I had fitful dreams that night after Rafe escorted me back to Alastair’s apartment door. He had the Uber wait downstairs; his daughter Harlow wasn’t too pleased with the delay. Rafe made some remark about how the West Village had changed in the 30 years he had been away, living in Silver Spring, Maryland and running his father’s architectural firm after he died in the late ‘90s. I thanked him for the ride share (he wouldn’t let me pay my half of the fare) and we awkwardly stood outside the door before we gingerly embraced and bid farewell. After pushing the button for the elevator, he turned around.

“Since we exchanged numbers, do you mind if I call you sometime? We’re both going to be in the city through Christmas—”

“Of course, Rafe. Alastair will be back next week. We should all get together for drinks—”

“I’d like that. It’s been, what, 25 years since I’ve seen Al? When you came to the wedding with Alastair, I could tell he was smitten with you, even though you said he was just a work friend. You never had a shortage of people smitten with you, Joey—”

The elevator doors opened.

“It was nice to see you again, Joey. Good night.” I waved and the doors closed.

Thirty minutes later, I lay in Alastair’s bed, staring up at the Pure White ceiling, unable to fall asleep. I prefer to keep a night light on (Alastair likes absolute pitch darkness). The ceiling turned into a projection screen as images from my childhood flickered across it. Bumping into Rafe and his daughter and sharing that brief cab ride triggered a mixed bag of memories. I slowly drifted off and dreamt.

Rafe and I were best buddies from the time we first shared a sandbox until my father’s alcoholism started to endanger his position as Director of Structural Engineering at Rafe’s dad’s increasingly successful architectural firm. And there were problems at home too. Dad’s roving eye and numerous dalliances with women in the office (single and married) was breaking up his marriage. Too often Erica and I were helpless witnesses to late-night rows and shattered crockery.

Serendipitously, the problems my dad had at work and my parents were having at home didn’t seem to affect Rafe and me. We walked to school and back together, had most classes together, and did what most little boys did together: ride our bikes, collect baseball cards, played sports appropriate to each season, and talked derisively about girls, especially those with tempting pigtails.

There were rare times when Rafe would ask me to dress up in my mom’s clothes, as silly as they looked on me: blouses covering me like full length dresses, high heeled shoes making me waddle unsteadily, floral pattern scarves that enveloped me like a Bedouin, clip on earrings dangling to my shoulders, lipstick smeared in a wound shape… Normally, it was spurred on by Erica, who was my little shadow. Rafe claimed he never asked me to play dress up, only agreeing so as not to spoil Erica’s playtime with her older “sister.” But I could tell from the look in his eyes that he enjoyed my little modeling sessions, nevertheless.

Mom and dad caught us unawares once. We usually held our little shows in the garden shed out back of the house. Rafe would nervously keep an eye out for my parents but they never chanced on us…until the one day my father came to the shed to retrieve our lawn mower. Mom had finally gotten him off the couch, drinking beer and watching another ballgame on TV, to trim our lawn which was starting to resemble the African savannah.

When mom arrived to see what was holding up my father’s impersonation of a lawn care technician, her jaw dropped and her hands tugged at her hair. Dad ripped the blouse off me and tore the colorful scarf almost in half. He slapped me hard enough to knock me out of mom’s high heel shoes. I almost fell on top of Erica but Rafe caught me just in time.

“Is that what your queer son sneaks around the house doing? Don’t tell me you didn’t know about this!” Mom started crying but dad was more concerned with another possible complication. He turned to Rafe and said, in an even tone of voice, “Rafe, kid, don’t go telling your dad about this. He doesn’t need to hear about Joey’s perversion. Okay? Mum’s the word.”

Rafe gave him a confused look. “Mr. Prentiss, we’re just playing around. You can blame me. I…I asked Joey to show me how he and Erica played dress up. I won’t ask him again. I promise.”

“I’m not blaming you, Rafe. If anyone’s to blame, it’s his mom. Always coddling him and turning him into a girl. Wipe that shit off your mouth, Joey! I’m sick of looking at you. All of you!” He stomped out of the shed, grumbling and waving his hands.

“What about the lawn?” mom asked the floor through sniffling tears. “What about the lawn?”

Unwilling or simply unable to address the matter with us kids, mom acted as if nothing had happened. The only hint that the thing had occurred was when she mowed the lawn herself, talking to herself as she pushed the mower around in circles. My father, predictably, forgot about the incident in his usual alcoholic haze and was away from the house “working late” most nights anyway. Still, Rafe and I avoided visiting each other’s houses for a good week and a half just to let matters fade from front page status. Then, for a while, everything returned to normal.

It was late summer. A month before Rafe and I would start middle school. We were 13. Well, actually Rafe had just turned 13; I wouldn’t turn 13 until December. Puberty had arrived with smoke and thunder for him within the year but I was still left waiting at the station. Along with the physical and emotional changes that came with this new stage in life, Rafe became more interested in athletic activities (which I reluctantly participated in just to remain close to him) but also, devastatingly for me, in girls.

Rafe’s current obsession was skateboarding, this new to the East Coast craze that every kid was taking up. His new pastime was spurred on by his father’s gift to the village of Port Jefferson of a skatepark annex to the local playground. A skatepark my dad nominally engineered as well.

Rather quickly, Rafe became one of the best skaters in Port Jefferson for our age group in the few months since the skatepark was officially christened by Matthew Metheny, our village’s most famous resident, one of that year’s finalists for the prestigious Pritzker Prize, awarded annually to the most brilliant architects worldwide. I remember my father, at the ceremony, hiding his bloodshot eyes behind Ray Ban sunglasses, suppressing an urge to upchuck his breakfast all over his rumpled midnight blue pinstripe suit.

Rafe and I both entered the skateboarding competition in August, registering in the under 16 age group. For a lark, my father took a great interest in my entry in the competition and spent weekends coaching me at the skatepark, rain or shine. Sometimes he even forgot the flask of cheap vodka in his pants’ back pocket. Sometimes. Although the alcohol on his breath made listening to his skating tips a trial, I was thrilled to have his undivided attention, free of his usual sneering putdowns about my “queer” tendencies. The truth was that I learned more about proper technique from Rafe than I did from dad. Rafe would just nod whenever my father “corrected” where he placed his arms or the amount of bend in his knees.

The day of the big competition, my father was cheering me on from the benches on the far side of the park, sitting with Rafe’s dad, Mr. Metheny, his boss. For one of the few times in my life so far, I saw him beaming with pride as he gave me a thumb’s up. I hoped I could at least end up on the medal stand but would be happy if I didn’t finish in last place.

The under 16 group went first. Three rounds of 45-second timed runs, graded on “overall impression,” not specific tricks, would serve to determine the two skaters in the final round. I survived the first round, doing the most elementary moves without a notable mis-step. Of course, Rafe achieved the highest score. A lot of girls from our recently graduated sixth grade class had come out to cheer him on. Rafe shyly waved to them as they applauded loudly. I watched him gain a little strut in his step as I fiddled with the long, unruly tresses beneath my helmet.

In the second round, I decided to add the most difficult trick dad and Rafe had taught me. On the way up the side of the course, I would jump off the board and turn in the air, landing back on it as I switched it around on the way back down the curving wall. I had finally mastered this move after weeks of practicing it. It was quite a shock to me when my feet didn’t find the board and I tumbled hard onto the floor of the course, my ankle buckling painfully. In between screams from me, I heard the crowd gasp and Rafe running toward me, flipping his helmet off, shouting for help.

“Joey, hold on. We’ll get you to a doctor. Hold on,” Rafe cried as he took hold of my shoulders. I didn’t want to make an embarrassing scene but the pain was unbearable. I hid my wet face in the crook of Rafe’s arm as I whimpered. Mr. Metheny had caught up to Rafe and was leaning down to look at my ankle. My dad had his hands on his hips, an angry look on his face.

“Stop crying, Joey. Be a man for once. You’re making me look bad. Didn’t we practice that move a thousand times? How could you fuck that up?”

“Shut up, Ross. His ankle might be broken. It’s starting to swell up pretty bad.”

“There’s a clinic a couple blocks away, dad,” Rafe said.

“Where are we gonna find a stretcher?” my father asked, reaching for the flask in his back pocket.

“I’ll carry him. You’re not that heavy, are you Joey?” Mr. Metheny carefully lifted me into his arms and the three of us, counting me, Rafe, and his dad, double-timed it to the clinic, leaving my father standing by himself, still fumbling for his flask. As we left the park, the concerned faces of the crowd swam in my fading consciousness. I must have blacked out from the pain.

It turned out my ankle wasn’t broken, just a really bad sprain. Rafe made it back to the park to finish up the competition. They had suspended play because of my injury. Of course, he dedicated his gold medal to me. The crowd, I’m told, applauded his gesture. I was on crutches when we started school some weeks later. Rafe started spending a lot of time with Kelly Richards, allegedly helping her out with algebra. It was a difficult time in our relationship. And Mr. Metheny never thought the same about my father after that summer.

Saturday morning, I was shopping for a Christmas gift for Alastair’s mother. We were going to spend Christmas Eve and Day at her house in Westport, Connecticut. I had almost decided on a turquoise Peruvian alpaca wool pashmina shawl wrap with 4-inch fringes when my phone notified me I had received a text. It was from Rafe.

Sally Metheny Novello lived with her husband Martin in an Upper West Side luxury apartment on the 27th floor overlooking Central Park. Martin was a semi-retired attorney specializing in trademark law. You can see he’s done well in his career. Because getting around in Manhattan is much easier by subway, I hopped onto the 7th Avenue line and rode the train to 72nd Street. I arrived at Sally’s doorstep a little before 7 and announced my presence by ringing the bell underneath their apartment number.

Rafe opened the door with a wide smile and an excited greeting. I handed him the two bottles of a dry Riesling from the Finger Lakes region of upstate New York that I’d picked up that afternoon. He took my coat and waved me into Sally’s well-appointed home.

“Sally’s in the kitchen. Dinner will be served in 15 minutes, she tells me. Let me introduce the brood to you.”

They were all seated in the living room. The television was on with the sound turned down. Some college basketball game.

“Joey, this is Martin. Of course, he looks a lot different than when you met at the wedding—”

“Thirty years will do that, Rafe. You look past your prime too. Hello, Joey, good to see you again. Happy holidays.” This started the round of handshakes.

“And this is Jordan, Sally and Martin’s son. His lovely wife Glynnis. And the twins over there watching the game, Billy and Bryce.” The twins, who looked to be middle school age, waved but otherwise kept their eyes glued on the TV.

“Where’s Harlow?”

“In the kitchen, helping her Aunt with the food. Sally’s a great cook. I’ve been telling her to get a cookbook published—”

“I’m surprised you don’t have a cook and a maid at least. Most of the people in this building probably do.”

“Sally worked until Jordan’s sister Patty was born. She actually likes being a domestic goddess. She’s house happy.”

“Is Patty in the kitchen too?”

“She’s in Paris right now. Covers European politics for Foreign Policy magazine. Sometimes the online sites will pick up her features if it’s a big story. You don’t read that kind of stuff, hmm?”

“No, I’m more of a cartoon strip reader—”

“Joey has a graduate degree from Columbia, Martin.”

Sally and Harlow walked into the living room. Surprisingly, Sally quickly embraced me. She held me at arm’s length and clucked her tongue.

“My god, you’re still gorgeous. I’m eight years older than you but you don’t look a day older than Glynnis here.” Glynnis’ mouth opened in shock but Jordan gripped her arm to keep her from retorting.

“You’re too kind, Sally. It’s good to see you again and you’re selling yourself short. You’re still that beautiful girl I remember sitting by our pool all those summers so long ago.”

“Gran, we’re hungry. When’s dinner?” The twins asked in unison.

“I told you we had a guest coming over and dinner was going to be a little later than usual,” Jordan remonstrated his sons. “You guys had a big lunch at Shake Shack. You’d think that’d hold you over for a while…”

“Harlow’s setting the table right now.” Harlow was standing behind her, smiling at me and Rafe in turn. “Harlow? Harlow, set the table. Please.”

A few minutes later, as we walked the short distance to the dinner table, one of the twins, I don’t know if it was Billy or Bryce, sidled up to me and whispered, “So, Harlow told me you used to be a man. I’ve got five bucks she’s pulling my leg.”

“She’s wrong. I’ve always been a woman.”

“I knew it! Who’d believe you were ever a guy?”

“Who’s up for dessert? Homemade pecan pie cobbler with a dollop of vanilla ice cream. Your favorite, Jordan.”

The twins practically jumped out of their chairs with excitement. Rafe, seated to my right, laughed.

“I don’t know where they put it. It’s great to have a fast metabolism like them. I’m afraid I’ve succumbed to middle age spread myself…”

“You look fine, Rafe. The hairline’s a little higher but you’re still a hunk—”

“Nice try, Joey. I’m an old man. My son and his wife are expecting. Baby’s due in February. They’d be here for the holidays but travel’s kind of difficult, you know. But just think about it. I’m going to be a grandfather soon.” He shook his head.

“Joey, can you help me in the kitchen?”

“Of course, Sally. Lead the way. Excuse me, everyone.”

When I entered the kitchen, Sally was already cutting up the cobbler into squares and placing them on dessert dishes.

“Pour out seven cups of coffee, please, Joey.”

“Sally, why did you really invite me for dinner?”

“Rafe told me you’re engaged. Where’s the lucky guy?”

“He’s in LA for a weekend management meeting. Alastair should be back Monday night or Tuesday morning.”

“I remember Alastair from Rafe and Sarah’s wedding. Good looking young man. Very well-spoken. Wasn’t he married to that movie star?”

“Lulu Brooks. They split up about six years ago.”

“Show business people are very unstable. But you know that.” She turned to me, put down the knife, and wiped her hands on a kitchen towel. “Do you love him? Or are you feeling the years going by and you fear being alone?”

“Sally, you’re not my therapist. What’s it matter to you? You’ve never had a high opinion of me, as I recall. You called me a fag, a pervert, a homo, a tranny…and those are the nicer names you called me.”

“There’s vanilla ice cream in the freezer. Help me spoon it out and top off the cobbler. Put two scoops on the two for the twins. They’re insufferable but I can’t help spoiling them.” She turned back to me. “I’m sorry if I called you those things. I’m a boomer. We didn’t know about gender dysphoria—is that what it’s called? My mom thought you were “corrupting” Rafe’s morals. My dad liked you though. He thought your problems stemmed from your dad’s emotional abuse. Maybe that’s the case,”

“Like I said, you’re not a therapist. Not even an amateur one.” My voice got a little heated. “Thanks for the dinner. Give the twins my dessert.” I turned to walk away when Sally gently grabbed my wrist.

“Don’t go, Joey. For Rafe’s sake, stay. Hear me out. I’m not your biggest fan, I’ll admit to that. But Rafe has always loved you. Bumping into you yesterday at the airport, he was the happiest I’ve seen him since Sarah passed. He’s here through the holidays. And I assume you are too. Could you see your way to spending a little time with him? When you’re married to Alastair, the last hope he has will have died.”

“I thought this was all settled thirty years ago. I told Rafe I could never be the person he needed me to be. Would he have Harlow now? Would he be two months from being a grandfather?”

“Please consider it, Joey. Rafe means the world to me. I hate seeing him so miserable. You say Alastair’s not back until Tuesday? Martin knows Bob Wankel, the CEO of the Shubert Organization, and he can easily get Rafe two tickets for “Some Like It Hot.” It just opened this week! It’s sold out for like months in advance.”

“Rafe can ask me and I’ll see. That’s all I can promise, Sally. A lot of water has gone under the bridge.”

“That’s good enough, Joey. Just give Rafe a chance. I know you still feel something for him.”

“Hey, guys, the natives are restless. Where’s dessert?” asked Harlow as she popped her head into the kitchen.

“It’s coming. We better bring these out, Joey. Harlow, make yourself useful and put the cobbler on this tray. I’ll bring out the coffee.”

“Hey, dad, it’s snowing.” We all gathered around the large windows facing Central Park. One of the twins (again it was either Billy or Bryce) asked their father if his old sled was still in the apartment. When he was told that Sally had probably thrown it out years ago, the other twin asked Martin if they rented sleds in the park.

“I don’t think we’re getting more than a dusting, boys,” countered Rafe. “Not enough for sledding. Barely enough to make a decent snowball.”

“It’s starting to come down harder, dad,” Harlow interjected. “Maybe you should call Joey a cab now before the traffic gets bottled up.”

Taking his phone out, Rafe started dialing. “Harlow’s right. Better safe than sorry.”

Ten minutes later, as Rafe helped me into the Uber, he shielded his eyes from the falling snow and shyly asked me if I had any plans for the next day, Sunday. I shook my head.

“Keep tomorrow night open. I’m working on tickets for “Some Like It Hot”…if you’d like to see it with me.”

“Call me. Good night, Rafe. I had a good time. Tell Sally she should write that cookbook.” I closed the car door and waved to him through the glass. He stood there, oblivious to the heavy snowfall as the Uber drove away. Finally, I turned around in my seat, somewhat troubled by everything that had transpired that evening.

I tried to sleep in on Sunday morning but found myself looking out the window onto Perry Street and the city beyond, blanketed in at least half a foot of snow, at the ungodly weekend hour of 8 AM. The smell of El Pico Dark Roast wafted into my nostrils from the GlobalNet mug in my right hand. My phone rang. It was Rafe.

“Joey, it’s Rafe. Hope I didn’t wake you up. I took the chance since you’re such an early riser. Even on Sunday—”

“Right. Sunday in New York, Joey. Sunday in New York. I can’t believe it. See you in a bit.”

I decided to go back to bed and give myself another couple of hours of sleep. I drifted off with thoughts of Christmases past and visions of sugarplums danced in my dreams. Then there was the Christmas of my 15th year. The year my life changed forever. It might not have happened if not for the fact that Port Jefferson, my hometown, has a proud tradition of holding a Charles Dickens Festival every December, including semi-professional performances of a stage adaptation of A Christmas Carol. Other than being a busy shipyard in the last century and at one time being the residence of P.T. Barnum, the annual Dickens Festival was this quaint little seaport’s biggest claim to fame and putative tourism.

On the first weekend of December, the entire town turns out in Victorian Era garb to parade down East Main Street (renamed for the occasion Dickens Alley). And everyone in the community auditions for roles in the annual production of the Dickens classic. Up until the age of 10, every boy in the village wanted to be cast as Tiny Tim. Rafe was Tiny Tim when he was nine. He practiced limping for weeks in anticipation of the auditions. The biggest part I’d ever gotten was as one of the “other” children in the Cratchit family.

The exhaustive rounds of auditions always began in mid-October. Since the pool of stage hopefuls was pretty limited (the same people tended to audition every year), the play’s director and leader of the theater troupe, Barney Randolph, undoubtedly had already cast each part in his mind before even hearing the first horribly wrong-sounding London accent attempted. The small band of professional actors led by Randolph, of course, took on the main roles. The rest of us competed for the secondary parts. If you ended up with more than two lines, you’d get a mention in the local paper’s review.

Rafe and I had just started our first year of high school that Fall. Although we were still good friends, our lives seem to diverge more and more with each passing month. Beyond Rafe’s interests in basketball and baseball and with that little hussy Kelly Richards hanging around, there was precious little opportunity for me and him to spend much time together. Not the way we used to.

I found myself having more female friends than male friends in school. For whatever reason, they liked me more than boys did. I wasn’t good at sports or obsessed with getting to third base with girls like they were. But the girls didn’t fancy me as a possible boyfriend either. Maybe they sensed I was more girl than boy, especially since puberty hadn’t really arrived for me at the late age of 15.

But the biggest obstacle in Rafe and I being as close was the fact his dad had fired my dad just that past summer. For good reason undoubtedly. Dad was a bad drunk and it showed in his haphazard attitude toward work. With Metheny Architecture closing in on a mega-million-dollar contract to design new hotels for The Harriot Hospitality Group based in Washington, DC, having an unreliable head of engineering was a real hindrance. My father was still unemployed, claiming Rafe’s father had black-balled him in the industry by spreading lies about his “promiscuous” behavior with anything in a skirt. And my parents’ marriage was hanging by a thread. It was a toss-up as to which one would file for divorce first.

So, it was my dad who didn’t want to hear of me fraternizing with the son of his enemy. Mrs. Metheny, on the other hand, was still friendly with mom, my sister, and me. She would invite us to every social occasion involving her family or her husband’s company. Unfortunately, Kelly Richards’ father worked for Metheny Architecture too and she’d monopolize Rafe’s time at every barbecue or pool day that summer.

I was called back for the second round of auditions and had just finished my 3 minutes of cockney speech that sounded a lot like Bugs Bunny reading from A Tale of Two Cities. I thought Mr. Randolph had just wandered backstage to take a break when he approached me, a big smile on his face. Mom was standing by the coffee vending machine, chatting with Rafe’s mother, yawning between sentences. Rafe’s mom looked just as weary.

“Joseph, my boy. Another fine reading—”

“Thank you, Mr. Randolph. And you can call me Joey. Everyone does.”

“Alright…Joey. I have an idea. An idea that involves you.”

My mother quickly ran over, almost spilling her full cup of coffee. “I hope you’re casting my son in a decent part. You should have cast Joey as Tiny Tim several years. Now he’s outgrown it. So what do you have in mind?”

“Mrs. Prentiss, as you know, competition for these roles is intense. There are many worthy actors in our sleepy little village. Sometimes it’s just a matter of timing—”

“Two years ago, Joey badly sprained his ankle. He was on crutches for weeks. He limped into the next year. And you still didn’t pick him for Tiny Tim!”

“Let’s not rehash old grievances…however legitimate they might be. Today, a genius idea, if I say so myself, came to me as Joey was reading. Such a waste.”

“Waste of what?” I asked, becoming annoyed.

“Waste of beauty. You know, Joey, it’s such a shame you weren’t born a girl. You’d be Hollywood material easily.”

“Hey, you’re talking about my son. Who is definitely male. Admittedly very cute…but in a boyish way. He’s only 15. He hasn’t grown his man muscles yet—”

“Mr. Randolph, that’s very weird of you. Thank you but I’m auditioning for one of the male parts—”

“Oh no, you’re too…pretty for that. I’m casting you in the role of The Ghost of Christmas Present. It’s a stroke of genius. A woman in the role normally given to a man. It’ll certainly give our production a bit of advance buzz. Maybe this year The Times will finally send someone to review it. You’ll be famous, Joey!”

“Helen,” Mrs. Metheny interjected, “you can’t allow this. This will scar the boy emotionally for life, having to act in drag in front of the whole town. Mr. Randolph, whatever kind of perversity you big city theater people engage in, it won’t stand here in Port Jefferson. My husband—”

“I’d like to try it, Mr. Randolph,” I blurted out before my mother could respond.

“Are you sure, Joey? It could be very embarrassing. Think about all the kids in school. Do you want them to laugh at you?”

“They laugh at me now anyway, mom. At least I’d have something over on them. None of them are going to have as big a part as me. It’s not a big deal, mom.” She looked into my eyes and just nodded.

“Okay, Joey. But don’t go through with it if you change your mind between now and opening night. It’s alright. You wouldn’t be letting anyone down. You’ve got to be comfortable with this.”

“I am, mom. I am.”

“Joey, I’m really not a fan of you doing this. Why don’t you do something backstage like Rafe. He’s on the lighting crew. He says it’s fun being a tech. Or you could be assistant stage manager. You’ve got such a good memory; you’ll probably know everyone’s lines better than they do.”

“Well, that’s settled. Joey, come by after school tomorrow and we’ll measure you for wardrobe and see what Mrs. Crampton can do with some makeup and a wig.”

Mom and Mrs. Metheny were still animatedly discussing my questionable decision when Rafe came down from the rafters to ask me what the hub bub was about. When I told him that I was going to play The Ghost of Christmas Present as a woman, his face took on a look of grave concern.

“Joey, the guys in school won’t like that. You’re putting a target on your back. All the time you’re spending with girls, acting like you’re a girl yourself, always sitting with them at lunch…they’ll think you’re a fag—”

“Do you think I am?”

“No, of course not, Joey. Mom says you’re, how does she put it…you’re delicate. A delicate boy. I think Randolph’s off his rocker. Think it over, Joey. Save yourself a lot of trouble.”

“So what if boys get violent with me. Would you care?”

“You know I do, Joey. But I can’t be with you every minute of the day. Like I told you before, just watch your back.”

“What would I do without you, Rafe?”

Starting Friday, November 12th, and on Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays through December 30th, there were a total of 30 performances of A Christmas Carol. I played The Ghost of Christmas Present in all 30. Although Meryl Streep would have nothing to worry about, my reviews turned out to be very respectable.

My character delivered the main message of Dickens’ story. You can hear the author’s own concern for contemporary morality in The Ghost of Christmas Present’s stern words of opprobrium to Scrooge:

“Man, if man you be in heart, not adamant, forbear that wicked cant until you have discovered what the surplus is, and where it is. Will you decide what men shall live; what men shall die? It may be that in the sight of Heaven, you are more worthless and less fit to live than millions like this poor man’s child. Oh God! To hear the insect on the leaf pronouncing on the too much life among his hungry brothers in the dust.”

To Mr. Randolph’s dismay, The Times did not send a reviewer but the local paper and The Long Island Press actually mentioned me, saying I was a young actress to watch in the future. Apparently, the reporters didn’t believe Mr. Randolph when he insisted that I was a 15-year-old boy named Joseph. The caption beneath the picture of Mr. Randolph on stage as Ebenezer Scrooge and myself as The Ghost of Christmas Present identified me as Joey Prentiss, gender ambiguous.

The situation at school was diametrically opposite. Instead of adulation, what welcomed me when I walked the halls of Port Jefferson High School was derisive catcalling and even a few mean, threatening looks from many of the boys. Rafe and a few of his friends (mostly sons of men who worked for his dad) kept the rabble at bay. The girls, for the most part, congratulated me on playing such a pivotal role on stage. Some confessed they were envious of how beautiful I looked in my costume, makeup, and wig. I even received a modest stipend from the village council (hypothetically everyone other than the theater troupe members were unpaid volunteers) because of the positive reviews and increased ticket sales.

After New Year’s Day and after the final performances on December 30th, my almost perfect world collapsed around me as my mother and I were summoned to Rafe’s house for a “discussion” with his parents. My dad was supposed to come as well but, as with other family matters, he’d opted out. He was probably driving around Port Jefferson and Bethpage going from bar to bar, drinking his problems away.

“Matt and I decided to wait until the play ended its run before having this talk,” Mrs. Metheny began. Mr. Metheny sat in his customary easy chair, a pained look on his face. Rafe was trying not to meet my eyes as he sat on the couch with his mother. “Helen, I’m very sympathetic to your situation. I know things between you and Ross are difficult. Matt tried his best to get through to him but…that’s not why we asked you to come over tonight.”

“I think I know what you’re going to say, Sylvia, but there’s nothing wrong with Joey. He’s delicate, like you’ve said before. He’s not gay. He likes girls. The thing with the play. That’s just acting. He enjoys acting…and he got paid a stipend for it. With Ross out of work—”

“Joey’s my best friend in the world, mom. You know that. There’s nothing strange about him. He can’t help it if he looks like that—”

“Rafe, be quiet. You’re too young and too close to the situation to understand. At the very least, Helen, you should get professional help for Joey before it’s too late—”

“I’m not crazy! I…I just like doing girl things sometimes. Maybe it’s because I’m so close to my little sister…”

“You don’t see Rafe dressing up like a girl because he’s close to Sally, do you? Helen, I’m no psychiatrist but it’s shameful how Joey’s had to grow up without any male role models. Don’t hate me for saying this but Ross is one sorry excuse for a man.”

“So, what do you suggest, Sylvia? With Ross being out of work, I can’t begin to afford to take Joey to a therapist. We’re barely scratching by on my teacher’s salary.”

“We’ve been friends for so many years, Helen,” Mr. Metheny interposed. “Let me help you find the right therapist for Joey. It’s something Sylvia and I would like to do if you’ll allow us. We’ll carry the costs—”

“No, Matt, we don’t want charity. And, for another thing, I don’t believe Joey needs therapy. It’s a phase he’ll grow out of. You know, his puberty hasn’t fully taken yet—”

“Mom, can you embarrass me even more?”

“I was afraid you’d say that, Helen. Given your laissez faire attitude on the matter, Matt and I think Rafe shouldn’t interact with Joey as often and as regularly as he has. For both their own good. We both work at Port Jeff High and you know Joey’s been the unfortunate target of derision and even intimidation. While we hope nothing bad ever happens to Joey, we can’t let Rafe get too involved with the whole situation.”

“We want Rafe to devote his time and energy to school, not to being Joey’s unofficial bodyguard,” Mr. Metheny emphasized. “I’m sorry, Helen, but Rafe’s on the fast track to M.I.T. We don’t want any detours. You can see our trepidation in the matter.”

My mother sprung up from her seat and took my hand. “Well, I think I know when we’re not welcome. Come on, Joey, let’s go home. Thank you for a notably unpleasant evening. Goodbye. We can let ourselves out.” As she pulled me out of my seat and led me to the front door, I turned back toward Rafe but his head was down, obviously avoiding having to meet my eyes.

For the next two years, Rafe and I mostly studiously avoided each other. Of course, in a small town like Port Jefferson and a high school class of just under 100, we did run into each other now and again, even had brief conversations. For his part, Rafe always apologized for his parents’ behavior but it was cold comfort. I had had very few friends, even among the girls, and now that Rafe and his cohort had ostracized me, I was an island at school. I kept my nose to the grindstone and studied hard, hoping that Columbia wouldn’t revoke my legacy status so I could afford a college education. I survived but won’t claim I actually thrived during my sophomore and junior years at school.

After a hearty lunch of Shanghai Soupy Dumplings, Bean Curd Puffs, Moo Shu Pork for Rafe, Singapore Curry Chicken for me, and pineapple slices for dessert, Rafe and I walked the two blocks to the entrance to the park at Central Park West and 67th Street for our postprandial stroll through the snow.

We hadn’t spoken much as we ate. I wasn’t feeling loquacious and Rafe seemed to be monitoring my mood very closely. As we trudged through the snow already made slushy by thousands of pedestrians, past the site of the old Tavern on the Green, now a Visitors’ Center, and crossing West Drive, where the finish line of the annual NYC Marathon is located, we followed the path along the north rim of the Sheep Meadow. Rafe stopped a young couple walking hand in hand in the opposite direction and asked them to take a photo of us with his phone. He offered to do the same for them and I stood to the side of the path, snapping pics of the wintry scene with my own phone. By the time Alastair returned from LA, the snow would probably be washed away by the rain forecasted in the coming days.

Continuing east as directly as the path allowed, we came upon The Mall, a formal promenade, lined with tall oak trees, with statues of Sir Walter Scott, Robert Burns, and Shakespeare at its southern end. The sight of snow partially covering the heads and shoulders of these literary giants struck a chord in my artistic sensibility and I aimed my phone’s camera lens at them.

“Do you ever regret not finishing your doctorate in English, Joey? You always loved literature and writing.”

“There was a time when I just felt lost. I was this close to ending it all. Discussions about what career I wanted to pursue were the furthest thing from my mind—”

“Yes, I know. Elizabeth. I’m surprised you still see each other.”

“That’s something that happened recently and I wasn’t the one who initiated the contact. It was her daughter Jocelyn. She kind of begged me to see her when I was in Boston last year.”

“I remember meeting her that time I visited you at Columbia. You’d already moved into her loft. I told you then she wasn’t right for you.”

“You were jealous. How could you know after a few hours one afternoon?”

We headed north past the band shell and arrived at the Bethesda Terrace, overlooking the beautifully tiled Arcade, the grand staircases, and the Bethesda Fountain (aka “Angel of the Waters”). As we stood in the shelter of the terrace, we could see the lake, the Loeb Boathouse to the east, and the Ramble directly across the water.

“I know I asked you so many times almost 30 years ago and even at the wedding—”

“Rafe, I gave you an answer every time. You just didn’t accept it.”

“We loved each other, didn’t we? You had already decided to transition—”

“I would have made you the object of ridicule and even disgust in business circles. His wife used to be a man! You’d have lost all the contracts your father worked so hard for so long to procure. You know how conservative the culture was. Still is.”

“Fuck capitalism. I told you then I’d walk away from the firm if that happened. I never gave a damn about my inheritance. Sally could have it all; I didn’t care.”

I turned into the cold breeze, away from Rafe’s eyes, and squeezed his arm. I hoped he couldn’t hear the choke creeping into my voice.

“I believed you, Rafe. And I loved you more than you’ll ever know. My heart was yours from the time we used to ride our tricycles down the driveway of your house. But I could never give you children—”

“Joey!”

“No, it’s not a silly little detail, Rafe. You deserved to have a family like any other man who married a cis woman. You’re a good father. I can tell from the way you interact with Harlow. And the way you talk about becoming a grandfather soon. I could never give you that.”

“Joey…I…” His voice trailed off into silence as he took me fully into his arms and gazed into my teary eyes. We embraced for a long time, just holding on to each other as if we could reach back through the lost years and be who we were 30 years ago again.

A half hour later, we walked past Strawberry Fields on our way to the 72nd Street exit. We would take the subway downtown to Times Square, emerge from the underground, and walk over to 44th Street where the matinee of Some Like It Hot at The Shubert Theatre was set to raise its curtain at 3PM.

After the cast of Some Like It Hot joyfully received its third and final ovation, Rafe and I meandered out into the slushy streets of midtown along with the rest of the theatergoers. Flagging down a taxicab, we had a brief discussion about where to enjoy a late dinner. I nixed the idea of going to Zhou Dynasty, having eaten there with Alastair just days ago on my birthday. We settled on Caffè Pedrocchi, closer to Alastair’s apartment in the West Village.

A lovely meal of Northern Italian dishes like Risotto con i Rovinassi (risotto with chicken livers) and Osso Buco (lamb shanks braised with vegetables, white wine, and broth) was still being digested as we walked the handful of blocks to the apartment. The question of whether or not to invite Rafe upstairs was answered when, serendipitously, I managed to hail a cab as it turned the corner of Perry Street and West 4th.

“I’d invite you up but it’s getting late and I’m bushed. Maybe we can get together later this week. I’m sure Alastair would love to see you again. Bring Harlow too—”

“Yeah, I’d love that. When is Al returning?”

“Monday night or Tuesday morning. Give me a call.” Rafe reached for me but I side-stepped him to close the passenger door, deftly blowing him a kiss while backing away from the curb. He waved and turned to the driver to impart his instructions.

The tryptophan in my cup of almond milk hot cocoa wasn’t doing the trick. Still unable to fall asleep, I remembered the soporific effect some of Alastair’s jazz records had on me, although when he played them, he wasn’t trying to put me to sleep. Sorting through his shelves of LPs, I landed on a Bill Evans album, Nirvana. Evans on piano and Herbie Mann on flute should mellow me out. I lay down in bed and listened to Satie’s “Gymnopedie” on Alastair’s classic Bang & Olufsen system set at low volume, tendrils of nothingness curling around my senses.

High School was an ordeal. After Rafe’s mother insisted we see less and less of each other, we grew far apart, only passing each other in the hallways, nodding to each other or briefly exchanging pleasantries. Rafe was always popular. He played all three varsity sports and dated all the equally popular girls. He took Kelly Richards, captain of the cheerleading squad, to the Junior Prom. I didn’t go.

That night, me and a couple of my female friends who didn’t get asked either, went rollerblading at the rink in Harborfront Park. There was a sparse crowd, undoubtedly because most of the kids of our age were at the prom. We had some contained fun skating around and around, trying hard not to keep crashing into each other as the sound system blared “Celebration” by Kool & The Gang.

“Why didn’t you ask anyone to the prom?” Maddie asked me as we took a break to slurp on a couple of Sprites through butterfly silly straws.

“Me? Maddie, most people think I’m actually a girl who’s pretending to be a boy. Everyone else thinks I’m gay. I’m not Mr. Popular.”

“You mean like Rafe Metheny? I think he’s got a thing for you. He just won’t admit it to himself.”

“Rafe’s not gay. We were best friends for a long time and then…well, our families don’t mingle anymore since Rafe’s dad fired my dad and my parents separated.”

“At least you get to spend summers in LA. Even if it’s with your dad—”

“And his new girlfriend. But she’s cool. I think she understands me better than my father does. Or my mother for that matter.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t go blabbing this around, okay? I’ll tell you but it’s not for public consumption. Can I trust you?”

“Of course, Joey. What’s so hush-hush?”

“She lets me dress up and we go out shopping together. She understands it’s a phase I’m going through. Like she’s real tolerant and everything. We keep it from dad. He’d blow a gasket if he knew.”

“Oh my god, Joey. Do you think it’s a…a healthy thing to do? I thought you said you’re not gay.”

“I’m not!” I threw my cup of Sprite with the silly straw into the trash bin and rolled out toward the center of the rink. Turning back, I started to warble “Celebration” at Maddie. Then I crashed into Cyndi, the other friend I had come to the rink with.

I was in the middle of reading the most difficult chapter of Joyce’s Ulysses, “Oxen of the Sun,” which recounts the protagonist Stephen Dedalus’ attendance of a party in a maternity hospital, told in parodies of various popular literary styles. I wasn’t making head or tails of it when my sister Erica bopped into my room.

“Mom says there’s a phone call for you.”

“I’ll be down in a minute. Did she say who?”

“Yeah, it’s Rafe. Wonder what he wants.”

“Hello?”

“There’s really nobody else who’d go with you?” There was a long silence.

“I didn’t ask anyone else, Joey. I’ve been thinking about me and you. We used to be best friends. You want to see The Clash. I’ve got two tickets. Why not?”

“Oh, great, and I’m paying for the train too. Thanks, Joey.”

That Sunday, at exactly 12 Noon, mom called me down from my room. Rafe is nothing if not punctual. He was standing in the foyer, wearing a Clash t-shirt, and holding a plastic bag in his right hand. Mom was speaking to him, probably confirming when we’d get back from the city.

“Hey, Rafe. I’m ready! Let’s go.”

“Joey, I brought you something to wear. It’s a Clash t-shirt. I hope it fits.” He handed the plastic bag to me. I was a little disappointed he hadn’t gotten me a corsage. Silly thought, I know.

“Oh, thanks. I’ll go and swap out my polo shirt for this gnarly t-shirt right now!” I started to climb up the stairs to my room.

“Honey, you can change down here. Rafe’s seen you without a shirt on.” She laughed but I attacked the staircase two treads at a time.

I was surprised to see Rafe’s sister Sally sitting behind the wheel of her Ford Fiesta, parked outside our house, a look of utter boredom on her face.

“Sally’s driving us to the station?”

“It would’ve taken us 45 minutes to walk all the way to the station. Sally’s home for the weekend and she volunteered.”

After some perfunctory amenities with Sally, she stepped on the accelerator and we started on the 10-minute drive to the train station.

“Thanks for the t-shirt, Rafe. It was really nice of you to think of getting it for me. How did you figure out my size? It’s almost a perfect fit.”

“He didn’t figure it out,” Sally interjected. “He bought it for Kelly. No surprise that girls’ sizes fit you, Joey. Although Kelly would probably fill it out better up front.”

“Sally, Joey didn’t need to hear that. Sorry, Joey. I did buy it for Kelly…but you look really good in it. You’re not mad at me, are you?”

“No, Rafe. I like it. I’m not offended. I’ll wear it to school so Kelly can see what she missed out on—”

“Hey, little bro, mommy packed a little lunch for you guys.” She tossed a paper bag over her right shoulder at Rafe.

“Rafe, you told your mom?”

“She kinda found out. I mean, Kelly’s mom shops at the same Shoprite on Nesconset Highway. She wasn’t against me taking you.”

“Poor Joey she calls you, all the time.” Sally turned into the parking lot of the train station. “She’s really hopeful that spending summers with your dad might straighten you out.”

“Tell your mom I really appreciate her concern.”

“Let’s not get testy now. Anyway, your train’s due in half an hour. There’s a comic book store a couple of blocks that way while you wait. Have fun, kids. Call me from a payphone tonight and I’ll pick you up. If I’m still awake, that is.”

A few minutes before three in the afternoon, our LIRR train chugged into Grand Central Station, just a 10-minute walk from Bonds International Casino at Broadway & West 44th Street. Although the place (there were two shows today, one at 5PM, the late show at 10PM) didn’t open its doors until 4PM, there was probably a line of ticketholders from here to kingdom come already.

The day before, the Fire Marshals cancelled the show when double the 1,800-person capacity showed up, with or without tickets. Promoters had over-sold the 8 original dates and had to extend the engagement well into June so all the ticket buyers wouldn’t be ripped off. Hopefully, we would be within the first 1,800 in line so they wouldn’t turn us back and offer to exchange our tickets for a future date.

We settled in about a thousand deep in the ticketholders line. Sally was prescient in telling us to browse the comic book store near the train station. Copies of the latest issues of The Fantastic Four, Batman, Teen Titans, X-Men, and Daredevil kept us busy while we waited. Finally, with NYC Police watching nearby, they roped off everyone who came after the 1,800th ticketholder and let us rush into the venue.

It was a madhouse of screaming fans jockeying for position in a ballroom without seating. Rafe pulled me along as he dashed as close to the stage as possible. I just barely evaded some serious elbows to the face and ribs. Other blows, intentional or accidental, were parried by Rafe. We camped down about 20 feet from the stage and had to wait another 40 minutes before The Clash actually emerged from wherever they were sequestered.

The music itself was exhilarating and they played for more than two hours, going through a setlist that included every important song they had recorded since they burst on the punk rock scene in the UK in 1977: “London Calling,” “Train in Vain,” “(White Man) in Hammersmith Palais,” “Guns of Brixton,” “Charlie Don’t Surf,” “The Magnificent Seven,” “Police and Thieves,” and “Radio Clash” among the favorites. A five-song encore was highlighted their cover of Vince Taylor’s “Brand New Cadillac” and their own “Janie Jones.”

Outside in Times Square as the sun set in the sky, simultaneously exhausted and energized by the concert we’d just witnessed, we made a fateful decision. With my stomach grumbling, we could either walk over to the Blimpie’s across the street and split a meatball hero or, as Rafe preferred, we could head downtown to have a sit-down pizza dinner at John’s Pizza on Bleecker Street. Pizza it was. We hurtled down the steps of the subway entrance and took the first 1 train that arrived. Disembarking at Christopher Street, we walked the few blocks to 278 Bleecker Street.

“So, tell me truth, Rafe. How many girls did you ask before you got down to the bottom of the list and called me?”

“I didn’t ask anyone else. It’s the truth. Like I said on the phone, I’ve been thinking about you, about the times we had together. We were best friends, Joey.”

“The best. Like the two musketeers. Ha ha ha.”

“Three musketeers, Joey. I think there was always a third person with us all the time.”

“Who? My sister? You always thought she was a big nuisance.”

“No, I mean…you, Joey. You’re two people in one. There’s Joey, the scrawny little boy with the giant brain who shrinks from groups of people…a loner. Maybe a sad loner—”

“I’m happy and well-adjusted, Rafe. You’ve been reading Sally’s college psychology books, haven’t you?”

“Then there’s…there’s a beautiful girl hiding behind or inside that lonely little boy. I don’t know what to call her. Does she have a name. Her own name?”

I reached over with a napkin and dabbed some pizza sauce from the corner of his mouth. He held onto my hand with a grip that wouldn’t let go.

“Don’t, Rafe. You’re hurting me!”

One of the counter boys rushed over to our booth when he heard me yell.

“You alright, Miss?” Rafe released my hand and lowered his eyes to the table.

“Yes, I’m okay. We were just horsing around. Just got a little too rough.”

“You should watch your strength, man. You could have hurt the little lady.” He turned away when another patron called his name and left us in peace.

“You see, everybody sees it. When are you going to admit to yourself what your real self is?”

“Maybe you’re the one who’s not admitting who you really are. Maybe that’s why Kelly had a fight with you.”

“You don’t get it, Joey. I’m not trying to insult you. I’m not trying to denigrate you—”

“Like your mother?”

“I won’t make excuses for her but she’s a high school English teacher not a medical doctor. She’s not a bigot. She’s just a mother concerned about who her son associates with.”

“She thinks I’m a deviant. Yeah, we’ve heard this chapter and verse already. So, you must think I’m one too.”

“No, I’m trying to understand you. Maybe help you if I can. I’m only 17. A lot of stuff that’s going on in the world just confuses the heck out of me. But I know one thing. I…I like you. I care a lot about you. You mean a lot to me.”

“Well, you could have fooled me. Where was your caring the last two years?”

“You know my parents. And your dad wasn’t much help either. He almost ran my dad over that time in the company parking lot—”

“That’s a lie! Your father made that story up!”

“Quiet down. They’ll think I’m a wife-beater or something. Let me get the check and we’ll get out of here before that kid calls the cops. A little night air might calm you down.”

Sunday night in The Village is pretty quiet and the streets are fairly deserted. Working people have to get up early on Monday morning. The bridge and tunnel kids have to catch the last buses and trains. The ones with cars want to beat the traffic leaving Manhattan. We had to cross over to the east side in order to catch a subway back to Grand Central Station. The last train to Port Jefferson departs at 9:45PM. It was a little past 9 as we hurried through the confusing maze of streets and random alleyways.

“Slow down, Joey. You’re going the wrong way. We have to cross the street here.”

“Leave me alone. I can catch the train myself. Thanks for the concert. Let’s never do this again!”

He caught up to me and grabbed my t-shirt. I fought to get away from his grasp.

“Let go! I’m not kidding. I can get home by myself!”

“Hey, douchebag, leave the girl alone.”

Two older teenage boys were walking toward us, a few feet away from us, now coming closer.

“Mind your own business. We’re just having a discussion, man.”

“Hey, babe, come over here. We’ll protect you from this goon.”

“Yeah, it ain’t safe for a young girl like you to be on the streets at night.” The other boy grabbed me and held me in a vise-like grip, laughing as the first boy threw a right hand at Rafe’s jaw. He ducked out of the way and tried to rush to my aid.

“Hey, let her go!” The first boy two-handed the back of Rafe’s head and he fell almost at my feet.

“Jerry, this girl’s got no tits,” the other boy declared as he reached under my t-shirt. His other hand grabbed for my crotch and recoiled. “She’s got a dick too! She ain’t no girl!”

“Couple of fags, we got here. I hate fags!” He picked up Rafe by the shoulders and punched him flush in the face, his right eye already puffing up and reddened.

“Help! Help! Rafe!” I tried to kick him in every area of his body my foot could reach but the second boy was either wearing shin guards and a cup or just too drunk to feel pain.

“Come on, Jerry. It ain’t worth it. Some cop might come by.”

“Okay.” He tried to punch Rafe in the mouth but Rafe moved quickly enough to just catch a glancing blow. “Shit, I wanted one more shot. But fuck it. Let’s go. Drop that sissy, dude.” I was plunked onto the ground and they both tore off in the direction of West 4th Street.

It seemed like an eternity but after a few minutes, a single patrolman ambled by, spotted us and rushed to see what was going on. I was cradling Rafe’s head in my arms. He was moaning softly but his wounds didn’t seem that severe. A black eye and a split lip were the sum total. I was a mess. My t-shirt was torn in a couple of places (which might have seemed like a fashion statement for a punk rock chick) and my hair was a good impression of a badly constructed bird nest.

“What happened here, Miss?”

“We ran into a couple of punks, officer,” Rafe said, his delivery slow and painful. “They ran off a few minutes ago.”

“There’s no sign of them. Do you want me to call an ambulance?”

“I’m alright.” He managed to stand up and, still wobbling a bit, he leaned on my shoulder. “No need. My lip’s already stopped bleeding. And I’ll put a cold compress on this eye when we get home.”

“What about you, Miss? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. Just need a hairbrush and a change of clothes. Maybe if you can point us in the direction of the subway that can take us to Grand Central Station—”

“It’s just two blocks that way. Can you make it?”

With Rafe lightly leaning on me, we crossed the street and headed toward the subway.

After calling Sally from a payphone at Grand Central Station, we caught the last train to Port Jefferson and settled in for the two-hour ride. I bought a box of tissues and a comb at one of the kiosks in the station. Cleaned up the dried blood on Rafe’s face and combed my hair into a reasonable arrangement on my head. There wasn’t much I could do about his black eye but I found a two-pack of aspirin in a foil wrapper in my wallet (my mom probably put it there when I joked about getting migraines trying to learn algebra) and gave it to Rafe with a cup of water.

When the conductor came by to punch our tickets, we were asleep, our heads together, our breathing synchronized.

“Miss, excuse me. Tickets?”

I woke up with a start, realized it was the conductor, and held out our tickets for him to punch. He slipped them into the slot above our seats.

“Your boyfriend get into a fight, Miss?”

“Yeah, we got jumped by some toughs in the Village.”

“Looks like he got the worst of it. New York’s a dangerous place. Take my advice. The island’s a better place to raise a family.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. Thank you.”

Sally picked us up at the Port Jefferson station a few minutes after midnight. She yawned through our quick explanation of how Rafe got his black eye.

“You’ve got a few hours to polish up your story, Rafe. Mom and dad are asleep. I’ll just nod if they turn to me for my two cents. I guess I should be a good sister this one time—”

“But it’s all true. It happened just that way.” I might have squeaked out that last part.

“You could avoid all of this if Joey didn’t look so convincing as a girl.”

“I’m not trying to fool anybody. People jump to conclusions.”

“Everybody, alright. Everybody. Owww!”

“Don’t touch it, Rafe. I can put some ice cubes in a towel and apply a cold compress to it. It’ll take 15 minutes.”

“Well, mom and dad are already asleep. What’s another 15 minutes?” Sally asked no one in particular.

I guess what happened that day rekindled our friendship. For the remaining month of school, we’d eat lunch together and walk to and from school together. We’d talk on the telephone often. He and Kelly grew apart until, ultimately, they officially broke it off. That’s when the jokes and nasty rumors started. But, really, were we that different from other close guy friends? It came down to the way I look. And I can’t help that. I am what I am. But I’m as confused as Rafe is about what I really am.

After school ended on June 26th, I left to spend the summer in LA with my father, per the agreement arrived at by my parents when they legally separated. As he promised, Rafe wrote to me every week and I looked forward to our senior year. After we graduated, we’d be geographically undesirable again, me at Columbia, he at M.I.T. in Boston. So, make hay while the sun shines.

Monday morning, wrapped in my warm terrycloth robe, I answered a video call on my phone from Alastair. Even for Alastair it was early. 9:30AM for me, 6:30AM for him. It looked like he was calling from his room at the retreat where GlobalNet had just held its year-end meeting.

“Good morning, Jo. How’s my bride-to-be?”

“Love you too, Alastair.” We disconnected.

I started to dial my sister when a voice call came in from Rafe. I was going to send it to voicemail but changed my mind and picked up. Oh, Rafe. What rough beast slouches to Bethlehem to be born?

(Author's Note: I apologize profusely for taking so long to post the latest chapter of this story. Real life has been quite bothersome lately and the energy to write ebbed to a standstill on certain days. However, I can see light at the end of the tunnel and hope to resume posting on a regular schedule. Thank you for continuing to read and I hope you comment as well.)

I had barely disconnected the video call from Alastair when caller ID displayed Rafe’s name on the screen. This was getting to be an everyday thing, after 25 years of interacting perhaps 3 or 4 times total. I accepted the voice call.

“Good morning, Rafe. What mischief are you up to today?”

“It’s a must, Joey. A must! See you tomorrow.” He disconnected.

I had already planned on shopping on Monday afternoon but for Christmas gifts for Rafe’s family, not for a formal dress. It struck me the penultimate time I had been in one of the two Hyatt Regency ballrooms; we were advised to dress casually. The night of our high school graduation. The last night I would see Rafe until November of that year when he paid me a surprise visit at Columbia.

Our senior year at Port Jefferson High was a mixed bag. The incident that occurred after The Clash concert at Bonds International in Times Square changed our relationship. In some ways we became once again the best friends we had been ever since pre-school days. We ate lunch together almost every day, walked to and from school together, listened to records in my bedroom, watched him play basketball and football on the school varsity, and so on. But he still dated girls like Kelly Richards and his parents were icy cold to me whenever I came over to see him.

There was one confrontation of seismic proportions in early November. Rafe was taking an elective photography class and his term project was to create a photo gallery of Port Jefferson’s most interesting sights that could be used in a tourism brochure. His choice of model was…me.

It was a silly, reckless, stupid, dangerous…and, for me, impossible to reject proposition. Rafe assured me that no one would recognize me in make-up, styled hair, and fashionable clothes. Erica volunteered to be my stylist, unbeknownst to our mother. I don’t know where Rafe obtained the various outfits he had me wear but they were all high street items. Even down to the bras and panties. So, on an unseasonably warm Saturday, we wandered around town, changing outfits in the back of his father’s Chevrolet van. I felt simultaneously scared witless and magnificently liberated. I tried not to stumble too much in my sister’s low-heeled shoes and boots while being conscious of gently swaying my hips.

The funny thing about the whole day was, even when we came across kids from school or, in one case, our Chemistry teacher and his wife, no one recognized me. Rafe had to explain to everyone that I was a family friend from New York City who wanted to get into modeling. I said nothing and just gave them a mysterious Mona Lisa smile when they nodded at me.

Saturday had been the perfect day to do the shoot, not only because it wasn’t a school day but Rafe’s parents had planned to spend most of the day in the city visiting friends and running errands. We thought we could get away scott-free before they returned sometime in the evening. So, it was quite a shock when the van tooled up the driveway of Rafe’s house to find mom and dad’s car already parked there. My sister Erica was panicked. Rafe swallowed hard and advised us to sprint up the stairs to his room as soon as we stepped in the house. I knew this was a doomed strategy as soon as Rafe, allegedly an honor student, had proposed it. But, dressed as I was, I wasn’t in a position to argue.

We got as far as the middle of the living room when our thundering footsteps alerted Rafe’s mother, who came quickly out of the kitchen, her hand held up as a stop sign.

“Rafe and Erica, go into the kitchen! There’s some orange juice in the fridge. I want to speak to Joey alone. Now, please…” They gave me forlorn looks but did as they were told.

“Joey, sit down. We’re going to have a little talk, you and I.”

I sat down on the sofa, remembering to keep my legs together underneath my skirt. For good measure, I crossed my ankles and smiled innocently at Mrs. Metheny.

“Rafe told me he was shooting photos for his term project but I had no idea he would be using you as a model. My dear boy, will you do everything my silly son asks you to?”

“He was very persuasive, Mrs. Metheny, and you know I’d do anything to help Rafe. He was having a lot of trouble finding a girl to be the model—”

“That’s what he told you? I bumped into Kelly Richards’ mother at the Shoprite just last Tuesday and she was gushing about how beautiful her daughter was going to look in Rafe’s tourism brochure.” She placed her hand on my shoulder, felt the bra strap underneath my top, flinched, and replaced her hand to stroke it. “Do you want to be a girl, Joey?”

Fidgeting under her touch, I tried to sound convincing. “No, Mrs. Metheny. Not at all. It’s just that Rafe really needed a model and he was under a lot of time pressure and my sister said she could do my makeup and style my hair and she’d given Rafe my sizes and stuff and…”

“I’ll talk to Rafe, Joey. He has to stop this fascination with you, trying to turn you into a girl. It’s not normal. He has to stop taking advantage of you. I know he’s not doing it maliciously. We all love you. Rafe’s dad thinks so highly of you and how you’ve managed to keep your grades up despite the problems at home. Generally, you’re a wonderful influence on Rafe. I wish he was as serious about his schoolwork and his future as you seem to be—”

“Do you think Rafe is just pulling a prank on me, Mrs. Metheny? Because that’s not true. He knows I…I enjoy dressing up. And I’m not gay or anything. Honest.”

“Okay, I believe you, Joey. But this “dressing up” has to stop. For your sake and Rafe’s sake as well. It’s not something two young men should be doing. I won’t say a word about this to your mother or Rafe’s father. But I will have a talk with Rafe. Now…” She handed me a tissue. “Dry your eyes. Your mascara’s going to run. Go upstairs to the bathroom, use my cold cream to remove your makeup and change back into your normal clothes.”

I dabbed at my eyes, trying not to sniffle, and walked toward the stairs. Erica, who’d been eavesdropping behind the kitchen door, climbed up the stairs with me.

Rafe rang the buzzer on the door at five minutes of 5PM. I’d been ready for half an hour and opened the door to find Rafe holding out a box containing a wrist corsage of pink sweetheart roses, a broad smile on his still handsome face.

“For you, Joey. Pink roses to match your rosy cheeks.”

“Oh, Rafe. I told you not to give me a corsage. It’s not the senior prom—”

“Trying to make up for missed chances, Joey. I should have asked you to the prom instead of Kelly Richards.”

“Oh that would’ve been just ducky. Our mothers would have had us institutionalized. And everyone at school would’ve tarred and feathered us, dropped us right into The Long Island Sound. This was 1981 in Port Jefferson not Greenwich Village—”

“They’d never have suspected. You’re my prom date from New York City. You would have been the belle of the ball in taffeta.”

“Thanks for the thought, Rafe, but I’m not going to wear that to the gala. I’m 58 years old!”

“I’ve heard that 58 is the new 18—”

I put my overcoat on and picked up my purse. Pushing Rafe out of the doorway, I turned to lock the apartment door.

“I assume your car is downstairs.”

“Yes, milady, your carriage awaits. Are you sure you won’t wear this?”

When we reached his rental Beamer, I noted that the interior was empty of passengers.

“I guess everyone else is in Martin’s car?”

“Oh, yeah, you’ll see when we get to the hotel.”

“You didn’t comment on what I’m wearing, Rafe. Is it okay? I went a little conservative. Not festive enough for a Christmas gala?”

“You look fine. Port Jefferson’s not a social mecca like New York or Los Angeles. As long as the price tag’s not showing.” I swatted him on the shoulder as he chivalrously opened the passenger side door for me.

Less than two hours later, we had just checked our coats outside the Hyatt Regency Ballroom. The cocktail hour was already underway but Rafe took me aside before I stepped inside. He led me back to the hotel lobby and told me to pose in front of the Christmas Tree, brightly festooned with tinsel and lights. After snapping a burst of pics with his phone, I returned the favor and ordered him to do the same. He looked very handsome in his tailored blue suit, a classic look for an evening event like this.

When we entered the ballroom, we could hear Christmas standards being played with a soft jazz lilt by a quartet sequestered in a corner of the stage. Rafe and I looked to be late arrivals as all the tables were occupied, cocktail glasses tinkling amid hushed conversations. When Rafe pointed out our table, I realized I’d been set up…again.

“I don’t think the rest of our party is late, Rafe. What’s going on?”

“They decided to go see Some Like It Hot instead. Martin’s friend was able to get seven tickets for tonight. You know the show’s sold out through March of next year—”

“No, really, Rafe. Tell me the truth.”

“It was Sally’s idea. She wanted us to have some time together. And I agreed wholeheartedly. Don’t be upset, Joey. The gala’s nice and there’s dancing after the main program. Indulge me. It might be last time we spend together for a long while.”

“We’ve barely seen each other in 20 years and now you’re worried about not seeing me for a long while? We’re not courting, Rafe. I’m getting married soon. How would you have managed tonight if Alastair had returned from LA yesterday? Just stared daggers at him for four hours?”

“Don’t be silly. Of course, I realize you’re getting married. I feel the need for some closure between us. We used to mean a lot to each other.”

“That’s a geological age ago. We had our closure when you left to take over your father’s firm and moved to D.C.”

“That, remember, was your choice, Joey. Don’t say it was mine—” The waiter came to our table and asked for our cocktail orders. “The lady will have a glass of Chablis, slightly chilled. I’ll have a vodka martini.”

“I could’ve ordered for myself.”

“I know what you drink, Joey. Was I right?”

“Yes, but…oooh, you’re so infuriating sometimes.”

“Just sometimes?”

Throughout the evening, people kept stealing glances our way. Well, it was an odd sight. Two seats filled at a table for eight. They must have thought we were some kind of billionaire couple slumming at a charity gala in the sticks. I had to fight the urge to slump down in my chair. Rafe, on the other hand, seemed to be enjoying himself immensely. He applauded at all the right moments in the opening remarks made by the Chairperson of the Port Jefferson Community Chest. I sipped my second glass of Chablis and tried to keep my yawns to a polite minimum.

The centerpiece of the program was a performance of a scene from the local Theater Three’s annual production of A Christmas Carol. I can never doubt that the universe has a way of speaking to you, perhaps announcing its inscrutable plans for you. Here I was, sitting in the ballroom of the hotel that hosted my high school graduation party, next to my first love, and they’re performing the scene from A Christmas Carol that most likely changed the direction of my life and, for all intents and purposes, tore that love from my very hands.

When Rafe recognized the scene as the one where Scrooge is confronted by The Ghost of Christmas Present, he looked directly at me, smiled, and mouthed “you.” For Rafe, it was an incident of minor import but for me, it was the event that forced on me the realization that Rafe and I could never be more than good friends, at least as long as I was Joseph rather than Joanne.

Dinner was served immediately after the Dickens scene (the audience gave the players a thunderous ovation) and Rafe and I chose the chicken rather than the fish dish. It was decent. Rafe joked we could go for pizza afterwards if we were still hungry. I seriously thought about going for pizza at that very moment. But Rafe said the auctions were the best part of the gala.

For a backwater town, Port Jefferson actually put up some impressive items for auction. A 14-day Mediterranean cruise with 6 ports of call was the top shelf item. The winning bid for that came to almost $22,000. I didn’t recognize the older couple that won. Not surprising. I haven’t lived in Port Jeff for 40 years. There was an autographed game-used football from some NFL quarterback who went to Port Jefferson High. That went for an amazing $2,000. There was pizza for a year from Bob’s Pizzeria on East Main Street. I nudged Rafe when that went up for auction but he didn’t bite, literally. There was a pair of paintings from our local celebrity painter, a new age primitivist, that ended up going for $5,000. A set of handmade wicker chairs and table that reminded me of the wicker chairs I had purchased at an estate sale the year before for my erstwhile house in Southampton. Other smaller items included a year’s membership in a popular health club in Stony Brook and four season’s tickets to New York Islanders hockey games.

A successful auction was had by all and the floor was cleared for dancing. Of course, Rafe took my hand and led me onto the dancefloor. The people who thought we were some celebrity couple made room for us, which just made me more self-conscious about how bad a ballroom dancer I was. Although Elizabeth and I did show out with the tango moves when she took me to that Argentinean restaurant in Los Angeles last summer. Truth to tell, she was the one actually dancing. I was being dragged around the dancefloor. In a sultry manner, nevertheless.

Rafe held me close as we slow-danced to the cocktail jazz that the band was playing. We said barely a word to each other, just moved to the music, our breathing the only sound that intermingled with the song the girl singer interpreted.

I thought about the night of our high school graduation party. The angry words exchanged between Kelly and Rafe as I stood by myself, an outsider, alone without a date, dressed even more casually than the most casually dressed members of the sports teams. I was startled when Rafe ran over to me and grabbed my arm. We exited the hotel and jumped into the car Rafe’s dad had bought him as a graduation gift. A steel blue Camaro Sport Coupe. As they say in all those B movies, we burned rubber, headed nowhere and everywhere at once.

Rafe stopped at a 7-Eleven on Nesconset Highway and bought a six-pack of Miller Lite. As we drove aimlessly around, Rafe unloaded all of his discontent to the night air. His parents had moved to Georgetown in Washington, D.C. because his father’s architectural firm had received a multi-million-dollar contract to design and build a dozen new hotels along the Eastern Seaboard for the world-famous Harriot Hotels company and their headquarters were in our nation’s capital. He was obligated to spend the summer in D.C. before attending M.I.T. in Boston, starting in September. He intended to declare engineering as his major. And he knew that I was headed to Los Angeles for the summer again to stay with my father and his girlfriend. In the Fall, I would matriculate at Columbia in the city. He almost screamed out that we might only see each other once or twice a year for the next four years at the very least. Given his emotional state and the six-pack of beer which he threatened to chug in record time while driving, I managed to out-chug him so he could stay relatively sober behind the wheel. When he reached for a can, I’d beat him to it. He really didn’t notice since he was in mid-rant. I was getting less lucid as the hours went by. I basically fall asleep when I’ve drunk a lot.

Sometime after midnight he must have stopped driving because I don’t really remember any more of that aimless rant-filled trip around the North Shore after we turned off the highway and apparently back-tracked toward town.

I heard a voice nearby muttering something I couldn’t quite make out. It took an effort but I opened my eyes. The sun was bright in the sky. It seemed clear I was lying on my back on wet grass. I turned my head slightly to the right and saw Rafe hovering above me. Finally, I could understand what he was whispering.

“So beautiful. Why are you so beautiful? It makes no sense. I love you, Joey…”

“Rafe? Rafe, where are we? Are we dead? Did you crash the car and kill us last night?”

“No, we’re alive. Good morning, Joey. I’ve got a hell of a headache.”

“It’s good we’re not dead. Remind me never to ride in any car you’re driving again—”

“We’re on Mrs. Caruthers front lawn. Jesus, how did we get here? It’s 6:30 in the morning. Sally’s gonna kill us. She must think we’re dead.”

“How can she kill us if we’re already dead? Where’s your car?” I got to my feet and looked around. It was a suburban neighborhood on a typical late Spring morning. I couldn’t see Rafe’s car anywhere.

“That’s a good question. We couldn’t have walked very far from it…before we collapsed on the lawn.”

“Hey, you young hoodlums! Get off my lawn! I’m calling the police!”

Mrs. Caruthers, a widow in her late ‘70s, was wearing a ratty old bathrobe and brandishing a broom like a martial arts staff. I didn’t doubt she knew how to use it. We ran like the wind off her lawn in different directions until I turned and saw Rafe disappearing from view. I changed course and caught up to him. I was always a faster runner than him.

Sally didn’t kill Rafe when we showed up at his house half an hour later but my mother read me the riot act. She would have been even more long-winded but I had to catch a plane to Los Angeles later that day. It would be a whole two months before she’d be able to finish her harangue.

Somewhere in the dizzying emotional cocktail of memories of graduation night mixed with the seasonal musical warmth of a Christmas standard, there appeared a space where I allowed Rafe to kiss me deeply and tenderly, carrying the force of missed opportunity and regret. I think I actually swooned for a brief moment, so much so that Rafe had to hold me up as the song ended.

“It’s late, Rafe. And a long drive home. Thank you for the evening. I had a nice time.”

“I had the best time, Joey. The kiss was worth waiting 30 years for.”

We stood still in the middle of the dancefloor, even as the band started another Christmas song, a jaunty rendition of “Jingle Bells” done Andrews Sisters style. I brushed Rafe’s cheek.

“You know this is all I can give you, Rafe. A kiss goodbye, dear heart. Our lives have taken divergent paths. My future is with Alastair. You have a grandchild coming and a daughter who still needs a caring father—”

“Shhh. Don’t spoil the moment we just had. Come on, let’s head back home.”

Rafe held my hand all the way to his car in the parking lot. The only time he let go was when we had to put our coats back on after retrieving them from the checkroom. And that was only a matter of seconds. I’m sure everyone thought we were a middle-aged couple acting like teenagers. Which was funny since, in reality, we never acted like this when we were teenagers. Rafe came closer to kissing me at the time than ever holding my hand.

Even this late in the evening, it was a nearly two-hour drive back to the West Side of Manhattan. I begged off any conversation on the trip home. I felt exhausted and drifted off to sleep in the passenger seat next to Rafe as he drove, having stopped whistling some old pop song when I emphatically requested he do so.

He didn’t stop talking though, even if his voice remained barely above a whisper.

“I’m glad you’ve found someone, Joey. I hope Alastair and I can spend some time together before Christmas. Listen to me, I sound like a father who wants to give his daughter’s date the third degree before he takes her out…”

I must have murmured something in reply, not sure if I was dreaming this “conversation.”

“I guess I acted like a protective father when you introduced Elizabeth to me that time I visited you at Columbia out of the blue. She and I took an immediate dislike to each other, that much is true. But you have to admit, in the end, I was absolutely right about her. She did break your heart…”

After the graduation night party and the kerfuffle of the early morning hours of the next day, Rafe and I didn’t see each other for several months. I spent the last of my summers with my father in Los Angeles while Rafe reunited with his parents in Georgetown, Washington, D.C. In September, Rafe began classes at M.I.T. in Boston and I moved into Columbia University’s Carman Residence Hall on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.

For the next two years, Rafe would visit me at school once a semester for a few days at a time. Although Sally had married Martin by this time and lived in an apartment only a dozen blocks from the Columbia campus, Rafe always chose to stay in one of the Harriott hotels in midtown. He’d get his father’s secretary to book the rooms. Usually, because of his father’s relationship with Harriott, they were gratis.

During his visits, we would take advantage of the city’s innumerable cultural events and culinary hotspots. With a Gold Amex card in hand, money was no object. I had the sense he was trying to impress me, going further than one would for a mere friend, even of such longstanding.

Each time, I would ask him if he was seeing anyone. He would smile and just say he was “socially active.” In return, he’d ask me the same. I answered honestly that I had few friends in school, never mind any kind of social life. A girl had asked me out once to see a festival program of classic noir films but she transferred from Barnard to Bryn Mawr almost immediately afterward. My sister thought I probably drove her to it somehow. Another time I plucked up the courage to ask a girl I worked alongside in Butler Library out to see a Talking Heads concert. She smiled sweetly and declined my offer, saying, “I don’t swing that way but I hear Lori is a lesbian so you should ask her…” This girl had shelved books in the stacks side by side with me for months!

Outside of these semi-annual visits (I visited him once in Boston in the Spring of our sophomore year), our only communication was by long-distance phone calls and letters and postcards (collecting postcards was one of his weird hobbies). I had to work summer jobs in the city both to earn some extra spending money and to keep out of my mother’s way. She re-married during my freshman year. To a fellow teacher at Port Jefferson High School. A nice guy, but I figured one less brat under foot would be a welcome balm for the middle-aged newlyweds. Rafe, for his part, had to spend summers working in his father’s architectural firm. The plan all along was Rafe would work alongside his dad after college and one day inherit the firm.

It was a party I had no desire to attend, even though it was being held in the common area on my dorm floor. One of the guys was celebrating dropping out of school and there was music, dancing, all kinds of noise and frivolity going on. The door to my room was not thick enough to hold back the din of voices and rock music so, sighing melodramatically, I surrendered and wandered into the mob of celebrants. I decided to do the socially correct thing and congratulate Eddie Gleason on becoming a roadie and guitar tech for The Cramps, a “psychobilly” rock band led by a husband-and-wife team who went by the impossible names Lux Interior and Poison Ivy.

Eddie was surrounded by my other floor mates and girls I had never seen before. One of them, a blonde girl wearing an NYU t-shirt appeared to be detached from the lively discussion going on. I sat down on the sliver of space on the couch that was available and offered Eddie my right hand. Eddie pressed his finger into my cheek as he always did. He thought it was funny.

“Hey, Joey, nice to see you’ve decided to join the living.”

“I was trying to study but the racket got too loud. So, here I am. Congrats, man.”

“Joey, meet my lady, Elizabeth. She’s an English major like you, except she’s at NYU, a decidedly second tier institution of learning. No offense, babe.”

“No offense taken.” She nodded at me and turned to the girl behind her to re-light her joint. She took a drag and held it out to me. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.”

“No, thanks. I don’t partake.”

“Yeah, Joey’s a straight arrow. Well, he’s an arrow of some sort, I think. We can never quite figure him out. There’s beer on the table. Help yourself.”

“I’ll drink to your future success in music, Eddie.” I walked over to the table and picked up a can of Coors. “I’d prefer a Heineken but this’ll do, I guess,” I said to myself.

Elizabeth strolled across the room to the table, ostensibly to select a brew, but she looked straight at me, her head at an angle.

“You’re very pretty, Joey.”

“I’m a guy. Guys aren’t usually called pretty.”

“You don’t like being called pretty?”

“I guess I don’t mind.”

“Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Whoa, your boyfriend’s not ten feet away. He’s looking this way—”

“Ex-boyfriend. I’m not going on the road with him. He can throw his future away by playing at being a rock star but he’s not taking me down with him. I’m staying in school.”

“Good for you. Tough break for Eddie. If I were him, I’d rather stick with you than be a fuckin’ roadie for a couple of weirdos.”

“I think that’s a compliment. Thank you, Joey. I like you. There’s something…unique about you.”

“I’ve been told that before. But never in a nice way.”

“Let’s go back to my place. I’d like to show you the paintings I’m working on—”

“You mean etchings? Ha ha. That’s an old pick-up line.”

“Not interested? Don’t swing that way?”

“I’m not gay. People assume all sorts of things about me. They hardly know me.”

“I’d like to get to know you, Joey. Come on, let’s split this scene. It’s depressing the hell out of me.” I put my can of Coors, unopened, back down on the table. She did the same with her beer.

“What about Eddie?”

“Eddie who? Let’s go.” She grabbed my hand and led me to the elevator. As the elevator doors opened, I could hear Eddie asking someone, “Where’s Elizabeth?”

Four months after I moved into Elizabeth’s loft apartment on Grand Street in the Tribeca section of downtown Manhattan, Rafe paid one of his semi-annual visits. I told him about my new address but he was dumbstruck when he emerged from the elevator to see Elizabeth and me standing there, hand in hand. Of course, I hadn’t mentioned Elizabeth to him.

By the time I placed the tray holding the demitasses of espresso and a plate of biscotti on Elizabeth’s antique coffee table, Rafe and she were deep in conversation. I felt ignored as they proceeded to interrogate each other like police detectives with a murder suspect. They were sparring over me!

As their animated discussion of me proceeded, Rafe would turn toward me now and again, a disappointed, almost hurt puppy expression on his face. Elizabeth, on the other hand, wanted to know everything about my relationship with Rafe, from early sandbox days to the present. She had never been curious about my early life in Port Jefferson. She did, however, wanted me to listen to her go on endlessly about her broken relationship with her mother. Having met her recently when her parents visited the loft during Spring Break, I thought she was a rather pleasant woman.

Finally, tired of being left out, I suggested we all go over to Chinatown and have dinner at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, Silver Palace on Mott Street. It was a 5-minute walk from the loft. We all agreed and walked west at sunset, three abreast, with me sandwiched between Rafe and Elizabeth. Of course, the two of them argued over the check until I surreptitiously stepped away and paid the cashier myself. Then they argued over who should leave the tip. I just placed a fiver on the table, got up, and walked out to get some fresh air. I should have anticipated this, shouldn’t I?

The next morning, I walked over to the kitchen area to find Elizabeth on the phone, talking to Rafe. When she saw me, she quickly ended the call.

“What’s going on? Was that Rafe?”

“Yes, I told him our plans for today—”

“I didn’t know we had “plans.” Rafe was just going to drop by around six and see what we wanted to do. There’s a Le Corbusier exhibit at MOMA that’s got all these detailed scale models of his most famous buildings—”

“Oh, mercy, Joey! That sounds like SO much fun! I told Rafe we’re going to see Willie Nelson and Bob Dylan at The Lone Star Café tonight—”

“When did you get the tickets?”

“Tickets? Silly boy. We don’t need tickets. Eddie and I used to get in all the time for free. We know the doorman. It’s Eddie’s uncle or cousin or something like that.”

“We don’t have to wear like Western outfits, do we? I mean Lone Star’s country music, right?”

“Leave that to me, Joey. I have the perfect outfit in mind for you. You’ll see.”

The Lone Star Café stood on the corner of 5th Avenue and 13th Street from 1976 to 1989. Known for the gigantic iguana on its roof, The Lone Star was the pre-eminent venue for country music and allied genres. The biggest country artists and some rock and blues giants performed there, giving the lie to the belief that New York City was not a serious market for country-inflected music. As with everything else in NYC, it drew celebrities from every field of human endeavor to fill the room on any given night. That night Willie Nelson was the headliner but special guests included Bob Dylan, The Band, and, for comic relief, Bill Murray.

When Elizabeth discovered that I had dressed en femme in the past, she was unexpectedly accepting. In fact, she encouraged me to do it whenever I felt the urge (which I insisted I rarely if ever did). I made the mistake of telling her that I had once spent the better part of a day traipsing around Port Jefferson in various feminine outfits at the behest of Rafe, whose excuse was that he needed a model for his school art class project. Her eyes glowed with the light of a thousand suns whenever I spoke about it. Meeting Rafe was the last piece of the puzzle for her.

“I can’t wear that, Elizabeth. I’m not a drag queen. Rafe will be very upset. You’re wrong about our relationship. It’s not sexual—”

“You could’ve fooled me. The heat between the two of you is palpable. Darling, that boy is absolutely in lust with you. Totally. I think he’ll just explode when he sees you in this outfit.”

“Don’t make me do it, Elizabeth. Please.”

“I’m doing it for you, Joey. It’s got nothing to do with me. You and Rafe need some closure. It’s time to shit or get off the pot. Excuse my French.”

“He’ll probably never want to see me again.”

“Well, that’s your closure for you.” She entwined her arm around my waist and started to change the part in my hair with her other hand. “And then you can forget all about him. He’s not right for you. He doesn’t love you like I do.”

The outfit Elizabeth forced me to wear was, sadly, one of those huge fashion mistakes of the ‘80s. A maxi-length skirt, wide belt and crew-neck top, all in pastel colors. I looked like a refugee from an episode of Degrassi High or a Brat Pack movie. I drew the line at a side ponytail. Elizabeth wore a sensible denim mini skirt. When I upbraided her about that, she shrugged her shoulders and said she wasn’t the star of the show tonight, I was.

In the final analysis, I didn’t feel that embarrassed when I saw Rafe in his get-up. Acid washed jeans! My God, did he have no shame? Of course, it didn’t assuage my fears of going out in public dressed like a teenage girl…again.

“What do you think, Rafe? Doesn’t Joey look nice? Just they way you like her to look—”

“Did you just say her?” I crossed my arms and my lower lip formed an unconscious pout. Seeing that, both Rafe and Elizabeth broke out in laughter.

“It’s not funny. Just say the word, Rafe. I’ll go and change.”

“Don’t be a spoilsport, Rafe. You know Joey’s been dying to dress up for ages. You wouldn’t want to disappoint her, would you?”

“Joey, is this what you want to wear?”

“Well, would it upset you? Really, it’s Elizabeth’s idea.”

“You look nice, Joey. I like your hair parted that way.”

“See, I told you, Joey. Rafe’s all for it. Let’s mach schau! As they said to The Beatles in Hamburg. The first show starts at 9. We’ll have enough time to grab some dinner first.”

“We’re…we’re…going to a restaurant? Dressed like this? I thought we’d just hit the Lone Star and come back home for a late dinner. I can cook a steak for you, Rafe, if you’d like—”

“She’s the perfect little homemaker, Rafe.”

The doorman at The Lone Star palmed the twenty Elizabeth slipped him and waved the three of us in. Inside, a large crowd was already gathering in front of the stage. Some of Willie Nelson’s band were already warming up, although the show wasn’t scheduled to start for another 20 minutes. A few of the band members were holding conversations with people in the crowd. I recognized Paul Simon and Carrie Fisher right off. Bill Murray and Dan Aykroyd were there, bottles of beer in hand. Robert Duvall and Dustin Hoffman were standing at the bar, taking in the scene. Rafe pointed out someone who looked suspiciously like Linda Ronstadt but I wasn’t convinced. There were other celebrities we probably didn’t recognize.

We hurried to position ourselves close to the stage. Willie came out promptly at 9. As he was strapping his guitar on, his gaze fell on me and he actually winked at me. I smiled and probably blushed. I was going to excitedly tell Elizabeth and Rafe that Willie had winked at me when Willie charged right into his traditional concert opener, “Whiskey River.” I’d never been a big country music fan but Willie had me bopping to “Whiskey River” like I was a line-dancing veteran.

About half-way through the first set, Rafe asked us what we wanted to drink. He was thirsty and was going to make a run to the bar for a beer. We told him we’d have whatever he was having and he made his way through the crowd.

“I’m going to hit the ladies’ room. Give my bladder some room for the beer. Wanna come?”

I shook my head. I was really into another up-tempo number from Willie, “On the Road Again.” Elizabeth slipped away and I found myself alone, an island in a sea of Willie fans. As if sensing my unease, Willie looked down and winked at me again. I smiled in return and forgot all about my worries, even though Rafe and Elizabeth hadn’t come back yet. Willie was already into the last verse of his big hit, “Always on My Mind.”

I was trying to find a line of sight to the bar and see what was holding Rafe up when I felt a man’s rough hand grab my left buttock. I turned around and was face to face with Lonnie Duffy, the actor who starred in the popular police drama, Glock on the Beat. His breath reeked of beer, at least two 40-ounces worth. I tried to slap his hand away but he had a strong grip.

“Hey, baby, looks like your friends left you high and dry. You know who I am?”

“Yes, I do and I’d like you to take your hand off me!” His other hand was trying to cup my crotch through the skirt.

“Let’s go make some music of our own. You look like a girl who’s up for some fun.”

“Hey, take your hands off…her!” It was Rafe, three bottles of beer in his left hand, ready to swing at Duffy with his right.

“Go away, junior. You lost your chance. She’s with me now—”

The three bottles crashed to the floor and shattered, spilling beer everywhere, including the other patrons. Rafe’s right cross landed solidly on Duffy’s jaw but, unexpectedly, he only wobbled for a second before popping back up to deliver his own jab to Rafe’s chin. That staggered Rafe but he put his head down and charged Duffy, wrapping his arms around him and driving him into the lip of the stage right in front of Willie Nelson. The band stopped playing and The Lone Star’s security guards rushed in to pull Duffy and Rafe apart. Quickly, the guards escorted us into the manager’s office. We were told that the police had been summoned. I took a pack of tissues from my purse and tried to clean up blood oozing out of Rafe’s split lip. The manager shot daggers at us with his eyes and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

The police arrived within five minutes and carted us off to the nearby police station where Duffy decided not to press charges, probably fearing the scandal would cost him his cushy TV job. I was going to press charges myself when Rafe reminded me in so many words that accusing Duffy of molesting me would be problematic for everyone concerned. That’s when I remembered that Elizabeth never returned from the Ladies’ Room. The cops allowed me my one phone call and I dialed the loft. Shockingly, Elizabeth answered.

“Elizabeth! What happened to you? Did you fall in or something? Why are you home?”

“What’s with the attitude, missy? You’re calling from Rafe’s hotel room, probably snug as a rug beneath silk sheets—”

“Elizabeth! Rafe and I are at the police station. You’ve got to come and pick us up. They’re being nice and releasing us. I’ll explain later. Just come pick us up.”

The next day, I accompanied Rafe to the train station. He was going to catch the 10:15 back to Boston. We stood on the platform and Rafe started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?”

“Me. I’m laughing at me. I’ve been blind. All this time—”

“Blind? Blind to what?”

“That you really don’t feel the same way about me that I feel about you.”

“I love you, Rafe. As a friend. As a really, really good friend. The best. Look, you’ve come to my rescue so many times. I remember the time I almost fell off the monkey bars and you used your spider strength to hold on to me—”

“I love you Joey but more than as a friend. I don’t how but there must be a world where we can be together. You’re the most beautiful—”

The train rumbled into the station and I pulled Rafe back from the edge of the platform.

“Next time you visit, Rafe, I’ll cook you that steak I promised. I’ve gotten really good at cooking. Elizabeth doesn’t really cook…”

“Don’t argue with me, Joey, when I tell you. She’s not good for you. She’s got her own agenda in that squirmy mind of hers. She’ll break your heart one day and soon. I don’t know if I’ll be there to put back the pieces—”

“You’ll be there, Rafe. We’re best friends forever. Forever and always.”

“Take care, Joey.” He stepped into the train and didn’t look back as it pulled out of the station.

Years later, I was right. He was there to put the pieces back together. Elizabeth decided to sell her loft and use the money to pay for medical school. In the wake of that decision, our relationship ended. The fact that I had started to seek counseling in advance of transitioning was the last straw for Elizabeth. It had all been fun and games but now it was serious.

Rafe was a junior architect for a firm in New York City by then (he and his father had had a falling out of sorts) and was living on the Upper West Side. He offered a temporary place for me to stay until I could get a place of my own and I gratefully accepted. He waited for me on the stoop of his building. A friend for life.

Rafe woke me up when we arrived at Alastair’s apartment building. I had slept through the entire two-hour trip from Port Jefferson. I yawned and apologized for being a zombie.

“That’s alright, Joey. Having you sitting here next to me the whole time after the evening we had at the gala…just being with you again after all these years. You can’t imagine how much this has lifted my spirits. And just in time for the holidays.” He laughed.

“I had a nice time, Rafe. Thank you. I enjoyed myself too.”

“Joey, Harlow is looking at some apartments on the East Side. She’s graduating in May and she’s hellbent on finding a job in the city. Would you have some time tomorrow to help us out? You know much more about the city and the East Side specifically than Sally or Martin. And, as you know, I’ve lived in Maryland for almost 30 years…”

“Where are you looking?”

“Harlow says 2nd Avenue—”

“Well, I haven’t lived there in 25 years so…alright, what time?”

“We’ll pick you up around noon. There’s a nice place we can have lunch…”

Within a two-block radius of St. Mark’s Place in Manhattan’s East Village, you can have your choice of lunch cuisine: burgers and fries, fish and chips, sushi, Korean BBQ, Shanghai soup dumplings, Margherita pizza, or a felafel sandwich.

Harlow, Rafe’s daughter wanted pizza, but since I was their guest for the afternoon as they looked at co-op apartments in the area (for Harlow after she graduated from Georgetown in May), I voted for Mamoun’s, where I had their delicious signature felafel sandwich.

Of course, I asked for baba ganoush rather than their customary hummus. Harlow and Rafe didn’t agree with me that baba ganoush was healthier than hummus. It’s eggplant vs. chickpeas. Eggplant contains nasunin, an antioxidant that improves blood flow to your brain. It is also high in Vitamin C, which supports your immune system. Baba ganoush is lower by 72 calories per cup than hummus as well. I let them chew on that!

Many of the buildings on either side of 2nd Avenue from St. Mark’s Place to East 10th Street have been recently renovated into co-ops and condos. A bittersweet result of the ongoing gentrification of New York real estate. When I had lived in the East Village, after rooming with Rafe in his one-bedroom West Side apartment for several months, it was a veritable ghetto. There were homeless squatters in Tompkins Square Park. In the late ‘80s, riots broke out as police clashed with squatters and protestors alike. In 1990-91 when I moved in, you routinely had to step over prone, semi-conscious people as you came home from work.

After lunch, like troops making serpentine maneuvers across a battlefield, the three of us spent two hours checking out the buildings on 2nd Avenue until we reached the intersection of the avenue and East 9th Street. It was the building I had lived in 30 years ago, now brand, spanking new co-op units. They escorted us to the model apartment on the top floor.

While Rafe and Harlow examined the shiny new components of the re-configured one-bedroom apartment, I took in the view from the windows overlooking the neighborhood. To the west, St. Mark’s Church stands, its grounds surrounded by aging willow trees. They might have been planted just about the time I moved out of this building. To the east, you can see the northern tip of Tompkins Square Park. Rafe suggested we stroll through the park after Harlow’s done looking at apartments. He assures me the park is now navigable, unlike in its squatter-filled days. The voices of Harlow, her father, and the building manager faded in the distance as my mind reached into its memory bank to view once again the panorama of the time when Rafe and I actually lived together. It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. To quote an obscure British writer of the 19th century.

“I think I can get a job and find my own place in a few weeks. Thanks so much for letting me crash until—”

“You can stay here as long as you want, Joey.”

We were sitting on his sofa in the middle of his sparsely furnished West Side apartment. It was definitely not anyone’s idea of a cool, urban bachelor pad. The sofa was not one that pulled out into a bed and it was rather lumpy in spots. The thought of having to sleep on that for more than a few weeks was disturbing. That aside, I was grateful to Rafe for letting me stay in his place on such short notice. It had only been days since Elizabeth had “notified” me that she was selling the loft on Grand Street and my tenancy as well as my relationship with her was terminated. My sister Erica had driven me and my meager possessions across town. She screamed at me and took Elizabeth’s name in vain several times as we crawled through mid-town traffic.

“No offense, Rafe, but sleeping on this lumpy sofa is not my idea of 4-star hospitality.”

“Well…you can sleep in my bed. I mean, it’s a California king size bed. Sally bought it for me as a housewarming gift. It’s big enough to sleep three…comfortably.”

“That would be…kind of awkward, embarrassing even. No, Rafe…just…no.”

“OK. It’s a suggestion. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s a really large bed—”

“Rafe!”

It took longer to find a job than I had anticipated. My faculty advisor, Professor Edwards, offered me a teaching assistant-slash-researcher position but the amount I’d make wouldn’t cover Rafe’s monthly cable TV bill. And, given the baleful trajectory of my life recently, I’d lost the desire to complete my doctoral studies and teaching, at any level, was beyond the pale.

While I looked for gainful employment, scoring an interview every other week or so, I made myself useful by “decorating” Rafe’s apartment. He was unexpectedly quite free with my use of his credit cards as I picked up some kitchen necessities, utilitarian furniture, a few cheap but stylish posters to place on his bare walls, and some cds of music I liked (well, I needed to listen to something while I dusted). There was the moment when I caught myself sorting through the tie racks at Barney’s. Not for myself but for Rafe!

It dawned on me that, in the space of less than a month, Rafe and I had morphed into something more than temporary roommates. My days were spent in a manner not foreign to the stay-at-home wives who lived in our building. I picked up Rafe’s dirty clothes, did the laundry, cleaned, dusted, squeezed melons and sorted through green beans at Key Food, sampled the charcuterie bundle at Zabar’s before buying (the counter man at Zabar’s called me Mrs. Metheny since I always used Rafe’s credit card. It would infuriate me until I got home and then, for a good ten minutes, I’d watch Oprah and just cry), and cooked Rafe’s favorite dinner at least twice a week (he really liked mac and cheese).

We did things couples would do. Renting tapes from Blockbuster and sitting shoulder to shoulder watching goofy French films, falling asleep from fatigue or boredom. Going to street fairs and buying silly hats or cheap jewelry to wear. One time, during the Sixth Avenue Street Fair on the Sunday before Memorial Day, because Rafe had his hands full with the African baskets I had insisted we buy, I fed him a Jamaican beef patty from one of the food stalls. The crowd around us chanted, “Kiss her!” Finally, Rafe bussed me on the cheek. The crowd then chanted, “On the lips!” Blushing, I grabbed Rafe’s arm and we moved quickly away before they asked us to do more.

I discussed these matters with my therapist, Dr. Kwan, in my twice-monthly sessions. She just nodded and made some quick notes on her legal pad.

“It’s not like Rafe is asking me to do any of this. It seems to just organically happen. I’m just glad I’ll be able to live on my own once I get a job.”

“Is that something you really want, Joey?”

“What do you mean, doctor?”

“It sounds to me like you’re not unhappy about your current living situation. In fact, you’re as chipper as I’ve seen you in the six months we’ve had these sessions.”

“Maybe it’s because I’m not having daily fights with Elizabeth. And rooming with Rafe is a lot less stressful than living with Elizabeth. Don’t you think that’s the reason, doctor?”

“The hour’s almost up. Let’s pick this up next time. If you secure a job by then, we can discuss your feelings about finding a new place to live.”

Then there was the issue of Rafe’s girlfriend, Rose Darling. Her full name was Rose Marie Heather Darling but preferred Rose Darling ever since her college roommate introduced her to the recordings of Steely Dan.

Rose was a Corporate Events Planner. At the time she was dating Rafe, she had just been promoted to Senior Planner for The Javits Center. The very model of the modern career woman, Rose was also stunningly beautiful. I could see why Rafe would be very smitten with her.

Due to their busy schedules, Rose and Rafe usually got together only once a week, usually on Saturday night. Dinner and a movie or a concert/show and then an overnight stay at Rose’s East Side apartment. About two months after I’d moved in, Rose accompanied Rafe home one Sunday morning with the express purpose of meeting me. Rafe had told her that I was a childhood friend who’d been “kicked out” by my ex. I would be staying with him until I got a job that would allow me to get my own place.

Of course, Rafe hadn’t bothered to tell me to expect Rose that morning and I was sitting at the kitchen table, having my second cup of coffee and munching on a slice of buttered toast, when they walked in.

“Joey, this is Rose. Rose, Joey.” I got up from the table and wiped my hands on my bathrobe.

“Pleased to meet you. Rafe, why didn’t you call me first? If I’d known you were coming, I’d have baked a cake. And the place must look a mess—”

“Oh, no. Rafe’s apartment has never looked as neat and clean. And those art posters. You must have picked those out. Rafe thinks impressionism is what Rich Little does. You know, impressions of famous celebrities. And the couch. It’s so tidy, you’d never believe anyone had been sleeping on it just hours ago—"

Rafe jumped in. “Joey doesn’t sleep on the couch anymore. It was killing his back.”

“So, where do you sleep? Don’t tell me on the floor in a sleeping bag—”

Again, Rafe interjected. “Well, you know my bed is a California king size. Joey’s a pretty small guy—”

“You…you two sleep in the same bed?” She kept her eyes on me. I tried to cover my embarrassment with my coffee mug.

“Oh, Rose, it’s no big deal. We’re old buddies. We even took baths together when we’d stay over at each other’s houses—”

“Yeah, when you were 3 or 4 years old. Not when you’re grown men! Don’t you think this is…strange? Curious? Odd...”

“I’ll be moving out as soon as I get a job—”

“You’ve been here two months already. Are you even looking for a job?”

“Hey, Rose, don’t talk to Joey that way. He’s my best friend. He can stay here as long as he wants. And it takes time to find the right job. He’s not going to deliver pizzas—”

“You don’t want to know what I’m thinking right now, Rafe. But I’ve got a meeting at the Center at noon and I need to change. We’ll talk about this. I’ll call you later in the week.”

Rafe leaned in to kiss Rose on the cheek but she was already pivoting to the front door. Within seconds she had let herself out, slamming the door behind her. I looked at Rafe.

“You could have handled that better, Rafe.”

“She’s that way sometimes. It’s o.k. Say, is there any coffee left?”

But it didn’t turn out to be o.k. Their relationship petered out over the next few weeks as they saw each other and spoke on the phone less and less. Ultimately, Rose used the excuse of her all-consuming new responsibilities as Senior Planner to call off their involvement. Rafe took it like a man, an indifferent man, that is. He shrugged his shoulders when I probed to see if he was hiding his hurt feelings. At the moment, it gave me a frisson to see his non-reaction to his broken romance with Rose. Was Rafe simply a cold fish after all?

The week after they officially split up, we had our weekly Blockbuster night. This time, I had chosen to rent the classic Truffaut film, Jules and Jim, again. Rafe had never seen it and, oddly for him, he didn’t yawn halfway through it and nod off before it ended. One of my favorite films, it is a heady brew of romance and tragedy, idealized love and its wretched reality.

The story revolves around a love triangle: Jules and Jim, good friends, both fall in love with Catherine, a mercurial beauty whose inability to remain in place emotionally dooms their lives. Although she marries Jules and has a daughter with him, Jim cannot forget her and, in an inescapable turn of events, the three enter a menage a trois, living under one roof with Catherine and Jules’ daughter.

A miscarriage and Catherine’s divided loyalties separate the trio as Jim turns to an old girlfriend, intending to marry and forget Catherine. A chance meeting in Paris some years later leads to Catherine desperately trying to rekindle her love affair with Jim. When he demurs, she drives the two of them off a bridge to their deaths. In the end, Jules is left alone to raise their daughter Sabine.

When the movie ended, I hid my face from Rafe. He pulled my hands apart and saw the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“Why?”

“Because. Because I can empathize.”

“With…”

“All three of them. I’ve been all three of them at one point or another. Stop looking at me, Rafe. I know I’m being silly—”

“You’re beautiful when you cry—”

“That’s stupid—”

“You look like Jeanne Moreau. No, you do. When you smile. You have the same crooked grin.”

“You’re telling me I look like a woman?”

“You are a woman. To me.”

Rafe moved his face closer, his lips pursed, eyes closed. I hesitated, then gave in to my feelings. Our lips met. It was a sweet, tender kiss. He knew I hurt. Not because of the movie we had just watched. For the years of not knowing who I really was. Even now, there was no certainty. I was like the Jeanne Moreau character, Catherine, unwilling or simply unable to choose between Jules and Jim. In the end, will I also destroy our lives like Catherine did? I separated my lips from Rafe’s and gently pushed him away.

“We can’t, Rafe. We shouldn’t. It’s not fair to you.”

“Why?”

“I can’t be to you what you need. Not now, maybe not ever.”

“I thought you were on the track to SRS. That’s why you’ve been seeing a therapist. To prepare you for transitioning. You’ll be a woman then. I mean, to me, you’ve always been—”

“I’m at the very beginning of the process, Rafe. There’s no guarantee that I’ll opt for the surgery. In the end, probably but… I’m not sure where I’ll be as a woman when I do. It’s a change in gender not necessarily in sexual orientation.”

“You mean you’re not attracted to me? You don’t have the same feelings I have for you? I love you, Joey. I’ve loved you forever.”

“I love you too, Rafe. I do. But I’m not sure I love you in that way. Not the way that you want. Or deserve. You deserve to have a wife and kids. To be like everyone else in society. You don’t want to be stuck with an…an oddity like me. I’m tired. I’m going to go to bed. We can talk with clearer heads tomorrow.”

Much later that night, I pretended to be fast asleep when Rafe finally slipped into bed. He kept his distance from me, lying almost on the far edge of the bed, facing away. After a few minutes, I could hear his rhythmic breathing. I had to fight the urge to turn and hold him close to me. It was an urge that transcended the physical. I loved Rafe in a way that neither he nor I could fully understand. For both our sakes, I knew I had to move out. Even if I had to deliver pizzas.

I redoubled my efforts to find a job. In the meantime, Rafe and I settled back into a less volatile domestic routine. I don’t think Rafe ever really accepted my reasoning but, in the next two months, we acted more like friendly roommates than potential lovers. For all intents and purposes, it was a happy time in our lives. Rafe was doing well at his architectural firm, having been promoted to project manager. He had decided not to work for his father after graduating from M.I.T. This led to bad feelings between the two but Mr. Matheny was not a man to hold grudges. Rafe was always welcome to return to the fold should he change his mind sometime in the future.

By a stroke of luck, I happened to bump into Eddie Gleason, Elizabeth’s old boyfriend, in Tower Records, shopping for cds. He was no longer a roadie for The Cramps but had carved out a career for himself as a jingle writer for an advertising agency. He proudly told me he was the one who wrote the jingle for that toothpaste commercial that runs seemingly a thousand times a day. After I told him about having split up with Elizabeth, I mentioned I was looking for a decent paying job. Remembering I was an English major with ambitions to write the Great American Novel, he gave me the name of the head copywriter at his agency. I contacted him and arranged for an interview. It was a bonus to discover he was also a Columbia alumnus. Perhaps my luck had truly changed.

To make a long story short, I learned they weren’t hiring in the copywriting department but there were opportunities in sales and program research in the TV networks from whom the agency bought advertising time. He gave me an entrée to someone at the FOX Network and, three weeks later, I was hired as a research analyst in the programming department.

Rafe was visibly dismayed when I told him. Add a month’s salary to the rapidly shrinking amount in my savings account and I would have just enough to rent a modestly priced apartment in the East Village. It meant Rafe and I had possibly six more weeks together. A rather subdued Rafe and I celebrated by having a veritable feast at Rafe’s favorite Chinese restaurant, The Silver Palace. Of course, even in a funereal mood, Rafe was able to put away two orders of General Tso’s Chicken. He also washed it all down with several glasses of Smith-Madrone Riesling, a Napa Valley white wine that goes well with Chinese cuisine.

I helped Rafe weave his way into the cab we hailed outside the restaurant. On the way home, Rafe made me promise to grant him a final wish before I moved into my new apartment.

“That’s weeks away, Rafe. Remind me then.”

“No, I’m giving you time to prepare for it.”

“Prepare?”

“You’ll see.” He dozed off as the cab turned up Broadway toward the Upper West Side.

It was a hot August night, to quote Neil Diamond, and Rafe and I were in line to enter S.O.B.s (Sounds of Brazil), the famous dancehall on Varick Street in The West Village. I would move into my new apartment on 2nd Avenue and East 9th Street on the first day of September. This evening of dancing to the salsa beats of Willie Colón was my parting gift to Rafe. The promise I had made to him weeks ago in that cab ride home. I had to prepare for it because Rafe insisted I dress up one last time for his pleasure. The outfit, the shoes, the hairdo, and makeup. My sister Erica helped out, going shopping with me and arranging for me to get the works done at the salon she frequented. Rafe wasted several rolls of film taking countless pictures of me throughout the evening. Joey stepping out the door of the apartment. Joey gingerly getting into the cab on the way to S.O.B.s. Joey half a block away from the entrance to S.O.B.s. Joey standing on line, waiting to go in. Joey trying to salsa dance. And so on.

The highlight of the night was Lonnie Duffy trying to pick me up. Again. Apparently, the star of Glock on the Beat, now in syndication after being cancelled, didn’t recognize me from the last time he tried to pick me up, seven years ago at The Lone Star. Rafe had taken a bathroom break so Duffy must have thought the coast was clear. He was much more laid back in his approach this time, trying to actually chat me up. I was about to remind him about our previous encounter when Rafe returned to the dance floor. Duffy took one look at him and, obviously, the weight of memory crashed onto his feeble brain, recalling the beating he’d received from Rafe years ago. He did a 180 and went off to hunt other game.

At the end of the evening, as we drank cups of chamomile tea to prepare for bed, I relented and allowed Rafe to kiss me good night. That turned into a real make out session and I let Rafe go to bed first, telling him I needed time to take my makeup off and put my clothes away. When I finally slipped into bed, he was out like a light.

After I moved out in September, we would try to get together on a regular basis but, as time went on, my new job started to dominate my life as Rafe’s job dominated his. By Thanksgiving of that year, we were tantamount to whispers in each other’s lives. Our answer machines were full of apologies for last-minute cancellations and work-related excuses.

In December, Rafe had an announcement to make and I dropped by his West Side apartment to hear it.

“Dad’s latest round of chemo didn’t work out. The doctors think there’s nothing more they can do. They give him six months—”

“Oh, Rafe, I’m so sorry.”

“The upshot of all this is that I’ve agreed to take over the company. It’s his final ask and mom’s too. I’m leaving for Silver Springs in two weeks.”

“I’ll miss you, Rafe. We keep moving away from each other, it seems.”

“That’s what I wanted to speak to you about, Joey. We don’t have to be apart. Come with me. We can build a life together in Maryland—”

“Rafe, I—”

“Johns Hopkins is just 40 minutes away from Silver Springs. You can have your SRS there—”

“Your family won’t have me, Rafe. You know that. They’ve never accepted me. This would turn into a shitstorm. You don’t deserve that.”

“My father likes you. He accepts you—”

“Fine. The only one in your family who does and he’ll be gone in six months. I didn’t mean it to sound that way—”

“So, the answer is no?”

“I wish with all my heart it was yes, Rafe, but our lives are headed in different directions. It’s better if we part ways now. I’ll always love you, Rafe. I’ll never, ever forget you.”

We hugged. I kissed him. A kiss that would be the last between us for 30 years. And then I took the stairs down instead of the elevator. He waved goodbye, a forlorn look on his face. I ran down the stairs and out into the street, my eyes red and watery.

Rafe’s voice, thirty years later, calling to me. I turned away from the window. Turned away from the tops of the willow trees surrounding St. Mark’s Church. Turned toward Rafe and Harlow crossing the room toward me.

“Joey, I think we’re done here. Harlow really likes the layout and the neighborhood is greatly improved over what it was when you lived here—”

“Daddy, I’m supposed to meet Jenny for an early dinner and then we’re seeing Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center. They’re performing the score live to go along with the movie! Thanks for your help, Joey! See you later, Dad.”

After she left, Rafe turned to me, a wry smile on his face.

“It’s a nice brisk day for a walk in Tompkins Square Park.”

“It’s not the most scenic park in the city, Rafe.”

“The only sight I want to see in that park is the sight of your face. We don’t have much time to spend together. Christmas is just a couple of days away. We can walk and talk.”

He extended his hand to me. I took it.

It was the second day of winter and the afternoon sun was already waning in an overcast sky when Rafe and I entered Tompkins Square Park. After his daughter Harlow had gone home to get herself ready for an early dinner and a special showing of Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets at Lincoln Center, Rafe proposed that we stroll through the park. As this might be the last chance for us to spend time together for a possible span of years, I acceded to his wish.

Rafe stopped at The Temperance Fountain and pointed out the sign board standing some feet to its side. A poster announced nighttime walking tours of the East Village that commenced at 6PM, Mondays through Saturday, right here at the Fountain.

“Do you have any plans for tonight?”

I shook my head no. He plucked his phone out of a coat pocket and looked at the screen.

“It’s almost 4. Let’s have afternoon tea at The Palm Court in the Plaza and take the walking tour tonight. It’ll be fun. It’s been 30 years since I’ve seen this part of the city after sundown.”

“The Palm Court? Even for afternoon tea, you need a reservation—”

“I confess, Joey. I made the reservation earlier this morning before we picked you up for lunch. It was Harlow’s idea—”

“What if I had plans for the afternoon?”

“I guess I like to live dangerously? In any case, I’ve never been so maybe I might have gotten lucky and met an attractive, unattached blonde who reminded me of you there.”

“You cheeky bastard!”

“Seriously, Joey, we’d better hurry. The reservation is for 4 and that gives us half an hour to get uptown—”

“You didn’t plan ahead and order an uber in advance?”

“Actually I did.” Looking at his phone. “In fact, our uber just turned left off the FDR Drive onto East 10th Street. It should be here in…2 minutes.”

“You planned an entire day out, didn’t you? Under the pretext of showing Harlow apartments in the East Village…”

“She is moving here after graduation and you did live here for a while…”

Afternoon tea at The Palm Court in the Plaza Hotel is not an ordinary coffee break at Starbucks. Indeed, it’s tantamount to afternoon tea at Buckingham Palace with the Monarch. The interior of the Palm Court resembles an outdoor café in Tangiers, with its ceiling-high palm trees, trellis detailing, and custom furnishings with cane accents. The stained-glass dome allows sunshine to highlight the sumptuous items on the menu.

We ordered the Plaza Signature Tea. A pot of Earl Gray from China, with bergamont and safflower petals. A selection of sandwiches including salmon, English cucumber, honey ricotta, and foie gras macaroon. Cherry and truffle scones. Pastries and sweets such as lavender macaron, strawberry and cream delice, lemon verbena egg custard, and chocolate Manjari black forest sable. All for $125 per person. For an extra $30 per person, a glass of Brut champagne could be added. I vetoed that, even as Rafe nodded devilishly.

“I don’t know if you recall, Joey, but Sara and I stayed here at The Plaza for two nights before we flew to Paris for our honeymoon—”

“I do remember that. Your mother and sister repeatedly mentioned your honeymoon in Europe during the welcome dinner. In fact, Sally made a point of telling me your entire itinerary, with details of your hotel accommodations. She even regaled me with a minute-by-minute account of how the women from both families took Sara shopping for her trousseau on Fifth Avenue.”

“I apologize for Sally. I didn’t know she’d been such a bitch to you at the wedding—”

“Well, you were kind of busy…”

We tucked in and, for the first 20 minutes, we allowed the classical music being piped in to accompany our meal and provide us with an excuse to not speak. Our eyes did a furtive dance and I felt myself blushing like a teenage girl admiring the cute dimples in her date’s whisker-free cheeks. Even now, forty years later, Rafe could make my heart melt when he flashed his goofy grin at me.

“I had serious reservations about accepting the invitation, Rafe. I was shocked that you’d even invited me in the first place. You hadn’t seen me since I had the surgery—”

“You looked even more beautiful than I imagined. I was so stoked to see you…finally as the woman I’ve always known you to be.”

“I was shocked your mom allowed you to invite me—”

“Well…she wasn’t happy about it. But you know who convinced her? It was Sara. She wanted to meet you. I guess I talked about you a lot.”

“Sara was a sweet girl. You made a great choice, Rafe. She gave you two wonderful children. And she was head-over-heels in love with you. I could tell.”

Rafe pulled out his phone and scrolled to a picture of his family of four in a gondola, on vacation in Venice, at least a decade ago.

I held Rafe’s phone in my left hand and took in the smiles on the faces of his family as they sat in the gondola, leisurely drifting down a canal in Venice. For a brief moment, I saw my own face in Sara’s place, laughing with joy, my arms around Rafe and Harlow. My husband and my youngest child. I had to take a quick sip of tea to clear my head. I didn’t want to start to cry.

“You must know how I feel, Joey. When you lost Emily. I wanted to come to the funeral but I was swamped with business shit. Sara offered to go in my place—”

“I understood, Rafe.” I returned his phone. “It’s not even five. What do we do for an hour before the walking tour starts?”

Rafe placed his Amex Black Card on the tray on which our check had been proffered. Our server almost clicked his heels when he saw it and gave Rafe an admiring glance.

“Are you a billionaire yet, Rafe?”

Laughing, Rafe answered my jab. “A few years ago, I would have said I’m working on it. Now, I’m looking at selling the firm—”

“What are you thinking of doing?”

“Traveling. Seeing the world. I looked at some brochures online for around-the-world cruises recently. I’d start small. Maybe a Mediterranean cruise. I might even buy a seat on one of Jeff Bezo’s spaceflights. Of course, it’d be a tragedy to travel alone.”

“I don’t think you’ll have any trouble meeting someone new, Rafe. You’ve probably got half the single women in D.C. in cold sweats right now trying to figure out how to snag you.”

“The only woman I’m interested in is spoken for.”

“Rafe…I…” Rafe took my hand in both of his.

“I’m not a fool, Joey. I know my chance with you ended 30 years ago. I just wanted to spend some time with you before you absent yourself from my life again. Maybe in another 30 years, Joey, we’ll find each other in the same nursing home.”

“Or another life. One in which I was born female instead.”

“Do you believe in the multiverse, Joey? Do you think somewhere in another universe, Joey and Rafe are living happily –”

“With two kids, a two-car garage, a paid-up mortgage, nice neighbors named Bill and Sue, and a house convenient to shopping, medical care, and good public schools?”

“I’d like to believe that.”

“I hate you, Rafe Metheny! You paid $300 to see me cry my eyes out, didn’t you?” I shot up from my seat. Before I started to really blubber, I hurried to the Ladies’ Room. I ended up comically zigzagging through the room as one of the servers pointed me in the right direction.

We decided to wait for our uber back to Tompkins Square Park in the lobby of The Plaza Hotel. After refreshing my makeup, I had gathered my emotions enough to sit silently on one of the Chesterfield sofas in a corner of the lobby, to one side of a wall-length fixed window. Rafe was reading texts he’d received during the day while I listened to my “calming” music – Satie and Debussy. We avoided looking at each other but Rafe’s hand gently nudged mine and we interlaced fingers.

The music spurred memories of the time after Rafe left New York to take over his dying father’s architectural firm in Washington, D.C. I had moved to that tiny apartment on 2nd Avenue and was doing well at FOX, advancing from analyst to manager to director of Programming Research. Rafe and I tried to stay in touch but our work and his family issues made it difficult to physically get together. Over time, our contact dwindled to a phone call now and then and, perhaps, a semi-annual visit, specifically when Rafe’s business presented the opportunity to come to New York.

About a year in at FOX, I was pleasantly surprised to learn that our employee health insurance package had newly added transgender issues to its coverage. Rumor had it that this came about because the child of one of its highest-ranking executives was MTF trans. With some trepidation, I approached our HR department with my own situation. I was relieved to find that they were more than professional about it. They set me up with a therapist (who I found much easier to work with than my previous one) and an endocrinologist who prescribed a regimen of HRT for me. I began to undergo the Real-Life Test, gradually presenting in a more feminine mode. While it was not all smooth sailing, most of my co-workers and bosses accepted me as a transwoman. The best moment came when our owner’s son rode the elevator with me alone and did a double take when he saw me in a skirt and floral blouse. He invited me to lunch one day soon after and encouraged me to transition, saying that, unlike his father, he believed in the axiom, “live and let live.” I walked back to the office with a decided strut in my step. A little bit of acceptance goes a long way.

In 1994, after more than three years of HRT, I had GRS done at St. Francis Memorial in San Francisco. I spent almost a month recovering from the surgery in San Francisco. It was a painful time, made tolerable because my Aunt Lori came up from Los Angeles to stay with me and act as my caregiver.

Lori wasn’t really my aunt. She’d been my father’s girlfriend during the years he’d lived in Los Angeles after my parents separated. Lori was an unrepentant hippie chick, 20 years younger than my dad. My father demanded I spend summers with him and, early on, Lori discovered that I cross-dressed. She kept my secret from dad and we had loads of fun shopping for clothes and generally acting like two teenage Valley girls, although I was the only one under the age of 20. Even after dad died when I was in college, Lori and I stayed in touch, exchanging Christmas cards and being steady pen pals through the years. She lives in Riverside nowadays. She and her daughter are yoga instructors.

In the Spring of 1995, almost 4 years since Rafe and I had parted ways, I was shocked to receive a wedding invitation from Rafe. He was marrying a woman named Sara in June. From the looks of it, it was going to be one of those ballyhooed society weddings that receive a ton of column inches in the Sunday lifestyle section of The Washington Post. As I surmised, the wedding was being held at the D.C. Harriott Hotel, just a few blocks from The White House.

My first instinct was to politely decline. I was certain Mrs. Metheny would be relieved to know I wouldn’t be showing up to ruin her son’s gala wedding. I was also reluctant because Rafe had yet to see the “new” me. He had planned to visit me in San Francisco the year before but had to cancel due to “business” conflicts. I took his excuse at face value but wondered if he was ready to close the door on my chapter in his life. Certainly, I knew he felt I had rejected him when I declined to accompany him to Maryland four years before. But it was for the best. For him and me.

Alastair Knowles was a recent addition to the FOX universe. After winning an Emmy for his work with Ed Bradley on CBS’ 60 Minutes, the 28-year-old wunderkind had been recruited to be in charge of Non-Fiction Programming for our primetime network. Friends at CBS warned me he was a skirt-chaser. I scoffed and said he’ll do a 180 when he discovers I’m a transwoman. That is, if he even gives me a second look. But after six months working in the same building, seeing each other at meetings, running into each other in hallways and kitchens on several floors, we became…I guess the proper term would be…buddies.

It began with discussions of industry topics while filling our mugs with the bilge that comes out of those k-cup coffeemakers, moved to popular movies, comic books, strips, anime, music and finally graduated to our personal lives. At least once a week (when he was in New York and not in his office away from the office in L.A.), he’d drop by my tiny office to invite me to lunch. Sometimes it would be a hotdog from the street vendor across the street; sometimes it would be The Russian Tea Room or a pub like The Playwright on West 49th Street if it was a nice day for a longer walk.

The day after I received the invite to Rafe’s wedding, for whatever reason, it ended up on top of my desk when Alastair sauntered in just before noon.

“That’s a colorful envelope. Party invitation?”

“Oh, hi, Alastair. Yeah, sort of a party. It’s a wedding invitation.”

“Anyone I know?”

“Rafe Metheny.”

“Oh.” In exchanging our life stories, I had told Alastair all about Rafe. Sometimes I felt cheated because what Alastair told me about his life wasn’t all that dramatic. Basically, he was the only child of an English father and a French mother, who had moved to the States just a year before he was born. Alastair’s father, Robert Knowles, had been a political reporter for ABC and CBS until his death in an airplane crash in 1988. After an exemplary scholastic career culminating in a degree from Harvard, Alastair went to work at CBS News as a writer-producer, ending up as Ed Bradley’s right-hand man. He dated a lot of women but he didn’t deign to talk about his conquests. At least not with me.

After reading the invitation, he stroked his bearded chin and exclaimed, “Accept it. Go! You know you want to.”

“I don’t think so. I told you about Rafe’s mom. And his sister Sally. Oh my God. The other thing is…who would I get to be my plus one?”

“It’s a two-day thing, right?”

“Yeah, the welcome dinner is Friday night, the ceremony and reception are on Saturday.”

“No problem then. We’ll miss one day of work—”

“We?”

“Of course. I’m your plus one.”

“No, Alastair, I can’t ask you to come with me. I’ll check with my sister and she if she can trust her husband to watch the kids for a couple of days—”

“Nah. We’ll take my car. Your bucket of bolts will probably die somewhere west of Philadelphia.” He stared me down before I tentatively nodded yes, o.k., you win.

“Won’t your current girlfriend – what’s her name again? – be upset to see you going to a wedding with another woman?”

“Who? Amanda? We broke up. Last night. She was fun but exhausting. You know?”

“Spare me the details, Alastair.”

He handed me a pen and prompted me to reply to the invite. “Be sure to check the box for bringing a guest. Otherwise, I’ll have to share your hotel room. And my back is problematic so sleeping on the floor or in a chair just won’t do—”

Friday, June 16th, 1995, was a hot day in New York City. At 11AM when Alastair picked me up at my apartment on 2nd Avenue, it was already in the mid-80s Fahrenheit. He whistled when I emerged from the building in my summer frock, carrying my overnight bag. I was shocked to see Alastair had shaved off his beard. I whistled in return.

“So what’s with the no beard look, Alastair? You think these society girls will swoon over your clean-cut looks—”

“They normally do. But I’m not hunting big game. I’ve got the first prize right here in the passenger seat—”

“Save the sweet talk, mister. We’re just wedding buddies this weekend.”

“You’re a hard nut to crack, Joanne.”

“Legumes are that way, Alastair. Now, how long will it take to get to D.C.?”

“It’s 4 hours give or take 10 minutes on I-95. We have time to stop for lunch in Princeton.”

“You know places for lunch in Princeton? And I’m not having a hotdog, Alastair…”

Sitting in a booth in PJ’s Pancake House on Nassau Street in Princeton, New Jersey, about two hours after we left Manhattan, I remarked to Alastair that we were probably the oldest patrons in the room.

“Yeah, well, the university’s just a few blocks that way.”

“How do you know about this place?”

“My high school girlfriend went to Princeton. Whenever I visited her, we’d have breakfast here. The pancakes are really good.”

“Suppose I’m not in the mood to have pancakes for lunch?”

“I’m still trying to figure out what your real appetites are—”

“We’ve had lunch dozens of times—”

“Not talking about food.”

“Hand me the menu, will ya? Maybe I can get a green salad.”

“I’m really looking forward to meeting this Rafe character. Sounds like a real jerk. One of those rich kids full of entitlement. How could he even think of dumping someone like you. I mean, you’re the most remarkable woman I’ve yet to meet in this industry.”

“Some people would beg to disagree with you.”

“That you’re remarkable?”

“No, that I’m a woman.”

“None so blind as those who will not see, Joanne. Fuck ‘em. And fuck Rafe for dumping you.”

“I dumped him, not the other way around.”

“Technically. But he didn’t put up much of a fight, did he?”

“Alastair, you don’t know all the facts. It’s not all Rafe’s fault.”

I ended up throwing caution to the wind and had the burger and fries. I’ll go light on the welcome dinner tonight to make up for it. Rafe actually ordered a stack of pancakes. He said it was nostalgia.

It took us another two and a half hours to reach The Harriott Hotel in Washington. On the way, Alastair insisted on playing his mix-cds. Insisted because, after all, it was his car and he was doing all the driving. Some of the songs were, in my opinion, straight trash. A lot of Beastie Boys and hip hop and rap. But then there was a stretch of decent pop stuff I could actually enjoy listening to. I leaned back in my seat and closed my eyes.

I didn’t ask him to but Alastair held my hand all the way from the parking lot to the hotel. I suppose he wanted to impress upon everyone that he was my “date.” Which came in handy when we walked into the lobby. Acting as official greeter was Sally, Rafe’s older sister. The look on her face when she saw me and then Alastair was priceless. Her jaw almost hit the floor.

“Hello, Sally. I see you’ve been drafted to be the official greeter—”

“Joey. You…you look…”

“I had the procedure done almost a year ago, Sally. I thought Rafe would’ve told you.”

“Did he? I guess he must have. It slipped my mind?”

“Sally, this is my friend Alastair Knowles. Sally is Rafe’s sister. You’ll meet her husband Martin at dinner.”

Sally took me aside and, in a whisper, asked, “Does he know about you?”

Alastair said in a loud voice, “Yes, I do, Sally. And it makes her extra special to me. I suppose Rafe wouldn’t agree—”

“Alastair, please. We’re guests here. Sally, it’s good to see you. It’s been years.”

“It’s…good to see you too, Joey. Do you still go by Joey?”

“It’s officially Joanne now but I answer to Joey too. Especially if it comes from a friend.”

“You guys should check in. The welcome dinner’s at 7 in the banquet room. You’ve got time to freshen up. Maybe even have a lie down. Are you in separate rooms?”

“Yes, Sally. I checked that box on the invite. See you later at dinner.”

Out of the corner of my eye, as Alastair checked us in at the front desk, I caught a glimpse of Rafe and Sara, apparently just now returning from rehearsal, walking toward the bank of elevators. They were chuckling over some joke Rafe had just made. His head swiveled when he heard Rafe say my name to the desk clerk.

I smiled. He took Sara’s hand and quickly approached. Before I could open my mouth to exchange greetings, he wrapped his arms around me and hugged me for dear life. Sara looked on, a confused look on her face.

“Joey! I’m so glad you came! Sally, look at Joey! She’s…she’s beautiful. You look marvelous.”

“I can’t breathe, Rafe.” He released me. “You look handsome as usual too, Rafe. Is this your bride-to-be? Sara?”

“Oh, yes, Sara. This is Joey Prentiss.” To me. “She knows all about you, Joey. She knows we’ve been best buds since we met in a sandbox.”

“Joey, I’ve wanted to see you in the flesh for years. Rafe can’t stop talking about you. You know, a girl can get a little jealous hearing how highly her husband-to-be regards you. And your back story is remarkable—”

“Remarkable is the word,” interjected Alastair. “Hi, Rafe. I’m Alastair Knowles. I’m Joanne’s plus one.”

“We work together at FOX. He was nice enough to agree to drive us down here. Rafe, you know what a terrible driver I am. 3 to 1 odds I wouldn’t make it past Philadelphia.”

“So you two aren’t…?”

“We’re workplace friends.” I looked down at the carpet, not wanting to look straight into Rafe’s eyes.

“We’re going up to our room and freshen up. You guys should settle in and do the same. See you at dinner. Let’s talk between speeches. O.K.?”

“O.K.? Joey?”

I turned toward Rafe’s voice. We were standing near the Temperance Fountain at the entrance to Tompkins Square Park. Apparently, the last hour since we sat down in the lobby of The Plaza had elapsed with me in a fog of remembrance. I couldn’t recall getting into the uber, the ride downtown to the park, even walking through the crunchy snow to the fountain.

“O.K. what?”

“We’ll do the walking tour on our own. Looks like they left without us. We got here five minutes late. Are you alright, Joey? You look a little dazed.”

“I’m fine, Rafe. Really.”

“You’re cold. It’s chilly after sundown. The wind whips around too.” He stepped close to me and wrapped his arms around me. “This’ll warm you up. Better?”

“Oh, Rafe! I’m sorry…”

“Sorry about what?”

I didn’t answer him. I couldn’t answer him. His shoulder muffled my sobs as he held me tight against the dark night’s cold wind. Rafe kissed the top of my head and sighed.

I handed Rafe a mug of hot chocolate as he stood by the windows of Alastair’s apartment, peering out onto Perry Street, seemingly deep in thought.

“Thanks, Joey.”

“Penny for your thoughts.”

“I don’t know if they’re worth that much. No, just flashing back to the wedding. That was the first official farewell tour.”

“First? I didn’t know there was a second—”

“It’s funny how Alastair ends up being there for both. Yes, I know he’s not here physically right now. But that ring on your finger announces his presence nonetheless.”

“It doesn’t mean we can’t stay in touch. We’re friends for life, remember?”

“I take back what I said at The Palm Court. I am a fool, Joey. A fool for giving up on us thirty years ago and still a fool today for thinking I could bring you back into my life…after all these years.”

“It was a decision we both made. Maybe not at the same time but eventually you accepted the logic behind it. Sara made a much better wife and partner for you than I would have ever been. You know down deep that’s true.”

“If you say so. I should have tried to find out. I was weak. I did what mom and Sally expected me to do. Take over dad’s company. Marry a nice girl, have kids, give mom grandchildren, bury my own hopes and dreams. You were always the stronger one between us, Joey. God, I folded like a house of cards, the first time I was tested—”

“Hopes and dreams, Rafe? You can’t begin to count the hopes and dreams I’ve had shattered in my life. I don’t know how I’m still here, mind and soul relatively intact.” I gently placed both hands on Rafe’s shoulders and looked up into his eyes. “We can’t re-litigate the past, Rafe. We can only make the best of the present. Sell the company, put those travel plans into action, reward yourself for the successes you’ve achieved…your family, the building designs you’ve made—”

“The cherry on top would have been getting back together with you. But it wasn’t meant to be.”

“What’s this about a second farewell though?”

“Martin and Sally have a country house in Kingston, upstate. They spend Christmas and New Year’s up there every year. Harlow and I are heading up there on Friday, Christmas Eve, with the rest of the gang. So…tonight’s the last time we’ll see each other for…who knows? Another couple of decades? I think my joke about meeting up again in a nursing home might turn out to be prescient.”

“That’s too gloomy by half, Rafe. Now that you’re taking early retirement, you’ll have enough time to see your friends more often. I’ve heard there’s things called airplanes that can take you anywhere in the world within hours. Or, better yet, drive across country, see the USA in your Chevrolet…”

“If that’s an invitation then I’m accepting. Are you sure Alastair won’t mind?”

“He wouldn’t try to stop me from seeing you, Rafe. He knows there’s a bond between us that’s way beyond any romantic suspicions.”

Rafe looked at the gold Omega Speedmaster watch on his left wrist as he placed the empty mug in his right hand on the coffee table.

“I guess this is good night and goodbye…for now. I’ve had a wonderful day, Joey. Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and congratulations on your nuptials. Be happy, Joey.”

“I will, Rafe. It’s taken six decades but I think I’ve gotten it right this time.” I helped Rafe with his overcoat and walked him to the door. He gave me a quick peck on the cheek and I followed him with my tearing-up eyes as he made his way slowly to the elevator, looking back over his shoulder twice. We exchanged waves as the doors closed.

The tryptophan in my cup of hot chocolate refused to bring on sleep. Almost two hours after Rafe left, I was still sitting in Alastair’s favorite easy chair, thoughts gnawing away at me. Thoughts about Rafe’s wedding. I could still hear the song Sara had the band play for the bride and groom’s first dance at the reception. I could still see Rafe and Sara slow dancing to it, her face a portrait of joy, his smile more restrained but still wide as he whispered in her ear something that made her giggle. Alastair, sitting next to me, grabbed my hand and squeezed.

The slow torture of conflicting emotions started at the welcome dinner on Friday evening. It was held in the Banquet Room of The Washington, D.C. Harriott Hotel. I’m sure they’d gotten a good deal for having the wedding weekend there, though neither Rafe’s nor Sara’s families had any worries about the expense. The hotel, located just a few blocks from The White House, had been built decades before Rafe’s father began designing for The Harriott Group. Still, you could tell by the presence of so many Harriott family members as invitees that there was never a question as to the wedding venue.

As is customary, there were speeches galore from both sides of the aisle. Rafe’s best man and Sara’s maid of honor actually used a PowerPoint presentation to accompany their comedic and “embarrassing” anecdotes about the bride and groom. I almost gasped out loud when one of the slides was a picture of Rafe and me on a playground seesaw when we were about 5 years old. Rafe’s best man, blessedly, did not identify me. The slide was just one in a series tracing Rafe’s childhood from toddler to teenager. Still, I unconsciously shifted in my seat so that I was out of the line of sight. Just in case someone like Sally might point me out to everyone.

After dessert and coffee, the guests mingled. Predictably, Rafe and Sara made a beeline to our table, with Martin and Sally in tow. After Rafe introduced me to our immediate neighbors as a childhood friend, there came the inevitable question.

“But why didn’t I see her in any of those photos? I certainly would have recognized such a pretty girl,” declared a woman from across the table.

“Oh, she was in a lot of those photos,” Sally interjected.

“I don’t recall seeing her. She couldn’t have changed so much from when she was a child,” stated another woman at the end of our table.

“Some people change a lot,” Sally teased. “Some people even change sex—”

Rafe put his arm around my shoulders. “Sally is being a little clumsy in trying to tell you that Joey here has transitioned to her true gender. She is now, as she always was meant to be, a woman. I’m very proud to have been best friends with Joey since we were knee high to a grasshopper.”

Everyone at the table seemed stunned. There was an awkward silence that lasted a full minute before one man directly across from me remarked, “You’re joking, right? She was a man?”

“Here we are in the capitol of the United States of America and the stench of bigotry seems to be gaining in redolence at this table—”

“Alastair, please. I don’t think the gentleman was disparaging me. Were you?”

“Oh, no. I was just…shocked. You’re very feminine. I would’ve never guessed. I apologize if you thought I was being offensive—”

“It was a normal response to an abnormal circumstance,” Sally pointed out. “After all, I think Joey’s the only transexual I’ve ever personally met.”

“I think they prefer to be called transgender these days,” the woman at the end of the table offered.

“Yes, that’s true. But it’d be fine if you just call me Joanne or Joey.”

Sara took hold of Rafe’s arm and nodded toward one of the other tables. “Darling, we should circulate. There’s the Hendersons and Uncle Walt waving to us.”

“See you tomorrow, everyone. Are you all taking the White House tour in the morning?” Rafe asked.

Everyone nodded. Before they all walked off, Rafe turned to me and winked. Sally caught the wink and frowned but Martin pulled her away before she could say something to Rafe.

I caught sight of myself yawning in the full-length mirror in my hotel room, wearing Rafe’s white dress shirt that I’d secretly kept all these years since the brief time we’d shared an apartment. I was halfway across the room to the bed when there was a knock on the door. I looked at the digital clock on the nightstand and read 11:12PM. Buttoning up my shirt, I went to the door and asked who it was, thinking it was probably Alastair.

“Joey, it’s Rafe. Can I talk to you?”

I opened the door, clutching the shirt around me, regretting not having availed myself of the robe provided by the hotel.

“Rafe, it’s late. What in the world—”

“Joey, so that’s what happened to my shirt.” I pulled him into the room and closed the door.

“How do you know it’s yours?”

“My monogram’s on the cuffs.”

“Oh. Do...do you want it back?”

“No, frankly, you look better in the shirt than I ever did.”

“What do you want, Rafe?” We sat down on the two chairs on either side of the bistro table. I made sure to pull the shirt tails down to cover my thighs. Rafe’s eyes widened.

“I’m still in love with you, Joey—”

“Rafe, you’re about to get married in front of almost two hundred family members and guests tomorrow. It’s a little late in the day literally to have second thoughts. Especially second thoughts about the two of us. We quit this “relationship” four years ago when you left New York.”

“Answer me honestly, Joey. Do you love me…still?”

“I’ll always love you, Rafe.” He reached for me. I parried his hands. “As a friend. A forever friend.”

“I’d rather marry you.”

“You love Sara, don’t you?”

“Well…yes, of course.”

“She loves you?”

“Yes…I mean…I don’t know. She might be marrying me for my money—”

“Rafe! Her father manages or owns half of the commercial property in downtown Washington. She’s worth more than you, for chrissake! She seems to be a lovely girl who’s head over heels in love with you. It’s over between us. In fact, there was never really an “us.”

There was a stricken expression on his face that slowly morphed into a pleading look. He slumped in his chair. I poured a glass of water for him. He downed half of it in one gulp.

“I’ve moved on, Rafe. As I thought you had. I mean, you’re getting married tomorrow!”

“It’s this guy, Alastair? Are you and he a thing? Is that who you’ve moved on to?”

“You asked for honesty. Okay. My gender has changed from male to female. Actually, I’ve been living as a woman for almost 4 years now, even before the surgery. But you know that. What you don’t know. What you never asked—”

“I’m sorry, Joey. Running the company pretty much took all my time. I’ve had at most two weeks of vacation in 4 years—”

“You’ve had enough time to meet, date, and get engaged to Sara, Rafe. We barely spoke on the phone for two hours total, never mind actually seeing each other.”

“I accept all the blame. I should have made the time. Prioritize our relationship. Even living in two different cities, it could’ve worked. And with your transition, my mother would’ve gotten on board. She would have…”

“You never asked whether I was attracted to men after transitioning. It’s not something you can control.”

“You loved me before you met Elizabeth. Our love was pure. Not dirty and perverse like your relationship with her.”

“I’m still sorting things out, Rafe. Alastair is just a friend from work. A good friend but that’s all it is. He talked himself into being my plus one. He’s got the better car.”

“So there’s still hope? I could call the wedding off. We could start over again. I’ll spend weekends in New York. I’ll do anything, Joey.” He got down on his knees before me. I turned my head away, sad to see him reduced to groveling.

“Get up, Rafe. It’s no use. We had our chance. We can go on blaming each other all we want but the stars just didn’t align for us.” I led him to the door. “Go back to your room. Go back to Sara. She’s going to be your wife now. Save all your love for her. Don’t hurt everyone by doing something rash, especially yourself.”

“If I can’t have you, Joey, then it’s all meaningless—”

“Don’t be melodramatic. You have a wonderful future with Sara ahead of you.” I gripped the door handle. “We’d only end in tears. You know that.” I opened the door and gently nudged him through. I kissed two fingers and brushed them against his lips. “Good night. Your life really begins tomorrow. Get some good sleep.”

I closed the door and sank to the floor, crying until I had no tears left to shed and drifted off to sleep.

The wedding ceremony was scheduled for 5PM and guests were not expected to arrive until 4PM, so after taking the tour of the White House in the morning with all the other out-of-town guests, Alastair and I lunched on Maryland Crab Cakes at the oldest restaurant in town, the Old Ebbitt Grill, and spent the afternoon visiting the Smithsonian Museum, then strolling the National Mall from one end, the Washington Monument, to the other, the Lincoln Memorial. We got back to the hotel with just enough time to change into our formal attire for the ceremony to be held in the courtyard.

The cocktail hour lasted from 6 to 7 and then the formal reception promptly started in the main ballroom. The newlyweds were introduced and took the floor for the first dance. The sight of Rafe and Sara moving slowly across the floor, smiling, whispering to each other, laughing, and giggling, reminded me of what I had told Rafe the night before. That they seemed truly happy in this traditional moment brought a smile to my own lips. But then a frisson of regret struck me as I realized a major part of my life was now behind me, forever lost in the temporal stream.

After the first dance, everyone was invited to join in on the dance floor. Alastair proved to be quite a nifty ballroom dancer. His French mother had insisted upon dance lessons for her son when he hit his tween years. After stepping on his feet the third time, Alastair advised me not to keep staring at Rafe and Sara.

“You keep dancing me toward them, Alastair.”

“That’s for Rafe’s benefit not yours. I still can’t believe he visited your room last night.”

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it to you—”

“You snuck that tidbit in between bites of your crab cakes. I don’t blame him though. If it were me, I’d never give up on you.”

“Shut up and dance, Alastair. Oh, no, Sally’s moving toward us. Make a sharp left.”

Fortunately, they asked everyone to return to our tables. Dinner was served. They changed the seating so we were placed with a different group than at the welcome dinner. But apparently word had gotten around, most probably the source being Sally, that I was transgender. There was a lot of polite discussion of my “condition” until Alastair thankfully changed the subject. But, then, Alastair loves to talk about himself. He regaled our tablemates with anecdotes about everything from his Harvard days to working on 60 Minutes with Ed Bradley to the Emmy-winning segment he produced on the 30th anniversary of the release of The Rolling Stones’ “Satisfaction.”

“Did Keith Richards actually dream that riff and woke up to hum it into a tape recorder?”

“Yeah, he supposedly added the phrase, ‘I can’t get no satisfaction,’ and then collapsed back into a deep sleep. Ha ha.”

They cleared away our first course and replaced it with the main course. That ended Alastair’s monologue as we all dug into the grilled chicken with sweet summer vegetables. A boring but safe entrée. One of the guests at our table did have an alternate dish – beef brisket with mashed potatoes.

Toasts from the best man and the maid of honor interrupted our meal. Apparently, they had kept some material in reserve for the reception. It got the expected laughs and chuckles from the assemblage. Next, we applauded as the parent dances proceeded. Sara’s father quite adroitly led his daughter across the dance floor. Rafe’s mother openly cried as her son danced with her while the band played “Forever Young,” the Bob Dylan classic.

Once again, we were asked to fill the dance floor for another session of uncoordinated movement. This time they played more “current” music…for the kids. Now we were beyond the scope of Alastair’s terpsichorean skills. The selections from the band swerved wildly from “Cotton Eye Joe” to “This is How We Do It.” I had to show Alastair how to do it. I was glowing with lady-like perspiration when they wheeled the enormous multi-tiered wedding cake into the ballroom. After the cake-cutting with the bride and groom’s obligatory feeding of the first slices to each other, coffee and dessert were enjoyed by everyone.

As the final rite before the reception ended, all the eligible women lined up to receive the bouquet toss from Sara. Technically, that group included me but I chose to stand a bit off to the side, looking on with Alastair. Before Sara turned her back, she winked at me. Her toss went high and to the left, hitting Alastair smack dab in his face. He caught the bouquet as it bounced off, just before it landed on the floor. When he straightened up, holding the bruised bouquet, he blushed a deep crimson. Sara vigorously pointed to me. Alastair handed the bouquet to me. It was my turn to blush as the party applauded politely. I locked eyes with Rafe, standing behind Sara. He quickly turned away. As did I.

Rafe and Sara made their grand exit from the ballroom to applause and glow-sticks. It was almost 11PM when the guests said their farewells to everyone. Alastair and I fell in line with the guests who were ambling to the elevators, heading to their rooms on the upper floors. Stopping Alastair, I took him aside and suggested getting some air on the balcony. He nodded and took my arm in his.

From the balcony, in the cool breeze of a late Spring night, we could see the White House illuminated against the dark, just a few blocks away. I hardly noticed Alastair’s arm circle my waist as we pondered the evening skyline.

“Cold?”

“Actually, it’s refreshing. It was very stuffy in the ballroom. And the dancing got me a little…”

“Sweaty?”

“Women don’t sweat, Alastair. We glow—”

Sylvia Metheny, Rafe’s mother, emerged from the shadows. It was Alastair who first noticed her standing behind us. She had been watching us for a minute or two.

“Joey, can I speak to you?”

“Mrs. Metheny. Of course.”

Nodding at Alastair, “Alone. Please. There’s an alcove just over there. At this time of night there’s no one about—”

“Excuse us, Alastair. This shouldn’t take too long.” I gestured to Sylvia to go into the alcove. I followed.

In the alcove, Sylvia lit up a cigarette.

“I don’t think you’re allowed to smoke indoors.”

“Are you going to call the cops on me?”

“No, of course not. What is it you wanted to say, Sylvia?”

“When Rafe wanted to invite you, I vehemently objected. It was Sara who insisted. I thought that was strange but I conceded the argument. I want to thank you for not disrupting the wedding—”

“Why would I do such a thing?”

“Do you know why Rafe rarely called or visited you these last 4 years?”

“Yes, he’s been swamped with work, running his father’s company. I understood.”

“That’s part of it. I made it clear to him I didn’t want you in his life. I wanted him to lead a normal life. With a normal woman.”

“I see. And I suspected as much. But to be honest, Sylvia, I never expected to be invited. Whatever was between Rafe and I ended years ago. I ended it. So, I was never a threat to your vision of Rafe’s future.”

“Oh, yes, you definitely are. He was going to take a month off from his work to help you recover from your surgery in San Francisco. I told him I’d vote him out of the company if he did. I still hold the controlling shares on the board.”

“I’m not surprised.”

“He wouldn’t stop obsessing about you so I set him up with Sara. She’s a wonderful girl. Matt and I became fast friends with her parents from the first day we moved here, right before you two graduated from high school in Port Jefferson. Sara’s perfect for Rafe. Perfect for his future.”

“I agree. I wish only the best for them. And I’m sure they’ll produce lovely little grandkids to fill your dotage with joy and delight. Are we finished? Anything else you want to say to me?”

“I wanted to tell you that I have nothing against you. I’m glad you finally resolved your gender issues. You look wonderful. Honestly, you’re beautiful. And your friend, your plus one, seems like a nice young man. I wish you happiness, Joey. I…was thinking solely as Rafe’s mother. He deserves the best life. The best. His father worked very hard to see that his children…he didn’t live to see it. It became my mission when he passed on. You see that, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t, Sylvia. But it’s all in the past. You have nothing to worry about now. Good night, Sylvia.” I turned to step out of the alcove.

“Please don’t hate me. Joey. I did it for Rafe’s sake.”

“Poor Rafe.” The only words I uttered as Alastair walked me to my room. I inserted the key card into the door lock and pulled down the handle.

“Would you like to talk about it? There’s some wine in the minibar. I’m a good listener.”

“No thanks, Alastair. I’d like to get up early tomorrow and head back to the city, if you don’t mind.”

“There’s brunch tomorrow morning. It’s on the itinerary. And it’s free—”

“I’ll come by your room at 8. I’ll buy you brunch in Princeton on the way back. Pancakes. Your favorite nostalgic meal.” I smiled wanly and opened the door. Alastair was about to say something when I entered the room and closed the door behind me.

Friday morning. Christmas Eve. Alastair had called the night before to tell me he was taking the red eye from LAX and would land at JFK at around 8:30. A ride through rush hour and he’d be at our doorstep at 9:30. I was drinking the last of my morning cup of coffee and surfing the net on my tablet, reading the latest posts from my favorites on Substack, when the doorbell rang at a little past 9. Excitedly, I rushed to the door, thinking Alastair had made better time than he’d expected. When I looked through the peephole, I was surprised to see Rafe standing there holding a small, wrapped package at his side. I opened the door.

“Rafe! I thought you were leaving for Kingston today. Come in.”

“Morning, Joey. We are leaving today. I stopped by to give you your Christmas present.”

“Oh, Rafe. I didn’t get you anything. You shouldn’t have—”

He handed me the small package. It was professionally wrapped with a lovely bow and ribbon.

“Open it. Harlow’s in the car downstairs. We’re double parked.”

I carefully unwrapped the package to discover a slim rectangular box with the Tiffany & Co. logo emblazoned on it. Inside the box was a black Tahitian pearl necklace. I held it up against the light.

“Rafe, these are expensive. I’ve seen these going for $10,000.”

“$12,500 to be exact.”

“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”

“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”

“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”

“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”

“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.

The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.

“Alastair! You’re home.”

“Thank you, Rafe, but this is too extravagant. You really shouldn’t have…”

“Wear it to the Oscars when your screenplay is nominated.”

“I wish, Rafe.” I kissed Rafe on the cheek. “Thank you. Now, I feel guilty for not getting you something.”

“You already gave me my present, Joey. Just spending the past week with you. It was worth all the pearls in the ocean…and more.”

“Don’t, Rafe. Please don’t.” I wiped away a tear that was threatening to emerge. “Enough talk about the past.” I placed my index finger across his lips.

The lock on the door clicked and it swung open. Standing in the doorway, both hands holding luggage, was Alastair, a look of shocked surprise on his face.

“Alastair! You’re home.”

I rushed to him as he dropped his bags and leaped into his arms, crushing his lips with a big, overly dramatic kiss. Overly dramatic, yes, but I really was happy to see Alastair. I’d missed him terribly.

“Mmm. Now that’s what I call a welcome home. Is that who I think it is?”

“Yes, Alastair. It’s Rafe. He dropped by to give me a Christmas present—”

Alastair offered his hand to Rafe. “Hello, Rafe. It’s been almost 30 years since we met at your wedding. Elizabeth told us about Sara’s passing. My condolences.”

“Thank you, Alastair. And congratulations to you and Joey on your upcoming nuptials. When Elizabeth told me you and Joey were…do people still call it dating when it’s two mature adults? To be honest, I always thought you two belonged together—”

“Well, it took us 30 years and two marriages to other people to figure that out. You’re invited to the wedding, of course, as soon as Joey can tell me where and when this blessed event is going to take place.”

“Alastair, we talked about that. It’s going to be in Los Angeles after the new year in Philippa and Paul’s backyard. She practically insisted. She’s such a great friend. Who I never would have known had you not come back into my life—”

“Funny how some things remain in the past while others return…with a vengeance. Joey, remember when you and Elizabeth used to go on and on about Nietzsche’s theory of eternal return?” asked Rafe.

“We were comparing notes on our disparate disciplines, science and literature. She said Nietzsche’s Eternal Return reminded her of Poincaré’s Recurrence Theorem where dynamical systems will, after a sufficiently long but finite time, return to a state close to or exactly the same as their initial state…”

Touching the string of black pearls now decorating my neck, Alastair looked into my eyes and asked, searchingly, “Are there things in the past any of us might wish would return?”

I kept silent but conveyed my feelings about the scene playing out among us with my eyes in reply. Alastair seemed to understand. He backed away toward the door.

“You know, I haven’t had anything to eat in hours. They dish up a great breakfast at The Little Owl. Their bacon is to die for. I’ll order it to go. Rafe, you’ve eaten there, right? No? They used its exterior and the building for Friends. Their apartment? And the restaurant downstairs? It’s a five-minute walk from here. Grove and Bedford. Jo, can I get you anything?”

I shook my head and caught up to him at the door, giving him a peck on the cheek.

“Good to see you, Alastair. I’m leaving in a few. My daughter’s double-parked in front of the building. See you at the wedding. I’m retiring as soon as the sale of my firm is finalized so a trip to the West Coast sounds irresistible. Especially to see two good friends tie the knot.”

The door closed shut behind Alastair and I turned to see Rafe on his phone, telling Harlow to find another parking space.

“I’m doing my best, Pookie. I’ll call you when I’m coming out.” He disconnected.

“Pookie?”

“Her gran…my mom…gave her a plush puppy dog when she was like three and, for a reason only known to her, she named it Pookie. We just started calling her that. She hates it. Of course, that’s why I keep calling her that.”

“Sit down, Rafe.”

“Sounds ominous, Joey.”

“Seeing you this past week. It’s been so…so wonderful.” I held his face in my hands. “You’ll never know how hard it’s been on me. It’s taken every fiber of my being to resist taking your hand and going off with you, Rafe. I would have followed you to the moon if you had asked…thirty years ago.” I shook my head and tried to smile. Tears began to fall. His eyes softened and he leaned in to kiss me.

We kissed tenderly. His passion grew and he gently pushed me back onto the couch. I pushed back and, as if a switch had been flicked, I disengaged our lips, sitting up quickly.

“No, Rafe, I’m committed to Alastair now. He loves me. I love him. We’re getting married soon.” Rafe traced the tears on my cheek with a finger. “What we had…if we had anything at all…belongs in the past. I don’t believe you can relive the past. No matter how much we want to.” Rafe shifted to the far end of the couch and his face was a portrait in anguish.

“I thought time was on my side, Joey. I thought I’d wait you out. Eventually, we’d get back together even though we were hundreds of miles apart. You never gave me that sign.”

“I did, Rafe. I never had one date or even thought about anyone else for three years after you moved to Washington. You never made a move. Then, when I had my surgery, I told you I’d be in San Francisco for a month, recuperating. Maybe I was too subtle by half but when you told me you were too busy…”

“I was swamped by company business. I couldn’t get away—”

“No, it was your mother, Rafe. She told me she threatened to basically disown you. At the wedding, after the reception—”

“She…she told you?”

“Yes, so I know the truth, Rafe. If you’d truly loved me—”

“Joey—”

“As much as I loved you. I loved you so much! So much I was willing to sacrifice everything we ever had together so you could live the kind of life your family wanted for you. A great career, a wife, children. To give Sylvia the grandchildren she so desperately hoped you’d give her…”

“Joey—”

“You can never imagine the betrayal I felt. I wasn’t planning to attend your wedding. I wanted to decline the invitation. Just check the box that would make you vanish from my life. You know who practically forced me to come? Alastair. Because he knew I would benefit from a real closure. He was right. And what Sylvia told me after the reception clinched it. In the 27 years since that July night in Washington, I’ve tried to keep thoughts of you out of my mind. I’ve been very successful. Then we bumped into each other at the airport…”

“I thought the universe was finally bringing us back together. Like it was fate. Kismet—”

“You didn’t need the universe to do that, Rafe. If it was truly in your heart.” Rafe stood up from the couch and began to put on his overcoat. “Please take the pearls back, Rafe. Give them to someone you might meet on that cruise you’re planning to take.” I handed the pearls back to him, along with the Tiffany & Co. case.

“I’d like to come to your wedding, Joey, if you’ll have me. I want to see you happy. I do love you. I’m just a coward. I’m sorry.” I embraced him one last time. There were tears in his eyes.

“You meant a lot to me, Rafe. I want you to know that. Go. Go before Alastair comes back and hears me tell you that I never loved anyone as much as I loved you.”

From the window that looked out onto Perry Street below, I saw Rafe emerge from the building. He stepped up to the curb, looked in both directions, and took his phone out. He called Harlow. It was a brief conversation. After replacing his phone in his breast pocket, he turned around and looked up, trying to find the window to our apartment. I backed away from the window and waited until Harlow arrived to pick up her father. I watched their car head toward West Street to start its 2-hour trip to Kingston in upstate New York.

Minutes later, Alastair returned, carrying his breakfast in a bag.

“So that was his daughter? She favors Sara a great deal. How did your…uh…discussion go?”

“I cleared things up with Rafe. Whether it was satisfactory for him, I don’t know. But I was brutally honest with him.”

He threw his overcoat onto the couch, which provoked a frown from me, and started to unpack the breakfast he’d ordered from The Little Owl, placing the reusable containers on our kitchen table.

“I’m starving, Jo. I’ve got two cups of coffee. Want one?”

“I’m fine, Alastair. I’m going to change and go for a walk.”

“It’s a little more than brisk out there, babe. Let’s stay in. I’m a little sleepy still. I can never get any good shuteye on a plane—”

“No, I need some alone time. Oh, dammit, if we had a dog, I could just say I’m walking it.”

“I understand. It must have been a real trial having to deal with Rafe these past few days. And his family’s no picnic in the park—”

Having changed into a sweatsuit, I grappled with my anorak coat as I swiped a piece of bacon from one of Alastair’s containers. I stopped to enjoy its crispy goodness as Alastair reached out to finish zipping up my coat.

“When I get back from clearing my head, I’ll make us a little lunch. Then we need to do some shopping—”

“Shopping? Why?”

“I got a beautiful pashmina for your mom but I haven’t had the time to get anything for Sylvère.”

“How much time have you been spending with Rafe?”

“Oh, shut up, Alastair. Help me out. Is he a drinker? Should we get him a fifth of bourbon or a bottle of Courvoisier?”

“He wouldn’t be a Frenchman if he didn’t enjoy a stiff drink now and again. I’ll text maman and see what brand he prefers. Good thinking, Jo.”

The drive from the West Village of Manhattan to Greenwich, Connecticut normally takes almost exactly one hour via I-95. However, it’s a genuine slog when you undertake that trip on Christmas Eve afternoon. Alastair’s maman, Ottilie, was serving a traditional French Christmas Eve dinner at 8PM, so there was no concern on our part of being late. We set sail for the bourgeois backdrop of Greenwich at 3:30PM after securing Sylvère’s alcoholic gift and arrived at maman’s doorstep at 5:20PM.

Ottilie, a sprightly 78-year-old, greeted us at the door, only a shawl across her shoulders against the winter cold. Before a word could be uttered by either, she wrapped her arms around her son, kissing both cheeks. The second they disentangled arms, she went straight for my cheeks, also to “faire la bise,” as the French say.

I had, of course, spent many hours, spread out over almost 30 years, in her company. She was always delightful, a woman of much grace and humor, stylish in her day, and almost certainly the very model of Gallic beauty. Having lived in the States for over 50 years, there was little trace of her Parisian accent. She had begun to lose it even before then. She went from the genteel streets of the 5th arrondissement to the halls of University College London, where she met her future husband, fellow undergrad Robert Knowles. After marrying, Robert and Ottilie moved to New York City where Robert went to work as a journalist in 1966. A year later, their only child, Alastair, came into the world.

She ushered us into the house and, waiting for us in the living room, was her partner of 25 years, Sylvère, another French expatriate who had been living in the U.S. for over five decades. A tall man, even in his late 70s, he was almost eye-to-eye with Alastair, despite the slight stoop in his posture. A hardy handshake accompanied by vigorous shoulder cuffing and then Sylvère’s eyes turned to me.

“Ah, my petite fleur, Joanne! Beautiful as ever. Joyeux Noël!”
.
“Merry Christmas, Sylvère. Always the charmer. And that’s more French words than I’ve heard you say in the 20 years I’ve known you—”

“Alastair, these American women are brutally honest. It’s not good for a man’s ego.”

“I’m sure maman has read you the riot act once or twice, Sylvère.”

“Well, she’s lived here for so long she’s almost completely American by now…”

“Old man, stop bantering and be a good host. Ask them to be seated. I’ve set out the tea service and some butter cookies called sablés. Alastair, did you know there’s a new French bakery in town? That’s where I found these.”

“Oh, dear, Ottilie, I thought you baked these yourself. The icing is so cute. Little Christmas trees and…uh…”

“Santa Clauses?”

“Papa Noëls,” corrected Sylvère.

“Put those presents under the tree, Joanne and Alastair. Next to the ones labeled for you two.”

“Ottilie, you shouldn’t have. Alastair and I are far from children anymore.”

“It’s a good thing you aren’t. I had my eye on a pink tricycle at FAO Schwarz that just screamed out your name Joanne but, alas, they were sold out.”

“Honestly, I could use the exercise. I’m getting a little tummy. Too many great restaurants in LA.”

“Nonsense. You look absolutely scrumptious, Joanne. In fact, I could make a fine meal of you—”

“Sylvère! I’m sorry, Joanne. You can take a Frenchman out of France but…you know what I mean. When you’ve finished your tea, could you come into the kitchen and give me a hand, sweetie?”

“Of course. I’d be glad to. Yum. These cookies are delicious.”

“Do you cook, Joanne?” Ottilie opened the oven and plunged a thermometer into the turkey roasting in the pan. She read the temperature, nodded, and pushed the pan back in, closing the oven door.

“A little. It’s not a lot of fun cooking for one.”

“But you and Emily had little Eliot, didn’t you?”

“Emily did most of the cooking. I did some baking back in the day. Eliot loved pies of any sort. Apple pie, sweet potato pie, lemon pie, blueberry pie. I baked them all for him.”

“I read in the newspaper where Eliot is dating Elizabeth’s daughter, Jocelyn, the doctor.”

“There’s more to that than I can say, Ottilie. What kind of glazing are you using on the turkey?”

“Oh, that’s Alastair’s favorite. Honey with Dijon mustard. Sweet and spicy. Just like Alastair.” She laughed and I laughed along with her, although I wasn’t sure what she meant by that remark.

“Help me prepare the Apéro, dear. That’s a French pre-dinner tradition, especially in holiday meals. Little bite-size goodies served with champagne. We have that in the salon. Afterwards, everyone migrates to the dinner table.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“See those blinis on that tray? The things that look like miniature pancakes. Yes, that tray. There’s some smoked salmon in the fridge. Put a sliver of salmon on each one and a dollop of sour cream. That’s in the fridge next to the…that’s it, sweetie. Chop up some dill and place a sprig on each one. Got it?”

“I’ve never had one of these.”

“They’re savory little bites of pure joy. Speaking of joy, Joanne. I’m so happy that Alastair finally proposed to you. I’ve always hoped he could find a true life partner. Someone who could return his love and devotion—”

“What about Lulu? They were happy for a time, weren’t they?”

“That woman? Don’t even mention her name to me. It’s a blessing they never had children.”

“If you’re hoping I’ll give you grandchildren—”

She took hold of my wrist to stop my chopping. “No, that’s not what I meant. I don’t have an insatiable desire for grandbabies. I want my son to be happy. To be loved and cherished as I did his father. And I know you will do that…for my boy.”

“He’s hardly a boy.”

“He’ll always be my baby boy.” Noticing my silence, she turned me around to face her. “Why are you crying, dear girl?”

“I’ve always wanted to be a mother. To have a child that came out of my womb. But the universe played a dirty trick on me and had me born with boy parts instead of my proper bits…”

Ottilie hugged me. “I know. I know, cherie. But that doesn’t make you less of a woman. In fact, you are the only woman my son has ever really, truly loved. He’s been in love with you for 28 years. You are woman enough for him. Now, I hope and pray he’s man enough for you.”

I wiped my eyes, smearing my mascara, I’m sure. “He is, Ottilie. He is. He’s shown me what real love can be.”

“Now that we’ve cleared that matter up, go and fix your make-up. It’s Christmas Eve. No time for tears. Only for smiles and laughter. And good French cooking!”

Sylvère put on a cd of music by French classical composers as we ate our Christmas feast. I looked at the track list on the back of the jewel box and saw familiar names: Satie, Debussy, Couperin, Ravel, Fauré, Berlioz, etc. It felt as if we were in a French movie from the last century. Perhaps a bourgeois family dinner between the wars in a house on the outskirts of Paris, Neuilly-sur-Seine or Maisons-Laffitte.

Ottilie is a great cook. It was the most sumptuous holiday meal I had ever eaten. We started with foie gras, placed gently not spread over toasts of baguette. Then we enjoyed bowls of sweet and creamy butternut squash soup, topped with grated cheese.

The main course, of course, was Alastair’s favorite, honey-glazed roast turkey. I was pleasantly surprised to discover that Ottilie had filled the turkey with a traditional French chestnut stuffing. The turkey was surrounded on its platter by side items such as roasted potatoes, chestnuts, and cooked apples.

Dessert was heavenly. Crème brûlée in pristine ramekins that looked like glamor photos in a French cookbook. Alastair and I managed to pierce the caramelized topping without collapsing the entire surface. Sylvère was impressed. When I complimented Ottilie on the crème brûlée, I asked her if it were a family recipe.

“Oh, my dear, no. It’s from an episode of that Nigella Lawson series that was on cable TV years ago on the Food Network.”

As we waddled away from the dinner table to sink our bloated forms into the cushy depths of the living room couch, I made an executive decision. Going over to the Christmas tree, I pulled Sylvère’s gift out from under it.

“Instead of opening your gift tomorrow morning, I think it could be put to better use right now.” I unwrapped the bottle of Courvoisier cognac and presented it to Sylvère. He smiled broadly.

“I knew it was a good idea for Alastair to ask you to marry him. You’re a woman of refined taste, Joanne. Ottilie, break out the tulip glasses.”

“I’ll help you, Ottilie.”

“We’ll need some ice too,” Alastair added as Ottilie and I walked into the kitchen.

“Alastair, my boy. Cognac should always be served at room temperature and warmed in the hand. What did they teach in the fleshpots of Hollywood?”

“Obviously, not the proper way to drink cognac.”

“So, this wasn’t your bedroom as a child, Alastair?”

Alastair turned in bed to spoon me, whispering in my ear, “No. My folks bought this house after I went off to college. This is a guest bedroom.”

“Why are you whispering?”

“The walls are paper-thin. It’s Greenwich but most of the houses in this section of town were built post-war. A lot of young couples starting out in life after the war ended. Quickly built, economically built, you know?”

“You don’t think Ottilie and Sylvère suspect we fuck?”

“I know. I feel silly but, still, that’s my mother in the other room. It’s weird.”

“Didn’t you and Lulu ever stay here overnight?”

“No. Maman hated Lulu. She wouldn’t let her set foot in the house.”

“Why was that?”

“It’s a long story and one I’d rather not talk about. Maybe I’ll tell you someday…”

“We can be really quiet, Alastair.”

“You’re a wild one, Jo.”

December 28, 2022. Alastair and I had just flown home to Los Angeles from New York. The moment it seemed we got off the plane, Michelle Gravesend, the Chief Content Officer at GlobalNet (Alastair’s boss) texted Alastair to remind him that we were expected to be on the company’s New Year’s Eve moonlight cruise. In fact, we were expected to board the yacht in Marina Del Rey at least a half hour earlier than our guests, in order to help greet them at the dock.

“Me too?” I asked.

“As the co-writer of GlobalNet’s next international box office smash hit – and soon to be in pre-production – it’ll be the first time our guests will have the opportunity to meet and interact with you. Also, as my bride-to-be, I want to show you off to that insular community we like to call…Hollywood!”

“Well, if you put it that way.”

“You like me showing you off?”

“No. Meeting all these Hollywood types. Is Chris Hemsworth or Idris Elba invited?”

“I thought you were more into the Paul Rudd or Tom Holland type—”

“I’d settle for Jennifer Lawrence or Emma Stone.”

“There’s a better chance of either of those two playing you in the movie than dating you, Jo.”

“Wait. Really? You’re joking—”

“We’ve had some preliminary discussions with them, among others. Jennifer is very interested actually. At least her agent tells me—”

“I’m going to check with Philippa to see if you’re pulling my leg.”

“She and Paul are coming on the cruise too. Ask her then.”

“If Philippa were believable as a Caucasian blonde woman, I’d have her play me. After all, she’s a transwoman…”

“I floated the suggestion to Michelle that you play yourself. In the contemporary portion of the story of course—”

“Alastair, that’s sweet. But two things. One, I haven’t acted since I played the Ghost of Christmas Present when I was 15. Two, the character in the movie is just that, a fictional character. Granted, it’s based on me but—”

“I know. A lot of people would be up in arms at how they’re portrayed…even though that’s exactly how they thought and behaved. Some were unnecessarily cruel, others just ignorant.”

“I changed things around enough so that no one can claim it’s libelous.”

After a light brunch at Bacari’s in Beverly Grove, Philippa and I went to our 11AM appointments at Weal & Spoke, the trendiest of trendy hair salons in Los Angeles, on West 3rd Street, a short distance away. I figured on spending a good 4 hours there before I could declare my hair presentable for the New Year’s Eve cruise the next evening. Philippa, on the other hand, would probably be finished an hour or more before me. Her youth and lovely Eurasian hair would make her stylist’s work quick and easy. Blow drying all that hair would be the biggest problem. Volume is one thing Philippa had no issue with.

By the luck of the draw, we were assigned to chairs facing each other and our stylists started work simultaneously, giving us the opportunity to converse freely and easily a mere few feet across from each other. We didn’t have to shout.

“Jo, are you really going to invite Rafe to the wedding?”

“Of course. Why shouldn’t I?”

“If I were Alastair, I don’t think I’d want my bride-to-be’s “love of her life” making googly eyes at her all through the ceremony. I hope Rafe’s a teetotaler. Resentment and regret make for loud drunks—”

“Rafe would never do anything to hurt me or ruin such an important day in my life—”

“He married some other woman, Jo! That was bad enough.”

“We all make bad decisions, Phil. Not everyone’s as lucky as you were with Paul.”

“That’s true. So, now that you’re back in town…for good…we need to knuckle down on the wedding planning. We barely started putting together your guest list. Oh, by the way, Paul thinks he can get that jazz quartet we went to see in October to play at the reception.”

“Oh, I really liked them. Alastair’s a real jazz buff though. He’ll have to sign off on them. Are they still playing weekends at the Vibrato Grill?”

“I’ll check. Speaking of the Vibrato, I still can’t believe Herb Alpert was there the same night we were there.”

“Well, he owns the place, Phil. I wanted to go and get his autograph but he was preoccupied with an older couple at his table. I didn’t want to intrude.”

“Oh, that was Shuggie Brennan and her husband Bobby what’s-his-name.”

“Who?”

“Jo! You don’t know who Shuggie Brennan is? Hint, hint. She’s got something in common with the both of us.” I wracked my brain for a moment before it came to me. She’s the transwoman who had a string of hit records in the ‘70s and ‘80s. I must have seen her a couple of times on The Midnight Special.

“Oh, how dumb of me. You’re right. I should have recognized her.”

“Are you going to invite Elizabeth?”

“I guess I should. Maybe she’ll bring her daughter Joey as her plus one. I hope so. I wonder if she’ll still be with that chef guy when the wedding takes place.”

“You don’t think they’ll last until February or March?”

“Knowing Elizabeth? Nah, odds are against it.”

About two hours into our ordeal, Philippa and I sprang for coffee and banana pudding from Magnolia Bakery, up the street, for everyone. I ordered three each of the Red Velvet and Chocolate Hazelnut cups.

Sometime after 3PM, we waltzed out of the salon and our hair was perfect! The rest of the afternoon was spent at Philippa and Paul’s house in Los Feliz, playing with their daughter Clarissa. She complimented me on my hair. Smart girl! She had the makings of a couturier before the age of three.

Alastair and I were assigned the duty of greeting guests at the gangway ramp. With the cool breeze coming off the Santa Monica Bay on an ostensibly 50° Fahrenheit evening, I was shivering in my black strapless party dress. Alastair put his arm around my shoulders and that helped a little bit. That and nibbling on my neck.

Sadly, neither Idris Elba nor Chris Hemsworth showed up to be greeted by me. Apparently, mega stars in Hollywood have better New Year’s Eve parties to attend than the GlobalNet cruise that circled the bay from Point Dume in Malibu to the Palos Verde peninsula. The majority of the 100 or so guests were a handful of GlobalNet lead actors, co-stars, some other above-the-line production people, top tier executives, board members, and a major investor or two. Most of them knew Alastair by name if not by sight. Me, I was a new face and name. A few of the older gentlemen sneaked a kiss on the cheek rather brazenly. One of them even kissed Alastair!

Late arriving but a welcome sight were Paul and Philippa. We hugged and kissed both cheeks.

“It’s almost time for them to retract the gangway. Dinner’s about to be served, guys.”

“Mom couldn’t get Clarissa to sleep. She wanted to come to the party,” laughed Philippa.

“I have a sneaky suspicion your mom’s going to let Clarissa stay up to watch the ball drop at Pacific Park on TV,” Paul noted as they made their way up the gangway ramp.

Our late dinner was served at almost 10PM after the obligatory cocktail hour and mingling on deck. GlobalNet provided guests with a choice of four main courses: pan-seared chicken breast, smoked chili-rubbed Atlantic salmon (Alastair’s choice), Za’atar flat iron steak, and potato gnocchi with winter vegetables (my choice). Dessert was either chocolate toffee crunch cake or Spanish Basque-style cheesecake souffle. Unfortunately, Paul and Philippa were seated halfway across the room at another table with mostly other directors and writers and their spouses.

The main attraction at our table was a young actor named Trent Foster, who had just been Golden Globe-nominated for his role as a young Albert Einstein in the screen adaptation of the Philip Glass opera, Einstein on the Beach. Charmingly, he had escorted his mother to the party. She didn’t contribute much to the conversation at our table but was very effusive in her praise of the food.

“So, Trent, I never knew Albert Einstein was a surfer,” asked Alastair in a mocking tone.

“Poetic license, Al. I mean, how do you make the opera relatable to a general audience? We’re not producing this for a bunch of scientists and mathematicians. When’s the last issue of Scientific American that had a music review column?”

“Oh, Alastair, Trent had nothing to do with the adaptation. He’s an actor. He just reads the lines on the pages they give him. I thought you were very good in the movie. Especially when you recited poetry while riding your board on what looked like a tsunami wave,” I said with sincere admiration.

“Yeah, those lines were written by Christopher Knowles, a thirteen-year-old poet on the autism spectrum. Knowles is in his 60s now. Still in Brooklyn I believe. Say, Alastair, are you related to Christopher?”

“Uh, no. I am related to Chris Knowles, the comic book writer and artist, who did “Halo, An Angel’s Story.”

“No shit! I loved that comic book series—”

“Trent! Language, please.”

“Sorry, mom. Of course, it’s a little before my time. I wasn’t even born in 1996 when that first came out.”

“This souffle is just yummy! Trent, how’s the crunch cake?”

“Alastair, we’re having a little impromptu meeting at my table right now. Excuse us, Joanne. Everyone.” Michelle Gravesend, Alastair’s boss, stood behind Alastair’s chair, smiling her gracious host smile. “Go up on deck and enjoy the music. It’s a beautiful night.”

After making a brief stop at the Ladies’ Room, I joined the crowd on deck. On the way, I passed by Michelle’s table and everyone seated there was involved in an intense discussion. Alastair was seated to Michelle’s right. Surrounding them were Harold Leong, Chairman and CEO, George Hollander, CFO, Rick Baldry, Director of International Production, and Mary Legler, EVP of the Legal Department. I couldn’t help but notice Alastair didn’t look too happy about whatever they were saying.

I had planned to reconnoiter with Paul and Philippa, the only couple I knew at the party, once I was out on deck but they were hidden somewhere in the throng. I decided to avail myself of a glass of Chardonnay. While I was sipping slowly, keeping an eye out for Paul and Philippa, a young person of indeterminate gender approached me. They were incongruously dressed in a rumpled sweatshirt, torn jeans, and a moth-eaten ball cap. My first thought was: doesn’t the catering staff have to wear a standard uniform?

“Are you Joanne Prentiss?” Their voice trembled.

“Yes? How can I help you?”

They took off their cap and brushed their hair back in place. “I’m Marla Mulholland. You don’t recognize me, do you?”

“Should I? Have we met?”

Their voice became squeakier and a torrent of words came out. “That’s my Twitch name. I’m the most streamed femboy in North America. I’m also on Only Fans but you have to pay to subscribe to that. I heard about your film and my friend who knows someone in the catering crew got me onto this cruise because they found out you were going to be here too. I’m really talented. You should watch my streams. Don’t let this get around but I’m really acting as this character of Marla Mulholland. It’s not the real me. I do it to get views—”

“Whoa, hold up, Marla, or whatever your real name is. I’m just the writer of this movie. I have nothing to do with casting.”

“But the main character is you, Joanne Prentiss. Wouldn’t you be the best judge of who could best play you on the silver screen?”

“That’s a fictional character. It’s not me.”

“But the character’s named Joey just like you. It’s you.”

“You’re too feminine looking to play the younger version of the main character anyway.”

“That’s no problem. I’m detransitioning. This whole femboy act is getting complicated.”

“You’re not trans or you’re tired of cross-dressing?”

“I have my doubts. It was fun for a while. And I was getting a lot of donations to my Twitch streams. But I do like acting! It’s what I really enjoy. The camera loves me too.”

“You’re very cute, Marla, I’ll give you that. But, like I said, I have nothing to do with casting.”

“Do you know Alastair Knowles, the production guy? My friend’s been trying to get in touch with him.”

“Is your friend an agent?”

“No, she’s my girlfriend. But she’s taking business classes at USC and plans on becoming one.”

“You need to get a real agent. They’ll be able to open up the channels of communication for you. It’s all about who you know in this town.”

“How do I get an agent?”

“Put together a reel of your best streaming bits. The ones that show off your acting chops. Then submit it to an agent who handles performers similar to you. Good luck. It’s the best advice I can give you.”

“Thank you, Joanne. You’re a sweetheart. Just the way I imagined you to be. I’ll do what you suggest. Since I’m here anyways, could you point out Alastair to me?”

“He’s in a meeting right now below deck. I don’t think he wants to be interrupted right now. Perhaps after midnight—”

“Oh, there’s Trent Foster! He’s absolutely dreamy, don’t you think? Thanks again, Joanne.” They walked quickly away toward where Trent Foster was standing, pointing at the sky, and surrounded by giggling women of all ages.

I turned to place my empty glass of Chardonnay down on the serving table when I almost crashed into Selena Portmanteaux, two-time Oscar winner and one of the grand dames of American cinema.

“Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t see you standing there. Oh my God, it’s Selena Portmanteaux!”

“And you must be Joanne Prentiss.” She offered her right hand. We shook.

“I didn’t see you come aboard. And Alastair and I were the unofficial official greeters.”

“My husband Derek and I were…a little late. We arrived after the yacht had already departed.”

“How did you get on board?”

“A dinghy. We hired a dinghy. It’s a real struggle getting on board a yacht from a dinghy wearing a party dress and heels.”

“I can imagine.”

“Here, have another glass. Chardonnay?” I accepted the offered glass and took a quick sip.

“Well, you look stunning, nevertheless.”

“Thank you. So do you, Joanne. You’re very impressive…in the flesh. Your photos don’t do you justice.”

“Are you working on a GlobalNet project?”

“I hope to. You could help me out, Joanne.”

“Selena, you’re kidding. Me? Help you? I’m sure Michelle and Alastair would jump over hoops to get you involved with the network. How could I help?”

She took me by the crook of my arm and led me to the railing, away from the maddening sound of raised voices and clinking glasses.

“Your script is remarkable, Joanne. The best I’ve read in years. I need to play you—”

“It’s not me. It’s based on me but—wait a minute! How did you get your hands on the script? Philippa and I haven’t even gotten the final notes on it yet.”

“Derek plays racquetball with Harold Leong every Tuesday at the Athletic Club. They’re tight and Harold passed along his copy of the most recent draft. I read it immediately!”

“Alastair doesn’t know?”

“Harold’s his boss not the other way around. Come hell or high water, I’m playing you, honey.”

“I’d be incredibly flattered but, Selena, I would love to have the part played by a transwoman. Michelle thinks it could be a real breakthrough role for the trans community of actors—”

“Michelle’s a businesswoman, first and foremost. Not to humble brag but if I headlined this movie, you’d all be rolling in dinero, big time. My films have grossed a billion dollars in the last three years. I’m internationally known…”

“But you’re a cis woman. Sorry but you couldn’t portray the nuances of being a transwoman—”

“I’m an Oscar-winning actor, Joanne. I can inhabit the main character’s world, feel what she feels, behave the way she would, say the things she would say. Alright, here’s my proposition. Let me birddog you for a month, two months. Observe you. Learn about your life experiences from you. Get to know the people, places, and events that have shaped you. Better than reading a biography. Living alongside the subject herself!”

“What about your husband, Derek?”

“Joanne! I’m not proposing we engage in wife-swapping, for godsake,” she laughed. “Don’t worry. I won’t be sharing your bed at night. Derek and I will rent a place very close by and spend as much time with you as possible. More like a 9 to 5 gig. With occasional overtime.”

“I don’t know what to say other than it sounds ludicrous on the face of it. I don’t think Alastair would go for it either.”

“He will. If he values his job. I’m putting together an agenda for Michelle right now. Harold is on board already.”

“I could pull the script from GlobalNet—”

“Let’s be real, Joanne. You can’t. They own it. They paid for it, lock, stock, and barrel. Happy New Year. Oh, there’s Trent Foster. He’s delicious, don’t you agree?”

“I think you’re older than his mom—”

“That could be a factor in my favor.” She walked away but not before turning to smirk and shoot me a playful cat wink.

I finally found Paul and Philippa at the other end of the deck. They were standing at another serving table filled with glasses of wine and champagne.

“Oh, there you are. I’ve been searching for half an hour.”

“We moved around a bit. Paul wanted to chat up some people about a project we want to do that…” Philippa cupped her mouth and whispered,”…we’re thinking of producing ourselves.”

“Yeah, don’t tell Alastair,” Paul implored. “Nothing against him, you understand.”

“We want to be the captains of our own ship, you know.”

“Well, good luck. I hope this doesn’t mean we won’t ever work together again, Phil.”

“Oh, no, Joanne, we’ll write together. I promise. I think of you as my older sister—”

“I’m old enough to be your mother. Even if it isn’t physically possible,” I laughed.

“Joanne Prentiss!” a distinct British accent practically bellowed. I turned and had to stoop down to see to whom the voice belonged. It was Felicia Framingham, the well-known British character actress and unintentional chat show comedian.

“Joanne Prentiss! I must speak to you!”

“Felicia, I’m delighted to meet you. I’m a fan. You were wonderful in the latest Star Wars movie—”

“That was Dame Maggie Smith. I’ve never been in a science fiction film. Hate those things. All those special effects and loud explosions. Not for me.”

“Lord of the Rings! You were marvelous in that trilogy—”

“You’re older than I thought! Those films were twenty years ago, my dear. Regardless, I must speak to you about this transgender movie that my agent keeps mentioning. I believe there’s a role for an actor of my age, as it were.”

“Yes, the epilogue of the movie is from the viewpoint of the main character when she’s living in an assisted living home…”

“Well, I don’t really know who you are. I’m halfway across the globe and I rarely pay too much attention to what transpires here in the States but my agent tells me this will be quite the cultural landmark when it’s released and…” She turned to Paul and Philippa. “I’m all for cultural landmarks. I’m a lesbian, you might know.”

“I’d be so honored to have you involved in the movie.”

“What’s more it would be convenient for me. I heard you’re going to shoot this in London at Pinewood.”

“That’s Alastair’s plan. We have a working agreement with them.”

“Oh, yes, Alastair Knowles. I knew his grandfather the baronet. He wasn’t too happy when Alastair’s father married that French girl and moved to the States.”

“I wonder if he would’ve been happy to see his grandson marry a transwoman.”

“He would have choked on his cigar. But we live in a different society now. At least I believe we’ve progressed. My nephew became my niece. She married the loveliest girl.” Again, she turned to Paul and Philippa. “I told her lesbians are the best. I did, most certainly.” She turned back to me. “I have the most adorable grandnieces now. Both in university. She had stored some sperm before her surgery. You know, for the bottom bits. You didn’t do that, did you, dear?”

“No, it didn’t occur to me that I’d want to have children back then. I suppose that was a miscalculation on my part. Emily and I could have had our own children—”

“Emily?”

“Yes, my wife. She passed almost ten years ago.”

“A modern Tiresias. Indeed. Well, I actually came over here to get a glass of champagne. Another example of synchronicity, don’t you think? Oh, look, is that Trent Foster? He’s a lovely young man. Reminds me of an American soldier I knew at Cambridge. Very nice to meet you all.” She walked briskly toward where Trent was last seen with more vigor than you could expect from an 80-year-old.

“I see you’ve met Felicia.” Alastair picked up a glass of champagne and toasted all three of us in turn. “Michelle asked me to send Paul and Philippa down below. She and some of the other officers of the company want to talk to you two.”

“What’s this about?” asked Paul.

“You’ll see.” He patted Paul on the shoulder. “It’s nothing bad. Now, get moving.”

They left Alastair and me alone and he led me to the railing.

“Jo, I just got new marching orders from top management.”

“Marching, as in…you’ve been fired?”

“No, honey. They could’ve just done that by text if they wanted. It’s something that’ll put a crimp in our plans for the near future.”

“Don’t say we’re not having the wedding—”

“Well, it might have to wait a couple of months.”

“Oh, Alastair. I can’t wait to be your wife…officially.”

“It’ll happen, I promise. But, first, we’re going to spend a few months in Paris—”

“Paris? Paris, France?”

“No, Paris, Texas. Of course, Paris, France. Old Alastair has been told to shepherd two co-productions with Gaumont. One of them is an international remake and update of Jules and Jim with dual dialogue tracks in English and French. The other project is still being decided. Probably an American noir from the classic period.”

“Rafe used to laugh at me for liking Jules and Jim so much. It’s such a masterpiece.”

“I guess you’ll never stop thinking about Rafe and what could have been.”

“I love you, Alastair. Only you.”

We kissed. I held onto Alastair for an eternity. The murmuring in the crowd got louder as they realized the yacht had returned to Marina Del Rey, timed so that the ball drop at Pacific Park at midnight, and the fireworks display could be in optimal view as it crossed the bay.

In a few minutes, 2023 arrived. There was a roar of exultation. Many among us looked forward to a joyful new year. Including Alastair and me.

A week before Alastair and I were scheduled to leave for France, I got a voice call from Elizabeth in the middle of the day. That surprised me. Elizabeth hated talking on the phone and, if it was something important, usually waited until the evening to make a call.

“Elizabeth? It’s a surprise to hear from you. You normally text.”

“Text me the coordinates, Elizabeth. I’ll see you in Seattle.”