Chapter One: Reunion

Despite just having turned fifty-five, Mildred Lester had retained a trim figure, one that would look desirable on a woman half her age. Having retired early from her years as a high school English teacher, Ms. Lester had worked the last five years teaching English at a small liberal arts college, where she also ran the drama department. She put her heart and soul into the work, finding a late life challenge in the new work, causing her to rise most days early in the morning.

It was understandable that she’d sleep a bit longer on a Saturday and such was the case on this day, when she didn’t arise until nearly 7:30 a.m. She relished the chance to ignore an alarm that went off at 5:30 each morning, Mondays through Fridays; she set the time early so that she could spend some quiet time in reading and reflecting before heading off to the college.

Mildred lifted the window shade, letting in the morning sun that flooded the room and momentarily blinded her, pleased to see that the day dawned bright and clear, just as the weather girl had promised. She planned to get out that morning before the day got too hot to attack the weeds that had infected the backyard plot, having become a problem during a June that was rainier than usual.

“My, oh my, what is this?” Mildred asked herself, her question spoken even though there was no one else to hear. She lived alone in a small one-story, two bedroom tract house, its white-painted frame siding highlighted with teal green trim. The house was built in a subdivision of nearly-identical homes more than 60 years ago, just after World War II.

A moving van had stopped in front of the next door house, a rundown copy of her home; the house had been on the market for over a year, and had been badly maintained. The yard was overgrown with wild weeds and the lawn mowed only intermittently by the realtor. The home’s growing disrepair worried Mildred, and she was concerned about squatters occupying it, maybe even druggies. The long recession had hit her neighborhood hard, leaving a number of vacant homes, as a possible harbinger of the area becoming a slum.

Mildred smiled; the moving van was a good sign, meaning the house had been sold. The only question was: who was her new neighbor? She hoped it would be an older single person who’d be interested in improving the property. But it could be a drug dealer, too!

She’d find out soon enough, she figured, and went into the bathroom to get ready for the morning. In summertime, Mildred wore only a long pink tee shirt and panties to bed; she had no air conditioning, but that was rarely needed in the northern Wisconsin city in which she lived where the breezes off nearby Lake Superior offered relief in all but the hottest days of the year.

The woman, who was taller than most, stood naked before a full length mirror on the back of the bathroom door critically wondering if maybe her tummy was getting a bit bigger. She prided herself on being fit, and her medium-sized breasts were still firm and erect, but when she pinched a bit of her tummy fat she knew that she was getting soft. It bothered her, but her good friend, Cindy Johnson, who was already showing chubbiness seemingly endemic to women as they age, assured her that it was natural for a woman as they get older.

“My God, Millie,” Cindy said. “Most women your age would die for a body like yours.”

The fact of getting old bothered Mildred; she had noticed that her naturally strawberry blonde hair was not only showing bits of gray but was thinning, as well. She knew her friend Cindy was right: she should not worry so much about her looks because Mildred was a truly lovely woman. Mildred cursed herself for her vanity, but she seemed not to be able to shake the tendency. Mildred had not always been such a strikingly pretty woman; there was a time when she considered herself ugly and pathetic.

*****
By 9 a.m. that morning, Mildred was in her garden using a hoe and hand tool to uproot the invading weeds. She made for a lovely, almost pastoral sight, her slender body covered with only a light yellow tank top and tiny shorts that exposed her lovely arms, shoulders and legs. Even though she had put on sunscreen to protect her tender light skin she still wore a wide-brimmed straw hat to protect her face and back of her neck.

As she weeded, she looked periodically at the neighboring house, curious as to whom her new neighbor was. There was not much activity in the backyard of the other house, since the movers were bringing furniture and other household items in through the front door, but occasionally one of them carried an item like a piece of lawn furniture into the back or into the garage. Several times Mildred noticed a woman, perhaps about her same age, come into the back and look around; the woman was wearing a fashionable hat, blouse and slacks, and Mildred thought it must be a real estate agent since the outfit was unusually classy for a summer Saturday morning.

The weeding proved to be tough going and Mildred soon forgot about the neighboring house as she got lost in concentrating on removing the pesky plants without disturbing her flowers. She loved beautiful items. She soon began to perspire and her hands felt like they were becoming calloused as she used the tools. She had never liked to perspire; it just seemed so unladylike. Finally she put down her tools and headed toward her backdoor to take a break and fix herself an iced tea.

“Hi there,” she heard a voice call to her from the neighboring yard.

Mildred looked there to see the classy woman approaching the fence that separated the two yards.

“Yes, hi,” she acknowledged, stopping in her tracks to look at the woman.

“I’d like to say ‘hi,’” the woman said. “I saw you working so hard over there I didn’t want to interrupt you until you stopped.”

“Oh that’s OK,” Mildred said, wondering what the woman wanted. “I would have welcomed the interruption.”

“I’m your new neighbor and my name is Amy Strawbridge,” the woman announced; her voice was a bit husky but a feminine lilt in her words made her sound pleasant and kind.

“Oh, my new neighbor?” Mildred asked, momentarily confused. “I thought you were the real estate agent.”

The other woman giggled, and Mildred realized she had been rude to the neighbor. She quickly remedied the situation.

“I’m sorry, I’m Mildred Lester. My friends call me Millie.”

“Nice meeting you, Millie.”

Mildred walked over to the fence, smiling at the woman and the two reached across the fence to shake hands. Mildred was surprised to see how lovely a face the woman had; she no doubt worked hard to reduce wrinkles and to keep her face smooth, something that Mildred had been unable to do. The woman obviously liked to dress with class and to keep appearing young. That would be a mark of vanity; yet the woman seemed warm and friendly.

Something about the woman seemed familiar, but Mildred couldn’t figure out what it was.

“And nice meeting you, Amy. Are you from around here? It seems I should know you since you look familiar.”

“No,” she said. “I’m from Chicago and was just transferred to work at the main office for the mill.”

“Well, welcome to our community. Just hope you don’t mind our cold winters here.”

Amy smiled. “I know, but the summers and autumn here must be beautiful.”

“They are, but really it seems I know you from somewhere.”

“I have the same feeling, Mildred, but I’ve only been here in this town twice for brief meetings.”

Mildred looked more closely at the woman and then it dawned on her.

“Your said that your name is Strawbridge?”

“Yes.”

“I knew a boy in high school named Adam Strawbridge,” Mildred said. “You must be related to him, maybe even his cousin, or something.”

Suddenly the woman seemed to blush. She smiled back at Mildred.

“And my best friend for a couple of years in high school was a boy named Milton Lester, whose parents named him after the poet John Milton.”

“Oh my God, Amy. You’re Adam.”

“And you’re Milton.”

The two women reached across the fence and hugged as only two long lost friends could hug.

Chapter Two: Library Nerds

Milton Lester was a chubby boy of 14 when he entered 9th Grade at the high school while Adam Strawbridge was trim and slender. Milton had grown up in the community while Adam was new to the city when he entered the 9th grade.

Both boys had one thing in common. They were loners, and both seemed to accept the fact that they had few if any friends. All his young life Milton shied from playing with other boys, since he didn’t like their rough-housing; he found it comforting to sit at home and find companionship in the books he read while haunting the local branch library for more reading matter. He day-dreamed a lot.

In the summer before 9th Grade, Milton often rode his bike to the Emery Hinkle Central Library in the mid-sized Midwestern city. It was an ancient building where the smell of more than seventy years of books still permeated the air, competing with the odor of numerous waxings and cleanups. It was a musty place, but for some young people, like Milton, it was warm and welcoming.

Nestled amidst the stacks in the youth fiction area was a small reading section holding half a dozen oak chairs around a large oak table; it was a place for teens to study or become engrossed in a book, finding fantasy in another world. Milton often could be found as one of those teenagers, and usually he was alone. Occasionally, two or three others would join in sitting in one of the chairs; they were always girls. Milton tried not to pay attention to them, but he couldn’t help but to try to steal a few looks at them, examining what clothes they wore, how they fixed their hair and how they positioned their bodies as they curled up in the chairs.

Several times, a girl might try to nod in a friendly way to Milton or otherwise acknowledge his presence but the shy boy would quickly avert his eyes into his book to avoid any direct conversation. He knew he was fascinated by girls, but he was afraid of them, too.

He realized he was not much of a boy; he was a bit too chubby and not the least bit athletic. He knew his breasts which hung like a girl’s breasts often were visible as they pressed the cloth of his tee-shirt. He wore shorts on hot summer days, and he knew his soft thighs were displayed as he curled up on chairs. Why would any girl care about him?

That summer Milton had become bored with the adventure stories that were featured in most books for boys and began exploring other kinds, having inadvertently stumbled onto a book with an interesting title in which he soon became engrossed. In just a few weeks he devoured the books of Jane Austen, checking out a book one day and returning two or three days later to begin the next one, astonishing Mrs. O’Connor, the youth librarian.

“Are you reading these books all the way through young man?” the librarian asked as he checked out the third book by Jane Austen.

“Yes, ma’am. I can’t seem to stop reading and my mom keeps telling me I’ll ruin my eyes with so much reading,” he said.

“Well, mothers usually know best, dear,” the librarian, a tall woman with close-cropped gray hair, said. “In this case, however, I think reading may be better on the eyes than hours watching television.”

She smiled, and Mrs. O’Connor soon became one of the few adults with whom Milton felt comfortable.

He was particularly interested in “Emma,” Austen’s book that he read after “Pride and Prejudice.” He soon began identifying himself with the lead character in the story, Emma Woodhouse, a fetching young woman who seemed to be more interested in being engaged in match-making than her own potential love interests.

One day, he noticed the book, “Little Women,” the famous book by Louisa May Alcott, sitting on the coffee table in the reading area. Having finished reading every Jane Austen book at the library, he picked up the book, wondering why he – a boy – would read such a book clearly meant for girls. As he had with Elizabeth in “Pride and Prejudice” and Emma Woodhouse, he now found himself enthralled with Jo March, one of the four sisters in “Little Women.”

Milton had become a constant day-dreamer, fantasizing that he had a fascinating and exciting life as someone other than his pathetic self. For years, he had imagined a new life as military hero or star football player.

In that summer, his fantasies changed, often day-dreaming of being a lovely girl in the 19th Century, almost always dressed in petticoats, full skirts and blouses featuring high ruffled collars, with well-coiffured hair. Mostly, he wondered what it would have been like to be Emma, who regularly could be seen in high-fashioned sitting rooms of the gentry, but soon he began creating in his mind a present-day pretty girl whom he named Mildred.

Milton’s fantasizing seized him that summer, and as he rode his bike to and from the Library or on other lonely excursions when he would look at the girls that might be walking along the way. He studied them, hopefully not being too noticeable, mainly wondering how his fictional Mildred would look in whatever the girls were wearing.

So many of the girls were slender, with pretty legs and budding breasts; his Mildred, however, would not necessarily look best in some of the tight, abbreviated shorts or tops. His Mildred was himself, a plumpish girl with chubby thighs and soft arms.

On the day he began reading “Little Women,” he was so caught up with the story that he forgot the hardness of the wooden chair. Already on Page 35, he was fully engrossed in the story when his attention was interrupted by a voice:

“Excuse me. That was my book.” It was a thin, high pitched voice of a girl.

Milton was temporarily confused by the interruption, and he looked up blankly.

“I said I had ‘Little Women’ first,” the girl repeated, slowly and more clearly as if she was speaking to some dimwit. She was a pale, plump girl about his same age. Her round freckled face with full cheeks and the hint of a double chin was framed in long blonde hair. The girl’s eyes were blue as the sky and seemed to be dancing cheerfully.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Milton said, closing the book and uncurling his legs and putting his feet on the floor so that he could sit more erect. “Here, you can have it back. I didn’t know it was yours.”

The girl smiled at him.

“Oh that’s OK. I shouldn’t have left it here while I searched the stacks for another book. I really need to check this book out. It’s for a summer school assignment.”

“Take it then,” Milton said, handing it over to her.

“Thank you, you’re sweet,” the girl said. “You really like this book? I thought only girls would like this book.”

Milton felt his face must be growing red, but he nodded, agreeing that he like this book.

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by that,” the girl said, apparently trying to make Milton feel more at ease.

“I guess most boys wouldn’t read the book, but it’s a good story.”

Just turning 15, Milton was shy about talking with girls, always envying those boys who could so easily flirt with girls. Realizing how sorry he must look as a boy, he knew full well that no girl would give him a second look; maybe he could talk with this girl, since they both seemed to like books.

“By the way,” he said as the girl took the book. “My name is Mildred . . . ah . . . er . . . Milton.”

The girl giggled a bit, and smiled when she replied in a teasing tone: “Which is it? Mildred or Milton.”

“It’s Milton, of course,” he said. “I just got tongue-tied.”

“Ok, but why did you say ‘Mildred?’” Her smile broadened and her face took on an impish look.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was just reading something about a Mildred.”

“Really? I don’t know of anyone named Mildred in that book you were reading.”

Milton looked away from the girl; he didn’t quite know what to make of her. To his young eyes she looked like a friendly girl who seemed pleased to talk with him. None of her questions seemed to be said in a nasty way, even though they challenged him, as if he were lying. Of course, he was lying, but how could he divulge the real reason he said “Mildred?”

The girl smiled, a warm sweet smile, and said, “My name is Jennifer and it’s nice to meet you Milton.”

Milton looked up at the girl, and smiled at her. He was suddenly enamored with her, perhaps because of her easy, mischievously teasing demeanor. He wanted to get to know her better, but at the moment he felt so overwhelmed that he didn’t know what to say. He was so afraid his basic shyness would cause him to ruin this possibility of making a new friend, one who shared his interest in books and didn’t seem bothered that he was not one of the muscular, handsome star athlete types.

Finally, Jennifer broke the awkward silence. “I’m beginning 9th Grade in fall at Walt Whitman High,” she said.

“Cool,” Milton responded.

“How about you?”

“Me?” he smiled. “The same, ninth at Whitman.”

“That is cool,” she said. “Do you read lots?”

“All the time, it seems,” he smiled, glad to find another person his age who didn’t seem to laugh at him for putting his nose in a book.

“Me too. I guess that makes us a couple of bookworms,” Jennifer said, giggling.

Milton joined her in the giggles, until the youth librarian let out a “Shhhhhhhhhhhhhh.”

They both stifled their giggles, putting their hands to their mouths. Jennifer gave Milton a conspiratorial smile, and they both continued in their mirth, but noiselessly, of course. Milton had found a friend.

Chapter Three: A Budding Jazz Singer

Adam Strawbridge hardly had much chance to make friends since his father had some sort of a strange job that caused him to be constantly transferred. Like Milton, Adam found books to be his solace. Much to his father’s dismay, Adam seemed to care little about sports and seemed not to be developing into a strong, muscular young man that a man like himself expected from a son. No amount of nagging by his father seemed to motivate Adam into a more masculine life style. Adam day-dreamed a lot, too.

A slender youth of average height, he had the the body of a long-distance runner. His long brunette hair, thin face and dark eyes seemed to dominate his appearance. When Adam entered into a group of people, he drew immediate attention. Yet, Adam’s strikingly good looks seemed not have changed his fortunes in making friends. He was a lonely boy.

Part of Adam’s issues came because he was rarely in a city more than two years before his family would have to move, and the boy soon learned not to make any close friends since they’d soon be irrevocably parted. He still remembered fondly his friend Mikey, a chubby boy with whom he had become inseparable in the 4th Grade. Mikey, too, was a loner, but the two boys found great kinship in board games – particularly long Monopoly games – and in play-acting. On long, rainy summer days, Adam recalls they would create a makeshift stage in Mikey’s garage and stage plays for the younger neighborhood kids. Adam recalled most fondly the days he put on the dresses or skirts of Mikey’s older sister and played the part of a girl, while Mikey would be the boyfriend in the make-believe play. Sometimes, Adam played the wife or mother in their mini-plays.

“You play the part so well, darling,” his mother said after watching the play along with a half-dozen children and several other mothers.

“Yeah, you’re a born actress,” his friend Mikey teased.

“Don’t tease him, Mikey,” his friend’s mother warned. “Adam’s just play-acting.”

They put on four short plays, with sometimes absurd, fanciful ideas and usually without scripts and lots of giggling in between. The two boys, soon aided by two or three other children, gained a following, even drawing a huge banner on an old bedsheet, announcing the performances of “The 54th Street Players.” They charged the kids 2 cents and the adults 5 cents.

At the summer’s end, Adam’s family had to move suddenly, depriving Adam from starting 5th Grade with his friend Mikey. The boys hugged and cried in their final day together, retreating to the woods, pledging to be “best friends forever,” running into the nearby forested area to cut their fingers and draw blood in order to become “blood brothers.”

Adam never saw nor heard from Mikey again. It was not Mikey’s fault, Adam realized, since his parents had warned him not to let anyone know where they were living and told him firmly to totally lose contact with anyone he knew. He obeyed his mother, of course; Adam always did obey, since he loved her immensely, but also because if he didn’t he knew he was in for a terrible beating from his father.

“Why do we have to move?” Adam asked his mother.

“It’s your dad’s job, dear,” his mother said. “It can’t be helped.”

“But why does daddy have to move so often?”

“It’s best you not know.”

Adam had grown afraid; he knew his father must be doing something dangerous, maybe even illegal. Strange men sometimes parked outside the house in big black cars and his father would either go out to talk to them, or get in one of the cars and leave with them.

“Adam, try not to get too friendly with anyone in the future, dear,” his mother warned him after knowing of how happy Adam had been with Mikey that summer and how tragic it was the two boys had to part as friends.

“But Mikey was my best friend, mommy, my bestest friend ever,” he said crying as he buried his head in his mother’s shoulder.

The family moved three times between Adam’s 5th Grade and 8th Grade years, when his parents divorced. His mother found work as a nurse in the Midwestern city then known for its pre-eminence in auto parts manufacturing and it was expected to be their permanent home. “We’re done moving around,” his mother said.

“Don’t tell anyone about your father, Adam, or about where we lived,” his mother warned him with sternness she rarely used. “Our past is forgotten. OK?”

Adam agreed; except for the summer friendship with Mikey, his past had hardly been worth remembering. He was curious as to why his parents had divorced, though he had sensed for some months prior to the divorce there was growing tension in the house. He heard occasional sharp voices, but rarely was there any yelling or screaming. Both his parents seemed to be soft-spoken and pleasant.

“Let’s start our new life together, Adam,” his mother said. “You’ll be starting a new school, but this time I think you’ll be able to stay all the way through to graduation and you’ll make lifelong friends.”

Adam forced a smile; he was still shy about making new friends and had become awkward with friends his own age. After Mikey, Adam’s only companion was his mother. That is, until he met Milton Lester as he entered 9th Grade.

*****
Adam and his mother spent their lonely moments together finding most joy in music, mainly jazz. Their time together involved many hours, particularly during school vacation periods and weekends, since his mother did not work outside of the home. Until their recent divorce, Adam’s father has refused to let Adam’s mother work, and the added income was hardly needed, since he seemed to provide for them quite adequately. His mother, of course, drove the agenda for Adam’s activities, but he seemed happy to go along with it.

She met his father while singing at a jazz club, which she was doing in addition to her “day job” as a registered nurse. Everyone agreed she had a dynamite voice, rather low and sultry along with superb timing that helped give the jazz tune soul. The musicians loved her, perhaps due to her natural beauty but more likely due to how she understood jazz improvisation and respected each player’s own talents.

His father – then a dashing mustachioed, well-dressed young man – walked into the club one night, and, as he later said, “it was love at first sight.” Just six weeks later, they were married and in less than a year Adam was born as a healthy beautiful child.

Adam took piano lessons – in the classical format, of course – but soon learned to improvise in jazz; in spite of their many moves, his father was always certain to arrange to have a piano available for both his pretty wife and young Adam. By the time he was 12 – and continuing serious classical training – Adam had learned to accompany his mother as she sang jazz tunes, having learned to follow the singer and also to add his own improvised jazz licks. She encouraged him to sing as well, and he sometimes did, his voice in the boy soprano range.

When he was 13, his mother convinced him to try to sing one of her favorites, “God Bless the Child,” the classic made famous by Billie Holliday. He listened to Billie Holiday sing that on a his mother’s record machine many times over, and practiced it for several days, before trying it out on his mother.

“Darling, that was lovely,” she said when he had finished; he accompanied himself as he sang.

“Thanks, mom,” he said pleased.

“And honey, you looked lovely as you sang. You have such a sweet voice and a pretty face. I think you could be the prettiest girl in school.”

She put her arms around the boy, kissing him. Adam felt warm and wanted; also, he blushed, suddenly wondering about being the “prettiest girl.”

He was pleased, but felt he shouldn’t be. “Mom, but I’m not a girl.”

“Of course, Adam. You’re a boy, mommy’s pretty boy.”

That night in bed he had trouble sleeping. He was excited over his performance as a jazz singer, but his mother’s reference to him as the “prettiest girl in class” got him to thinking again about a haunting reality that kept whirling about his brain: maybe he was really a girl, after all. It gnawed at him. He wasn’t as strong as most boys and, outside of planning to try out for cross country, he didn’t like sports, never having even played catch with his usually “away-at-work” father.

The thought dominated his mind the next day; it was a pleasant summer day, and kids were out on the streets in one of the last days of vacation before school. His mother, having been persuaded to take part-time nursing assignments, was off to a job, and Adam had no plans. He practiced the piano for a while, trying to do his classical lessons, but all of the time wondering what it would feel like to sing on stage, wearing a lovely teal blue gown that showed his soft, pretty shoulders and long slender legs.

Later, he cleaned the house, even mopping up the kitchen and bathroom. For some strange reason, he liked doing housework, including laundry. Maybe it was out of boredom, but the fact was he enjoyed it. He tied up his long hair in a bun, wore a pair of shorts, a tank top and sandals, put on a Billie Holiday LP record and hummed along while he did his chores.

His work done, he meandered into his mother’s bedroom and pulled out a photo album from a dresser drawer; he had done this many times before, and his mother didn’t mind. His favorite photo was an old black-and-white publicity shot showed a picture of his mother standing in front of a piano, a tuxedoed pianist in the background looking fondly at her. His mother must have been about 19 at the time, a lovely slip of a girl in a light blue gown (the same Adam sometimes pictured himself in) and the words: “Linda Lightly: New Jazz Singing Star.”

“Would I look as pretty as my mother?” he wondered, as he examined the picture.

*****
That night, as he helped his mother clean up the kitchen, he asked: “Do wish you had a daughter instead of a son, mom?”

She turned and looked at him, almost in anger.

“What? A daughter? No, honey, I have a marvelous son. Why would I want to have a daughter?”

“Well I just thought . . .” he began.

“Oh my God,” she said interrupting him. “Was that because I said you could be a pretty girl?”

“Well I kinda wondered.”

“I’m sorry, dear, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“But mommy, did you mean it? That I could be a pretty girl?”

His mother took a moment to respond. “Well, I guess I did, since you do have such lovely features, but I love you as my son, dear.”

“I looked at your photo again, mommy. The one in the album as Linda Lightly, and I can see I could look like you in a gown.”

His mother smiled. “Ah yes, my Linda Lightly career days. Wasn’t that an awful name, but that’s what my agent chose for me.”

“You were so pretty, mommy, and you still are.”

“But honey,” his mother began. “Are you telling me you’d like to see what you’d look like in a gown like that?”

Adam only blushed, and his mother knew that was exactly what Adam wanted.

She hugged the boy and then said: “Darling, would you like to try to dress up like that?”

“Yes, mommy,” he nodded.

*****
Luckily, Adam and his mother were about the same size, about 5’4”, with the same slender, dainty body frame. That night, after the dinner dishes were washed and put away (everything was neat and clean in the Strawbridge apartment), the two went into his mother’s bedroom, where the process began to make Adam a pretty girl.

“Take off everything, darling,” his mother ordered.

“Even my briefs, mommy?”

“Yes, honey. It’s not that a mother hasn’t seen that before.”

“I guess,” he said, still reluctant. The fact was he was ashamed of his boy parts; he knew his penis was tiny compared to other boys, having seen theirs while changing for gym class. His body was nearly hairless, except for a small area of light hair around his pubic area.

“But mom,” he protested.

“Honey, I know you’re worried about how small you are down there, but some boys just mature more slowly.”

“But mom, look at me. No muscles and such a tiny thing.”

“You’re fine, dear. Now, do you want to do this, or not? It’s OK if you changed your mind, Adam.”

“No, mommy, I want to do this,” he said, surprised at his own eagerness.

His mother had him take a bath, complete with bubbles and sweet smelling soaps and shampoos. She showed him how to wrap his head, turban-like, after he dried his hair. She gave him one of her pink robes to wear as they returned to the room.

“Darling, you have such smooth, soft skin,” she cooed, as she assisted him into a pair of beige-colored satin panties and a matching bra, which were brand new.

“Mommy, these are new. Do you want to waste them on me?”

“It’s not a waste, dear,” she replied. “I bought them for you.”

“For me?”

His mother smiled at him, and drew him into her arms, caressing his soft, smooth body.

“Yes, darling, I just knew you’d want to try this out sometime. I’ve been seeing the girl in you for sometime now.”

“But mommy, I’m a boy,” he said.

“Yes, you are, dear, but this is just for tonight and for some special times between you and me. To all the rest of the world, you’re a handsome young boy.”

*****
Not only had his mother bought a bra and panty set, but also a pair of breast forms to fit inside the 34 B bra cups. She helped him get into the bra and then they helped brush each other’s hair, fix make up and prepare for their performances that night. There’d be no audience, of course, but for Adam it was to be a sweet night.

“Mommy,” Adam said sheepishly as his mother brushed his long dark hair, “I feel like I’m your daughter.”

“I know, honey. Isn’t this sweet?”

“Yes, mommy, but I wonder if it’s wrong for me to feel this way?”

“No, honey. If it’s how you honestly feel, there’s nothing wrong with it.”

Adam was seated on the vanity bench, and his mother was seated on the bed behind him, gently brushing his hair. She leaned around and gave him an affectionate kiss on his neck.

“Mommy, I like being your daughter,” Adam said.

His mother quit brushing his hair and moved her hands to caress his narrow, pretty shoulders. “You know honey, I haven’t done this with another girl . . . you know . . . brushing each other’s hair since I performed. I feel we’re like two girlfriends, honey.”

“Mommy, I do too.”

Within an hour, Adam was fully dressed, wearing a teal blue cocktail-style dress, with ruffled bodice and a cinched waistline leading to a full skirt that ended at mid-calf. The outfit accentuated the hips and with Adam’s slender shoulders and slender arms provided a most feminine silhouette.

Mother wore a similar dress, but in lavender. Both of the dresses had been sitting unused in the closet; they had last been worn while she was still performing. While his mother’s dress fit a bit tightly about the waist, Adam otherwise felt comfortable wearing it.

“We both wear size 6 dresses, honey,” she announced when they were finished. “And aren’t you a beauty, Adam?”

“Oh mommy, you too. You’re so lovely and we could be sisters, you look so young now.”

“Don’t lie, little girl,” she said, giggling.

“No mommy, I’m not lying. I think of us in those commercials, you know about ‘guess which one is the mother?’”

She smiled and gave her son a sweet kiss on his cheek.

They performed several songs together, both incorporating their own unique styles to the song; his mother’s voice was low and sultry while Adam, whose voice still hadn’t changed, sang at a higher register, giving a distinct girlish lilt to the lyrics.

“You sing as pretty as you look,” his mother said when they finished.

His mother brought out her digital camera and soon both were taking pictures of each other, finally using the self-timer to pose several together around the piano.

“These are for us only, dear,” she said when they finished.

It was the best night of Adam’s young life.

Chapter Four: The Poetry Club

Milton and Jennifer got together often during the last weeks of summer vacation. Some days they went on long, slow bike rides, while on others they met at the library and walked home together. Occasionally on their bike rides, they’d stop at the John Muir Nature Park, a wildlife area preserved in the northwest side of town along the Muskrat River, an ugly name Milton thought for such a lovely stream. They found a park bench in a clearing along a footpath that overlooking the waters of the Muskrat, which at that point flowed swiftly over exposed rocks. It was magical.

“This is my favorite spot,” Jennifer said. “I’ve written several poems about this place.”

“You have? You like poetry? Me too.” He smiled at the girl, whose eyes seemed to dance, magnified as they were behind her horn-rimmed glasses.

“You do? I think that’s so cool when a boy admits he likes poetry.”

Milton on an impulse reached over and put his hand on hers. As timid as it was, it was the first show of affection he’d ever made with a girl. She tensed, momentarily showing a bit of fear. She, too, had never had a boy touch her in such an intimate manner.

He felt her apprehension, and quickly removed his hand. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“No, don’t be,” she said, tears forming on her round face. “It’s just that I’m not used to being with boys.”

She reached over and grabbed his hand, pulling it over on to her lap, where they held hands. The hands of both were soft and moist. It felt awkward, and neither said anything for a moment.

“Do you write poetry, too, Milton?” she asked, obviously looking to change the subject.

“A little,” he admitted. “I like reading it, though. I read all of Shakespeare’s Sonnets.”

“All 154?” she asked.

Milton was pleasantly shocked; the girl knew that Shakespeare wrote 154 sonnets. He nodded “yes,” he had read them all.

“Well some I skimmed,” he admitted.

“But still. That’s impressive.”

“Okay,” he said. “Who is your favorite poet?”

“Oh, I have several,” she began. “I liked all of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s poems, I guess. But, maybe John Keats is my favorite.”

“I like both of them,” he smiled.

She smiled back, a sweet smile that brightened her face in such a manner that her normally plain looks became beautiful to his young eyes.

“How do I love thee? Let me count the ways,” he said, suddenly quoting one of Browning’s most popular love poems.

“I love thee to the depth and breadth and height . . .” she added, picking up the second line of the poem. Together the two recited the poem, staying perfectly in sync with each other’s cadence:

“. . .My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, --- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! --- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.”

It was a sweet moment and Milton had a sudden urge to lean in to kiss the girl sitting next to him, but he was afraid that Jennifer would reject him.

They finished the poem in unison, and both looked at each other. Suddenly they both laughed.

“Wasn’t that a poetic moment?” she said finally.

He nodded.

“I was thinking of starting a poetry club in high school this year,” she said. “I wonder if any other kids would join up, or would they think it’s too square or old-fashioned?”

“I don’t know, but I’d join,” he said.

“Would you? That’s hot, but you might be the only boy.”

“So what? I’m already a loner.”

*****
In October, the first meeting of the Browning-Keats Poetry Club was held during the lunch hour in the classroom of an English teacher, Mrs. Harriet Delaney, who would be sponsor of the group. Milton agreed to come and when he walked into the room he saw eight girls plus Mrs. Delaney jabbering animatedly. As he entered Milton noticed the conversation stopped as the girls all looked in his direction. Suddenly shocked by the attention, Milton was about to turn and walk out.

Jennifer broke the silence by announcing: “This is my friend, Milton Lester. He’s read all 154 of Shakespeare’s sonnets.”

“Wow,” one girl said.

Milton took a seat next to Jennifer and they two engaged in close conversation before the meeting started. Just as they were about to start the meeting, the door opened and another boy entered the room. He was slender with long, flowing black hair that went to his shoulders. He had a thin, pretty face.

“Welcome,” Mrs. Delaney said to the newcomer, motioning to an empty seat next to her. “There’s a seat here, young man.”

The meeting started with each person introducing themselves; it appeared they all were either in their first or second year of high school.

The boy introduced himself as Adam Strawbridge, also a freshman. His said his name softly, almost with a lilt and in a high register. To Milton, the boy’s voice sounded much like a girl’s, but he put the thought aside since obviously the boy’s voice hadn’t changed yet. Nonetheless, this boy intrigued Milton. Little did he know that it was a beginning to a sweet friendship.

*****
Since Jennifer had organized the club with the help of Mrs. Delaney, it was only natural that Jennifer would be elected to lead the club.

“Let’s name her the poet laureate of Walt Whitman High,” Milton suggested.

“What a cool idea,” agreed one of the girls, a tall, stringy girl who wore no makeup, and tied her hair in an old-fashioned bun.

The others all agreed, but Mrs. Delaney warned them that she’d have to run the idea past the principal; she wasn’t sure the school was ready to have such a person identified with the school.

“Well, at least we can consider her our poet laureate,” the tall, stringy girl said.

They all applauded.

The group agreed to meet on Wednesdays during lunch hour; Mrs. Delaney arranged to reserve a small meeting room that adjoined the cafeteria where the members could meet and bring their lunches and eat while they met. Each week, it was agreed, one of the members would read her/his own poetry, while another would read something from the featured poet of the week. All members were urged to do some independent research on the particular poet and be prepared to discuss that poet.

The one problem with the meeting room was that it had glass windows that looked out upon the cafeteria permitting other students to look in at the group. Milton had seen several groups of boys walk by and make fun of the group; several seem to look directly at Milton and he watched their mouths moved, saying something obviously derisive of the scene showing two boys among the girls. He thought he could lip-read the words “queer” and “gay” from some.

Jennifer had suggested Elizabeth Barrett Browning be the featured poet for the next meeting of the club and announced that Milton would lead the discussion. “He’s already an expert on sonnets,” she told the group.

“Wow,” said the same girl who had made the “wow” remark earlier. Without saying it, Milton felt the girl must have been reflecting on how odd it was that a boy would be enthralled by the sonnets.

Jennifer walked with Milton as the meeting ended and asked, “Does that sound like we’re asking too much?”

“I don’t know, but it sounds like fun to me,” he said, then quickly added. “But that’s just me and I’m kind of weird anyway.”

“Well, we’ll see who drops out at the next meeting,” she said, her eyes taking on a mischievous glint. “At least there’s you and me.”

*****
Milton was curious about Adam Strawbridge; the boy said little during the first meeting of the Browning-Keats Poetry Club. The boys had no classes in common and in the school days that followed Milton only saw Adam from a distance, always alone and walking with his head down. He seemed sad and reflective.

Milton was happy that Adam showed up for the second meeting of the club and then clapped eagerly when Milton finished reading several of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets, plus one of Shakespeare’s. He found the life of the poet to be intriguing and interesting, and he gave a full outline of her biography, prompting much discussion.

In reading the famed: “How do I love thee?” sonnet, Milton realized that he was looking directly toward this new boy, Adam. It shocked him so that he paused for a moment before heading toward the second line, “Let me count . . .” He quickly averted the eyes of the other boy, and looked toward Jennifer, continuing on and eventually projecting to the whole group.

After the session, Jennifer praised him for the “theatrical pause” he used during the sonnet.

“That was so dramatic, Milton, and then you looked right at me,” she said, her round, sweet face beginning to redden.

Milton didn’t know what to say; he had not meant to indicate any particular affection for Jennifer. He had come to enjoy her as a friend, but since he was so inexperienced at having a “girlfriend” he had no thought that perhaps this warm, friendly girl might be his first girlfriend.

Adam suddenly joined the two of them as they walked down the hall, coming up breathless behind them.

“Hi Adam,” Jennifer greeted the slender boy with the pretty face and long hair.

“I just wanted to tell Milton that I’m glad he joined the club,” Adam said. “I was afraid I’d be the only boy.”

“We’re all glad to have you with us,” Jennifer said cheerfully.

Milton smiled at Adam. “I’m glad you’re here too, Adam.”

Milton felt a strange kinship with this slender, rail-thin boy, and he knew it went far beyond the poetry they both seemed to enjoy. Just then the warning bell rang, giving them three minutes to get to class.

“Guess I better get to my next class,” Adam said.

“Want to meet after school, Adam? Jennifer and I are walking home together,” Milton said on impulse.

“Which way do you walk?” he asked.

“South, toward Grand Avenue.”

“Cool, I’ll meet you if you want,” Adam said, darting down the corridor to the right to his next class.

As he left, Jennifer looked darts at Milton: “What was that for? Why invite him? We don’t even know him.”

“I don’t know,” Milton said. “He just seemed so lonely. He’s new here.”

“OK,” Jennifer said, her momentary scowl turning into her usual sweet smile. “You’re right. Adam looks like he needs some friends.”

Jennifer took his hand and squeezed it affectionately. Milton noticed the girl’s hand was moist and warm; it was obvious she considered Milton to be her boyfriend. The idea scared Milton and he had trouble concentrating on Mr. Ethridge’s social studies class, even though the topic was one that particularly intrigued him – the lives of the early settlers in the United States. He wondered about how he was going to deal with Jennifer’s growing signs of affection, but it seemed that the greater amount of his attention fell upon a lovely boy named Adam; he was so pretty he could have been a girl.

Chapter Five: A Daring Proposal
It had become a tradition in New Bergen for high school students to attend a city-wide night of dancing, socializing and fun on the Saturday night of Halloween week.

Sponsored by the local Rotary Club and supported by the School District, the teens were encouraged to dress up in costumes. The annual event had been started more than 20 years before in 1948, just after the end of World War II following a Halloween night that turned into mayhem when teens conducted all sorts of mischief, some of it destructive.

“Teens realize they’re too old for trick or treating,” commented Dooley McFinn, the President of the Rotary Club at that time. “Let’s create something that they might like doing.”

Thus it was that the town’s modest sized arena was turned into a teen club on that night. Bands composed mainly of high school musicians played the “big band” music of the post World War II era while boys tended to line up on one side of the large room and girls on the other, slowly beginning to mix and start filling the dance floors as their hormones took over their shyness. Teen committees decorated the room and set up tables to serve soft drinks, punch, popcorn, hot dogs and cookies. It took a few years for the event to become popular, but eventually it captured the attention of the youth, and the event became a “must” for most teens. Fears that the event might turn into an orgy of sex, drunkenness and mayhem were thus far not realized. While supervision by adults (including police officers in plain clothes) was noticeably apparent, the event was kept loose and largely unstructured.

Now in 1969, when young men about to graduate high school faced the prospect of being drafted into the Armed Services and possible service in the dangerous jungles of Vietnam, high school boys had become an unusually serious lot, realizing that they needed good grades in order to get into college and thus possibly be exempt from active service.

The costume contest that was held at 10:30 p.m. had become a highlight affair. Prizes of portable radios, 45 rpm records and LPs were offered in various categories, such as for the “Funniest,” “Most Outlandish” or “Most Authentic” costumes. Youth clubs and school classes were encouraged to sponsor several contestants for the prizes, creating more interest throughout the city’s two public high schools and the sole Catholic high school. In the contest, the candidates would be marched across the arena stage while a cadre of judges, including the City’s Youth Council president, a representative of the local Boys and Girls Club, two faculty members from the local college and the director of a community theater group, would decide the winners in each category.

Most of the girls wore something, while many boys felt it was beneath them to do so or was sissyish and refused to participate. A few boys competed, of course, and in some cases, they wore something outlandish. It was not unheard of for a muscular, hairy athletic boy to appear in a tutu, purposely looking ridiculous.

This year’s contest offered a special “Talent Prize,” which would be given to the costumed student who performed a skit, reading or song lasting less than two minutes. Such participants had to be sponsored by a youth club or school class and be registered in advance.

“Our club should enter someone in the contest,” Jennifer Ashton suggested at the mid-October meeting of the Walt Whitman High School’s poetry club, named the Browning-Keats Club.

“Our whole club should go to the event,” Milton Lester said, one of two boys in the club of ten students.

“No way,” protested Natalie Thompson, a girl who rarely smiled. She was rail thin and claimed she was a vegetarian – which appeared to be true given her slender body.

“Why not?” argued another girl. “Don’t be such a stick in the mud, Steph.”

“It’s so silly, besides I wouldn’t know what to wear. I hated trick or treating when I was a kid.”

“Not everyone has to do it,” Jennifer offered. “Just those who want to.”

“I’ll tell you what. Why don’t we each dress up in the outfits of our favorite poet?” Milton suggested.

Natalie considered the suggestion for a minute. She was serious about her poetry and desperately hoped to become an English teacher or maybe a librarian. Besides she dreamed of being a famous poet herself, an avocation she practiced by filling her diary with poetry.

“That’s not a bad idea,” she said, a smile developing across her usually dour face. “I could come as Emily Dickinson.”

“Cool, you’d make a perfect Emily Dickinson,” Jennifer said. “She was a stoic one, she was.”

The group giggled, and soon the rest of the girls in the club had announced who their favorite poets were and said they’d try to replicate their outfits. Milton and Adam – the only boys in the club – said nothing.

“How about you guys?” Jennifer asked.

Milton was quiet and looked out the school window. He had told Jennifer many times that he loved Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets; thus she knew perfectly well who he liked. He could hardly dress as the early 19th Century poet, could he?

“Let us think it over,” Adam volunteered.

“It was Milton’s idea so he should at least tell us now,” Natalie said. “Certainly he knows who his favorite is.”

“That’s alright,” Jennifer interjected. “They can tell us later, but they should dress up like all the rest.”

Adam and Milton remained strangely silent as the meeting broke into a cacophony of chatter and giggling among the other members, all girls who were eagerly discussing the outfits they’d wear for Halloween. Several of them liked male poets, like Shakespeare, Walt Whitman, Lord Byron or Percy Bysshe Shelley, while others chose famous female poets such as Sylvia Plath or Sara Teasdale.

That afternoon, after school ended, Jennifer accompanied both boys as they went to their lockers and prepared to go home. The three left the school, heading down Highland Avenue toward their homes; they often walked to and from school together.

“You both have favorite poets,” Jennifer said, smiling.

“Oh, I’m not sure about mine,” Adam quickly said, hoping to head off further conversation.

“Really?” she queried.

“Well,” he said his voice hesitant. “I recently found Billie Holiday put great poetry in some of the songs she wrote. And she’s hardly considered a poet.”

Milton knew he had to get Jennifer off this line of talk. So often had he mentioned Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets that he could hardly disown the fact that she was his favorite.

“What are you doing Saturday, Jenny?” he said, changing the subject.

Jennifer made no attempt to answer Milton’s question, and refused to change the subject. She turned her attention to Adam’s reluctance to dress up as a black singer-poet.

“But if you don’t count Billie Holiday as a poet, I don’t know who I like, besides I’m not as dark-skinned as Holiday,” Adam protested, looking for an excuse to get out of the project.

“You’re dark-skinned enough so that shouldn’t make any difference,” Jennifer argued. It was true,

“But I’m not going to put on a dress. I’ll get laughed out of school.”

“Don’t be silly, Adam. Lots of boys put on girl’s stuff for Halloween, even the big tough footballers,” she said.

“Be a sport, Adam,” Jennifer pleaded. “It’ll be fine.”

“I suppose so,” he said, unconvinced by her assurances. “But who will Milton be?”

“Robert Frost,” Milton said quickly.

Jennifer burst out laughing. “That’s a good one. You know your favorite is Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Milton.”

“No way am I putting on a dress,” he protested, echoing Adam’s earlier words.

“Come on guys. There’s nothing wrong with wearing dresses just for Halloween. We’ll have so much fun.”

“But have you looked at how Elizabeth Barrett Browning dressed in those days, Jennifer?” Milton asked.

“I’ll never find outfits like that in just two weeks time.”

“Right,” Adam said, convinced that this revelation would convince Jennifer to quit being so insistent that they dress up as their favorite poets, particularly if they happened to be women.

“No problem. We can go to the costume shop that is used by the drama department at school,” Jennifer said. “The school has done plays set back in the 19th Century. I’m sure we can find something for you Milton.”

“Aw, come on, Jenny,” Milton said.

“And for Adam, I bet Mayala Jackson has something you could wear,” Jennifer said, referring to a tall black girl who was a club member.

“Aw, c’mon, Jennifer,” Adam said. “I could hardly ask her.”

“I know Mayala has something you could wear. Join in the fun, Adam. After all, it’s for the good of the club.”

“What did you get us into?” Adam said, turning to Milton, who had first suggested that they dress up as favorite poets.

“See ya’ girls,” Jennifer teased, turning left and leaving the two boys to continue down Highland.

At North 12th Street, Jennifer left the two boys and headed for her after-school job as a library assistant at the Emery Hinkle Central Library, where she mainly shelved books or assisted at the check-out counter.

*****
Adam and Milton parted from Jennifer, but had gone only a half block when Milton stopped. “Look Adam, I’m going to go with Jennifer to the library, OK?” he said.

“Sure, but why?”

“Just need to look something up,” he said quickly, leaving his friend and running after Jennifer.

He was out of breath when he finally caught up with Jennifer. He never was much of a runner and was panting heavily when he reached her.

“What’s up?” she asked, surprised by his presence.

“I need to look at some pictures of Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” he said, his chubby face growing almost crimson. It had been pink from the exertion of running after the girl, and now his admission that he was seriously considering the proposal to dress up as the poet caused him to blush.

“You’re going to do it! Marvelous, Milton.”

He nodded as the two continued to the library. Finally getting his breath, he said, “I thought why not do it? It’s Halloween and all that. And besides, if I’m going to do it, I wanna do it right.”

*****
“Oh, darling, that’s great,” Adam’s mother said when he told her he might be dressing up as Billie Holiday for Halloween, a decision he made while walking home. He decided that he’d dress up as Billie Holiday since he could more convincingly assume the part. Hadn’t he already sung some of Holiday’s marquee songs with his mother, usually dressed as a lovely jazz singer?

His mother’s reaction caught him off guard; he thought she would put her foot down and refuse to permit her son to dress up as a girl, thus giving him an excuse to get out of the obligation.

“But, mom, it’ll be so embarrassing,” he protested. “I only have a few friends in that school since I’m so new to town. They’ll think I’m some sort of weirdo.”

“Adam, honey, it’s just a Halloween thing. Girls will dress as guys and boys as girls that day. Don’t worry.”

“I suppose so,” he said, still not convinced.

“Besides, you make such a lovely girl, and you have such a beautiful voice. Will you be able to sing?”

Adam nodded. The contest rule said each club or homeroom entering the contest could choose up to three to represent their group, and each contestant could make a presentation of about two minutes long, giving him time to sing Holiday’s signature song, “God Bless the Child.”

“This’ll be fun, Adam. You just wait and see.”

“I hope so, but I’d rather not.”

In truth, Adam knew he was lying. He’d love to dress up prettily, since he knew that he indeed did look great in a dress. He should have known his mother would be in favor of him parading himself before the student body as a lovely girl. Hadn’t she encouraged him to dress at home, having him wear lovely gowns – the same ones that had hung unworn since his mother had quit singing professionally as a jazz singer?

Some the fondest times either had experienced were those moments when Adam donned one of her old gowns (he particularly favored a teal blue cocktail dress that ended at the knees and exposed his lovely shoulders and arms) and played the piano as his mother sang some of her old favorites. He soon was able to copy her sultry, jazz-style voice and sounded very much like the lovely girl he appeared to be in those moments.

Those moments, however, had been private ones; his mother often assured him no one else would ever know of their mother and daughter charade, even though she had set up a cassette recorder to preserve the memory. The reality of showing off his girly nature before a bunch of high school students did not sound like a wise option, but Adam soon realized he was excited by the prospect.

*****
“I’m too fat to be Elizabeth Barrett Browning,” Milton protested, as Jennifer and he were being led through racks of clothing hung in the shop of Costumes Galore, the costume house that worked with the high school drama department. The operator of the shop had offered major discounts for short-term use of clothing by high school students if authorized by the drama department. Jennifer, who did backstage work for the high school group, was able to arrange the visit.

“Don’t be silly, Milton,” Jennifer said. “You’ve trimmed down a lot and you have the same high cheekbones as Elizabeth.”

The two had taken a picture of the poet that Milton copied from the Encyclopedia Britannica to Theresa, an older lady manager at the costume shop, to guide the search.

“I’ve got just the gown for you, darling,” she said to Milton. “It was used in a Victorian drama that the Community Playhouse group staged just last month.”

Jennifer and Milton dutifully followed Theresa through the clothing racks, finding themselves in a sea of long skirted dresses, petticoats and other elaborate lingerie.

“This is our 19th Century section,” Theresa explained.

Milton was awestruck, finding himself fascinated by the lacy garments. As Theresa rummaged about the racks looking for the dress, Milton fingered the cloth of several gowns, excited by the feel of the gauzy cloth, realizing that he soon might be wearing a similar lovely piece of clothing. He felt a strange stirring of his emotions as his mind wrapped around the idea that he could look like a beautiful woman.

“Ah, here it is,” Theresa proclaimed, pulling out a white, heavily ruffled dress. “Come here young man, and let’s see how close a fit it is for you.”

Milton hung back, embarrassed by the idea that Theresa wanted to hold the dress up in front of him to check out the length and fit.

“Oh, Milton, just do it,” Jennifer said. “It looks perfect for you.”

He blushed but moved forward and held the dress up in front of him, as ordered. Jennifer and Theresa moved back and eyed him, their eyes scanning him slowly.

“It’ll work though he’ll have to wear a corset to bring in that tummy a bit,” Theresa said.

“Oh no, I can’t wear a corset,” Milton protested. “Maybe I can lose weight.”

“In ten days?” Jennifer laughed.

Milton nodded. He knew they were right. Even though he had lost some 25 pounds in the last year, he still had a chubby tummy and soft breasts like a girl. He had never been muscular, and his body frame could easily have been that of a girl, he knew.

Theresa sent Milton off to a dressing room, equipping him with a strange looking pair of briefs or panties.

“Take off all your male clothes, and put on these pantalettes to cover your boy parts. Then tell us when you’re done and I’ll come in and dress you the rest of the way,” she ordered.

“Pantalettes?” he asked, unbelieving his ears.

“Yes, now go on. They won’t bite. They were worn by women in the mid-19th Century,” Theresa said.

“You’ll find they’re most practical – even for a man – since they open in the front so that the woman would not have to remove her petticoats and other garments in order to use the toilet.”

Jennifer, hearing the exchange, giggled.

Dutifully, Milton did as he was told and retreated to the dressing room and removed his clothes. He tried to avoid looking at the full length mirror in the room where he’d have to view his sorry male body, his girlish breasts, soft tummy, small boy appendage and wide hips. The thought hit him hard: he looked like he could be a girl. He was intrigued by the pantalettes and noticed they were split in the middle. They were made of linen and resembled full-sized women’s panties that he’d seen, except that they reached several inches down each thigh, where he saw he’d use drawstrings to tighten the garment to the thighs. Similarly, a drawstring was used at the waist to bring the pantalettes together in the front.

Once he figured out how to wear them, Milton tied the drawstrings, and felt he was ready to summon Theresa to finish the task of dressing him. He paused for a minute, wondering if he should follow through on what suddenly felt to him to be a foolish enterprise. Finally, he stood before the mirror, folded his arms across his chest and looked into the mirror.

He was shocked by the sight: In the pantalettes, he indeed did look like a girl. His longish hair flowed down about his face and his folded arms had created a cleavage between his breasts.

“Are you ready yet, Elizabeth?” Jennifer’s voice sounded through the flimsy door of the changing room.

“I’m not Elizabeth,” Milton retorted.

He heard Jennifer laugh and then rap on the door. “I’m coming in,” she announced.

She entered before he could protest and he felt naked in front of the girl, covering up his bare chest as best he could.

“You look like a shy little girl standing there,” she giggled.

“Where’s Theresa?”

“She had to take care of a customer and she told me how to assist you.”

“I . . . ah . . . ah . . . feel so . . . ah . . . embarrassed . . . and . . . ah . . .”

“Milton, I’m sorry, I want you to enjoy this, and I really don’t want to embarrass you,” Jennifer said. “You’re my friend and I really think you’re so cool and brave to do this.”

Milton eyed the stack of garments Jennifer carried into the tiny room. “Am I wearing all of that?”

“Yes, Elizabeth, so we’d better get started,” she said, putting the stack of clothes down on the sole chair in the room.

“I’m not Elizabeth,” he said firmly.

“Well, right now you are. Don’t you like that name?”

Milton smiled. “Well, I guess I do. It’s a lovely name but it just seems to be so feminine.”

“That it is. That it is.”

The fitting began with Jennifer assisting Milton in putting on the corset, which tied in the back. It meant Milton had to pull in his tummy while she strained to tighten the strings in the back.

“I can’t breathe,” he said as she tugged on the strings.

“Theresa told me that you’d say that, but she said you’ll get used to it,” Jennifer said, her breathing hard because of the exertion she had extended to tighten the string ties.

“That’s if I live through this,” he gasped.

“There, I think that’s the best I can do,” she said, finally.

Milton looked down at his breasts and saw that the corset had pushed up the flesh so that they protruded even more distinctly than before. He saw Jennifer look at the effect of the corset on his body and nod approvingly. Looking in the mirror, he saw that the result was to make his hips look wider, giving him almost the classic hourglass figure so prized by young ladies. He blushed noticeably.

“I don’t think you’ll need these,” Jennifer said, removing the breast forms that filled the cups of a bra she held.

She reached around Milton, fitting the fleshy mounds of his chest into the bra cups, and linking the hooks of the bra from behind. Milton was mesmerized for a minute, stunned to see in the mirror how totally feminine he appeared to be. Jennifer put a white camisole over his head and put that in place, and then had him step into a fluffy petticoat.

“Now, we need to bring this dress down over your head, Elizabeth,” she said, instructing him to raise his arms over his head, as she slipped it on to him. “Great, it fits you.”

She brushed his long, straight hair, parting it in the middle, to match pictures of the poet they were able to find.

“Oh my dear Elizabeth, you’re a beauty,” she said. “No wonder Robert Browning was so attracted to you.”

Milton looked in the mirror. He smiled. Strangely, he felt comfortable, just as if he was meant to be in such a dress, even with its restrictions.

*****
For Adam, the choice of a costume was simple; his mother having been a jazz singer in her youth and with a closet full of dresses from some twenty years earlier meant she had quite a selection of dresses that could turn him into a reasonable version of Billie Holiday, minus, of course, the terrible addictions that plagued the talented woman.

“Oh darling, I think I’ve got just the outfit for you,” his mother said, while rummaging around her closet of largely forgotten clothes.

“Cool, mom,” he said, joining her in her bedroom. At first he exhibited reluctance about going through with the charade of dressing up as a woman, but he suddenly became more enthused. He felt that he could easily play the role of the famed singer.

“But, mom, that looks like it belongs on a little girl,” he protested, as his mother held the dress up against him.

“Look again at Billie’s photos. She seemed to favor these kinds of dresses.”

“Still, that big bow on the bodice. It looks so old-fashioned.”

His mother laughed. “Darling, you should know she sang in the 1930s and 40s and that was the style then. Now, get into the outfit and let’s see how it fits.”

The dress was a one-piece white dress with lavender polka dots; it had wide straps over the shoulders and a thin imitation leather belt. The bow sewn to the bodice was large and in stark white material. The skirt ended just at the knee.

“Oh, and I forgot these,” his mother said, holding up a pair of fingerless lavender cloth gloves that stretched to just above the elbow.

In preparation for the fitting, Adam had already put on peach-colored satin panties and a stuffed bra that gave him modest breasts. His curly hair had grown long and with his slender frame he knew he looked very much like a girl when in the undies. Shamelessly, he loved to look at himself when he was dressed in that fashion, demonstrating the poses that he presumed models used in presenting themselves in photo shoots.

His mother helped him into the dress and adjusted its fit once he had it on.

“It’s just adorable on you, darling,” she said.

Adam blushed as he looked in the mirror; it did look adorable, he thought. And, so feminine, too.

His mother smiled as he stood before here. Suddenly, her smile ended and her visage became puzzled.

“What’s wrong, mother?”

“Look at these pictures of Billie,” she said. “In everyone just about, her hair is heavily curled and put up. And you hair is hanging down.”

“No one in the contest will know how she did her hair, mother.”

“But, it’s just not Billie if we don’t do your hair right, Adam. We’ll have to remedy that.”

“How?” he asked, afraid what he suspected would be the remedy.

The next day, Adam’s mother arranged for an appointment at a salon, using a recommendation from a co-worker.

“You’re taking me where mother?” Adam asked.

“To a Christina’s Beauty Palace on Farmington Road,” she announced.

“But that’s for women,” he protested.

“Don’t worry, Adam, you’ll be dressed as my daughter.”

“I’ll be what?”

“We’ll give you a girl’s name for the day and you know you really could look like a girl,” his mother said, smiling.

Adam said nothing; it appeared he was doomed to go through with the project. In truth, he realized that he was often mistaken for a girl, due obviously to his slender form and moderately effeminate mannerisms.

“We’ll go to the salon after school on the Friday before the event,” his mother announced.

)

Chapter Six: Finding Their Identities
“Oh, goodie, we’ll both be girls,” Milton said when Adam informed him the next day of his mother’s plan to make him an authentic Billie Holiday.

“If you hadn’t started all this, Milton, I wouldn’t have been roped into dressing up so ridiculously,” Adam said.

“I’m glad we’re both doing it.”

“Me too. I’d hate to be the only boy doing this. I’m afraid we’ll get harassed a lot,” Adam said.

“I suppose, but I get it so often, I am beginning not to think about it. I just stay out of the way.”

Adam nodded. The two boys had learned to stick together and avoid the groups of boys who might eventually hassle them.

“You know, Milton, this might be kind of fun, being girls together. I bet you’ll look pretty.”
Milton giggled, and added, “Not as pretty as you!”

“But I can hardly call you Milton,” Adam said. “It doesn’t fit a pretty girl like you. I think I’ll call you Mary Ann.”

“No, not Mary Ann. I think of Mary Ann Johnson. She’s such a pill.”

“What then?”

Milton thought for a moment.
“How about Elizabeth?”

“OK Elizabeth.”

“Yes and who will you be?”

“Billie.”

*****
Milton and Adam commiserated with each other over how they’d be received as they were being driven in their costumes by Mrs. Lester. Milton’s mother drove to Adam’s house, where she and Adam’s mother together checked out how their two sons looked before the venture; after some fussing with each one’s hair and other minor adjustments, both women smiled.

“We have such lovely daughters, don’t we, Amelia?” Harriet Lester said to Adam’s mother.

“We’re boys, mother,” Milton protested, but both mothers merely smiled in return.

The two boys were locked into their own thoughts during the short 15-minute drive to the City Arena. Neither had admitted to each other that the truth was they were enjoying playing the role of women and that they felt comfortable in dresses, even if Milton’s outfit required him to move about stiffly and erect due to the corset and other undergarments. Each also had a private dread over the reaction they’d get from other students as they entered. Would they be subject to a chorus of mean, nasty statements or even some violence?

“Look at how everyone else is dressed,” Harriet Lester said as she approached the drop-off zone in front of the Arena.

“Wow, there’s some wild ones, aren’t there?” Milton said, somewhat reassured by the sight of so many costumes.

“Look, there’s Mason and Henderson from the football team wearing cheerleader outfits,” Adam exclaimed as the two exited the car. Milton saw the two dressed as cute cheerleaders, but noted their muscular, hairy legs easily made them look as if they were clowning.

“I’ll pick you up at 11:45, girls,” Mrs. Lester said.

Milton noticed several eyes turn their way, likely attracted by his own rather unique outfit. He was certain that he and Natalie would likely be the only students dressed in 19th Century women’s outfits. He struggled to walk in his two-inch heels and stiff outfit while Adam sashayed beside him as if he were a beauty queen.

“Who are you two girls supposed to be?” asked a boy Milton knew only as Troy from his social studies class. Milton was afraid the boy would recognize him, but it was clear he obviously hadn’t and saw both he and Adam as girls in costume.

“That’s for you to guess,” Adam replied, accompanying his statement with a girlish flick of his wrist.

“Cool,” the boy named Troy said. “Do I know you?”

“I don’t think so. Would you like to?” Milton said, surprising himself with an obvious flirtatious reply. Adam looked at his friend in surprise.

Troy blushed; it was obvious the boy – tall, gangly and awkward – was uncomfortable in talking with girls. Milton recalled that he was a shy boy in class, rarely raising his hand; yet, the boy seemed always to have the correct answer when the teacher called upon him.

Sensing Troy’s uneasiness, Milton said, “Well, you’ll see us when we compete on stage later and then you’ll know who we are supposed to be.”

As the boy began to leave, Adam whispered into Troy’s ear.

“What did you tell him, Adam?”

“That we were with the Poetry Club group if he wanted to buy you a soda later.”

“You didn’t, Adam, did you?”

“It’s obvious he’s enthralled with you, Elizabeth, so I told him where we two girls would be.”

“Next thing you know he’ll show up and want to dance with me, Billie,” Milton said, returning the favor by using his friend’s female name for the night.

“Yes, everyone thinks we really are girls, Elizabeth,” Adam said as they entered the Arena. “So we’d better be Billie and Elizabeth tonight.”

Milton smiled. Secretly, he liked the idea.

*****
At the Wednesday meeting before the Halloween event, Jennifer told the members of the Poetry Club that Milton and Adam would be coming dressed as Elizabeth Barrett Browning and Billie Holiday, respectively, and that both would be entering into competition for the prizes as representatives of the club. Some of the girls argued that Billie Holiday was only a singer, but Adam convinced them that the lyrics in some of the songs she wrote clearly qualified as poetry.

Jennifer asked if any of the other girls wished to compete for prizes, but all turned down the invitation.

“I think you’ll be pleased to see how marvelously Adam and Milton will look and perform,” Jennifer said. She had not only assisted in helping Milton dress, but had seen Adam rehearsing the singing of “God Bless the Child,” which he would do while accompanying himself on the piano. Also, she had coached Milton as he recited the Browning sonnet he had chosen to read from the stage.

As a group properly registered for the contest, the Poetry Club members were assigned adjoining tables near the front of the stage and most of the club members were already at their seats – all in costumes of one sort of the other – when Milton and Adam arrived.

“Oh my God, is that really you, Milton?” Natalie asked. “You look like the real Browning.”

“Where did you get that outfit, Elizabeth?” probed another girl, purposely using the poet’s first name.

“She got the outfit at a costume shop,” Jennifer explained for Milton, adding, “Yes, and tonight these two people at the table shall be known as Elizabeth and Billie.”

Both boys curtsied in an exaggerated manner, bringing chuckles from the girls. The others all identified themselves by their poet’s name, and in a continuation of the gender-switching theme were several dressed as male poets John Milton, Robert Frost and Jack Kerouac.

The buzz in the room was deadening as the teens milled about the room, getting their drinks from a committee of their peers under the watchful eyes of adult chaperones and a smattering of plain-clothes security officers. There were several uniformed officers, two sharing duties over the punch table to ward against anyone spiking the punch with gin, vodka, bourbon or a similar alcoholic beverage; another pair patrolled the parking lot while a roving male and female uniformed pair checked intermittently on the restrooms.

To their credit, the police officers were cheerful and courteous, careful not to be too intrusive, while always being available should trouble develop. As long as you didn’t mind noise, loud pulsating music and some running to and fro, the night was peaceful.

Jennifer was wearing a rustic outfit as Robert Frost; she danced several times with Milton, while Billie danced with Natalie who wore the 19th Century dark clothes of Emily Dickinson. Given that they were dancing to a hard rock band, the sight was ridiculous, four poets from another century dancing to the heavy rhythm of modern music.

“Oh these shoes are killing me,” Elizabeth said after the third dance ended. “I need to take a break.”

“Just like a woman,” Jennifer teased.

“You can laugh Jenny, but you’re wearing comfortable men’s shoes.”

Just as he sat down, Troy, the boy who had talked to Milton while entering, approached the table. He stood over Milton for a moment, apparently wondering what to say.

“Hi,” Milton finally said, his voice taking on a soft feminine timbre.

“Hi. I’m Troy, can I buy you a soda or dance or something?” the boy said, his face growing red, exposing his shyness.

Milton smiled at the boy. “Tonight, you can call me Elizabeth.”

“That’s a nice name. Who are you supposed to be?”

“You’ll have to guess, Troy, but I just got off the dance floor and these shoes are killing me. A punch would be nice if you’d like to get it.”

“Don’t go away. I’ll be right back,” the boy said, charging through the crowd of teens toward the refreshment table.

At first their conversation moved haltingly, but soon Milton and Troy were engaged in deep, enjoyable discussions, with Milton continually steering the conversation so that Troy would be talking about himself. Because of the noise, the two had to sit close to each other, their heads almost touching.

After several songs went by, the Arena lights darkened, and the band stopped playing. Stage lights went up and a local disk jockey went to the microphone announcing: “Now our costume contest will begin.”

Troy took Milton’s hand. “Elizabeth, I guess I’d better go,” he began. “I’ve so enjoyed our talk. I’ve never been able to talk to any girl like I did with you tonight. May I see you again?”

“That might not be possible,” Milton said. “You’ll probably understand later tonight why.”

“What?”

“You’d better go, Troy, I have to get up on stage soon.”

“Why?”

Milton turned his back to the boy, feeling cruel and mean, but not knowing how to let on that Elizabeth was a fake. Troy moved away; Milton was about to burst into tears and he feared Troy might be feeling the same. He had enjoyed being Elizabeth winning the attention of a nice boy.

*****
“We have two entries from the Poetry Club at Walt Whitman High School,” began the radio person who enjoyed hyping up his voice.

“The first contestant is dressed as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. I’m told this Browning woman was a poet back years ago, but you kids probably know more about that than I do. I flunked English.”

The kids hooted and howled as the radio person bragged about his astounding lack of knowledge about poetry. Milton and Adam stood together in the wings of the stage as the radio guy continued to prattle on with his inane comments. Milton shivered as a nervous chill came over him; he was so worried he’d forget the 14 lines of the sonnet, or even worse be ridiculed for dressing as a woman.

“Let’s welcome our contestant as Miss Browning. Here she is . . . whoa . . . what’s this? This should be wild, ‘cause here HE is … Mr. Milton Lester of Whitman High!”

More hoots and howls from the milling audience that had gathered about the stage to watch the contest.

“I’m not going out there now,” Milton protested, turning his back to the stage.

“Get out there,” a stern voice commanded. It was from one of the teachers who had organized the event that year. She grabbed his arm and propelled him onto the stage.

Milton stood erect, a feat made necessary by the stiff corset he wore, and his voice began in an unusually high register, almost squeaky as it emerged from his throat. Somehow he got through the 14 lines without a flub or missed word, the rhythmical flow of the poetry guiding him emotionally. He finished with a smile to the audience and a crisp curtsey, almost running from the stage, hearing a mixture of applause, cheers, giggles and an occasional shout of “faggot” or “queer” or “pansy.”

“Now, now boys and girls,” warned the emcee. “Didn’t she perform great?” His words were greeted with laughter and renewed applause.

“Also from the Whitman High poetry club we have another young lady performing as the great jazz singer, Miss Billie Holiday,” the emcee continued. “Let’s put our hands together and welcome this young lady, Miss . . . oh my . . . another one … Mr. Adam Strawbridge.”

Adam’s appearance on stage stunned the audience. Wearing the dress with the huge bow at the bodice and a large flower in his curled up-style hairdo, he was the picture of femininity. A baby grand piano sat at the left of the stage, and Adam walked slowly, his arms moving in a girlish manner and his hips moving from side to side. Milton, watching from the wings, realized that Adam was daring the audience to jeer him by performing the part of Billie Holiday to perfection. Milton could sense uneasy stirring in the crowd, broken by a loud male voice sounding out, “Is everyone at Whitman queer?” The shout was followed by laughter, as well as a bunch of others telling the heckler to be quiet.

He moved to the piano bench, smoothing his dress as he sat, and poised momentarily, holding his hands in his lap and then adjusting a standing microphone so that he could sing directly into it. He addressed the keys and played a short introduction, running his hands expertly up and down the keyboard, quickly quieting the crowd and then he began singing:

“Them that's got shall get
Them that's not shall lose
So the Bible said and it still is news
Mama may have, Papa may have
But God bless the child that's got his own
That's got his own.”

By the time Adam had finished the first verse, his sultry and seductive voice had captivated the crowd which listened closely as he moved through the song, ending up with an understated but fitting ending. At first, the audience seemed to be silent, but suddenly burst into applause; it was so loud and deafening that if there were any jeers or insults they were not to be heard. Adam curtsied deeply and threw a kiss to the gathered teens that had moved tightly up against the stage.

He moved off the stage with slow dignity, throwing kisses every few steps.

“Oh my, Billie,” Elizabeth said, wrapping her arms around the thin girl as she left the stage.

“Thank you, Elizabeth,” he said.

*****
A half hour later, after both boys returned to their seats with the other Poetry Club members, having braved the milling crowd of teens, nearly all cheering them, interrupted with a few cries of “faggot” or similar epithets.

“You girls were great,” Natalie said, kissing them both, an act that was followed by Jennifer and most of the other club members.

“You did us proud,” Jennifer said.

When the judges completed their jobs, the awards were announced. Adam’s performance as Billie Holiday was proclaimed to be the First Place winner of the talent contest, an announcement that was greeted with loud, approving cheers. No one seemed to second guess the judges about the selection. There was disapproval, however, when Milton finished in Second Place in the “Most Authentic Costume” category, beaten out by a girl who had dressed up as Judy Garland.

It appeared most of the audience wanted the award to go to Milton for his costume as Elizabeth Barrett Browning. In the tradition of such contests, the third place winner was announced first, followed by the second place award and then first place. When it was announced that Milton won second place (not first) a large chorus of boos went out; the same occurred when the first place award winner was announced.

Standing in front of the audience after receiving his second place honor, he watched the winning girl (who was from Emerson High School) come on stage to collect her award amid the jeers and hoots. It was clear she was crying in this moment that should have been one of triumph; yet she felt humiliated, and Milton felt sorry for her.

He moved over to hug the girl, holding her tightly, in an act of good sportsmanship and kindness. The audience soon moved to applause and encouraging whoops and cheers.

“Thank you, Milton, you’re sweet,” whispered the girl into his ear before breaking away to get her award.

*****
Milton wondered about Troy’s reaction as he went back with Adam, the two holding hands as two girls might do, to their table.

“You were so lovely, Elizabeth,” the voice said. “You should have won.”

“Troy, it’s you. I thought you’d be mad at me. I deceived you.”

Troy smiled and drew Milton away from Adam’s grasp.

“You did, Elizabeth,” the boy said, continuing to use Milton’s feminine identity. “But you’re perfect as a girl.”

“Oh, Troy, you’ll see me Monday in class, and I’ll be Milton again.”

“Milton’s such a pill,” Troy said, laughing. “To me you’ll always be Elizabeth.”

“No, Troy, by tomorrow, I’ll be Milton.”

Troy nodded, realizing full well the two were living in a fantasy.

“Well, can you be Elizabeth for the rest of the night?” the boy asked.

“Why not?” Milton said, leaning over and in an act that surprised himself, he gave Troy a quick kiss on the mouth.

The two went hand-in-hand to the dance floor as the band began its closing set.

*****
Milton and Adam stood outside the Arena, awaiting their ride from Milton’s mother. They were greeted and congratulated by teenagers and adult chaperones not only for their convincing performances and costumes but for their courage in going on stage as women in front of a bunch of teens, who often show a tendency to be cruel and rude.

“It’s great being a girl, isn’t it, Elizabeth?” Adam said finally as they found a moment to themselves.

Milton smiled. It was indeed.

Chapter Seven: Discoveries

As the school year progressed, Milton, Jennifer and Adam became a familiar threesome, often eating lunch together, meeting at the Pine Plaza mall on Saturday afternoons and spending time at the local park. They even walked to Jennifer’s favorite spot along the Muskrat River; all three began sharing their dreams and thoughts, becoming quite open about their desires.

Mostly they talked and talked. The topics ranged from their own growing objections to the continuing war in Vietnam to their own thoughts about God and their own futures after high school.

“Adam, What do you wanna be in life?” Jennifer asked one chilly fall day, as they gathered at the riverside.

“Me?” he said, startled by the question. “I don’t know for sure. Maybe a jazz singer.”

“A jazz singer?” she asked surprised.

“Like my mom was,” he replied. “She was really good, and, oh my, she still is good. I love the music.”

“Wow,” Milton said. “Like Elvis?”

“No, dummy,” Jennifer said, taking on a joking, teasing tone. “He’s no jazz singer. Maybe like Eric Clapton.”

Adam laughed. “You’re both wrong. Like Billie Holiday.”

“You mean like you sang on Halloween?” Milton asked. He was terribly unschooled in music, he realized.

“Yes, just like that,” Adam said.

“But, Billie Holiday is a ‘her,’” Jennifer said. “Really famous and many singers fashion themselves after her.”

“You want to sing like a girl?” Milton asked.

“No, Milton, just to follow her style of singing,” Adam said, beginning to blush.

“And what do you want to be, Milton?” Jennifer asked, tactfully changing the subject.

“I don’t know,” he said, getting a thoughtful look, which quickly turned into am impish grin. “A poet, like Elizabeth Barrett Browning.”

“You want to write like a girl?” teased Adam.

“Why not?” Milton said.

Then Jennifer said she wanted to be a writer like J. D. Salinger, author of “Catcher in the Rye.”

“You want write to like a guy?” both Milton and Adam said in unison.

All three began giggling.

The three friends remained constant companions as the school year continued, and it grew to four just before Thanksgiving when Natalie Thompson, the awkward girl from the Keats-Browning Poetry Club, began chumming around with them. She was only an inch shorter than Adam and the two made an appropriate couple, as did the shorter, chubbier Jennifer and Milton make a match, at least physically.

The four young people shared much in common: they were all top students and felt they were outcasts from the social centers of the school. Each had a weird sense of humor and appreciated each other’s wit. Their friendships were chaste and rarely went beyond hand-holding. Mostly, they were comfortable with each other.

*****
It was on a grey, cold and damp Saturday that Adam and Milton found themselves alone, without the two girls. Natalie had gone Christmas shopping with her mother and Jennifer, as usual on a Saturday, worked as a library youth volunteer helping little children find books, reading to them and assisting the child library staff.

“Why not come over, Milt?” Adam suggested.

“And do what?”

“I dunno. We can decide when you get here. Mom’s not home and she said it would be OK. She likes you.”

Adam and his mother had moved to a small two-bedroom Cape Cod house in a neighborhood of tract homes built after World War II; many of the homes had been given additions, either as rooms built onto the rear of the house or in expanding the second stories with finished bedrooms. The Strawbridge home, however, remained nearly intact as a compact two-bedroom home as it had been built in 1952, a sturdily constructed home with white clapboard siding somewhat in need of paint. A few low-growing evergreens blanketed the front of the house and the lawn was covered with an inch of fresh snow from the night before.

A mahogany baby grand piano dominated a small living room, while shelves containing both books and phonograph records covered one whole wall. An entertainment center was tucked into one side of the room, and speakers were mounted on two corners of the room.

“You’re really wired,” Milton said, impressed.

“Mom and I both love music,” Adam replied.

“That’s quite a sound system. Who installed it?”

Adam beamed. “I did. I studied it a bit and got some advice down at the radio store. I put it all in. Wanna hear it?”

Adam went to the entertainment center console and turned it on. Adam rummaged through a cabinet containing cassette tapes, grabbed one and put it in the player. “Here, I’ll play this. See if you can tell who’s singing.”

In an instant, the voices of two girl singers joined in singing a song that Milton thought he had heard before; there was a piano in the accompaniment, with one of the voices being low and sultry, while the other voice a bit higher in register and more lilting seemed that of a younger girl.

“I’ve heard that song somewhere before, but I can’t place it,” Milton said. “And I have no idea who the singers are.”

“Well the song is ‘Strange Fruit’ which was made famous by Billie Holiday. I really adore her.”

“You know I don’t know anything about jazz, Adam.”

“Well, you should learn, Milt.”

“And who are the singers?”

Adam blushed. “Can’t you tell?” he demanded again.

“No. Now tell me . . . oh no, it can’t be,” Milton said. “I bet that’s you and your mom. You told me that she and you sing together a lot and you sing jazz.”

“That’s us,” he said.

“I thought it was a girl singing, maybe with her mother,” Milton said. “But then I listened hard and it kind of sounded like you, even like the way you talk.”

“You mean I sound like a girl?”

“Well, I don’t mean to hurt you, Adam, but you do sound like a girl when you talk. Even the way you talk is girlish. I’m sorry.”

Adam smiled at his friend. “Oh Milton, don’t be sorry. It’s true. My voice seems not to change. Maybe I’ll be like those countertenors, you know the guys whose voices remain high and sing soprano parts.”

“Oh, your voice will change soon, Adam, I’m sure.”

“Can I confess something to you Milton? I think you’re a true friend and you won’t tell anyone else.”

Milton nodded. “Oh Adam, I’d never betray you. You’re the first real friend I ever had.”

Adam went to the piano bench, raised its seat and extracted a photo album from the seat. He returned to sit on the sofa, next to Milton, opening the book up and resting it on their knees. Milton could smell the sweet scent of perfumed soap that Adam must have used that morning.

“Here,” Adam said, pointing to an 8 x 10 color photograph of what appeared to be two young ladies, both wearing cocktail dresses, one seated at a piano and the other standing behind her. On closer examination, the lady who was standing and wearing a lavender dress appeared to be older. The girl at the piano, obviously younger, wore a teal blue dress. Both were extremely attractive with flowing dark hair and soft, lovely shoulders and arms and looked like they could be mother and daughter.

Milton was suddenly dumbstruck. He noticed the piano to be the same one positioned across the tiny living room.

“Oh my God, Adam. That’s you and your mom, isn’t it?”

“Yes, isn’t my mom pretty? She was a top jazz singer when she met my dad.”

“Yes she is, but you are even prettier, Adam. I hope you don’t mind me saying it but you’re hot.”

Adam giggled and flicked his long hair in a girlish manner.

“You’re sweet,” Adam said, sounding as if he was flirting. He leaned over and gave his friend a quick kiss on his chubby cheek.

“That’s your secret, then Adam? You dress and sing like a girl sometimes?”

“Yes, and I wished I was a girl, too, but mom says we have to keep this our little secret,” he said, becoming sad. “She said that while some guys do change to live as girls and women that it’s a tough life and that I should stay a boy and man.”

Milton said nothing, but looked at Adam, grabbing his friend’s long-fingered hands in his own soft, chubby hands.

“I’ve got a secret, too, Adam,” Milton began, his voice low and soft.

“Oh?”

“When mom’s out, I sometimes sneak into her room and put on some of her stuff, too.”

“You do? I have to confess that when I first saw you I thought you were a girl, maybe ‘cause of your hair.”

“You did? Oh Adam. It’s like . . . ah . . . ah . . . what shall I say? It’s like . . .”

“We could be girlfriends,” Adam said, finishing the thought.

Soon the two friends were hugging and kissing, just as if they were giggling girlfriends.

*****
It had been an idyllic year of school for Milton, thanks mainly to the friendship with Adam. School ended on a Thursday in early June, and Milton agreed to join Adam at his house on Saturday, where they planned to be girls together.

Milton rode his bike eagerly that morning, arriving five minutes before ten o’clock, their stated meeting time. He rode up to the house, deposited his bike against the back porch and rang the bell. There was no answer. He rang again and still no answer. He pounded on the door without luck. It was only then he noticed the windows had no curtains showing and he glanced into the kitchen window. The room was empty; the Strawbridge’s refrigerator, stove and kitchen table and chairs were gone.

Sometime in the last two days, the family left. Milton looked at the empty house; he got not even so much as a phone call from Adam. What was going on?

All he could do was cry. His eyes were clouded with tears as he biked home. His friend Adam was gone, disappeared – and also gone were the prospects for a girly summertime for the two of them.
(To Be Continued)

Chapter Eight: Backstories

Millie Lester looked across the kitchen table at Amy, her old friend, impressed with how trim and elegant she looked. Both women were in their mid-fifties, and Millie, wearing a light yellow tank top and tiny shorts, felt dowdy by contrast to Amy, who wore well-pressed navy blue slacks and a light blue sleeveless top. A simple pearl necklace wound about Amy’s pretty neck and matching pearl earrings hung from her ears, giving her an aura of quiet elegance.

“You know it’s been forty years since we were in 9th Grade together,” Millie said as she brought coffee to the table. “I was devastated when you suddenly left, Adam. Oops, I guess I’d better call you Amy.”

“Yes, you’d better, Millie,” she laughed.

“You were my best friend, ever, in high school, Amy,” Millie continued. “I never did fit in with the boys in that school. I couldn’t wait to graduate.”

“I know, and we moved around so much, too, I never had a friend like you ever in any school,” Amy said.

“Why didn’t you write me and tell me where you were, Amy?”

Tears filled Amy’s eyes.

“I wanted to Millie, I really did, but I couldn’t. It’s really a long difficult story,” Amy said.

Millie nodded. It was apparent Amy was uncomfortable talking about it, so Millie changed the subject.

“So, Amy, you’re going to be vice-president of something at the mill?” Millie asked, changing the subject.

“Yes, I’m so honored and lucky, Millie. I’ll be vice-president of special sales. The mill has created a line of stylish papers that I’ve been hired to market. I’ve been with the mill for only a couple of years in their Chicago office, but they now want me in the home office here. It’s quite a change for me after my time on Michigan Avenue.”

Millie smiled: “Ah, yes, Chicago’s ‘Magnificent Mile.’ I love that area, and all the stylish shops. You must feel a bit out of place up here in logging country.”

The other woman laughed. “Yes,” she said. “You know me. I always was hot on women’s fashions. Remember how much time you and I spent going over fashion magazines that year.”

“I loved that, Amy, and I was always envious of you and that gorgeous body of yours, so slim and curvy and me such a fatty then.”

“I remember I kept telling you chubby girls could be beautiful, too, and I remember you trying to suggest styles to your mom that I had chosen from the ads.”

Millie nodded: “And she got mad at me, a boy, telling her how to dress. Little did she know then. You know, she eventually followed some of your ideas and she really began to look pretty, again. She was a beautiful bride, Amy.”

“That’s great,” Amy said. “I always loved your mom. She was so nice, always trying to fatten me up.”

They both laughed.

“And Millie, what happened to that chubby little girl from 9th Grade? You’re so trim now and you look pretty hot yourself,” Amy said.

Millie became serious and looked at your friend.

“The truth?”

“Of course, we’re ‘best friends forever,’ aren’t we?”

“I lost all that weight after you left, Amy,” Millie began. “Frankly, I was so lonely again and so depressed, particularly when I didn’t hear from you. I quit eating and ended up in the psych place for a while; I even had to be force-fed for a few days. I was a mess.”

“Oh my dear, I’m so sorry,” Amy said, reaching over to hold her friend’s hand.

Millie accepted the other’s hand, a symbol of the woman’s warm, caring nature.

“You have nothing to feel sorry about, Amy. You had no choice and had to go where your family went.”

“I know, but still I cared for you Millie, and wouldn’t have wanted you to suffer so.”

“What I never understood, Amy, was why you never wrote to me or called. I had no way of contacting you,” Millie said.

“I couldn’t, Millie,” Amy replied.

“But why?”

“Well, if you must know,” Amy began. “It’s rather humiliating, really, but you deserve to know.”

Millie suddenly felt sorry for pressing her friend. “If it bothers you, you don’t have to tell me.”

“But you’re my best friend. I feel you should know. You see, I found out when we left then that my dad had been linked up with a criminal syndicate, the worst kind, the kind that thought nothing of killing someone and dumping them with a concrete anchor into a lake somewhere.”

“Oh my!”

“I didn’t know that until that Friday when we left town,” she said. “The federal marshals came to our house and uprooted us overnight. Even though mom had divorced him, they felt we needed protection from the mobsters; they even thought we might know something, but I certainly didn’t. Perhaps mom did. Dad had been arrested a day earlier in Chicago and would likely go to trial on a couple of racketeering charges, apparently due to money laundering. Dad apparently had lots of information about the mob’s activities.

“Apparently, dad must have told the feds lots, because he was eventually sentenced to only ten years in the federal pen. Mom was called by the grand jury, but luckily she never had to testify. We apparently had been safe from the mob while dad was still working for them; he had continued to support us well and even though they were divorced dad stopped by often. With dad locked up now, the feds felt they needed to keep mom safe – both because they might need her testimony and for our own safety – so they placed us into protective custody and told to us to forget our past life, our friends and family and all.”

“Oh, how awful. Poor Amy.”

“It was tough, but it was for the best, and we were in custody for three years and then advised to continue avoiding our past for our own safety,” she said. “That’s why I never contacted you.”

“How terrible,” Millie said, putting her arms around her friend and hugging her warmly.

“It was at the time, for sure, but by the time I was twenty-five most of the key mobsters that were involved with my dad were locked up or dead. And, when I transitioned, I took back the name of Strawbridge and became Amy Louise Strawbridge.”

Millie looked at her friend and exclaimed: “What a story!”

“But, it all turned out for the best in the end,” Amy said. “I went off to create a new life for myself and as you can see, I’m now a happy woman.”

Millie smiled at her friend, grabbing her hand and holding it. Finally, she decided to change the subject.

“You remember Jennifer?”

Amy nodded. “How could I forget? She and Natalie were the only girls who would talk to us.”

Millie nodded: “Yes, we were pretty pathetic boys, weren’t we?”

The two couldn’t help but giggle.

“Well, I think Jennifer helped save my life,” Millie continued. “She came almost every day to visit me, and she got me interested in books again.”

“She was a sweetie,” Amy said.

“Well, I soon got well enough to return to school, and she stuck with me. We dated, like a real boy-girl date and I took her to the senior prom. We even went to college together, out at the state university. And, then a week after graduation, we married.”

Amy smiled at her friend: “That’s marvelous, but what happened to Jennifer?”

Millie suddenly broke into tears. “I loved her so much, Amy. I didn’t know I loved her at first. Remember how plain she looked, but she was the kindest, sweetest and smartest person I ever knew.”

“What happened, dear?”

“Cervical cancer. Gone eight years now,” Millie said, bursting into a full-blown crying session. “I loved her so much. She . . . (sobs) . . . was so beautiful.”

Amy left her chair and knelt before Millie, holding the sobbing woman in her arms. Amy remembered Jennifer vividly as a round-faced plain girl, who tended toward being overweight, and one who could hardly be considered beautiful. Yet, she remembered, too, the girl’s ready smile and dancing bright eyes (magnified through her tortoise-shelled glasses).

Millie recovered herself after a few moments, and gave her friend a sisterly kiss, breaking the spell by asking whether Amy might like more coffee. Amy nodded that she did.

Returning with the coffee pot, Millie said, “I’m sorry about that, Amy. I shouldn’t have broken down like that. But tell me about yourself, dear.”

“Oh honey, that’s OK. You clearly loved Jennifer, and I agree that for the one year I knew her she was one of the nicest of girls.”

“But how long have you been living as a woman, Amy?” Millie asked. “You were so pretty back in high school and I can see you’ve lost none of that beauty.”

“About 30 years now, Millie. I fully transitioned several years out of college,” she said. “I was able to get a scholarship to a university in Wisconsin that specializes in fashion design. Can you imagine? In the boonies of Wisconsin and a first-rate fashion school, but it’s there. Called Stout.”

“That must have been right up your alley, Amy.”

“It was, and though I went to school as a guy, I spent many nights performing my jazz singing in drag clubs in the area, mainly in St. Paul that wasn’t too far away.”

Millie smiled at her friend, remembering the sound of Adam’s beautiful voice and the view of Adam wearing a fashionable cocktail dress and belting out a jazz tune.

“I really wanted to have a singing career, but the only jobs I could get were in drag clubs or in small jazz clubs where I was able to pass myself off as a real woman. I even cut a few tapes with a jazz group in the Chicago area – that was before the days of CDs – but they never amounted to much.”

Amy explained that she later took up graphic design, and then worked for an advertising firm in Chicago.

“I worked outwardly as a guy, but always changed into women’s outfits when I got home at night then,” Amy said. “I continued performing when I could, as a woman, of course. Even got some nice reviews, using a phony name, but it wasn’t practical to try to go big time, since I’d be found out of course. My voice got a little lower, but remained distinctively feminine.”

“But then you transitioned?”

“At about age 28 I began taking hormones and a year later I had the surgery, plus some facial changes in my brows and cheeks. I really didn’t need to do much modification; I decided against breast implants, since the hormones helped to grow my smallish breasts. I only wear an A-cup, but for a skinny girl it looks fine, I think.”

“Oh my God yes, Amy,” Millie said in admiration. “You’re so elegant, dear.”

“Thank you, but sometimes I think I overdo my dressing up routine. I can hardly resist trying to look pretty, though at our age it does seem to get more difficult,” Amy said with a laugh.

“Tell me about it,” Millie replied, with a giggle.

“When did you start living as a woman, Millie?”

“About a year after Jennifer’s death, so that would be about six-seven years ago,” she said. “Jennifer understood my need to dress up and she let me do it occasionally, especially when none of the kids were around.”

“Oh you had children?”

“Yes, two. A boy and a girl. Our daughter, Diane, has accepted Millie and I have become the grandma to her two little girls. I love them so much. I’m teaching the oldest, Melissa, how to crochet.”

“And your son?”

“Kevin, oh, he’s not very happy with me, and comes over only at Easter and Christmas for an hour or so each visit,” Millie said, tears forming in her eyes. “But he won’t let his boys see me; he’s got two of them and he wants them to be macho. Thinks I’ll be a bad influence.”

“Oh dear, that’s too bad.”

“I understand it must be hard for him to see me this way, and I suppose I’m a bit selfish for transitioning, what with a family and all that.”

Amy had to cut the visit short, since she needed to dress for a lunch date she had with an attorney friend, a man called Anthony Wicker. “He’s a widower, a couple of years older, and he’s lonely, Millie, but we’re not lovers or anything. Just friends. He wants to show me the local museum.”

“Oh that’s great,” Millie said. “It’s really a pretty good museum for a small town like ours. I think you’ll like it.”

“This town is growing on me, Millie, particularly since I learned we’re next door neighbors and can be girlfriends.”

“I’m so happy you’re here. Now you’ll need to tell me more about yourself next time we get together.”

“Of course, darling.”

The two hugged, and Millie smiled as she watched her friend walk back into her house.

Chapter Nine: Truth-telling

When she began transitioning, Millie walked away from her job as a high school English teacher in a large city, drawing an early, reduced pension for nearly 25 years of teaching. During their marriage, Millie (as Milton) and Jennifer (thanks to her social worker’s job) had been able to retire the mortgage on their home, assist their two children in attending college and build up small savings. When she decided to transition, Millie decided it would be best to sell the house, leave the high school and move to a new city.

“I was lucky,” she told Amy when the two got together again a few days later. “With the money from the sale of the house and our small savings, I was able to cover my transition, plus put a substantial down payment on this house.”

“And you’re still working?” her friend asked.

“Yes, my teachers’ pension isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, particularly when you leave a bit early,” she replied. “Besides, I wanted to stay busy. And you know how I love reading and teaching.”

“You always had your nose in a book, even if it was a book of fashions,” Amy giggled.

Millie came to this small city, which still had papermaking and logging as its chief business, because she was able to find a job teaching English and drama at Dortman, a small, but well-regarded liberal arts college. Known for its open-minded attitudes, the college had no problem with the fact that Millie had only recently completed her transition.

“We know your background, Ms. Lester, and we know how well-regarded you were while teaching high school,” the college president said. “We were particularly impressed with how well your high school theater program went and we hope you’ll help develop ours.”

“I presume then you know completely about my transition and all,” Millie had asked.

“Yes, and it doesn’t bother us. You’re obviously a very attractive woman and we hope you’ll become popular in the community.”

In September, Mildred would begin her fourth year at the small college, where she had built up a previously non-existent theater program to the point that it had been able to present two fairly well received plays during the previous year.

“And this coming year,” she told Amy, “We’re planning to do three plays. I’m so excited, and the kids are, too.”

“It seems you’ve found a home here then.”

Millie smiled at her friend: “Yes, I have. You know what they say about being a big frog in a small pond.”

Amy nodded in agreement, but shook her head: “It seems to be OK for you, and I hope it works for me, too. I know I miss Chicago, and all the activity already, but perhaps this small town life will grow on me.”

“Well, I’m happy, but I still find my nights get lonely without Jennifer. It seems most everyone around here is married, although there’s Harriett Blocker. She’s a widow in our social studies department, and we try to go out to dinner about once every other week, but she’s got her own children around who keep her busy otherwise.”

“Any men friends?” Amy asked.

“Not really,” Millie said. Her face suddenly broke into a deep blush.

“Oh? It looks like you do, Millie. Come on, ‘fess up. You can tell your old friend.”

“Well, it’s nothing really,” Millie said, unable to suppress a small, nervous giggle. “There’s Eric who teaches biology and he’s a couple of years older. We’ve gone hiking a few times, and he’s gotten me into birding.”

“My God, Millie,” Amy said, showing shock. “That’s outdoor stuff. I thought you hated that stuff.”

“I did, I guess, but I’m finding it’s kind of fun now, and besides Amy you’ll have to realize you’re in a place where everyone loves the outdoors, fishing, hunting and boating.”

“Not me, never,” Amy said firmly.

“Don’t ever say never dear. It may be the only way to break the loneliness up here in this woodsy area.”

Amy shook her head. “I’m too dainty for that stuff.”

“How about me? I was never much for the outdoors either, but now as a woman I don’t have to try to show how manly I am when I never really was. Eric always helps me if we run into problems, and he’s so patient with me when I can’t keep up.”

“It sounds as if you like him.”

“I do, but so far he hasn’t even kissed me yet,” Millie said her face growing a bit flush. “We’ve just shared these outdoor times together, and I don’t care if it goes beyond that, because it’s nice to get out of doors.”

“I understand, Millie, but are you interested in having a man in your life now?”

Mildred looked at her friend. “I don’t know. I kind of like my life now as a single woman and now I have you as a friend.”

Amy smiled and said nothing. It was as if the two women communicated without speaking, a sign of true and deep friendship.

*****
Eric Gustafsson finally kissed Millie on a hot, steamy night in August. The two were seated on a swing that hung on chains on Millie’s front porch where they were enjoying lemonade and trying to catch the occasional breeze that wafted through the Wauconanda River Valley where the City of Wauconanda rested. The putrid stench of sulfur used in the papermaking process permeated the dead air, but there was no escaping it. Like most longtime residents of the city, Millie and Eric both had gotten used to the rotten egg smell and didn’t really notice it. They could not have escaped the odor anyway, since Millie’s home had no air conditioning, typical of many homes in the northern city where AC was needed only a few nights each year.

His kiss was tentative at first, but Millie welcomed his warm and moist lips. She responded eagerly, pressing her lips harder upon his. She opened her mouth slightly, letting her tongue play with his lips, as if to urge that his tongue return the favor and enter her mouth. He soon took the hint and their kisses became more passionate, their tongues entering and playing together.

It lasted but a moment before Eric pulled away.

“I’m sorry, Millie. I don’t know what came over me,” he said, his tone soft and hesitant.

“Don’t be Eric. It was marvelous,” she said. Her voice was breathless.

“But the neighbors might see us,” he protested.

Millie nodded. The problem of living in a small town was obvious: people usually noticed everything and someone might easily see these two older people kissing and start talking. Millie didn’t want to be known as an “easy woman,” a reputation that would be harmful in this city where many residents proclaimed their Christian values and abhorred such behavior. Some residents had indeed been wary of the college where Mildred taught, considering it an abomination to Christian values.

“You’re right, Eric,” she said, fearing that her voice betrayed her reluctance at ending the kissing episode

It had been eight years since she had last kissed another person with such loving passion, the last kiss being the one Millie – as Milton – pressed upon his wife Jennifer’s dry, parched lips as she lay dying in St. Vincent’s Hospice. Then, the kiss was accompanied by tears.

The kiss on the porch came on the fifth date between the two, and Millie felt a growing attraction to Eric, who despite nearing sixty, appeared to be much younger, his hair showing only hints of gray and his body erect and firm. He was used to the outdoors, having adopted canoeing along the state’s many rivers and lakes as a hobby. He was popular with his students and regularly organized trips into the wilderness as part of his biology class activities.

Despite his obvious “hunk” qualities, Eric seemed to be shy and unaggressive in his love-making; Millie realized that it was she who initiated this long-belated kiss, had wanted it to continue and had been disappointed when he ended it.

*****
“I’m worried, Amy,” Millie confessed to her friend, as the two conferred on Saturday morning over their lattes at the Kaffee Klatch, a popular spot in the midst of Wauconanda’s downtown. The two had begun biking together on off-days, usually hitting the river trails and finishing off at the Klatch.

“About what?”

“Eric and I are getting passionate, Amy, and I’m afraid I’m falling in love with him,” she said, her voice soft and tentative.

“So what’s wrong with that? He seems like a nice man,” her friend said, smiling.

“Oh he is, and so considerate and everything,” Millie said. “A girl couldn’t ask for anything more in a man.”

“Does he love you? Have you two been sleeping together yet?”

“No. He’s only kissed me once, Amy,” Millie said, her voice growing tense.

Amy put her hand on Millie’s and smiled.

“Are you sure he feels the same about you then? Seems to me one kiss doesn’t seem like much.”

“Oh, I’m sure he does. He’s just shy, I think.”

“What’s your problem then, Millie? It seems like you’ve got a nice man on the hook. Just enjoy, dear, that’s if you want a man around all the time.”

Millie looked about the room, seeing groups of mainly younger people wearing shorts and tank tops, looking young and vigorous and fresh-faced.

“Amy, should I tell him about Milton?” blurting out her concerns.

“Doesn’t he know?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Millie said. “When I applied for the job here, I was totally truthful on the application, and the search committee that hired me fully knew of my transition, along with the university president and the chair of my department, but they all agreed that no one else need know.”

“And you’ve been here several years, and no one else has found out yet?” Amy asked, showing some surprise.

“I guess I’m flying a bit under the radar for now, but some day I fear the news will come out, if anyone checks into my background closely.”

“Yes, especially as you grow that drama program and it becomes more and more successful,” Amy added.

“I guess I'd better tell Eric,” Millie said.

“Yes, and the sooner the better, my dear.”

Millie got a sick feeling in her stomach just then. How could she tell Eric? What should she say?

Chapter Ten: Dilemmas

Even though Amy had no desire to fall in love with her friend Anthony, she found herself beginning to wonder if she was becoming more and more attracted to this small-town attorney, an attractive widower with two grown children and two teenagers still at home. The man had stability, a comfortable income (though that was not Amy’s problem, since she had built up a nice nest-egg for her senior years) and unexpected worldliness she thought she’d never find in such a backwoods community.

Amy had never told Anthony of her background; she felt guilty about keeping him in the dark. Having lived nearly all of her adult life as a woman, there was little in her background to betray her past, and it was easier to enjoy her time with Anthony without telling him. While several chief executives of the company were aware of her gender change, they felt it unimportant, mainly due to the acknowledged talent she had brought to the firm. She realized now that she was being hypocritical by urging Millie to confess her past while seeking to hide her own from Anthony. Perhaps she should tell Anthony the truth now, too.

Both Amy and Millie now had the same plumbing systems as other women and both were past child-bearing age. They knew that men could enjoy sex with them just as they could any genetically born female. Amy had had several affairs in her past, all of which were steamy ones, though short-lived since she was not interested in a permanent relationship.

“My God, Amy, you’re the hottest woman I’ve ever been with,” said a husky ex-football star she had bedded several times in Chicago.

She was aware that her gender reassignment surgery seemed to have made her easily reactive to sexual stimulation, and that she had noisy, almost violent, orgasms in bed, usually exhausting her male partners. Even the strong, sexually well-endowed ex-footballer collapsed after an evening in bed with her. Amy saw little reason to tell her male partners about her past; it would seem to make little difference anyway, since there was nothing about her body that would betray her birth as a male.

When she was in her early thirties, she married a starry-eyed musician, a jazz bass player who had a sensitive, romantic soul. Adrian Holter was a couple of years younger and was mesmerized by Amy’s tall, slender frame, sparkling eyes and natural beauty. The two had clicked musically, sexually and intellectually, a combination that seemed destined for a long marriage.

The two met when Amy joined the Horace Hampden jazz quartet as a featured vocalist, helping to propel the group into even more renown throughout the Midwest. Since Adrian and Amy were the only two unmarried players, they naturally gravitated to each other and began to go out for a late night snack after their gigs. It was only six years after Amy’s sexual reassignment surgery and she was wary of any longterm relationships, but having Adrian as a friend grew comfortable.

“Everyone hoped I’d become a basketball star,” Adrian confessed to her one night. “I was always the tallest kid in school, but I was no damn good. Just too awkward.”

Amy nodded, realizing how your outward appearance often dictates what expectations people might have for you, even though you might not. After all, wasn’t she as a youth expected to do boy things, when dolls and dresses and Billie Holiday were her passion?

“The coaches in school convinced me to try out for the team,” he told her as they sat over their omelets at two-thirty in the morning at an all-night diner that thrived on serving the after-hours crowds from the closing bars.

“How’d that go?”

“How would you expect? It was a disaster. I ended up crying after one game. I quit and no one seemed happier to see me go than the coaches.”

He laughed at his self-directed criticism.

“That’s awful,” Amy said, picturing the scene in the locker room where Adrian would be seen crying in front of his teammates and coaches.

“It wasn’t really,” he said. “No one expected me to play basketball anymore and I happily joined the orchestra on the double bass.”

The two talked many hours, often about themselves, but Amy was careful to disguise her earlier life as Adam.

Several months later, Adrian suggested the two begin living together. Up to that point, their relationship had been chaste, outside of some kissing, hugging and caressing. Amy kept refusing his advances with an excuse that was partially true: that she made it a policy of not having relations with any of the musicians in the bands with which she sang.

Amy believed the two of them could hit it off and, since she was having trouble paying her rent since she was still paying off loans she got in order to have her surgery, she agreed it might be a good idea. Before they were to actually make the move, she felt that she needed to inform him of her former life.

“Adrian, my friend,” she began to confess as he drove her to her apartment after one of their early morning meals, “I need to tell you something before we get too involved.”

“What?” he said. They had stopped in front of her apartment.

“You’d better come up, I think, before I tell you.”

He protested that it was late; they both had day jobs the next day. Amy persisted and Adrian finally agreed, following her into the apartment building.

She led him to her tiny kitchen and the two sat down at a small table.

“Adrian, you need to know something about me,” she began.

“What? I know you so well. What’s to know?”

“Adrian, I was born a boy,” she said flatly.

Adrian looked at her a confused look blanketing his face.

“Did you hear me? I was born a boy and I have had surgery to make me a woman.”

He shook his head. The man said nothing but stared directly at her.

“Say something,” Amy pleaded, tears beginning to form.

“You? A boy?” he said finally.

“Yes, but I’ve been living as a woman for more than ten years now and had sexual reassignment surgery six years ago,” she explained.

“I can’t believe it. You’re all woman to me.”

“I’ve always been a woman inside, Adrian,” she said. “It was only my plumbing that was screwed up.”

“It can’t be true, Amy. I was going to ask you to marry me. I’ve been looking at engagement rings. My mom loves you.”

Amy nodded and began to cry. Adrian got up from his chair and left the apartment.

*****
Their after-hours meetings ended and for two weeks Adrian and she never talked except when the demands of their music required it. Several of the musicians, aware of the relationship between the two, saw their change in attitude and talked with each of them, wondering what was wrong. Both said “nothing.”

He surprised Amy after a performance by asking her to join him for a walk at a nearby park that overlooked the river. It was a well-lit location and safe; Amy agreed.

“I want to marry you, Amy,” he said after they were seated at a bench. It was a warm, sparkling night, with a nearly full moon causing the ripples in the river to shimmer fluorescently.

“What? Even after what I told you?”

“Yes, Amy, please. I’ve never loved anyone as much as you,” he said.

“But, Adrian, I’ll never be able to have children.”

“I know, but we can adopt, Amy. Please be my wife.”

She accepted and two months later the two were married in a civil ceremony at a hotel, with Horace Hampden, their band leader, officiating. He was an ordained minister. It seems every musician in town attended the truly eventful ceremony.

For nearly two years, everything went well. Both found their sex life to be stimulating and exciting. Happiness abounded, but when they began to consider adoption, they ran into difficulties: their incomes were too chancy, typical of freelance musicians and performers, and accredited adoption agencies turned them down.

Two weeks before their second wedding anniversary, Adrian announced he wanted a divorce. His reason: he wanted a wife who could produce a child.

*****
“After that, I vowed never again to get married or to enter into a long-term relationship,” Amy told Millie, as she finished relating the event. The two were sitting on Millie’s porch, having doused themselves in bug spray to ward off the mosquitoes that warm summer night. They had a bottle of white wine sitting in an ice bucket and had nearly emptied it. Both wore shorts and tanktops, exposing trim feminine bodies for which most women of their age would die.

“But now, you’re beginning to question that decision?” Millie asked.

“Well, yes. Anthony is such a perfectly fine man, considerate and warm and caring, plus he can be a ton of fun. I’ve never met anyone quite like him.”

Amy’s eyes positively glistened as she discussed him, and her friend saw clearly that her friend was smitten with the man.

“But, if you tie up with him, you’ll likely spend the rest of your days in this small town,” Millie said.

“There would be worse fates than that. I love his kids and they seem to adore me. Besides this town, even with all its hunting and fishing and outdoors bullshit, seems to be growing on me,” she giggled.

Millie nodded. “I’ve found this a good place to live, and it’d be perfect except for the nine months of snow and cold we get here.”

“But the other three months seem to make it all worthwhile, don’t they?” Amy giggled.

“I think you’re in love, Amy,” Millie answered.

“Let’s toast to that,” Amy said raising her glass. Millie raised hers and the two touched glasses. They sipped their drinks and daintily placed them back on the small table between their two porch chairs.

Millie reached for and held her friend’s hand: “I’d love for you to stay around, Amy. You’ve so brightened my life, just as you did during that one year we were in school together.”

“And you have brightened my life, darling, back in those days in high school and again from the moment we met over the back fence when I first moved in here.”

*****
Millie had problems sleeping that night. She brooded over her budding love affair with Eric, wondering whether she should tell him about Milton and if so, when and how. She also knew that if both she and Amy continued to nurture the affairs with Eric and Anthony their own friendships might change; often once a man enters a woman’s life, she knew, they lose contact with their old friends, and Millie felt she’d be devastated if she again lost her friendship with Amy.

In the house next door Amy went to bed in air-conditioned comfort, but she slept no better. Like Millie, she worried about how and when to tell Anthony about her birth as a boy. She also had found that in few months she’d been in Wauconanda she had found her friendship with Millie to become compelling and needed. How would the love that Millie and she shared for each other be affected once Anthony was in her life? Also, how serious was Millie about Eric?

She tossed and turned under the covers, while 60 feet away her friend lay clad only in a light summer baby doll nightie, hoping for occasional breezes that would cool her sweating body.

Chapter Eleven: Welcome to the Campus

Wauconanda was nestled into a valley between two ridges of tree-covered hills, one ridge steep and high-enough to have developed into a popular ski hill for the area. Because of the location of the city, Millie chose the name “Valley Players” for the title of the college’s budding theater program. She had taken to building the program with gusto, which often left her exhausted in the evening, taking away time that she might have spent with Eric.

After the night on the porch, she did not see Eric for nearly two weeks, largely because of her own concentration on preparing for the coming school year; she carried a full teaching load with classes in modern American English and drama while handling the theater program. When she first came to the college, she readily accepted the heavy workload because it provided for extra income and would keep her busy. After the death of Jennifer, and the breaking of many ties by moving to this small town, she had been worried about becoming lonely.

“I’ll be glad to take on the extra work,” she told the dean when she was first interviewed for the job.

“I’m afraid it’ll be a lot of work, Ms. Lester,” the dean said. “We would like to create a fulltime position in drama, but the money’s not there. I’m hoping that once we get the program going we can get an endowment created for the position, and then maybe we could lighten your teaching load.”

“That’s fine, dean. I’d love to try it. Besides, I’m alone in the world now, so it’ll be a way to fill out the hours,” she said.

The dean previously taught political science at the college and had been a candidate for two Congressional elections, narrowly losing both. He was a tall, graying man of about her age; he had sparkling eyes, and typical of his political nature, he had a way of engaging people.

“Sorry to hear you’re alone,” he said, looking directly into her eyes. “I’m sure you won’t be lonely for long here, Ms. Lester. We’re a friendly town.”

The glint in his eyes seemed to Millie to be flirtatious and she looked to see if there was a wedding ring on his hand. There was none.

He must have sensed her unease and quickly said, “Well, I’ll have Mrs. Swenson get you a student assistant to show you around campus. Go home and I’ll give you a call in a week whether we’re interested in bringing you on.”

“Thank you, dean, but I’d like to have a general idea of what kind of pay and benefits you might offer,” she said.

“Mrs. Swenson will give you all that information, Ms. Lester. I don’t know those details myself.”

“Thank you.”

She got up to leave and he rose from his desk, and came over to her, taking her by the waist as if to lead her out of the office.

“Let me say, Ms. Lester,” he began. “Or, may I call you Mildred?”

“That’s fine, but I like Millie,” she said, giving him a flirtatious look.

“Ok, Millie. Let me say, Millie, that I want to recommend you for the job. I’m not sure I can get you an assistant professor’s rank, since you lack a Ph. D., but I’m going to try.”

“Does that mean I have the job, sir?”

“No, not yet, since I have a committee to deal with and you may need to come up for another interview, but I think you’d be perfect for the job.”

He smiled.

The two paused as the dean was about to open the door. “May I ask something else, sir?” she said.

“Of course.”

“You’re fully aware of my background, my previous life . . . ah . . . as a man?”

The dean turned toward Millie, putting his hands on her upper arms, and looked at her: “Yes, Millie, we know all about Milton and the great teacher and person he was, and we think Mildred Lester will bring the same qualities to Dortman. The committee knows all about it, but while we won’t hide that from anyone, we won’t advertise that fact to our students, other faculty or the public. If someone inquires, we’ll tell them the truth. Sound fair to you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If you choose to make your change public, that’s your business,” he said. “I would like you to let me know before you do so, just so we’re prepared if anyone raises a question about it.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d like the job very much, sir.”

“We’ll see Millie, but I think you have a good chance.”

One week later, Millie accepted the position as Assistant Professor of English at Dortman. The dean apparently had been successful in convincing the college that Millie deserved the ranking. “You’ll have a year’s probation, however, Millie,” he told her.

Assistant Professor Mildred Lester became an almost instant hit with her students in her classrooms. Her teaching style was animated, sometimes even comedic, but she always was sure to keep her classes full of information and perspectives that would further their education. Soon, her classes became in demand, and the college convinced her to take over a freshman survey course in English literature, usually one of the toughest classes to teach, since the students tended to approach the subject with an expectation of being bored. By the third year, the course had become popular with incoming students.

Millie found it difficult to recruit student actors in the first drama program in her opening year of the drama program, but once she did she directed the students into a well-received season of two plays that found wide audience favor. By the second year, drama almost rivaled the students’ long popular music program in student interest. The plays got better and better and with the fifth year coming upon them, Millie was working hard to create a three-play season.

*****
Eric Gustafsson looked forward to his Sundays with Millie. Always a true student – even in his high school days when he was teased for being such a “square” and a “nerd” – he found comfort in two activities: his studies in science and his interest in the outdoors. A fascination with birds developed during his junior year in high school when an aunt took him along for an Audubon Club outing. He was the youngest person in the group of bird-watchers by a couple of decades but his excitement over seeing strange new birds soon overcame his natural shyness.

His enthusiasm for his new-found interest soon found acceptance among the older, mainly gray-haired crowd of club members on their early morning outings. Eric knew he had found his niche in life, and he graduated with degrees in biology and forestry, providing a highly regarded master’s thesis on migrating habits of Canadian geese. He later used that research to become an expert on how communities can control the vexing problem of the geese whose presence has troubled parks, airports and urban communities in recent years. He offered numerous humane ways to lure the geese from such problem areas.

Thus he landed the teaching position at Dortman to help build its reputation as a leading school in environmental science. Like Mildred Lester, Professor Gustafsson was the reason why many young people were lured to the small, backwoods liberal arts college in Wauconanda.

In many ways, Mildred and Eric were perfect for each other: they both were workaholics with simple life styles. Until they met each other, both worked seven days a week, with an occasional night out with one of their few acquaintances. Now, Sundays had become “their day,” a day to be together to scour the Sunday papers over morning coffee at Millie’s home, find time to drive out into the nearby forest or lake areas to explore nature and then finish up a dinner out, often driving to other towns 20 to 30 miles away since restaurants were so lacking in inspiration in Wauconanda.

It was only in the last few months that the two began spending their Sundays in this manner; prior to that, Eric’s time had been taken up with caring for his aging mother who had moved in with him when he came to Dortman some 25 years before. He dearly loved her and the two had been inseparable, since she had also enjoyed the outdoors with her son. Her death earlier that year had relieved him of the constant demands of his mother and in many ways her death at eighty-eight was a blessing in ending the woman’s suffering.

His mother’s death freed up his time but it also brought on loneliness that even his interest in nature and biology could not overcome.

Eric’s desires, however, were not as chaste as it might seem. He yearned constantly to have a woman at his side, to feel her soft warmth in his bed and to welcome his kisses, caresses and his manhood. Since his teens, Eric’s desires had found self-gratification as the only outlet, except for a few brief ventures with several women in his life. None of them worked out for various reasons, and Eric always felt inadequate in their company and in bed. Women invariably were attracted to his tall, manly body and his warm almost boyish looks. His slowly graying hair now added to his natural attractiveness. He failed to recognize his own charm and never pressed his advantage, waiting for his female partner to make advances.

Eric met the pretty Professor Lester at a faculty reception in her first months on the campus, even sharing a wine together that night. He was surprised to see the woman – who seemed to have a warm, welcoming personality – had no rings on her fingers, indicating she must be single. Usually, the women on the faculty at Dortman were married or lesbians; in the past, such realizations dimmed Eric’s interest in seeking female companionship on the campus.

With Millie, however, he felt some hope. She was about his same age, intelligent and certainly lovely. More importantly, she seemed to be interested in him in that first meeting, asking him about himself, his interests and even expressing a curiosity about bird-watching. Now, that he was alone in the world following the death of his mother, he might be ready, even at his relatively mature age, to experience a woman in his life.

“Millie is a dream,” he wrote one night in the private journal he began years ago largely to record his observations on birds. Every so often, Eric wrote matters of a personal nature in the journal. He ended this entry with these words: “I pray this dream is real.”

*****
By the Labor Day weekend, weather in the Northwoods city takes on an autumn-like quality, with the water in the lakes already becoming too cold for swimming, except for the most hardy. A late summer heat wave brought daytime temperatures nearing 90 Fahrenheit as the long weekend approached and promised to hang on for several more days.

“Millie, let’s head out to the Goose Lake resort on Sunday,” Eric suggested as the two met for lunch on the Friday before the holiday weekend. They stopped at a popular coffee shop near campus; it was their first get-together in nearly two weeks, both having been busy with their work.

“I guess I’m free, Eric, but why the resort?” she asked.

“I’m sorry, but I never asked if you liked to swim,” he said, blushing. “There’s a nice beach there, and they have a nice restaurant.”

“Oh yes, I swim, Eric, but not very well.”

“Well,” he said, his face growing into a deeper red, “I was thinking we’d do more than swim. They have comfortable surroundings and we can lie on the beach.”

“Is the water warm enough to swim?” she asked.

“It’s a bit cool, but I think you’ll love it once you’re in.”

“But I don’t have a good swim suit, Eric. It’s kind of old-fashioned.”

“Millie, believe me you’ll look good in whatever you wear. How about it?”

*****
“Oh Amy, I don’t know why I agreed to do this,” Millie said to her friend that night as they enjoyed their after-dinner coffee on Amy’s front porch. The day’s heat still lingered even though the sun had already dipped out of sight beyond the hills that surrounded Wauconanda.

“Look, in a little while, why don’t you and I go back to your place and you can try on the suit and let me see how it looks on you,” Amy said.

“He said I’d look good in anything,” Millie said. “I’ve never had anyone say that to me. I guess he was just being nice.”

“Oh girl, you make me sick,” Amy said. “You’re a lovely woman, really you are. And you have a figure that any woman your age would die for.”

“Not as good a figure as yours, Amy.”

“Oh damn, Millie. I wished I had your soft curves.”

“But . . .” Millie began only to be silenced by her friend.

“This is silly talk. Let’s face it we’re both lovely women and we both have men drooling over us now. There are not many women our age who have that.”

Millie nodded and the two remained silent for a few moments, sipping their wine as they sat on the porch listening to the crickets and birds and occasional motorcar noises.

“But when are we going to tell these men about our background, Amy? That what is worrying me.”

Millie’s question brought a pall over the sweetness of the evening.

“I don’t know, Millie. I don’t know.”

“I think it should be soon, Amy, like this weekend. Eric I know is considering me as wife material.”

Amy nodded. “I told Anthony I don’t want to marry him, but he’s pressing me for a permanent relationship, maybe even living together. I need to tell him soon, too.”

Chapter Twelve: Reactions

The Labor Day outing turned out to be idyllic: the day was mild with a slight breeze and the sun was filtered through a light haze, softening its brightness. Millie and Eric spent much of the day under a large beach umbrella on lounge chairs rented from the resort. The beach itself was crowded with families and the cries of young children laughing, yelling or wailing filled the air.

Millie brought along two plays to read; she needed to choose one for the final play of the season before the start of the school year. Eric, too, brought along his tablet upon which he planned to work on lesson plans for the coming school year. It wasn’t long before Millie dozed off, having read only the first half of one play; Eric found himself unable to concentrate, and soon shut down his tablet. He looked over at the sleeping Millie wondering if perhaps this might not be a good time to pop the question. How would he word it, he fretted? How about: “Would you be my wife, Millie?” No, he thought, that sounded too stark. He thought of something more romantic, like “I love you Millie with all my heart. You have stolen my heart and you have made me so happy. Will you become mine for life? Will you marry me?”

No, he thought. That was too soppy, too syrupy. Besides, Eric was not one to speak in such terms; it betrayed his stoic Nordic upbringing.

Eric concentrated his gaze upon the trim, lovely woman next to him. Even her light snoring seemed adorable. It seemed obvious to him now: he had to ask for her hand in marriage. His mother – in one of her last lucid conversations of her life – had told him that she thought Millie was a lovely girl and that now that he was to be alone in life he should marry her. Millie had been the first woman that his mother had approved of among the few he had dated in his long bachelor life.

He didn’t know how long he was fixated upon Millie’s soft, lovely face. The woman seemed to wear no makeup and yet her face was largely without the wrinkles typical of women of her age. He mused to himself, picturing the pair standing before the altar of St. Gregory’s Catholic Church taking their vows, Millie in a simple white, gauzy wedding gown that exposed her lovely shoulders and he in a tuxedo (but no tails). They’d make a handsome couple, to be sure.

“What are you thinking about, Eric?” Millie said, shocking him out of his reverie.

“Oh, huh? . . . ah . . . you woke up?”

She giggled. “Yes, dummy, I’m awake and taking nourishment. You looked like you were in a daze.”

“Um,” he said, still shaking off the fogginess in his brain. “I was just thinking how pretty you looked.”

“Oh come on. You must have been looking at that young college girl behind us.”

“No, I was looking at you.”

“I can’t imagine I look pretty when I sleep. Was I snoring?”

He nodded. “But it’s such a cute snore.”

“That’s not what my . . .” Millie said, failing to complete the sentence, since she was about to say “my wife.”

“My what?” Eric asked.

“Oh nothing.”

“It’s OK Millie if you had previous boyfriends and even slept with them,” he said.

Millie was taken aback, since it sounded like she slept with every man she met. The truth was that the only other person she had ever been to bed with had been Jennifer, her deceased spouse and the mother of their children.

“I don’t sleep around, Eric,” she said firmly.

“Millie, Millie. I didn’t mean to say that. I just wanted to say that what we did in the past is not important. After all, we both have had a long life and we must have had relationships before.”

He reached over and caressed her soft arm gently.

“Millie, I need to ask you something now. It’s so important to me and I hope you answer will be ‘yes.’”

“No, Eric,” she said sitting up on the lounge chair, putting her feet in the sand and looking him directly in the face. “Please don’t ask me that question.”

Eric took her hands into his and looked back at Millie, her face full of pleading. “How do you know what I want to ask?”

“Oh Eric, darling, I’ve seen this coming,” she began. “I know how I feel about you. I’m extremely fond of you. I adore you so much.”

“But I want to marry you, Millie,” he said, the words bursting out of his mouth. It wasn’t how he wanted to make the proposal, so bluntly, so crudely, so unromantically.

Tears suddenly filled Millie’s eyes. “I just can’t marry you, Eric,” she said.

“But why? Don’t you love me?”

He moved over to sit next to her on the lounge chair, putting his arms around her and holding her tightly. She began crying in earnest and he wiped the tears from her face. Several beachgoers watched the scene, some obviously wondering if the two were having a fight. Besides, the sight of two such mature adults hugging on the beach was rare; such scenes were for young lovers.

Millie nodded: “Yes, I love you, Eric, but I just can’t marry you now.”

“But why?”

“Give me a minute, dear,” she said. She forced herself to stop crying.

Eric reached into the picnic basket they brought and took out a towel and helped to dry her tears.

“Is everything all right?” a tall man said, watching the scene from nearby.

“Yes, we’re fine,” Eric said.

Turning back to Millie, he said: “Millie, I deserve an explanation, don’t I?”

“Yes, Eric you do, but this place is too public,” she replied. “Let me tell you later, when we’re alone.”

The prospect of talking about Millie’s pending “explanation” hovered like a cloud upon the rest of the day, their picnic lunch, their sharing of wine and their short swim in the cool lake.

*****
“Darling, I love you dearly,” Millie said after Eric was seated on the couch in her living room. They returned to Millie’s home as she had suggested. She poured each small goblets of red wine, which sat untouched on the coffee table before them.

“And I you. That’s why we should be married, Millie,” he said. “I just don’t understand.”

“You will,” she said. “Just let me tell you why.”

He took her hand, awaiting her words. Finally she spoke:

“Eric, I have been deceiving you and I am extremely sorry for that but when you hear why I hope you’ll understand.”

He said nothing, but stared into her eyes. His gaze did nothing to make it easy for her to explain.

“You see Eric,” she continued, figuring she’d hit the issue headon. “Until about seven years ago, I lived as a man named Milton Lester. I was not Mildred Lester until then.”

Eric looked at her, a blank expression on his face.

“But . . . but . . . I’m confused. You mean you lived as a man?”

“No darling, I was physically a man until then. I was born a boy.”

“Oh my God,” he said, taking his arm from around her shoulders and moving away from her, leaving a gap of some six inches between the two.

Between crying spasms, Millie told of her earlier life. Eric sat there, unmoving and saying nothing. He listened to her tell a disjointed story of her life. When she finished, he got up from the couch, picked up his car keys off the coffee table and left the house without saying a word. Millie looked down at the untouched glasses of wine and cried.

*****
Amy thought she’d never forget the appearance of her friend Millie when she stopped by after work on the Tuesday after Labor Day. As she drove into her driveway Amy noticed that Millie’s curtains were drawn closed and thought that was strange. It was nearly six o’clock and Millie only drew her curtains at night; she always opened her curtains first thing in the morning.

Wondering why they were still closed, she called Millie to see if her friend was all right. She got an answering machine, and left a message for Millie to call her.

A half an hour went by and Millie still hadn’t returned her call. Something’s wrong over there, Amy told herself. She knew Millie had spent the previous day with her friend Eric and wondered whether something had happened. Was Millie even home, she wondered? Or, was she lying collapsed on the floor with a heart attack? It could be anything.

Amy decided to walk next door to inquire, peering first through a garage window to learn that Millie’s car was parked inside. She knew college classes wouldn’t start for another week and thought that maybe she and Eric had decided to take a day’s extension to the long weekend. She smiled at the prospect of her friend – always such a strait-laced person – engaged in a tryst. It was a sweet thought, but it was probably not likely, since neither Eric nor Millie seemed the type who would stay away from work for a lovers’ rendezvous.

After prolonged doorbell ringing and loud knocking, Amy finally heard a faint “who’s there?”

“Millie, open up, it’s Amy. Dear, open up.” She yelled loudly, worried she’d alert neighbors.

“Go away,” Millie replied in a voice so husky and soft Amy could hardly hear.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. Go away.” The voice was a bit stronger, it seemed.

“I’m going to stand here pounding on your door ‘til you open, Millie.”

“You can’t come in. I look like hell.”

This went on for several minutes before Millie finally opened the door slightly. Amy looked into a darkened living room, faintly noticing a partially full wine bottle with two glasses, still with wine in them, sitting on the coffee table. Millie stood behind the door so Amy couldn’t see her.

“Let me in for God’s sake, Millie,” Amy pleaded. She wondered whether she should push her way into the room, physically pushing her friend backward.

She heard sobs coming from behind the door and as they grew in intensity, Amy gently pushed the door open, feeling very little resistance. She entered the room and Millie fell into her arms, her crying accompanied by shaking and occasional shrieks. Amy smelled her friend’s unwashed body and foul breath as she cried, but Amy held her tightly, caressing her and slowly the sobbing subsided.

“We’re such freaks, Amy,” Millie said finally. “How could any man want us?”

Amy said nothing, but led her friend to the sofa.

“Just sit there a minute, Millie. Let me get some light on in this place and then we can settle down and you can tell me all about it.”

Millie nodded and sat primly on the sofa, her hands in her lap, looking as if she was schoolgirl awaiting punishment from the school principal. Amy opened the drapes and the brightness of a sun dropping lower in the sky flooded the room. She picked up the wine bottle and glasses to take them back to the kitchen.

“Would you like some water, Millie? Or, should I make coffee or tea?”

“Water,” her friend sniffled, still blinking her eyes from the sunlight pouring into the room.

When they were settled together on the sofa, Millie told how Eric had walked out on her, beginning to cry again as she related how Eric said nothing as he left the room.

“What are we going to do, Amy?” Millie began. “I really love Eric and would have loved to spend our life together, but he must think I’m something repulsive, someone he’d never want to touch, much less kiss and make love to.”

Millie reached over and drew her friend against her. She knew what Millie said had some truth; they were “freaks” and men always seemed to want soft, feminine women and could never lose the idea that their lover once was a man as well. Yet, she didn’t want Millie to lose hope that someday she might indeed find a man who would love her totally and completely, or that Eric might eventually understand her friend and become that man again.

“Give him time, Millie. I’m sure he must have been in shock. You really are a most feminine woman and I know he never suspected you were anything but.”

“He left with such suddenness, Amy. As if I were an untouchable.”

“Give him time. He’s a scientist, after all, and I know he’ll look into everything he can about transgendered persons.”

“I don’t know, Amy. I don’t know.”

The two cuddled together for a few minutes.

Millie broke the silence. “Amy, we have each other, don’t we?”

“Yes we do, my dear. Yes we do.”

*****
Amy feared that Anthony Wicker’s reaction to learning that the lovely woman he had been dating had once been a boy would be to reject her, just as Eric Gustafsson had done to Millie. It was logical; both men had spent their adult lives in a backwater timber town and likely had no acquaintance with or knowledge about trangendered women.

She wondered whether she should inform him about her transition. After all, the two had a perfectly great relationship and didn’t need to formalize it into a marriage.

Yet, she knew that Anthony was about to propose to her; the signs had been obvious. At his urging, she agreed to prepare her favorite dinner for him and his two teenage children; on a pleasant Sunday in August, she prepared her terrific lasagna at her home kitchen and took it over to Anthony’s house for a dinner.

The meal and the day had been a tremendous success. His two teenage children, seventeen-year-old Heather and fifteen-year-old Trent not only adored the lasagna, but warmed up to Amy easily. She had worried that the children would resent her in that they’d consider her a replacement for their deceased mother whom they missed terribly, even though many years had passed.

She was angered at Anthony, however, for telling the children that Amy used to be a singer; she had told him during their early dating that she liked jazz, and had even sung a bit. She had even tried her hand at professional singing career she had admitted to him, without specifying it was largely in drag.

Heather’s eye lit up with the mention of Amy’s singing talents.

“I wanna sing so bad, Amy, and I’m in the jazz singing club at school. Maybe you can give me some hints.”

“Oh, I don’t know that I’m that good,” Amy said. “But I’m glad you like jazz. Maybe you can sing for me tonight or sometime.”

Heather thought a minute and then answered. “Only if you sing, too.”

“I’m pretty rusty,” she answered.

“No you aren’t. You sang just beautifully when we were out at the karaoke place last week, Amy,” Anthony said.

It turned out to be a great evening of fun – family fun. Amy still retained her piano skills and accompanied Heather in her singing, which was spirited if a bit raw in spots. They were joined by Trent who brought out his saxophone and got in a few timely licks. Even Anthony strummed along on a guitar. They all joined in singing around the piano, belting out old favorites like “Old MacDonald’s Farm,” “Bill Bailey,” and “On Top of Old Smoky.” And, they laughed a lot. It was a joyous evening.

Amy accompanied herself in singing a few jazz standards, including her favorite, “God Bless the Child,” which Heather immediately recognizing it as a Billie Holiday favorite.

When they finished the songfest, Anthony gave Amy a tour of the house. It was a large colonial-style home built with great attention to detail right after World War II. He showed her the master bedroom, which had recently been redecorated, and proudly pointed out that there were “his” and “hers” walk-in closets. The “hers” closet was empty except for a vacuum cleaner and a few other cleaning supplies.

“We’ll take those out and my next wife will have the whole closet to herself,” Anthony said, winking at her.

Amy grew red. “Whoever that will be will be a happy woman,” she replied, a bit coldly.

“I’m sure she’ll love it here and we’ll love having such a lovely woman in our lives.”

With that, Amy closed the closet door. “I guess it’s time to go now, Anthony. Have to get to work early tomorrow.”

“Of course,” he said.

Driving home that night, she knew that Anthony had laid the seed for a proposal of marriage. What could be more obvious? An empty closet, indeed.

*****
The opportunity to confront Anthony with her transgendered status presented itself on the Sunday after her conversation with Millie. Anthony invited her to a Saturday visit to a nearby casino, run by the Chippewa Indian tribe, which was noted for its top-rated, first-class restaurant.

“The casino? I’m not interested in gambling, Anthony,” she protested.

“We won’t gamble, dear, but their restaurant is the fanciest in the area, and I’ve reserved a special table for us,” he said.

It truly was a special table. It was set off by itself, separated from other diners by a clever design of drapes. The room was decorated in the style of the French can-can era done with true class. The place was awe-inspiring.

“I’ve been in restaurants all over the world,” Amy said. “This place is a high-class as any I’ve seen, and to think it’s built right in the backwoods.”

“I thought you’d like it,” Anthony said. “The tribes have hit a gold mine with this casino-business, which is OK since they were so poor before. Now they can really do things up with style.”

The dinner and wine were first class and after dessert had been served, Amy and Anthony relaxed with a cognac.

“Darling, I have something special for you tonight,” he said, reaching into the inside of his suit coat and pulling out a small, velvet covered box.

Feeling this was coming, Amy reacted immediately.

“Anthony, no, not yet. I need to tell you something before I take your gift,” she said firmly.

Anthony continued to hold up the small box and urged her to take it and open it. She took it from his hand, but set it down in the middle of the table, unopened. She spoke slowly and directly.

“Anthony, I know what this is. This is an engagement ring and I’m sure it is beautiful and that any woman would be pleased to wear. I know too that you are a marvelous man with two marvelous children. And, I know as well that you all but proposed to me the night you showed me the empty closet in the master bedroom suite.

“But, before you ask me to marry you, I need to tell you something.”

“And what would that be? That you’re a mass murderer?”

“Don’t be silly, but I need to tell you that I not always the woman you see before you. You see I was born as a boy and . . .”

“Oh that! I know all about that,” Anthony interrupted her.

“You what?”

“No one told me, but I suspect a couple of bigwigs in your company know that, Amy. You know I’m an attorney and I used to be a prosecuting attorney and I know how to check people out.”

“You checked me out, without my knowledge?” Amy yelled.

“Very discreetly, Amy dear, but I needed to know what kind of woman I’m inviting into my house and to live with my children. And, I hope you check me out, too.”

Amy was confused. She hated that he checked her out, but she could hardly blame him.

“And you know all about my early life as Adam?” she asked.

“Yes, but I also know you are about as complete a woman I’ve ever known and the most beautiful and intelligent and caring and fun. And I love you. I hope you love me.”

Amy slid over on the banquette seat, moving tightly against him. She looked into his eyes, raised her lips and the two kissed.

“But your children, Anthony? How will we tell them?”

“Don’t you worry, Amy. I’ve already talked to them and they know and understand. Heather has gay friends and also knows a former boy student at the high school who is currently transitioning. She’s cool with it. Trent’s not so sure, but after our songfest and your lasagna, I think he’s been convinced. They both love you.”

“You rascal, you. You already had this planned out. Don’t I have a say in this?” Amy said, smiling at him.

“Of course, dear. You can always say ‘no.’”

“You know I couldn’t say ‘no.’”

“Actually, I didn’t, honey,” he said, his tone more serious. “You’re such an independent woman and I wasn’t sure you wanted to hook onto a backwoods lawyer like me.”

“Oh, Anthony, I love you so. Yes! Yes! Yes! A thousand times yes.” She flung her arms around this marvelous man.

She left the casino that night proudly displaying a sparkling, dazzling engagement ring. She nestled into the arms of Anthony as they strolled out of the restaurant and into the cool Northwoods August night.

Chapter Thirteen: Reconsiderations

The following evening Amy and Millie were to have their usual Wednesday night “girls out” dinner, which had become a weekly habit when Amy was not traveling. Amy was eager to show off her engagement ring to her friend, but was worried about the pain that Millie – having been rejected by Eric – might feel when she heard the news. Of course, Amy knew that Millie who was basically a kind and generous friend would express congratulations and joy for her friend. But what kind of wound would it open for Millie?

The two had begun their light supper at a wine and cheese shop named Chateaux Nicolas, a surprisingly chic place for the area. It was begun as strictly a coffee shop ten years earlier by a couple – both who were law enforcement officers in area – who slowly expanded it so that it sold wines that had been carefully chosen.

“Good evening, ladies,” the owner, Nicholas, a tall, muscular man said as he greeted them.

“Hey, Nick, comment allez vous?”

“Tres bien, et vous mademoiselle?” he replied.

Amy was intrigued that a law enforcement officer – he was a detective for the sheriff’s department – was such an expert on wine and could speak French.

“Tres bien,” she replied.

“Et vous, mademoiselle,” Nick said, addressing Millie, as she was taking her seat.

“Comme ci, comme ca,” Millie, her tone morose.

“Well maybe a glass of wine might help,” he said.

The two friends ordered their wine and both asked for a turkey and cranberry wrap for their meal.

“What’s wrong with your hand, Amy?” Millie asked. “You’ve been covering it with your other hand.”

“Nothing, maybe it’s time to show you something,” she uncovered her hand and held it before Millie.

“Oh my God, Amy. How lovely!” Millie said, clearly astonished.

Amy blushed. “Yes, Anthony proposed last night.”

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner, Amy? I wondered what you were hiding,”

Amy paused a minute.

“After what you went through with Eric, I didn’t know how you’d take this? I know how unhappy you were.”

“How could you think that? I love you Amy and nothing pleases me more than for you to be happy, and I can tell you’re absolutely beaming.”

Amy hugged her friend.

“You’ll be my maid of honor, won’t you?”

Millie smiled at her friend. “I’d be upset if you hadn’t asked me, darling. Of course.”

*****
While Millie was sincerely happy for her friend, she was still devastated how Eric summarily walked out of their relationship. He had shown little sympathy for Millie as she tried to explain the grief she endured in her childhood. He hadn’t even offered a “good-bye.”

It was impossible to avoid seeing Eric from time to time on the small Dortman campus; when they did occasionally come near one another, Millie could see Eric divert his eyes and look in another direction. They had not said a word to each other since he walked out of her home on Labor Day weekend.

“What’s with you and Eric? Have a fight with him?” asked Maria Olivetti, an associate professor in the English Department. Millie and Maria, both being single among of a group of mainly married faculty, had bonded from the first. Maria was a wiry, energetic thirty-something who often assisted Millie in drama productions and the two often met for coffee at the college commons area.

“You might say that, Maria,” Millie replied.

“Sorry to hear that, Millie. The two of you seemed to be getting along so well. I thought I’d be losing a bachelor girlfriend.”

“That won’t happen. It’s over between Eric and me.”

“Can I help out? Talk with Eric, maybe?” Maria offered.

Millie shook her head negatively. “No, please don’t. Just be my friend.”

*****
A week later, on a cool September night, Millie was studying Chekhov’s “The Cherry Orchard,” which she had selected for the Fall Semester production. The selection had been proposed by several of her senior students – all serious actors – who wanted to try something challenging. While Millie loved Chekhov’s plays, she also knew that the talkative nature of the play might bore the Wauconanda audiences that would not be familiar with the plays. She was bound and determined to present the play in a way that would keep the audience alert and receptive, while not destroying the soul of the play.

In the midst of her concentration, her cell phone rang and she was prompted to ignore it, but looked at it anyway. Eric was calling.

She debated whether to answer. What could she say to him? She didn’t answer and let the phone go into voice mail. Millie tried to get back to “The Cherry Orchard,” but her mind began racing: what could Eric be calling about? Was he going to apologize, or berate her for being a freak and a fraud? Did he want to ask her out for a date, or tell her he wanted her to return the DVD movie he had lent her? Finally, she checked her voice mail; there was no message. He had merely hung up when she didn’t answer.

Millie was angry at herself for not answering. He may never call again, she thought. She put “The Cherry Orchard” script down and went to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of merlot. She sat at the kitchen table, her head in her hands, occasionally taking a sip of wine. She cried herself to sleep.

*****
“Should I call him, Amy?” Millie asked her friend as the two met for their usual Wednesday night dinner.

Millie had brooded over whether to call Eric back after she refused his call the night before. Many thoughts had crossed her mind since the call, many of them around the question of a woman’s role in responding to a man who had walked out on her. Should she stand on her pride and force the man to grovel? Or, should she succumb to her desire to see him again and thus put herself at a disadvantage? After all, Millie had little experience with men, or, for that matter, with love affairs of any kind, since his wife Jennifer had been the only woman Milton ever dated. In her years as a woman, she had only limited relations with men.

“Let me ask you something first before I answer that, Millie,” Amy replied.

“Yes?”

“Do you feel you love him, love being with him?”

Millie pondered the question. She wasn’t quite sure how to answer.

“That’s all right. Take your time,” her friend counseled.

Millie smiled. Amy seemed to be so wise. Finally she answered, speaking slowly and deliberately:

“I don’t know exactly, Amy. I know I don’t love him as much as a did Jennifer. No one will ever replace her.”

“That’s not what I asked. Your Jennifer is gone eight years now, Millie, and you have a life ahead of you.”

Moisture filled Millie’s eyes as she recalled Jennifer’s warm, knowing smile. She always seemed to understand when Millie (then living as Milton) needed a hug or a kiss. She was always the strong person in their relationship, but she never let her power over him become oppressive.

“Yes, Amy,” she continued finally. “I’m not sure ‘love’ is the right word, but I do know I love being with him. We’re so comfortable together. In a sense, I feel as good being with him as I did with Jennifer.”

“Then call him up, Millie,” Amy said without hesitation. “You can easily explain that you couldn’t find your cell phone when he called before he hung up. Tell him you were calling him back to see what he wanted.”

“Like that?”

“Sure, that’s natural thing to do. Make it a business-like call, more as a courtesy. Who knows what he wanted to say to you?”

“I guess so,” she said.

“Do it now,” Amy said. “Go to the powder room and that’ll give you some privacy. There’s a nice lounge area and usually it’s empty.”

*****
The next night, Eric picked Millie up at six o’clock as she left the drama department; she had spent the afternoon with the students charged with setting the scenery and costumes for the forthcoming play. Her spirits were high that afternoon and the students apparently sensed that; they, too, worked on the project with renewed enthusiasm.

“I am so sorry for how I walked out on you that night, Millie,” Eric told her when she placed the phone call.

“You left me without so much as a ‘good-bye.’”

“I’m sorry,” he said, stuttering and stammering. “I was . . . ah . . . ah . . . shocked, I guess. I couldn’t believe it . . . ah . . . it seemed so wrong . . .”

Millie felt terrible for him as he struggled through his explanation. “I felt so hurt, but it wasn’t right for me to spring that on you like that.”

“No, Millie, I was cruel to you. Can we meet and talk a bit?”

“I don’t know, Eric,” she said slowly. “Will it do any good?”

“Maybe not, but Millie, I’ve enjoyed these months with you,” he said. Haven’t you, too?”

“Yes, Eric, I have. Very much.”

“Let’s not throw this all away, Millie. How about tomorrow night? I know a quiet place we can talk.”

She had agreed to meet him, but was upset with herself for not setting the time later so that she could go home to change before their meeting. She knew she would feel grubby and unkempt after a day of teaching and working on the Chekhov play; nonetheless, she tried to dress that morning in a somewhat upscale manner, choosing to wear her new flowing paisley skirt, a white blouse and an embroidered jacket. She fussed with her hair, finally deciding to let it flow naturally and straight. She knew Eric liked her more casual hair styles.

*****
“I hope you don’t mind a little drive tonight, Millie,” Eric said as she stepped into his car. Unlike his habits in the past, he did not leave the driver’s seat of his car and get out to hold the door open for her. In their dates previously, he had always been gentlemanly. In a way, Millie was pleased that he was beginning the evening in a more business-like manner.

“No, Eric, it’s a beautiful night. I guess we have a full moon, too.”

“Yes, we do,” he said, smiling once she was buckled in. “Maybe that’s a good sign.”

He made no attempt to kiss her, as they normally did when they met. She sat erect on the right side of the car, content to stay away from direct contact. Eric, too, sat straight and concentrated on his driving. Neither spoke until they were out onto the highway, and even then the words between them were few. Millie wondered a couple of times about where he was taking her, and Eric’s response was a noncommittal “you’ll see,” although once he did add the words: “I think you’ll love it.”

Millie felt somewhat reassured by his comment; Eric had always been straight-forward with her so even now she tended to believe him.

It was late October and already it was dark; Millie watched the lights from the occasional farm houses they passed, wondering if the folks inside were enjoying a happy life or facing terrible traumas. Eric drove at just about the speed limit, warily looking for deer, bear and other wildlife which often crossed the rural highway. She wondered what Eric had in mind. Was he going to rape her, she wondered, to discover whether she was really a woman? Or, just talk?

Finally, bright lights beamed across the highway ahead like an oasis in the darkness; it turned out to be lights from a place carved out of the forest called Snuffy’s Lakeview Resort. The place was a two-story building, built of logs probably more than 50 years before. Signs advertising “Leinenkugel’s,” “Miller Lite” and other beers brightened the dark landscape. Millie noticed moonlight sparkling across the waters of a lake that appeared between the trees just beyond the back of the tavern building. A handful of cars were parked on the gravel lot.

Eric parked the car and got out, guiding her through the evening coolness to the front door of the tavern. The lights of the interior dazzled for a minute, in contrast to the dark night through which they had been driving.

“Eric, you ol’ sunovagun, where ya’ been keeping yourself,” a burly bartender boomed out as they entered. “And who’s the lovely lady?”

Eric smiled broadly as he guided Millie with his hand toward the bar.

“Snuffy, this is Millie, and she’s probably the reason we haven’t been out here recently, and Millie, meet Snuffy owner of this flea bag resort.” He said this in a teasing tone, indicating he had a warm, longtime relationship with the owner.

Millie held out her hand in a feminine manner and she was almost expecting Snuffy to bend down and kiss it. Instead he just held it gently and said, “Well if you’re the reason he’s not been here for a while, I must say I totally understand.”

Millie blushed.

Eric guided her onto a bar stool and Snuffy took their orders; Eric ordered a “Leinie’s,” the popular beer of the area, and though Millie seldom drank beer, she ordered the same. Eric looked at her: “Go ahead. Order what you want, dear. Snuffy can really mix fancy drinks as good as any bartender on 5th Avenue.”

“No, a beer is fine,” she said, smiling.

Millie had never before seen this side of Eric; usually he was reserved, even uptight at times, but at this rustic tavern he seemed to become comfortable and at ease. He obviously was what you’d call a “man’s man,” she felt, and that may have been at the root of his abrupt charge out of the door on the night she told him of her transgendered status.

“May we have one of those tables at the window, Snuffy, maybe so we can be somewhat alone?” Eric asked after they had enjoyed a few sips of beer and spent time bantering with the owner.

“Sure, there’s just one family back there now, and I doubt we’ll get much of a crowd tonight. Thursday night is always slow, until hunting season begins next week.”

Snuffy, a still-athletic man in his 70s, led them into the dining area and seated them at a booth looking out upon the lake, sparkling in the moonlight. A family of four, including two young children, were seated in another window-side booth, at the other end of the room.

“You two should find it quiet back here,” Snuffy said, and with a gentlemanly courtesy, assisted Millie into her booth. Eric sat opposite to her.

Snuffy carried the couple’s drinks out from the bar and placed them in front of them, asking if there was anything further. “The special tonight is an eggplant parmesan with my special pork sausages, folks.”

“Oh, Millie,” Eric said. “I’ve had it and it’s tremendous. I don’t know what your wife does to make it Snuffy, but it’s great. Want to try it, dear?”

“Why not? How can I resist after that review?”

“We’ll each have it, Snuffy, and a bottle of the merlot you feature here would be fine, too. And take your time, Snuffy.”

Snuffy moved away and Eric turned to Millie. “Well, what do you think, Millie?”

“About what, Eric? The moon? Or Snuffy? Or, Us?”

Eric laughed nervously; he was obviously ill at ease, and had prolonged their time at the bar and used their talk with Snuffy to put off the real purpose of his invitation to dinner.

“Well, to start with, how about Snuffy and this place?”

“It’s great, and so is your friend, Snuffy,” she said. “You’d hardly expect a place like this deep in the woods. But, Eric, let’s talk about us. You didn’t bring me out here to talk about Snuffy.”

He blushed. Millie knew he was awkward around women, having lived most of his adult years with his mother while teaching at a provincial college, even if it was one with highly rated credentials. Eric had never married, and as far as she knew he may never have had a serious relationship with a woman. For all she knew, he was a sixty-something virgin.

“Millie,” he began, talking slowly and with deliberation. “I’ve rehearsed what I wanted to say to you for days, and now I feel tongue-tied.”

“Take your time,” Millie said, reaching across the table and resting her hand lightly upon his. Her touch appeared to calm the slight shaking of his hand.

“I’ve never felt this way about another person before, Millie. I’ve relished every minute we’ve spent together in the last few months, and I don’t want it to end.”

He stopped talking and looked at me, his eyes pleading with Millie to respond, but she merely tightened her grip on his hand and waited for him to continue. Just then a middle-aged waitress appeared and asked if they were ready to be served, or did they want another drink. Eric said they wanted to wait before eating but that he wanted another beer and Millie asked if the waitress could bring the merlot so that she could have that instead.

They said nothing as they awaited the return of the waitress, Millie holding onto Eric’s hand. She returned with the bottle of merlot, two wine glasses and the beer and Eric said he’d pour the wine. “Give us about 15 minutes and then you can bring our salads,” he told her.

Finally he began to talk again, his words coming out nervously, and less rehearsed.

“Oh Millie, I was so cruel to you. I should have given your explanation more consideration. But I was in such shock; how could you have ever been a man or even a boy? You’re the most feminine of creatures and I dearly love you for it. I love guiding you on our walks in the woods, helping you over fallen logs and through thickets of bushes and even rubbing bug juice on you to ward off the mosquitoes. You looked so helpless and I wanted to be your man forever.”

“And I would want to be your woman forever, Eric?” she said in a rush, before bursting into tears.

“Don’t cry,” he said, moving out of his seat across from Millie and sliding in next to her and putting his arm about her. She cried into his shoulder.

“Oh, Eric, I’m so happy and I want so much to please you, but I want you to know I’m not a freak of nature. Right now, I’m as much of a woman as any, except that I could never conceive a child.”

With that, he laughed. “Well, we’re hardly of child-bearing age, are we?”

Her crying turned to laughter and they both began to laugh. Eric got up from his side of the booth, and without asking her moved in beside her, as she slid over to give him room. Millie looked into the bar area and notice Snuffy approaching. “Well aren’t you two looking cozy!” he said, smiling.

“Of course we are, Snuffy, and mind your own business, you old gossip,” Eric said, his tone playful.

“Just love seeing two happy people, Eric,” the tavern owner replied. “You want your food now?”

“Yes,” Eric said.

“Let me fix my face first, Snuffy,” Millie said, realizing that after her crying jag she must look a fright.

Returning to the booth, the two continued to sit together on one side; both felt content to be next to the other, saying little, other than to comment on the salad, which was remarkably tasty involving spinach, kale, almonds, cheddar cheese bits, shrunken cranberries and a moderately spicy dressing. “This may be the best salad I’ve ever tasted,” Millie said.

Later after finishing their main course, they declined dessert and lingered over coffee.

“Eric, may I ask if you accept me now and what changed your mind?” Millie began.

“Well, Millie, you know I am a researcher,” he began. “And, I was curious. I really knew nothing about . . . ah . . . ah . . . what should I say . . . guys who dress as women. I really thought they were just clowns or something.”

Millie nodded, giving him time to put his thoughts together.

“Only after my search on the Internet did I find out about transgendered people, and I guess you’re like that, Millie. Is that right?”

“Yes, darling it is. As long as I can remember I always hated being a boy and when I was about thirteen I realized that maybe I was more like a girl. I was never much of a boy, not very strong, but I tried to put on a masculine face. It was a phony mask, really.”

“I know you’ve told me about your children, Millie. I just assumed you were a widow and your husband had died and you didn’t like to talk about it.”

“I was married to the most wonderful woman in the world,” Millie began. “Jennifer understood me and we did have two children together. They never knew about my female side until I transitioned about a year after Jennifer died. That was nearly eight years ago.”

“And now you say you’re almost a complete woman? You’ve had the operations and all?”

“Yes, dear, if we ever decide to have sex together, you’ll never know the difference. I have a vagina just like other women and I have orgasms, too. And my breasts, though somewhat small, are all natural, a product of my own genetics and hormones.”

Eric was silent for a minute; he took a sip of coffee and caressed Millie’s hand. It was a soft, gentle caress, full of love and it stirred Millie emotionally.

“It was something Professor Olivetti said that got me in the right direction,” he said.

“Maria said something to you?” Millie asked. “I confided in her that we broke up though I didn’t tell her why, but I asked her not to talk to you about it. I hope you didn’t tell her about me, my trans status.”

“Oh no, you just told me only the college president and selection committee know about it, Millie. I said nothing, but I’ve known Maria for years and we’ve been friends. She could see I was unhappy and she said something that made me think.”

“What was that?”

“She said simply this: ‘I understand you and Millie have broken up. I don’t know why, but I know each of you care for each other so if you can do anything about getting back together, you should. Millie is the sweetest person. Ask yourself, Eric, that if you’d prefer to be with her than anyone else and if you say yes you better go back to patch up your problems.’”

“Really? She said that?” Millie asked.

“Yes, and the answer was that I wanted desperately to be with you and whatever problems your past may bring our way, together we’d face them. I love you so much, Millie.”

“And I love you, Eric, forever and ever.”

The two hugged and kissed, bringing applause from Snuffy and the waitress.

Chapter Fourteen: Wedding Bells Twice Over

The double wedding ceremony was held on the Saturday before Valentine’s Day in St. George’s Catholic Church, a huge modern church located on the outskirts of Wauconanda. A mixed timber forest surrounding the church’s huge parking lot and huge piles of plowed snow surrounded the lot. The temperature hovered around twenty, and a bright sun beamed down warming the throngs moving into church for the ceremony. After several weeks of below zero temperatures, the almost windless day felt balmy to the residents of the area.

Virtually every seat was occupied in the one thousand seat chapel as Amy Bridgewater (soon to be Amy Wicker) and Mildred Lester (soon to be Mildred Gustafsson) arrived to gather at the back of the church before their trek down the aisle.

“Looks like the whole town turned out, Amy,” Mildred whispered to her friend.

“I think most of them are former students of yours, Millie,” she said.

“Along with Eric’s students and a good number from the mill, Amy.”

The brides were dressed in traditional white, and both wore dresses that ended at mid-calf. Mildred’s dress had cap sleeves with an illusion neckline, and flared out from her hips. Amy wore a strapless model with a ruched waist style.

“It’s about time,” Amy’s escort said, taking her away from her friend.

Trent Wicker, her future husband’s 15-year-old son, would accompany Amy down the aisle, ready to “give her away” to his father, waiting expectantly with his best man, a brother.

Millie clutched the arm of Kevin, her oldest son, who stood erect, unsmiling. Millie cried when he agreed to give her away. She was overjoyed when Kevin arrived to celebrate Christmas with her, and for the first time bringing his entire family, his wife Pamela and their two sons, Zachary, 15, and Ely, 13. It appeared that Kevin had finally accepted that his onetime father was now a woman.

Pamela confided with Millie that it took some pressure to convince Kevin to open up his mind to the fact that his father had transitioned. Millie had always liked Pamela and felt she was a moderating influence on Kevin who always had a doctrinaire, macho approach to life. Also, Millie’s daughter apparently told Kevin that it would be wrong to rob his onetime father of joy, recalling how Millie – as Milton – had always been a doting father, always attending his soccer and baseball games, even helping out with coaching chores even though Milton never had been much of an athlete.

The real force that changed Kevin’s mind likely was his eldest son, Zachary, who began asking questions about his grandparents, wondering why they never saw their grandfather after Jennifer had died. Kevin finally broke down, telling the boy the truth about his grandfather’s transition; rather than being repelled Zachary found the situation to be interesting and compelling.

“Dad, what’s so bad about that?” the boy asked. “I heard about a boy who has been going to school as a girl since 10th Grade. Sometimes kids don’t feel right as one sex or the other.”

“How do you know about that, Zachary?” his father asked.

“Look it up on the Internet, dad,” the boy said.

Even though Kevin warned Zachary about believing everything he saw online, he found his curiosity piqued and began his own research; eventually, he came to believe that his father’s transition may have been necessary for him to retain his sanity. In further discussion about his father with both Pamela, his wife, and Diane, his sister, he learned that their mother had been aware of his father’s feelings and had done much during their marriage to embrace the practice, without exposing it to others in the family.

“With mom’s death, Kevin,” his sister told him, “Dad’s safety net was gone. Apparently he had wondered why he wasn’t born a girl while he was a teenager and it was something that haunted him all his life.”

“But I never saw any of that in him, Diane. He took me to ballgames and we played catch and went fishing, just like the other dads.”

“He loved you, Kevin, and Millie loves you just as much. Can’t you be happy that as Millie she is finally herself and maybe heading to being the happiest since mom died?”

“I guess he deserves that, Diane,” Kevin said reluctantly.

As the two couples stood at the back of the church awaiting the beginning of their march down the aisle, Millie could feel that Kevin still was not comfortable with her new life as a woman. Millie cried profusely the previous night when Kevin, his wife and the two boys showed up for the rehearsal dinner at the Woodfield County Club.

Zachary, the oldest grandson, was the first to run up to Millie and she grabbed him and held him tightly, tears rolling down her cheek. She hadn’t seen him since he was eight years old, and now he was almost a full-grown man, standing nearly six feet tall with a muscular athletic frame.

“What do we call you? You don’t look like a grandpa.” the boy said when they finally broke their hug.

Millie laughed, but took the boy’s hands in hers and looked up into his eyes.

“Zack, I think you should call me Millie or Mildred, as you prefer,” she began. “You must remember grandma as grandma even though she’s gone from us now. And grandpa is gone, too, in a way. So call me by my new first name, sweetie.”

The boy smiled and said. “I love you, Millie.”

She welcomed Ely, the youngest son, with the same hug and show of affection; the boy was slender and almost fragile. He approached cautiously apparently being somewhat fearful of a strong show of affection. He had none of the robust features of Zachary or his father, but seemed to reflect his mother’s smallish, delicate features.

“Hi Millie,” the boy said as she hugged him, but he held his body limp and didn’t return the hug.

“I love you, Ely and I’m so happy to see you,” she said.

The boy quickly broke from Millie and went back to stand next to his mother.

Kevin was quiet during the rehearsal dinner, but Pamela kept up a constant line of chatter; Millie was pleased to find time to talk with Ely, who after some prodding told of his own interest in acting in his middle school’s play. He even confessed to liking poetry, and Millie suggested he look at Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s sonnets.

*****
Both couples drove to the nearby casino hotel, and occupied two of the honeymoon suites for the evening of the wedding; they agreed to take a joint honeymoon trip to Paris for a week in July. Neither Millie nor Eric could spend time in February for a honeymoon break, since they had classes to teach and Millie was already deeply into beginning rehearsals for the spring play. Amy and Anthony had similar busy work months in February; thus a July honeymoon break made sense.

Mr. and Mrs. Wicker took the European Honeymoon Suite at the casino, a two room suite decorated with Alpine artifacts and containing a large round, canopied bed and a hot tub.

“At least they didn’t overdo it in here,” Amy said. “I’ve been in some of these suites that were decorated like bordellos.”

“You have? I thought you were married only once before,” Anthony said.

Amy giggled. “I thought that’d bother you. Yes, only once before and all we could afford on our wedding night then was a cheap motel just out of town.”

“When were you in those honeymoon suites, then?”

“I was in those rooms not as a newly-wed, my darling, but because I checked into a hotel late several times on my travels. I had a guaranteed reservation and they had to put me into the only available room, which often was the honeymoon suite.”

“Thank God. I thought you had more surprises for me,” he said relieved.

“No, Anthony, my love. You know all there is to know about me, I’m sure,” she said, kissing him.

“I can’t wait to see you in that new nightgown, Amy,” he said.

“And I need you in my arms.”

“What are we waiting for?”

Later in the after-love period, Amy turned to look in the half-light of the room at Anthony, and smiled at his rested, content face. “We are so perfect together,” she thought. “I wonder how Millie and Eric are doing.” She was concerned for her friend, since she knew the two would be consummating their relationship that night; they had not yet made love, Millie had confessed.

“I’m so inexperienced,” Millie told her friend. “I’ve never been made love to as a woman. I hope I fulfill his hopes.”

“I’m sure you will, Millie. It comes naturally.” Nonetheless, Amy was worried that Millie’s honeymoon night might be a disappointment. She didn’t think Eric – who had lived a fairly sheltered life – was experienced in matters of love, either.

*****
Millie looked at the man standing before, six-feet tall, blonde hair slightly receding from his forehead. She thought he was an heroic figure, almost hairless with pink skin, but with a trim sinewy body and not an ounce of fat. He wore only briefs. More than sixty years old and the man had the body of a twenty-something athlete.

She lay on the rounded mattress of the canopied bed in the Polynesian Honeymoon suite decorated a bit kitschy, but still pleasant and peaceful. She wore a gauzy night gown that hung to mid-thigh; her body, too, was firm, but appeared to be soft and appealing. Both had showered after the reception – separately, since both had prudish attitudes.

“You’re so lovely,” Eric said, looking down at her.

“And you are my handsome knight,” she said, smiling. She patted the bed next to her, inviting him to join her. She longed to move her body next to his.

Slowly, almost as if he were reluctant to do so, he lowered himself to the bed, and lay down next to her, their flesh warming to each other. Her hands caressed his body, astonished at the smoothness of his skin, almost like a baby’s; her fingers found the hard sinews of his arms as she positioned herself on top of him.

They began kissing voraciously and she felt his manhood – still encased in his briefs – stiffening and growing; she moved her hands down to the shaft, luxuriating her fingers in the thin, fine hair of his pubic area before encircling the shaft. His breathing grew heavy, and soon they reversed positions and he was on top of her and her legs apart. As they turned into the position, Millie pushed his briefs down and Eric eagerly used his feet to slip them off to the foot of the bed.

She panted, breathlessly whispering, “Oh Eric, make me your woman.”

His fingers entered her vagina and she screamed, “Yes, Yes,” but to her dismay he stopped suddenly. “Am I hurting you?” he asked.

“No, Eric, please enter me. Now.”

Her orgasm was noisy and almost violent as he emptied himself into her, collapsing when he finished on top of her.

They made love three more times that night; they stayed in bed as lovers until their brunch date with Amy and Anthony neared, forcing them out of bed and into the shower to clean up after the night’s adventures. This time they showered together.

As the water cascaded down upon them, Eric held her tightly and said softly, “You’re all woman, Millie. Completely.”

She kissed him and said: “And you’re quite a man, Eric.”

*****
“Did you ever see four such happy people?” the hostess said as she led the two couples to a special reserved table; she was aware they were enjoying their joint honeymoon at the hotel.

“Particularly those two,” Amy said, nodding toward Millie and Eric.

“They look like they had a busy night,” Anthony said with a laugh.

Both Millie and Eric blushed; they looked at each other and even before they sat at the table, Eric kissed her.

“I think they’re in love,” Amy said, laughing.

“How’d you guess that?” Anthony asked, a bit of knowing sarcasm in his voice.

Later as they lingered over champagne before heading for the buffet table for food, Amy turned to Millie and asked, “You won’t forget your old girlfriend now that you’re enraptured with Eric, will you?”

Millie smiled, “Never.”

“Then I propose a toast,” Eric began, raising his glass.

The others joined him and he said: “To Amy and Millie, may they be best friends forever.”

“Oh darling,” Millie said to Eric, “For Amy and me our toast should be: ‘May we be best girl friends forever.’”

As they clinked their glasses together, Amy said, “And to the friendship between all of us forever.”