Trading Faces
(or Call It A Weakness)
an SRU Tale
by Bek D Corbin
Angela H. Delarosa sullenly strolled down the galleria. Normally, she could find something here to get her mind off of her troubles, even if she had to haul her ass all the way out from NYC to home, sweet home, Greenwich. But there was no getting out from under her woes this time. She was coming slowly, inexorably to the end of her rope.
Then she spotted something that knocked her completely out of her funk. She was sure that it hadn't been here the last time she was around, and was it a little shabby for the perpetually upscale suburb, especially for such a new shop. But over the door carved in a faux wooden plaque was "Spells 'R' Us". Spells 'R' Us?
But the Spells 'R' Us Shop was only a really silly bull session story told by drunken Sorority girls to see exactly how gullible pledges were! Stupid tales of obnoxious Frat boys turned into pneumatic bimbos. She'd even sat in on a couple of sessions where sexy, bosomy Cheryl Masters had insisted that she had once been a Frat boy named Chad at the Delta Iota Kappa frat house. It was completely ridiculous of course, but it might be worth a look.
She opened the tacky door, tripping the near-mandatory bell. The shop was cluttery and dusty, and really didn't belong in Greenwich. Behind the counter, reading a magazine was a cute-looking, well-developed brunette girl. By her side on the counter were what looked like a game-board with holes in it, and a pile of pegs. She looked up from her magazine, and smiled brightly. "Hi, Angela! It's about time you showed up!"
"But, what, how...?"
The girl jerked a thumb towards a painted sign on a far wall. It said, "He knows because he's a Wizard."
Angela looked askance at the girl. "'Because He's a wizard?'"
The girl shrugged. "The Boss is in the back doing something wizardly. I'm Dannie. Welcome to Spells 'R' Us, where stupid tales of obnoxious Frat boys turned into pneumatic bimbos are born. Here we have a wonderful selection of doo-dads, gimcracks, knick-knacks and boondoggles. _So_, tell me your troubles."
"What makes you think that I have troubles?"
"Hey, you wouldn't be here, and- more to the point- this shop wouldn't be here, if you didn't.
"Wellllll...., if this IS the Spells 'R' Us shop, then wouldn't you already know what my problem is?"
"Yeah, but you gotta verbalize it first. Them's the rules; I don't make 'em, I just occasionally trip over 'em."
"Why?"
"Y'got six or seven years to spare, just to hear the basics?"
Angela passed on that and started in on her tale. "I've only been married for four years, and my marriage is already falling apart. I married Frank straight out of college, and never had a chance to see if I could make it on my own. Frank was a senior, and had done two tours of duty with the navy, while I was just a sophomore. He was wonderful and romantic. But he only married me for my family connections. You see, he was raised in a Catholic orphanage, and my father is Jeremy Harcourt, a senior partner at Ashton, Harcourt & Jenks, the brokerage firm. Thanks to my father's connections, Frank's career took off like a rocket. But now, my looks are starting to go..."
Dannie started to open her mouth to say that Angela was still a very good looking woman, who might stand to lose, say 20 or 30 pounds, but with a reasonable diet and moderate exercise- but had been a woman long enough to know better.
"My looks are starting to go, and he's spending more and more time at work. I'm sure that he's either screwing around or setting me up to get a divorce."
"So what? You're young and still pretty, your family is rich, and divorce ain't the big hoo-hah it used to be. If anything, it would probably hurt him more socially than it would you."
"But it is! You see, he made me sign a very binding pre-nup, and Daddy- well, Daddy took it in the chin when those damn Dot.Com stocks went south. I have no money of my own, and Frank is smart and mean enough to tie up what funds-in-common I could claim seven ways to Sunday. I gave up my own studies to be his wife, and I have no job skills! He said that there would be no need for me to have to learn them! But now, I've put on a few pounds, and he's sniffing around somewhere else, the pig! He has everything set just the way that He wants it, and there's no way that I can get out from under his thumb!" She began to cry softly. To console herself, Angela reached into her purse, pulled out a small box of chocolates, and popped one in her mouth. She looked at Dannie "Call it a weakness."
Dannie propped her chin up with her arm on the counter. "That's very sad, but exactly what do you want? To be somebody else? For your husband to love you again? To be slim and beautiful, so you can hold his interest?"
"NO! I want that RAT to know how helpless I feel! I want to be the one with him under my thumb!"
A deep voice boomed from the back "Well spoken! We can definitely help you out, under those terms." An old man in a tatty robe came from a room in the back, smoking an odd looking pipe with a kind of high domed metal lid. "But, before we make any transactions, one clarification- which do you want: Justice, Revenge, or Power?"
"Why, Justice, of course!"
"Ah, well then..." The old man rummaged around in a cabinet for a bit, and pulled out a jewelry box. He lay the box on the counter and opened it. In the box, lying on a bed of green velvet, was a hand-wrought gold medallion. On the face of the medallion was a stylized character that Angela felt she should have recognized but didn't. "Take this medallion and place it around your neck. Then, when you think the time is right, place it around your husband's neck. When that is done, you will have the upper hand- for as long as you can keep it. And I assure you, Justice will be done."
Angela picked up the medallion. "How much?"
"Five bucks."
"Five dollars?"
"Hey, business is business."
Even if it were only piece of junk jewelry from a schlock shop with a really obscure theme, five bucks for a medallion that size was still a good buy. "Sure, I mean, why not? Do you take plastic?"
"Sorry, all payments are strictly cash- and Karma. But we insist on providing a receipt."
*****
Once outside, Angela felt a twinge of buyer's remorse and turned around. But the tacky little shop wasn't there. Instead the Stationary shop and the Food Court were flush against each other. But- that was impossible- unless... Suddenly, Angela felt her entire paradigm shift- the Spells 'R' Us Shop was real! There were beings that could alter the very fabric of reality at will! Cheryl Masters really had been turned into a girl! It explained why, against all odds, logic and the laws of Averages, her college had the highest averaged bra cup size in the academic world!
Angela looked down at the box in her hand. She could barely keep from laughing out loud. For a measly five bucks, the Wizard had given her the ability to take control of her life!
*****
Dannie looked out the window at Angela through the window, from a vantagepoint just barely out of shift with Angela's reality. "Ah, Master- I didn't think we dealt in those medallion thingies. I mean, it doesn't really fit into your change-dudes-into-babes schtick. Don't you have an agenda with that?"
"Yep. Not to worry, Dannie. I prefer to let these things work themselves out a bit before I lay on the major mojo."
"Since when?"
*****
Frank T. Delarosa trudged out of the phonebooth-sized elevator into the cramped hallway. By corporate office standards, it was squalid- by the standards of Manhattan condominiums, it was downright luxurious. The african-american woman who lived two doors down hustled past him without a word. It occurred to him that he didn't have the slightest idea of what her name was. He remembered something he'd read somewhere, about how those who grew up in boarding schools didn't have any problems being in jail- only those who grew up in the comparative intimacy of slums find prisons so heart-breaking.
He opened the door. The place wasn't a mess, but that was only because of three-times-a-week visits from a cleaning service. Even the less than homey air of the apartment wasn't what made coming home so hard- it was who he was coming home to. After a long week of cozening nervous investors into coming to something vaguely resembling a working arrangement, he really didn't want to come home to yet another session of how he was personally responsible for [suppressing, blocking, diminishing, eclipsing, invalidating: pick one] her.
He'd run into Derek Kryczek again that afternoon. They'd exchanged the usual nasty asides, and generally made lunch unpleasant. Ol' Dirk and him had been best buddies in college. They'd studied together, played touch football together, gotten seriously drunk together, and dated the same women. It was the last thing that had screwed them over- to wit; they'd both dated Angela. What had started out as merely uncomfortable slowly escalated into unrelenting bitterness. And he'd won- or so he thought. If he had won, then why did coming home to the spoils of his victory fill his stomach with twinges of anxiety?
Angela was sprawled across the sofa, a highball glass in one hand, her other in a box of chocolates and a snarky grin on her face. "Hey, Frank! You're home! I'm so glad to see you!"
Well, THAT was a change! No 'it's about time you got back', or 'you get to work in a great big office, while I'm stuck in this dinky apartment'. But his well-developed sense of suspicion wouldn't let him take it at face value. They fenced verbally for a while, but for some reason, Angela never started in on her usual round of recriminations. She always kept that sneaky smile on her face, like she was holding onto a special secret. That was it for Frank- as soon as he could get something, anything on Angela, he'd drop divorce papers on her so fast that it would break the sound barrier.
After a bit of repartee as foreplay, Angela decided that it was time to lower the boom. "Honey, I picked up a new piece of jewelry today."
"Oh, Christ, another one? How many useless pieces of crap are you going to go out and buy?"
"Call it a weakness. Besides, I didn't buy it for me; I bought it for you! Here, I've been keeping it warm for you." She reached up, lifted the large gold medallion off her neck, and handed it to Frank.
He looked at it. At least it looked like men's jewelry, but he was sufficiently sensitive about his background that he didn't particularly like the implication that he was some gold medallion wearing mook. But it was a gift, and he didn't want to give her any ammunition when the sniping started. He didn't recognize the ideogram on the medallion, but thought it best to keep that under wraps. It probably was ancient sumerian for 'kick me'. He put the medallion around his neck.
A sensation as if his very essence were being sucked out hit him. His vision swam, as if he were being pulled through a tube. And finally, he felt his- for want of a better word- soul, land someplace. Suddenly, he was sitting- no, lying down, and he felt the glass in his left hand joggle. It spilled the drink onto his dress. Waitaminnit! Dress?! "What the fuck?!"
His voice sounded way too high- instead of his usual baritone, it was a light soprano. Sitting bolt up straight, and spilling more of the drink in the process, he looked over at the nearest figure.
The man was tall, at least 6' 2", athletic in build, and wore a well-tailored suit. He was dark, with curly close-cropped hair, and rugged good-looking Mediterranean features. He stood as if staggered at bit himself. He looked down at himself and said in a very familiar baritone voice, "Well, I wasn't expecting that! So That's what the Wizard meant when he said that I would have the upper hand, and that Justice would be done."
Frank recognized both the man and the voice- it was he! But How? He looked down and instead of the body that he had diligently maintained with regular visits to the gym, it was a very feminine body wrapped in the dress that Angela had been wearing. Feeling an impossible dread, he lifted his left hand. On the dainty ring finger were Angela's engagement and wedding rings. At the wrist was the diamond-encrusted watch that they'd had that argument about last week.
His hands flew to his chest. There were large soft mounds where there should have been hard flat pecs. He scurried off the couch and into the bathroom, completely ignoring the unfamiliar shoes with the high heels. Peering out of the medicine cabinet mirror were Angela's ever-so slightly over-ripe features. He- no, She gasped "But, How? This is Impossible!"
The man came up from behind her. "Impossible? Now, Angie, is that anything to say about your Lord and Master coming home?"
She spun around and looked him straight in the eye. His rugged features were split into a nasty grin. "Angela? Is that You?"
"No, You are Angela; I am Frank. I am the one with the big-shot job, and the money in the bank. You live through my largesse. And if you know what's good for you, you'll act like a good little wife from now on." He strode masterfully out of the bathroom and got his overcoat. "For now, I'm going to go out and do some guy stuff."
She tried to stop him, but he easily brushed her aside. "And, Angie? How many times have I told you to get off of your fat ass and clean this place up? I don't want to come home to this pigsty!"
As she heard him march down the hallway, Frank- now Angela- Delarosa sank down onto the couch and tried valiantly not to cry.
*****
Later that night, Angela was in bed after a bad night of getting used to her new situation. She was wearing the long flannel nightgown that Angela- that is, the Angela-who-was-now-Frank- wore when she didn't want Frank- that is, the Frank-who-was-now-Angela- to get too frisky in bed. She heard the front door open, and Frank's voice sing out in a mock Ricky Rickardo voice, "Aaaangieeee! I'm HoOOOmmme!"
He staggered slightly as he came in the bedroom. She could smell good booze on him- what a waste. He started to shuck out of his clothes. When he was naked, he pulled the sheets off of her. He smirked down are her, huddled in her flannel nightgown. "And now, for the high point of the evening. A husband's right."
He lay over her, and took possession of her.
*****
The next morning, Angela-who-had-been-Frank looked over at her old body, lying next to her, snoring. Apart from her childhood conditioning, the lack of foreplay, and the mess afterwards, the worst thing about having sex with Frank-who-had-been-Angela was that he was over and done with it, just when she'd actually been starting to enjoy it. Her body had actually been starting to respond, and he had left her hanging. She looked at him, and thought what countless women through the ages have thought in the same circumstances: I wonder how many years they'd give me, if I kill him while he sleeps. Of course there couldn't be that many who would also have the complication that they would actually be killing their own body as well.
She got out of bed and hustled into the bathroom. She locked the door and went about douching the sticky goo out of her vagina. As she finished, it occurred to her that she shouldn't know how to do this, let alone do it automatically. She looked at the makeup and other feminine articles. She recognized them, and knew not only how to use them, but how to use them to achieve specific effects. It occurred to her that if she knew how to use makeup, and probably how to dress in women's clothes, then the Angela-who-was-now Frank might very well know how to do his (er, her, ah, his, whatever!) job. There had been a fleeting hope, one she hadn't consciously voiced to herself, that Angela-who-was-now Frank wouldn't be able to handle working in the TTW office, and would be forced by necessity to reverse this abomination. No hope of that now.
Figuring that it wouldn't do to give her "husband" any ammunition, she made herself presentable and went to the kitchenette to make her "lord and master" breakfast. Without any easy targets of derision, Frank-who-had-been-Angela would probably go off to play executive at the TTW office. He-who-had-been-she had this strange impression that his job consisted mostly of sitting around, drinking coffee, harassing the secretaries, bullying subordinates and palling around with a vaguely defined "old boys' network".
Frank-who-had-been-Angela spent breakfast complaining about the food and playing grabass with his "wife". Angela-who-had-been-Frank didn't rise to the bait, and he did indeed go off to "his" new office.
Angela waited for Frank, no this was getting too confusing. She decided to label her own personality as "Frank", and for herself in this female body as "Angie". Her treacherous spouse she labeled "Angela" for the sick, twisted personality behind whatever face she used, and "Frankie" for that personality in her stolen male body. The formal version for who they were before the body-switch, and the informal version for who they were after it. Frank/Angie watched through the window for Angela/Frankie to exit the building.
Only when he showed up seven stories below did she relax. Finally, she had a few hours to think this hideous thing through.
The Medallion. It had to be the medallion.
Frankie hadn't been wearing the medallion when he left; maybe he had left it somewhere in the apartment. Three hours later, she gave up the search as a waste of time and effort. She checked Angela's purse. In it, among the candy-wrappers and Kleenexes, she found a box and a receipt. The box said "Spells 'R' Us". Spells 'R' Us? The bullshit Frat story? But that was completely impossible! But so was walking around in your wife's body. And if anybody could, or would, give an airhead like Angela a magic amulet to switch bodies, it would be the Spells 'R' Us wizard.
The receipt gave an address in Greenwich.
The mall in Greenwich was exactly the kind of place that a super-annuated mall-bunny like Angela would shop, Frank mused. And there, at the very address listed on the receipt, was a cutesy 'Olde Curiositie Shoppe' style store. She went in, hoping for the best, expecting the worst.
Behind the counter was a very cute brunette, playing an involved looking game involving pegs and a board with holes in it. She looked like she was losing. Sitting on a rickety rocking chair was an old man with long white hair and beard, sitting in the rattiest looking robe she ever saw.
The old man pulled his pipe from his lips and said, "Mister Delarosa, I don't appreciate unsolicited comments about my apparel."
Angie's jaw dropped almost to the floor "How?"
The girl pointed to the sign that said, "He knows because he's a Wizard" without looking up from her game.
The Wizard got from his chair, and leaned on the counter. "You are here because, last night your wife gave you a strange amulet that exchanged your bodies. Lacking any more logical venue for escape, you've come here in the desperate hope that we could somehow remedy the matter."
Well, that certainly cut out extraneous dialog! "So?"
"Sorry. We can't undermine our own product by selling a counter-measure."
"Well then, how about you sell me another one of those medallions? That wouldn't undermine your product, it would be a completely different transaction!"
"Don't tell a wizard his business. Ethics demand that we act in the behalf of our primary client. We can't exchange you back into your old body."
"How about changing me into another male form? That wouldn't violate your ethics, now would it?"
"Sorry, darlin' I just don't do that."
Tasting bitter bile in her mouth, Angie turned to leave.
"Mister Delarosa? While I can't transform you, I can give you a material piece of advice. At the risk of stealing someone else's catch-phrase, 'When Life hands you lemons, make lemonade'."
"That's IT?"
"Yep."
She turned and left, not bothering to turn around to see if the shop were still there or not.
*****
Angie walked down the streets of Greenwich in a haze. She was completely at Angela's mercy. If Frank had thought that living with Angela had been unbearable, then living with "Frankie" would be a living hell. She then had the horrible thought that not only would Frankie keep her under his thumb for years, he might even take the notion into his head that Angie should bear children for him to torment!
She was still reeling from this sanity wracking thought when she heard a cheery voice. "Angela! Angela, Darling! Yoo-hooo!" For a moment, Angie didn't realize that the caller was addressing her. She turned around and spotted her mother-in-law- No, mother now! - waving and coming closer.
Angie steeled herself for one of Evelyn Harcourt's chilly receptions. So it was a complete surprise when Evelyn took her in her arms and gave her a warm hug. "Angela! This is such a wonderful surprise! Why didn't you call and tell me that you were going to be in Greenwich?"
Say Whaaaa? This is the cold and distant mother that Angela had told him so much about? The one that was so obsessed with propriety and getting further up the social ladder that poor little Angela was never shown any affection? Waitaminnit....
Evelyn invited Angie back to the Harcourt homestead. Angela's dad, Jeremy was there, and immediately shifted into doting father mode. Once again, Angie experienced a glitch in her reality. Angela had always made out that her father was this stiff, undemonstrative type, who always dismissed everything she did. But here he was talking about little things that Angela would have known, and people she would've known about. When the issue of "Frank" came up, the familiar chill returned. Evelyn reached out and touched Angie's hand. "Are you all right, dear? You seem so- distracted. Has Frank been... agitated again?"
Agitated? The way Evelyn said it made it sound like a euphemism for abusive. What had Angela been telling these people about him?
From somewhere Jeremy pulled out the dreaded family photo album. The three of them settled on a sofa and went down a memory lane that Angie had never been on before. Throughout the reminisce, Angie noted a tension and discontinuity of logic in places, like they were glossing over some unpleasant aspect. It occurred to Angie that Angela had been a demanding, ingrate brat, who had manipulated and exploited her loving parents with the blend of cunning, ruthlessness and charm of a true sociopath. There were mentions of 'unfortunate incidents' and 'misunderstandings' with friends, neighbors and relations. How did a warm, wonderful, loving couple like this produce such a complete creep of a daughter?
Angie felt kind of spaced out by all this sudden affection. Being raised in a catholic orphanage, Frank didn't have a lot of experience with that kind of casual acceptance. It felt so good when Jeremy put his arm around her- not a sexual kind of good, just that wonderful, warm, safe feeling, the kind your supposed to get when you hug a teddy bear. Jeremy and Evelyn Harcourt loved their daughter, no matter what she did. It was the first good thing to happen to her all day. She needed to be by herself, and get a little perspective.
Evelyn offered to let Angie lie down in her (or at least Angela's) old room. The couple had kept the room as she'd left it before going off to college. That's the kind of people they were. Angie lay down on the frilly canopied bed, and tried to not think for a while. She looked around. The room was littered with momentos of Angela's past. There were the Pony Club ribbons. There were the cheerleader pom-poms. There was a Homecoming queen tiara. There were scores of photographs of Angela, looking triumphant over one scene or another. There was even the near obligatory line-up of stuffed animals on the seat by the window.
Angie walked over to the seat and sat down. She picked up a stuffed giraffe and gave it a cuddle. Hey, if y'gotta be a girl, then you have to take your comfort where you can get it. She took a hard look at the giraffe, and then the other stuffed animals. There was no obvious favorite, no one animal that had been used more than the others, ala the Velveteen Rabbit. Indeed, they all looked so... perfect. Like they were just things that Angela had wanted once upon a time, and once she had them were of no further interest.
And Lo! The answer struck her like a bolt from heaven, hallelujah! She had to sit down, mussing up the perfect arrangement of plush toys. Angela had a terminal case of the grass being greener on the other side. She always wanted what somebody else had, and ignored the abundance around her. What is it that every woman wants? What some other woman has! Frankie was still woman enough inside, that seeing another woman, even Angie, having something would trigger that acquisitive drive. Angie just had to make her life look so appealing that Angela would want it back.
This is what the Wizard meant! Make Lemonade! It fit! If the Wizard actually had his primary client's best interests at heart, then his advice must mean create a situation where Angela would realize how good she had it!
The light at the end of the tunnel was small, faint and far away, but it was much better than the total darkness that had been there before. It was going to be a long, hard chore to get to the end of this god-forsaken tunnel, but if there was anything that Frank Delarosa, even trapped inside the body of a little blonde monster, was not afraid of, it was hard work. Hard work had gotten him out of that gawdamn orphanage, through the Navy, through college and gotten him out of that junior salesman's berth in record time. With the right mixture of sweat and moxie, she could feather Angela's nest so pretty that Frankie would be grabbing her and forcing her to put on that stupid medallion!
Her heart now light as a feather, Angie skipped down the stairs. She hugged Evelyn, kissed Jeremy, and told them both that they deserved a much better daughter, but she had to get back to New York. Evelyn watched her daughter's petite form walk down the steps. She bit her lip and fought back a tear. It was so good that she was finally letting them through to her. For so long, she wanted to be able to sit down and be a family with her daughter. Now, if only she could get Angela away from that animal Frank...
*****
Frankie leaned back in his chair and sighed in satisfaction. It was every bit as good as he'd always thought it would be. The sheer power of it all! The ability to control almost everything! The terror that his unexpected unreasonable demands inspired was so invigorating! And everyone gave in so easily. If Frank hadn't been such a wimp, he could have taken this firm over long ago! But it took strength to do that kind of thing, which Frank had never had. It was so much better that Frank was now in a nice feminine body that suited his effete nature.
The intercom buzzed. "Ahhh, Mr. Delarosa? Mister Fitzgerald is here to see you."
"Send him in, honey."
George Fitzgerald walked in hesitantly. "Frank? Is something the matter?"
"Hunh? Why do you ask?"
"Well, word around the office is that you're on the warpath! According to Jerry Ortega, you muscled the RCU pension investment account out from under him."
"So?"
"But only yesterday, you were moaning about how much you already had on your plate!"
"I learned how to delegate, Fitz."
"Delegate? Who to?"
"Barbara Cartman. She has moxie."
Fitz looked at Frankie like he wasn't sure what he was hearing. "Are you sure about that?"
"Sure, I'm sure! Why wouldn't I be sure?" Frankie reached into his desk, pulled out a box of chocolates and popped one in his mouth.
"What's with the chocolates?"
"Call it a weakness."
*****
Frankie slithered out of the cab in front of his condo building. He passed Henry the doorman without a single word. After he passed, Henry called up to Mrs. Delarosa to let her know that her husband was on the way up, just like she asked.
Frankie smiled to himself as he pulled the condo keys out of his pocket. The thought of Angie sitting alone in that dingy little apartment, trapped in a female body, anxiously awaiting the moment that he would come home, just added to the testosterone rush that he'd been riding all day. Then he opened the door. The snide comment about the condition of the apartment died unborn in his throat. The place was spotless, and everything was in its proper place. The semi-formal dining table was in the breakfast nook, set for two. The smell of good food permeated the condo. Then Angie came out of the kitchenette, wearing that luscious little hostess gown that Angela had bought last month. It still made Angie's slightly over-ripe curves look good. Frankie suppressed an urge of irrational anger at seeing Angie wearing "her" clothing- but what else would she wear? And it's not like Frankie could wear it, not without looking completely ridiculous.
Angie was done up to the nines. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back in a chignon, except for the flirty bangs that emphasized her blue eyes. In her ears were a simple pair of diamond studs, which matched the single diamond pendant hovering over her décolletage. Her only other jewelry was her diamond encrusted watch and her wedding and engagement rings. Simple, elegant, refined and utterly delicious.
Her heart-shaped face lit up in a smile. "Frank! You're finally home!" The vision swept forward and kissed him full on the lips. Looking up into his startled face, she said, "I hope you brought your appetite! I spent all afternoon cooking your favorite dishes!" Actually, the meal was courtesy of a nice little restaurant around the corner with a delivery service, but she would die before letting that body-stealing bitch know it!
Sweeping over to the table, Angie lit the candles, dimmed the lights, and then went into the kitchenette. She returned with a bowl of Caesar salad.
As she tossed the salad, Frankie just stood there. This was not what he'd been expecting! "Aaahh, what's with all this?"
Angie paused tossing, and looked up at him. "Well, I admit, I was a TAD disconcerted when this first happened. But, I ran into a very wise man, who told me to, as he put it, 'Make Lemonade'."
Frankie smirked, "So, you went to Greenwich and tried to find the Spells 'R' Us shop. And what did the wizard tell you?"
"Like I said, he told me to 'Make Lemonade'."
"And what does that have to do with all this?"
"It means what it always means- make the best of your situation! Hey, I'm young, I'm pretty, and you're rich, and now I don't have to work! It can't be that bad, being a woman- hell, half the human population is!"
"So, you wouldn't mind if I threw that medallion into the East River?"
Angela was losing her edge. Angie actually saw that threat coming. "Well, gee, sweetie- it that really such a good idea? I mean, you actually don't know how that thing works, now do you? For all you know, you might have to keep it near you at all times for the switch to stick. Or maybe it switches back and forth during different phases of the moon."
"Hah! It's permanent! One use, and that's IT!"
"Did the wizard tell you that?"
"Ah, well, no."
"So, you're talking out of your ass. You think that that's the way it works- or more to the point, you hope that that's the way it works. BUT, even if it works exactly the way you say, is it really a good idea to limit your options like that?" Angie smiled sweetly, and proceeded to serve the dinner.
After dinner, as Frankie settled back on the couch to let the meal begin to digest, Angie disappeared into the bedroom. A few minutes later, after Frankie had gotten the inevitable belches out of his system, she came out.
She was dressed in a filmy black lace negligée that slenderized as it suggested. She had let the chignon down to let her hair play around her shoulders. She slinked over to the couch and snuggled in close to Frankie. At first she just played around, tracing lines on his chin with her finger. Frankie started to give her strange aside glances. She started to nibble at his ear. Frankie stiffened. Angie began to kiss the side of his face. Then she kissed him full on. He jerked free, and shot to his feet. "Jesus! What are you, some kind of fag!?"
Angie smirked and struck a pose. "Does this look like a fag? Thanks to you and your amulet, I'm a woman now. And, if I have to be a woman, I may as well enjoy the good parts." She reached out. "And one of the great joys of being a woman is supposed to be making love to your husband. Your great, big, strong husband." She smiled seductively.
He snarled, "This is a trick! I know it's a trick!" He stalked over to his coat, wrestled himself into it, and was gone.
What the fuck! Angie said to herself, I psyche myself into this all afternoon, and the stinking asshole just leaves? I'll bet if I was all cringie and 'please don't touch me', then he'd be all over me!
Which then struck her as the absolute truth. The truth, it seems, is more often stumbled over than actively found. It seemed that Frankie found the idea of forcing himself on her more exciting than the physical act. Indeed, the notion that Angie might enjoy the experience seemed to take all the fun out of it for him.
Angie laughed sadly. Well, at least she had a way of keeping Frankie at arms length for a while. All she had to do was make him think that she wanted it. Now all she had to do was get this stupid knot in her crotch untied!
*****
The next morning, Frankie was back in form, complaining about breakfast, making cracks about Angie's weight, and playing grabass. Angie made light of the complaints, ignored the weight remarks, and squealed joyously when he played grabass. More than once, she tried to sit on his lap. Angie was playing the game better than Frankie was, and he didn't like it. He left in a foul mood. Angie sighed and started to pick up the condo. If nothing else, working with his hands made Frank think better.
Angie found that Angela did have at least one valid point- after cleaning the condo and doing the laundry, being a housewife was dreadfully boring. She decided that since having a trim, good-looking body was so important to a woman, that she'd better do something about getting down to fighting trim. The fact that it would deprive Frankie of one of his favorite barbs never entered her mind, No siree!
She started going to the gym where the couple had memberships. Angela had never gone, and Frankie never bothered to show up, so it was a safe place from him. But she was alone.
Ten days after the great exchange, one of the unavoidable trials of womanhood rose up to smack Angie in the face. Or the groin, if you must be crass. She woke up feeling slightly nauseous and bloated. For once, Frankie was actually sensitive to what she was feeling. That is, he picked up on her PMS, and knew what it was before she did. He was in seventh heaven, and could barely contain his giggling as Angie staggered through breakfast. Not that he let her in on the joke- letting her resort to PMS relievers would take all the fun out of watching her suffer. After he left for the office, Angie laid down for a while, but decided to soldier on despite the flu or whatever she was ailing with. When she got the laundry down to the building washing machines, the african-american woman who lived a few door down was there, reading a magazine. They nodded to each other, New York-polite, and went about their business. As Angie was putting the whites in the washer, a killer cramp hit her and she doubled over.
As Angie bent over gasping, compassion kicked the young black woman out of her New York isolation. She came over and helped Angie over to one of the benches. "Hey, Honey, what's the matter?"
Angie gasped out "Cramp."
"Eeeewwww. That bad. hunh? What's the matter, you out of Midol?"
Midol? Angie thought to herself, Waitaminnit! That was a PMS drug! So that's what that creep was snickering about! And he didn't even give me a clue! Angie added this to the growing list of things to take out of Angela's hide when he got back into his proper body. Thinking quickly, she ad-libbed, "I'm a few days early- don't you just hate it when that happens? Would you watch my stuff while I go up to my condo and get it?"
The young woman smiled in sympathy for Angie's condition, and said that she would.
Angie rode the molasses slow elevator up and back down, feeling a little better, if only for the knowledge that relief was in sight. When she got back, she told her neighbor, "Thanks! Y'know, I thought that my husband had given me that stomach flu that was going around his office."
"Oh, you had to baby-sit him through it?"
"Frank! Nahhhh, he has the constitution of a team of oxen! He could jog through the Black Death and not get a sniffle."
The woman smiled broadly, and introduced herself as Debra ("NOT Debbie!") Parker, from 7-D. Angie opened up her bag of schmoozing tricks, and by the time the whites were in the spin cycle, Debra was invited over for afternoon tea.
*****
"Jarvis? Your husband's name is Jarvis?" Angie asked incredulously.
Debra grinned mischievously. "Yeah, it's an old family from way back in the slavery days. It seems that Jay's- he likes to be called Jay- great-great-something-grandfather was the butler to this big shot family of Cotton Aristocrats. According to Grammy Parker, who knows all and tells all at the drop of a hat, Massah used to read Ivanhoe more often than he did the Bible. So, everyone of the house slaves was given this la-de-dah name out of the British nobility."
*****
Like many New Yorkers, Debra was friendly enough once you broke the ice. Angie pursued the friendship, and wrangled Debra and Jay memberships. Besides being a nice thing, it gave her somebody to talk to while working out, who wasn't trying to hit on her. During one laundry session, Debra moaned about having to do the bathroom. Angie volunteered to do it for her. In the Navy, Frank, like every other swabbie ever hatched, had spent long hours cleaning the head. So, the dinky little bathrooms of the converted apartment building held little terrors for her. In exchange, Debra offered to do the dusting, which Angie hated with a passion.
Eventually, Debra initiated Angie into the cult of Shopping. While not a proper Park Avenue shopaholic, Debra was completely aghast that a well-turned out number like Angie thought that only one pair of red patent leather pumps was enough. It amused Angie that her sprees were being financed by the labors of the asshole who had waylaid her body and life. After all, every outfit in her closet meant a couple of hundred dollars out of Frankie's wallet.
It may seem that the two were joined at the hip, but they weren't. In the late afternoons, Debra spent her time improving her commercial art portfolio, and Angie practiced her new 'hobby'- keeping Frankie from committing professional suicide. She went through the files that Frankie oh, so conveniently left on his computer desktop, and left him notes warning him off those things that slipped past his radar. Angela may have had a minor genius for climbing up pecking orders, grabbing things, or finding a weakness in a person's character, but she had little understanding of fine detail or long range strategy. It occurred to Angie that Frankie was behaving as Angela always claimed Frank did: sitting around, chasing secretaries, bullying clerks, backstabbing co-workers, kissing up to the bosses, and drinking with Frank's circle of business contacts. Which was fun, but took up a lot of time. So, he dropped the boring, time consuming business of actually working in Angie's lap. Angela knew that she could count on Frank to take care of business, and the daily-amended files showed that she was right. It seemed to Frank that Angela had having her cake and eating it too down to a fine art.
Angie wanted out. Out of this stupid situation, out of this female body, and most of all, out from under Frankie's thumb. But she would settle for getting out of New York for an afternoon. It was summer, and _nobody_ moves to New York for the climate. Even given modern air conditioning, the condo building was sweltering. She'd been up to Greenwich a couple of times since that first visit with Jeremy and Evelyn. The unconditional affection that they showered her with was still a little much to take. Also, there was all that family history that she was supposed to know. If only she could get a family history lesson without the clumsy explanations-
Then it struck her. Debra was having problems getting her commercial art past the reception desk, and Jay just didn't have those kinds of connections. But Jeremy and Evelyn did. Frank was a big exponent of the 'win-win solution'- as opposed to Angela's business philosophy, which could be summed up as 'kill them all and let God sort them out'. If she took Debra up to Greenwich, Angie could probably count on the Harcourts to know somebody in the publishing business- or at least they would know somebody who knew somebody in the publishing business. That's how networks work. Jeremy and Evelyn would get the credit for 'discovering' Debra's talent, Debra would get that all-important contact, and Angie would get a history lesson when Evelyn trotted out the family album. And all of this would take place in nice, cool, breezy Greenwich.
Angie called Greenwich and asked Evelyn to expect her and a guest. Then she knocked on Debra's door and almost dragged the poor woman up to Greenwich on the commuter train with a folder of her art samples.
On the way, Angie reassured Debra, "Don't worry! Black Republicans are very in these days!"
"But Jay and I are Democrats!"
"Hey, Mom and Dad don't know that."
Evelyn greeted Debra like an old school chum. She didn't even blink an eye when Angie asked if she or Daddy knew anybody who might be able to help Debra get past the gate at a publisher. These things were done all the time; well it was the first time that Angela had ever done it, but that was all for the good. She leafed through Debra's portfolio to see what she could think of. Hmmm... Too refined for Advertising, too realistic for the Artsy crowd, too sophisticated for Children's books, too abstract for historical periodicals, but it still had a something... Of course!
"I think that your material might be just right for Molly Gooden. Molly is the supervising editor of AMW Publishers' 'Young Adults' division. That's teens and tweens, and like that. I'll give her mother, Laura, a call and see what it will take."
"What it will take?" Debra asked a trifle flummoxed.
"I'll open with the Fort Lauderdale Marina slip, and see where it goes from there."
Angie leaned over and quietly explained, "Mom and Dad took a beating on technical stocks. In order to cover costs and stay fluid, they had to sell the Lauderdale house, and mortgage the yacht. The yacht is mothballed at the local marina, but the Lauderdale marina slip fees were prepaid, non-refundable, and non-resaleable. So, if Laura Gooden plays along, she'll get to use our slip, which has a prime location, for free."
"Do you people do this a lot?"
"Of course! How do you think anything gets done? The Bureaucracy in any organization only really exists to keep the real decision-makers from being inundated with requests. It isn't ideal, or even particularly fair, but it does have the virtue of working most of the time."
"And what do you get out of this?"
Angie made a long face and said in a whispery 'Don Corleone' voice, "For now, nothing, but someday I or one of my friends may call on you, and ask you to return the favor. You may kiss my ring now." Debra cracked up, and kissed Angie's engagement ring.
Evelyn hung up and looked at the two young women. "Laura says it's doable, but she needs a couple of warm bodies for a charity fund-raiser."
Debra and Angie looked at each other and shrugged. Debra said, "Well, as long as it's not for the KKK..."
Evelyn recoiled. "Please! the Hartford Heritage Foundation is not the Ku Klux Klan! ...Although, Joanna Fairchild did make a nasty comparison back in '69..."
*****
Later in the day, Jeremy showed up and in the course of the afternoon trotted out the photo album. He got them all on the back porch and told Debra all about Angela's childhood. Debra indulged him. Angie pretended to be embarrassed, but was secretly taking notes. As 7 o'clock rolled around, Angie and Debra had to leave for the return train for the City. Jeremy gave Angie a last long hug, which she returned. It was just a hug, but it felt so good. Angie was beginning to worry that she was becoming a cuddle-junkie.
On the train back, Debra remarked that she got off easy, what with just doing a little envelope stuffing for a Heritage non-profit.
"Are you kidding? You scored big-time! First, you're paying your way as you go- that always looks good. Second, this is not just envelope stuffing; Laura Gooden works at the management level, so you're going to be doing stuff like arranging deliveries and such. BIG chance for you to make contacts for Jay and yourself. Remember, it's not all 'know-who', it's also who knows you. And finally, it's the Hartford Heritage Foundation. Very nobby. Being connected with it in any way can only improve your cachet."
"You're really into this networking stuff, aren't you?"
"What can I say? I like putting things together. I like it when something I put together works. I like it even better when something I put together makes things better. It just isn't my style to kick back and play the victim."
"Oh? Then why are you still with that mook husband of yours? Did you know that he tried to feel me up on the elevator, yesterday?"
"It's a long, embarrassing, and very weird story. But believe me, I'm not taking his nonsense lying down. It's just that it has to be handled in just the right way."
Back in the city, Frankie tried to make an issue of the fact that Angie didn't have dinner on the table. Angie refused to rise to the bait. "After all, they are your parents- but do you ever visit? Call? Even write a postcard?"
"Yeah, well, they're your parents now, and you can have them!"
"How generous! By the way, exactly where were the 'cold, distant, disapproving parents' that you were always bitching about? When I visited them, they simply the warmest, kindest, most loving people you could ask for! Mom even helped Debra Parker get hooked up with the Hartford Heritage Foundation."
"Who the hell is Debra Parker?"
"Our across-the-hall-and-two-doors-over neighbor! You know, the one you felt up in the elevator yesterday?"
He smirked. "Which elevator?"
"Don't you have any respect for women? You used to be one!"
"Call it a weakness."
*****
In the third month of her feminine captivity, things began to come together for Angie. Her exercise began to bear fruit. Slowly, at the rate of a couple of pounds a week, the excess weight began to melt off. While she would never again be the svelte coed that Frank had married, the padding was coming off the right places and staying in the right ones. She was developing the curves of a full-grown woman, and her muscle tone was improving. Since she got out more than Angela had, Angie's skin tone was healthier. Her drinking was a fraction of Angela's, and she had the stimulation of regular social interaction, so her nerves were better. Where Angela could charitably be called 'over-ripe', Angie was a fine figure of a woman. The downside of this was that her 'eager' act couldn't keep Frankie off of her anymore. He would come in late and mount her, no matter what she said or did. The thought of just letting him do that to her made her gut twist. She took to putting in Angela's diaphragm before bedtime, just in case.
News of Angie and Debra's chore-sharing arrangement got around the building. Other tenants thought this a good idea, and wanted in on the action. It got so that Angie had to set up a chart to keep track of who was doing what. Not all of them did chores, but offered other services in exchange. Grandmotherly Mrs. Chamfrov in 3-F, who knew every market, butcher and greengrocer in a ten-block radius, was such an awesomely adept grocery shopper that she earned the nickname 'Robo-Yenta'. Some of them had other things to offer; the regal Mrs. Van Hoorne in 4-E had even more connections than Angela's mother, Evelyn did. Mrs. Van Hoorne swapped housekeeping chores for theater, concert or opera tickets. When Pavarotti played the Met, she was able to get center aisle seats for 12. Her condo was very clean for a long time. Most of this was orchestrated out of Debra's apartment, for the simple reason that both she and Angie knew that if Frank knew about it, he'd do something to screw it up out of general perversity.
The building had been a typical New York hive of anonymity. The gradual development of the tenant's network broke down the walls of isolation- for most of them. There was still Mr. Preiss in 2-A, who steadfastly refused to talk to anybody. But for the most part, the building started to take on a small town atmosphere, with other tenants stopping Angie and Debra in the hall and chatting. The down side was, as with a real small town, that everybody started knowing everybody else's business. It was rather embarrassing for Angie when Bob Arthurson in 2-D asked her why she stayed with that ass of a husband of hers. After all, she wanted to BE that ass again someday!
Debra's deal with Laura Gooden worked out quite nicely for both of them. Debra managed to score a nice little assignment illustrating a book about a 13-year old girl in Renaissance Italy, which stretched into a 5- book series. Having an attractive and intelligent african-american woman like Debra definitely perked up the Hartford Foundation's PC profile, and Angie heterodyned the fund-raising drive with her in-house network, reaping impressive results. Angie got the unexpected dividend of being mentioned in Vanity Fair columns three times in three months, the last time as "the lovely Angela Delarosa". Angie was getting a reputation around town a person who got things done. Such reputations are very valuable things in New York.
*****
Angie dragged herself out of bed and got into the kitchen before Frankie got up. Then she took a quick peek at the bed and noticed that he wasn't there. By the condition of the sheets, he hadn't come home at all. Apparently, her 'dead fish' tactic was working better than the 'intimidating enthusiasm' one had. She hoped that nothing bad had happened to him- at least until _after_ they had swapped bodies again. Cheered by the prospect of at least a morning without harassment as usual, Angie decided to take a day off and rest. Do nothing. Well, maybe go up to Greenwich and get a hug fix from Mom and Dad- she didn't really think of them as Jeremy and Evelyn any more. It struck her that there must be something she could do for them. They'd done so much for her, especially in ways that they could never guess. Well, maybe later. She really did need a day all to herself, and not deal with things for a bit. So, her plan was to cancel any appointments, kick back, watch some crappy TV, and maybe send out for Chinese. Mrs. Chamfrov, the Robo-Yenta, said that the Szechwan place a couple of blocks over was to die for, and Jews have a special sense about Chinese food- just ask one.
At about 10 o'clock, there was a tapping at the door. Angie ignored it. She wanted a little downtime, dammit! Then she heard Debra outside the door, "Angie? You in there?"
Oh, hell. Well, there were some people she actually wanted to see. Angie schlumped over to the door and opened up.
Debra started, "Hey, babe-" and then took in Angie's appearance- housecoat, fuzzy slippers, hair up in curlers, no makeup. "You okay, Hon?"
"I'm fine- I just decided to take a 'Me Day', y'know? Not deal with anything for a day."
"Ooooh, I hear that! But how about our gym date?"
Angie screwed up her face; she was really looking forward to doing a lot of nothing today. She hopped up and down like a child told she couldn't have a pony. "Mmnnnnn- Oh, awlright! But only because I gotta reach my weight goal by Columbus Day. Which I would have already made, if you didn't keep tempting me with those damn Petrucchio's parfaits!"
As always, Angie threw herself into her workout. And, as always, Debra talked her into throwing herself onto a Petrucchio's parfait afterwards. It could only be the wiles of the devil that placed Petrucchio's ice cream fountain in a direct line between the gym and the condo building.
Once back at the condo, Angie shed the trenchcoat she had over her spandex activewear. "So, Deb, you gonna go be a good, productive member of society, or would you like to kick back and watch the best that day-time programming has to offer?" Then Angie felt two hands reach from behind her and gently cup her breasts.
Debra felt Angie stiffen, so she didn't squeeze.
Angie was completely flummoxed. She didn't know what to do! She knew how to act sexually as a man with a woman. She could fake acting sexually with a man. But the only thing that she knew about lesbian sex was a few things that she'd seen on porno videos, and she was smart enough to know that that was complete bullshit! But it felt so good!
Angie didn't freak out and relaxed a little, so Debra caressed the breasts a little. Angie moaned and started to melt. Debra smiled and leaned in, pressing her front against Angie's back. "It's all right, Angel. Just relax, and let Momma show you how..."
Later, in the bedroom, Angie looked up dazed at the ceiling and thought to herself, So that's what female orgasm is like. No wonder Cosmo writes it up all the time!
Then a fear wrenched her gut. And after Debra had been so wonderful to her! "Debra...? That was beautiful... But-"
"But you don't want to enter into an intense lesbian relationship?"
Angie nodded, fearful of hurting this woman who had just done so much for her.
"Thank Gawd! For a minute, I was afraid that you'd want to move to Christopher Street, and march in Gay Pride parades!"
"But aren't you- didn't we-"
"Honey, I love Jay; I love what he does to me in bed. But just 'cause I love my steak and p'tatoes, doesn't mean that I don't like to graze at the salad bar occasionally! Angie, when I was in college, my roommate and me had pretty much the same relationship. Best friends, partners, and occasional lovers. College life is hard enough, without relying on men for sex! This, " she waved a hand over the two of them, naked on the bed, "takes the edge off. I know, there are women who are 'vegetarians', but me, I like my T-BONE STEAK!"
Angie laughed along with Debra, then looked at her. "Deb, why me?"
Debra traced a lazy finger over Angie's collarbone. " 'Cause you're beautiful, and sweet, and loving, and I have never seen anybody so unnecessarily starved for human touch."
"What?"
"When I first saw how you reacted to your father's hug, I thought it was a little weird- y'know, maybe the Electra thing? But you were just the same way when your mother hugged you, and even when old Mrs. Prescott at the HHF have you that hug. I see the way you reach out and touch people. Not that it's bad, actually you do it very well. It helps to break through that wall we all have. And why? Well, my guess is that with Frank, it's 'Wham-Bam-Thankee-Ma'am!'. Am I right?"
"Actually, a thank-you once in a while would be nice."
"God's Teeth, woman! _WHY_ do you put _UP_ with that asshole?"
Angie sighed and got up on one elbow. Because that asshole is assholing around in my body, and I want it back! But Debra would never believe the truth; after six months, she occasionally still found it a surprise when she woke up. Best to tell a lie with the Spirit of the Truth, and as much of the Letter of the Truth as possible.
"Debra, the nasty truth of the matter is that Angela Harcourt Delarosa is materially responsible for Frank Delarosa being who he is today. My parents loved me, not too wisely, but too well, as they say. Growing up, I was a nasty, selfish, spoiled brat. My parents saw everything I did through rose-colored glasses, and I learned to manipulate them very early on. I saw the world as a place full of things I could get, not as a place full of people. If anything, I saw people as devices for getting me things, including my parents. I always got my way all through school, and as for high school- well, did you ever see the movie 'Heathers'?"
"Ick!"
"But I was one of those people who peak in high school, and after graduation, it's all down hill. I got into a good college, pledged a good sorority, and found myself in a place full of people who were smarter than I was. Suddenly, I couldn't have my way anymore. My bag of tricks didn't work anymore, and I knew it. I knew that I wasn't going to graduate, so I decided to snag the first decent husband I could lay my hands on, marry him, take him for everything I could, divorce him after a few years, and then move on to the next sucker. But none of the Old Money types would play my game, so I settled for the pair of up and comers- Derek Kryczek and Frank Delarosa. I dated them both, and then set them against each other, so that marrying me would mean 'winning'."
Frank took the booby prize- that would be me- and he was the perfect chump husband for a while. Then he got wise. And after he got wise, he got mean. In order to survive living with a whining bitch like me, Frank had to become a stone-cold bastard. It was either that or be crushed by me. We battled it out for a few months. It was like a monster move: 'The Shrieking Bitch versus the Raving Bastard'; real 'Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolfe' stuff. The Bitch lost. One day I looked around and said to myself, 'Jesus H. Christ! What Am I Doing?' "
"You actually said that?"
"Yep, I remember the moment exactly, like Saul on the road to Damascus. I said, 'Jesus H. Christ! What Am I Doing?' out loud, clear as a bell. So I stopped being a bitch. Although I expect that being a bitch is kind of like being an alcoholic- you're never an ex-bitch, just a bitch in recovery."
"What? Do you have meetings? Do members stand up and say "Hi! I'm Leona Helmsley, and I'm a Bitch'?"
"Yes, and afterwards we sit around drinking lemonade. Though Kathy Lee Gifford hasn't shown up at a meeting in a while- I'm worried that she may have fallen off the wagon. But seriously, it took Frank becoming the asshole that he is to get me to stop being this stupid bitch; unfortunately, he didn't stop being an asshole. It's like he had to use the Dark Side of the Force to survive living with me, and now he's stuck being Darth Vader. Honestly, Deb, the Frank Delarosa that married Angela Harcourt was a good man. And I am absolutely sure that he can be a good man again."
"Honey, it isn't a good idea to construct major life plans around guilt. If you keep waiting for him to snap out of it, he is only going to get worse, and he will eat you alive from inside. I've seen men like him before- they don't just get better."
"Oh, I do have a plan- don't I always? Y'see, Frank is going off like this because he's built up this momentum. It got rid of the Bitch, and now it's giving him all these easy victories. He's on a roll, and there's nothing in his path that he can't roll over- yet. But he's making enemies and losing friends, and the friends that he is making are worse than his enemies are. So, he's charging full tilt into an invisible brick wall. When he hits that wall, one of two things is going to happen. One- he's going to have his senses knocked back into him, and I'll be there to forgive, be forgiven and help clean up the mess. The other- he'll decide that he likes being a total asshole."
"And if he decides that he likes being a total asshole?"
"All he'll see of me is the vapor trail I leave behind me. That, and a set of prison bars."
"You're going to set him up?"
"Won't have to. That's just the way he's heading."
"Sister, that's a very long shot."
"Yeah, but if it pays off, I get the old Frank back- and wouldn't you do the same if you lost Jay and possibly could get him back? And if it doesn't, at least I'll know that I did everything that I could."
Debra sat up and took a long hard look at Angie. She wondered how much of what she saw was strength, and how much as a masochistic need for punishment? No, she decided, Angie wasn't a victim. Victims feel sorry for themselves, and want others to feel sorry for them. Angie just wanted to make things right. "Okay, honey, it's your life. But you can't let Frank stifle your sexuality! You need to be able to enjoy life. If Frank shuts you down, below the belt, then the Bastard wins!"
Angie reached over and traced a circle around one of Debra's aureole with her finger. "And do you have any suggestions in that department?"
"Well, I think that I could be persuaded to share afternoon delights with you other than Petrucchio's parfait!"
"Why, Mrs. Parker, are you suggesting that we become fuck buddies?"
"Why, Mrs. Delarosa, such language from a young lady of your education and breeding!"
They then proved that it is possible to share a sisterly hug, buck-naked.
"Very well, Mrs. Parker, I'll take you up on your indecent proposal. But only under one condition."