secret will be discovered. So it's easy to get them alone, whack 'em, and then turn their wealth over to the poor schmucks they turned into slaves.

"So that's where things stand, old buddy. Tonight I get my revenge on you. And next week I'll be eliminating the last surviving member of the Sisterhood. Then I'll be even.

"Story time's up, Joey. Time for you to take that long dirt nap. Any last words, asshole?"

Mancuso summoned up a bit of bravado. "Think you can get away with this, Rossi? I still got friends. When they find out they're gonna kill you, you lousy freak! Who do you think you are? I'm Joey Mancuso, dammit! I'm the son of the biggest don on the East Coast!"

Diana laughed. "The Mancuso family is history, Joey! I wiped them out! The old man is gonna die in stir, and his boys are gonna be old men when they get out. There is no more Mancuso family. I wiped it out."

"You rat bastard!" Mancuso shouted, "I'm running the family now! I'm gonna build up the business and�"

"Joey, you are just plain pathetic. You are in charge of nothing. The old man never trusted you with any of the family operations. He always said you thought too much with your little head and not enough with your big one. That's why you never got anywhere in the family. You were too stupid to be trusted!"

Mancuso realized that he was doomed. But he would not go quietly. He would make one last attempt to sour Diana's revenge. "You think you're smart, Rossi? Well let me tell you, you are really dumb. You think your little bitch tried to fight me off? She wanted me! She wanted a real man, not some stupid computer geek! I gave her what she wanted!"

Diana smashed the barrel of her gun across Mancuso's face. "That's for lying about my Annie, punk. I don't know what you were trying to accomplish with that little stunt, but all you did was piss me off."

Diana turned to look at the crude grave she had dug for Mancuso. She had planned to simply shoot him and bury his body here, but she was suddenly inspired. She dragged Mancuso to the edge and rolled him into the pit. He screamed. Diana then began shoveling dirt over him. She ignored his horrific shrieks as she piled dirt into the pit.

She shone a flashlight onto the pit. His face was not yet covered. "This ought to teach you not to tell lies about people, Joey. It's a shame this isn't a brick wall. I could brick you up for all eternity. Hey, I have an idea. Why don't you shout 'For the love of God, Montressor!' Go on, shout it!"

"Who the hell is this Montressor? You're a crazy bitch!"

Diana made a disgusted face. "Montressor, from 'The Cask of Amontillado'. Ever hear of Edgar Allen Poe?"

"I don't know what you're talking about! You're a nut case, Rossi!"

Diana sighed and started shoveling. "You should have paid attention in English class, Joey. Maybe if you humor me, I might let you live. What have you got to lose?"

Mancuso continued to screech curses and pleas to Diana, who continued to shovel dirt into the hole. Mancuso's face was almost covered when he finally shouted out "For the love of God, Montressor!"

Diana leaned over for one last look at the pit. "Yes, for the love of God. En pace requiescat." And she continued piling the dirt into the hole.

Eventually the screeching ceased. Whether it was because Mancuso had suffocated or because the dirt so muffled his screams that he no longer could be heard, Diana did not know.

She walked back to Mancuso's car. Her grim task accomplished, she drove into the night. Within hours, Mancuso's car would be a cube of scrap metal. And the last scion of the Mancuso family would disappear without a trace.

* * * * *

Surveillance, mused Diana, consists of hours of oppressive boredom punctuated with moments of just slightly less boredom. This thought seemed quite profound as she continued her patient observation.

Her target was the country estate of Catherine Ellis, a research scientist formerly employed by Tuckett Laboratories. She had been a brilliant biochemist in the field of recombinant DNA before her decision to resign. Since that time she had become a recluse, rarely emerging from her secluded home. Her only companion was her maid, Heather.

It's amazing what one might learn about a person with a little detective work, Diana further pondered. She shifted her body to let some circulation into her left leg, which was beginning to tingle. She had stationed herself in the woods across from the entrance to her target's home. She had a relatively unobstructed view of the entrance while enjoying total concealment in the vegetation and the cover of a moonless night. Just to be certain, she was dressed in camouflage hunting gear. A dark green ski mask pulled over her head served to further obfuscate her appearance. Occasionally peering through night glasses, she maintained her lonely watch.

Diana paused to take a sip of water before resuming her solitary vigil. She had established the activity patterns of the Ellis home in order to facilitate tonight's step, an actual home invasion. This was markedly different from the methods she used to exact her revenge on the other slaveholders. The balance of the members had formed cliques among themselves. It seemed that once one of The Sisters had acquired a slave, she became a recluse, withdrawn from mainstream society. In light of the laws prohibiting slavery, this is a logical outcome. But humans are social creatures, needing interaction with their fellows. Thus, the various Sisters would seek each other's company, forming social contacts they dared not maintain in normal society. It was this insular behavior which allowed Diana to systematically ingratiate herself into each clique and execute the Sisters, liberating their former slaves and transferring the slaveholder's assets to their victims.

All lights in the building were now extinguished save the light in the study. Diana knew that this was the optimal time. She circled the perimeter of the estate to the utility pole. At the base of the pole she found the network interface device through which all telephone communication entered and exited the mansion. She opened the panel marked "SERVICE PORT - AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY" and attached a device to the phone jack inside. This would effectively disconnect the estate from the outside world by re-routing phone traffic and disabling the mansion's alarm system.

Now Diana scaled the fence and dropped lightly to the other side. She chose a rear doorway as her point of entry. Guided by night vision goggles, she silently crossed the expanse between the fence and the rear doorway. Once there, she picked the lock and entered.

All but one of the lights were out. Diana relied on her night vision goggles to guide her to the library, currently the only lit room in the house. The maid must be asleep, she reasoned, and her mistress is enjoying a nightcap and a good book. How peaceful life must be for her, she thought sarcastically.

Now she was outside the open doorway leading to the library. She removed the goggles, relying on her natural vision for the next phase. She held the dart gun in her right hand and boldly strode into the library. She quickly located her target, sitting in an overstuffed chair, reading. The woman rose in confusion, ready to run. Diana pointed the dart gun at her and with a quiet "chuff" shot a tranquilizer into her quarry, who silently lapsed into unconsciousness.

Working quickly, Diana bound the woman to the overstuffed chair with duct tape and shoved a rag into her mouth. She then positioned another chair opposite her prisoner's. Finally, she pulled a small flask of Scotch from her pocket. Even after all these executions, she still needed some liquid courage to conclude her gruesome mission.

She crushed a small capsule of smelling salts that she wafted under the woman's nose. The woman awoke with a start, confused, struggling against her bonds to no avail. Diana chuckled and said, "You may as well relax. There's no way you can break out. We have business to discuss, Dr. Ellis, and I want your undivided attention."

Diana took a gulp of the whiskey and continued. She recounted the tale of how she became a captive of the Sisterhood, and of her patient revenge. She recounted each execution in a matter-of-fact style, as though she were describing pest extermination. She then related the tale of her most recent act of vengeance on Joey Mancuso.

"With you," she said, "I shall finally realize my goal. The Sisterhood will be destroyed, and all of its achievements brought to nothing."

Diana rose from her chair, unholstering her gun. "And now it's time to say goodbye, Dr. Ellis. Do you have any last words before I execute you? Feel free to shout them into your gag."

That's when Diana felt the hard barrel of a shotgun pressing in her back.

"Don't move a muscle," said the voice from behind. "Drop the gun slowly."

Diana released the trigger and let her hand hang limp. The gun fell to the carpeted floor.

"Now," said the voice, "undo the tape and let her free."

Diana turned to finally see the tall woman who leveled a shotgun at her midsection. "You don't understand," Diana said, "I'm here to free you."

"You're the one who doesn't understand," said the woman. "I'm Catherine Ellis. The woman you were about to kill is my sister, Heather."

Diana was numb, but she obeyed. She started by removing the rag from Heather's mouth. Heather's mouth was dry, but she managed to hoarsely cry out, "Cathy, oh thank God!"

"Take it easy, Heather," said Catherine, "Don't struggle. You'll be free soon."

"Cathy," said Heather, still agitated, "I think she's the one. Did you hear her story?"

"Yes, I heard it," said Catherine, still pointing the shotgun at Diana. "We'll deal with that as soon as she removes the tape and you're free."

Diana peeled back the duct tape, being careful not to pull too hard and injure Heather. Once she was free, Heather picked Diana's gun off the floor and stood next to Catherine. Diana said, "If you intend to use that gun, consider taking the safety off. I set it before I dropped it."

Heather stared at the pistol, obviously confused and definitely not very knowledgeable of firearms. Catherine was not so confused, however. She held the shotgun confidently, comfortably, as one who was well acquainted with weapons. "Is it true?" she asked, "have you really killed the others?"

Diana answered, "If you mean the other bitches of the Sisterhood, yes. They are all dead. I killed them."

Catherine lowered the shotgun barrel. "Then in a strange way," she said, "I'm in your debt. Thanks to you, Heather and I are free from them."

"I'm confused," said Diana. "You're telling me that you are Dr. Ellis? I thought that Dr. Ellis had a maid named Heather, and that she was some poor, enslaved bastard like the others."

"Heather is my sister," Catherine answered. "But she was at one time male. In fact, she was my brother. I put her through Tuckett's feminizing process. The difference was, she wanted me to do it."

"She wanted to be a slave?" said Diana, incredulously.

"No," said Heather, "I wanted to be a woman!"

Diana's head started to spin. She felt dizzy, overwhelmed by the contradicting information she was suddenly forced to process. Her legs went limp and she fell to the floor, unconscious.

* * * * *

Diana awoke lying on a sofa in the den. Heather was holding a glass of water to her lips. "Don't drink too much," she said, "just sip it."

Diana croaked, "How long..."

"Just a few minutes. You fainted, so we put you on the sofa. Cathy went to get some tea."

She let the welcome moisture roll over her tongue as she swallowed. She started to get up and felt a wave of dizziness. "Maybe you should stay there a little while," said Heather. "Don't rush things."

Catherine entered the room carrying a tray with three steaming mugs. "I thought you might like some tea," she said. "You've been out in the cold for a while."

Diana slowly sat up and accepted a mug. She drank the fragrant tea gratefully. Warmth spread out from her stomach and slowly spread throughout her body. She had drunk half the mug before she set it down.

"Thank you," she said, "but this isn't exactly the kind of treatment I would expect. I almost killed you."

"True, you almost did," said Heather, "but that was a case of mistaken identity. We stopped you."

"Just a minute," Diana said. She reached down to her pant-leg and removed a small pistol from a holster strapped to her leg. "I always carry a back-up piece," she said, grasping the barrel and handing it to Catherine butt first.

Catherine took the gun. "I was outside the door when you told Heather your tale. It took a lot of courage to stand up to Tuckett. More than I had."

"I'm still very confused by all this," Diana said. "Why would you put your own brother through Tuckett's torture?"

"I can answer that," said Heather. "Catherine knew about Tuckett's process because she had done a lot of the research for it. She realized that it would be perfect for somebody like me.

"You see," Heather said, "I always knew I should have been a woman, but somehow I arrived in the wrong package. Cathy always knew about me too. She let me play dress-up with her clothes. She was always my big sister, and I loved being her little sister."

"It's true," Catherine said. "Heather and I used to play with dolls together. I had two sets of Barbie's; one for myself and one for Heather. Once when our parents were away we had a slumber party. Just us girls."

"Cathy was the best big sister a girl could want," said Heather. "But I was born male. I hated the changes puberty made to my body. I wanted to grow breasts like my big sister. Instead, I started growing a beard. My voice deepened. Nature had its way with me, and I became a man."

"Our parents died in an auto wreck," Catherine continued. "Brian came to live with me. That was his name. Now he could be a girl any time he liked. That's when he picked the name Heather."

"Why didn't you try getting a sex change?" asked Diana.

"Brian was a brittle diabetic," said Catherine. "Hormone therapy would have killed him. That's why Tuckett's recombinant DNA process was so appealing. It could transform Brian without killing him. But I had no way of putting Brian through this process. I thought it was only experimental. That is, until Tuckett recruited me into the Sisterhood.

"I managed to pass Brian off as an orphan boy I had hired to be my handyman. It was true to some extent. Tuckett examined him and said she could put him through the process, but first she cured his diabetes."

"Cured?" asked Diana incredulously. "I didn't think there was a cure for that."

"Yes," said Catherine, "Tuckett used Brian as a guinea pig for one of her pet projects. She used recombinant DNA therapy to re-grow Brian's pancreas. She re-wrote Brian's genetic code so that his Islets of Langerhans produced insulin normally. But once this was done, she started Brian on her feminizing process."

"I remember waking up after the treatment," Heather continued. "I felt so wonderful. I was finally a woman. But then the torture started." Diana winced knowingly, remembering her own experience with the slave collar.

"It tore me apart to subject Heather to all that pain," said Catherine, "but I had to convince Tuckett that I was serious or she might make me disappear too! I had to keep torturing her with that damned remote until we were finally home by ourselves. Then I had to keep the collar on Heather for months. Tuckett kept dropping in to see how much progress I was making. But after a while, she stopped visiting."

"We finally removed the collar," said Heather. "Cathy figured out how the locking circuit worked. But even then, I didn't really feel like I was free."

Diana was silent, numbly processing these revelations. Then she spoke with a quivering voice. "I'm sorry," she started, "I only wish I had known. After all you went through, to have to be terrified again..." Diana broke down, weeping a torrent of tears. She felt a hand on her cheek and looked up to see Heather.

"Diana," she said, "I forgive you. You went through the same hell I did, and then some. Maybe that made you a little crazy. But you stopped in time, and that's the important thing. You stopped. We're all still alive. And the one evil bitch who caused so much hell for so many of us is now roasting in her own hell."

"But, I almost killed you!" sobbed Diana. "I'm so tired of killing, and blood, and guns, and revenge! I've had it! My whole life for the past two years has been about revenge! Now what do I do?"

It was Catherine's turn to speak. "There's no short answer to that. Heather has forgiven you, and so do I. But the important question is, can you forgive yourself?"

Diana accepted the tissue Heather offered and wiped her eyes and cheeks dry. Her sobbing continued, weakly, spasmodically, forcing itself from her soul. She could clearly recall the names and faces of all her victims. She re-lived the horror of each death, the fear in their eyes, the eyes of all save Regina Tuckett, who died defiantly, with a curse on her lips and hatred in her heart. For Tuckett, she felt no remorse. For the others...

Diana looked up. Heather and Cathy were each seated, sipping tea from the mugs Cathy had brought in. The bond between the two sisters was obvious. There was much love in this house.

"Forgive myself," Diana said. "I don't know if I can. I don't know if I have the power to absolve myself of my crimes."

"Don't be too hard on yourself, " said Catherine. "Remember all the women you freed. Perhaps you were the instrument of some higher power."

"A flawed instrument," said Diana. "I kept telling myself that it was necessary, that I was doing this to free all of those poor bastards enslaved by the Sisterhood. But there's a part of me that will always wonder if there could have been a better way. Did I have to kill them, or did I kill them because I enjoyed it? Was there some perverse corner of my mind that delighted in their suffering?"

Cathy stood. "I'm not a shrink. I'm just a chemist. But tell me, Diana, does it really matter if you enjoyed it? Does it matter if you did the right thing for the wrong reason, as long as you did the right thing?"

"I don't know," said Diana. "I just don't know." Her eyes dropped. She had a lot to think about.

Heather then broke the oppressive silence. "Look, girls, I don't think we're going to solve all of these problems tonight, and I for one could use some sack time. So why don't we sleep on it? Diana, maybe you should stay the night with us. It's kind of late."

Diana rose from the couch. "I couldn't possibly accept, not after..." Her knees buckled and she nearly fell. Heather and Catherine each took an arm and propped her up.

"I don't think you would make it to wherever you were going," said Catherine, "so just come along with us." They led Diana upstairs to a guestroom. She was too weak to resist as they pulled off her hunting clothes and put her to bed. She fell asleep with the smell of clean sheets and the warmth of a down quilt to comfort her.

* * * * *

Light. It filled her senses. Diana looked around and beheld a world of light, of warmth. The light filled every corner of existence. It was neither harsh nor soft, it simply was. And into this world of light came another soul.

"Hello, Joe!"

Diana turned to see Anne Rossi.

"Annie!" she cried, running to meet her. She bounded like a gazelle, leaping over the broad plain separating them. She held her arms wide to embrace her...

And she stopped.

"Annie," she said, "Oh my love, how I want to take you in my arms! But not like this! Not like..."

"Not like what, Joe? Look at yourself!"

Diana looked down, suddenly aware of her own nakedness. And just as surprisingly, she was aware that the changes forced on her body were gone. She was Joe Rossi once again.

Joe did not hesitate. He reached out and took his beloved Annie into his strong arms. Annie wrapped her arms around his as he lifted her up and spun her around in sheer joy. Their lips met tenderly but hungrily, and their tongues danced and darted to music only they could hear. Joe felt a primal stirring in his loins, and once again experienced a sensation he thought lost to him forever.

Joe and Annie dropped lightly onto the grassy meadow. Side by side they embraced, once again using their hands to explore all of the familiar areas of each other. Joe lightly cupped Annie's breast, delicately playing his finger over her nipple. He felt it harden and grow as he touched it, and was suddenly aware of Annie's hand caressing the soft tissue just below his scrotum. Again their lips met in a frantic, passionate kiss that was only a foretaste of the ecstasy to come.

No words were spoken as Annie straddled atop Joe, grinding her pubic hair into his once again blood-engorged organ. As she slowly rocked back and forth, Joe cupped her breasts, alternately tickling and squeezing her nipples. The rhythm of her pelvic movements grew faster along with her breathing. Then she seemed to explode, her eyes going wide. She collapsed onto Joe's body, her mouth seeking his for a tender kiss. Then she rose up and began her rhythmic motion anew. The cycle repeated three times before she rolled off, exhausted.

They lay next to each other, tenderly kissing and touching. Annie's body was moist with perspiration. The breeze on the meadow carried the scent of wildflowers. Gradually their kisses grew more passionate. Joe looked into Annie's eyes. She nodded, smiling, an expression of both innocence and knowing lust. He rose over her and positioned himself between her legs. She took hold of his manhood and gently guided him into the flower of her femininity. He thrust forward, gently at first, then with increasing force. She wrapped her legs around him, holding him closely to her, as his motion thrust his throbbing, erect member inside her. As he rocked back and forth, his mouth again met hers, and their questing tongues once more flitted back and forth in a free-form ballet. He felt Annie's powerful muscles contract again and again as he continued his rhythmic thrusts. Then he felt a tingling sensation at the base of his spine as his thrusts increased in speed and intensity. The entire universe now consisted of one man and one woman locked in a passionate embrace as the intensity of their ardor grew exponentially. Joe could no longer contain the sensation and he exploded into a firestorm of ecstasy. Annie writhed beneath him as the spasms rippled through his loins, crying out in total abandon.

His lust now spent, he rolled off her, holding her closely and kissing her tenderly. He did not want the moment to end. They held each other for what seemed like hours, breathing rapidly to replace oxygen expended in the act of love.

As he lay next to Annie, Joe looked intensely into her eyes, once more drinking deeply of their beauty. He was as completely in love and as completely loved as he could possibly be. Annie smiled, and then said, "You're crying! Did I hurt you?"

"No," he sobbed, "I'm crying because I'm so happy! I never thought we would ever..."

"Joe. Dear, sweet Joe. I am always with you. And I always love you!'' She kissed his tear-moistened cheek. He kissed her forehead. They embraced again.

"Am I dreaming?" he asked. "If I am, I don't ever want to wake up!"

"You're asleep," Annie answered, "But this isn't a dream. It's real. The veil that separates the mortal world from the Otherworld is weak tonight. So I brought you here, to a place between the worlds, where all things are possible."

"Am I dead?" he asked. "Is this Heaven?"

"No, you aren't dead, you big silly man!" she answered. "I'm not dead either. But my time in the mortal world has ended, while yours has not. You still have work to do."

"Work?" he asked, "what do you mean? I want to stay here, with you. Annie, I need you!"

"And I need you, my love, but that just isn't possible right now. You still have things to do in the mortal world before we can be together. When your labors have ended, we will be together again."

"What must I do?" he asked. "Haven't I done enough? I'm so tired of killing! Please don't ask me to kill again!"

"No, Joe, you will no longer kill. You took life for a time. Now you must learn to give life. Now you must serve the cause of life."

"I don't understand," he said.

"You will, my love. You will. But now the veil is falling once again. I have to go."

"Annie, don't go! Please stay with me! I can't lose you again! Don't go!"

Annie kissed Joe once more. "Joe, my dear, sweet lover, don't you know? You shall never lose me. And I always shall be with you. We are soulmates."

The light was fading. Annie's form started to look fuzzy, indistinct. "Joe, remember always that I am with you. And remember that I always love you."

"And I love you, Annie, my beautiful lover! I love you forever."

The light was nearly gone. It seemed that an enormous chasm now separated Joe and Annie. As she faded from sight, he heard her words ringing over the abyss. "We are soulmates!"

The light faded. Joe was once again Diana, and was once again awake.

* * * * *

Heather awakened to the aroma of cooking food. Cathy must be getting breakfast together, she thought to herself. She rose from bed, put on a robe and slippers, and stepped out of her room to the hallway. Cathy was there.

"I smelled the food," Cathy said, "and thought you were making breakfast. What's going on?"

Heather said, "I thought you were cooking. We better find out what's happening."

The sisters made their way down the stairs and into the kitchen, where they found Diana frying bacon. "Oh, hello," she said. "I hope you don't mind if I fix some breakfast. I'm pretty hungry this morning."

"So am I", said Catherine. "But this seems quite incongruous. Just last night you were trying to kill us."

"True, I was," Diana answered. "But now I need to do something life-affirming. Cooking seemed like a natural thing to do. So how do you want your eggs? I make a pretty decent omelet. Or maybe you might like some French toast?"

"That omelet sounds good," said Heather. "When did you learn to cook? I mean, I know that all of the maids were expected to cook, but I would have thought you would hate it!"

Diana smiled as she cut up some peppers for the omelets. "My Momma taught me how to cook. Mealtime was always a special time in the Rossi household, and Momma always made it extra special. I loved to watch her and help her as she prepared the family meals. She bought everything fresh. She loved using herbs and spices. She would send me to the store to get fresh vegetables, bread, olive oil, cheese, all of the things she needed to work her magic. That's how I learned how to cook."

Diana washed some mushrooms as she continued. "I always admired the way Momma could make each meal special. She could take canned soup and hamburger and make a meal better than any restaurant. I used to kid her that she ought to open a restaurant, but she always said the same thing. She said that running a restaurant would make cooking work, and she didn't want anything to spoil the joy she felt in fixing our meals."

The peppers and mushrooms were now being saut�ed in olive oil as Diana cracked eggs into a bowl. She whipped them expertly, beating just the right amount of air into the mixture. She added a pinch of dill weed to the bowl and beat it a little more. Then she put the entire mixture into a waiting pan.

Catherine and Heather looked on in something like awe as Diana shook the pan to evenly distribute the mixture. She added a few onions to the peppers and mushrooms and gave the saut� pan a few shakes to mix everything up. She deftly loosened the fluffy eggs and flipped them over. She added the vegetables, some crumbled bacon, and some grated cheese to the eggs before folding them over. The completed omelet was then scooped onto a dish and set in front of Heather. "How about you, Catherine?" asked Diana, "Feel like some breakfast?" Catherine nodded her assent and Diana turned to prepare another omelet.

Heather and Catherine were already demolishing their breakfast when Diana sat down with an omelet of her own. "How do you like it?" she asked.

Heather was in mid-swallow as she tried to answer. Catherine said, "Delicious. I love them. Diana, are you looking for work? You could be our cook any time you like."

Diana laughed as she took a bite of her omelet. "Thanks for the offer. I'm tempted. Cooking was one of the few things that kept me sane while I was..." her voice trailed off.

"Don't go there, Diana," Heather said, "it isn't a very pleasant place."

"True," Diana said, "but it's still part of the sum total of me. And I do some of my best thinking while I cook. Kind of a Zen-like experience."

"So what were you thinking about this morning?" Catherine asked.

Diana answered, "Life, and some advice I got from a dear friend. My entire existence for the past two years has been focused on revenge and death. Now I need to shift that focus onto life. And I think I know how I can do it.

"Catherine, you said that Tuckett actually cured Heather's diabetes. Do you know just how she did that?"

Catherine frowned. "I imagine," she said, "it was an application of her recombinant DNA techniques. But I couldn't tell you the exact method she used."

"Do you think you could duplicate her research?"

"That's a tall order, Diana," Catherine replied. "Tuckett was a genius. A twisted genius to be true, but still brilliant."

"I still have all of her research notes," Diana said. "Do you think you could reconstruct her work?"

"You have her notes?" Catherine asked incredulously. "How did you get them? She was so secretive, so possessive, I didn't think she kept notes."

"She did," Diana said. "She kept encrypted notes on her PC. But I have the cipher key she used. I'm a pretty good hacker, you know," she added with a bit of pride.

"So do you think you can do it?" asked Diana. "Think you can take Tuckett's theory and turn it into a cure for diabetes?"

Catherine did not hesitate. "Yes, of course I would. But where would we do this?"

"Tuckett's lab is still in operation," said Diana. "Of course, it is under new management. It was 'acquired' by The Hunter Group about two years ago." Diana smirked a bit. "Something of a hostile takeover."

"So what would be my role?" asked Catherine.

"What would you like it to be? Would you prefer a hands-on role, or would you like to head up a team? Naturally you would pick the team."

"You're serious? I haven't done any research in years!"

"Then it's time to get back in the saddle. That is, if it's what you want to do."

Catherine smiled. "Yes. I would love to be a scientist again. I've been away from the lab too long. And Heather could be on the team. She's a fair chemist herself."

"I don't have much experience, though," Heather said. "It's going to be like I just got out of college."

"You can have anyone you like," Diana said. "I'll make sure you get funded."

"But what will you be doing, Diana, and what will your role be?" asked Heather.

Diana answered, "As head of the Hunter Group, I'll make sure that your lab is adequately funded and staffed to perform the research you deem necessary. I think we can make quite a positive contribution to humanity."

"There's something else you might consider," said Heather. "Another area of research. There are a lot of people like myself who need sex reassignment. Maybe Tuckett's process, if applied benevolently, could help them. A transition that happens over weeks instead of years would be welcomed."

Diana thought about that. "It sounds promising. And maybe the reverse process might be explored as well. I'm sure there are a lot of females who would prefer being men. I can think of at least one."

The three women looked across their empty plates. They could feel something in the air, a sort of electricity, a power, a force that permeated the structure of reality. The decisions they were making today would profoundly affect humanity for generations to come.

"Perhaps," said Diana, "some good shall come from all of this tragedy. Perhaps the Sisterhood shall finally benefit humankind in ways Tuckett never dreamed."

"It's ironic," said Catherine, "she was so consumed with vengeance that she never considered the potential of her work. I wonder how a person can become so blinded by hatred?"

"It's not that unbelievable," said Diana. "It happened to me. But I was lucky. Some very good friends stopped me while I still had some shred of my soul left intact."

Silence hung in the air. Each woman was lost in her own private thoughts. Then Heather broke the spell. "Well it seems we have a lot of work ahead of us. But before we save the world, maybe we should clean up these dishes. I'll wash if somebody else will dry."

They laughed, and set to work.

In the near future, Ellis Research Laboratories would become a leader in recombinant DNA therapy. Diabetes, Alzheimer's, AIDS, Hemophilia, and many more maladies would fall before its awesome power. The Ellis sisters would receive world recognition, international accolades, even the Nobel Prize. And from behind the scenes, Diana Hunter would continue to silently manage the empire that would make it all possible. But for now, the three women who would change humanity for the better set about that most mundane task of washing the dishes.

(c) 2000 Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

A vicious gang is targeting crossdressers for brutal assault. The police seem either indifferent or unable to do anything. When all seems hopeless, a dark avenger appears.

Story:

Enter the Rose
by
Valentina Michelle Smith

Wendy Chase made her way out of the club to get back to her car. She had spent most of the night at The Court Jester, a club for transvestites and their admirers. This was her fourth trip since discovering the club scene, and she had enjoyed it immensely, accepting drinks, flirting, and dancing with the fellows who admired her. She had danced into the wee hours of the morning. Now it was time to go home, to return to her drab everyday world of fork lift mechanic Mike Reinhold.

It was dark and just a little scary as she walked the blocks to where she had left her car. Her high heels made that distinctive clicking sound on the pavement as she navigated the brief islands of light cast by the few streetlights between gaping voids of darkness.

She didn't noticed the man who suddenly appeared beside her until it was too late.

"Evening, missy," he said to her. "It's awfully late to be out alone."

"I'm just fine," she said, trying to hurry along, but she just could not shake him.

"It's mighty dangerous for a girl to be out this late all alone. You really should let me walk with you."

"Thank you, but that isn't necessary," Wendy replied, trying to hurry away. She suddenly felt his hand about her arm.

"I wasn't asking, missy. Now you just come along with me…"

She tore her arm loose from his grasp and started to run, only to be confronted by two other men. She found herself surrounded.

"Listen, bitch," her original pursuer said, "you're coming along with us. Don't even think about running."

Wendy punched one of them in the gut and tried to take off, but she was unable to outrun the men in her high heels. She was grabbed and slugged from behind. One of the men held her while another stuffed a rag into her mouth.

They dragged her into the alleyway, kicking and punching her. She was forced to the ground while they continued to beat her. She was in unbearable pain, unable to move, tasting blood from teeth knocked out of her mouth.

She was helpless as her attackers ripped her dress and panties from her and took turns sexually assaulting her. They left her, half naked, bleeding, and unable to move. Mercifully, she lost consciousness.

She was nearly dead when found the next day, less than 100 yards from her car.

* * * * *

"I tell you, JoEllen, this is really frustrating."

Detective Teresa Winters was discussing her latest case over lunch with her friend, JoEllen Hunter. The two had met at a vacation spa last year and became close friends despite the amazing contrasts in their lives. Teresa was the daughter of a judge and an assistant D.A. A graduate of law school, she opted for law enforcement over a career in a cushy legal practice. She had worked her way from beat cop to detective on the merit of her work.

JoEllen, on the other hand, was the adopted daughter and sole heir of the late Diana Hunter. Despite her reputation as a socialite bachelor woman, she was active in the philanthropic institutions founded by her adoptive mother.

Teresa continued, "This is the eighth victim in three months. It's always the same sort of situation. A crossdresser out late on a dark street is accosted by a gang of three men, beaten and raped, and left for dead. We were lucky to find this one alive."

JoEllen picked at her salad. "Was this fellow able to describe his attackers?" she asked.

"Not in any great detail. It was dark, they came out of nowhere, and just basically beat the poor guy to a pulp. He can't remember much of anything."

"Have any victims recovered who can give you a description?"

Teresa sighed. "That's the hard part. Sure, their wounds heal, but there's a kind of psychic scar that forms. Most of these guys have been hiding what they are for all their lives. They finally muster up enough courage to go to one of these clubs, and they get beaten for their effort. So they crawl back into their closet where it's safe.

"On top of that, City Hall isn't exactly making this case a top priority. There's an attitude about the victims like they had it coming. JoEllen, this case is just plain bad news. I think it got dumped on me because the bosses think it's funny."

JoEllen made an expression of disgust. "I really can't see the humor in beating somebody to death." she said.

"Neither do I. I take this case very seriously. But I can't convince my superiors to devote any real effort to it. So it gets dumped on me with the rest of my case load in hopes that it will eventually disappear."

Teresa jabbed a fork into the last bit of lettuce in her bowl. She chewed, swallowed, and took a sip of tea. "Sorry to rant so much, JoEllen. I must be terribly annoying."

"Not at all, Terri," JoEllen replied. "Sometimes you just need to vent, and I know that you can't really vent at work."

Teresa smiled. "Damn, you are such a good friend. But I've rattled enough. What's going on in your world?"

"Oh, more of the same, I suppose. This afternoon I get to open a new research facility and give a long, boring speech. The ceremony will be stuffy, the hors d'oeuvres will be soggy, and the people I must greet will all be incredibly vacuous and self-absorbed."

The two women laughed. "JoEllen," said Teresa, "I don't know whether to envy you or pity you."

"It's a tough job, but somebody's got to do it."

JoEllen reached for her charge card and signaled the waiter. "This is on me, Terri, courtesy of The Hunter Foundation. I got a lot more out of this than I would from any power lunch."

"Fine by me," Teresa said, "a detective's pay only goes so far."

As they left the restaurant, Teresa began to signal for a cab, but JoEllen stopped her. "Let me drop you off, Terri, it's right on the way."

"You're sure it isn't an inconvenience?" Teresa asked.

"Not at all; besides, I have a lot of room." JoEllen pressed a slim pager. As if in response, a long black Lincoln with darkened windows pulled up. Teresa could just make out the driver dressed in a dark suit. The passenger door opened, and Teresa slid in.

The interior was luxurious to a fault without being ostentatious.

"Wow," she said to her friend, "you rich gals know how to live."

"Hey, if you got it, enjoy it," JoEllen replied.

The two women continued to chat as the car navigated the asphalt maze to the Precinct Station. Teresa gathered more than a few stares as she exited the limousine.

As they drove off, JoEllen addressed her driver. "Were you listening to us, Max?"

Maxine Kim, her diminutive driver, answered, "Every word, boss. This sounds like one hell of a problem. City Hall doesn't seem to care what happens to a bunch of trannies."

"I care," said JoEllen.

"So what can we do about it?" Max asked.

"I think," said JoEllen, "it's time for The Rose to check out the crossdressing club scene. Take me to this opening. I'll get through it as quickly as I can and then we'll go to the townhouse."

"You got it, Boss!"

* * * * *

The city can be a beautiful place at night, lit up and glamorous, its brightly lit skyline glowing defiantly against the night, with beautiful people occupying the beautiful places. But beneath the glitter and glow lay a darkness, a grim undercurrent of violence and mayhem.

It was in this curious dichotomy of light and darkness that Melody Grant found herself.

She was a regular at The Blushing Maiden, another club for crossdressers and their admirers. She had been making the scene for over a year now and considered herself to be an expert. She had lost any fear of being out and about long ago, so the thought of walking a few blocks to her waiting car did not worry her a bit.

Perhaps she should never have lost her fear.

A man came up to her, seemingly out of nowhere. "Well hello, little lady," he said. "You seem mighty lonely tonight. Maybe I ought to walk a bit with you, make sure you get home safe."

"Nice try, buddy," she answered, "but I'm not really interested."

She suddenly found herself surrounded by three men. "I didn't ask you if you were interested," the first man said. "I said I wanted to walk with you. Over here."

Melody started to panic. "Look if you want my purse, you can have it. Just let me go, okay?"

The men all laughed. "You hear that, fellows? She thinks we want her purse."

Melody found herself in a powerful grip. "Now listen, faggot," the man said, "We can do this the easy way or we can do this the hard way. Either way, you're coming with us."

Melody was forced into the alley. Two of her assailants forced her to her knees. The third stepped up to her and began to unzip his fly. "That's a pretty little mouth you got, fruit. Let's see if you know how to use it. You are just gonna love this, fairy."

There was a dull thud and the man fell backward. Something wooden clattered onto the pavement. The two men holding Melody down saw the truncheon skid on the concrete and turned in the direction it was hurled from.

Standing in the alleyway was a woman.

Her outline was indistinct, obscured by the long dark trench coat and the slouch fedora she was wearing, but the outline was definitely female.

"Leave her alone," said a menacing voice.

One of the two remaining assailants hesitated for a moment. Then he pulled out a knife and charged the mysterious figure. This was a serious mistake on his part. As he advanced she produced a set of nunchucks, sidestepped his charge, and disarmed him with a single swipe. She spun the chucks and brought the polished wood down on his skull, producing a crunching sound. He was down for the count.

The third assailant, having witnessed his companions' downfall, decided to exercise the better part of valor and ran for it. He didn't get far. The mysterious woman in black drew what appeared to be a Mauser and fired. There was no loud retort of a bullet, merely a very subdued chuff as the mercy dart shot out toward the runner. He fell like a sack of potatoes.

The woman holstered her pistol and advanced to Melody, still on her knees and crying. Her wig had been knocked off in the struggle. The woman in black retrieved it, then she stretched out her hand to help Melody to her feet. "Come with me, you need help," she said.

Melody found herself sobbing, unable to speak. She sobbed quietly as the mysterious woman helped her to her feet and took her to a long black car parked nearby.

"Get inside," said the woman. "You will be safe here." Melody was still very frightened, but somehow felt she could trust this mysterious person, and so she entered the car.

It was as huge inside as it appeared on the outside. The wide leather seat was warm. A driver sat in the front.

Melody stammered between sobs. "W-w-who is she?"

The driver answered, "A friend to those most in need. But if you hurt one of her friends, she's your worst nightmare."

"What is she doing out there?"

"Tying up a few loose ends. The boss likes leaving things neat and tidy."

The enigmatic woman returned, closing the door behind her. "Our work here is done, Max," she said to the driver. "Take us to the hospital. Our friend needs medical attention."

"No!" said Melody in panic, "not the hospital. It's my wife and daughter, they don't know."

"Do not worry," said the woman, still obscured by the hat and coat. "I am taking you to friends you may trust. They will let you change before calling your wife."

"But, my car..."

"It will be taken care of. It will be returned to your home." She removed a card from her coat pocket and wrote a name and a number on it. "When you are feeling better, call this number. She's a friend you can trust. She will counsel you on how to tell your wife. It's important that your wife knows."

Melody took the card. On one side was a name and phone number. On the other side was an embossed image of a rose.

"I, I, I don't know what to say. How can I ever thank you? How can I ever pay you back?"

The woman spoke. "You will become one of my agents."

Before Melody could speak, the mysterious woman grabbed her left hand and pressed a lancet device against it. A click, a pinprick, and a small drop of blood welled up on her second finger. The woman touched a small strip to the droplet, drawing it into a test chamber. She inserted the strip into a box on which several lights began to flash, Then the box opened.

The woman removed a white gold ring set with a rose-hued Opel and placed it on Melody's pinky. "This is how you will recognize other agents. The ring is keyed to your own DNA. Nobody else can operate it. This is the recognition signal."

The woman showed Melody a similar ring on her own pinky. As she watched, it began to glow a pale pink. Then, Melody's own ring began to glow. "Only those with a keyed ring can see the glow," she explained. "Now you try. Simply concentrate and will your ring to glow."

Melody concentrated. She imagined the ring glowing. She was surprised when her ring began to glow, and even more surprised when the woman's ring glowed along with it."

"Excellent," the woman said. "Some time in the future I shall call upon you for some service. It will be to aid another like yourself, a victim. You will not be asked to do anything you are not capable of."

Melody was stunned. "Why are you doing this? What do you hope to accomplish?"

"I do this because I was once a victim. I will never allow that to happen again. And I will do all that is in my power to ensure that the vulnerable are not victimized.

"For far too long the hoodlums and thugs of the world have victimized those most helpless. Society does nothing to protect us. Now they shall learn to respect us. Individually, we are helpless. But if we stand together, we shall prevail.

"I intend to take back the night. And I shall do this with agents such as you."

Melody said, "But I don't even know who you are."

She turned. Melody could not discern all of her features, but she could not mistake those piercing blue eyes. "You can call me The Rose."

The car pulled up at the hospital. Attendants came and led Melody to a treatment area. The car sped off into the night.

* * * * *

Teresa and JoEllen had enjoyed another lunch at a small dumpling house in Chinatown. The two were riding back to the Precinct House in JoEllen's Lincoln, and Teresa was just bursting with the latest details of her newly solved case.

"It was just amazing," she told JoEllen, "the gang was found bound with duct tape and two of them had received severe injuries. The third had only minor bruises from falling. Apparently he had been taken out with a knockout dart."

"You're kidding," said JoEllen. "This sounds really crazy."

"That isn't the half of it. These guys blurted out their confessions. I had to Mirandize them twice to make sure I didn't blow the case on a technicality, but they were insistent. They waived their rights to a lawyer and just confessed to all of the assaults. The funny thing was, they seemed really scared. They said they had been roughed up by some sort of woman in black who threatened them with even more pain if they didn't confess."

"She must have really been something to put so much fear into them," JoEllen said.

"Maybe so," said Teresa, "but I'm not exactly sure how I feel about some vigilante busting skulls. Something about this goes against my grain as a cop."

"Well," said JoEllen," I'm sure that our mysterious protector won't do any harm to the innocent."

"I'm not too sure," said Teresa. "Like I said, I'm a cop. Cops don't believe in Batman."

"Oh look," said JoEllen, "we've arrived at the Precinct House."

"Thanks for the lift, JoEllen," said Teresa. "Are we on for lunch next week?"

"Sounds good to me. See you then."

JoEllen watched Teresa enter the building as the car pulled away.

"Hey, boss," said Max, "it sounds like your friend isn't too keen on somebody invading her turf."

"She's just being cautious, Max. She is, after all, a cop. I think we will need to be careful about her, though. But that's for later. Let's head home."

"You want to go to the country house, boss?"

"No, take me to the townhouse. The country was Diana's place. I'm a city girl, and I want to be close to my city. You never know when a friend might need some help."

"You got it, boss. We're on the way."

 © 2004, Valentina Michelle Smith.

Notes:

Dedicated with respect to Wil Eisner, creator of The Spirit.

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

A poem I wrote when first coming to terms with my own gender issues.

Story:

For Suzie

by

Valentina Michelle Smith

When I was five, they took my doll away.

Her name was Suzie. Made from bits of cloth
And stuffed with rubber foam, she was my friend.

Within my darkened room I held her close
For comfort from the terrors of the night.
I knew that Suzie would protect me from
The monsters dwelling underneath my bed
And dark-cloud faces staring in my window.
And, when the dawn had banished all night's demons
My special friend and I would greet the dawn.

"Don't be a sissy, son!" my father said.
"You're older now. You're starting school next week.
"Big boys don't play with dolls." I did not cry,
Since tears were not an option for a boy.
Instead, I held emotions firm within
And took it like a man. And on that day
I laid the first foundation for a fortress
Strong and forbidding, terrible to behold,
A fortress known as manhood. Stone by stone
I added to my fortress. I would learn
The things that were expected of a boy;
Like how to fight, play sports, make fun of girls,
And never show emotions to the world.
My fort protected me. My fort was strong,
Like me. And yet, within the fortress walls,
A child weeps, and mourns her long-lost friend.

The child will emerge some day, arrayed
In beauty, grace, and confidence. Some day,
But not today. She fears the world outside
And dwells within her fortress walls, alone.
If only Suzie could be with her, then
She could be brave. Suzie would protect her
From monsters dwelling in the hearts of men
And stern, condemning faces staring at them.
Together, they would banish all night's demons
And face the world together, unafraid.
And unashamed.

(c) 1997, Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

This is a ghost story, and a love story. A couple's troubled marriage is strained further with the purchase of a mansion, especially when they find its former owner, now deceased, is still resident.

Story:

High Tea for Jennifer

By Valentina Michelle Smith

Jean and Bob Conrad fell in love with the mansion the first time they saw it.

When they married back in the seventies, they still thought of themselves as flower children. Even though the Summer of Love had long ago faded, despite the conservative backlash taking over the nation, they tried to remain true to the principles of love, of peace, and of freedom which in their minds had characterized the sixties. The world, however, insisted on changing. Soon the bitter realities of survival had them holding down jobs in the corporate world. Bob had become Director of MIS and a partner at a very prominent accounting firm. Jean flirted briefly with political activism before accepting a job with a large and respected legal firm, where she rose to the position of senior partner. The passion of their idealism gave way to the pragmatism of career, advancement, and social position. They worked long days and many weekends to further their careers. They had become quite well off. And they were miserable.

The mansion seemed like a way to reclaim their souls.

The mansion was the former estate of the Cressman family. It was located on a large piece of wooded land in a forgotten corner of the county. August Cressman, a successful businessman of the early 19th Century, had erected a magnificent Gothic mansion as a conspicuous symbol of his family's wealth and prominence. This would be his family's home for generations to come! Sadly, the Great Depression wiped out most of the family's wealth and, in the end, all they had was the land and the mansion. The last daughter of the Cressman family, Jennifer, died a spinster. Her home and land fell into disrepair, finally to be sold for back taxes.

It was a chance reading of the legal notices that brought the mansion to the attention of the Conrads.

They had just finished what was becoming their routine Sunday Morning argument. They retired to neutral chairs to read the paper and brood over the insults they just finished hurling at each other. The fight had not resolved a thing, and they had not really made up, they simply declared a truce and tried to ignore the tension that was tearing them apart.

Why Bob was reading the legal notices, he did not know. It was just something to distract him from the underlying conflict. There, under tax sales, was a notice that the old Cressman estate was being sold.

"Hey, Jean," he said, "do you remember the Cressman place?"

"That run-down old mansion back in the woods? Sure, I remember. My mother told me that it used to be the most elegant home in the county."

"It's for sale. It's being sold to pay off the back taxes."

Jean looked up from her paper. "Gee, that's kind of a shame. It was old and run down, but I always imagined how wonderful a place it must have been when it was new and people lived in it."

Bob folded the paper and rose from his chair. "Why don't we go for a drive? It's open for inspection today. I'm curious to see it."

"Why?" asked Jean. "You really don't want to buy it, do you?"

"No, but I think we could use a little air, and a change of scenery might be good for us, help get us out of this hostile attitude we seem to be stuck in."

Jean thought for a minute. "Maybe you're right," she said. "It might just help to see something beside the inside of our townhouse."

Jean rose from her chair and started across the room. Rob intercepted her. "Jean, honey, look, about what I said. I'm really sorry. I didn't really mean it. I wish I could take it back."

"I do too, Bob. You and I have been genuinely mean to each other, and we both have been saying some very cruel things. I don't know how much more I can take."

"I don't know either, babe. I just want it to stop. Let's try to at least be civil with each other for the rest of the day. Then maybe we can work on being nice again."

She kissed his cheek. "Sounds like a good plan. Let's see if we can survive a drive in the country with each other."

"I still love you, you know."

"And I still love you. That's why it hurts so much."

* * * * *

The Cressman Estate was not situated close to the Interstate or, for that matter, any major highway. Bob negotiated a series of winding country roads before finally coming to the gateway that opened to a cobblestone access road. This road cut straight through the woods and led to the mansion's entrance, an impressive structure that spoke of past glory. That glory was now faded. The mansion was not in any danger of collapse, but it clearly needed work. Windows would have to be replaced, trim would need repair and paint, and a good deal of yard work would have to be done to restore the edifice to its former grandeur.

Jean and Bob emerged from their car and looked around. Only one other car was parked in the curved driveway that could accommodate dozens of vehicles. They walked up to the door and, finding it open, walked in.

The vestibule was dimly lit. The tarnished hanging chandelier held mostly burned-out bulbs. The carpet was worn and the curtains threadbare. They could clearly discern a closet door and a grand circular stairway with an ornate banister. This home had once been magnificent. Its former glory now lay dormant beneath the dust and cobwebs, waiting for a good cleaning and new furnishings to evoke its past splendor.

A man was seated at a card table covered with manila envelopes. He introduced himself as Harry Graham from the county tax office. "Not many folks have been here to see the place," he told them. "It's a shame, because it's a fine old home. Lots of history here."

"With all the development going on in the county, I'm surprised that a sharp contractor or a land speculator hasn't snapped it up," said Jean.

"Maybe in about ten or twenty years they might get interested," said Harry. "Right now it's not as appealing as other parcels located closer to the highway. People want to live in the country, but they also want to get to their city jobs in a hurry."

Harry escorted them into the large formal parlor. "This was where the family did much of its entertaining," he told them. "Abigail Cressman, old Augie's wife, loved to give High Tea in this room." Like the vestibule, it showed years of wear. "The Cressman women continued having High Tea here right up to the Depression. That's when the family hit on hard times. The Cressman's business failed and they lost most of their money in the stock market crash. They never really recovered."

They continued on to the adjoining dining room. Harry continued, "The family was pretty important in its time. They hosted many dinner parties. The cream of society would dine here, giants of industry and finance. Old money and new would come to the Cressman Mansion."

"How did the family manage to hold onto the property as long as it did?" asked Bob.

"Not all of their assets were in the stock markets or in banks," said Harry as they entered the kitchen. "Their business might have failed, but they still owned the physical plants. They sold their mills and factories to pay their debts and lived off the balance for years."

The kitchen was spacious, but the equipment was old. The refrigerators were antiques, the type with the coils on top. The gas stove and oven looked serviceable, but could not be checked out since there was no gas. "The stove runs on propane," Harry said. "There's no gas line run here. And the heat is an old coal furnace converted to run on oil. The boiler is downstairs."

They descended a staircase to the cellar. Harry had brought along a flashlight. Several naked bulbs in bare fixtures cast some light on the heater and boiler, but the added illumination of the flashlight was needed to discern any detail.. "As you can see," said Harry, "the boiler is in good shape. The oil tank is about half full. The furnace hasn't been run since Miss Cressman passed away, but it's been inspected and it will operate. The plumbing is sound. Actually, the building is quite sound as well. They knew how to build things to last back then."

The tour continued upstairs as Harry showed them the Library and the Family Room. The library had shelves stretching along all four walls that extended to the high ceiling. "We removed most of the books," said Harry, "and took them to the community college library. There were some rare volumes there. The library is working to restore them. Some couldn't be saved."

They returned to the vestibule and climbed the circular staircase. "The mansion has twenty-four bedrooms," Harry told them. "Each bedroom has its own bathroom and three of them have private sitting rooms. The bedrooms are on the second and third floors."

They entered one of the bedrooms. "This is the Master bedroom, originally used by Augie and Abigail. Traditionally, the Master and Mistress of the Cressman Estate used this suite. Miss Jennifer's folks were the last folks to use it." They entered another bedroom. "This was Miss Jennifer's room. She never moved into the Master bedroom when her parents passed. She stayed in the same room she always used."

"She never married?" Jean asked.

"No, Ma'am. Miss Jennifer was engaged to a young fellow who went off to the War. One day his letters stopped coming. She wrote, but never got a reply. He never returned. Miss Jennifer just sort of pined away after that. She shut herself up in her room and rarely came out. After her folks passed, she became a recluse. She grew old and died within the walls of the mansion."

"She died here?" asked Bob.

"Yes, sir. The caretaker found her in her chair next to the window. She liked to sit there and look outside."

"You certainly know a lot about the place," remarked Jean.

"Yes, I do. My father was the caretaker here. He's the one who found Miss Jennifer."

"Oh, that must have been awful!" Jean said.

"It was definitely a shock. Pop retired after that and moved to Florida. I'm going down to visit him next month."

The tour took about an hour. As they walked through the mansion and the neglected garden, Jean noticed her husband's expression. There was something there she hadn't seen in a long time.

As they descended the steps, Bob said "I'm surprised that the county doesn't turn this into a museum of some sort. It certainly has historic value."

"There was talk about it," said Harry, "but the money just wasn't there. We tried to get corporate sponsors, but nobody was interested. We just don't have the money to keep the place up."

"So how would I go about buying the place? Assuming I was interested, that is."

Harry picked one of the Manila envelopes from the card table and handed it to Bob. "It's a sealed bid sale," Harry told him. "The minimum bid would cover the back taxes on the place. All the forms you need are in the envelope. Are you interested?"

"Maybe," said Bob, "but I would have to talk with Jean about it. I certainly wouldn't submit a bid if she didn't agree."

Jean said, "I don't think we will. For the life of me I can't see why Bob is so interested in it."

"Okay, folks, "said Harry, "thanks for coming by. I enjoyed talking with you."

* * * * *

The discussion on the drive home was spirited.

"Bob," Jean said, "I hope you weren't serious about buying that old place?"

"I'm considering it," was Bob's reply.

"Why? What would we do with a crumbling old place like that?"

Bob paused for a moment. "Jean, do you remember what we were like back in the sixties? Do you remember our goals, our plans, our dreams?"

"That was a long time ago, Bob. And what does this have to do with the Cressman place?"

"We were going to opt out of the system. Remember how we were going to get a farm, raise our own food, and become self-sufficient?"

"We were kids, Bob. We had no idea what the world was really like. Are you telling me you want to turn the old Cressman place into a farm?"

"No, I don't. But I see a chance for us to become self-sufficient. Honey, do you know what the fastest-growing sector of the economy is right now?"

Jean felt a lecture coming on, but decided to hold to her promise to stay civil. "No I don't, Bob. Why don't you tell me?"

"Tourism. And the hospitality industry is the most lucrative segment of that sector. Jean, I see a possibility for that old place. I think it would make a great Bed and Breakfast. And I think we can pull it off."

Jean looked at Bob again. Now she recognized just what she had been seeing in his eyes. "You're serious, aren't you? You really want to chuck it all and become an Innkeeper?"

"Why not?" Bob replied. "What's wrong with owning our own business? And it's a business we can be proud of. Imagine folks staying at our little place in the country, waking up to eggs and hotcakes and blueberry muffins for breakfast. Imagine people coming from all over the country just to have a few days away from all the hassles of life. And think of how we'll be preserving a little bit of the past. Jean, love, it will be wonderful!"

Jean was listening to Bob, but more important, she was looking at him. She saw a fire in his eyes that had been missing for a long time. After so many years of the corporate grind, this place had re-kindled his dreams. Bob was actually passionate about something. But she was still cautious.

"I don't know, Bob. Before we say yes, let's take a long, hard look at our finances. Fixing the place up will take a lot of time, and cost a lot of money."

"Yes, that's true," Bob said. "I guess I must be dreaming to think we could ever pull it off."

"Dreaming, " said Jean. "You know, the guy I fell in love with had dreams. And he was passionate about his dreams. What ever became of him?"

"I'm still here. And I still have dreams. They had to be put on the back burner while we took care of more immediate concerns. And somehow they got lost in the shuffle."

Jean thought for a few minutes. "Bob," she said, breaking her silence, "I'm sorry that so many dreams had to be postponed. Maybe it's about time we just ran with one. Let's take a look at our financial situation and see what we can do. I don't want to make any promises, but we might just be able to pull it off."

Bob pulled the car to a stop. He needed to look Jean in the eye. "Do you mean it? Do you think we could do this thing?"

"I don't know, Bob. Maybe we won't be able to. But if we don't try, we'll never know for sure. Let's go for it. Besides, there's something about that place. I can't quite put my finger on it, but I think it needs us."

Bob put his arms around Jean and hugged her like he hadn't hugged her in years. She could see tears welling up in his eyes. Yes, she thought, it would be good to have her dreamer back in her arms again. And in all honesty, she liked the old place as much as he did. But in one dark little corner of her mind, a nagging doubt lingered. There's a fine line between a dream and a nightmare.

* * * * *

Jean and Bob assessed their financial situation. They were really doing well. They were both successful professionals and were able to save a large portion of their income. Some of this was put away in their retirement plans, and much of it was invested. In order to buy the Cressman place, they would have to liquidate most of their investments.

Bob's older brother Mike was a contractor. With a little coaxing, Mike agreed to inspect the estate. He then made an estimate on the work that would be required to restore the mansion and bring it into compliance with local codes. This would be necessary in order to get the various permits needed to operate a public accommodation. At first Jean was doubtful about their chances, but Mike knew of some government programs to assist small businesses. Jean was also made aware of grants available for female-owned businesses they might qualify for. It would be tight, especially since Bob would be quitting his job to concentrate on the business. But the numbers looked good, and the potential return was encouraging. With some reservation, she agreed.

They submitted a bid. It was not much more than the minimum acceptable bid. As it turned out, theirs was the only bid submitted. They took a cashier's check to the tax office and made settlement. The Conrads were now the proud owners of the Cressman estate.

Their loan was approved. Jean's grant application was also accepted. With money in their account, they set to work restoring the mansion. Mike's assistance proved to be valuable. He did some of the more difficult stuff for cost, obtained all of the required permits, and directed Bob in other less technical work. The electrical wiring needed to be redone before they could install a larger electrical service, and this had to be done by licensed electricians. Some of the plumbing needed replacement as well. And the kitchen required upgrading in order to bring it into compliance with OSHA regulations. But there were plenty of things that Bob and Jean could do on their own. Carpet had to be replaced. Walls needed patching and painting. Windows had to be repaired. Bob threw himself into the task. He was enjoying the process of restoring the old mansion.

They decided to restore the parlor, the dining room, and the bedrooms on the second floor as the first phase of the project. Then, as revenue was generated by guests, the remainder of the mansion would be restored. They would continue to live in their townhouse for now, but would eventually take up residence in one of the bedrooms. Still, it would be quite some time before August Cressman's Country Inn would be accepting guests.

Bob was like a man reborn. His enthusiasm for restoring the mansion reminded Jean of their younger days when Bob was something of a radical. He was always excited about some cause or another, from war protests to Earth Day rallies. Some of that fire had returned. Jean was happier as well, but part of her continued to be doubtful. She was still a senior partner of her law firm, and continued her career as an attorney. She knew that she would have to leave it behind eventually. But could she?

* * * * *

The argument started over something silly. Bob had some definite ideas about the décor. He wanted to retain the Gothic flavor of the mansion, but he also wanted to create a very homey atmosphere. He had ordered curtains without consulting Jean. When she saw them, she was livid.

"Look at those things!" she said. "How could you pick something so lacy? Those things are just dripping frou-frou!"

"What's wrong with that?" he replied. "This is supposed to be a country inn. It's supposed to have lace curtains. People are going to expect it!"

"But do they have to be THAT lacy?" she asked. "You have to admit, Bob, this is definitely over the top."

"I don't think so. I think they're perfectly charming."

"Well I think it's too much. Send them back."

"No!" Bob said. "It will take too long. Besides, I already have some of them hung."

Jean managed to restrain herself from going ballistic, but it was difficult. "Where did you hang them?" she asked.

"In one of the bedrooms. Jennifer's room."

Jean marched up the stairs to inspect the results. She was clearly upset. She opened the door to Jennifer's room and walked in.

The work they had put into the restoration was evident. The holes in the walls had been patched, the walls and trim sported a fresh coat of paint, and the new carpet had no wear at all. Jean looked over to the window. She had to admit that the curtains were nice. They just seemed a little too frilly.

She glanced over to the closet. The door was open. Several dresses and outfits were hanging inside and some suitcases and boxes were stacked on the shelves. Jean recognized them immediately.

"So," she said, "I see you've been indulging Shannon again. Is that the real reason you wanted to buy the place, so you would have a secret hideaway to do drag?"

"No I didn't. But what's wrong with my bringing some of my femme things here?"

"I see it very clearly now," she said, "All along you wanted to set up a place where you and your drag queen friends could get together. That's why you got those curtains! Damn you, Bob, is that why you did this?"

"That's enough!" Bob said. "Look, you knew I was a crossdresser before we ever got married. Back then you thought it was fun. What's different about it now?"

"Now we are married, middle aged, and we have sunk a major portion of out net worth into this idea of yours. I expect it to generate some revenue. But we won't get any guests if you turn it into a fag palace!"

Bob saw red. "Just what the hell do you mean by that? God damn it, I'm no bloody queer! Or have you forgotten just who you've been sharing a bed with all these years? If I'm a fruit and you sleep with me, what's that make you?"

"I never sleep with you when you're in drag, Bob! I sleep with a man!"

"A man who wears dresses, doll. A man who wears pantyhose and makeup. And a man who is every bit a man even if he's a transvestite."

"So if you're such a man, why do you have to bring the girlie stuff here? What are you trying to hide, Bob?"

"I'm not hiding a damned thing!" Bob shouted back. "Remember, it's your idea to keep this secret. You're the one who wants me in the closet. 'What would happen if my partners found out?' Remember saying that?"

"Yes, I remember. I also remember you saying the same thing about your company. You wouldn't be able to face them at work if they found out that Bob Conrad likes to wear a bra and lace panties. So don't try to lay the guilt trip on me, you bastard. You have just as much to lose as I do."

"Not any more. I don't have to worry about those idiots ever again."

"Maybe not, but I still have a job. And in case you've forgotten, that job is currently our only source of income."

"Like you would ever let me forget. You just love to rub it in, don't you? You just love pointing out how inadequate I am. If I'm so damned disgusting, why do you stay with me?"

"Where else can I go? What else can I do? I'm stuck with you! I just wish..." Jean hesitated. Then she started to cry. "I just wish that Shannon would go away and never come back!"

Jean did not like breaking down in front of Bob. She never wanted to appear weak. She considered herself a formidable modern woman who did not resort to feminine trickery to manipulate a man. When she did break down, it was genuine. And Bob knew it. His anger momentarily forgotten, he reached out to embrace his sobbing wife.

They held each other silently. Bob wiped Jean's tears with a tissue. He tried to give her whatever comfort he could. "Jean, honey, I'm sorry that my femme self causes so much trouble. I can't help who I am. I just wish that it didn't hurt you so much."

"It doesn't hurt me, Bob, it frightens me. I keep thinking that you'll come home some day and want a sex change. Or that maybe you want to wear that dress all the time. I keep thinking about you with those friends of yours hanging out in a gay bar or something."

"Honey, that's a support group I go to. The girls there are just like me. We're all straight crossdressers. And we don't go to gay bars!"

"That's just what I mean, Bob! You keep saying you don't want to change your sex, but you call each other girls, and talk in those faggy voices. Jesus Christ, it creeps me out when you talk like that and swish around the room! Bob, it scares me!"

"Jean, I don't mean to keep beating this drum, but you knew all about Shannon when we got married. You didn't seem to have a problem with her when we married. Remember that slumber party we had, when we put on nightgowns and stayed up all night trying on different makeup? It didn't seem to creep you out then!"

"It was just us then, Bob. I really thought you were going to grow out of it. But you never did. You kept wanting more and more. It wasn't enough to stuff your bra with socks, you had to have silicone forms. One wig wasn't enough, you had to have a dozen. One or two outfits wasn't enough, you had to fill a closet. It wasn't enough to swish around our home, you had to find a support group. You kept pushing the boundary. For Christ's sake, you have more makeup than I do!"

"And your point is?" Bob asked? Their mood was quickly shifting from conciliatory to belligerent.

"The point is, I have to wear these clothes, this makeup, these damned high heels, because I'm required to! It's what's expected of me. You think I like shaving my legs or slathering on war paint? Bob, think about it! I get home, I want to take off my bra and get into my jeans! But you! Dammit, Bob, you love wearing this stuff! These are symbols of male domination, of all the things I hate about society! Women have to work five times harder to be half as successful as a man. We have to be painted little Barbie dolls to be acceptable to the corporate establishment. And here you are, with all the advantages that being born male gives you in this world, and you want to wear my goddam dresses!"

"I'm not ashamed of who I am or what I am. Are you ashamed of me?"

"No. But I'm tired of it. Aren't I woman enough for you? Don't I look good enough for you? Why do you get all dolled up like that? Are you trying to look better than me? Does what you see in the mirror look better than what you see in bed? Tell me, Bob, are you having an affair with yourself?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Said Bob. "You know this isn't about you. My need to dress is something that comes from within. Your sexuality is not the issue. The issue is my own femininity.

"But you're right about one thing," Bob continued, "I do have an ulterior motive. This place is secluded. The woods hide it from public view. Do you know how many times I longed to walk in the sunshine as Shannon? I can do it here! I can take a stroll in the garden en femme, and I don't have to worry about the neighbors seeing me. I don't have to sneak off to a support group. Do you know how good that feels?"

"And what do you intend to do when we start booking guests? Don't you think they might see Shannon prancing around? Do you think they won't put two and two together? Face it, Bob, you don't look that good in drag. You would be spotted in a heartbeat. And then what?"

"I wasn't going to do it when we had guests. At least, not regular guests."

"Regular guests? What other kind did you have in mind?"

"I was going to block out one or two weekends as Transgender Special Weekends. Maybe a whole week once a year as well. I think it would go over well."

Now it was Jean's turn to see red. "I should have known!" she shouted. "All this talk about being self-sufficient was just an excuse to swish around with your fairy friends! When were you going to share that little tidbit with me, Bob? When all the queens started showing up?"

"Look, Jean, in the first place I wouldn't have done it without talking it over first. In the second place, the talk about being self-sufficient is not just talk. I want the Inn to succeed. I want it to thrive. This is our dream, babe, our dream of opting out of the corporate system."

"It's your dream, Bob, not mine. I never wanted to drop out. I wanted to change the system. Do you really think I want to be a hostess for some hick joint out in the sticks? I'm a defense attorney, and a damned good one!"

"So that's your goal, to be a toady for the system? Tell me, madam councilor, are you proud of getting drug dealers off?"

"Don't get righteous with me, Bob Conrad! We both used our share of street drugs in our younger days, and we didn't get them at the grocery store. Where do you think that stuff came from? Or have you been exempted from hypocrisy because you're dropping out of the system?"

"Where do you get off calling anybody a hypocrite? Look at yourself, senior partner of one of the biggest law firms in the city. You aren't changing the system, you made yourself part of the system. At least I still have a dream to follow!"

If a look could kill, Jean's gaze right then would have leveled a mountain. "So I'm a sell-out, eh? All that pro bono work I do for welfare mothers and the homeless is selling out to the system? I confront the system every day on its own turf. I lend my strength and passion to those most needy. I keep the system from crushing the weak and helpless. And I win! Tell me I'm not following my dream! I'll stack my contribution to the human condition against this Inn idea of yours any day you like!"

Jean turned and headed for the stairs. Bob followed her. She ran down the steps in tears. "Don't you follow me!" she shouted. "I'm leaving you!"

Bob caught up with her outside. "Where do you think you're going?" he demanded.

"I'm going to the townhouse. Don't follow me, I need time alone to think."

"Think about what?"

She looked at him. "I really think we need some time away from each other. We ought to think about splitting up."

Bob was stunned. "But why? We've been able to work things out up to now!"

"No we haven't, Bob. We just keep putting things off. We never solve anything, we just move from fight to fight. I can't live like this anymore, and neither can you!"

Bob tried to stop her, but she pushed him aside and went to her car. "Jean, please, don't go! I love you!"

She looked up at him. "And I love you too, Bob, but that isn't enough any more. I feel like I have to compete for your attention. It's bad enough I have to compete with this," she said, pointing to the mansion, "but I can't compete with another woman. Especially when the other woman is you."

She started the car and pulled out. Bob watched through tears as she drove away.

* * * * *

It was probably a mistake for him to get dressed in his female things when he was so depressed, but he did. He took one of the suitcases from the closet and opened it. Inside was a selection of lingerie. He chose lace panties, a satin bra, and pantyhose. He then removed his male clothing and piled it in the corner.

He pulled on the panties, enjoying their softness and the sensation of the lace. Then he hooked up the bra. He put a silicone breast form in each cup and adjusted the straps. He enjoyed the way the forms would bounce on his chest, creating the illusion of actual breasts. He rolled up the pantyhose and pulled it smoothly over his shaven legs. He walked over to the full-length mirror to admire his increasingly feminine shape.

He now removed his makeup case from the closet and sat down at an antique vanity he had found at a flea market. He applied some beard cover and concealer. He followed this with a light foundation over which he applied blush. Then he turned his attention to his eyes. He outlined his eyes with black eyeliner, softening the line at the corners of his eyes. A smoky gray eye shadow was applied over his lids and blended with a soft brush. Mascara darkened and enhanced his lashes, and eyebrow pencil defined the arch of his brows.

Bob looked in his case to select just the right lipstick shade. He settled on a dark red. Using a lip brush, he deftly stroked color onto his lips, drawing out the fullness of his cupid's bow. His lips were full, sensuous, and perhaps a bit pouty.

With makeup applied, Bob was feeling a lot more like Shannon. He rose from the vanity and walked over to the mirror to once more admire his handiwork. Shannon was definitely looking back.

As she turned and posed, Shannon thought she saw some motion in the mirror. She turned to look, but the room was empty save for her and the furniture. Odd. She must have imagined it. She went to the closet to pick out a dress.

The dress she chose was one of her favorites. It was an A-line teal waltz dress with a scalloped skirt. She removed it from the hanger and pulled it over her head, being careful not to smudge her makeup. She managed to reach behind herself and pull up the zipper.

She had brought several pairs of shoes with herself. She selected a pair of slingbacks that matched her dress and pulled them on. Finally she removed one of her wigs from its box and put it over her head. She adjusted the wig with a pick, and returned to the full-length mirror.

She loved what she saw. The tan hose encasing her legs enhanced the shape that her high heels gave them. She walked back and forth several times, wishing that the carpet would not muffle the click of her heels.

There it was again! She could have sworn she saw something move in the mirror. But when she turned around, nothing was there.

She shook off her bewilderment to continue her fantasy. She descended the staircase, walking in the elegant manner she imagined the mistress of the house would affect. She smiled as she traversed the vestibule and entered the parlor. This room still needed much work, but for tonight it would be just fine. "Why, Mrs. Vanderbilt!" she exclaimed, "how lovely of you to come. Please do sit down. And Mrs. Parker, you certainly look lovely. Mrs. Schwab, how is that charming daughter of yours?" Like a hostess serving High Tea, Shannon greeted all of her imaginary guests.

"Well look at me," she said in a sarcastic tone. "My wife leaves me and here I go playing tea party just like a little girl. How pathetic!" She stalked out of the parlor and headed back to Jennifer's room.

She went back to the closet and found a tote bag, from which she removed a bottle of wine, a corkscrew, and a wineglass. "I was going to toast our success with this when we finished restoring the place," she said. "Now I think I'll just use it to get drunk." The cork was removed from the bottle with a loud pop. Shannon poured herself a generous glass of wine and returned to the mirror.

She held the glass up to the mirror. "Here's to Shannon. And here's to the August Cressman Country Inn." She drained the glass and poured herself a second. She once again held up the glass. "Damn," she said to nobody in particular, "I sure look sexy holding a wine glass!" She giggled and took a long sip of the wine, wishing now that she had chilled it.

There it was again! She could have sworn she saw something in the mirror! But when she turned, there was nothing. "Shannon, girl," she said, "you are either too drunk or not drunk enough!" Her glass was once again empty, so she poured herself a third. She raised it to her lips and managed to spill some of it. This made her laugh. Drinking on an empty stomach was causing her to become intoxicated quite rapidly.

She felt herself wobbling on her heels, so she sat down. She smiled at herself in the vanity mirror and took another sip. Again, she thought she saw something move, but by now she was too drunk to care. She took another swig and put the glass down. She started giggling. Just as quickly she started crying.

Then she noticed the bottle in her makeup case. It was a prescription for Xanax.

Months ago, Jean had talked Bob into seeing a therapist about his temper outbursts. He agreed reluctantly, planning on going to one or two sessions just to humor her. He felt that she needed help with her temper just as much as he did. The shrink prescribed Xanax. Bob had the prescription filled and actually took one dose, but decided not to take any more as it made him feel strange, sort of a mental numbness.

For some reason, Bob never disposed of the drug. He kept it just in case he would ever need it.

The alcohol was definitely impairing Shannon's judgement. She opened the bottle of pills. I wonder how many of these I need to get over this depression? she mused. Why not take them all? What do I have to lose? My marriage is in the tank, I'm broke paying for this old dump, and I'm here all by myself, a pathetic man wearing a dress.

The pills were in her hand. She began swallowing them one at a time, taking a sip of the wine with each one. As she swallowed the last one, she said, "Uh, oh, maybe I shouldn't have taken these pills with alcohol." This seemed very funny to her and she started laughing. Then the room started to spin. She fell from her chair onto the floor, unable to get up.

"No!" she shouted, "I don't want to die! Not tonight! Not like this!"

She felt a coldness creep over her extremities as the room light seemed to fade. Everything was going black.

The last thing she was aware of was somebody standing over her. Then she was unconscious.

* * * * *

Tony Fox was on duty in the county dispatcher's office when the call came in.

"Nine-One-One," he said, "What's your emergency?"

A woman's voice replied, "There's a man at the old Cressman place who just took a lot of pills. He needs help. I think he's dying."

"I need your location," Tony said.

"It's the old mansion just off Caroline Road, between Harding Pike and DiMarco Drive."

"We're sending a paramedic. Do you know what he took?"

"It looks like Xanax. He took a whole bottle of them. He's been drinking."

"Could I have your name please?"

"His name is Robert Conrad. Please hurry!"

"Thank you, ma'am, but I need your name as well."

"Hurry! He needs you!" The connection broke.

* * * * *

Paramedics Cindy Keller and Ray Thompson pulled up to the main entrance of the Cressman Mansion. The front door was ajar. They entered the mansion and saw the silhouette of a woman in a doorway upstairs. She seemed to be beckoning them. They climbed up the steps to the room where they found Bob unconscious on the floor. Whoever was in the doorway was nowhere to be found.

They managed to strap Bob onto a stretcher. He was carried down the steps and out of the mansion. The medics knew their business. Bob was in the ambulance and on his way to the Emergency Room in minutes.

The ER physicians took over. From the phone report, they knew they would have to pump his stomach. He was unconscious and had trouble breathing. The team intubated him and hooked him up to a respirator. IV bags dripped fluid into his body to flush out the drug and alcohol still in his system. It was a holding action. The ER team fought valiantly to keep Bob's body alive until the poisons were eliminated.

Eventually they managed to stabilize him. The respirator would continue to breathe for him and he would be monitored in the Intensive Care Unit for any signs of trouble. His life was safe for now. He was not out of danger, but the playing field had been leveled.

One of the ER nurses found Bob's wallet in his pocket. She searched for and found his driver's license. While she entered data into the hospital database, one of her co-workers looked up Bob's phone number. He placed a call to Jean.

* * * * *

Bob awoke disoriented. The sounds of medical equipment and monitor alarms initially confused him. Then he saw Jean. He tried to move.

Jean was crying. "Bob! Oh my dear sweet Bob don't leave me! I love you, Bob! I love you! Don't leave me!"

Bob tried to speak but could not. Something in his throat prevented him from forming words. Air was being forced into his lungs. He now realized he was hooked to a respirator. Then he remembered the pills and the wine. He was alive!

He looked up into his wife's tear-reddened eyes. At that moment it was the most beautiful thing he had ever beheld. Jean had rescued him! She found him and got him to the hospital! She saved his life!

He heard another woman's voice. "Mrs. Conrad, I have to speak with your husband. Please step outside for a moment." Jean left, still sobbing. The woman's face moved into Bob's field of view.

"Mr. Conrad," she said, "I'm Dr. Bergman. Do you know where you are?"

Bob nodded.

"Do you know why you were brought here?" she asked.

Bob answered with another nod.

"Mr. Conrad, you have a tube in your throat that has been helping you to breathe. It looks like you can breathe on your own now. Would you like me to take it out?"

Yes, Bob nodded. It was quite uncomfortable.

"All right, Mr. Conrad. I'm going to remove it. When I tell you, take a deep breath and blow out as hard as you can. When the tube is out you will start to gag. It will pass, but you'll probably cough a bit. Are you ready?"

Bob nodded. Dr. Bergman removed the respirator circuit from the tube. Bob was once again using his own chest and diaphragm to draw life-giving air into his lungs. The tape securing the tube was pulled off. Then Dr. Bergman grasped the tube firmly. "Okay, Bob," she said, "blow out now."

As Bob exhaled, Dr Bergman drew out the tube in one quick, fluid motion. Bob was astonished at just how long this tube was. He didn't know his windpipe could hold that much tubing. He didn't have a lot of time to consider this. Just as Dr. Bergman warned him, his gag reflex kicked in. He coughed and gagged trying to expel a foreign object no longer lodged in his throat. This continued for a few moments until his body re-adjusted.

"Water, please," he whispered hoarsely. The doctor handed him a cup. He sipped some water through a straw. Welcome moisture bathed his throat, helping the lingering soreness to subside. "Thank you," he said.

'Mr. Conrad," said Dr. Bergman, "you are out of any immediate danger, so we are going to move you from this Step-Down Unit to a regular Med-Surge floor. It's a little quieter there. I want to talk to you when you're settled in." She made a few notations to his chart, and then said, "See you in a few hours."

Jean was back at his side. She reached over the bed, leaned close to Bob and hugged him as best she could. It was a little complicated. She had to avoid the IV lines hanging from the bed stand. "Damn you, Bob Conrad, don't you ever do that again!"

"I won't," he said. "I don't think I was ever so frightened in my life. Thanks for coming back, Jean. If you hadn't found me, I would have died there."

Jean was puzzled. "What do you mean, Bob? I didn't find you."

"Sure you did. I saw you standing over me just before I passed out."

"You must have imagined it, Bob. I wasn't there."

Just then a nurse and two orderlies wheeled a gurney next to Bob's bed. "Mr. Conrad," the nurse said in a cheerful tone, "we're going to move you to another room, now. Do you think you can climb onto the gurney for us?"

"I'll try," he answered. Bob lifted himself up on shaky arms. With a little assistance he managed to transfer himself from the bed to the gurney. He was a little afraid that he might rip out the IV tubes and was careful not to do so. Jean walked next to him as the orderlies wheeled him down the corridor and into an elevator.

The Med-Surge unit was two floors up from the ICU Step-Down unit. Bob was wheeled into a cheery private room with sunlight streaming through the window. Once again he shifted himself from the gurney into a freshly made bed. The nurse tucked a blanket around him, took his pulse and blood pressure, and then took his temperature with an ear thermometer. "I'll let Dr. Bergman know that you have been transferred," she said. "In the meantime, it looks like lunch is being served. Do you feel like eating?"

"Yes, I'm famished!" Bob replied.

"Good. I'll get a tray sent in to you. Press the call button if you need anything."

Bob watched the nurse exit. He wanted to say something to Jean, but wanted some privacy. "Jean, I'm sorry about all this. I really never wanted to embarrass you."

"I'm not embarrassed, Bob. I'm just worried about you."

"Yeah, but now the secret is out. I never wanted Shannon to be a source of embarrassment for you."

Jean looked perplexed. "What does Shannon have to do with this?"

Bob smiled. "Thanks for trying, honey, but the cat is definitely out of the bag. It had to be as obvious as hell when they brought me in here."

"Bob, I really don't know what you're talking about."

"The dress. The makeup. The lingerie. Don't you think they all know I'm a transvestite by now?"

"Why would they? You weren't wearing anything feminine when they brought you in."

Bob's jaw dropped. "How could that be? I was fully en femme when I passed out. You had to have seen me, you were standing right over me."

"Bob, that stuff you took must have made you see things. I haven't been back to the mansion since I stormed out of it. I was at home. The hospital called to tell me you had swallowed some pills."

"But, who called the ambulance?"

"I thought you did!"

"I couldn't have. I passed out before I could get to the phone. Honey, I literally couldn't move!"

The discussion was postponed when Bob's lunch tray arrived. Bob lifted the lid to find some sort of breaded mystery meat, soggy green beans, and a white glob that was not completely, but almost, unlike mashed potatoes. He winced a bit as he took a hesitating first taste of his lunch. He wrinkled his face.

"How bad does it taste?" asked Jean.

"That's the really frightening part," Bob answered, "it doesn't taste that bad. Would you like some?" he offered.

"No, thanks," said Jean, "I think I'll pop down to the cafeteria and get something. Do you mind if I leave for a few minutes?"

"No, you must be starved. Please, get some lunch. We can talk later."

"Well, alright, but..."

She leaned over and kissed his forehead. "I'm just afraid to let go of you," she said.

Bob smiled. "I promise not to go anywhere," he joked, "It's too hard to run away wearing a hospital gown." They both laughed. Jean gave her guy another kiss and then left to get some lunch.

* * * * *

Jean returned just as Dr. Bergman was checking up on Bob. Dr. Bergman was looking over Bob's chart. She looked up as Jean entered. "Hello, Mrs. Conrad," Dr. Bergman said, "I was just reviewing the case with your husband. Mr. Conrad," she said, "do you want to speak with me privately?"

"No, doctor," Bob said, "I don't keep any secrets from Jean. She has a right to know about anything that effects me."

"Fine. Mrs. Conrad, if you have any questions as I speak with Bob, please don't hesitate."

"Thank you, doctor. And please, call me Jean."

"Of course, Jean. And may I call you Bob, Mr. Conrad?"

"Please do," said Bob.

"Good," said the doctor. "And my name is Lisa. Bob, you came mighty close to cashing it in. Just what did you have in mind when you took all that Xanax?"

"Well," Bob said, somewhat embarrassed, "it seemed like a good idea at the time. I was drunk."

"I see. That does seem to bring out the idiot in all of us. Remind me to tell you about my husband's tattoo. Do you get drunk often?"

"No. In fact I don't usually drink alcohol."

"What caused you to get so drunk that you thought taking a month's supply of Xanax was a good idea?"

"I guess I was depressed. Jean and I had a fight, and she walked out on me. She said she was leaving me."

Dr. Bergman turned to Jean. "Have you ever done this before, Jean?"

Jean answered, "No, but I had been thinking about it. It seems like we go from one fight to another. It always starts over something really stupid, but it escalates quickly. We begin shouting cruel, hurtful things at each other. It gets pretty ugly."

Dr. Bergman turned back to Bob. "Do you agree, Bob? Have you been having marital problems?"

"If you mean have we been arguing," he said, "the answer is yes. And Jean's right. We argue over really minor things, but then we both start bringing up past injuries, old insults, and the whole thing goes to hell. It's like we can't stop ourselves. I want to stop, and I know Jean wants to stop, but I just can't hold back."

Dr. Bergman nodded, making a few notes. "Bob," she asked, "were you trying to kill yourself?"

Bob considered this. "I don't think so," he finally said. "I don't really want to die. Like I said, I was drunk. I saw the pills and wondered what it might feel like to swallow all of them. It seemed funny at the time. Then, when I had done it and realized that I might actually die, I panicked. I felt myself dying, and it was the most frightening thing that ever happened to me." He started to shiver.

"I have another question. How long have your arguments been going on?"

"It seems like forever. We always have disagreements, and we argued with each other since we started dating. In the last few years, though, they've gotten downright vicious."

Dr. Bergman made a few more notes. "Do your arguments ever resolve anything?"

"Rarely. We just seem to get too tired to argue any more and declare a cease-fire."

"Do you love Jean, Bob?"

"What an absurd question? Of course I do!"

"How much?"

"Lisa, if Jean needed one of my organs to live, or one of my eyes to see, I would give it to her with no hesitation. If she needed a heart, she could have mine. I would fight every demon in Hell to protect her. I would take a bullet for this lady."

"She means that much to you?"

"Yes, she does."

"And how about you, Jean? Do you love Bob?"

Jean said, "I wouldn't quite put it in such heroic terms, but yes, I love Bob, and would make any sacrifice for him."

"Then why do you fight?"

This perplexed the two of them. Bob said, "I only wish the hell I knew. I would do things for this woman that I would never even think about for any other person. But for some reason, nobody can so thoroughly piss me off as she."

The doctor made a few more notes. "I have some ideas, folks. First off, Bob, your physical health seems just fine, and I don't think you'll be overdosing on Xanax any time soon. I want to keep you here overnight for observation just in case there are any lingering problems.

"In cases of a possible suicide attempt, we require a psychiatric evaluation before you can be discharged. This is to determine if you might present a danger to yourself or to others."

"I see," said Bob. "When do I talk to the shrink?"

"You just did," Lisa answered. "I don't really believe you are in any danger of suicide, accidental or otherwise. But I'd like to get you and Jean into some counseling sessions. I feel that it will help your major problem."

Jean asked, "Counseling sessions? What kind?"

"Conflict management. How to resolve your differences without always going for the jugular. I call it 'Fair Fighting'.

"You see," she continued, "two people can't live under the same roof without having a difference of opinion. This is to be expected. The trouble comes when the partners don't know how to resolve their issues in a positive manner.

"Fair Fighting is a method of resolving disagreements in a civilized fashion. You will learn how to recognize danger signs that could lead to a possible conflict. You will learn techniques to resolve your disagreements without degenerating into all-out warfare. It takes time to learn, and you have to commit to the program as a couple. You will also have to come to the sessions as a couple, and be ready to discuss any fights you may have had. Do you think you can commit to this?"

"I would sure like to try," said Jean. "I really want this constant sniping to end."

"Me, too," Bob added. "I love Jean, and I want to treat her like I love her. I'm just so ashamed of my behavior!"

"Now isn't the time for self-recrimination," Lisa said. "There will be plenty of self-assessment when the sessions begin. Just keep an open mind. Not everything you discover about yourself will be pleasant.

"Let's see how we do overnight. If all goes well I'll kick you out of here tomorrow morning. And then we'll set up an appointment to get you started on the counseling sessions." She made a few more notations on Bob's chart and replaced it. "I'll see you tomorrow, folks."

As soon as Lisa left, Jean reached over and gave Bob a long, passionate kiss. He kissed back and hugged her with his free arm. Then he started to giggle. She looked at him quizzically. He said, "I was just thinking about what I would do if I didn't have this IV hooked up."

Jean laughed. "Well, it's a private room. Maybe we can close the door and..." She smiled seductively.

"Nice idea," he said, shifting his position. "But what if the nurse comes to take my blood pressure?"

"She'll just have to wait her turn," said Jean. She planted another big wet kiss on Bob's lips. "I get first dibs on that body of yours."

They kissed again, long and passionately. When their lips finally parted, Bob started panting as though he was overheated. "Wow! You still have it, lover!"

Jean grinned. "Nice to know I'm still a hottie. But you aren't so bad yourself.

"I don't mean to change the subject, "she said, "but I better get you some clean underwear if you're coming home tomorrow."

"I'll need some clothes and shoes as well," Bob said.

"What's wrong with the clothes you wore in?"

"Very funny," Bob replied in a mock-sarcastic tone. "But I don't think I should be wearing a dress home, even if the world knows about me now. I wouldn't be comfortable."

"There you go again," Jean said. "Bob, you weren't wearing a dress when they brought you in here. Look." She went to the closet and opened the door. Bob's tan chinos and a gray Land's End polo shirt were hanging inside. "This is what you had on when they brought you here. At least that's what the nurse told me."

Bob was once again puzzled. "How could that be? Honey, I really was in my femme things when I swallowed the pills. I just don't understand."

Jean walked back to the bed and gave Bob a hug. "Don't worry about it. Maybe taking all that stuff gave you some hallucinations. It wouldn't be the first time drugs made you see things," she smirked. "The important thing is that you're all right."

"I suppose you're right," Bob said. He moved his head around to give Jean another kiss. It was good to be alive and good to be in his lover's arms. The mystery of his clothes could wait.

* * * * *

Several weeks and two counseling sessions had passed before Jean and Bob could bring themselves to return to the mansion. Bob was hesitant, fearing to return to the scene of their last big argument. Jean felt that they both needed to confront their fight and put it behind them. Both were nervous as they entered the vestibule.

Jean looked around at the vestibule and smiled. "Bob," she said, "I know that I didn't tell you before, but I'm really proud of the way you've been restoring the place. It already looks so much better."

"I wish I could take all of the credit," Bob said, "but much of it belongs to Mike and his guys. Did you see the new siding and trim? And he put all the new windows in. It looks just great."

"Did he replace all the windows?" she asked.

Not all of them; the windows in Jennifer's room and the Master bedroom were newer than most of the other windows. Mike thinks they had been replaced recently."

"Let's go up to Jennifer's room, Bob. I want another look at the curtains."

Bob hesitated. "Do you think that's wise? We had our big blowout there. I'm still a little nervous, honey."

Jean took his hand. "We can't duck it forever, love. Sooner or later we have to go there."

"I know, honey. I just don't want another fight."

She smiled and kissed him. "No fight. I promise. We'll discuss any differences in a mature, fair manner. Hey, we got through Sunday morning without a fight for the first time in months. I don't want to waste a lucky streak like that."

He smiled back. "When you put it that way, how can I refuse?"

They ascended the staircase holding hands. The door to Jennifer's room was closed. Bob didn't know what to expect as he opened it. What he found was puzzling.

Discarded paper and plastic wrappers from the paramedics littered the floor, but otherwise the room was neat. The closet door was closed. A wine bottle and a glass were on the dresser.

"I don't understand it," Bob said. "I had my makeup case out on the vanity and a suitcase full of lingerie open on the bed." He opened the closet door. His suitcases, his makeup case, and his outfits were all stored neatly inside. The teal dress he remembered hung under a protective sheath of drycleaner's plastic.

He shook his head in disbelief. "Honey, I could have sworn I was en femme that night. This just doesn't add up."

"Bob, you can't ignore your own eyes. You must have imagined it."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. It's just that the memory is so vivid. I never had that sort of a dream before."

"You never took an entire bottle of Xanax and washed it down with wine before."

Bob reflected on this. "You must be right. I'm not going to worry about it any more. We have too much to do."

Jean sighed in relief. "Good. We can get started hanging those curtains."

Bob stopped in his tracks, astonished. "I thought you wanted me to send them back. I thought you said they were just too lacy. Did you change your mind?"

"A little. I still think they are way over the top with room to spare. But I can live with them. And like you said, people will expect it."

Bob saw Jean smile. He smiled back. "Well, I promise not to buy anything that outrageous without talking to you first."

"Thank you. Now let's get changed into some work clothes. But first, why don't we clean up in here."

Jean started picking up the discarded medical wrappers. Bob went to the dresser to get the wine bottle and glass. That's when he noticed the lipstick marks on the wineglass.

They were the same shade of red Shannon had been wearing when she swallowed the pills.

* * * * *

The restoration of the Cressman Estate was proceeding once again. Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, the mansion was shedding its drab covering of cobwebs and neglect to claim its lost grandeur. Bob scoured antique stores, flea markets, yard sales, and estate sales to find just the right furnishings for the different rooms. In one particularly fortunate instance, he found an antique piano and a wonderful hammered dulcimer for the parlor. He acquired a number of marvelous paintings this way. Jean had been hesitant at first, hoping Bob would not go crazy, but she had to admit that he showed a talent for sniffing out a bargain. She was particularly proud of him when he purchased a number of tables and chairs from a restaurant that was remodeling. He managed to furnish the parlor and dining room for about half the amount they had budgeted.

The kitchen needed a lot more work than any other place in the mansion. The propane stoves simply would not be adequate for their operation. This meant that a gas line had to be installed. Fortunately, a gas main did run adjacent to their property. The old stoves, sinks, and refrigerators were replaced with new equipment. Automatic dishwashers were also installed. Safety hoods with fire systems were installed to comply with OSHA regulations. The lighting was upgraded with fluorescent fixtures. When they were done, the only original part of the kitchen was the tile floor.

Bob decided to reward himself for all his hard work. Jean was meeting with an out-of-town client and would not return for a few days. He decided to let Shannon out to play.

His femme things were still in Jennifer's room. He felt a little nervous as he opened the suitcase with his lingerie. He still remembered the night he nearly died. He had just about dismissed the cross-dressing that night as a hallucination, but he still had a few nagging doubts.

His nervousness gave way to excitement as he donned lace panties. The familiar silky feel was a welcome sensation, as was the tightness of the bra. Silicone forms gave the cups a perfect shape, and the bouncy feeling they provided was simply indescribable.

He had kept his legs shaven just for this, the moment he pulled on a pair of pantyhose. He once again reveled in the cool, airy feel of the tight hose. He pulled a slip over his head and smoothed the skirt and bodice over his now-feminine curves. With each passing second, he was feeling more like his alter ego.

He took his makeup case over to the vanity. His face was freshly shaved and moisturized. A touch of beard cover neutralized the blue tint of his beard, and some concealer hid the orange-red tint of the cover. He used his fingers to apply foundation. He never liked using a sponge, preferring the control his fingertips gave him in smoothing, blending, and feathering makeup.

Satisfied with the foundation, he turned his attention to his eyes. He applied some turquoise eye shadow that he blended with a small artist's brush. He then applied some eyeliner and mascara. Finally he brushed some blush onto his cheeks and added a little to his chin and forehead.

He opened a tube of rose lipstick that he applied with a brush, first outlining the upper and lower lips and then filling them in with color. It was similar, he thought, to coloring with crayons in a coloring book. He smiled at the face he now saw in the mirror, the face of Shannon.

Shannon now arose from her seat to get the skirt she had laid out, a floral print on a crá¨me background. Spring was still a few weeks away, but the weather had been warm and Shannon felt like getting a jump on the season. She put on her skirt and matching twin set top. The skirt hung past her knees and had a slit on the left side. She looked at herself critically, then selected a gold chain and earrings to accompany her outfit. Satisfied, she pulled on a wig with shoulder-length hair that framed her face and neckline. She snapped a thin ankle bracelet to her left leg and stepped into a pair of white sandals with 3-inch heels.

She walked over to a full-length mirror to admire herself. She twirled about to feel the edges of her skirt swirl away. The effect was intoxicating. She felt reborn, as though spring had indeed arrived early.

Then she saw it. In the mirror, she saw a woman behind her.

She turned. The woman was standing in the room, smiling. She was young, perhaps in her mid 20's. Her hair was arranged in a pageboy style like something from out of the past. She wore a conservative floral dress, elegant in its simplicity, but just as anachronistic as her hair. White cotton gloves and white pumps with a matching handbag completed her look. She would have been elegantly dressed in the 1930's.

Shannon was both afraid and angry. "Who are you?" she demanded, "and what are you doing in here?"

"Why shouldn't I be here," said the woman, "After all, this is my room. And I know we haven't been properly introduced, so we shall have to introduce ourselves. I am Jennifer Cressman." She extended her hand.

Shannon was too stunned to move. After a few awkward seconds of silence, the woman said, "At this point it is customary to grasp my hand and introduce yourself."

Shannon hesitantly grasped the woman's proffered hand. It was neither excessively hot nor cold, but seemed just a touch cool. Her grasp was gentle. "Hello. My name is Bob. I mean, Shannon!"

"Pleased to meet you, Shannon. Do you have a last name?"

Shannon hesitated a moment. "I never really thought about it. I mean, my last name is Conrad, but that's Bob's name. I don't know if Shannon has a last name."

"You seem a bit confused, dear."

Well, I am," said Shannon. "First of all, who are you really? And what do you mean this is your room?"

"I just told you, I'm Jennifer Cressman. This is the room I grew up in as a girl and lived in for years and years. I grew old in this room. Eventually I died in it."

"That doesn't make sense," said Shannon. "If you died, how could you be here talking to me now?"

The woman seemed a little exasperated. "I hoped I might avoid this, but..." And she vanished. She didn't fade away like the Cheshire cat; she simply disappeared.

Shannon rubbed her eyes. She started looking around the room for the woman she had just been speaking with, but she was nowhere in sight.

She was startled by the woman's voice behind her. "I do hope that was a sufficient demonstration as I find ostentatious displays rather boorish."

Shannon turned around again. "What is this?" she asked, "are you a ghost?"

"I suppose you could say that. I have never met another ghost, so perhaps I am. I certainly don't feel like a ghost. I feel like myself. Then again, I have no way of knowing what a ghost should feel like."

Shannon looked at the woman's face. There was something hauntingly familiar about it. Then it struck her. "The painting in the parlor! You look just like the woman in the painting!"

The woman smiled. "Yes, I sat for that portrait just before I became engaged. Charles was quite fond of it. He said that it would always remind him of the girl he fell in love with."

"It's true, then! You really are Jennifer Cressman."

"And who else might I be?"

Shannon suddenly remembered the woman standing over her as she lost consciousness. "It was you!" she said, "You were the woman who saw me dying! I wasn't hallucinating!"

"Indeed not! I might be many things, but I am certainly not a hallucination."

"But who called the ambulance?"

"I did. I used that thing you had in your purse. I believe you call it a cell phone."

"But I thought ghosts couldn't touch anything?"

Jennifer walked over to the vanity and picked up the lipstick tube Shannon had been using. "As you can see," she said, "I am quite capable of manipulating solid objects. I can also become immaterial. Like this." The lipstick tube seemed to drop right through Jennifer's palm and fell to the carpet.

Shannon bent to pick up her lipstick. "I suppose you are also responsible for changing my clothes," she said.

"Of course," Jennifer replied. "I watched the disagreement you were having with your wife. I realized it was important for her that your secret remain undisclosed, so I removed your clothing and replaced it with the clothing you had piled in the corner."

"Thank you, " Shannon said. "I thought I was going crazy. And thank you for putting my things away."

"You are welcome," Jennifer said. "I always loved having pretty clothes and I knew that you would not want yours damaged. To tell the truth, though, I put them on the bed in the adjoining room until the medics carried you out, and then I put them away. I believe the medics were more focused upon you than on their surroundings."

"You did more than that," said Shannon. You must also have washed the makeup off my face." She paused, and then asked, "Have you been watching us all the time?"

"Yes. Perhaps 'watching' is not the correct term. Let us say that I am aware of everything that transpires within my property. I still think of it as mine, you know."

Shannon began to blush. "So you have been watching me...I mean...well...you have seen me transform."

"Oh, yes. You make quite a lovely girl, by the way. But please don't be embarrassed. You know, dear, one of my childhood friends was like you. He would spend his summers with his maiden aunt who would dress him in lace petticoats and frilly frocks. He adored it! He was especially happy when his aunt introduced him to foundation wear."

"And he told you about it?" said Shannon, incredulously.

"Why yes, he did. He was so excited over his first brassiere and garter belt! More so than I was over mine. And he insisted on telling me every little detail."

"So you don't think that I'm crazy?"

Jennifer laughed. "Oh, how rich! Here you are asking a ghost if she thinks you are crazy! Shannon, you are so funny!"

Shannon laughed as well. She was starting to become more comfortable with this ethereal woman. In the short time she had been talking with her, she had forgotten that her new friend was the spirit of the deceased former owner of her home. But she was still curious.

"Tell me," Shannon said, "how do you feel about what we are doing here with your old home? Do you approve?"

Jennifer sort of wrinkled her nose. "At first I resented it. I considered you to be trespassers. But I can see how much you love my home. As I watched the restoration take shape, I became much more comfortable with your presence here. I trust you and that lovely wife of yours."

Shannon now smiled. "Thank you. I'm glad you approve of us."

Jennifer walked over to the door. "Perhaps you can show me the renovations you have made. I would enjoy a tour."

"Of course. But I thought you knew everything we were doing?"

"Yes, I know what you have done, but I know you are proud of all your work. And I would certainly enjoy hearing just why you chose a certain décor, or how a certain piece was acquired. Why don't we start here? Where did you find this lovely vanity?"

"Do you like it?" Shannon asked. "I found this at a garage sale. I find a lot of things at yard sales and flea markets. When I saw this beautiful cherrywood vanity I just had to have it. I cleaned it and re-finished it with French polish."

"It has character, Shannon. I'm afraid today's furniture is sadly lacking in this regard."

"My feeling exactly! That's why I want to furnish the mansion with antiques. I want the décor to reflect a gentler, more civilized time."

"Well, perhaps a time of gentler manners," Jennifer said. "Courtesy does seem to be out of fashion. I must say, I do like the way you have restored my old canopy bed and armoire."

"They were both in good condition," said Shannon. "I replaced the mattress and foundation, and the canopy cloth, but otherwise the pieces only needed some dusting."

"I noticed that you did some work on the bathrooms."

"Yes. We decided to keep the original footed bathtubs, but we added shower stalls in each bathroom. We also replaced the toilets and sinks with antique-styled fixtures."

"I never did like showers. There is nothing quite so relaxing as a good soak in a proper bath."

"I like a good soak myself, but when I'm particularly sweaty I shower."

Jennifer turned to Shannon. "A lady does not sweat, my dear. We may perspire, but we never sweat."

"I'll keep that in mind. Would you like to see more?"

"Please. Lead the way."

They exited to the hallway. Shannon pointed out the new carpet and the walls. "I tried to match the original colors as best as I could."

"It's magnificent. I only wish I had been able to do this when I was alive."

Shannon opened the door to the master bedroom. Inside, the room was almost ready for guests. "The furniture was also in excellent condition in this room. I added the antique commode by the closet, but otherwise I only had to replace the mattress and box spring. This bed is magnificent!"

"Indeed it is," said Jennifer. "The furniture in this room was made in Germany and brought to this country by August Cressman himself. One could not find such Old World craftsmanship in America."

"Thank you for the history lesson," Shannon said. "It makes me appreciate the bed ever so much more."

The tour continued. Shannon explained that she wanted each room to have its own particular character, so each had it's own name. The names were usually a woman's name, such as Erica's room or Madeline's room. "I get the names from storybooks or from soap-opera characters."

"Soap operas!" Jennifer exclaimed. "Are you a soap opera fan?"

"Why, yes, I am. I follow All My Children and One Life to Live. Did you watch the soaps?"

"It was the only reason I had a television. But I started listening to them on the radio. Did you know that The Guiding Light and Search For Tomorrow started out on the radio?"

"No, I didn't. That's fascinating."

"I don't suppose you found the old Grundig radio in the attic."

"I haven't been there yet. You have an old Grundig? Does it still work?"

"It was there last time I looked. Let me see." Jennifer vanished. Just as quickly she re-appeared. "Yes, it is still in the attic. I can't say if it still works, though. You shall have to try that for yourself."

"Even if it doesn't work, the cabinet would be a magnificent accent piece for the parlor."

Jennifer smiled. "Indeed, it would. That's where it was for many years. I remember listening to Little Orphan Annie, Our Miss Brooks, and so many other programs there. Do you know, we children often turned out all of the lights to listen to Mr. Obler's program. The theater of the mind is so much more exciting!"

"I'll take a look tomorrow," said Shannon. "I don't really think I'm dressed appropriately right now. But we can see the parlor, if you like."

"Yes, I would. Please lead the way."

They descended the stairway. Shannon pointed to the restored chandelier and the polished wood banister. They crossed the marble floor of the vestibule and entered the parlor.

Shannon turned on the lights, and Jennifer opened her mouth in awe. "Oh, it's wonderful!" she exclaimed. "Shannon, this is truly magnificent!"

"Thank you, Jennifer. I researched the original colors and tried to match them as closely as possible. The wallpaper was difficult to duplicate. Unfortunately, most of the furniture was gone. I hope you like what I've done."

Jennifer walked to the center of the room and turned about. "Shannon, I always loved this room. I still remember when mother would give High Tea here. It was so lovely. All of the ladies would wear their best dresses, and hats, and white cotton gloves. I would help Mother serve her guests, although the maids did most of the actual work. Mother would tell me that some day I would be the hostess, and I would be serving High Tea." She paused for a moment, a far-away look crossing her face.

"Is something wrong?" said Shannon?

"No, not really. The times changed so rapidly. By the time I could be hostess, High Tea was a thing of the past. Such a pity."

Jennifer continued to turn, taking in all the sights of the parlor. "I see you left my portrait hanging," she said.

"Yes," said Shannon. "I didn't realize that it was your portrait. But it looks just like you. You must have aged well."

Jennifer laughed. "That's not at all how I looked when I finally died. I was quite old. But in my mind's eye, this is how I always see myself, and so this is how I now appear. There are some advantages to being a spirit."

Jennifer sat down at the piano. "A beautiful instrument," she said. She began to play Fur Elise and frowned. "This piano is frightfully out of tune. I do hope you intend to correct this."

"The tuner will be in next week. I also have a hammered dulcimer here."

"It is quite beautiful, but I'm afraid that I only play piano. Charlie and I often played together. He was quite good."

"Charlie? Was he your boy friend?"

"My fiancé," Jennifer corrected. "He proposed to me in the spring of 1941. We were going to be wed the next June. But then the War broke out and my Charlie joined the Air Corps. We put our marriage plans on hold while he went off to war. We wrote. I knew he was a bomber pilot in England, but of course I did not know exactly where he was stationed. Wartime censorship, you know. One day his letters stopped coming."

"Oh, no, was he..."

"I don't know, my dear. But I never stopped hoping that one day he would return. I just knew that my dashing young Charlie would some day come up the path and call for me. I never stopped hoping."

Shannon could feel a tear trickle down her cheek. "That's so sad!" she said.

"Don't cry, Shannon. I'm not at all sad. Few women have been so blessed as to have a lover as wonderful as my Charlie." She smiled. "I can still see his smiling face, so handsome and rugged. He was so strong, and so gentle. My Charlie."

Jennifer rose from the piano. "Shannon, you must explore the attic. Many treasures are there simply waiting to be re-discovered; clothing, hats, shoes, portraits, and many other things. Abigail Cressman's silver tea service is stored there. My mother put it away when we stopped giving our teas."

"I will definitely look tomorrow," said Shannon. "I would love to display your tea service."

"Perhaps you might put it to use, my dear. It would be lovely to have High Tea return to the Cressman Manor."

Shannon paused to consider. "What a wonderful idea!" she exclaimed. "High Tea is starting to become popular again. Sunday Tea would be a big draw. Thank you, Jennifer!"

Jennifer smiled. "You are quite welcome. I have to admit I have missed the company of others and would enjoy a return of life to this place. Just to know that people were again being welcomed to my home would be so wonderful!"

Jennifer's expression changed. She appeared to be listening thoughtfully. "Shannon," she asked, "were you expecting company?"

The sound of a key being turned in the main entrance caught Shannon's ear. The door opened and Jean walked into the vestibule. Seeing the light coming from the parlor door, she turned that way. "Bob," she called out, "I'm home a few days early. I caught the red-eye out of Cleveland and..." She stopped short as she entered the parlor. "Oh, I'm sorry. I guess I should have called."

Shannon looked a little embarrassed. "Sorry, honey. I didn't really expect you. I hope you aren't angry with me."

"No, I'm not, just a little surprised is all." She surveyed Shannon's appearance. "You look pretty good tonight." Then she noticed Jennifer. "But who is this woman?"

Jean was starting to get angry. "Are you seeing somebody else? Is this her? God damn you, Bob, are you cheating on me?"

Jennifer spoke up. "Jean, I can state for a fact that your husband has behaved like a perfect gentleman. Or, more properly, as a perfect lady. As for myself, I am Jennifer Cressman." She extended her hand.

Jean did not take Jennifer's hand. "Yeah. Right. I'm supposed to believe that you are the old woman who used to own this place. Do I look like I was born yesterday?"

Jennifer rolled her eyes. "I can see that you require a demonstration. Your husband did, also." And Jennifer disappeared.

Jean looked around. "What the hell...Where did she go?"

"Over here," said Jennifer, re-appearing in the doorway to the parlor. "Now please tell me that you are convinced as I am growing tired of giving these demonstrations."

"It's true!" said Jean. "You're really a..." she hesitated, the word seeming to stick in her throat.

"A ghost," Jennifer finished. "And as you can see, I am not a dreadful daemon conjured from the pits of Hades. I am simply the spirit of a departed lady." She once again extended her hand.

Jean grasped the extended hand. She giggled nervously as they shook. "Wow! It's warm! I didn't know what to expect!"

"I suppose I'm the first ghost you have ever met." Jennifer said. "I do hope my demonstration didn't startle you."

"Startle isn't the word for it. I really thought that you were still alive. Oh, excuse me, I mean..."

Jennifer smiled. "Oh, don't be embarrassed, Jean. You needn't avoid the subject of death on my account. As you can see, death is not as final as most people fear. Oh, but you must be tired and famished from your long trip."

Jennifer turned to Shannon. "Shannon, dear, do you think that you might fetch your wife a cup of tea? And I'm sure she could use a bite to eat as well."

"Of course. Jean, would you like tea or coffee?" asked Shannon.

"Tea, please. I had enough coffee this week to float a battleship. And perhaps Jennifer might like some as well. Jennifer, would you like a cup of tea?"

Jennifer's expression was one of delight, like a child being promised some candy. "Why, yes, I think I would. Do you know how long it has been since I have had a cup of tea? Or anything, for that matter?"

"Just wait here, girls," Shannon said, "I'll be back with tea and some cakes."

Shannon made her way back to the kitchen. She found the kettle on the stove, filled it, and turned on the burner. The new range had a piezo-electric ignitor for the burners, so no pilot light was needed. She set out some cups, cream, sugar, and teabags onto a tray. Then she opened the refrigerator to find the Carrot Cake she had bought yesterday at the farm market. It was a very rich cake, topped with a cream cheese frosting and crushed walnuts. She sliced this down and placed the slices on a small dish. She stacked several small plates, forks, and teaspoons on the tray. The kettle whistled, signaling that the water was now boiling. She poured hot water into each cup, added teabags, and lifted the tray.

Shannon carried the tray back into the parlor. Jennifer and Jean were seated on the sofa and were chatting. "I see you ladies have hit it off quite well," Shannon said as she set the tray on the coffee table. "I hope you enjoy the goodies."

Jean picked up one of the cups and started dunking the teabag. Jennifer moved her cup from the tray and set it on the table. "I don't usually dunk my teabag. I prefer to let the tea steep the old-fashioned way."

"When I find Abigail's tea service, I'll brew the tea properly," Shannon said.

"Oh, that would be a treat!" Jennifer said. "When my mother would serve tea, she never used teabags. At least, not while we had servants to brew the tea for us."

Jean remover her teabag and began sipping. She liked it with no cream or sugar. Shannon put a scant spoonful of sugar into her cup and stirred. Jennifer had the works, cream and sugar. She sat erect and ladylike as she sipped. "Delightful!" she said. "I had forgotten just how wonderful tea could taste!"

"Try the carrot cake," Shannon said. "I bought it at the farm market. It's quite good."

Jennifer took a slice of the cake and ate a morsel. She smiled. "This is excellent, Shannon. I do hope you shall have this baker supply your pastries for the Bed and Breakfast."

"I hadn't thought of that. Thanks for the suggestion, Jennifer."

"You are welcome, my dear. I was chatting with Jean about your plans. It must be exciting."

"It is," Shannon said. "We hope to open in time for spring."

"Spring is such a lovely time of year. Do you know it was in the spring when Charles proposed? The forsythia was blooming and the trees had once again turned green. Springtime is so lovely."

"Your memories of Charlie seem to be fond ones," said Jean. "But I understand that he stopped answering your letters. Doesn't that bother you that he just seemed to vanish?"

Jennifer's expression became one of thoughtful reflection.

"Shannon, Jean, I must share something with you. I have never told this to anyone. Charlie was my husband."

Jennifer walked to the window. She stared into the distance as she spoke. "It was Charlie's last day before he was to report for training. We were alone in this parlor, spending the day together. I know that Charlie was as frightened as I was, but he never betrayed it.

"I suppose it was my fear that I might never see him again. I offered myself to him. I wanted him to know how deep my love was for him. But Charlie, ever the gentleman, would not agree to this, not unless we were married.

"The idea seemed ludicrous, since marriage would require a blood test and a license. But just across the state border we could obtain a license without a blood test. So we drove together and were married by a magistrate in a small town just over the border.

"We checked into a little hotel in that small town as Mr. and Mrs. Charles Sommers. My gallant Charlie insisted on carrying me over the threshold. Oh, what a wonderful wedding night! He was so gentle, so strong, and so caring."

Shannon could see the look of joy on Jennifer's face as she remembered her wedding night. She continued, "We returned home the next day. I remember how Charlie apologized, promising me a proper honeymoon when he returned. But it wasn't necessary. I had the finest honeymoon a woman could wish for.

"We kept our marriage a secret. My parents would have been scandalized had they known. Mother insisted on keeping up appearances. And Charlie had not obtained permission from the Army to marry. I reluctantly kept our marriage secret.

"Oh how I longed for the day when my gallant Charlie would come to the door and we could proclaim our marriage to the world! I knew that he would return. Even after his letters stopped coming, even after the war ended, I just knew that some day my Charlie would return. I never doubted it for a moment. I knew that if Charlie still had breath in his body, he would return."

Jennifer turned back to Shannon and Jean. "I have never shared this secret with any living soul, dear. I kept my silent vigil, waiting for Charlie to return from the war. I suppose I was foolish, but I just could not bring myself to believe that he would never return."

There were tears in Jean's eyes. "Oh, Jennifer, I'm so sorry! Please forgive me for prying!"

Jennifer smiled. "Please don't cry, Jean. Had I never married Charlie, that would have been a tragedy. But I was fortunate to know his love before he left me."

Jean continued to cry. "Jennifer, I can't help it. I almost lost Bob a little while ago, and I was devastated. I can only think of how horrible it must have been."

Shannon moved over to comfort Jean. "Honey, it's all right. I'm still here, even if I look a little funny right now."

Jean started to laugh through her tears. Then she looked up and kissed Bob/Shannon. She started to giggle. "I never kissed you while we were both wearing lipstick! It feels so strange!"

They both looked up at Jennifer. Jean said, "Jennifer, you must think we are crazy; or self-absorbed. Here you are baring your soul to us, and I start thinking about my own problems."

Jennifer continued to smile. "Do not regret an honest emotion for one second, Jean. I have watched you and your husband. You may have your differences, but a strong current of love runs between you. Draw strength from it, just as I drew strength from my love for Charles."

Jennifer looked around. "My dears, I must thank you for this lovely evening. I haven't enjoyed myself so much in years. I do hope I haven't intruded."

Shannon replied, "Surprised, perhaps, but you didn't intrude a bit. We enjoyed having you, Jennifer, and hope you will visit us again."

Jennifer laughed. "Oh, that's so wonderful! Yes, I shall be delighted. But now I must run. Goodbye, ladies." And she vanished.

Jean looked at Shannon. "That is so cool!" she exclaimed. "We actually own a genuine haunted mansion!"

"I have to admit," said Shannon, "I never expected to find a ghost here. I hope she can tell us some more about the history of the place."

Jean chuckled. "You know," she said, "I haven't seen you in drag in years. You really look good. If I didn't know who you were, I would have mistaken you for a real woman."

Shannon smiled, blushing. "Do you really think so? And does it still bother you?"

"I'd be lying if I told you that I actually liked it. But it isn't making me mad. And that little impromptu tea party we had? You make a wonderful hostess, dear."

"Do you mean that? You aren't being sarcastic?"

"I mean it. Honest. You really look great. Just do me one favor, hon? Don't ever look better than me."

Shannon giggled. "I don't think I ever could. Jean, honey, don't you know that you are my feminine ideal? You are the epitome of all things feminine. If I can ever look a tenth as good as you, it will be a proud accomplishment."

Jean looked into Shannon's eyes. "You mean that, don't you? It isn't just bullshit."

"No bullshit. Womanhood reached perfection in you. The girl in me aspires to be as feminine as you. And the man in me gets excited whenever you come near."

A tear of joy trickled down Jean's cheek. She was so touched by her husband's expression of love that his clothing and makeup just didn't matter. She kissed him again, long and tenderly. He responded.

"Bob," she said, "I love you. But please get changed. Smearing your lipstick is just too weird!"

They both laughed, and climbed the stairs to the master bedroom.

Within the estate, the spirit of Jennifer Cressman smiled.

* * * * *

Although Bob's brother Mike had been in the attic to inspect it, neither Bob nor Jean had seen it. They walked up the stairway expecting to find dust-covered junk and hanging cobwebs. There was some dust, but very few cobwebs. Mike must have taken a vacuum to the attic when he checked it out.

Several bare light bulbs illuminated the area. There were a number of cabinets, chests, and a steamer trunk. Several linen-draped pieces of furniture also were stored away.

"Bob, look at this!" Jean said. She had opened the steamer trunk. "This trunk is filled with antique clothing! Look at these dresses! And there's a man's formal suit in here, too!"

Bob looked over Jean's shoulder. "I'm surprised the fur is in such good shape," he remarked. "I wouldn't think the conditions here would have been favorable."

Bob started removing the linens from the furniture. He found a number of chairs, including an antique reading chair, and several small tables. Then he found the radio.

"It's here!" he said, as excited as a child on Christmas morning. "Look at this, Jean! It's magnificent!"

The radio was indeed impressive. Its cathedral-shaped cabinet stood nearly four feet high. There were several knobs on the front, and an attractive tuning dial. Bob turned several of the knobs. One turned with an audible click, and he supposed that this was the volume control. Another caused an indicator to move smoothly across the face of the tuning dial. But most surprising was the action of a third knob. As he turned it, the bezel of the tuner actually slid away to reveal another bezel, calibrated with a different tuning band. Bob continued to turn the dial, and layer after layer of bezels slid away, revealing yet another band. In all, there were ten bands on this radio, covering the radio spectrum from 100 Kilocycles to 30 Megacycles. (Somehow referring to frequency as Hertz seemed disrespectful to this fine antique radio.)

"Do you think it still works?" asked Jean.

"Hard to tell," Bob replied. "I'll have to plug it in to check it out. But the tuning mechanism is still smooth. These pre-war German radios were mechanical marvels."

"Well whether it works or not, I think it will look beautiful in the parlor."

"Yes, indeed. It would be perfect. And some of these other pieces would look wonderful in other rooms. We could use some tables in the bedrooms, I'm sure."

They continued removing linens, finding tables, several more chairs, and a stack of paintings. Bob lifted one of the paintings to get a look at it. It was a portrait of a man in a Union Civil War uniform. "I wonder who this fellow was?" Bob wondered aloud.

A voice from behind them answered, "That is Colonel John Sedgwick, a Union commander."

Jean and Bob turned. Jennifer was there. "Oh, hello, Jennifer." Jean said.

"Good afternoon, Jean," Jennifer replied. "I see you are exploring the attic. And you found the old radio! How wonderful!"

"You were right, Jennifer," Bob said, "this attic is a treasure trove. The antique furniture here is incredible. And these paintings! Magnificent!"

"These are pieces that fell out of fashion over time, and were retired here," Jennifer said. "I have fond memories of that radio, however. And of the colonel's portrait."

"I don't think I ever heard of him," Bob said. "Was he famous?"

"Notorious would be more accurate," Jennifer replied. "Sedgwick was a friend of August Cressman and a frequent guest. He was a competent enough battlefield commander, I suppose, but he never did achieve any spectacular victories. He was killed during the battle of Spotsylvania Courthouse in Virginia."

"He was killed in the battle?" asked Jean.

"Yes, and this is how the colonel became notorious. He stood to get a better view of the fighting. One of his aides cautioned him, since the enemy was so close. Sedgwick replied, 'Nonsense! They couldn't hit an elephant at this dist---' That was when a stray bullet hit him, killing him instantly."

"Oh, no!" said Jean, and both she and Bob began to laugh. "I'm sorry, Jennifer. I know it isn't really funny, but..."

"Oh, but it is quite funny. Nothing is quite so humorous as a pompous ass hoist on his own petard."

"Well thanks to your story, I know just what to do with this painting," said Bob. "What do you think of making one of the bedrooms the "Colonel Sedgwick Room', Jean?"

"Not a bad idea," Jean said. "That would be a real bit of history for our guests. Thank you, Jennifer."

"You are quite welcome. But please, Bob, consider hanging different curtains. I do believe a room in honor of a military man would not be well served with frilly lace curtains."

Bob sighed. "All right, I give up! I can't be expected to win an argument when the ladies gang up on me. Sheesh! Everybody's a critic!"

"Before you go downstairs, you might want to open this chest. It has something quite precious in it." Jennifer pointed to a small chest in a far corner. Then she vanished.

Jean opened the chest and discovered a most magnificent prize. It was Abigail Cressman's tea service. "Bob," she called, "come and take a look at this!"

The tea service consisted of several silver trays, a ceramic teapot, and about two dozen delicate bone china cups and saucers. "Look at these trays!" she exclaimed. "I think they might be Revere trays."

"As in Paul Revere, the silversmith?" Bob asked incredulously.

"At least from his shop. And the rest of the service is equally beautiful. Bob, this stuff is worth a fortune!"

"Too good for everyday use," Bob said, "but it should be put on display."

They carefully repacked the chest and carried it downstairs. Then they returned for the radio.

* * * * *

The radio proved to be in excellent repair. The insulation on the power cord had become brittle and needed to be replaced. Likewise, the speaker cone had deteriorated with age. But the rest of the set was in fine working order. Bob found a replacement speaker and soldered a new power cord into place. The radio also needed an external antenna. Bob strung a long-wire antenna in the attic for this purpose.

The filaments cast a warm orange glow in the cabinet when Bob plugged in the radio and turned on the set. He set the tuning band to the AM broadcast band and slowly swept the dial. He soon found a station and played with the regeneration knob to set the feedback properly.

This particular station had a nostalgia format and featured the big-band hits of the swing era. Bob listened to Duke Ellington's Band play "The Mooch", followed by Benny Goodman's Orchestra doing "Take the 'A' Train". "Wow!" he exclaimed, "It's hard to believe this is an AM set. The sound quality is magnificent!"

He continued to scan the band, picking up talk shows, traffic reports, and music. The wooden cabinet resonated magnificently, providing a warm, rich quality to the sound. He tried some of the other bands. WWV was transmitting its time hack on 5 MHz. BBC, the Voice of America, Radio Moscow, and many other familiar short-wave stations were audible. This radio was truly a find.

* * * * *

The restoration of the mansion was nearing completion. With the extra pieces found in the attic, Jean and Bob had everything they needed to open for business. All of the bedrooms, including the Colonel Sedgwick room, were decorated, and each now had its own gas-log fireplace. Shannon's things were removed from Jennifer's room and placed in the third-floor suite Jean and Bob would occupy for themselves. They had decided to live in the inn once it opened. They moved some of their furniture, including their bedroom set, to the inn.

Jean decided to leave her law firm. She discussed this with her other partners who all tried to talk her out of it, not wanting to lose so formidable a legal talent. Jean agreed not to leave abruptly, but remain on and gradually transfer her caseload to other partners in the firm.

She was having lunch with one of her clients, a prominent psychic and author who was unfortunately also notorious for having a volatile temper as well as a drinking problem. He had been charged with driving while intoxicated and assault on the arresting officer. Jean successfully plea-bargained for a reduced sentence on condition that he voluntarily relinquish his driver's license and enter treatment. This lunch was to celebrate his second year of sobriety.

The restaurant was one of the many small places that had sprung up in the city over the last twenty years. It was one of her client's favorite eateries, and Jean had to admit that the food was excellent, and their selection of coffees was superb.

"So Andy," she asked her client, "are you keeping out of trouble?"

Andy smiled over his Shrimp Scampi. "If you mean 'Am I staying sober', the answer is yes. And by staying on the wagon, I'm keeping my temper under control. I haven't punched anybody out in years."

"I'm glad to hear it, but there goes your reputation as a hard-living brawler."

"It's a reputation I just as soon would lose. Jean, I've been a drunk, and I've been sober. Sober is better."

"How's your life otherwise?"

"Couldn't be better. I'm working on another book."

"Oh? What's it about?"

"I'm collecting tales about local hauntings. You might be surprised at the number of places nearby that are supposed to be haunted. I've been interviewing the owners and others who claim to have seen ghosts."

Jean was taken a bit aback, but didn't show it. As the owner of a haunted mansion, she was a potential candidate for this book. But as far as she knew, only Bob and herself knew of Jennifer.

"That sounds interesting," she said. "Have you ever seen one of these ghosts yourself?"

"I've seen some ghosts," he replied, "but mostly I sense their presence. When I do, I try to help them."

"Help them? What do you mean?"

Andy seemed rather pleased that Jean was so interested in his work. "A ghost," he said, "is a poor soul with unfinished business. Most of us, when we pass on, move on to whatever awaits us on the other side. But some folks just seem to hang on. Some of them have been hanging on so long that they forget they are dead. It's kind of like being in denial."

"So how do you help them?" she asked.

"I usually just persuade them to move on. Or in some cases I help them find closure. I try to discover just what business they feel is left undone, and see what I can do to finish it."

Jean was following Andy's conversation so intently that she had stopped eating. "So how do you find out what this business is? Do you ask them?"

Andy laughed. "The ghosts usually aren't so forthcoming. I usually have to do some detective work. Like the ghost of the Hessian Soldier that haunted the basement of a school building in the suburbs. This spirit manifested itself by blowing out the pilot light of the oil furnace. I researched the history of the school and discovered that one of the headmasters had purchased the body of a dead Hessian soldier during the American Revolution. He used the body for his anatomy studies. After dissecting it, he buried it in the basement of the building."

"God, what a gruesome story!" Jean said. "So what did you do?"

Andy was obviously enjoying the attention. "I borrowed some echo-locating equipment that geologists use to search for oil and scanned the basement floor. We found a human skeleton buried with some military gear. It matched the gear used by the Hessian mercenaries of colonial times. So we exhumed the skeleton and gave the soldier a proper burial in a nearby cemetery. He was buried with military honors. The school's R.O.T.C. provided an honor guard."

"And what happened afterward?" Jean asked.

"We must have placated the ghost, because now the pilot light stays lit with no problems. And I no longer sense a disturbed spirit."

"So that's what you mean by unfinished business?"

"Oh, yes. In this case, the spirit wanted nothing more than a proper burial. Blowing out the light was his way of getting our attention."

Jean took another bite of her chef salad, suddenly remembering that she had food in front of her. She continued to eat and chat with her client, but in the back of her mind she was digesting this new bit of information.

* * * * *

They were at their townhouse getting some more of their personal things when Jean told Bob about the conversation she had with her client. "That's why Jennifer is haunting the mansion," she said. "She has unfinished business to conclude."

"She doesn't exactly seem to be suffering," Bob said. "And she isn't exactly playing pranks on us, or making out lives miserable. If anything, she's a very benign ghost. Remember, she saved my life."

"Maybe she's just too polite to complain. Andy did say that ghosts tend to obfuscate."

"Jennifer has been very forthcoming with information about herself and the mansion," Bob replied. "Why would she be reticent about whatever she feels needs completing?"

"Maybe ghosts aren't allowed to ask for help directly. Or maybe she's just too much a lady to burden us. But there must be something."

Bob thought for a moment. "Maybe something she told us will provide a clue."

"I think I know what it is," Jean said. "She said quite a bit about Charlie. Maybe she needs to find out just what happened to him before she can move on."

"That makes sense," Bob said. "She certainly isn't in denial about being dead. I wonder how we can find out about Charlie?"

"There might be a way," Jean said. "My law firm uses detectives. Maybe one of them could get some lead on Charlie's whereabouts."

"It's worth a try," Bob said.

"I'll put Paul on it. He owes me a favor, anyway."

* * * * *

Within a week, Paul had a file of information about Charles Sommers.

"Look at this," Jean said as she read the contents of the file. "This is a picture of Charlie and his bomber crew." The photo showed a group of men posing in front of a B-17. The nose of the bomber was painted with a picture of a woman holding a sword riding a winged horse. The lettering beneath proclaimed this bomber the "Jenny C".

"It looks like he named his bomber after Jennifer," Bob said.

"Yes, I wonder what she would think about that?"

"I already know," said a familiar voice. They turned to find Jennifer standing next to them. "Charlie wrote to me about the Jenny C. I immediately asked him to change the name, but by that time it was too late. His crew felt that it brought them good luck."

"Jennifer, I hope you don't think we were too bold," Jean said. "I had one of our staff detectives investigate the fate of your husband. Would you like to know?"

Jennifer appeared frightened, as if in anticipation of very bad news. "Yes," she finally said, "it would not change the outcome one bit to finally learn the fate of my husband. Please, tell me."

Jean scanned the report. "Paul managed to track down one of Charlie's crewmates. This was the bombardier, Tom Joyce. Mr. Joyce considers Charlie to be '...the finest, most courageous man I have ever met.'"

Jean read the report aloud. "According to Mr. Joyce, ' The Jenny C had finished its twentieth mission and was flying back to England when we were jumped by a pack of Luftwaffe fighters. We managed to fight them off, and gave as good as we got, but the Jenny C was shot up pretty bad. We limped over the channel on two engines, and one of them gave out before we could get home.

"'Our last engine was already failing. We knew we were going down. Captain Sommers ordered us to bail out. But he stayed with her. We were over a populated area. If he bailed with us, the Jenny C might have crashed into a house. He stayed with her to steer her away from the houses, so nobody else would be injured. I saw her crash into a meadow. There's no way he could have survived.'"

Jean paused for a moment, then continued. "The Army was unable to recover Charlie's remains. His body burned to ashes in the wreckage of the Jenny C. Charlie's squadron held a memorial service for him. His name is inscribed on a monument with other American Airmen at the site of the airfield."

Jean looked up. Jennifer looked as though she were ready to cry. "Jennifer, I'm so sorry. I wish I had better news for you."

Jennifer appeared to look into the distance. "He died to save innocent lives. That is so like my Charlie. Always thinking of others first and himself last. I always knew he was brave. And I always knew that if he had breath left in his body, he would return to me."

She looked up at Jean. "I suppose we should not have kept our marriage a secret. The War Department would then have notified me of Charlie's death. But Jean, I'm not at all angry with you. I had suspected something like this had happened."

Tears were now trickling down Jean's cheeks, and Bob's as well. "Tears?" Jennifer asked. "Please, don't weep for me. Many men gave their lives in that awful war. And many of the deaths were senseless. At least I know that Charlie's death made a difference.

"Thank you, my friends, for this marvelous gift. I shall always remember it." Jennifer smiled, and then vanished.

* * * * *

It turned out that the fate of Charlie was not the unfinished business keeping Jennifer in the Cressman Manor. She kept popping in on the Conrads, albeit politely. Bob and Jean had grown rather fond of her by now, and did not resent her presence. But Jean was still concerned, and she shared her concern with Bob.

"I really thought that providing Jennifer with closure would help her to move on," she said.

"Are you trying to get rid of her?" Bob asked. "She isn't really a nuisance. In fact, I've grown fond of her."

"I have too, but I'm still worried. How will she feel when we start having guests? Will she be annoyed with them? I don't want to hurt her feelings. And besides that, isn't it kind of selfish for us to keep her here? I really think we should help her."

Bob sighed. "I suppose you're right. I do like having her, but it isn't fair to her to keep her bound to the mansion. But how can we help?"

"I don't know. She's so polite, I don't think it would be wise to just ask her what her unfinished business is."

"True. I don't want to offend her. The poor soul has been hurt enough."

"Maybe she might open up if we invite her to another tea party. Do you think she might come?"

That's when the light clicked on in Bob's brain. "That's it!" he said. "I know what Jennifer has left undone!" Quickly he explained his insight to Jean. She was doubtful at first, but soon was convinced.

"Just one question," she said, "how can we do this so quickly?"

"Let me make a few phone calls," Bob said. "I think I can line up some troops to help us out."

* * * * *

It was a week later, and Bob had transformed to Shannon once again.

All of the renovations were complete. Cressman Manor was awaiting supplies and staff, but was otherwise ready for business. Shannon opened the door to Jennifer's room and walked in.

The vanity she had restored was there, along with the freestanding full-length mirror and the armoire. The bed-ruffles and canopy complemented the lace curtains nicely. Shannon was convinced that this was the finest guest suite in her Bed and Breakfast.

"Jennifer," she called, "are you here? We need to talk."

Jennifer appeared next to the vanity. "Hello, Shannon. My, but you look lovely today. Are you wearing one of my hats?"

"Yes, I am, Jennifer, and thank you for noticing. I hope you don't mind."

"Not at all, dear. You look just lovely. I always said that a lady looks her best when wearing a hat. But I also see you are wearing white gloves. And the style of your dress looks a bit, well, antique. It looks like something from my younger days."

"That's the idea, Jennifer. Jean and I are having a sort of a dress rehearsal today. We want to have High Tea here at the mansion on Sunday afternoons. We think it will be quite a hit with our guests."

Jennifer looked surprised and elated. "Wonderful! Oh, I'm so happy that High Tea is returning to my home. Are you having guests today?"

"Yes. We invited a few friends for our first High Tea. They should be arriving soon."

"Oh, that sounds so exciting. Shannon, dear, would you mind terribly if I observed? Discretely, of course."

"Jennifer, we need you to do something special for us."

"Oh. I suppose you want me to keep quiet and not disturb the guests," she said, with a hurt tone in her voice.

"Not exactly. Jennifer, we would be honored if you would consent to being our hostess."

The look of utter surprise on Jennifer's face was priceless. "Hostess? I?"

"Who better to host High Tea at Cressman Manor than the Mistress of the Estate. Would you do this for us, Jennifer?"

Jennifer was momentarily speechless. "But, then all of your friends will know about me. I'm not sure I want that."

"These friends are quite good at keeping a secret," Shannon said. "They are members of my support group. Most of them are cross-dressers like myself, and some of them have brought their wives or girl friends. We all are dressing in antique clothing, and we shall all wear hats."

Jennifer looked stunned. "And you want me to be the hostess?"

"Yes, I do. So does Jean. It would mean so much to us."

Jennifer seemed hesitant. "What do they know about me?" she asked.

"Only that you shall be our hostess. That is, if you wish to be. If you would like to share your story with them, go right ahead, but I don't want you to feel pressured into this."

If Jennifer felt any pressure, she did not show it. Her response was enthusiastic. "Of course, I shall be delighted. But Shannon, dear, you will have to introduce your friends."

"Certainly, Jennifer."

"Oh, and we must have maids to serve our guests. Have you arranged for this?"

"Yes, I have. Three of my friends will be arriving shortly. They enjoy playing 'Maid' and have suitable uniforms."

Jennifer was elated. "Shannon, I don't know what to say. I have always wanted to serve High Tea here at Cressman Manor. This is a dream come true."

The doorbell sounded. Jennifer said, "I believe that some of your friends have arrived."

"That would be Angelique, Bridgett, and Consuela, our maids for this afternoon. Jennifer, would you be so kind as to inform them of their duties? I must see to the food."

"Of course, Shannon. It will be my pleasure."

* * * * *

The ladies from Shannon's support group soon arrived. High tea was a smashing success, served in the restored parlor of Cressman Manor. The ladies were resplendent in their antique dresses, made all the more elegant by their white cotton gloves and their hats.

Jennifer was the perfect hostess, greeting her guests and welcoming them to the Manor. Shannon had followed Jennifer's advice and obtained her pastries and breads from the baker at the farmer's market. The cookies, cucumber sandwiches, and petit fours were excellent, as was the Earl Gray tea served in Abigail Cressman's antique tea service. Jennifer graciously consented to entertain her guests with a selection on the piano, which was now properly tuned. And of course, she enthralled her guests with her stories about the history of Cressman Manor.

The shadows soon stretched long, signaling an end to the afternoon. Jennifer's guests all properly thanked their hostess for a lovely Tea, and departed. The maids hurried to tidy the parlor and to clean up and put away the tea service. Finally, they also left, thanking Jennifer for a most lovely afternoon.

"Well," Jean said, "I think High Tea was a big success. Do you think we can do this on a regular basis?"

"You must, my dears," Jennifer said. "High Tea is a tradition that has been so neglected of late. But if you would not mind some small advice..." She hesitated.

"Not at all, Jennifer," said Shannon. "You are the expert in these matters."

"Might I suggest that you open these sessions to the general public, and not restrict them to, well, to Shannon's special friends."

Jean and Shannon both laughed. "Yes, we will," Jean said. "Shannon will have some special weekends for her friends a few times each year, but we will be catering to the general public. I loved having High Tea, and I think a lot of ladies would also enjoy it."

Shannon smiled. "How lovely. Perhaps there is some room for gentility in the world."

The ladies were interrupted by a knock at the door. "Who on earth could that be?" Jennifer asked.

Shannon and Jean were taken aback. "Jennifer, I thought you were aware of everything that happened in the Estate. How could somebody arrive without you knowing?"

"I don't know! Curious, indeed! Shall we answer the door?"

They opened the door to see a young man. He was dressed in a World War II aviator's uniform. His hat showed the classic "25-mission crush" that resulted from wearing headphones, and his leather jacket had the Eighth Air Force patch sewn on at the shoulder. He was handsome, with a boyish grin and curly hair, and a thin moustache that reminded one of Clark Gable. "Excuse me," he said, removing his hat, "I'm looking for Jennifer Cressman."

Jennifer nearly screamed with delight. "Charlie!" she called, "Oh, my sweet gallant Charlie! I knew you would return! I always knew it!"

She ran into his outstretched arms and they embraced, their lips joining in a passionate kiss. Jennifer's demure ladylike manners were momentarily forgotten as she held her husband close to her.

"I knew you would come for me!" she said. "I never doubted for an instant."

"And here I am, back from the war and ready to claim my bride!" he said. "Let everybody in this home know that Jennifer is my wife, and I am proud to be her husband!"

Shannon and Jean were awestruck. But Jean managed to recover sufficiently to invite the young man in, which he accepted.

"I'm sure I could brew some more tea," Shannon offered as they settled into the parlor.

"No need to bother on my account," said Charlie, for indeed this must be Jennifer's husband. They sat together on the sofa, where Jennifer held his arm and gazed at him like a schoolgirl. He gazed back. One could almost see the love flowing as a current between them.

Charlie then looked around the parlor. "Oh, the memories this room has for me. Did Jenny tell you that I proposed to her here?"

"She did," answered Jean. "She was always talking about you."

"Was she?" he asked. "My goodness, Jenny, you must have bored these poor folks to tears."

Shannon returned to the parlor with a tray containing cups of tea and two frosty mugs of beer. "I believe this is something a pilot can appreciate."

Charlie's eyes lit up as he hoisted the mug and quaffed the cold, amber liquid. "Ah," he sighed, "excellent. And cold, too. As much as I enjoyed England, I never did grow very fond of warm beer."

"Agreed," said Shannon, quaffing her own brew with appreciation, "I like my beer cold and my women hot." This remarked brought about gales of laughter from Jennifer, Charlie, and Jean. Shannon looked around puzzled, not understanding the joke. Then she blushed. "Oh," she said, "my dress. I guess I forgot."

"Don't be embarrassed, old man," said Charlie. "Did Jennifer ever tell you about her childhood friend, whose aunt would dress him in petticoats and frills?"

"Yes, she did," Shannon answered.

"Well," said Charlie, with a twinkle in his eye, "that was none other than I."

"It's true," said Jennifer. "Imagine this strong, gallant man in feminine finery. But my Charlie was ever a man, and always a gentleman."

Jean asked a question. "Charlie, why did it take you this long to return? I read your war record. You were awarded a Silver Star posthumously."

Charlie paused for a minute. "I actually found myself here shortly after my death. I wanted to appear to Jennifer to give her some comfort, but something held me back. I knew she had some business to complete, and it was important that I allow her to finish. And so I waited, and watched. And today, I knew that her task was accomplished. For my lovely Jennifer was indeed the hostess for High Tea at her family home."

Jennifer beamed. "Yes, it's true. I never realized it, but Charlie did. He was always so clever."

"So what will happen now?" asked Shannon. "Are you going to stay here? You know that you're both welcome."

"No," said Charlie, "out time here has ended. It's time to move on to the great mystery that awaits us all. But I wanted to thank you, both of you, for helping Jennifer realize her fondest dream."

"Yes, my friends," Jennifer said, "although I didn't know it, I was always fated to be the Mistress of Cressman Manor, and the Hostess for High Tea."

Jennifer and Charlie both stood. Jean and Shannon did so as well. "Goodbye, my friends," said Jennifer. She hugged Jean and Shannon. Charlie then hugged Jean and extended his hand to Shannon, who grasped it firmly and shook it.

"Goodbye, Jennifer," said Jean. "And goodbye to you, Charlie. You know you are always welcome here."

"Thank you as well," said Charlie. "Who knows? We might just come back for a visit."

Charlie and Jennifer held hands, and gazed into each other's eyes. Then, they vanished.

Shannon took a long pull at her beer. Jean took the mug from her hands and drank some herself. "Do you ever think we might see them again?" she asked.

"Maybe," said Shannon, "but I don't think it will be in this life."

They were tired. It had been a long day. With no word spoken between them, they climbed the steps to their suite on the third floor.

* * * * *

It was exactly one week before the Grand Opening of August Cressman's Country Inn. The rooms were all ready. The needed help had been hired, supplies were making their way into the Inn, and the first guests had been booked. There was still a lot to do, but the Conrads were throwing themselves into it.

They were enjoying some of the last free time they would have for many months in the privacy of their suite. Jean had a little surprise for Bob.

"I want you to have this, " she said, and she handed a shopping bag to Bob. He peeled back the tissue paper to find something surprising. It was a sundress. There was also a pair of white sandals.

"Jean," he said, "I really don't know what to say. Does this mean you've accepted Shannon?"

"Maybe not completely," Jean said, "but our experience with Jennifer taught me something. I don't want our spirits bound to earth because of unfinished business. When we go, I want us to just go."

"What does this have to do with this dress?" he asked.

"Something I heard you say. You said you wanted Shannon to walk in the sunshine. Well, we'll soon have an Inn full of guests, and Shannon will be back in her closet until that special weekend you talked about. I just wanted you to be Shannon, and walk in the sunshine, before we have to put her away.

"So what do you say? Shall we take a stroll in our garden?"

Tears of joy welled up in Bob's eyes. He hugged Jean tight and kissed her tenderly. She kissed back. "Go on," she said, "get changed."

And so Shannon and Jean enjoyed a stroll in the garden. The sun beamed down warmly. They picked some flowers to arrange. But mostly they just walked, enjoying the beauty of a spring day.

As they brought their flowers into the kitchen, Shannon asked, "And what business do you want to finish, Jean?"

"That should be obvious. I want to be the Mistress of Cressman Manor, and hostess for High Tea."

* * * * *

The Bed and Breakfast was a success from the very beginning. Word of mouth spread quickly, and the Conrads were soon booked solid for the next year. Guests would come from all over the Eastern Seaboard, dropping in for a night, a weekend, or a week. They found comfortable rooms with antique furniture, individual fireplaces, king-sized beds, and satellite TV. And breakfast was always a feast. Eggs, Pancakes, French Toast, Belgian Waffles, sausage, bacon, scrapple, quiche, blueberry muffins, bagels, and much more was always ready for guests of the Cressman Inn.

Jean and Bob have become far more content with their life. The work is perhaps a bit harder, and the hours are longer, but they love their life together more than ever. They love their little inn in the country, and enjoy caring for their guests. For here, away from the cares and stresses of corporate America, the Conrads have found true peace. The peace they had so desperately wanted back in the sixties was now realized in the new millennium. And along the way, they fell in love all over again.

Jean still practices law, but she gave up her partnership in the city. She no longer defends criminals, preferring to practice family law. She prepares wills, powers-of-attorney, and legal documents for her friends and neighbors. Her practice is now a part-time affair, and her office is a corner of the library, where she keeps her antique roll-top desk, her file cabinets, her law books, and her PC.

Sunday afternoon High Tea has once again become a fixture at Cressman Manor. Bob will help out in the kitchen while Jean dresses the ladies in antique hats and cotton gloves, and serves them tea, cookies, pastries, and cucumber sandwiches. Jean has become quite a skilled storyteller, holding the ladies in rapt attention as she recites the history of the mansion, and of all the famous, notorious, and not-so-famous inhabitants and guests. All of her guests agree, Jean gives a truly fine High Tea.

But for one weekend in the spring, and one in the fall, Jean does not host High Tea. These are special weekends, in which the guests are not quite what they appear. Friends of Shannon, some from her support group and others, who have heard of the special weekends at Cressman Manor, will gather together to enjoy a very special High Tea. On these weekends, Shannon is the hostess. And, in addition to serving exceptionally fine tea, cookies, cakes, and cucumber sandwiches, Shannon will share with her guests a special love story of how a woman's faith in her man's love transcended the barriers of life itself, and how a man's love gave this woman her heart's fondest desire.

 © 2000, Valentina Michelle Smith

Notes:

Readers, Please Remember to Leave a Comment

Synopsis:

A crossdresser fills in for his girl friend when she is called for jury duty.
This is based on my own experience as a juror, only I didn't show up en femme. Many of the shops depicted in this tale are real. The names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Story:

Jury Duty
by
Valentina Michelle Smith

I felt a little nervous as I parked my car in the Municipal Garage. I gave my makeup and hair a quick check in the vanity mirror before retrieving my purse and opening the door. I swung my legs out of the car and stood, smoothing my skirt.

I closed the door, pressed the "Lock" button on my keyless remote, and was rewarded with a familiar chirp. My car was now alarmed. I looked around and located the elevator. I tried to keep my knees from shaking as I made my way to the elevator. The sound of my high heels on the concrete floor seemed to echo throughout the underground parking garage.

I was dressed quite conservatively. I wore a dark blue suit with an ivory blouse, tan hose, and mid-heeled navy pumps. The blouse had a ruffled front that added a very feminine touch to the suit. My skirt was neither too loose nor too tight, falling to just below my knees with a discreet slit in the back. I had taken great pains to ensure that my lace slip was not visible.

As I waited in silence for the elevator, two women walked up to the queue. They paid me very little attention, other than to smile and say good morning. One, a blonde woman carrying a leather briefcase, seemed more concerned with the conversation she was having on her cell phone than with her surroundings.

A bell sounded and the elevator doors opened. I entered and pressed the button for the main level. My companions, it seemed, were also headed there since nobody pushed any of the other buttons. The doors closed, and the elevator slowly lurched upward.

I fought down the first of many minor panic attacks I would have this day. The aroma of our different perfumes mixed with the pervading smell of machine oil and the lingering stench of stale cigarette smoke, as the elevator seemed to creep along. Why hadn't I taken the stairs?

Eventually the elevator halted and the doors opened. We all left and proceeded on our respective ways. I sighed to myself in relief, having passed the first of many tests I would face today. Once more I checked my purse to verify that I had the summons with me. I checked my watch. It was just 8:00 AM, and I wasn't due in the Jury Lounge until 8:30. This ought to allow time for a quick trip to the Ladies' room. I gathered up my courage and walked across the street to enter the imposing edifice that was the Bucks County Courthouse. As I walked, I once again questioned the very sanity of what I was about to do. I was going to impersonate my girl friend and serve her jury duty. And to make matters even worse, I'm a man.

My name is Paul Weston. I'm an independent Internet consultant, which means I charge companies an obscene fee to design their corporate web sites. As a freelancer, I get to pick when and if I actually work. I can usually make enough in a few months to live comfortably for a year. The last few years were really good ones, so I had enough money to coast a long time if I wanted to. I usually worked out of my home. I had my own home office complete with a T1 line and my own server. This was a fairly costly investment, but as a business expense I could deduct every bit of it. My accountant handled the details.

For the last couple of years I have been living with a truly sweet lady named Allison Gross. That's her real name, not a typo. I met Allie at a developer's seminar and we really hit it off. We discovered that we both lived in Bucks County, and we had a number of common interests. She was one of the Web designers for her company, a pharmaceutical manufacturer, and enjoyed a positively decadent salary with great perks.

Our relationship started out warm and quickly intensified. We were ready to move from the platonic to the physical when, out of my own sense of honor and decency, I shared my secret with her. I told her that I was a crossdresser.

She deserved to know. I could not, in good conscience, let her enter an intimate physical relationship without this vital piece of data. I knew it was a risk, but I was willing to take it. I had a good feeling about Allie. And I was not mistaken.

She was silent for a few seconds after I dropped the bomb. She seemed to hold her breath. Then she asked, "Are you telling me that you want a sex change?" This led to a discussion about the difference between transsexuals and transvestites. She didn't seem horrified as I explained. Her expression was one of disbelief mixed with curiosity.

"But how can I be sure," she asked, "that you never will try to transition twenty or thirty years from now?"

"Allie," I answered, "I wish I could somehow guarantee that this will never happen. In twenty years, I might be dead, or dying of cancer or something. Hell, I might even be a Republican by then!"

"We can only hope," she said. Did I mention that we didn't always agree about politics?

"All I can guarantee," I continued, "is that right now, this very minute, I love you. I want you. Every time I see you, I want to grab you and hold you close to me! I've never felt this way about anybody before. I want to be with you forever. I want to wake up next to you every day, and go to sleep every night with you at my side. I want to grow old with you, and have kids and even grandchildren with you."

Allie was definitely taken aback. "You mean it," she said, more as a matter of fact than a question. "You are serious!"

"More serious than I have ever been in my life. But I couldn't ask you to share my life before I let you know about my secret. You have a right to know."

Allie considered for a few minutes, than asked, "How often do you do this?"

"It varies. Sometimes I dress a couple of nights a week. Sometimes months will pass without any crossdressing. It depends on my mood."

"Do you ever go outside? As a woman, I mean."

"I've taken a few drives late at night, but I don't hang out at drag clubs or anything like that. It's a solitary activity."

"So how do you look? In a dress, I mean?"

"Not too bad, but not really great. Would you like to see some of my pictures?"

"You have pictures? How did you take them?"

"I have a timer on my camera. I set it up on a tripod and then pose. Do you want to see them?"

"Okay. Why not?"

I fetched the photo album in which I kept my femme pictures and, for the first time, shared them with another person. As Allie paged through the photos, I noticed her mood was getting lighter. She was soon smiling, and by the time she had finished she was even laughing at some of them. "I hope this doesn't mean that I look ridiculous," I said sheepishly.

"Oh, it isn't that at all," she answered. "It's just that these poses are so, well, girlish, it's just funny to think that it's really you."

"So you don't hate me for it? You aren't disgusted or revolted? Or fearful?"

"I don't think so, Paul. I admit I was shocked when you told me, but now that I've seen these pictures I don't think I'll have a problem with it. It might even be fun." She was smiling, and her eyes had that special little sparkle in them I had come to love. We kissed, and then kissed again. There was magic in those kisses, and energy in the air.

I won't bore you with a long, steamy account of the rest of the night. We made love, and it was fabulous. 'Nuff said. A few weeks later, Allie moved in with me. And within six months we bought a house together.

Allie has really been cool with my dressing. She has helped me in my selection of clothes, my makeup, my wigs, and everything. It was at Allie's urging that I joined a local transgender support group. Allie even helped me to pick the name for my feminine alter ego, Cindy. It seems that we both like Disney films, and Cinderella is one of our favorites. Go figure! Thanks to Allie, Cindy has blossomed into quite a lady.

Cindy has become like a little sister for Allie, and Allie has helped me gain confidence as Cindy. Where once I was afraid to venture past the front door, I am now able to walk in public en femme. I have Allie to thank for this.

Truth to tell, Cindy is only a small part of the relationship we have. Allie and I enjoy romantic dinners together, we enjoy movies and shows, we take trips together, and generally just love each other's company. We have walked on the beach at Cape May and watched the sun rise over the ocean. And later the same day, we have watched the sun set in the bay. Last year we took a cruise to the Bahamas. Life with Allie is a dream come true.

Things went along this way for about two years. That's when Allie got the opportunity of a lifetime.

Allie works for an international pharmaceutical firm, with operations in Europe, South America, and the Pacific Rim. Her work as a Web Designer came to the attention of the Big Shots at her company. They could use her talents, and were willing to pay an astounding sum with perks to match. There was just one little catch. She would have to relocate to Europe for a year.

We talked about it over dinner. Our meal wasn't anything special, just some hoagies from the local deli. Allie wanted to turn down the offer.

"Allie, you have to be crazy! This is the opportunity of a lifetime!"

"I know, Paul, but the thought of spending a year away from you is just too depressing!"

"Who says you have to spend a year away from me? I can come with you."

"Be serious, Paul. You couldn't spend a year in Europe. You have to be here to take care of your business."

"I can wrap up my current project and just coast for a while. I have plenty in the bank, love."

"But you can't neglect your clients. What happens if one of them has a server crash, or needs an upgrade and needs it yesterday? You have an obligation to them, Paul."

"I can let it go for a while. Besides, I can telecommute from Europe just as easily as from here. And if I really have to put in any face time, I can always catch a flight back."

We talked some more, and finally agreed that I would go with her to Europe. I would spend a month with her and then head back to the States for a few weeks to take care of the business. Then every few weeks I would commute across the Atlantic. I would be logging plenty of frequent flyer miles over the next year, but it would be worth it to be with Allie. And I didn't want her to pass up a promotion that could fast track her to the top or the corporate ladder.

So that's what we did. We flew to Wiesbaden and found ourselves a little place to live for a year. It was a comfortable flat within easy commuting distance from Allie's office. We spent a month there, set up housekeeping and settled in to the daily routine. Allie was really excited about her new position and jumped into it with enthusiasm. I spent my days keeping our flat tidy, taking care of domestic chores, and maintaining my business as best as I could by remote control.

That first month seemed to fly by.

Allie drove me to the airport for my trip back to the States. She waited with me until the plane started boarding, and then kissed me long and passionately. "Hurry back," she said.

"Count on it," I said, closing for yet another kiss.

Final boarding was called. With great reluctance, I walked to the gate, turning to wave goodbye one more time.

The flight was uneventful. I slept for most of it. At the airport I retrieved my luggage and caught a cab home.

Our answering machine was full, but my e-mail inbox was nearly empty thanks to my telecommuting efforts. I cleared my inbox and started playing the phone messages. Most were trivial, but one message left while I was still airborne was urgent.

One of my oldest clients had experienced a major server meltdown, and his MIS guys were having trouble getting it back on line. I called him back and got some more info. It was a good thing I had returned, because this problem wasn't one I could just phone in.

I spent the next ten hours with his staff rebuilding the site. Fortunately, the transaction log I had included in the database let us rebuild with very little lost data. We were up and running once more. My grateful client signed my billing report and I left.

I stopped at the Post Office on my way home to pick up accumulated mail and resume home delivery. The clerk handed me a box filled with all sorts of letters, magazines, pamphlets, and other assorted mail. I carried it out to the car cursing the guy who invented junk mail.

Back home I started sorting through the mail. I tossed the junk mail directly into my shredder and sorted the other stuff into piles of bills, correspondence, magazines, and stuff I wanted to keep.

That's when I found the summons.

It was a green computer-generated envelope marked with the words "Standby Juror Summons" and addressed to Allison. I peeled off the borders and opened it. Inside I found a juror number and instructions to call the courthouse every day after 4:30 PM during a certain week. A recorded message would then indicate which standby jurors were needed.

The dates to call were last week!

I called the courthouse hoping I could somehow clear this up. It was late in the afternoon, and I hoped that everybody hadn't gone home. But as luck would have it, I managed to get the Jury Clerk. I explained that I had been away and we just got the summons. I hoped Allie wasn't in any trouble.

"What was her juror number," the woman asked. I gave it to her. She then said, "That's one of the numbers we called in last week. But don't worry. Just tell her to come in on Monday. Thanks for calling." And she hung up.

I was going to call back and explain that Allie was out of the country when the idea hit. Why don't I do her jury duty?

Now before you go remind me just how stupid this idea was, let me explain that Bucks County has a "One Day, One Case" policy for jury duty. Most people summoned for jury duty are never picked, and after one day our jury duty is satisfied for three years. So all I had to do was hang out at the courthouse for the day. I figured that I could pull that off, and I could have lunch and shop a little in downtown Doylestown. My confidence as Cindy had certainly been built up these last three years. Why the hell not?

The more I thought about it, the better I liked it. But I would need a little help. I needed some new clothes, and I needed a makeover. I called a number I had obtained from my support group, an image consultant for crossdressers.

I called the woman and explained that I needed to achieve a conservative business image by Monday morning. I didn't tell her why, and she didn't ask, but she had a cancellation and could take me tomorrow morning. I was instructed to bring a female set of clothes, my underwear and breast forms, makeup, and a wig.

The next day at eight, I was at her office in the suburbs. It was a cheery sort of place, with lots of light and plants. Christine, my new image consultant, showed me to a changing room and told me to get into my femme things. I was happy to oblige, and within a half-hour emerged as Cindy. I was wearing a pleated teal skirt with a matching jacket and a white satin shell. My pumps and purse matched the skirt.

Christine looked me over with a critical eye. "That's a good look, Cindy. I see you've had help. But it's all wrong for business."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Don't get me wrong. You would look just great on a shopping trip, or at a party, but the business world demands something a little more serious. Take a look at me. What do you think?"

Christine was wearing a yellow crepe du chine suit with a crá¨me blouse, set off by a gold necklace. Tan hose and matching shoes and purse completed her ensemble. "It looks wonderful," I said. "It's quite becoming."

"Yes it is, but it's all wrong for business. The color is much too bright. In the world of business, one must de-emphasize color to emphasize content. Blue and gray are best, possibly pinstripe, and occasionally one may get away with something like a Hunter Green. Dark colors. Conservative is the key.

"I hope you brought your credit cards," Christine said, "because we are going shopping." We bustled out of her office and over to the mall. Our first stop was Macy's.

Christine guided me through the process of selecting a woman's suit. I tried on several, looking for factors such as skirt length, drape, and overall fit. I settled on two outfits, one dark gray and one blue with subtle red pinstripes. I bought several blouses to complement my new suits, one ivory, one crá¨me, and two white ones.

Our next stop was the lingerie department. Now when I wear a blouse, I kind of like the translucent appearance where my bra shows through, but Christine said that this was unacceptable business wear. I bought two camisoles and two half-slips. I also bought several pair of tan pantyhose. I prefer a garter belt and stockings, but Christine again indicated that this was bad form for business.

With several full shopping bags, I thought we were through, but Christine insisted that I needed makeup. She sat me down at the Prescriptives counter and showed me why. "I know that you like red lipstick, and it goes well with your coloring, but let me show you what happens in an office." She turned on the fluorescent lamps around the makeup mirror and I was shocked! My lips looked purple! "You have to watch your makeup under fluorescent bulbs because of the high ultraviolet content. Some of the pigments will react like this to the light."

The Prescriptives saleswoman showed me a selection of lipsticks. I liked the Mauve. It was a nice color for daytime. We tried several foundations, blushes, and eye shadows until I was satisfied with my look. One more shopping bag was added to our load, and we were not done yet!

Christine insisted on dragging me over to the jewelry department. Now I have some nice earrings, necklaces, bracelets, rings, and other jewelry thanks to Allie, but Christine said I would definitely need a watch. I looked over the selection of tiny gold watches, but couldn't find anything that I liked. Then my eyes locked on to one particular watch. It had a silver metal bracelet and a digital display. It wasn't the finest piece of jewelry in the case, but it was pretty and it told time. It also had some extra features such as a countdown timer, a calendar, a stopwatch function, and world time. This appealed to the geek in me. Christine looked it over and, while she thought one of the daintier watches would have been nicer, saw no real reason why I could not wear it with my new outfits. The charge card wailed once more, and I was the proud owner of a geek-girl watch.

Our next stop was the shoe store. I tried on several pumps before I settled for a mid-heel navy pump. It was definitely conservative. I also bought a dark gray pair with a slightly higher heel and ankle straps. At Christine's suggestion, I bought a large black organizer handbag. This had special compartments for my cell phone, a calculator, my checkbook, my Palm Pilot, credit cards, keys, and other essentials with lots of room left over for makeup, tissues, and other accessories.

Our final stop was the nail salon. Christine asked if I would mind having nails over the weekend, and I thought it would be great. So I sat and let myself be pampered a little. Soon I was sporting a nice set of active-length nails that matched my new Mauve lipstick and had a bottle of nail polish to touch up any nicks.

It was mid-afternoon when we finally returned to Christine's office. It had been the most intense shopping experience of my life. And I have to tell you, the sensation of my newly polished nails was making me feel so feminine I could scarcely contain myself. I was in heaven! I thanked Christine for a lovely experience, signed the credit card slip, gathered up all of my shopping bags, and walked out of the office.

I was halfway to my car when my first panic attack hit. It occurred to me that I was quite confident as Cindy, and had walked outside in the sunshine as a woman, but I was always in the company of another woman, one who knew my secret. Allie, and this afternoon Christine, had always served as a kind of camouflage, helping to reinforce my masquerade. As I was walking to my car, I realized that I would have to go it alone. I would have to pass successfully without the support of another. It was frightening.

Somehow I made it to my car without collapsing into a hysterical mass. My hands started to shake as I stowed all of my shopping bags into the trunk. I pulled my key out of my purse and opened the car. I drove home, certain that everybody who looked my way knew that I was really a guy wearing a dress and makeup. But if anybody knew, they didn't indicate it. All I noticed was the normal obnoxious driving I had come to expect in the Delaware Valley. I managed to calm down. By the time I pulled into my garage, my panic had subsided. Still, I was grateful for the remote garage door opener.

I hung up all of my new clothes and set about loading up my new handbag. I decided to spend the rest of today and most of tomorrow en femme to get used to the idea. I also dug out my training tape and started practicing my feminine voice. I wanted to be ready for Monday morning.

On Sunday night I treated myself to a bubble bath. I soaked in the warm water and just let myself relax. I stretched out deliciously, letting my feet emerge from the water. I wiggled my toes and kind of squished the suds between them. That's when I decided that I ought to polish my toenails. So after I finished my bath, toweled myself dry, and powdered myself, I took my nail polish and painted my toes. Then I touched up my fingernails. I felt quite happy that evening. I made a call to Allie just to tell her how much I missed her. She had a lot to tell me about her job and she seemed happy, but we both knew that we missed each other, and we couldn't wait until we were together again.

Monday morning dawned brightly. It was early spring, and the mornings were still a little chilly. The trees were starting to bud. And I had to get ready for Jury Duty.

I shaved extra close that morning. I usually shave twice before I crossdress; once with the grain, and once against it. This makes my face as smooth as a baby's butt, and keeps my five o'clock shadow away until nine-thirty or so. This, along with makeup, would make my feminine appearance last throughout the day. I had shaved my legs while I showered. I set about transforming myself into Cindy.

I fit a panty liner into my cotton panties before putting them on. Normally I like nylon panties with lace, but I was going to be wearing these most of the day, so I decided to be comfortable. I then rolled up my pantyhose and struggled to pull them on. I really liked stockings better because I could do them one leg at a time, but pantyhose required that I get both feet in and pull it over both legs at the same time. My nails did not help things, but I managed to get them on without snagging them, and my legs were now encased in tan nylon hose.

I picked out an ivory bra to match my camisole and blouse. It was an underwire bra, which was not as comfortable as a soft cup, but did a better job of holding in my breast forms. I used my best forms for today, the silicone ones with the nipples. I soon was enjoying that beautiful, busty feeling once again.

I put on my half-slip and camisole. These were also ivory, and very satiny. I enjoyed smoothing them over my increasingly feminine curves. I buttoned up my blouse, again being careful not to snag the soft material with my nails. Then I put on my skirt. I noticed that the material was somewhat sturdier than the material I found in most of my other femme outfits. This stuff was made to last. I took a peek at myself in the full-length mirror. I still needed to put on my wig and makeup, but I liked what I was seeing.

I sat down at the makeup table I shared with Allie to put on my face. I marveled at the Prescriptives foundation. It was light, but it covered a lot. I didn't need much to hide my flaws or to conceal my beard cover. The blush was also nice to work with, as well as the eye shadow. I used my normal eyeliner and mascara, and brushed a little dark powder into my brows to give them some form and color. I did have to pluck a few hairs, but I was affecting a thicker brow style, full but not bushy. Finally I applied my new lipstick. It went on nicely. A little translucent powder set the makeup, and I was done. I put some things in my bag for touch-ups, along with my nail polish, and got up.

I put on my gold Celtic knot earrings, my cubic zirconium ring, and my new watch. Then I put on my wig. I was using my shorter wig today. It came down to about my shoulders with a nice flip, and had bangs. I used a few bobby pins to secure it just in case the weather got windy. Then I stepped into my new navy pumps. To complete my outfit, I put on my jacket. I made one more check of my purse, closed it, and swung it over my shoulder. I paused to admire myself in the mirror.

I want to tell you, I was overwhelmed! I looked powerful! I never realized just how sexy a woman's business suit could be! I always liked Allie's suits, and really thought she was sexy in them, but I never fully appreciated just how sexy a woman could look in a suit until I saw myself.

I turned and posed in front of the mirror. I was a powerful woman of business. I imagined myself strolling into a corporate boardroom, turning the head of every dirty old man on the board, and shattering the glass ceiling! You go girl! I am woman, hear me roar!

Hey, calm down Cindy I said to myself. Remember that this isn't about turning heads, it's about passing. Take it slow and easy. I took a few calming breaths, then walked away from the mirror.

Somehow my high heels felt a little higher as I walked to my car. I started it and opened the garage door. I drove out a little hesitantly, hoping on one hand I wouldn't be spotted, and on the other hand wishing that somebody would. I drove out of my garage, down the driveway, and onto the street.

If anybody saw me and observed anything the least bit unusual, they didn't indicate it to me. I tuned my radio to the local news station to keep an ear out for traffic reports. I didn't encounter any accidents, tie-ups, or delays as I made my way to the Doylestown parking garage.

The courthouse in Doylestown is an impressive building. It is circular with four stories. Architecturally it resembles a Birthday cake with a tall bottom layer and a smaller layer on top. It is flanked with auxiliary buildings which contain office space and additional courtrooms. I walked across Main Street and through the entry arches. I was a little nervous, but my panic had subsided. People paid me little notice, being concerned with whatever personal business brought them to Court. Just outside the door stood the ashtrays with their attendant smokers. The courthouse, like most public buildings, is smoke free, and smokers need to pop outside to light up. I passed by these poor addicted souls and made my way to the lobby.

According to the summons, the Jury Lounge was on the second floor. The directory in the lobby confirmed this. I took one look at the marble staircase and decided to take the elevator.

There were a lot of folks milling about in the lobby. I didn't know it, but a somewhat notorious case was going to start today. It involved a messy hit-and-run accident. I weaved my way through the sea of people and found the elevators.

The car filled up quickly. We were all pressed together as the doors closed. This elevator was quite different from the one in the garage. It moved quickly and smoothly. I stepped out on the second floor and followed the signs to the Jury Lounge.

I had expected a typical, shabby, utilitarian sort of a room. To my surprise, this was not the case. The Jury Lounge turned out to be a large, well-lit room with a window running along one entire wall. Padded folding chairs filled most of the room. There were vending machines for coffee, soda, and snacks, and a well-stocked magazine rack. Bucks County wanted its jurors to be comfortable.

I followed the signs to the Ladies' room for a quick pit stop. I took care of business in the stall, gave my makeup a check in the mirror, and returned to the lounge. I selected a magazine from the rack and picked out a chair by the window. I put my purse on the seat next to me and sat down to enjoy my magazine.

The room started to fill. I noticed that not all of the potential jurors had followed the instructions to dress appropriately. Most of the men wore coats and ties, and many women wore suits or conservative dresses, but there were a lot of folks wearing more casual attire. Maybe I had gone overboard.

I was reading an article about a gourmet bakery in New Britain Township when I heard somebody ask "Excuse me, can I sit here?" I looked up to see a young woman dressed in a jogging outfit. Her hair was pulled back and held with a scrunchie, and she had no makeup on.

"Sure," I said, remembering to use my female voice, "just let me move my purse." I picked up my bag from the seat and put in under my own. She plopped herself down.

"Oh, man, can you believe this?" she began to whine. "I got better things to do than to waste my time hanging around here today. And you can't smoke in here or anything!"

I tried to ignore her by reading my magazine, but she continued to bitch out loud to nobody in particular. After a few minutes I excused myself, picked up my bag, and walked over to the vending machines. Coffee was starting to sound good.

I never made it to the machines. The Jury Clerk came into the room and asked us all to sign our summons and take a badge. I forged Allie's signature, doing a fair approximation of feminine handwriting, and took one of the adhesive tags from the box. We were instructed to write our juror number on the badge and attach it to our lapel or someplace close. Inevitably, somebody said "We don't need no stinkin' badges!" in a really bad Mexican accent.

A few minutes after all the summonses had been gathered, the clerk came out with a computer printout. "Okay, folks, I need you to clear the first three rows of chairs. We are going to form our first jury. It's for a criminal case. As I call your name, please come forward and take the next available seat." She began calling names. As people were called they stepped up and took a seat. About halfway through the third row, the clerk called out "Allison Gross."

That was I! At least, that's who I was today. I answered her and sat in the next seat. Wouldn't you know, I was now sitting next to that same whiney woman I had tried to get away from.

I sat silently, my knees together and my purse perched on my lap. My fellow potential juror continued to complain, but at a lower volume. As I glanced over at her, I noticed a tattoo on her left hand, just between her thumb and forefinger. Oh, brother!

We had to count off so we would know our number. I was number thirty-one. We were taken single-file, in numeric order, to a courtroom on the third floor. The clerk warned us to turn off all beepers and cell phones before entering the courtroom.

I have to tell you, the courtroom was impressive. A vaulted ceiling lent an air of a cathedral to the room, while the indirect lighting and white walls were nothing less than modern. The wooden benches almost reminded one of pews in a church, but the seats were the comfortable chairs one might find in a modern office. This curious mix of old and new was fascinating. Then the Judge entered, and the clerk called us all to order.

The Judge was a blonde woman who looked to be in her early forties. She spoke with an erudition and confidence that belied all of the blond jokes I had ever heard. She introduced us to the District Attorney, and the defendant's attorney. She then asked us to stand, state our name and occupation, whether we were married, and our spouse's occupation. I felt another panic attack coming. I hoped I could make my femme voice loud enough to be heard in court!

I had calmed down by time my turn came. I stood and said, "Good morning! I'm Allison Gross, and I'm a self-employed Internet consultant. I'm single." I sat down, silently breathing a sigh of relief. The remaining jurors introduced themselves, but I really didn't pay them much attention. Then the judge addressed us.

"This case," she said, "concerns an alleged hit-and-run accident. It has gotten quite a bit of pre-trial publicity. Is there any juror who could not be impartial in light of this publicity? Please raise your hands." A few hands went up. The judge and the attorneys noted the jurors with raised hands and thanked them. A few more questions were asked. Then the District Attorney asked a few questions. He read a list of witnesses and asked if any of the jurors knew them. One name sounded familiar, so I raised my hand.

The judge asked, "How do you know the witness?"

I answered, "I'm not certain if I do. Is this man the owner of the Pedal Power Bicycle Shop?"

The District Attorney said, "Yes, he is."

"Then he's one of my clients," I said.

The Judge asked, "Would this have any effect on your ability to consider the evidence in an impartial manner?"

"I'm afraid it would, your honor."

"Thank you, Juror thirty-one. Please be seated."

I'm not sure whether my answer made any difference, but I was not one of the jurors selected to hear the case. We were excused and told to return to the Jury Lounge.

As we made our way back downstairs, I could hear the whiner I had been sitting next to simultaneously expressing relief at not being chosen and distress at having to spend the rest of the day in the Jury Lounge. I was just happy that I hadn't been picked. I stopped in the Ladies' room to answer nature's call and touch up my makeup.

It was already twelve o'clock when we got back, so the Jury Clerk let us go for lunch. The county had a map of local establishments and a few menus. I saw that one place, Chambers, was close by and offered a free cup of soup for any juror. Free is one of my favorite words, so I headed to Chambers for lunch.

Main Street in Doylestown was lined with old brick buildings that had once been shops and homes. These have mostly been restored and converted into offices and restaurants. Chambers was just about a block away from the Courthouse. I entered into a low-ceilinged place with dark wooden booths, tables, and chairs. I was seated in a booth and given a menu to study. When the waiter came, I asked about the soup offer.

"I see you're on jury duty today, so the soup is free with any lunch purchase. Our soup today is vegetable barley. It's really good."

"That sounds great. I'd like that with a salad."

"Certainly. What kind of dressing?"

"Ranch, and on the side, please."

"And would you like something to drink?"

I thought about a beer, then decided against it. "Iced tea, please. Unsweetened."

"Coming right up, miss. Thank you." The waiter collected my menu and bustled off. And I was thrilled! He had just called me "miss".

My tea came in a tall glass. I was stirring in a packet of sweetener when I heard a familiar voice. "Why, hello! Aren't you the girl I saw in the jury lounge?" I looked up. It was the whiney woman in the jogging suit.

"Yes, I am," I answered.

"What a coincidence! Say do you mind if I join you?" Her whiney tone had given way to a singsong sort of a pseudo-Valley-Girl twang. She sat down across from me.

"By the way," she said, extending her hand, "my name's Donna Marsh. Just call me Donna."

I grasped her hand and shook it, once again noticing the tattoo on her other hand. "I'm Allison Gross," I said. "You can call me Allie."

"So what are you having, Allie?" she asked.

"The soup and a salad."

"That sounds pretty good. I think I'll order that, too." The waiter appeared again and took Donna's order. She ordered a cup of herbal tea to drink.

"So what do you do, Allie? I think it was something about the Internet?"

"I design Web sites for different companies."

"Wow, that sounds so fascinating. I'm totally clueless when it comes to computers. My husband tries to show me sometimes, but he is like so impatient that he gives up the first time I make a mistake. I just can't get the hang of that mouse. I click too slow, or I click too fast, or something."

Soup arrived. It was excellent. "You know, Donna," I said, "what you need to do is practice. Do you have a Windows machine?"

"I guess. It's not one of those Apples."

"Okay. Then what you need to do is play the Solitaire game for a few minutes every day. That will give you all the practice you need with using a mouse."

"Do you mean it? Like, is it really that simple?"

"It sure is, " I said. "That's how I learned."

"Oh, wow! I just thought that game was there for fun. Thanks, Allie, I'll give that a try tonight."

We finished our soup and salad, and decided to walk back to the courthouse together. I made a quick stop in the Ladies' room to touch up my makeup before we left the restaurant. We had about an hour to kill, so we did a little window-shopping. There was a GAP store along the way, and Donna insisted that we stop in.

Donna started looking at clothes, and I started to panic again. I felt safe enough when I was shopping with someone who knew my secret, but shopping en femme with a stranger was making me nervous. We looked at a few tops and some pants. Now I have never worn female pants. I get enough of that in boy mode, thank you. But I managed to find a pair of blue flares that I thought might look good, especially with a coordinating top. I found a beautiful gold tunic top that complemented the pants quite nicely, tried it on, and bought the pants and top. Donna found a nice pair of cargo pants and a satin top. We walked back to the Jury Lounge with our shopping bags in hand.

We weren't there more than ten minutes when the Jury Clerk emerged from her office. Once again, we had to clear three rows of chairs and listen for our name to be called. This time I was number twenty. Donna was number twenty-three.

We were again chaperoned into a courtroom. We were told that this was a civil case, and were cautioned to turn off any beepers or cell phones. I also turned off the chime function on my new geek-girl watch. This courtroom was like the first, airy and well-lit, with a curious mix of old and new décor. The judge was a pleasant gray-haired fellow with a furrowed brow. He introduced himself and the attorneys, and explained the case to us.

This was a malpractice case. The plaintiff was suing two dentists for pain, suffering, and other damages. We were asked if we had any problem either listening to descriptions of dental procedures, or in looking at pictures of procedures. We were cautioned that the pictures might be bloody. Several jurors raised their hands. I didn't. The human body with its myriad functions is in no way offensive to me. I was always the kid who volunteered to dissect the frog in Biology class.

A few more questions were asked. Do we know the attorneys or any of the witnesses? Do we think the testimony of a dentist would be more believable than the testimony of a different witness? None of the questions asked made me raise my hand, until the plaintiff's attorney asked, "Does anybody here think that there are too many lawsuits filed?" My hand went up.

The judge asked me, "Juror twenty, do you think that this opinion would affect your impartiality in rendering a judgement?"

I rose. "I don't believe it would, your honor. It's true, I think there are too many lawsuits, but I can't say that this particular one is frivolous or excessive. I would have to look at the evidence."

"Thank you, miss," the judge said. "You may be seated."

None of the other questions asked applied to me. The attorneys took their notes up to the bench and conferred with the judge. They spoke for about ten minutes. The attorneys then retired to their respective tables and the judge spoke.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we have picked our jurors and alternates. Please don't take it personally if you were not chosen for the jury. Our goal here is to find as impartial a jury as possible. As I call your name, please come up and take your seat in the jury box."

The judge called out names. He seemed to be going in numerical order, seven jurors had been picked and took their seats in the box. Then he called out "Allison Gross".

I almost forgot to stand! That was I! I rose almost automatically and was halfway to the jury box when the panic attack struck. This was something I never expected! I was picked for a jury! I managed to suppress the panic as I made my way to the chair and sat down.

The chairs in the jury box were comfortable, padded chairs. They were on a swivel pedestal that was bolted to the floor and turned completely around. I was taking in everything when I noticed Donna was seated next to me.

After we were picked, the Judge called a recess and we filed back to the Jury room. The Tipstaff, a grandfatherly sort of a gentleman, guided us back to the room. "Have a seat," he said. "This will be your home away from home for the next few days."

There were fourteen chairs in the room. On the table in front of each chair, like a seating place card, we found a Juror's badge. "You will have to wear the badge whenever you go into court."

"Do we take them home?" Donna asked.

"No, you have to leave them here. Just be sure to pin it on before court convenes."

"When do we have to be here?" I asked.

"Court convenes at 9:30 AM, so please be here by 9:25. We can't start without you."

The Tipstaff then passed some information sheets around. "If for some reason you can't make it on time, please call one of the numbers on this sheet. And it had better be a good reason. The judge is a fair man, but he expects you to show up on time."

A number of other things were explained to us. We could expect court to last until 12:30, recess until 2:00 for lunch, and then continue to 4:30.

Donna looked over at me. "Looks like we're going to be together for a few days, Allie. Maybe we can do lunch together."

Another woman who seemed to be wearing a riding outfit said, "Could I join you girls? I like company for lunch. By the way, my name is Margie Davis."

"Sure, Margie!" Donna replied before I could protest. Before I knew it, a regular lunch posse consisting of five girls, myself included, had been formed. Yet another panic was starting when we were called into the courtroom.

The Tipstaff showed us the proper protocol for filing back into court. We took our seats and the judge addressed us. "Ladies and gentlemen, I want to thank you for being on a jury. I know this is a nuisance, but our system of justice would never work without folks like you. By serving on this jury, you are making possible a system of justice that is fair, impartial, and above all peaceable. This service is invaluable to a free society.

"Now I want to let you know just how a civil trial works. First, the attorneys for the parties in this case will make opening statements. Then they will each offer evidence to support their case. Finally, they will sum up the case in a closing statement. After the case is presented, I will give you instructions about the pertinent law in this case. Then it's all up to you.

"At this time we have one little duty to perform. Please take one of the Bibles at the front of the jury box and the clerk will administer the Juror's oath."

There were six Bibles, so we had to share. The court clerk, a woman with a nasal twang and a South Philly accent, read the juror's oath to us, which we repeated. I don't remember exactly what was in it, but I believe we swore to be impartial and fair. After this was done, the judge spoke again.

"It's late, so I'm going to adjourn court for today. Tomorrow you will get to see the justice system in action. Have a good evening, and I'll see you tomorrow at 9:30. Court's adjourned."

The clerk banged a gavel, and we all filed out of the courtroom and back to the jury room.

We asked the Tipstaff what we could have in the jury room. Some of us wanted to bring food or coffee. "Anything you want within reason," he replied. "We want you to be comfortable."

We were each handed a check for that day's jury pay, nine bucks plus mileage. The pay for all of the other days we would serve would be mailed to us after the trial. I gathered up my purse and remembered to leave my badge on the table. Donna said, "Well, I'll see you tomorrow, Allie."

"Okay, Donna. See you in the morning. I'm bringing donuts."

"Sounds good. See ya!"

As we were leaving, curiosity got the better of me, and I asked the Tipstaff one more question. "Excuse me, but just where does the term Tipstaff come from?"

The Tipstaff smiled. "It's an English term. Bucks County is one of the oldest counties in Pennsylvania, actually one of the three original counties founded by William Penn. Many of our legal terms come from the old English court system. Tipstaff refers to the long staff with a brass tip that was once used to keep the jurors awake. In most courts my job is called Bailiff."

I laughed when I heard it, and the Tipstaff chuckled as well. No doubt he enjoyed telling that story. "Well, I'll see you tomorrow," I said.

"See you tomorrow, miss," the Tipstaff replied. I made my way through the corridor maze out to the main hallway. Down the hall I found the elevators. I pushed the call button for an elevator.

A bell announced the arrival of an elevator car. It was occupied by two women and a man, all dressed in dark suits and carrying briefcases. From their conversation, I assumed they were lawyers. I pretended not to hear them as the elevator made its decent to the main floor. The doors opened, and we emerged.

A few people had gathered by the elevators awaiting a car going up. I made my way past these folks and followed the signs to the main entrance. This time I made a mental inventory of the various landmarks I would use to find the jury room tomorrow. I walked outside, once again passing the smokers' gauntlet, and crossed the street to the parking garage.

The crosswalk between the courthouse and the garage is clearly marked, and signs require drivers to stop for any pedestrians. I walked across, glancing at the cars, when I noticed that the driver of the van stopped at the crosswalk was checking me out. At least, I thought he was, as he seemed to be staring at my legs. Then we made eye contact. He seemed embarrassed. I gave him a little wink to let him know I wasn't offended, then I proceeded to my car grinning like the Cheshire cat. That anonymous driver didn't know it, but he had just made my day.

I felt on top of the world as I drove home that afternoon. I was really proud of myself. I had passed as a woman for an entire day, and even in the company of genuine, genetic women. Not once was my womanhood challenged, nor was my manhood detected. I slipped a CD into the player and enjoyed the New Age sounds of Enya while I drove home.

It wasn't until I was safely at home and had kicked off my high heels when the reality of my situation truly hit me. I was going to have to pull off my act for at least three more days!

I managed to fight down my panic by answering my e-mail. There were several messages from Allie, all very playful and loving. I picked up the phone and called her in Wiesbaden. We talked for nearly an hour. Damn, it was good to hear her voice! I didn't tell her about my Jury experience. To tell the truth, Allie did most of the talking. She had a lot to share about her new job, and I was always a patient listener.

After the call, I undressed and treated myself to a good, long bath. Our bathroom is almost decadent, including a high-tech shower and a whirlpool tub. I set a bottle of Yuengling lager next to the tub, opened my new Tom Clancey book, and settled in for a relaxing soak.

The next day, I slept in. I didn't have to be in court until 9:30, so why rush? I took a nice, long shower, remembering to shave my legs and armpits, shaved my face extra close, and enjoyed a leisurely breakfast of poached eggs and coffee. My hunger satisfied, I proceeded with my beauty regimen.

Today I was going to wear the dark gray suit with the crá¨me blouse. Once again I slipped into my panties, pantyhose, bra, breast forms, half-slip, and camisole. I had less trouble with the pantyhose today. I must be getting used to the nails. I put my face on at the vanity, checked my nails, and put on my blouse. This blouse had a plain front with a planchet covering the buttons and a large visible gold button at the neck. It went very nicely with my skirt and jacket. I put on my gold hoop earrings and an amethyst brooch that went nicely with the suit, and stepped into my matching gray pumps.

I gave myself a final inspection as I pinned my wig in place. Satisfied, I made my way to the garage, started my car, and drove once more to Doylestown.

The drive was definitely less hectic. Most of the rush-hour traffic had made its way to wherever it was going. I stopped briefly at the Dunkin' Donuts drive-through to pick up a dozen donuts and a box of Munchkins. Then I made my way to the Municipal Garage.

The garage is a three-layer affair. Entering from next to the courthouse puts one on the top layer. I had found a bottom-floor entrance on the other side of the garage, so I made my way there. Inside I found an abundance of spaces, since most people start on the top floor. I congratulated myself on being so darned clever as I slid into the parking space and turned off the ignition.

My organizer purse with all of my accessories was slung over my shoulder and I was carrying my industrial-size travel mug and the donuts and Munchkins. I was alone as I made my way to the elevator. The door opened immediately when I pressed the button. I was the sole passenger as the door closed and the car lurched upward. It stopped at the second level, the door opened, and a man stepped in. I recognized him immediately, and he recognized me.

"Cindy, what are you doing here, and why are you here as Cindy?" he asked.

I might as well explain. The man was a friend of mine, an attorney, and a member of my support group. His name is Jack, and in respect for his privacy I won't reveal his last name.

"Jack, " I said, "what a surprise! I didn't expect to see you here today!"

"Neither did I," he said, "and especially not en femme. What gives?"

"Well," I said, sort of stammering, "it's kind of complicated."

"I'll bet," he answered.

"I'm here for jury duty. Actually, I'm here for Allison's jury duty." And I explained the events of the last few days in brief. At the end, he was just shaking his head. "Cindy, do you have any idea just how much trouble you could be in?"

"Well, I guess I might be thrown off the jury."

"That would be the least of your problems. Forgery, deception, perjury...Cindy, this could be serious! If you get caught you could do time!"

Now I was in a real panic! "What do you mean, do time?"

"When you took the Juror's Oath, you represented yourself as Allison Gross. You are not she. That's a lie under oath, which is perjury."

"Oh, no! What would happen if I was discovered!"

"At the very least, I might expect the Judge to find you in contempt of court and fine you. I wouldn't be surprised if he put you in jail. And you would definitely be dismissed from the jury."

My panic continued. "You won't say anything, will you?" I pleaded.

"Cindy, I'm an officer of the court. What do you expect?"

"Please Jack? Please don't turn me in?"

Jack looked a little frustrated, but finally said, "No, I won't, but if you get caught, don't ask me to defend you."

"I won't, Jack. And I won't get caught, either."

Jack looked at me with a little disbelief. "Well, all right. I wouldn't want to get one of my sisters from the support group into any hot water. But watch yourself."

"I promise I'll be careful. Oh, and if you see me again, remember to call me Allison."

"Sure. Whatever you want. By the way, you look really great." He made a little wolf-whistle.

I smiled. "Now counselor," I said, "don't go making any inappropriate remarks. I'm sure I could find a lawyer here willing to sue your ass!"

We both laughed, and walked to the courthouse together. Jack paused at the ashtray to indulge his addiction before entering, so I said goodbye and headed up to the jury room.

Most of my fellow jurors had arrived, and the table was covered with goodies. One of the guys had brought bagels and several tubs of cream cheese. Donna had brought in a stash of Hershey's Miniatures and Kit-Kats. Another fellow was setting up a coffeepot to brew some Java. I set my donuts down and greeted everybody. We were having a pretty good time while we waited for the rest of the jury to arrive.

Donna was dressed a little better today. She was still wearing pants, but they were a nice pair and coordinated well with her top. Her hair was brushed nicely and fell to her shoulders. She was also wearing a little makeup today. In all, it was a definite improvement over her appearance yesterday. And the change in her attitude was also noticeable. "Hi, Allie!" she said. "Ready for jury duty?"

"I guess so, " I said, sitting down next to her. "I've never been on a jury before. I'm curious as to just what happens."

"Well I have to admit," Donna said, "I am too. At least I'll be doing something for real and not wasting time like I was yesterday."

Margie, the lady who had worn a riding outfit yesterday, chimed in. "I was on a criminal jury a few years ago. It was for an assault case. Some jerk beat up an elderly shop owner. It was terrible."

"Really?" I said.

"Oh, my goodness, yes!" she replied. "And to see that horrible man sitting with his lawyer, dressed so fine and looking so angelic! We found him guilty."

"Gee, my kids were asking me if I was going to send somebody to jail," said Donna. "I told them that it was a lawsuit. I tried to explain it, but I don't think they understand."

"Maybe they shouldn't," said an older woman, Barbara, who was also in our lunch posse. "I don't think kids should be exposed to such things."

"You mean lawsuits?" I asked.

"No," she replied, "I mean lawyers."

We all had a good laugh over that. Then Barbara asked, "Do you have any children, Allie?"

"Oh, no," I answered, "I'm still single."

"Is that an engagement ring?" she asked, referring to my cubic zirconium ring.

"No, it isn't. It's just something I bought myself. It's not a real diamond."

"Oh, so you're not engaged."

"Well," I said, sort of hesitating, "I'm in a relationship. I guess you could say that I'm engaged."

"Do you have a ring and a date?" asked Margie.

"I beg your pardon?" I said.

"I repeat, do you have a ring and a date? If he hasn't given you a ring and set a date, you aren't engaged."

Barbara said, "Margie has a point, Allie. If that young man of yours isn't committed enough to buy you a ring and set a date, then you have to wonder if he's really interested in marriage."

The other girl in our lunch posse, Nora, had been listening, and added her two cents' worth. "It's true, Allie. Men only want one thing from a girl, and if they can get it for free, why should they pay for it?"

"Wait a minute," I said, "marriage is a loving relationship between two people, not a business arrangement. You make it sound like a commodity."

Nora rolled her eyes, and said to Barbara, "She's still young. She'll learn."

"Hey wait a minute," said Donna, who had been silent up to now, "how can you say that Allie's guy is such a jerk without ever meeting him?"

"He's a man, dearie," said Nora, "and all men think alike when it comes to sex. The only way to tell if he's really ready to commit to you is to get him to part with enough cash for a diamond."

"There's a lot more to marriage than money," Donna said. "My husband couldn't afford a diamond when we got engaged, so we went and got tattooed." She held up her left hand to show the tattoo between her thumb and first finger. It was a rose on a short stem surrounded by numerous green leaves. The pattern was small, delicate, and intricate. "Fred has one just like it," she said. "We've been married ten years and have three kids, and Fred works two jobs six days a week to support us. He's a good man. And we don't need a rock to prove it."

"Donna, you got one of the good ones," Nora said. "I wish my ex had been so industrious. The only place he spent any overtime was the local saloon."

"But seriously, Donna," said Barbara, not willing to give up the point, "did you and your husband live together before you were married?"

"Well, we didn't live together, but we, uh, that is..." Her cheeks began to redden.

"Oh, leave her alone, Barb," said Margie. "Donna's got a good marriage, and she's happy. Let her be."

"It's not Donna I'm worried about, Margie. It's Allie. She's too young to have her life ruined."

"Hey, I can look out for myself," I said. "I'm successful in my own right. I don't need a man to validate my existence."

"Then what do you need him for?" asked Barbara.

I didn't get a chance to answer, since Nora chimed in "Auto maintenance and household repair." This caused some of the girls to laugh. I didn't. Neither did Donna.

At this point Tom, one of the male jurors, injected himself into the discussion. "So, you gals just can't resist bashing the guys, can you? Better watch yourself. We outnumber you!" He was grinning like the cat that got the canary.

Nora was grinning too. "Hi, Tom, how are you doing?" she said. Then she inclined her head up as he leaned down for a kiss. It was more than platonic.

"Girls," said Nora, " I want you to meet one of my dearest friends, Tom Mitchell. If you can't tell, we're an item."

Tom said, "Pleased to meet you, ladies. Has this brazen little tramp been telling stories about me? All lies, except for the true ones."

"There are no 'stupid guy' jokes," Nora retorted, "All of them are true stories."

Tom mimed a wounded heart, but his smile let us know he was joking. We all laughed, and I realized that Nora was only being funny. She really didn't have a low opinion of all men. But Barbara pressed her point.

"Allie," she said, "I'm sure you love this fellow of yours, but please be careful. You seem so innocent. I would hate to see you hurt."

"I'll be careful, Barb," I said, "but I really don't think I have anything to worry about."

Barbara just looked at me with a skeptical eye.

At this point, the Tipstaff came in. "Okay folks, are we all here?" he asked. There were fourteen of us, all present and accounted for. "Good," he said, "now please turn off any cell phones or pocket pagers and put on your badges like good jurors. His honor is just about ready for us."

I checked my cell phone and pager to make sure they were appropriately silenced. Satisfied, I stashed everything in my purse. Then the Tipstaff motioned for us to enter the courtroom.

Court had been called to order before we entered. The judge told us to take our seats. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, once again I would like to thank you for coming. Today the attorneys for the plaintiff and the defendants will give their opening statements. This is where they lay out the foundation of the case. What they will do is tell you what to expect. Following this, the plaintiff will begin calling witnesses and presenting evidence.

"I expect we should be able to wrap up opening statements and begin testimony this morning. Counselor for the plaintiff, you may begin."

The plaintiff's lawyer, a middle-aged woman dressed in a black suit with a knee-length skirt and a white blouse, stood. I noticed that she was wearing low-heeled pumps with wide heels and tan hose. She was holding a yellow pad on which she had written some notes. "Good morning," she said to us. "I would also like to thank you for being here today."

She launched into a description of the case. Her client had been treated for plaque by his dentist. The treatment involved planing and scaling below the gum line. The treatment was painful and left her client's teeth sensitive to heat and cold. A year later, the dentist referred him to a periodontist to treat pockets found below the gum line. The periodontist first did a deep root planing, and then performed "gum flap" surgery in which the gums were cut back and stitched.

After the surgery, the plaintiff's teeth were painfully sensitive to heat, cold, and physical contact. He was unable to eat anything other than pureed food. Eventually, the pain became so intense that he went to his family dentist, who first prescribed high-strength Ibuprofen, and eventually Darvocet. He was told that the pain would eventually subside.

After six months of agonizing pain, the plaintiff consulted another dentist. This dentist examined the plaintiff's teeth and said that the periodontal disease had progressed, and he would have to get his teeth extracted. The plaintiff did this. After the extractions healed, the pain ceased.

Curious, the plaintiff asked his new dentist if his treatment might have been the cause of his pain and tooth loss. The dentist opined that the gum flap surgery had not been needed, and that it contributed to the eventual tooth loss.

I've boiled it down. The attorney was a lot more verbose than I am being. While I was listening to her, I started noticing little things about her outfit. The lace top of her camisole was translucently visible through her white blouse. Her suit jacket had shoulder pads. (Mine did not.) She wore a gold rope necklace and both her engagement and wedding rings. I noticed that her blouse was long-sleeved. The cuffs emerged from underneath her jacket sleeves. And she wore cufflinks!

As she spoke, she tried to make eye contact with each of us several times. Her manner was polite, friendly, and at the same time somber, as though to underline the pain and suffering her client had endured.

She didn't mention the amount she was asking for damages, including pain and suffering. She thanked us again, and was seated.

The dentist's attorney now stood. This was a young man with blonde hair cut in a conservative style. His wire-rim glasses were quite stylish, as was his banker's gray suit and wingtip black shoes. He wore a white shirt, which I assume was expected because everybody seemed to have a white shirt, and a medallion-pattern necktie. Definitely a snappy dresser. He also wished us a good morning and thanked us for our presence. Then he made his statement.

His client, the dentist, should not really be sued, he said. He had provided the best level of service available. Planing and scaling was an accepted treatment for plaque, which the plaintiff definitely had. And he had serious periodontal disease, as evidenced by the deep pockets in the jaw below the gum line. Finally, his client did not perform the gum flap surgery. In no way could he be held responsible. The attorney thanked us for our attention and returned to his seat.

The lawyer for the periodontist now stood. He was a short, balding, middle-aged fellow with black, curly hair. He wore tortoise-shell-rimmed glasses and, like his fellow attorneys, carried a yellow legal pad. He also thanked us for our service, and began his opening statement.

His client, a prominent, board-certified periodontist with years of experience, should not be held liable for the plaintiff's pain and suffering. This particular periodontist used the latest cutting-edge techniques to treat the patient's severe periodontal disease. He had cautioned the plaintiff about the possibility of tooth sensitivity following treatment, and would produce waivers which his patient, the plaintiff, had signed, acknowledging the possibility of pain. He would also demonstrate that the cause of the patient's eventual tooth loss was not the gum flap treatment, but the plaintiff's failure to properly follow the course of follow-up care and treatment.

As the lawyer waxed long about his client's case, I could not help but notice some things about his appearance. For one thing, his suit fit him poorly. The fabric seemed nice enough, but it was much too tight around his waist and didn't seem long enough. The fact that the suit was double-breasted only emphasized this poor fit. His shirt collar was frayed, and his tie was a floral pattern popular about ten years ago but now hopelessly out of date. His nails were ragged, betraying him as a nail-biter. But most repulsive was the little string of spit that stretched between his upper and lower lips as he spoke. It reminded me of those close-up shots of an iguana that a B-movie would use for a dinosaur. I watched that spit string carefully, fearful that it would dislodge and launch itself toward me.

Mercifully, the opening statements concluded. I shifted in my chair to get a look at the other jurors. They all were in different positions, each trying to remain comfortable. I shifted a little in my chair, held my knees together, and crossed my legs at the ankles. I looked at Donna with her legs crossed up at the knees, and felt a pang of envy. My anatomy just wouldn't let me do that. I fidgeted a little more to swing my weight over to one side, which helped me keep my legs together. This was going to be harder than I thought!

The plaintiff's lawyer called the plaintiff to the stand. The clerk with the nasal Philly accent swore him in, and he took his place in the witness stand. The attorney then asked him a number of questions. It was about how he came to be treated by the dentist and all of the facts leading up to the cleaning and referral. To tell the truth, this part was kind of boring. I felt my eyelids begin to droop a little. Then I glanced to the side and saw the Tipstaff. He looked back at me and winked. I imagined him using one of those long staffs he described to prod us, and had to stifle a giggle.

The testimony continued. I won't bore you with the intimate details. It was soon 12:30 and the judge called a recess for lunch. We were admonished not to discuss the case among ourselves and to be back by 2:00 PM. We filed out of court and back to the jury room.

"Well, girls, where do you want to go for lunch?" asked Nora.

Margie said, "Let's go to Lilly's across the street. They have really great soup and a salad bar."

"That sounds good, " I said. "What do you think, Donna?"

"I'm willing to give them a try," she said. "What about Nora and Barb?"

Barb nodded her assent. Nora asked, "Do you mind if I invite Tom along?"

"Maybe some other time, ladies," Tom said. "Nick and I are going to Maxwell's to drink our lunch. We'll catch up with you at 2:00, OK?"

"Drink your lunch!" Nora exclaimed. "Listen to that line of bull! This guy gets sleepy after two beers!"

"Lies! Scandalous calumny!" Tom retorted in his good-natured manner. "It takes at least three!"

Nora gave Tom a little kiss on the cheek. "You just go enjoy your lunch with the guys. We girls have some serious gossip to take care of."

We all made our way to the street level.

Court Street and Main Street intersect at a 45-degree angle, with Schwell Avenue jutting out from the intersection. Lilly's was on the corner of Main and Schwell. We used the crosswalk to cross Main and walked down to Lilly's.

Lilly's was a rather small place, and did a fabulous lunchtime business. We managed to get a table together and each ordered a cup of soup. I ordered some iced tea and made my way to the salad bar. I heaped my plate full of greens and goodies and topped my creation with some shredded cheese and balsamic vinaigrette dressing. Over our soup and salad, we compared our observations about the lawyers.

"What did you think about the older fellow?" I asked.

"Where on earth did he get that suit?" Margie said. "Maybe we should chip in and buy him a gift certificate to Today's Man!"

"It is pretty bad," I said, "but did you get a load of that tie? It looks like a refugee from the thrift store!"

"At the very least he ought to get himself a new shirt," Barb contributed. "If that's the best he can afford, I don't think I'd be hiring him to represent me!"

"And did you see his nails?" Nora said. "He's a nail-biter, that's for sure!"

"I don't know about you girls, " Donna said, "but I was afraid that that spit-wad was going to go flying!"

We all were giggling at the description of the lawyer we nicknamed Mister Bad Suit. Then Nora said, "You know, the young fellow looked kind of cute. He could park his shoes under my bed any old time!"

"Now what kind of talk is that, Nora?" Barbara admonished her. "You're making Allie blush!"

It was true! I could feel my cheeks get red at this frank sex talk from ladies.

"Oh, don't be so bashful, Allie!" Nora chided. "Besides, you know what the score is. You have a guy on the hook, don't you?"

"Well," I said, not knowing just how to respond, "I wouldn't exactly say I have him on the hook!"

"Then get him on the hook, dear!" said Margie. "You know how it goes. A girl just lets a guy chase her until she catches him!" More giggles.

We finished our lunch and noticed that we had nearly an hour left before we had to be back, so we did a little shopping. We walked down Main Street looking into the windows and decided to drop into a shoe store. Barb and Donna just looked. Margie bought a nice pair of sandals, and Nora bought a pair of white slingbacks. I didn't really see anything I wanted until I spotted a pair of athletic shoes.

Until that moment, I had never wanted a pair of lady's athletic shoes. Like I said before, I get all the sneakers and running shoes I want in boy mode. But this pair of Reeboks was trimmed in white and pink. It would go perfectly with the pants I had bought yesterday. So as wild as it seemed, I tried on a pair of Reeboks in my pantyhose. As an afterthought, I purchased three pair of ankle socks to go with them.

As I carried my shopping bag with me to the jury room, Donna asked me about my feet. "You take a size 11. How did you get such big feet?"

I hesitated for a second, and then said, "I guess it's from my father. His feet are enormous! He takes a man's size 14 shoe." Actually, just the opposite was true. My father has unusually small hands and feet for a man, a characteristic I inherited. This allowed me to buy my femme shoes off the rack, as well as feminine rings, bracelets, and my geek-girl watch.

"I guess it's hard to find shoes in that size," Donna said.

"I don't usually have any problem," I replied. "Payless is good for big sizes, and Macy's usually has my size. Sometimes the common sizes are sold out and I can still get shoes."

"I usually get my shoes at K-Mart or Wal-Mart," Donna said.

"You ought to try Target," Margie said. "They usually cost a little more that Wal-Mart, but I like their selection better."

Barbara said, "Personally, I like going to a specialty store for shoes. I get a better selection and much better service."

Nora chimed in. "My personal favorite for shoes is Strawbridge's. I just like the place, and the selection."

"The Bon-Ton is pretty good, too," said Margie, "but I only go there when there's a sale."

Tom had returned from lunch with the guys, and was listening to us talk about our shopping trip. "You gals and your shoes," he said. "Always buying shoes. How many pairs of shoes do you need?"

"A girl can never have too many shoes," said Margie.

"Any more that three or four pair is a waste," said Tom. "I got one pair of dress shoes, one pair of sneakers, one pair of work shoes, and one old pair for work around the house. That's all I need."

"Don't forget the bowling shoes and the golf shoes," said Nora. "And let's not forget your hunting boots, either. Or don't they count?"

"I don't wear them every day," he answered.

"Well we don't wear all of our shoes every day either," I said. "I bought these pumps to go with this outfit, and I don't wear it every day."

"You mean to tell me," Tom said feigning mock incredulity, "that you have a separate pair of shoes for each outfit?"

"Not each outfit, " I answered, "just the better ones."

Tom rolled his eyes. "Women!" he exclaimed, "who can understand 'em?"

We all giggled at this good-natured ribbing. Nora said to Tom, "Give it a rest, dearie. You know you can't win this one."

Tom was about to answer with a stinging comment when the Tipstaff entered to warn us that court was about to commence. He did a quick head count to ascertain that we had all returned from lunch. We once again filed into the courtroom, a ritual we were fast becoming accustomed to.

The plaintiff's lawyer continued questioning him about the treatments he received. The description of the gum flap surgery was probably the worst part of it. As he described the four sessions during which his gums were cut back and stitched, I started to question the strength of my stomach. This wasn't anything like cutting up a dead frog; this was real surgery done on a real person. He finished up by telling us about the pain that never subsided and how he eventually had all of his teeth extracted. He painted a rather grim picture of his former dentist's apparent lack of concern.

After the plaintiff's lawyer finished, the dentist's lawyer, Mr. Snappy Dresser, asked him a number of questions about the initial treatment he received. He produced the plaintiff's dental records and asked him about them. There were questions about the number of visits he made and just what transpired. Snappy Dresser really questioned him hard on these points, trying to portray the plaintiff as a negligent patient who failed to properly care for his teeth. Several objections were made; some were sustained, and some were overruled. It was a lot like the trial shows on TV, only much less exciting.

The periodontist's lawyer went next. Mr. Bad Suit proceeded along the same lines. His delivery was not as polished as Snappy Dresser, but he made his points.

I was actually doing fairly well by way of staying awake and paying attention. The plaintiff's lawyer asked some rebuttal questions to try and blunt the damage Snappy Dresser and Bad Suit had inflicted on her client's testimony. Snappy asked a few rebuttal questions as well. Bad Suit had no rebuttal questions. The plaintiff was excused and left the witness stand.

The Lady Lawyer surprised us all with her next witness. She called the dentist, and requested permission to question him as a hostile witness.

I could bore you to tears with all the back and forth, but I don't think most of you are interested. Suffice it to say that Lady Lawyer turned out to be a legal pit bull and ripped the dentist a new one. Snappy Dresser tried to repair the damage on cross, but I didn't think he managed all that well. Bad Suit had a few questions, and I got the impression that he was trying to distance his own client from the dentist.

Lady Lawyer then called the periodontist and basically did the same thing to him that she had just done to the dentist. More cross examination, and the witness was excused.

It was just about 4:30, so the judge decided to call it a day. We were again admonished not to discuss the case with anybody and dismissed. We all filed out as court was adjourned.

As we made our way to the jury room, we noticed that the other jury room adjacent to ours was now occupied. I asked the Tipstaff if he knew anything about it. "That jury," he replied, "is hearing the hit-and-run case. It's getting a lot of attention. I hear that the media is outside with video crews."

I removed my badge and left it on the table, then I checked my purse to make sure I had everything I came in with. Satisfied, I closed it and slung it over my shoulder. I stopped at the Ladies' room before heading for my car.

I took care of Mother Nature in the stall and went to the sink to wash my hands and check my makeup. As I was primping, Donna emerged from a stall. "Oh, Allie," she said, "before you leave, I wanted to tell you that I tried playing Solitaire on the PC last night. I finally got the hang of the mouse! Fred saw me and he was just so proud of me! Now he's showing me how to do e-mail. Do you have e-mail?"

"Yes I do," I answered. "I'm glad that you found out how to use the PC. It's going to open a whole new world for you."

"Well thanks for the tip. I don't think I ever would have gotten the hang of it without you."

"It's mostly a matter of confidence and of experience. I bet you were afraid that you might break something or do something wrong and then look stupid. Am I right?"

"For sure. I was just so afraid that I'd mess something up and get Fred all pissed off at me."

"Sounds like he wasn't angry."

"No, just the opposite. He was so proud of me he's like he wants to buy me a PC of my own. I don't want him to, though. Money is too tight."

I thought for a minute. "Donna, would you like a PC of your own? I think I can help you."

"Sure, but I really can't afford it."

"Not a problem. I have a laptop PC that I bought for my business. I just bought a more powerful model, and this one is collecting dust. It's about a year old, and it should be powerful enough for anything you might want to do. Interested?"

Donna was taken aback. "Just like that, you're giving me a computer?"

"A laptop. It's a little different than the one you have at home."

"Allie, I don't know. I couldn't! It's just too much!"

"Nonsense! I've already depreciated it on my taxes, and I have absolutely no use for it. You, on the other hand, can use a computer of your own. So I make a little room in my office, and you get a useful tool. What do you say?"

"Well, I guess so. It's just so unexpected. I mean, I hardly know you!"

"Sure you do! We're on the same jury!"

We both laughed. "I guess we gals have to hang together," Donna said as we exited the Ladies' room.

We gals, I thought. I'm being accepted as a woman by other women. It felt good. Then my cautionary instincts kicked in. I was making friends with this lady when I knew perfectly well that I couldn't keep in touch after the trial. For one thing, she thinks I'm my girlfriend. Feminine camaraderie was overwhelming my normally careful common sense.

I didn't have much time to think about it, because as we emerged from the jurors' entrance into the main corridor, we were accosted by at least a dozen microphone-wielding reporters in search of a statement, any statement, about the hit-and-run case. "I'm sorry," I said, "I'm not on that case!" Donna and I had to repeat this a number of times before we could finally get past the main phalanx of ink-crazed reporters in the midst of a feeding frenzy. Then we found ourselves negotiating a second wave of media vultures, this group pointing video cameras. We repeated our message a few more times before we were finally left alone. At least once we got past them, there was nobody between the elevators and ourselves.

"Can you believe that?" Donna asked as the doors closed.

"It's insane!" I replied. "Besides, don't they know that a juror can't talk about their case until it's over?"

"These media types don't care. All they want is a story."

The door opened and we made our way to the main entrance. Donna stopped just outside, opened her purse, and removed her cigarettes. She lit one, inhaled deeply, and blew out a dense cloud of smoke. "Oh, did I ever need this!" she said.

I didn't say anything, but my expression must have spoke volumes. I don't smoke, and I don't like smokers very much. To say that I didn't approve would be like saying a fifty-megaton nuclear warhead goes boom. Donna saw the look on my face and immediately went on the defensive. "I hope I'm not going to, like, get a lecture on the evils of smoking. I already know them."

"No," I answered, "no lecture. You can tell what I think."

"You might not believe this," Donna said, "but I've really been cutting down. This was only the second cigarette I've had all day."

"I notice you didn't smoke at lunchtime," I said.

"Yeah. I never really liked smoking when I eat. I don't really like the smell of smoke."

"Well," I said, offering an olive branch of sorts, "the fact that you are cutting down shows that you're on the right track. The next step is to cut it out completely."

"I'm going to," she said. "As soon as this trial is over, I'm going on the patch. Fred and I stopped smoking in the house when our kids were born. He quit a few months ago, and he keeps telling me to give it up. But I haven't been able to. I guess I'm just, like, a weak person."

"I disagree," I said. "You've been raising a family on a limited income. How is that weak? Donna, you're a lot stronger than you give yourself credit for."

She took one last puff and stubbed out her cigarette. "Do you really think so?"

"Fer sure," I said, mimicking her "valley-girl" voice.

She laughed. We both crossed Main Street to the garage and found our cars. We said goodbye, and drove home.

It was good to be home. My high heels were killing me and I couldn't wait to get out of my bra. I had new empathy for what Allie had to go through on a regular basis.

The mail was our normal mix of advertisements and bills. I sorted the important stuff out for immediate attention and set the bills aside to take care of. I decided to take a shower and get changed into boy mode. The only thing feminine about my appearance would be my nails, which were still long and polished.

Now dressed comfortably in my faded jeans and a T-shirt, I went to my office to locate the laptop I had promised to Donna. I started by backing up any data files I might need onto my server. Then I re-formatted the drive and re-installed the Operating System. I also loaded up a copy of MS Office and a few other software packages I had bought for it. I ran some diagnostics to make sure all was functioning, and tested the modem. The laptop was in fine shape and ready for Donna to use. I shut it off and put it into its carrying case with its power supply and other cables. I also included a mouse so that Donna would not have to master the touch-pad right away.

I had checked my e-mail and taken care of business when I got a call from Jack. "Hey, Paul, it looks like you made the evening news."

"What are you talking about?" I asked him.

"I just saw you coming out of the Jury Room on TV. I must say, you look good on television. Or should I say Cindy looks good?"

I switched on the news and saw the tape of myself emerging from the Jurors' Entrance just to the side of the courtroom. I had to admit, I looked good, but I really didn't want my face shown all over the Delaware Valley. "Oh, great," I said to Jack. "Those vultures will be hanging around all week because of the hit-and-run case."

"Are you on that jury?" Jack asked.

"No, I'm on a civil case. I'm in the jury room next door to the hit-and-run. I can't really talk about it."

"Understood, Paul. I just thought you should know that there's a staircase that will take you to the second floor. It's just past the Judge's chambers. That will let you get past the paparazzi without being caught on camera."

"Thanks, Jack. I owe you one."

"Listen, Paul, I have to be in court tomorrow. Would you like to meet for lunch?"

"Well, the other girls and I have a lunch posse going. Would you like to tag along?"

"Other girls? Damn, I wish I had the balls to do what you're doing. I better not. I might slip and call you Cindy. Or Paul, which would really ruin things."

"I guess you're right. But you know, maybe the support group should plan a weekend lunch in Doylestown. What do you think?"

"Sounds good. Why don't we suggest it at the next meeting?"

"Great. What are you wearing to the meeting?"

"I have a new twin set. It's a floral pattern on black jersey with a calf-length skirt. It's really adorable. How about you?"

"I think I'll wear one of my new suits. I really like this business woman look."

"Well you look great, sis. I'll see you there. And maybe I'll see you tomorrow."

"Okay. See you then. Bye!" I hung up.

I did a quick surf of the channels and discovered that all three stations with an afternoon news program had video of me coming out of the Jurors' Entrance. I was sure that I would also be on the UHF stations this evening. Oh, brother! At least it wasn't just myself. They showed several jurors including Donna and Tom. I would have to inform them about the side entrance that Jack told me about.

I placed a call to Germany. It was late at night there, but Allie had told me to call any time. It was great hearing her voice. We talked about a lot of things, although I didn't mention the jury duty. But something that the girls had mentioned was bothering me.

"Allie," I asked, "do you want a ring, and would you like to set a date?"

"A date for what?" she asked.

"To get married. Do you want an engagement ring?"

"What made you think about that, Paul? Do you miss me that much?"

"I sure do miss you, love. And I want you to know just how committed I am to you. I'm going to buy you the biggest rock I can find and lay it at your feet. What do you say?"

Allie hesitated for a few seconds. "Paul, honey, don't take this the wrong way. I'm really touched by your offer. But please don't buy me a ring. I hate diamonds."

I was stunned. "You hate diamonds? But..."

"Let me explain. I have some really strong opinions about the DeBeers Company. That's the world cartel that controls the diamond trade. They buy diamonds from known terrorist regimes just to maintain the world price. So all of those pretty engagement rings are financing death and destruction.

"Besides," she said, "it's just a lump of carbon. Except for the way the atoms are arranged, a diamond is just a very expensive piece of pencil lead.

"If you want to buy me a gem stone, get me an emerald or an amethyst or a sapphire. I like colorful gems."

"What about setting a date?" I asked.

"Sure, why not. How about next year at the Wedding Pavilion in Walt Disney World?"

"Wow! That's a great idea! When should we do it?"

"After I get done this European assignment. We'll check with the park for availability. I would guess we might have to wait about a year anyway. Is that okay with you?"

"Okay? It's wonderful! Allie, I just can't believe how great I feel!"

"I even have a theme picked out for the wedding, Paul: 'Beauty and The Beast.' What do you think?"

"Just as long as I get to be the beast," I said. "Besides, you would look better in the dress."

'Thank you, kind sir. And you are one handsome beast. But speaking of dresses, have you been letting Cindy out while you've been home?"

I hesitated. "Well, yes, I have," I said. I decided to tell a partial truth, so I wouldn't actually be telling a lie. "I was out today with one of my friends from the support group."

"That sounds like fun. I hope you left a little balance on the credit cards."

We laughed. We talked for another half-hour before I hung up. Damn, I missed her.

I checked my e-mail a second time, took care of my business obligations, spent some time in a chat room for crossdressers, and caught up on my correspondence. I checked the evening news before retiring. Sure enough, I was caught on video by all of the major news organizations in the Delaware Valley area. Oh, well, 15 minutes of fame fades quickly. Tomorrow I'll be yesterday's news. I decided to turn in.

I slept well and awoke early. I showered, shaved my legs, shaved my face, and got dressed. I decided to wear a slightly more casual outfit today. For one thing, I opted for a more comfortable soft-cup bra. Jack's description of his twin set reminded me of a similar outfit that I owned, a lilac floral print skirt set. The top was a jacket with a mock shell and the skirt came down to about mid-calf. The long skirt let me get away with knee-hi hose, which was a welcome break from the pantyhose. To complete my outfit, I wore matching pumps. I still used the Prescriptives makeup, and discovered that the colors went well with my outfit.

I stopped at the pastry shop to pick up some muffins and croissants for the jurors. The counter clerk, a young fellow of about 18, eyed me up appreciatively as I made my selection, so I knew that the outfit worked. I didn't wink at him or otherwise flirt, but I smiled in a friendly way. It feels good to be so convincing.

I had quite a burden as I walked from the parking lot to the courthouse. My organizer purse and the laptop were slung over my shoulders and I carried the pastries in my hands. I was grateful for the crosswalk and the automatic doors that let me get inside without too much fuss.

I found the side entrance on the second floor and made my way up to the jury room. Some of my fellow jurors, including Donna, had already arrived. I opened up the laptop and showed Donna how to turn it on and use the software. She had an intuitive grasp of the Windows interface, which made teaching her a lot easier.

The jurors started arriving. Tom had brought coffee from the local Starbuck's and made sure I got a cup, for which I thanked him profusely. Margie brought some homemade cookies. Barbara brought a Jewish Apple cake that was really delicious. But the best treat came from Nick, who treated us to some Philly soft pretzels. This jury ate well.

I noticed that Donna was wearing a skirt today. It was a turquoise broomstick skirt with a belt. She wore this with a white peasant top and a white sweater. I noticed that she was also wearing flat-heeled white sandals. It was a very nice outfit, and I complimented her on it.

The Tipstaff peeked in once more to let us know that the court was ready for us. We filed in and took our seats. The judge wished us all a good morning.

The plaintiff's attorney called another witness, the plaintiff's second dentist. She asked him how the plaintiff had come to consult him and the treatment he received. The dentist explained that the plaintiff complained of excruciating sensitivity to cold and hot liquid and just about any solid food. The dentist examined the plaintiff's teeth and discovered severe decay and bone loss under the gums. The plaintiff's teeth were beyond saving and required extraction.

The plaintiff's lawyer set up an easel and displayed a photo of somebody's mouth. His lips were pulled back to expose the teeth and gums. It was not pretty. There was severe decay along the base of each tooth, and the gums were red and sore. The lawyer had the dentist identify the photos as the plaintiff's mouth and explain just what the picture showed. The dentist described the severe infection and decay. More photos were displayed of the plaintiff's x-rays showing severe and extensive bone loss. Finally, the lawyer asked the dentist whether gum flap surgery could have caused this extensive disease.

"In my opinion," said the dentist, "the condition of this man's mouth was the direct result of gum flap surgery."

Snappy Dresser rose to cross-examine. He questioned the dentist's education and experience, trying to cast doubt on his expertise to make such a statement. He questioned the dentist's motives in extracting the teeth. Snappy Dresser turned out to be a fairly good lawyer on the attack. By the end of his cross, the dentist was sweating.

Now it was Bad Suit's turn. He produced a number of documents signed by the plaintiff warning him of the risks associated with gum flap surgery. Were these fair and accurate warnings? One of the documents he produced was a course of home treatment to be followed by the plaintiff. Was it not true that failure to follow this regimen could result in the sort of extensive disease the plaintiff had? Wasn't it true that improper home care was the major reason the plaintiff's teeth had deteriorated? And finally, was it not true that he, the dentist, was being paid for his appearance in court today? Bad Suit might not have had the style of the other two attorneys, but he made his points well.

The next witness called was a professor from one of the local dental schools. I think it was Temple, but I'm not totally sure. The plaintiff's lawyer asked him a number of questions about his expertise in the field of periodontics, after which she offered him to the court as an expert witness. Snappy Dresser asked a few questions, and then said he had no objections. Bad Suit had no questions.

This part was really boring. The plaintiff's attorney asked the professor a lot of really technical questions about periodontics and gum flap surgery. I found my attention drifting. I looked over at the judge, who seemed to be trying to stay awake. I noticed that all of the lawyers were taking notes on those yellow pads. I looked over at the Tipstaff, who was smiling as he stifled a yawn. He looked at me and shrugged. I guess he had been through this before.

After many long questions punctuated with a couple of objections and one sidebar, the judge called a recess for lunch. We all filed out, tired of the tedium and ready to eat.

We decided on Chong's garden, a Chinese restaurant on Main Street just north of State Street. We all walked down, enjoying the spring day. I ordered General Tso's chicken, egg drop soup, and Jasmine tea. Donna had Pepper Steak and Won Ton soup, Nora ordered fried rice and no soup, Margie got a sampler platter, and Barbara ordered Mu Shu Pork. I kidded her about Chinese fajitas, which she laughed at.

We didn't talk much about the case except that the expert stuff was boring. I noticed that Bad Suit seemed to have a better-fitting coat today, but he still needed help with his ties. Margie noticed that the spit-strand was thankfully absent today. Nora made a comment about Snappy Dresser's butt that made us all giggle. It's funny, I thought to myself, but I don't think I would have even noticed his butt last week. And in all honesty, I didn't pay it much attention now. It just didn't do anything for me.

We finished lunch and took a walk down State Street where we found a music store. I just love browsing in music or bookstores, so I didn't need much coaxing to walk in. The store was just loaded with recordings of music from the 60's and 70's, and they were on CD. I looked through the racks and found the first Hot Tuna album with five bonus tracks. What a find! A little more searching uncovered Spirit's "The Family That Plays Together," also with bonus tracks. I kept looking and discovered yet another classic rock album, "The Who Sell Out," and this had extra tracks included from the recording session masters. I was ecstatic! I looked around and saw that Nora had found a very hard-to-find copy of the Monkees' soundtrack from their movie "Head." "Are you a Monkees fan, Nora?" I asked.

"Oh, yes," she replied, "I had a pre-teen crush on Peter Tork. But that's way before your time, Allie." She looked at my selection and grinned. "But your musical tastes seem to be from my generation."

"Well, I have to admit I like some of the music from that era," I said. "I started listening when I heard so many of the groups from my generation do covers of the old stuff."

"Old stuff!" Nora exclaimed, "now I really feel old! I guess I had better check into a retirement home when this trial's over." I could tell from her smile that Nora was just kidding me.

Margie and Donna looked around a bit but didn't buy anything. Barbara picked up a CD of Tommy James and the Shondells' greatest hits. We all took our purchases up to the counter.

"You really like the old stuff, don't you?" asked the clerk as rang up my order.

"Yes I do," I replied, "I'm really getting fond of the older music."

"Yeah, me too," he said. "I started listening to the oldies a few months ago and now I can't get enough of it. Ever see any of these groups in concert?"

"Not any of these groups," I answered. "But last month I caught Chicago. It was awesome!"

"I bet. Say, do you like The Beach Boys?"

"Sure do!"

"Would you like to see their show in Philly next week? I have tickets."

I was taken aback. The music store clerk was trying to pick me up! "That's sweet of you to offer, but I'm already in a relationship. Sorry!"

He just smiled. "That's cool. Just thought I'd ask. Enjoy the music!" He turned to ring up Nora's purchase.

As we walked back to the jury room, Nora said, "So the music store clerk tried to make a date with you. I hope your brush-off didn't break his heart."

"I don't think it will," I answered. "Besides, he's a little young for me, don't you think?"

Nora rolled her eyes. "Allie, dear, as long as they are old enough to pay for dinner and a show, they're old enough. And he's a lot closer to your age than he is to mine."

"I hope Tom doesn't hear you talk like that," I said.

"He's used to it. He knows not to take me too seriously."

We noticed that there were news vans from all of the local stations, so we ducked into our secret entrance on the second floor. It was about a quarter till two when we got back to the jury room. Tom and Nick greeted us.

"Ladies," said Nick, "Tom and I were thinking about joining you for lunch tomorrow. How does Kelly's Pub sound?" We all agreed it would be fine. I pulled out my CD's and was packing them into my purse when Nick asked if he could see them. He looked them over and then asked, "Where did you find these?"

"In the music shop over on State street. Do you like them?"

"These are fabulous! And bonus tracks as well! But how did a young girl like you get interested in this old stuff? I mean, these were recorded before you were born."

"And Bach's Brandenburg Concertos were written before either of us were born, but it's still good music."

"You got me there, kid," he replied. "I think I'll check this place out after court lets out today."

The Tipstaff entered and asked us how we enjoyed lunch. Then he checked to see if we were all here. One of the jurors had not returned just yet. We sat down waiting for him. He didn't arrive until a few minutes past two.

"Sorry I'm late," he said, "but I had to wade through a sea of reporters."

"That's all right," the Tipstaff said, "we aren't quite ready for...oh, wait, there's the judge. He's ready for us, so lets go." As we filed in, I suddenly remembered those patterning experiments where a scientist trained ducklings to follow him. I fought down the urge to giggle as I envisioned us as ducks waddling into the courtroom. By the time I took my seat I was composed.

The plaintiff's lawyer resumed her questioning of their expert. It was pretty monotonous stuff. The lawyer pointed to the photo she had put on display earlier and asked a number of technical questions. I tried to keep focused on the testimony, but my attention kept wandering. I noticed the court recorder typing away on the silent shorthand typewriter. The paper it used was a continuous narrow fanfold arrangement that went from one basket through the typewriter and into another basket. I wondered why this archaic method of recording was still employed. Why didn't they use video or audio recording? And if they really wanted text-only records, why didn't they use a disk or some other electronic media? I took a mental note that some sort of electronic data-recording system might be a good product to develop for courtroom proceedings.

The plaintiff's lawyer finished her questioning and Snappy Dresser got up to cross. This was also highly technical and quite boring. I was having a very difficult time keeping my attention on the trial. I started glancing around and noticed the uniforms that the court recorder and the court clerk were wearing. Both wore navy skirts and jackets with white blouses and black pumps. The court recorder has sheer nude hose while the clerk wore dark tan.

At one point during the questioning the witness asked for some water. The Tipstaff poured him a glass of water from a nearby Brita pitcher. Questioning resumed. Snappy Dresser finished, and then Bad Suit asked some questions.

Bad Suit went into a lot more technical detail with his questions. The point of his questioning was to get the expert to admit that it was most likely that bad home care, not the gum flap surgery, was responsible for the plaintiff's pain and suffering. The expert did not agree completely, but did not rule out the possibility.

Lady Lawyer asked a number of rebuttal questions to repair the damage done on cross. She asked the witness to clarify certain points brought out by Snappy Dresser and Bad Suit. Snappy Dresser and Bad Suit also asked some rebuttal questions to emphasize the points they had made. The witness was finally excused.

I've really boiled a lot of this down, because it took a long time to finish. In fact, it was after 4:30. The judge called a halt to the proceedings and we adjourned.

We filed back into the jury room, all of us relieved that this tedious session had finally ended. "Did any of you have a hard time staying awake?" asked Tom.

"I did," Barbara answered. "It was all I could do to keep my eyes open!"

"I think I had too much for lunch," I said. "I feel like I could use a nap."

"Well I hope this expert stuff doesn't last much longer," Donna said, "otherwise we'll all be snoring in the jury box. Maybe I'll bring a pillow."

We all laughed. "Donna, don't forget your laptop," I said.

"Oh thanks, Allie. Wow, I like still can't believe it. I really have a computer of my own!"

"I hope you enjoy it, Donna. If you have any questions, just bring it by tomorrow and I'll try to help you out."

"That's great, Allie. I really appreciate it."

We walked through the secret entrance past the wall of reporters covering the hit and run case. We made our way to the door. Donna did not stop, but accompanied me to the garage.

"Congratulations," I said.

"What? Did I do something?" she asked.

"It's more like what you didn't do, Donna. You didn't light up."

Donna smiled. "Thanks for noticing, Allie. I left my cigarettes home today. I wanted to see if I could last a whole day without them."

"You did good, Donna. I'm proud of you."

"Well, I haven't exactly quit yet. I'll probably have one when I get home. But I thought that if I could go this long without smoking, I might be able to quit altogether in a week or two."

"Well you made a step in the right direction. Keep up the good work."

"Thanks, girl friend," she answered.

Donna found her car and stowed the laptop in the back seat. We said goodbye and she drove off. I got to my own car and pulled away. I treated myself to my new Hot Tuna CD as I drove.

The drive home was not too bad. Unlike my morning drive, traffic at 4:30 PM was quite heavy. It took me almost twice as long to get home. I pulled up the driveway and into the garage.

Our garage is connected to the kitchen. I walked through the connecting doorway and into the kitchen. A quick glance at the phone let me know that I didn't have any messages. I sighed and kicked off my pumps. I grabbed a bottle of Snapple from the 'fridge and walked into the living room. A surprise was waiting for me. It was Allison.

"Well Hi, Paul!" she said as I walked in. "I see you've been out and about as Cindy, today. Did you have a good time?"

"Allie! When did you get home?"

"About two hours ago. You sounded so lonesome when you called, and you wanted to get me a ring and all, that I just couldn't stay in Germany. I caught a flight home."

"But, uh, what about your job?"

"I'm taking a week's vacation. I thought I'd surprise you."

"Well you sure did that!" I said. "I think I better check my panties."

"Did you have a good time today?"

"Well, uh, sure!" I said.

"Did you do anything special?"

"Uh, sort of." What was she talking about?

"Where did you have lunch?" she asked.

"Uh, Chong's Garden. I had General Tso's chicken."

"I'll bet that was good. You must really like it in Doylestown to spend so much time there."

"Huh? But, uh, how did you know I was in Doylestown?"

"I saw you on TV. At least, I saw Cindy on TV, in the Bucks County courthouse. Mind telling me just what's going on?"

It was no good trying to change the subject. Allie had me dead to rights. So I sat down and related to her the events of the last three days. She sat in silence, impassive, betraying no emotion. After I finished, she remained silent. All she would do is stare at me. It was unnerving.

"Uh, Allie," I asked nervously, "are you angry at me?"

"Paul Francis Weston, this is the most idiotic stunt you have ever pulled!"

Now I knew I was in for it. Whenever a woman is particularly mad at you, she uses your middle name. I was now officially up a well-known creek without a paddle.

"Allie, let me..."

"Not until I'm finished. Damn it. Paul, this kind of a stunt can get us both in real trouble. Just what the hell were you thinking?"

"I..."

"You weren't thinking, that's what! Jesus! Less than a week out of my sight and you're pretending to be me! How could you be so stupid?"

"Allie, honey, I..."

"Don't you 'Allie, honey' me, Paul Weston! You think a few nice words and some hugs and kisses are going to get you out of this one? You've got another think coming, 'Missy'!"

I hung my head. "All right. What do you want."

That's when I saw her grin. "For starters, how about dinner? And you're cooking."

I was both mad and relieved at the same time. "What? You're, I, you..."

Allie couldn't hold back. She started to laugh. "Paul," she said, "you're unbelievable. You have got to be out of your mind. But you look so cute in your woman's suit I just can't stay mad at you." And she hugged me.

We went upstairs to change and shower. We spent some extra time in the shower, scrubbing each other with soap. We got changed for dinner.

"You have to admit it looks a little strange," she said, referring to my nails. I was now dressed in total boy mode wearing chinos and a polo shirt. But I still had my mauve nails glued on.

"Well I can't exactly take them off yet. But I didn't think I would need them this long."

"We had better check them closely tomorrow. Your natural nails continue to grow, and this might cause a gap."

"Uh, oh! How can I fix that?"

"We might have to remove them and give you a new set of nails. I really didn't expect to be doing your nails on my first night home, though!"

"Oh? What did you expect?"

Allie just smiled. We went back upstairs. We slowly undressed each other and, without saying a word, got into bed.

We didn't get dinner for several hours. By then we were quite hungry. Allie was asking me about my experiences. How did I like interacting as a woman, with women, and with men? She nearly busted a gut laughing when I told her about the record store clerk trying to pick me up. "I'll bet he would have been surprised," she said.

"Well I'm not that kind of a girl!" I said in mock indignation.

"What kind are you?" she asked.

I had waited for years for just that straight line. "Why, I'm a girl with something extra, of course!" I said. We both laughed long and hard.

Eventually Allie fixed my nails. I treated her to a foot massage to show my gratitude. It was quite late when we finally got to sleep. Somehow, with all of the distractions, I forgot to set the alarm.

It was five minutes to eight when I finally awoke. I was groggy until I saw the time on the digital alarm clock. A rush of adrenaline made me completely alert.

"Oh, shit!" I said. "I have to be in court by 9:30!"

Allie woke up. "Don't panic, Paul. Just get ready as quick as you can."

"But I need to shave my legs and everything!"

"I don't know if you'll have time. Maybe you better wear slacks today."

I remembered the pants and top I had bought at the GAP. "Okay," I said, "I think I have an outfit I can use. But I still better call the court and let them know I'll be late."

I showered quickly. As I started to shave, Allie cautioned me not to rush. "You don't want to be bleeding underneath your makeup," she said. So I was careful.

I placed a call to the number I was given on my first day. The Tipstaff answered. I explained to him that I had overslept. "Don't worry, miss," he told me, "the trial is going to start late anyway. Just get in as quickly as you can."

I was relieved as I hung up the phone. I saw Allie across the room grinning. "What's so funny?" I asked.

"I just love it when you do your girlie voice," she said. "I'm wondering how you can do it all day?"

"Practice," I replied. "But I'd better finish dressing. Can you hook my bra for me?"

We both smiled at the role reversal occurring here. She fetched my padded panty girdle and a pants liner. I pulled my new gold tunic top on and then pulled on my new pants. I liked the effect. Allie said, "That would look nice with a pair of blue pumps."

"Probably, but I was thinking of wearing my new sneakers." I pulled on a pair of the ankle socks I had bought and then laced up the Reeboks. They went well with the outfit.

"Nice outfit," Allie said. "Mind if I borrow it some time?"

"Sure, Allie. Any time. The shoes are probably too big, though." I did my makeup and pinned my wig back into place. Fortunately, the style went just as well with casual dress as it did with my suits.

"You look good, Cindy. Have a nice day in court."

"Thanks, Allie," I said. We shared a little goodbye kiss as I opened the door connecting the garage to the kitchen. We kissed a second time. Then we stopped. I didn't want to mess up my makeup.

My drive to Doylestown was uneventful, but it was about 9:45 AM when I pulled into the Municipal Garage. I parked in the first spot I could find and ran up the steps to the main level. By time I got to the jury room it was almost 10:00 and I was out of breath.

"I'm sorry I'm so late," I said, hoping that I didn't annoy everybody by holding up the proceedings.

"Relax, Allie," said Nick. "The judge and the lawyers are having some sort of conference, and the trial has been delayed.

The Tipstaff said, "The judge just told me that we won't start until 10:30, so relax. You didn't hold us up, miss."

I was so relieved! I found my chair and pinned on my badge. Donna greeted me. "Hi, Allie. Hey, you're wearing that new outfit. It looks cute on you."

"Oh, thanks, Donna. Your outfit is nice too." Donna was wearing a pair of cargo pants and one of the new tops she had bought at the GAP.

"Thanks. Say, Fred was showing me some things on this computer, but I still have a few questions. Do you mind showing me how this Excel thing works?"

"No problem," I said. "Go ahead and boot it up."

Donna opened the laptop and started it like an expert. I showed her how to start Excel and talked her through the way a spreadsheet was put together. Despite her valley-girl mannerisms, Donna proved to be a quick study and a sharp student. It didn't take long before we had a simple budget planned out. Then I showed her how to make a loan amortization table. She caught on quickly.

Well before you know it, the Tipstaff was talking to us again. "Folks, I'm really sorry. The judge just told me that this conference is taking longer than he expected, and court won't convene until after lunch. You're all free to go eat, and please be back by 2:00."

I looked at my watch. It was noon! "Wow, I lost track of the time! Are we still on for lunch?"

Everybody nodded. We made our way out of the courthouse and headed for Kelly's Bar.

Kelly's was a small place lined with booths. We took the corner booth, the only one that could accommodate all of us. We sat down and studied the menu. Then the waiter came over. "Good afternoon, folks. I'm Joe, your waiter for today. Can I get you something to drink?"

Nick and Tom both ordered beer. Barbara ordered an iced tea. I decided to give in to temptation. "A pint of Murphy's Stout, please."

The girls and the guys went wide-eyed. Tom said, "Do you know what you just ordered?"

"Well," I said, "it isn't Guinness, but it isn't bad. I like it."

You would have thought I had laid down the gauntlet. Both men changed their orders to Murphy's. I thought it was hysterical. They wouldn't let some young chick out-drink them!

The girls were also amused, but none of them ordered stout. Donna ordered a Coors Light, and Nora decided to treat herself to a Bass Ale, but Margie asked for a cup of hot tea. "And what could be more Irish than a nice hot cup of tea?" she said.

When the drinks arrived, I could feel every eye on me. I picked up the glass of frothy dark stout and held it to my lips. I sipped a bit from the glass. It was good, creamy, and just a touch bitter the way a stout should be. "Mmmm," I said, "that's nice. I just wish they hadn't chilled it. Stout should be cool but not cold."

Nick and Tom just about cheered me. I only giggled as I took another sip. Barbara said, "Is it really that good, Allie?"

"Oh, my, yes!" I answered. "Stout is definitely an acquired taste, though. I just felt in the mood for one today."

Barbara shuddered. I guess the thought of drinking something that dark was upsetting to her. I just enjoyed it.

We all ordered soup and some sort of sandwich. I had a BLT on wheat toast. Donna had a Monte Christo sandwich. Nick and Tom both ordered large cheesesteaks, and Nora got herself a cheeseburger. I sipped at my stout so that it lasted through lunch. The guys each had refills. We all had coffee for dessert.

Nora said, "I need to visit the little girls' room. Anybody going?" We all got up. This amused Nick and Tom to no end.

"What is it with women and the bathroom?" Nick said. "They seem to have some sort of herd mentality."

"It's a woman thing," I replied, "Men just wouldn't understand." We all giggled.

The Ladies' room at Kelly's was small, so we had to form a line. I took care of business in the stall. I had to admit using the bathroom was a lot easier wearing pants instead of a skirt. I paused at the sink to re-apply all the lipstick I had left on the rim of my glass. With my makeup repaired, I rejoined the posse.

We had taken a long time over lunch so we decided to skip our afternoon shopping and head back to court. Besides, we knew that the men would be uncomfortable watching the ladies shop. The ladies, I thought to myself. For most of this week I had really been thinking of myself as a woman. But every now and then I remembered that I was really a man. When I did, I smiled. Despite my many panic attacks, I was having fun,

As it turned out, we need not have hurried. It was nearly three o'clock when we finally filed back into the courtroom. And the judge had some startling news for us.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he said, "on behalf of the County of Bucks, the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, and the litigants in this case, I would like to thank you for your service. The litigants have settled their dispute privately and have withdrawn their complaints.

"Before you leave, I want you to know that your service here was not a waste of time. The fact that a jury was empanelled and the case was proceeding was an impetus for the litigants to settle. Your presence in this courtroom motivated the litigants to apply common sense and reach an agreement. You have performed a valuable service to the community, and we are grateful for it.

"This concludes your service. You are dismissed with the thanks of the court. This court is adjourned." The court clerk pounded a gavel. We looked over at the Tipstaff, who winked and motioned for us to leave. We all rose and filed out of the courtroom.

"Can you believe that?" said an incredulous Tom. "Why couldn't they settle earlier?"

"Somebody got cold feet and wanted a quick end," said Margie. "What a waste."

"Well, I enjoyed it," I said. "At least, I enjoyed meeting everyone. We had some great lunches together."

"We did," said Donna, "but I'm ready to get back home with my husband and kids."

Everybody said goodbye. Some of us hugged. Some exchanged phone numbers and said they would keep in touch. We all gathered up our stuff.

I gathered my purse and looked around the little room. The newspapers, donut boxes, and other stuff had all been tossed out. The coffeepot was packed up by its owner. Except for the overflowing trashcans, it looked much like it did when we first entered. I felt a little sad, but also relieved.

"Hey, Allie." I turned around. Donna was behind me with the laptop slung over her shoulder. "Thanks again for this laptop. And thanks for showing me all of those things. I really appreciate it."

"Your welcome, Donna. And thanks for all the lunches. I almost feel like we're old friends."

"Well, if you ever want to get together for lunch or something, just give me a call. Here's my number." She handed me a post-it note.

"Sure. And here's my number, too." I scribbled my phone number on a notepad I retrieved from my purse. We walked to the garage together. She got in her car, I got in mine, and we drove off to our separate lives.

I called Allie on the cell phone to let her know I was coming home. When I finally pulled into the garage, I was fairly well beat. I had some fun being a woman for the last few days, but now I was ready to get back into boy mode.

Allie was waiting for me in the kitchen. "So how did it go?" she asked.

"They settled out of court," I replied. I had pulled off my wig and sat with her at the table, still wearing my female outfit and makeup. I removed my earrings and put them on the table. Now that I could talk about the case, I did. Allie laughed at my description of the lawyers, especially Mister Bad Suit. She commiserated with me over the tedium I had endured.

"Well," I said, "at least I'm now off the hook for the next three years."

"Not exactly," Allie said. "Remember, you went as me. I'm the one off the hook for the next three years. Speaking of which, something came for you in the mail today."

Allie handed me a green envelope. It was a standby juror summons just like the one that started this adventure. It was addressed to Paul Weston.

Oh my God! Here we go again!

As it turned out, I never was called in. I dutifully phoned the courthouse every evening to see if I was being called. The numbers called in stopped about two hundred from my number, so I didn't have to report.

Allie returned to Germany and absolutely astounded her bosses. I continued my Trans-Atlantic commute for the remainder of the year. After her assignment was up she got a big promotion, an absolutely decadent raise, and returned to the company headquarters in Bucks County.

It's funny how things work out, though. Allie did not really enjoy her new position. It was challenging, but her duties were exclusively managerial and she derived a lot more satisfaction from the technical end of Web Development. So she quit and joined my company.

Yes, I said my company. I know that I could have continued along the same path I had been on as an independent consultant, but the fact is I'm too industrious for my own good. I like a long vacation as much as the next guy, but months away from my work tended to drive me up a wall. So I took on more business. Eventually my reputation grew and I soon had more business than I could handle. So I hired another consultant, and eventually another. Then Allie joined us. Then I added Web Hosting to my services. In three years I had an office, a server farm, and ten partners.

Along the way Allie and I tied the knot, and we did it at Disney World. Our friends and family joined us at the Disney Wedding Pavilion, as we became husband and wife. Allie arrived in a horse-drawn glass coach wearing a gorgeous Vera Wang gown. As she walked down the aisle, it seemed to me that Heaven opened up just a little and shone one perfect beam of light on her. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen in my life.

Me, I wore a nice Armani tux for the wedding. Nothing too ostentatious, just a basic black tuxedo. After all, this was Allie's special day, and the groom is only the bride's ultimate accessory. I certainly didn't want to upstage the most beautiful woman in creation on her wedding day. But to tell the truth, I really look good in Armani.

I never did get back in touch with Donna. I know that we parted with the intention of keeping up with each other and continuing our new-found friendship, but that never happened. For a few weeks after the trial, I thought about giving Donna a call but never did. After a while I stopped thinking about it. And if you think about this logically it makes sense. The fourteen of us were thrust together by accident, and formed relationships to help cope with the situation. The only thing we really had in common was being on the same jury. Once this common bond was dissolved, there was really no need to continue. So we went back to our own lives to take care of our own concerns. I had almost forgotten about her until just last week.

I had placed an ad in one of the online services for an all-around executive assistant. The administrative details of the business were just too much for me to handle. I wanted someone who could do our payroll, handle our billing, and keep our books as well as manage the office for us. In other words, somebody to run the place. I got a few nice resumes and called in a few candidates. But I didn't expect Donna Marsh to come in for an interview.

Yes, I saw her name on the resume and cover letter, but I didn't connect it to the woman I had met on jury duty. The resume listed coursework in bookkeeping, word processing, and spreadsheets, and she had been working part-time at a cardiologist's office. So I called her in for an interview.

I have to admit that I was quite surprised when she walked in. She was dressed in a conservative woman's suit. Under her jacket she wore a lace-trimmed white blouse. Her hair was a little shorter and was styled nicely. She wore pearl earrings with a matching pendant. I could not help but notice her fine manicure as we shook hands. The tattoo was still there.

She looked at me with a touch of confusion, but seemed to put it aside as we discussed the job and her qualifications. Her skill set was just what I was looking for. She had experience in billing, payroll, and office management. I was sold.

"This is a full-time position," I said. "Is that what you're looking for?"

"Well," she said, "I was hoping for a little flexibility in my schedule. My kids are in school and I would like to be home when they get home."

"That shouldn't be a problem," I replied. "If you like, you can work from home and telecommute. Do you think you can handle that?"

Her eyes lit up. "That would be perfect! Not every day, of course, but if I could just leave early on school days..."

"That would be fine. As long as you get your work done, I don't insist on regular hours. Most of the partners work out of their homes, so it shouldn't be any big deal. I would expect to see you maybe once or twice a week, if that."

"I can't believe it! I think I found the perfect job!"

"I'm glad you like it. So why don't we talk about your compensation? We offer a complete medical and dental plan, all company paid. You will be handling the details, so you're going to know more about it than any of us. We also have a 401K, paid holidays, and two weeks paid vacation to start."

"My husband has medical coverage, but we have to pay something for it. Maybe I can cover him under me."

"Why not? Your coverage starts on your first day of work. I can give you a plan booklet and the forms to take home."

"Thank you. That would be fine."

"This is a non-smoking office, by the way. You will have to go outside to smoke."

"That's no problem. I don't smoke."

I grinned. Then I mentioned a figure.

"It really pays that much?" she asked.

"Yes, and we also pay a profit sharing bonus. It won't be as big as the partner's bonus, of course, but we've generated a profit since I started the business. You can take it as cash or as a contribution to your 401K."

As we were talking, I noticed that Donna had dropped her valley-girl speech pattern. Her elocution and diction were more indicative of an educated professional.

"The job is yours if you want it," I said. "Do you need time to think it over?"

"Not at all. With this salary my husband can finally quit his second job and spend more time at home. He's been working two jobs for as long as we've been married. He never complains, but I know it's been wearing him out. Now I can help lift some of his burden."

"Good. How soon can you start?"

"I want to give my employer two week's notice. Is that all right?"

"Of course. I'll make arrangements to have a new PC delivered to your home, and get you a dedicated phone line. This will all be company paid. Congratulations, and welcome to our little madhouse."

We both stood and shook on the deal. Donna was obviously happy, but I could see the look of puzzlement on her face. "Excuse me," she said, "but have we ever met before? You seem awfully familiar."

I started to laugh. This confused her even more. "Yes, we have," I said. "Let's talk about it over lunch. I'm buying."

I held the door as we made our way out of my office and over to the restaurant. Lunch was going to be interesting!

 © 2001 by Valentina Michelle Smith.

Notes:

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