Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. Although it takes a true story
   from a newspaper as its starting point (see the note at the end), it
   uses fictional characters and events in the development of the
   narrative, and all characters appearing in the story are the writer's
   invention. Where the names of real people appear in the narrative the
   characters that represent them are entirely fictional, and no
   disrespect is intended toward the real people in the use of their
   names or reputations. The events have been substantially altered for
   dramatic effect and places and names changed to respect the rights of
   the people involved. The institution called James Brand is fictional,
   although there are many like it across the country.

   One warning: there is a rape scene in the story, and like all the
   rapes I know of it's not even vaguely erotic.

   Thanks: I want to say thanks to Hiromi and Akiko and Bill for all the
   help with 70's culture, and Bob for the education about 70's music --
   here I was thinking it was mostly 'Hotel California' and Kiss! I don't
   think I could have even attempted to write this without their help.

   I must also give special thanks to Geoff for his invaluable assistance
   as editor. He provided focus at times it was desperately needed, and
   he understands grammar. :)

   All rights reserved by the author, who can be contacted at
   rebecca7@cotse.com. Copyright İ 2002.

   Becky

   ***

                                Wild Horses

                      A novel, based on a true story.
                               by Rebecca A.

   Chapter One.

   Maybe times have changed enough that my story couldn't happen today. I
   read in the newspaper a few weeks ago that the officials at one of the
   state juvenile facilities are under investigation for abuse right now.
   That would never have happened when I was a kid. They just got away
   with murder then. Okay, maybe not quite murder, but they sure got away
   with screwing with people's lives. Perhaps the way I acted made things
   worse, but I was young and confused and I think they took advantage of
   that.

   That makes me sound like I'm some kind of victim. I'm no victim. I've
   never been totally happy about what happened to me all those years
   ago, but I'm not dragging the memories of it around like some ball and
   chain. Life was not as bleak as that first paragraph suggests.

   Let me begin the conventional way, with childhood:

   When I was twelve there were only two things to be in Cabrini Green if
   you were a white kid. You could be a Blue or you could be a Thin. Once
   you hit puberty -- if you wanted to be sociable -- you had to be a
   member of a group, either the Blues or the Thins. If you were a boy
   you were one or the other. If you were a girl you hung out with one or
   the other. The Blues were so named because they wore blue sweaters or
   t-shirts under their jackets. The boys had skinhead haircuts, wore
   big, thick boots and lots of leather. The girls had long hair, and
   wore anything short and revealing. The Thins wore the same kind of
   clothes as the Blues, but both the boys and the girls had androgynous
   David Bowie-style haircuts, short all over except for at the back.
   Thin girls almost always bleached their hair, and wore tight knitted
   tops and miniskirts with thick platform shoes. The Blues liked to hang
   out on trains and at stations, for some reason I never figured out.
   The Thins hung out in cafes, pool joints and bowling alleys.

   I don't know where the name "Thin" came from, but there were
   inevitably jokes about a few overweight members.

   Even in the seventies the rest of the Lincoln Park area was better
   than Cabrini, and so school was a kind of jumble of races and classes.
   Of course there were kids who weren't Blues or Thins, who dressed like
   'The Brady Bunch' and did their homework and answered all the
   teacher's questions and are probably stockbrokers today, but the kids
   from the projects knew that these kids were really robots, not kids at
   all. Okay, so we were a minority, but we knew we were the only people
   who really understood the world.

   Being a Thin or a Blue wasn't just a matter of joining a gang. It was
   a style thing, sure, and there were gangs, but most kids dressed a
   certain way first and then gradually drifted into one of the informal
   social groups. From there you could become a gang member, or not. The
   group my older brother Danny was in was the Division Thins, named for
   the location of the cafe they mostly hung out at on Division Street.

   I thought Danny was pretty cool. He was four years older than I was,
   and he was a tough kid. All the older boys I knew were -- it was just
   one of those things that went with where we lived -- but I think Danny
   got that way just from standing up to our old man. He and Dad would
   have big arguments about anything, even when Dad was sober. When Dad
   was drunk the arguments got violent, and he'd hit out at Danny. Danny
   just took it -- he didn't fight back. After a year of that Dad changed
   his target. He would come home stinking drunk nine times out of ten,
   and beat the crap out of Mom before striking out at anyone else who
   was around. Mom would pick herself up along with whatever remained of
   dinner, and try to pretend he hadn't done anything.

   Most of the time when this happened Danny and I would try to get out
   of the apartment. We'd sit on the front step of the building and wait
   for the noise to stop. After a while Danny wouldn't even hang around
   to listen to Dad hit her, he lit out for the Division Cafe and hung
   out with some of the older kids. He started to dress like they did,
   which made Dad angry. "Damned faggot kid," he'd say, even though there
   was nothing about Danny you could think of as faggot-like. Dad just
   didn't like the long hair at the back that ran over Danny's collar. It
   was hard to figure out why, this was the 1970's and most guys were
   wearing their hair long. Danny's was short everywhere else except the
   back. I don't know, my father was a strange man.

   I liked to be at home when Dad wasn't around. Mom was great. Even Dad
   thought she was great at those rare times he was sober. That was what
   made it so awful when he hit her. When he wasn't around she was smart
   and funny and caring, and she was someone I could really talk to. I
   couldn't talk to Dad; no-one could. As I got older I noticed she
   smiled less and less, and after a while she never smiled when Dad was
   around. I couldn't say I blamed her. I liked to try to make her smile,
   by bringing her home things I found in the street and making up
   stories about how they'd got there. They were silly stories, about
   stuff like bottle tops and the people who'd thrown them on the ground
   as they were on their way to a ball game where the guy whose
   girlfriend threw away the bottle top caught the ball on the home run
   that decided the game, or the one legged man who had lost the sock I
   found outside the supermarket and then won the lottery. Mom seemed to
   like to hear my stories, I guess because they were always optimistic,
   and after a while, when things got worse with Dad, she would always
   ask me to tell her something about my day whenever I got home. I was
   too young to know it at the time, but I think she felt almost
   imprisoned in the house, increasingly isolated from the world around
   her. I've read that victims of domestic violence get like that.

   Although she was frequently bruised from Dad's beatings, Mom was a
   very beautiful woman. She had creamy smooth skin, and perfect,
   delicate features, which made the bruising even more obvious. Although
   she had no money to buy clothes she always managed to dress in a way
   that was more stylish than the other women in the neighborhood, and I
   was very proud of her for that. It wasn't so much the clothes she wore
   as the way she wore them.

   Mom liked music, too. She never liked television very much, but she
   and I used to listen to the radio a lot when I was young. She
   especially liked English pop music, and on the rare occasions when
   something had made her especially happy she would do her housework
   while she sang Dusty Springfield songs. When I was a little kid I'd
   follow her around the house singing along with her. I was probably
   totally off-key, but she never complained. I loved the sound of her
   voice, which was rich and throaty and sweet at the same time. When I
   was really lucky she'd sing me little songs she made up herself.
   Although I know she loved Danny I think I was her favorite.

   When he hit his teen years Danny got right in with the other Thins.
   They spent most nights hanging out together, just walking around the
   neighborhood or hanging out playing video games, which had only just
   been invented. Sometimes they'd see a Blue gang, and a fight would
   ensue. Danny hated the Blues. "Fuckin' Nazis," he'd say. A couple of
   times he came home with bruises, black eyes or minor wounds from
   fights he'd been in. Once he got a broken arm. He had it in a cast for
   months, because he kept using it as a weapon in fights and the arm
   wouldn't heal properly.

   Danny got into occasional trouble with the police, too. It was never
   anything really serious, but the cops were convinced that all the
   Thins were troublemakers. It usually sent Dad into a frenzy whenever
   they bought Danny home, or called for Dad to go down to the precinct
   to get him. Usually Dad would hit him worse than the cops. I don't
   know why, really. Everyone in the projects had some kind of police
   record by the time they were eighteen. Heck, even I had one, from a
   fight I was in with Danny and from another time I stole the washing
   off Mrs. Bronowski's line on a dare. The washing incident had been
   embarrassing, because the police report detailed everything that had
   been taken, "brassieres, other lingerie, two dresses, one pair of
   shorts," and the cop had read it out really loudly when my Dad came to
   get me. Anyway, Danny's scrapes with the cops seemed pretty
   run-of-the-mill to me. But the more he hung out with the Thins the
   more the cops picked on him, and the worse our old man got as a
   result.

   The first item on my record occurred when I got arrested with Danny
   one night when I was twelve. We were on our way home from the cafe,
   and two Blues jumped us. Danny beat up both of them with only a little
   help from me. I wasn't much of a fighter, since I was very small for
   my age, and anyway I really didn't like all that aggressive macho crap
   anyway. But I provided enough distraction to one kid so that Danny
   could take out the other one. Danny was still pounding on my opponent
   while I held the limp form of the first one when a cruiser went by. We
   tried to run through some people's yards to get away but the cops got
   us in the next street.

   Dad was really pissed when he came down to get us out, but I think he
   was secretly pleased that Danny beat the shit out of the other guys.

   We got charged with assault because the father of one of the kids
   Danny beat up wanted to push the issue, but all we got was stern
   lectures from the judge and a caution on our records. No time in juve
   or anything like that.

   When I was thirteen Danny got a girlfriend, Maria, a chunky dark
   Italian girl with a great smile. He never brought her home but I saw
   them on the street together a lot. He wasn't allowed to see her for
   about two months after she cut her hair into a Thins' style look that
   made her father freak, but they figured out ways to sneak around
   together anyway. I thought she was dynamite. Big breasts, big dark
   eyes -- she could have shaved her head entirely and it would have been
   okay with me.

   Danny kept a couple of pairs of Maria's panties in the table between
   our two single beds in the room we shared. He used to take them out
   some nights and tell me stories about sex, and what girls were like. I
   hadn't gone through puberty yet, so I didn't understand a lot of what
   he said, but it excited me all the same. A couple of times when he
   wasn't around I snuck a look at the panties myself. They were kind of
   cute, not like the big, sexless cotton things Mom wore. Touching them
   got me kind of excited, in a new way I didn't understand.

   Even though Danny told me all this stuff about sex, I figured he was
   still a virgin. He had Maria's panties, but I don't think she had put
   out for him yet. She was a Catholic girl, even if she was kind of
   rebellious, and Danny complained a couple of times about how "the
   fucking Pope" had made all these girls "think they were gonna fucking
   die if they opened their legs." All the stuff he told me about girls
   had a kind of abstract quality. I never questioned his authority on
   the matter, but I wondered how far Maria let him go. Maybe he'd felt
   her up, I thought.

   He had quite a few porno magazines, which he hid in a space in the
   wall in back of our closet. Most of them were just Playboys, but some
   others I thought were kind of disturbing, even though I didn't
   understand everything that was in them. There were a couple which had
   pictures of women being whipped and chained, which I didn't like much.
   One that disturbed me a lot had photos with a chick who had a johnson.
   I couldn't figure that out. She was kind of pretty, but there was this
   enormous schlong between her legs. Danny used to laugh at me when he
   showed me that one, because he said it turned me on. I knew it didn't.
   But it did make me confused. That seemed to provoke Danny into
   bringing home more of that kind of thing to taunt me with. He
   developed a big collection of really weird stuff. "That gets you off,
   huh Mickey?" he'd say, just to get me riled.

   All the hanging out each evening with Maria and the Thins meant Danny
   never did any homework, so he started failing at school, and he quit
   school before he graduated and took a job pumping gas over in the next
   suburb. Imagine that -- this was before self serve, even. It was a
   shitty job, but he had a little money and that made him an important
   member of the group.

   I saw him, and Maria, quite a lot after school. They used to hang out
   at the Cafe together, early, before all the others would get there. I
   liked Maria. She was the only one of Danny's friends who didn't tease
   me about my height, or the fact that my voice hadn't broken yet. And
   she made me laugh. She was really good at doing imitations of Danny
   when he wasn't looking, and that cracked me up. "You and I both know
   Danny better than he does," she used to say to me conspiratorially.
   She'd wink at me and smile whenever Danny was big-noting himself to
   his friends. I think I was almost in love with her. Danny told me a
   couple of times to "watch it," and said if I was older he'd have to
   take me out the back and whup me for the way he caught me looking at
   her, but I think he misunderstood. I thought Maria was wonderful, but
   I wasn't into sex properly yet and I wasn't really thinking of her
   that way.

   She fascinated me in a new way. Sometimes I caught myself staring at
   her, or she caught me. I was amazed by everything about her, the way
   she moved, the way different parts of her body moved when she walked,
   the way she smiled, the soft, lilting quality of her voice even when
   she was coming down hard on Danny. I watched her, almost obsessively,
   every chance I got. I thought she was a goddess.

   Danny dropping out of school made my old man even worse. He blamed Mom
   instead of Danny, and he started drinking more, something I would
   never have thought possible. Because Danny wasn't home much Dad would
   lay into me if I was around. He used to get mad at me because Mom
   liked me so much. "Momma's boy," he'd say as he lit into me. Like
   Danny, I just took it. He was a lot bigger than I was, and the one
   time I raised my hand to hit him back he just laughed at me, which was
   worse than being hit.

   I wasn't very good at making friends, so I never joined the Division
   Thins even though I hung out at the cafe some nights. Danny had let me
   know he wasn't too keen on having his little brother around anyway. I
   cut my hair the same way, short at the front and long at the back, but
   mostly I just kept to myself, sitting outside on the front steps of
   our house to do my homework, or walking around Harrison Park on my
   own. I didn't like a few of the other Thins anyway. Danny's best
   friend in the group was this thuggish Italian guy called Tony. He and
   I instantly disliked one another. He kept calling me "Pussy," even in
   front of Danny, and I was annoyed that Danny didn't stick up for me. I
   spat in Tony's food a couple of times when he wasn't looking, and made
   faces at him a few times, but I soon got bored with that. The funny
   thing was I didn't think Tony thought much of Danny either, and he was
   always staring at Maria in a really creepy way. I stared at Maria all
   the time, but this was different. Couldn't Danny see that?

   I think my dislike of Tony was the first time I was had a visceral
   response to someone's personality. If Tony had a soul it would have
   been bitter, dark, oily. He gave me the chills in a part of me I
   hadn't noticed before.

   I didn't make many other friends, either. I was small and kind of
   wimpy back then, and so I didn't get to hang with the jocks at school,
   and I didn't pay enough attention to schoolwork to be with the brains.
   Even though I got a Thins haircut, because I'm a redhead with wavy
   hair and really pale skin I never looked at all tough. I was part of
   that great amorphous mass that makes up the majority of the school
   population, the ones that aren't real smart or cool or good looking.
   The ones that just are.

   The truth was, I guess I really didn't fit in well with anybody, even
   the other 'average' kids. I always felt like there was some barrier
   between me and everyone else in the world, like nobody could see the
   real me. Maybe part of it was that people expected me to be more like
   Danny, but I think another reason was that I didn't feel very
   comfortable with trusting people. Our house wasn't a good environment
   for that sort of thing. It's kind of hard to explain, but I think that
   it was because I could sense little things about people that seemed to
   make me self-conscious around them, or made me distrust them. About
   the only person I trusted was my Mom.

   I didn't make many friends, but I didn't make too many enemies except
   for Tony.

   After my father hit my Mom badly enough to put her in hospital, Danny
   stopped coming home. He wouldn't tell me where he was staying, but he
   said he wouldn't be in the same house with Dad, because Danny thought
   he might kill Dad next time he hit Mom.

   With Danny and Mom away I took to staying out of the house almost
   entirely myself. I spent most of the time just walking around, and I
   took some blankets a couple of times and slept on a bench in the park
   a couple of nights. I don't know if Dad knew, or if he did know
   whether he even cared. He was usually drunk anyway.

   After Danny had been gone a week or so I went to look for him at work
   one afternoon, just to talk. His boss told me he'd been fired a few
   days earlier, for stealing from the register.

   I was devastated. Not Danny, I thought, Danny would never steal. He
   did lots of other things that were questionable, but he wasn't a
   thief. I knew that in my soul, but I could tell that his Boss honestly
   believed Danny had taken the money. I went down to the Division Cafe,
   but none of the Thins were there both times I called in except Tony
   and an idiot guy called Pete who hung around with him all the time. I
   asked Tony if he'd seen Danny, or Maria. Tony just told me to fuck
   off.

   It was a day later, while I was out in the park late one night, that I
   came upon something terrible. I was taking a short cut back home,
   through the bushes on the West side of the park, when I heard the
   sounds of the bushes rustling and saw a figure sprint away toward the
   road.

   As I saw the person running, I knew that there was bad shit going
   down. That's probably not really profound, in retrospect, but I knew,
   I could feel before I looked, that there was something inside the
   bushes that was unspeakable. Try as I might, I couldn't help myself
   from walking over to them.

   Inside the bushes I could hear a strange sound, kind of like a person
   gargling mouthwash or something. I parted the branches, and in a small
   clearing between the bushes there was a girl laying on her back,
   moving slightly, something dark and fluid on her chest and arms. I
   pushed through, and saw her skirt had been ripped off, and was caught
   on a nearby branch, and her panties were lying on the ground a few
   feet away. I looked at her crotch, first, and was amazed to see the
   hair there. Then she gurgled again, and I dragged my eyes away and
   realized, slowly, like it was some kind of movie I didn't understand
   too well... Her throat had been cut. The dark stuff all over her was
   blood, and it was still spurting from the side of her neck. On the
   ground beside her neck was a knife, also covered in what I assumed was
   blood. Without thinking I picked it up, then, repulsed, threw it into
   the bushes.

   Then I froze. There is no way to describe how I felt when I saw the
   girl's face. It was Maria. Even today, twenty-five years later, I
   remember that awful feeling as I looked into those deep dark eyes and
   the bottom fell out of my stomach.

   I collapsed to my knees, grasped her head, and tried to lift it up to
   support her. Blood continued to gush, all over me, into my lap. I
   tried to staunch it with my hands, but it seemed to come right out of
   her no matter what I did. Despite my first impressions, this wasn't
   like seeing people die on TV. It was awful. Paralyzing. I was shocked
   and desperate. I didn't think to call out for help or anything --
   no-one else would be in the park this time of night anyway and besides
   I was preoccupied with trying to stop the blood from coming out. I
   tried to plug the wound with my handkerchief, and it stopped the
   spurting but the blood still seemed to be coming out from somewhere.

   After a few moments, I really don't know how long it was, her twitches
   became less frequent and eventually she stopped moving. I held her
   head in my lap for a while longer, then, sickened, I stood up and
   forced my way back out of the bushes. I staggered away a few steps and
   then started to run.

   I ran, and ran. I didn't run toward home. I just ran away from Maria,
   away from the park, away from everything. It didn't make any sense,
   but nothing that night made any sense.

   I figured afterward that I ran about eighteen blocks that night
   without stopping. A car almost hit me once when I crossed the street.
   I was still running blindly through the shopping strip when someone
   grabbed my shoulders and threw me to the concrete sidewalk. I was
   dazed for a few seconds, then tried to stand before a boot came down
   on my back and held me there. "Whoa, kid. Hold it right there."

   He dragged me to my feet, and threw me up against the side of a car.
   "Okay, kid, what's up?" he said, as he began to pat me down.
   "Jeeesus," he said softly as he saw the full extent of the blood all
   over me. "Are you all right?"

   I wanted to say something but my mouth didn't want to work, and I was
   still winded from when he had stood on my back. I could only shake my
   head, which he thought meant I was hurt, and I still couldn't talk. I
   tried to turn around to look at him, but he slapped my head straight
   ahead, so I stared into the flick-pulse of the red strobe stuck on the
   roof of the car.

   He pushed my back again, then leant in the window next to me and
   reached for something. I could hear him talking on the radio, but I
   can't remember what he said. The events of that night are still kind
   of hazy for me.

   Eventually I found myself in a small green-painted room with a table
   and two chairs. I was there on my own for a while. Then a couple of
   guys came in and asked me questions. I answered them as well as I
   could, but I can't remember what I said. Later on I found out that I
   didn't say anything they could make any sense of.

   After they left a long time passed. I'm not sure how long. Then a
   woman came in and asked me some more questions. After she left I
   couldn't keep my eyes open any more, and I lay down on the linoleum
   floor and fell asleep.

   I woke up in a strange bed. The room was gray, and there was nothing
   in it except the bed I was laying on. There were bars on the window. A
   quick inventory showed I was sleeping in my jockeys and t-shirt.

   Eventually I got up. My other clothes were not in the room, and I
   discovered the door was locked from the outside. So I went and sat on
   the edge of the bed and waited. After a while, I don't know how long,
   a large woman came in, gave me some gray pants to wear and a gray
   shirt, and waited while I put them on. She didn't say anything when I
   asked her where I was, or who she was, so I dressed and she led me
   down a long, bare corridor, past lots of closed doors, to a little
   room like the one I had been in the night before, except this one was
   gray instead of green. I sat on the chair she indicated, and then
   waited.

   About a dozen people came and talked to me that day. I didn't
   understand a lot of what they said because they used pretty big words
   a lot. These days I'm okay at understanding most things, in fact for a
   while people used to joke about me and call me "the brain," I guess
   because after that day I discovered that if you don't know what's
   going on people can screw you. But back then when I was fourteen I
   wasn't real good at understanding older people.

   The first person to see me was a fat old guy. I didn't know how old,
   except he was older than my Dad which meant very old. He reminded me
   of that Ed guy on Johnny Carson, only he wasn't funny. He told me he
   was my lawyer. He asked me a couple of questions about Maria, and
   about what had happened. I told him as clearly as I could remember,
   but it was hard. I had to try to stop shaking when I thought of having
   her head in my lap like that, when she went still.

   After a few minutes the old guy got up and went into the corridor,
   then came back with a thin blonde haired woman who said she was a
   social worker. I liked her; she seemed reassuring. She mostly just sat
   there while the lawyer talked, and she held my hand when I started
   shaking again.

   After we'd been talking for a while a couple of other guys came in.
   They said they were cops, which figured after what had happened to
   Maria. I found them really hard to understand, because they were very
   formal and cold, but the guy who said he was my lawyer said it was
   okay to talk to them so I told them most of what had happened.

   Then they dropped a bombshell on me. Danny was dead, too. They'd found
   his body in the river last night. He had died around the same time as
   Maria, maybe a little before, drowned. I stopped listening to
   everything else they said, and after a while the cops gave up and
   left.

   I was stunned. Danny dead. I couldn't imagine it. I knew Maria was
   dead, I had held her in my arms as she died, but I couldn't believe
   Danny was dead.

   Finally the lawyer left, and they took me back to the room with the
   bed in it. I lay there for hours, crying softly. I knew tough guys
   didn't cry, but Danny had been the tough guy, not me.

   Late in the afternoon the social worker came in and asked me if I
   wanted to see my Dad and I said yes.

   About an hour later I was taken back to the interview room (I knew
   what it was called now) and a few minutes later Dad came in. He walked
   in with the social worker and a guy in some kind of gray uniform. I
   stood up. I could see straight away that Dad was pissed with me, even
   though he seemed sober. Probably, I thought at the time, it was
   because he'd been called away from work. He walked straight up to me
   and hit me in the face. Blam! Right in the nose. "Fucking pervert!" he
   screamed at me. Then he hit me again, in the side of the head and the
   chest, and after I fell to the floor he started kicking me until the
   guy in the uniform dragged him away.

   The social worker gave me some tissues to stem the blood from my nose.

   I never saw my father again.

   Over the next couple of days I spent most of the time in the room I
   had woken up in, except for when people wanted to talk to me, when
   they led me back down to the interview room. A doctor came and
   examined me on the second day, then on the fifth day a woman who said
   she was a psychologist came to see me and asked me a lot of questions
   about my childhood.

   The social worker asked a lot of questions, too, but seemed friendlier
   than the others. I think that maybe she was the only one who believed
   my story. She told me that the police thought I had murdered Maria. I
   was dumfounded. She said it was because I had handled the knife, and I
   had Maria's blood all over me, and because people thought I was
   jealous of Danny.

   My Dad believed the cops. Now that Danny was dead, my Dad had had some
   kind of change of heart, and it was like Danny was the perfect son --
   and I was the faggot creep who was jealous. I don't know, I still
   can't figure my Dad out, even now.

   They couldn't pin Danny's murder on me because they didn't have any
   evidence, but they wanted to get me for Maria. The police had found
   Danny's stash of porno magazines in the back of the closet, and were
   convinced that since Danny no longer lived there they had to be mine.
   I think that's what my Dad told them.

   The whole thing sickened me. I couldn't believe it. How could they
   believe I could have killed anyone? I was fourteen years old for
   chrissakes!

   Years afterward, while I was doing a covert review of my case history,
   I discovered there were several odd things about the two deaths. For
   one thing, Maria had not been sexually assaulted, though her dress and
   panties were ripped off her. Whoever had done it had probably lost
   control of themselves, or she had struggled too much, and they had
   killed her before getting what they wanted from her. I often wondered
   whether that figure I saw running away was Danny. I've always figured
   it was more likely Tony. I figure Tony for killing Danny, too, though
   one of my lawyer friends once said he thought it was more likely
   suicide.

   I didn't believe Danny would ever kill himself. I still don't.

   In really dark moments I wonder if it wasn't my Dad who did it all.
   The figure running from the bushes didn't look like him, but... I try
   not to think those kinds of thoughts.

   The next couple of days are still a blur. I was taken to juvenile
   court, where my lawyer said I was pleading not guilty, and I was taken
   back to the place they'd been holding me to wait a few weeks until the
   hearing. My Mom came to visit me, still bruised on her face from where
   Dad had beaten her. She cried a lot, and spoke with my lawyer and the
   social worker, but she was too emotional to talk to me much. Mostly
   she just tried to hug me, and cried.

   My social worker, who I discovered was called Angela, brought me some
   stuff to read, and though at first I didn't feel like it the boredom
   of being locked in the small featureless room soon got the better of
   me and I read everything she brought me avidly. The books all featured
   middle-class kids complaining about how tough they had it. One was
   about this kid called Holden who wanted to be some kind of wheatfield
   hero, saving his kid sister from going over a cliff. I liked it even
   though I didn't understand all of it. Angela also brought me some
   magazines about car racing, which depressed me. Danny had always liked
   fast cars. He liked to help Tyrone, a guy who lived down the block,
   polish his Camaro every Sunday. On the cover of one of the magazines
   was a car just like Tyrone's, only more tricked-up. I kept thinking
   Danny would have enjoyed the magazine more than I did.

   Eventually it was time for my next appearance in juvenile court. My
   Mom was present, but my Dad didn't show. My lawyer didn't want me to
   say anything. The police went on endlessly, and I could sense that
   they were making me out to be some kind of weirdo even though I didn't
   understand all the stuff the lawyers and cops said. A lot of it was
   about the blood on me and my fingerprints on the knife. But they also
   mentioned the time I had been arrested with Danny, and the time I was
   caught stealing the laundry. They made it sound like I was violent,
   and like I had a fetish for women's underwear or something. They kept
   mentioning Maria's underwear in my room and all the porno magazines
   there.

   Angela, my social worker, made a brief speech to the judge, saying
   that I had a difficult home life and appeared to be traumatized by the
   events, and that she thought that if I got probation she could put me
   in a foster home. My Mom burst into tears when she heard this. As
   Angela sat down again I looked at the judge. I didn't think she had
   made a very big impression after all the stuff the cops had said.

   Finally the sentence was handed down. I wasn't going to jail, exactly.
   It was a juvenile correctional facility. Same thing, really, except
   they dress it up with fancy words to make it sound like it's not so
   bad. Let me tell you, I've seen the insides of prisons, and they don't
   get a lot worse than 'The James Brand Juvenile Correctional Facility'.

   ***

   Chapter Two. 

   The first few days at Brand were pretty bad. I knew lots of tough kids
   from the neighborhood back home, but there were some kids inside that
   made them look tame. Part of my problem was that, having only just
   turned 14, I was one of the youngest kids inside. Most of them were 16
   or older. I tried to be as inconspicuous as possible, but Brand was
   small enough that people came looking for me, the new kid, anyway. The
   first day I was there a slick looking kid, sleazy way beyond his 18
   years, stopped me after lunch to tell me Nick Pangianis wanted to see
   me. I didn't know what that meant, but I was soon to find out.

   After I was inducted into the center they did the usual things;
   cutting my hair ultra-short and checking me for lice and diseases and
   so on. Then I got read a lecture about the rules and regulations, most
   of which just passed in one ear and out the other. They gave me some
   clothes to wear, the same standard issue everyone else got: a couple
   of white t-shirts, some pale blue cotton shirts and some dark blue
   pants along with socks and underwear. They all had 'Illinois
   Department of Corrections' printed on them. I'd seen movies about guys
   being inducted into the army, and it seemed a lot like that.

   Then they led me inside.

   I was put in a two-bed room with a guy about five years older than me,
   Steve Hammond. He was pretty tall, well over six feet, and he was
   really solid. He looked like he worked out a lot. Despite his imposing
   size he didn't seem so bad, really, at least not compared with the
   other guys there. He was civilized enough to explain how he thought
   things would work, the rules of the cell as it were, but it was clear
   he wasn't going to accept any argument from me.

   After a brusque opening to our relationship, I decided I like him. He
   came from Mississippi, and had a broad accent and a careful way with
   his words that relaxed me immediately. I'd only ever heard someone
   talk that way on TV before, never in real life, and I kind of liked
   it.

   The room was nothing special, at least not for a place that I was
   going to be spending so much time in. Two of the walls were almost
   completely covered with posters, mostly of either the Rolling Stones
   or of topless girls. Steve was evidently a Stones fan. The pictures of
   the girls were about as risque as you could get while they were still
   wearing panties. Totally nude pictures were forbidden.

   Steve motioned to the bottom bunk and I put the blanket the center had
   given me on it.

   The rooms at Brand weren't totally like a prison cell. They had the
   same concrete-block walls, but there were no bars to the corridor,
   only solid steel doors that could be locked from the outside. The
   windows had bars and mesh on them, and were too high for me to see
   much out of. Not that there was much to see around the facility, just
   institutional buildings and a flat landscape stretching off into the
   distance. There weren't any trees. Inside, the walls were painted in a
   pale gray, and there were no decorations other than those the inmates
   put up themselves. Inmates were allowed to have a few personal
   possessions. Most opted for a radio as the main thing, and I noticed
   Steve was lucky enough to have a guitar and a cassette recorder. Apart
   from that the place was pretty spartan.

   The regime was pretty prison-like, though. We were subject to random
   inspections, including in the middle of the night, and we were
   confined to our rooms except for showers, meals, exercise time and
   classes or workshop. Every so often Grieves and the teachers would
   dream up some activities that were supposed to keep our morale up,
   which everybody took part in just to get out of their rooms. Meals
   were taken in the mess (they used a lot of military terms at Brand)
   and there was a strict pecking order that governed where you got to
   sit. Nobody knew me those first couple of days and so I sat on my own,
   at a table at the front of the room. Otherwise we saw a lot of the
   same concrete block walls.

   I asked Steve what it meant that Nick Pangianis was looking for me and
   Steve told me somewhat cryptically to watch out for myself in the
   showers, that all new boys got an initiation. I figured Nick must be a
   fag. That's strange, I thought -- at school nobody was afraid of fags.
   They were the ones who got beaten up.

   I was never really comfortable showering with anyone back then, mostly
   because of my size. I was kind of short, still around 5'4", and pretty
   thin and weedy. The truth is, I hadn't hit puberty yet, really. Oh, I
   got a boner every now and again like every guy, but I was still mostly
   hairless, and when I did jerk off nothing came out yet. I still pretty
   much looked like a kid, too. Most of the others at school, and all the
   guys at Brand, were men, or at least well on the way to being men. At
   school I had always tried to be last one in the showers after gym,
   just so the other guys wouldn't notice me so much.

   That was my general strategy in life -- just kind of fade into the
   background and try not to be noticed. It worked most of my life up
   until then. Especially since people were always expecting me to be
   like Danny, loud and brash and confident. If they knew Danny they
   always got a big surprise when they met me.

   None of the guys at Brand knew Danny, of course, so they didn't have
   any preconceptions of me. I had decided when I was going in that I
   would just play things cool, at least until I found out how the place
   worked. But that second day, in the showers, I was new, and I suppose
   I was an object of curiosity. There was no possibility of a later
   shower -- I was in there with others like it or not. So I tried to act
   cool, like I wasn't afraid. Mostly I just tried not to make eye
   contact. I had a very bad feeling about what was going through the
   heads of a couple of the boys in there, and I didn't need to look at
   them to confirm my suspicions. I turned to the wall, and raised my
   face to the stream from the shower. That was probably a mistake, but
   then again they'd probably have grabbed me whether I was looking or
   not.

   Two guys wrapped my arms behind my back and marched me to the far side
   of the shower area, near the benches were a half-dozen guys were
   dressing. They stood me behind a guy who was toweling his near-shaved
   head briskly, his back to us. This was Nick Pangianis, although I
   didn't know it right away. He turned around and smiled at me, as
   though he wanted to put me at ease. The two goons holding my arms
   didn't ease up on their grip, though. "Hey, Red," Nick said, in a deep
   voice that gave me shivers.

   Nick was a big guy, maybe bigger than Steve was, and he looked much
   too old to be in a juvenile facility. He sure didn't look like a fag,
   I thought to myself. He was a mean-looking son of a bitch, and his
   thin smile couldn't hide that. That first time he confronted me, I
   could see him look me over thoroughly as I stood there naked, and he
   smirked, as though finding me wanting. Then the goons thrust me to my
   knees, and Nick advanced upon me as he began to unwrap the towel
   around his waist.

   I was young, but I wasn't all that naive, and I knew what was coming.
   I struggled, breaking my right arm free momentarily and striking out
   blindly as Nick dropped his towel and I saw his cock rising toward me.
   That was evidently something he hadn't expected, and he doubled over
   in pain. Immediately I was hit from behind, and my face was ground
   into the concrete floor. I felt a foot strike me in the side, and then
   another, and another, and finally another blow to the back of my head
   before I lost consciousness.

   I woke up in the infirmary. Nobody asked me what had happened, how it
   was that I'd suddenly had my nose all banged up or my ribs so badly
   bruised. I decided not to volunteer anything. That had always been the
   code in our neighborhood. Never Say Anything.

   The doctor was a creep, I decided after he had seen me. Not just ugly
   and grumpy, but kind of sleazy, too. I didn't like the way he looked
   at me, or touched me, when he examined the bruises, and despite my
   trepidation about going back out with the rest of the guys I was
   relieved when they sent me back to my room after a few days.

   "You said no, huh?" Steve said to me when I showed up at the door to
   our room. I tried to smile, but it hurt. I told him I didn't want to
   talk about it, so we lay on our respective bunks for an hour or so in
   silence. It was Sunday evening, and there were no set activities or
   chores. After a while, out of curiosity, I started asking Steve about
   himself, and he answered most of them, out of boredom I guess.

   The question everyone asks inside when he first meets you is "what did
   you do?" Kind of like the way people on the outside ask what kind of
   job you have soon after they meet you, to get a feel for the kind of
   person you are. It's taken for granted most times that everyone inside
   is innocent, even though almost nobody is. It's almost a joke. "I'm in
   here for murdering my parents, but I didn't do it," a mousy
   high-voiced Polish kid told me while we were in the queue for dinner.
   Steve was a little different. He was inside because he had stolen a
   car one night, and been involved in a high-speed chase with the cops
   in which another kid had been killed, and he'd been convicted of
   second degree murder as a result. He freely admitted that he'd done
   it, and that he was sorry he'd done it.

   I told him my story, and that I was innocent, but I suppose he
   received this information with the same grain of salt everyone inside
   gives 'innocence'.

   I was pleased Steve was prepared to talk with me. It was unusual for
   an older guy like him to waste time with a kid like me, and I
   appreciated the gesture of friendship. "You're okay, Mike," he said.
   He didn't need to add "for a kid" -- I knew that was part of it, but I
   liked the company anyway. We talked for most of the evening, and I
   came to like him more and more. Something in him, maybe the way he
   paused to make a point or the twist to his mouth when he was going to
   say something funny, reminded me of Danny. I was going to tell him
   that before I went to sleep that night, but I thought it would
   probably sound kind of sappy, so I shut up.

   Next day the incident in the showers was repeated. Nick's goons
   grabbed me, and dragged me to him. Once again, he tried to get me to
   suck his cock. I refused again, and so I ate concrete a second time.
   "You got guts, kid" I heard him say as feet went into my back and
   ribs. "You're fuckin' stupid, but you got guts."

   After they let me out of the infirmary that time I went back to my
   room. I didn't say anything, just went to my bunk and lay down. After
   a few minutes I heard Steve sigh and fold the magazine he was reading,
   then saw him swing down to take a look at me. "Turn over," he said. I
   stayed put, until I felt his hand at my shoulder, beginning to turn me
   anyway. I rolled over to face him. He whistled. "I don't know if your
   face can take too much more of this."

   "We'll see," I said, with as much conviction as I could muster.

   "He only does it once," Steve said.

   "Huh?"

   "He does it to everyone, once. Then he mostly leaves you alone. It's
   not a sex thing really. He has some kid Cary takes care of him that
   way. It's just his way of letting you know he owns this place."

   "He doesn't own me," I said, and rolled over again.

   "Suit yourself," Steve said, climbing back onto his bunk. "But he's
   gonna keep trying until you let him do it, or until you can beat him
   and his goons in a fight. You're an okay looking kid, Mike, you don't
   want to screw that up for life."

   I lay awake for hours after lights out that night, thinking about what
   Steve had said. Perhaps if I did it, just the once ... but visions of
   Danny taunted me. I knew what he would have said. It would be better
   to be dead than to suck some guy's cock. 'Is that true, Danny?' I
   wondered. I thought of Steve. Had he sucked Nick's cock, just for
   peace? I was going to ask him, but something made me hold back. He had
   been nice to me, before, and that was the first time anyone at Brand
   had been nice to me. And I had a good feeling about Steve. I didn't
   know whether to trust my feelings, but there was something about him
   that was -- good. We had talked for hours again that evening, and I
   had felt a real bond with him. It was almost the same bond I had felt
   with Danny. No matter what terrible things either Steve or Danny had
   done, they both felt like guys I could trust.

   Next morning I was going to skip showers, but Gonzales, the guard,
   came looking for me and told me in no uncertain terms to get my butt
   in there. As I walked down the corridor I was growing increasingly
   nervous, but to my surprise Gonzales followed me in to the showers.

   In the showers nothing untoward happened. There was only the sound of
   the running water. I could see Nick's goons on the other side of the
   room, though there was no sign of Pangianis. They eyed me the whole
   time I was in the shower, and when one of them thought Gonzales wasn't
   looking he made a motion with his finger across his larynx, like he
   was going to cut my throat. I finished my shower in peace, dressed,
   and went back to my cell escorted by Gonzales.

   "Thanks," I said to him as we walked back, but he just grunted, as
   though he could have cared less what happened to me. At the door to my
   room he spoke for the first time since the shower. "Downstairs in five
   minutes for breakfast."

   Steve walked with me downstairs, but separated from me as soon as we
   hit the mess hall. "No offence, but I have a regular place," he said.
   I knew what he meant from my experience during the first couple of
   days at Brand. All the guys were crowded around nineteen of the
   tables, with no seats spare. The one table at the front of the room I
   had eaten at last time was vacant except for a fat kid who kept his
   eyes on his food.

   I got in the food line, picked up a tray and was served what passed
   for breakfast, and began to make my way back to the table with the fat
   kid. I knew I would have to earn a place with anyone else, and I
   hadn't had a chance to do that, yet.

   I sat and ate breakfast, deliberately avoiding eye contact with anyone
   else. I had a really bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, but I
   wasn't sure if it was just the unfamiliarity of the place or any real
   threat, so I just focused on the tray in front of me. So rigorously
   was I focusing on my food that I didn't notice that half the hall had
   emptied out, and I was startled when I noticed two guys had sat down
   beside me. Looking up and to my left I could see one of them was
   Pangianis. On the other side was Sonny, a stoned-looking thug of his.
   The fat kid hurriedly stood up and nervously took his tray over to the
   clean-up area. I flicked my eyes toward the serving area but noticed
   there was no-one there, and the guard who had been at the door was
   occupied talking to three guys about something, his back to me.
   Pangianis observed me scoping the room, and smiled. I did not like his
   smile.

   "Wanna do it here?" he said quietly.

   Just by reflex, because the idea was so ridiculous, I said "huh?"

   "You heard me, fuck. Get under the table."

   "Fuck you," I said.

   I waited for the thump, but none came. Instead, he and his goon
   grabbed my arms. I was going to cry out, to attract the guard, but the
   goon grabbed my mouth as well, and it came out muffled. Then I felt a
   strange sensation on my left wrist, a sharp pain that burned, and then
   felt it again. Wrestling myself around to the right, I tried to bite
   the goon's arm. I felt the same sensation on my right wrist. What was
   going on? Were they trying to tie me up? It didn't make any sense.
   Eventually I got one of the goon's fingers inside my mouth, and I bit
   hard. Really hard. He let go of my arm in surprise, and took his hand
   from my mouth. Immediately I lashed out at him with my right hand. It
   was hard to get at him, since he was on my right, but I hit him a
   glancing blow across the face and he overturned his chair. I was aware
   as I hit him that something was wrong with my arm, and that Pangianis
   had let go of me as well, but it didn't stop me. I lashed out with my
   leg, kicking, then spun round to hit out at my main oppressor.
   Pangianis was gone. He was at least a table length away. Then I saw
   the guard coming for me, and I ran toward Pangianis, wanting to hurt
   him before the guard could break us apart. Something was wrong with
   me, I thought dimly as I started to move. I felt weak, and my arms
   were wet. Especially the left one. I have a dim memory of looking
   down, seeing my left hand covered in blood, before I passed out within
   a few feet of Nick Pangianis.

   I woke up in a room that wasn't part of the Brand facility. I knew
   that right away. For a start, it was cleaner, and also better
   finished. All the walls at Brand were roughly rendered brick, and
   these looked like plaster, or at least good quality concrete. There
   was a more obvious guide to where I was: the IV dripping into my left
   arm.

   I lay in bed for a while before I remembered the events that had led
   up to where I was. I extracted my left arm from under the quilt and
   saw that my wrist was wrapped in a bandage, and further up the arm
   from the bandage was a leather cuff and a chain to the side of the
   bed. My right arm was bandaged and restrained in the same way. My face
   felt kind of numb, but I discovered that I couldn't bring my hands up
   far enough to touch it, since the straps restrained my arms. Running
   my tongue over my lips I felt a bandage above my upper lip.

   I was still exploring my circumstances when a nurse came in to the
   room. "Oh, you're awake," she said.

   "Uh huh," I nodded, trying to sit up. It was impossible because I
   couldn't move my arms far enough back in the bed. "Can you help me sit
   up?"

   "You have to stay in the bed until the doctor says you can move," she
   said, but she helped tilt the bed up so I was more or less sitting. I
   tried to engage her in conversation about where I was, and what had
   happened, but she said, in a friendly way, that I'd have to wait until
   the doctor talked to me. "And Mr. Grieves," she said.

   I found out who Mr. Grieves was immediately after she left. A tall,
   graying and conservatively dressed man walked in to the room. He
   looked like he was about to come to the side of the bed, but then he
   seemed to change his mind and stood at the foot instead. I was glad I
   was sitting up so I could see him properly.

   "Good afternoon, Michael. I was hoping to meet you in somewhat
   different circumstances." His voice was polished and resonant, like
   Charlton Heston's.

   I nodded hello, unsure about what he was talking about, but not
   getting a good feeling from him.

   "I'm John Grieves, Michael. I run James Brand," he said, sensing my
   confusion. "Ordinarily I would have met with you on your second day
   with us, but you have had a rather, ah, unorthodox few days with us so
   far, wouldn't you say?"

   "I wouldn't know," I said.

   "I like my boys to say 'Sir'," Mr. Grieves said firmly.

   I thought about bucking this, but in the circumstances -- what with
   hospital and feeling strange and all -- I decided against it. "Yes
   sir"

   "That's good, Michael. Am I going to have a problem with you?"

   "Pardon?"

   "I am, it seems."

   "Pardon, sir," I corrected myself.

   "I was just wondering whether I was going to have a problem with you."
   His eyes flicked over me as though he was appraising livestock.

   "No, sir"

   "Well, you're off to a bad start so far," he said. "We don't often get
   boys for sex offences, let alone boys your age, and --"

   "-- I didn't --"

   "-- I don't like people interrupting me" he continued, his mood
   souring. "We've never had a boy involved in as many fights as you in
   such a short time. You've spent more time in the infirmary than you
   have out of it so far."

   I said nothing. There didn't seem any point in explaining that I had
   nothing to do with Maria's death. Nor that I had never had any sexual
   experience at all. Mr. Grieves had made his mind up about me from
   reading my file.

   Mr. Grieves seemed to weigh my silence and find it wanting. "I can't
   allow this behavior at James Brand," he said gravely. "You must
   realize that. It disrupts the discipline of the other boys." He raised
   his hand as though to forestall another interruption from me. "Now, I
   don't care what the reasons for your fighting were, or whether you
   were actually trying to kill yourself ... "

   What? It took me a moment to realize he was talking about the cuts
   Pangianis had made to my wrists. Shit. How could anyone be stupid
   enough to think I had been trying to kill myself? I was flabbergasted!

   "... But I take a very dim view of sharpened knives and such like," he
   went on. "Your possession of such an implement is, on its own,
   sufficient for me to keep you away from the other boys, and keep you
   out of the mess hall. You'll eat alone, with plastic implements."

   "Sir?" I said timidly.

   "What?" he said impatiently.

   "I didn't have a knife, sir. I didn't cut myself, someone else cut
   me."

   "We found a knife beneath the table you had been sitting at. Quite
   expertly sharpened, I must admit. Who do you think cut you?"

   Once again I couldn't say. The code of the neighborhood. Never tell.
   Not even on Pangianis. "What about the others?"

   "Taylor saw you attack two other boys before you went down, he didn't
   know why," Grieves said. "They said they were trying to stop you
   hurting yourself"

   "It was my first time in the mess hall, sir. Where would I have gotten
   the knife?"

   He considered this for a few seconds. "You could have had it in the
   infirmary. It would probably be easier to have obtained it there. In
   any case, it doesn't excuse your behavior in the preceding days." His
   mood was even uglier, now that I had questioned his version of events.

   I was screwed. I saw that. He had made up his mind about me, and
   changing it was going to take action from me, not words. If I could
   ever change it. I looked down at my hands, glumly.

   "You weren't feeling remorseful about what you did to that girl?"
   Grieves continued.

   "I didn't do anything to her." I knew this was the wrong thing to say
   but there was no way I was ever going to admit to something as hideous
   as that.

   "You are clearly a very, very disturbed boy, Michael. On the basis of
   your offence alone I would have referred you to the counselor, but
   since this attempted suicide and your consistent fighting and
   aggressive behavior I'm afraid I'll also be referring you to Dr. Blaha
   for regular therapy. You will see him every week, starting tomorrow."

   Almost as an aside, Grieves changed his tone and said lightly "Quite
   apart from anything else, it reflects badly upon us to have you look
   like this. Imagine if you had a visitor, what they would think to see
   you look this way! Of course, I've forbidden you any visitors for the
   next three months, as punishment for this."

   And then he was gone. I lay back in the bed and thought about where my
   life had gone to in the past three months. To shit, I thought. My life
   was shit.

   The next day I met Dr Blaha for the first time. He swept into the room
   soon after breakfast, accompanied by a nurse. "Untie him immediately,"
   he said brusquely to her, and my spirits improved. At last, someone
   who thought I was a human being. But then he turned to me, and flipped
   the file he had in his hand briskly through the air, as though he was
   about to toss it away.

   "You have given a lot of people cause to dislike you," he said to me
   severely as the nurse undid the chain on my right arm. He had a
   peculiar accent I couldn't put a name to. It wasn't difficult to
   understand, but I figured it was something European. "This ..." He
   motioned to the file. "This is shocking, I must say. At your age. I
   have had some troublesome adolescents referred to me before, but never
   one as young as you with such a record, Michael."

   The nurse released my other arm and I rubbed my face lightly. I had a
   bandage across my nose and on my forehead. It seemed to cover most of
   my face. Dr. Blaha seemed distracted by my actions. "No need to worry
   about that, I'm sure Dr. Singh did a good job on it." He turned to the
   nurse then and lowered his voice. "Would you give us some privacy,
   please?"

   The nurse left and he continued in a lower voice. "You don't need to
   worry about the bandage, the surgeon just fixed your nose and stitched
   up the cut above your eye. I'm assured you won't notice anything after
   a few weeks." He lowered the bed slightly and pulled over a chair so
   we were more or less level as he continued. "I am Dr. Blaha, I believe
   Mr. Grieves has spoken to you about me?" I nodded, and he went on. "I
   am a psychiatrist, Michael, and I have been asked by Mr. Grieves to
   talk with you to see what is at the heart of your problems."

   I didn't say anything, just waited for him to continue. He talked for
   a while about his expectations for me, and then warned me against any
   uncooperative behavior. "You must understand, Michael, that although
   you are only in a juvenile facility, I have the legal authority to do
   anything I feel is necessary to rehabilitate you. Anything. Are you
   clear on that?"

   Again, I didn't say anything, just nodded. I had pretty much made up
   my mind that he was going to be no help at all. Untying my hands had
   just been a gesture to try to win my confidence -- this guy was a part
   of the system that had put me here.

   He went on for a long time after that, asking me lots of questions
   about my life, about how I felt about girls, lots of other stuff about
   how I felt about life in general and about my feelings toward suicide.
   I tried to explain that I had not been suicidal, and I almost told him
   about Pangianis, but there was something about him that I didn't
   trust, and I held back.

   After Dr. Blaha left I went back to total boredom in the hospital
   room. The next day they transferred me back to the infirmary at Brand,
   and then a few days after that removed the bandages. They gave me a
   mirror, and I could see that although my nose and eyes were still very
   swollen they looked like they would heal up without any scars.

   I was given my own room at Brand, and -- as Mr. Grieves had said --
   kept entirely separate from everyone else. There were three rooms in
   the isolation section but I never saw anyone else in the corridors in
   the time I was there, or heard anyone but the guards. I showered alone
   in a single stall shower in the block, and had my meals brought to me
   in my room. There was a small outside space -- hardly a courtyard,
   more like the bottom of an air shaft -- at the end of the corridor of
   the isolation section where I was allowed to spend an hour a day in
   the open air, although sunshine never seemed to hit the ground there.

   Even though I had only been at Brand a few days, I kind of missed
   Steve. He had helped me fit in with a lot of things there and I missed
   having someone to talk with to fill in the long days. Grieves came to
   see me my first day out of the infirmary and explained that I would be
   excluded from the general activities the other boys were involved in,
   but that he would expect me to do some reading so I could keep up with
   studies when I went back into the general population at Brand.

   The days were very long and boring, so I started reading some of the
   books, just out of desperation. I had been neither a good or bad
   student when at school -- good because I was reasonably smart I guess,
   but bad because I didn't much care about it. Studying was what the
   Brady Bunch crowd did. But I got through the books Grieves left pretty
   easily. They were just novels and a couple of history books. There
   were some textbooks but I didn't pay any attention to those.

   I saw Dr. Blaha a few times in a small room off the infirmary, and he
   got me to tell him a lot of details about my past and my family. He
   was a strange man. There was something about him that made me uneasy,
   although he was always polite with me. At the end of the second
   session I had with him I felt somehow dirty, almost like there was
   something about him that was rubbing off on me. Perhaps it was the way
   he looked at me. I felt like he was looking past me to someone who
   wasn't there, even when he looked me straight in the eyes.

   Each visit with Dr. Blaha lasted about an hour; one or two ran longer.
   Otherwise I only got to see the guards when they woke me, escorted me
   to the small shower block in the isolation wing, or brought me my
   meals. Each week they sprung a random inspection on me, looking
   through my room for drugs or something I guess. I also saw the guards
   when I got an hour in the yard by myself every day, but otherwise it
   was just me, in that room, by myself.

   A few weeks after I was released from hospital one of the guards came
   to fetch me to see Grieves. Maybe he had relented, I thought, and I
   was going to be allowed to rejoin the rest of the guys. The idea gave
   me mixed emotions. I was lonely, but I still hadn't worked out a way
   to deal with Pangianis.

   It was Dr. Blaha who opened the door to the office. Grieves was
   sitting at his desk, but he stood as soon as the guard and I came in.
   The atmosphere in the office was bad, gloomy, and I knew immediately
   that Grieves hadn't summoned me there to tell me everything was going
   to be okay.

   "I have bad news," Grieves began.

   I don't remember too much past that point. Dr. Blaha said later that
   it was because of stress or something. Grieves went on to tell me that
   my mother was dead, that my father had finally hit her one too many
   times and she had died in the ambulance on the way to hospital. Dr.
   Blaha said later that my father's rages had become worse after Danny
   had died and I was locked up.

   Whatever the truth was, I did not take it well. Though I don't
   remember it, I've been told I didn't say anything, just stood there
   with my head hung for about two minutes, and then I went berserk,
   rampaging across Grieves' office, heading straight for him and
   destroying everything on his desk until the guard was able to restrain
   me. I had dim memories of it later, when I lay in my room, but I think
   that was mostly because I felt sore from the bruises from where the
   guard had hit me. As I rubbed my aching arm I thought again of Mom,
   and of the way she used to be, when she was happy, singing along to
   Dusty Springfield. I knew tough guys didn't cry, but I couldn't help
   it then, and I blubbered for at least an hour while I thought of how
   life should have been for her.

   Dr. Blaha came to my room an hour or two later, and wanted to talk to
   me, but I was still in turmoil from what had happened. I was over my
   tears, but I wanted to find my Dad, and hurt him, badly. I hadn't felt
   this way since Maria had been killed, and now there was the same small
   dark hard thing at the bottom of my soul that wanted to explode
   outward in retribution for this injustice. My mom had deserved a
   better life. I refused to say a word, and eventually, after a small,
   ill-tempered lecture from Blaha about needing to cooperate, he left.

   I was called out on the following Monday to see Dr. Blaha again. We
   got off to a bad start with the session. I had decided I would start
   talking to him, but instead of talking about Mom now he wanted to ask
   me questions about Maria and what had happened that night, and
   wouldn't believe me when I said I was innocent. Instead, he got off
   into a rage about how we could never have a relationship of trust so
   long as I could not be truthful, and that it was just my screwed-up
   relationship with sex and women that was impeding my therapy.

   I couldn't help myself after that. Although I had mostly always been
   respectful to adults, I said the same thing I would have said to
   anyone who insulted me that way in the old neighborhood -- I told him
   to go fuck himself.

   Immediately he stopped ranting, and his face took on a calmer but more
   calculating look. "If that's the way you want this to be," he said,
   and he called for the guard to take me back to my room.

   The following day I was led by a guard to the infirmary, where the
   nurse took some blood samples. The day after that I went back there
   again, only this time Dr. Blaha was there to greet me. "It gives me no
   pleasure to do this, Michael, but since you have shown no willingness
   to cooperate, and since you are still extremely aggressive and show
   some disturbing attitudes so far as sexual development goes, I have no
   alternative."

   I had no idea what he was talking about, but he went on.

   "Drop your pants, please."

   Huh? I didn't say anything, but I didn't move, either. This guy was a
   shrink, why did he want to look at my butt? When I didn't move the
   guard came over and grabbed my wrists behind my back while the nurse
   undid my pants. Then the guard forced me over the examination table. A
   few moments later I felt a sharp prick as Dr. Blaha jabbed me in the
   butt with a needle.

   "This is the only alternative I have left to me, Michael. You may find
   it slightly extreme, but I am sure it will make the difference we need
   to move on."

   ***

   Chapter Three. 

   The next week was as uneventful as most of my time while I was kept in
   isolation. I read, exercised and ate alone. About the only difference
   in my life was that I seemed to need a lot more sleep than usual. I
   slept most afternoons. I just didn't seem to have any energy.

   At our next meeting Dr. Blaha asked how I was, and was almost
   apologetic about having to have me restrained the week before, but I
   was still angry with him and wouldn't give him more than yes or no
   answers. I still wanted to ask him what it was he'd injected me with,
   but I figured -- with the state of our relationship as it was -- he
   wouldn't tell me anyway. The way he looked at me gave me the creeps,
   and I had a really bad feeling about what was going through his mind.
   Trust was not on the cards.

   Life proceeded in this manner for some time. Dr. Blaha and I had
   standoffish encounters at every meeting, and I was bored most of the
   time on my own. I was gradually making my way through the better books
   in the library, and I was exercising to try to keep myself in shape,
   but I was still very tired and finding a lot of things harder going. I
   figured the shot he gave me was a tranquilizer, but I was surprised it
   lasted so long.

   In the third week after Dr. Blaha gave me the shot I noticed my chest
   was kind of painful, at least around my nipples. They felt very
   painful in the cold air at night and in the morning. At our next
   meeting I asked him about my tiredness, but I didn't feel comfortable
   about mentioning my chest. "Yes, I would expect you to feel more
   tired, it's a side effect of these drugs, and they will help to calm
   you down," Dr. Blaha said. "I want to make you less aggressive, and
   this will help." I got another shot at the end of the session. This
   time I just gave in, and didn't need to be restrained. He seemed
   mildly pleased.

   My tiredness didn't decrease, and nor did the uncomfortable feelings
   in my nipples. By about three weeks after that I was beginning to
   think there was something wrong with me. There was a definite small
   growth under each nipple, and they were puffy and very sensitive to
   every touch. The rough texture of my shirts rubbing against them made
   any kind of exercise feel very painful.

   Gradually Dr. Blaha seemed to thaw, and I suppose I did too. Every two
   weeks he gave me another shot at the end of the therapy session, and I
   gradually came to accept it. After a few months I had even come to
   look forward to the sessions, if only because they got me out of my
   room and just being able to walk the corridors to the session seemed
   like a pleasure. Dr. Blaha and I had a session together on my
   fifteenth birthday, and he was friendly and wished me well and gave me
   a small box of chocolates, which he said he had cleared with Grieves.
   In return I agreed to tell him a little bit about my childhood, and he
   was smiling by the end of the session.

   Grieves came to see me later on my birthday, too, and told me that Dr.
   Blaha had told him I was "coming along well" and might soon be allowed
   to rejoin the rest of the guys at Brand "depending, of course, on your
   continued progress." He gave me a small parcel. "I realize that now
   that the weather has gotten colder you might need something more to
   wear than the shirts you have, I hope these are alright."

   I mumbled a kind of thank you and he left. After he had gone I opened
   the parcel. Inside were a couple of soft cotton vests, for wearing
   underneath my shirts. They looked kind of thin, which made me wonder
   about their value as far as keeping me warm, but I was glad to have
   something to keep my nipples from scratching.

   After about my eighth or ninth shot I realized with some horror what
   was happening to my chest. I was growing breasts. As soon as I made
   the connection in my mind it was obvious. At first I was at a loss to
   figure out why. Looking at me, it was obvious that the small swellings
   on my frame were just like the ones I had been so intrigued about on
   Mary Wozecky two years or so ago when she stopped playing with the
   boys in the neighborhood. I was mortified. Breasts!

   Frankly, 'mortified' doesn't even begin to describe how I felt. My
   first thought was -- well, it was more an absence of thought. I was
   stunned. My second thought was to try to deny it. But there they were.
   It was unmistakable. I thought of the comments I had heard guys make
   about breasts, the comments I had heard Danny make. He was a real tit
   man. I sank into depression as I wondered about my manhood, and about
   what he'd think of me if he could see me now. It didn't bear thinking
   about.

   Next time I got to request some books I asked for a bunch of medical
   reference texts. The library only had about four books like that. They
   were all mostly pretty basic biology, but one was a kind of
   encyclopedia of medicine, and although it had a lousy index I skimmed
   through a lot of it from the beginning, looking for anything to do
   with breasts or puberty, until I found a reference to gynecomastia. It
   said this was a condition that a lot of guys got, especially around
   puberty, which resulted in them growing breasts. Most times, it said,
   the development passed after the initial hormonal burst that marked
   puberty, and the guys grew up perfectly normally. This relaxed me a
   little bit. I read the entry so many times for reassurance that I knew
   it by heart by the time I returned it to the library.

   As my breasts continued to grow I started to be glad I was on my own.
   What would the other guys say if they saw me in the showers now? My
   breasts were not especially noticeable under my clothing, but I was
   very conscious of them, and I knew that they were unmistakably female.
   The encyclopedia had said that the condition was quite common, but I'd
   never seen anything like this happen to other guys.

   I was also worried about other parts of my body. I seemed to be
   putting on some weight, but only on my butt. The tiny mirror stuck to
   the wall in my room didn't let me get a decent look at my body, since
   I couldn't stand back far enough from it to take in much of me. All I
   had to go on was what I could see by looking down at myself. From that
   perspective my breasts looked enormous, but I couldn't really get a
   good idea about my butt.

   The way my body looked was only part of it; the way I felt was more
   disturbing. My nipples were ultra-sensitive, way beyond anything I
   could have imagined. Sometimes at night I ran my hands over them and
   around my budding breasts, and found the sensations excruciating and
   yet wonderful. As time went on some of the excruciating element
   receded, and all I was left with was a feeling of intense pleasure.
   Part of me loved it, but another, maybe dominant, part of me knew that
   boys weren't supposed to experience these feelings, and that probably
   what I was doing when I handled my breasts was wrong.

   My hair also bothered me. It had not been cut since it had been shorn
   when I first arrived at Brand, and it was now a mid-length shag
   beginning to hang in my eyes, and coming in very wavy and even curly.
   The red seemed to be deeper in color than it had been when I was
   younger, although I might have been imagining that since I had never
   had as much of it as this before. Lots of the guys at Brand had longer
   hair -- it was a kind of badge of resistance after everyone's hair was
   cut so short on arrival -- but I had never had hair past my ears
   before. I kept trying to brush it back with my hands, or comb it into
   place when it was wet, but whenever I did that I thought from what
   little I could see in the little mirror that it made me look kind of
   girlish. Not that it mattered much while I was in isolation, and there
   wasn't much I could do about it while I was there anyway.

   In the midst of all these other changes there was one compensation. I
   had started to develop a small amount of hair around my cock and
   balls, and a little in my armpits. It was only fine, and kind of
   sparse, but I felt encouraged that my masculinity hadn't completely
   gone on hold.

   Gonzales got assigned to the isolation wing three days a week about
   ten weeks after I was put in. Not that I cared much about the guards,
   but at least his was a face I'd seen before I was separated from
   everyone else. It turned out he liked to talk, and pretty soon I knew
   all about his wife and kids and his mother who lived with them and his
   younger brother who was no good and mixed up in a shady importing
   business. Hearing about this big Hispanic soap opera helped to pass
   the time.

   The other two days a week Gonzales worked back in the general area at
   Brand, where I'd first met him that time he took me to the showers,
   and one day he told me he had a message for me, from Steve. It wasn't
   very specific, or if it was Gonzales had forgotten the exact words,
   but he passed it on as a sort of general encouragement.

   Steve had asked after me, at least. That was nice. It seemed pathetic
   to think of a guy I'd only spent a few days with as a good friend, but
   really Steve was my only friend in the world, and I guess you latch
   onto whatever you find when you're down.

   Since Gonzales couldn't remember much more than two or three sentences
   at a time the message I sent back to Steve was a short one, just
   saying I was okay and would be glad to get out of isolation.

   Gradually Gonzales took more and more messages between us, I think
   because he liked me. Maybe I was the only person in the world who
   would listen to him bitch about his family troubles all the time. Now
   it seems kind of hard to believe that someone would confide all to a
   fifteen year old boy, but at the time I just went with it.

   Whatever it was, Steve and Gonzales and I struck up this weird
   slow-motion conversation. "I could get in trouble for doing this"
   Gonzales said to me a couple of weeks after the first message. That
   was true, because he wasn't supposed to talk to us much. What the
   hell, it must have been a really shitty, boring job; he had to talk to
   someone. I reassured him, pointing out that I valued the communication
   and wasn't likely to complain to anyone.

   Out of the blue one day, after I had been listening to him talking
   about how his son wasn't doing well at school for about an hour and
   just saying uh huh and nodding every now and again, Gonzales said "You
   know, Mike, I don't care what you did, you are a better kid than most
   of the kids in here -- better than some of the ones outside, too."
   Then he seemed to regret saying it immediately, like he had
   overstepped he mark, which I guess he had. I changed the subject for
   him quickly, since I was embarrassed as all hell anyway. It was such a
   strange outburst from a guard at a place like Brand.

   The visits to Dr. Blaha continued, and so did the shots. I began to
   worry about all the weight I was putting on in my butt. Although I
   couldn't see that part of me properly, it was getting more and more
   difficult to get my pants on even though my waist hadn't grown. My
   jockey shorts stretched out pretty tight around my butt. Plus the
   shots were still making me really tired and I was sleeping way too
   much.

   Dr. Blaha kept telling me he thought we were making good progress, and
   that soon I would be able to rejoin the rest of the Brand community. I
   didn't get much out of the sessions at all except for a growing
   feeling of unease at the way Blaha looked at me as my body developed.
   He really gave the creeps, especially at those moments when I had to
   drop my pants so he could give me a shot. A couple of times his hand
   lingered on my butt, and I was pretty sure he had a boner whenever he
   did that. I tried not to let my unease show when we talked, because I
   didn't want him to think he was getting to me. Mostly in our sessions
   we talked about me, about what it was like growing up. A couple of
   times he asked me to talk about Danny, and that was pretty hard
   because I cried, and I hated crying in front of him.

   For some reason, I seemed to cry very easily ever since I'd been
   seeing Dr. Blaha. I put it down to the shots.

   In a couple of sessions Dr. Blaha recorded what I was saying. Once or
   twice he played some of our earlier conversations back to me, to
   illustrate how he thought I was becoming less aggressive and hostile.
   I didn't notice any change in the way I spoke, because I was always
   fixated on the way I sounded whenever I heard myself on tape. I wanted
   my voice to break so badly.

   That didn't seem like it was going to happen anytime soon, though. My
   problems with my breasts got worse. They were definitely noticeable
   now. They *seemed* huge. I tore up one of the cotton vests Grieves had
   given me and used the fabric from it to bind myself up. Even though
   there wasn't really anyone except Gonzales and the other guards to see
   me, I wasn't comfortable with what had happened to my body. I
   especially hated the way they had begun to jiggle when I moved
   suddenly. Binding them up at least stopped that.

   Bob, an older guard who was rostered on weekends, started giving me
   the strangest looks, and even made some creepy comments about me. He
   called me 'pussy' from the first day he was assigned to isolation, and
   I wasn't sure whether that was just a general term of abuse from him
   or something specific to the way I looked that he might have noticed.
   I tried to make sure the binding was on extra tight when he was
   around.

   Mostly it was other guards, but sometimes it would be Gonzales who
   would escort me to see Dr. Blaha. Once as we were walking there
   Gonzales tried to cheer me up by attempting to imitate the way Blaha
   talked. It worked -- there was no way Gonzales's Hispanic speech
   patterns could come close to Blaha's strange middle-European accent.

   Twelve months after I had been sent to Brand I was still in the
   isolation wing. I mentioned this gloomily to Gonzales one afternoon as
   we were making the pilgrimage to see Dr. Blaha.

   "It's been a long time," he admitted. "Almost as long as Hammond spent
   here."

   "I didn't know Steve was in isolation," I said to him.

   "Oh, yes, twice. They let him out after three months the first time
   and he got into trouble again. He went back in for another six
   months," said Gonzales. "And then another six months." I was about to
   ask what Steve had been sent to isolation for when we arrived at the
   door to Blaha's office. Gonzales opened the door for me and I went in
   on my own, as I usually did. "He and Pangianis were always fighting,"
   Gonzales said quietly, in answer to the question I hadn't asked.
   "Pangianis spent almost a year in the wing as well."

   Inside the session proceeded badly from the start. Dr. Blaha gave me
   the shot at the start of the session instead of the end like he
   usually did, which put me in a bad mood. Then right off after that he
   started asking me to talk about how I felt about Maria, and whether I
   felt any remorse.

   Naturally I clammed up. There was no way to respond to those
   questions. In the past I would have gone into a rage about it, but now
   I just got kind of sad and stayed silent. I wasn't angry any more --
   Blaha's questions seemed more pointless than maddening.

   The doctor changed his approach to the discussion. There was one big
   barrier that was preventing him from telling Grieves I was coming
   around, Blaha ventured. "You still don't trust me," he said.

   That was true. I didn't really trust anyone. Blaha thought I didn't
   trust him because I wouldn't talk to him about Maria, and that was
   true, too. But the reason I wouldn't talk to him about it was that he
   didn't believe me when I said I didn't kill her.

   "You don't trust me, either," I said.

   He weighed this up for a moment. I guess he realized it was true.
   "It's not about me trusting you, Michael. It's about working out how
   you can survive here without being a danger to others and to yourself.
   A big part of that is reconciling you to take responsibility for what
   you've done to get yourself sent here."

   He paused, and sighed, and looked at me very directly. "Okay, Michael.
   Let's try doing this step by step. How are you feeling these days?"

   "I'm okay, I guess"

   "You're not as angry as you were?" he continued.

   I had just been thinking about that a minute or so earlier, and I
   shook my head.

   "Good. Well, that's progress. You don't feel these violent rages any
   more?"

   "I didn't --," I began, but he immediately cut me off.

   "-- I don't want to hear excuses today, Michael. Are you feeling anger
   now?"

   "Uh, no," I admitted. "I mean, I've never --"

   "-- Let us stick to me asking questions and you answering. Good. No
   rages. That means the therapy is working." He even smiled a little.
   "What about your feelings toward girls? Have you been thinking about
   girls a lot?"

   "Uh, no ... " I realized I hadn't been thinking about them much at
   all. Not that I've ever been weirdly obsessed or anything. But it
   occurred to me that I hadn't thought about sex lately. I hadn't even
   had a boner these last few months. Before I had come to Brand I got a
   few, and I thought a lot about Mary Wozecky and even Maria sometimes
   when I jerked off at home. Recently I had jerked off a little bit, but
   it was while I was playing with my own breasts, not thinking of
   Mary's, and most of the time I stayed soft while I was doing it
   anyway. What did that mean?

   Dr. Blaha was saying something but I hadn't been listening. All of a
   sudden I was aware of how my attitudes toward sex had changed in the
   time I'd been at Brand. I mean, I still hadn't really reached puberty
   according to Danny's measure of it ("once you start spurting, man,
   that's it," he had once told me) but I had thought about sex much more
   before I was sentenced than I had since. Maybe it was just that there
   were no girls around. Yeah, I thought, that was it.

   Dr. Blaha finished saying whatever it was I had ignored and then
   looked to me for a response. When I didn't give one he looked at me
   kind of strangely. "Take off your clothes," he said.

   I hesitated. Dr. Blaha was such a creepy guy, and the look he was
   giving me was one of his creepiest. I sat there until he grew
   impatient. I could see it was not negotiable, but I was resistant. I
   hadn't been naked in front of anyone else since he had begun giving me
   the shots. As I sat there, motionless, he started to approach me, so I
   quickly stood up and, waving him away, began to undress.

   I turned my back to him and undid my shirt. Underneath I had on a
   t-shirt as well as a vest, and underneath that was the vest I had torn
   up to bind my breasts. Before I took the t-shirt off I undid my pants
   and dropped them to the floor. I looked back over my shoulder to see
   him watching me intently, and he waved his hand at me to continue. I
   pulled the t-shirt over my head, then turned back around to face him.

   "The vest and underwear too, Michael."

   I dropped my jockey shorts first, feeling more embarrassed than I
   usually did when he gave me the shots. Then, hesitantly, I lifted the
   vest over my head and closed my eyes. I was waiting for a comment
   about the binding across my chest, but all I heard was a low "And that
   as well, thank you" from Blaha. I reached between my breasts to undo
   the knot in the material and then I was standing, naked, in front of
   him. I folded my arms in front of me, to try to hide my chest, and
   then slowly opened my eyes.

   Dr. Blaha had moved forward to get a closer look at me, and was
   beginning to circle around me. "Mmmm," he said. He said that a lot
   when he was pleased. "I must say that the effects are somewhat more
   pronounced than I had expected. We might have a problem soon... Take
   your arms down please."

   Reluctantly I did so, feeling more naked than I ever had before in
   front of anyone. I shivered, even though it was not cold in the room,
   and I felt my nipples get hard and pointy. I blushed, and briefly
   wondered about his comment about having a problem *soon*.

   "So, Michael, perhaps you can see that it is sometimes easier just to
   -- how do you say it -- go with the flow instead of getting angry."

   I had no idea what he was talking about. He picked up a camera and
   began to take photographs of me. With a shock I realized that the
   small tent in his pants meant that he was turned on by what he saw. I
   felt a wave of nausea build.

   "Face the door, please," Dr. Blaha continued after he had finished
   inspecting me. I turned, and for the first time I saw myself naked in
   the full-length mirror attached to the back of the door.

   My mind reeled. I looked like a girl. Apart from my cock, I mean. I
   looked like a girl maybe a year or so younger than me. I had breasts,
   and hips, and a little indentation to my waist, and my arms and legs
   were softer and more rounded than they used to be. My nose looked kind
   of petite, my lips were fuller than they used to be. My shaggy hair
   gave my face a kind of elfin quality, almost... pretty. A little shock
   went through me. I looked like, well, like the kind of girl I used to
   get knotted up about when I was at school. But I didn't just look like
   them in the face; I looked like them almost all over.

   Even the hair around my cock and balls wasn't particularly masculine;
   I could see that now. When Danny had reached puberty, he had developed
   a lot of hair, and it ran up his belly. Mine looked more like the
   patch of darkness that I had seen on the girls in porno magazines, a
   little neat dark red triangle, in this case broken by a small,
   pathetic looking penis that somehow looked smaller than it ever had. I
   thought of those magazines, and of Danny, and remembered the
   photograph of the 'chick with a dick' that Danny had teased me about
   so much.

   Was that what I was, now? Was that why Danny was always laughing at me
   in my dreams?

   "This was not my main purpose," Dr. Blaha continued, as he began
   measuring me around the hips, waist and ... er ... bust. I flinched
   when I felt his hands contact my skin. "But it's not entirely
   unexpected. As I explained to you when you first began taking them,
   it's a side effect of the drugs I gave you. Anti-androgens, estrogens.
   We give them to sex offenders these days, to free their minds from the
   urges they have. It also has the effect of calming any other violent
   urges they have. Usually the side effects of feminization are not as
   dramatic as they have been in your case, but I suppose since you are
   young... "

   I had stopped listening. I hadn't imagined I had looked quite like
   this until now. I knew odd things had been happening to my body, and
   they had been happening for a long time, but I hadn't realized what
   the overall effect would be. Then I realized I was crying.

   The way I responded in to the image of myself in the mirror probably
   sounds like I'm really stupid or something. I had known that my body
   had been changing -- how could I not have known? My breasts were so
   obvious. What I hadn't seen before was how completely it had changed.
   Naked before the mirror, I finally assembled all those things I had
   noticed in the months before into a coherent image of myself. It
   wasn't the image I had been expecting, no matter how often I had
   worried about the growth of my breasts and butt.

   Dr. Blaha wrapped my shirt around me and put his arm around me gently
   to lead me back to my seat in front of his desk. I didn't even flinch
   when I felt his hand drop from my back to my butt as he steered me
   toward the chair, I was so dazed from what I had seen. Then he
   returned to his own chair on the other side.

   "I'm sorry it's such a shock, Michael... you may remember I said that
   you might find the treatment extreme. It has been necessary so that we
   could move forward. You can see now that I am prepared to do whatever
   it takes to get your cooperation with me. Now that your violent urges
   seem to have subsided we can think about returning you to the main
   part of the center."

   Despite my shock the last part of the sentence penetrated my sobbing.
   "Return me to the center?" I could imagine what Pangianis would think
   of me now. "I can't..."

   Dr. Blaha nodded. "I can see there could be some complications,
   Michael, but we will do our best to ensure you are safe. You will
   shower separately, and I will get you something to hide your, ah,
   breasts, ah, better. Now that you are not as prone to violence
   yourself perhaps you will be less inclined to get into trouble."

   I shook my head. "He'll kill me," I said desperately.

   "Who will, Michael?"

   I thought of the code of silence, and then I thought of what lay ahead
   for me. I felt lost. No matter what I chose, my life back with the
   other guys in Brand was going to be misery. I swallowed, and said
   nothing as I went to gather up my clothing.

   Blaha let my statement ride but then added to my fears. "Of course, we
   will need to continue the treatment for a while," he said. "I know the
   side effects are distressing, but you have made excellent progress,
   and I don't want to lose that."

   "Distressing!" I was astonished that he would consider sending me back
   to the rest of Brand, but I was speechless that he wanted me to
   continue getting the shots. Was he really so clueless that he didn't
   know what would happen to me, or did he still harbor some ill will
   towards me?

   I briefly thought of fighting with him, but it seemed pointless. He
   had Grieves, the guards, the entire institution and even drugs on his
   side, and I was at his mercy no matter what I did. Plus he seemed to
   have a real bee in his bonnet about me being a troublemaker already. I
   slowly dressed, and waited for him to dismiss me. He was gazing out
   the window as I was dressing, and then he turned and smiled.

   "You know, Michael, you shouldn't feel so bad about this. The changes
   do seem to... well... suit you, and while I'm sure you find them
   inconvenient we will make sure you are taken care of." He went to a
   cabinet at the side of the room and retrieved a small pack of tablets,
   then approached me with one in his upturned palm. "Take this. I'll see
   to it you get two every day. It will help."

   I looked at him with alarm. What was the pill for? I was already in
   enough trouble with the drugs he'd been giving me. What did he mean by
   "the changes seem to suit"?

   Blaha saw my reluctance and sighed. "It will make you feel better,
   Michael. There are no side effects like the shots you've had,
   alright?" Reluctantly, I took the pill and swallowed it. "Thank you,"
   he said. He even smiled. "I'll see you weekly from now on," he
   continued. "I think we can make some very good progress from here."

   As I stepped into the corridor Gonzales looked at me very strangely,
   but I was still confused by the things Blaha had said to me and didn't
   pay any attention to the odd expression on his face. Blaha had known
   all along that my body would change this way, and yet now he was going
   to send me back out with the other guys, who were certain to kill me.
   My mind went around and around this in fear, without seeing any way I
   could save myself. Such was my distraction that I didn't notice
   Gonzales speaking to me, either, until he said my name more loudly.

   "Mike!"

   "Uh... huh?"

   "You are alright?" Gonzales asked, looking at me solicitously.

   I nodded. "Yeah, I guess so. Sorry, I guess I was distracted"

   "You are not having the best of times" Gonzales continued. It was then
   that I became aware that he was looking at my chest. When getting
   dressed in Blaha's office I had forgotten -- for the first time ever
   -- to bind myself up. Gonzales noticed that I had caught him looking
   at me and glanced away, as I turned bright red.

   "No, I am definitely not having the best of times," I said softly.

   Neither of us said anything more as he returned me to my room in
   isolation. A few hours later he came by with a small parcel from
   Doctor Blaha, and we both looked embarrassed when we made eye contact.
   I don't know which of us was more embarrassed, really. I shrugged and
   Gonzales smiled at me. "It will be alright," he said to me gently. "I
   will see to that."

   ***

   Chapter Four.

   In the package that Blaha had sent me were a few rolls of bandages and
   some safety pins to secure them. I didn't need instructions to tell me
   what they were for, and as soon as Gonzales left I began to bind
   myself up again. The truth is, I felt much more comfortable with my
   breasts free, but I didn't want anyone else to discover what was
   happening to me and I thought it was better to be safe than very
   sorry. Also in the parcel were another vest and a new center uniform.
   I tried on the pants first, and immediately noticed that they fit me a
   lot better around the butt. The shirt wasn't much different, I
   thought.

   After dinner Bob came to take me and my meager bundle of belongings
   back to the main facility. For once he was polite when he spoke to me,
   and although he didn't use my name he didn't call me 'pussy' like he
   usually did. Although Bob didn't say anything to confirm it, I figured
   that Carlos Gonzales had been true to his word, and had talked to Bob
   about what was happening.

   I had mixed feelings as Bob led me up the corridor toward the main
   wing. Happiness that I would have company again, and fear at what my
   new physical status would mean if I was found out. The fear was
   completely overwhelmed, though, when I saw he was leading me right
   back to my old room with Steve. The guard opened the door and I went
   in, immediately disappointed because Steve wasn't in. I slowly
   unpacked and then lay on the lower bunk. Each time I thought about the
   way I'd looked in that mirror I cried a little, but gradually I think
   I wore myself out, and eventually I drifted off to sleep.

   I woke up a while later when Steve came back from dinner. He saw me
   and broke into a wide grin. "They finally decided you weren't such a
   threat to the rest of us, huh?" he teased. I was about to jump up and
   give him a hug, I was so pleased to see him, but I restrained myself.

   Why had I wanted to hug him? That was definitely not the way to
   approach Steve. Although I always felt better the few times I had been
   in his presence, I knew that Steve was a tough guy at Brand who wasn't
   given to expressing emotion. Instead, I stayed on my bunk in the
   shadow of his bunk above, and he sat on the edge of my mattress and we
   talked and talked, catching up on what had been happening.

   After a few minutes, though, he stopped talking and looked at me
   carefully, squinting as though he couldn't quite make me out in the
   shadow. "You look different, kid," he said uncertainly.

   "It's the hair," I said immediately, wishing the wall behind me would
   dissolve so I could flee. "I haven't had it cut since I've been in
   here."

   "Yeah, I guess," Steve said, though he seemed unconvinced. A couple of
   times through the rest of the evening I caught him scrutinizing me
   again, but he tried to pretend he wasn't doing it each time I met his
   gaze.

   I mentioned to him that I was going to get my hair cut now that I was
   out of isolation, but he asked me not to. I thought that was kind of
   odd, but he said he thought having it longer suited me and I should
   keep it that way. I wasn't sure I wanted to have it really long, since
   I'd never liked my hair -- or at least its color -- anyway. But I
   figured I still had a way to go before it was as long as a couple of
   other guys' anyway.

   We kept on talking and talking. Even though he was a lot older than I
   was Steve seemed to have no problems relating to the stuff I had to
   say, which I was glad about. I needed to talk about anything other
   than my problems with Blaha. Most of our conversation was Steve
   filling me in on other guys who had arrived or left, and most of the
   names didn't mean anything to me. After all, I'd only had a short time
   in the general population at Brand. Steve had even had a new cellmate
   come and go in the time I'd been in isolation, some jerk he didn't
   like much named Brian. I had a feeling -- from the way that Steve
   described him -- that Steve hadn't made Brian's stay very enjoyable.

   Even though most of the discussion was about people I didn't know, it
   was good to have someone to talk to, and I liked listening to Steve.
   There was something about the tone of his voice, and his ready smile,
   which cheered me up. We continued talking until well past lights out.
   I undressed down to my t-shirt, unwilling to take it and the bandage
   beneath it off even in the dark.

   It was only as I was going to sleep that it occurred to me that the
   one person neither of us had mentioned was Pangianis.

   Next morning Blaha was true to his word. At breakfast a guard escorted
   me to eat, and stood only a few feet from the table where I sat. As I
   entered the room, the light conversation that had been buzzing around
   stopped completely, as all eyes turned to take me in. I could see
   Pangianis and a few of his goons glaring at me, but there wasn't much
   they could do. Eventually the conversations started up again. The
   guard escorted me back to my room and Steve joked that I was the most
   popular person at Brand, just because I had managed to irritate
   Pangianis so badly. I wasn't sure whether getting a psychopath riled
   was a good thing or a bad thing.

   Everyone else had showered before breakfast, but I got mine afterward
   when Gonzales arrived to escort me. I stripped off and got under the
   water quickly, noticing from the corner of my eye that Gonzales was
   having a hard time trying not to stare at me, though he was trying
   hard to be discreet. I turned my back to him and finished rinsing
   myself off, then toweled myself dry and began dressing, carefully
   re-wrapping my bandage. Then we went back to the room. Neither of us
   said anything.

   The days went on in a similar fashion, one after another. As Dr. Blaha
   had promised, the pills did seem to make me feel better, or at least
   less anxious about the threat I faced from Pangianis (or anyone else
   who found out about my weird new body). Dr. Blaha's other promises
   held up, too. I was escorted everywhere by a guard, almost always
   Gonzales if he was on duty, and I never showered with the other guys.
   Steve started to ask me about this one day, but then seemed to think
   the better of it and didn't finish the question. Every morning I made
   a point of getting up earlier than Steve so that I was dressed in more
   than just my t-shirt and jockey shorts when he saw me. I was very
   conscious of the lack of hair on my body, and didn't want him to see
   that, and besides I wasn't sure how well the t-shirt hid the bandage
   beneath.

   Every day that I watched him get up I marveled at the way his body
   looked in comparison to mine. He wasn't super-hairy, but there was a
   fair bit on his chest, and he had very broad shoulders. Although he
   frequently reminded me of Danny in his actions he was taller and
   possessed the kind of good looks that I knew would have prompted the
   girls back at the Division Cafe to throw themselves at him. He seemed
   relaxed with his movements, unhurried, and I had to admit that,
   coupled with his accent and the slow, gentle way he spoke, there was a
   lot of appeal to that.

   I guess at Brand there was nothing much to hurry to.

   Although at first I knew he was watching me like a hawk, each day that
   went by I noticed Pangianis seemed to pay less attention to me. One of
   his goons hissed when passing Gonzales and me in the corridor, and
   another tried to embarrass me by saying "cute" every day when he
   passed my table at lunchtime, but the one time anyone tried to do
   anything to me Gonzales was onto them like a flash. Pangianis's
   offsider Sonny, the one who had helped cut me, came at me from behind
   with a sharpened shim of steel he'd gotten from somewhere as I was
   walking out of the library. I think another of the thugs was supposed
   to distract Gonzales, but something went wrong in the timing, because
   as soon as Sonny was within about three feet of me Gonzales had
   snapped out a deft kick to Sonny's wrist and disarmed him before he
   threw him to the floor and stood on Sonny's back with one foot.

   Sonny did about two months in isolation for that. I wondered whether
   he was going to get one of Dr. Blaha's special programs for aggression
   too, but unfortunately justice isn't something you often find in
   juvenile detention centers.

   Months went by. Each night as I went to bed I thought of all that had
   happened to me, all the strange changes that had taken place. It felt
   as thought the old me, the one from the old neighborhood, was slipping
   away. Back then I was teased for being small, but I knew who I was,
   and I got some respect from my friends because I was tough enough not
   to take shit from people. Here at Brand I was taking serious shit from
   the doctor. As I twisted and turned in bed some nights I saw Danny's
   face in my dreams, and each time he was laughing and jeering at me and
   calling me a sissy. In the mornings when I woke after these dreams I
   usually wanted to die.

   Steve kept watching me closely when we were together. At first I was
   very self-conscious about it, afraid that he had noticed the bandage I
   wore or something else about the changes that had happened to me since
   Dr. Blaha's bizarre therapy had begun. Once, not long after Sonny's
   attempt on me, everyone was awoken in the middle of the night for a
   random search of our rooms. Fortunately it was a while after the
   lights came on before the guards got to our room, and I was able to
   secure the bandage fairly quickly before Steve dropped down from his
   bunk. But I noticed after I rose, in my t-shirt and underwear, that he
   eyed my legs strangely. During the search we had to stand against the
   wall in the corridor, and after I walked back into the room ahead of
   him I realized from the rather startled expression on his face that he
   had probably been studying my butt and legs from behind. I flushed
   red, but he didn't say anything, and I tried to pretend it hadn't
   happened. When in the next few days he still hadn't said anything I
   thought maybe I was mistaken, or the changes weren't as obvious as I
   had thought. Gradually I relaxed around him again, and came to accept
   the way he unconsciously flicked his eyes over me sometimes as just
   part of his everyday behavior. I even began to like it a little bit,
   but only when I didn't think too much about what liking it might mean.

   My new freedom to mingle with the other inmates at Brand was
   constrained by the fact that I always had a guard nearby, which meant
   almost all the other guys avoided me like the plague. The first time I
   ventured out I was left entirely on my own, and I stood in the corner
   of the yard feeling like some kind of leper. The second time, this
   effeminate-looking kid who was maybe seventeen years old approached
   me. I could see the guard who was escorting me eye the kid warily as
   he approached, but since I didn't know who this fairy was I didn't get
   my defenses up too much.

   "Hi," the fairy said boldly, in a singsong kind of voice.

   "Uh, hi," I said, unsure what to make of this kid.

   "I'm Cary," he said, putting an emphasis on the second syllable,
   stretching it out. Cary. I remembered Steve's comments about Nick
   Pangianis's 'partner' of choice. "Cary Philips. Some people call me
   Cee."

   I knew who some people might have been.

   "Mike," I said in return. I didn't proffer a second name.

   "You don't look much like a Mike," Cary said.

   "Huh?" I didn't know how to respond to that, or if I even wanted to.
   There was an awkward silence for a moment.

   "Nick just wanted you to know that he didn't know you were with
   Hammond," Cary said abruptly. "He doesn't want any trouble."

   I neither believed this nor felt inclined to comment on it. Nick
   Pangianis had shown every sign of wishing me all the trouble he could
   so far. And I was confused. What did "with Hammond" mean? I didn't see
   what Steve had to do with any of it.

   "Why should I believe him?" I asked.

   "Ooh, you are a feisty one, aren't you," Cary said archly. "I'm just
   passing the message on. You are with Hammond, aren't you?"

   "We're in the same room," I said. Despite my feelings for Steve as a
   friend I resented our relationship being portrayed the way Pangianis
   and Cary's was.

   "Really? Heck, honey, you are missing out big time, then. Steve
   Hammond is the only other guy in this place worth pissing on. And Nick
   does respect him, you know."

   Eventually, after a few half-hearted attempts at conversation, Cary
   sighed. "What a pity. I thought you and I could get to be real good
   friends." Then he flounced off, swinging his hips as he walked,
   conscious of the snickers of some of the kids he passed but seemingly
   proud of prompting them. A couple of them glanced at me as Cary passed
   them, and I could see I was tarred with the same brush. That kind of
   took away any enjoyment I ever had from being outside after that. When
   exercise time was called I started going to the library instead most
   days.

   I started taking some classes, since Brand required everyone to
   continue some study until they were 16, but fortunately Pangianis and
   his goons weren't in any of the same groups as me. I don't even know
   if Pangianis bothered taking classes since he was older, or if it even
   occurred to him that he could easily have got at me there. Three of
   the classes I took were with Mr. Danielson, a sour old bastard who
   seemed always to be looking at me kind of sleazily. He gave me the
   creeps, but even though he bugged me a little I was more relaxed
   around him than around Pangianis.

   Because I could relax in class I really started to get into some of my
   studies. Danny would have laughed at me, called me a brain or
   something, but really Brand was such a mind-numbingly boring place to
   be that reading almost anything was preferable to just hanging out in
   the yard where nobody would talk to me anyway. All the time I spent in
   isolation meant that I had already read a lot of stuff that was set
   for classes anyway. When I look back on my time there now, I think my
   time at Brand had a big impact on the kinds of things I was interested
   in. Back at school I had always hated study.

   Steve used to kid me from time to time about the stuff I read, which
   meant he reminded me even more of Danny. It was exactly the same kind
   of thing he would have done. I think Steve was kind of impressed that
   I could understand some of the books, in a funny kind of way, though
   he would never have said it. He didn't take classes, since he was old
   enough to be exempt. Instead he worked out a lot, and hung out with
   some other guys when we had yard time. He spent most of the rest of
   his free time playing his guitar.

   Steve was a great guitarist, I guess because he put in so much
   practice. Because of that he didn't get complaints from the other
   guys, even though the music carried down the corridor and could be
   heard by all. He could play anything, even jazz. Once another guy
   tried playing a guitar, too, at the other end of the block, but he
   wasn't very good and so everyone started yelling at him to stop after
   a short while. Nobody ever asked Steve to stop, and nobody ever played
   his radio over the top of Steve's guitar, either. A lot of evenings he
   would play and I would listen until the guards called for lights out.

   I think those evenings are some of my favorite memories of my time at
   Brand, me laying on my bunk with Steve sitting on the edge of my
   mattress playing his guitar. He liked to play a lot of different
   stuff, but sometimes he'd bow to a picture of Keith Richards on the
   wall and pay mock homage before trying a Stones song. "Greatest
   songwriter in the world," he'd say. Even though it was hard to make
   some of that music sound interesting when he only had an acoustic
   guitar, he was pretty good, especially on some of the slower songs
   like 'Wild Horses'. I told him I liked that one, and he played it a
   lot after that.

   One night I kind of forgot myself and sang along to 'Wild Horses'.
   When the song finished he didn't say anything for a few moments, and
   that made me very self-conscious. I became aware that there wasn't a
   sound anywhere else in the whole block. I blushed a deep crimson, and
   then Steve said softly "You sing really beautifully, you know?"

   What I was aware of was that my voice hadn't broken -- it had changed
   in quality since I'd been at Brand, and become just a little bit more
   throaty, but it had hardly dropped in pitch at all, and I had sung up
   kind of high in the last chorus. It wasn't really a sound I wanted the
   other guys to hear. What an idiot I was.

   I rolled over on the bed and put my face in the pillow. Then I felt
   Steve's hand on my shoulder. "It's okay," he said. "Really. That was
   beautiful. You should sing more."

   I turned my head slightly and looked over at him. He had put the
   guitar down and moved closer up the bunk to be nearer to me. His eyes
   met mine and he reached out a hand and stroked my hair away from my
   face. It was a strange and beautiful moment. A tingle went through me
   when he touched me. I had never felt anything like it before. I
   dropped my eyes from his gaze, and he brushed my hair a few more
   times. Then he stood up and walked to the door of our room. I think he
   was suddenly embarrassed.

   At that moment the bell rang that let us know it was five minutes to
   lights out, and he turned and came back and sat on the edge of my bunk
   again.

   "Mike?" he said. "How old are you now?"

   "Fifteen," I said softly. There was something about the way he was
   looking at me that made me very self-conscious.

   "I'm twenty," Steve said. I knew that. I nodded, and he went on,
   hesitantly. "It's funny, you seem kind of older than that in some
   ways, but you look younger. Uh, have you... Do you...? Uh..."

   I knew what he was searching for. He was trying to find a polite way
   to ask me how come I wasn't like the other guys at Brand. Maybe he
   wanted to know how come I didn't have any signs of a masculine puberty
   yet.

   I guess there wasn't a polite way. I reached up to him and put my
   finger in front of his lips in a gesture of silence. "You don't want
   to know," I said softly.

   "Yeah, I do," he said equally quietly. "Uh... don't take this the
   wrong way, I like you and all -- you know that, right?" I nodded.
   "It's just ... well, you're more like... sometimes you kind of make me
   crazy, and I don't know why," he said.

   Just then Gonzales opened the door. "Lights out," he said, smiling. He
   saw Steve sitting on the edge of my mattress, with me lying down, and
   his eyes narrowed. "You okay, Mike?"

   "Fine thanks," I called, grateful that the spell between Steve and I
   had been broken. I liked Steve a lot, but this kind of conversation
   was getting way more intense than we'd ever been before. Steve put his
   guitar in its case and Gonzales hit the switch.

   I could hear Steve starting to get undressed. There was always a dim
   light in our room from the exterior lighting in the yard outside
   coming through the small window, so our room was never completely
   dark, but I could never see by it until a few minutes after lights out
   when my eyes had time to adjust. I started to take off my own clothes
   too, confident Steve would be unable to see too much in the time that
   it took him to get undressed. I stayed on the bunk to get undressed,
   and had to kind of shake my hips a bit to get my pants down over them
   while lying down. Then I took off my socks and unbuttoned my shirt. I
   thought Steve was just about to climb onto the bunk above me, but then
   he seemed to change his mind and he came and sat on the edge of my bed
   again. As he was sitting down I quickly got under the blanket so he
   wouldn't see too much of me when his eyes adjusted to the light.

   "Sorry about before," he said. "I'm not, uh... " His voice trailed off
   as though he was embarrassed and thought better of completing the
   sentence.

   "It's okay," I said, conscious again in a strange way that he was so
   close to me. I was nervous. I guess I should have just shut up then,
   but in my zeal to make him feel better I asked, "Why do I make you
   crazy?" I already half knew the answer to that, and I really didn't
   want to hear him say it, but my nervousness was tinged with an odd
   fatalism and I couldn't keep my mouth shut. Embarrassed, I continued
   getting ready for bed by taking off my shirt. Now I had only the
   t-shirt, jockey shorts and bandage covering me.

   "Uh...," Steve began again. It was tragic how inarticulate he could
   get when he was nervous, and in my slowly returning awareness of light
   I could make out the side of his face, and the slight tilt to his head
   which indicated he was very embarrassed. "Have you... have you ever
   thought about, you know, with a guy?"

   My immediate feeling was revulsion. Ugh! My deepest fear. There was a
   long, deep stillness between us, and I thought Steve would just get up
   and walk away, since he probably regretted saying that. But then
   despite myself I couldn't help smiling. He really was kind of sweet
   when he was embarrassed like that. It was strange to hear someone
   normally so strong and self-assured make themselves so vulnerable, and
   although I wasn't sure how to deal with the question I understood that
   by even broaching it Steve was trusting me in a very special way.

   "No way," I said quietly, but I couldn't look at him when I said it.

   "I just wondered," he whispered. There are some things you do..."

   "You think I'm queer?"

   "Maybe not. Sorry, It's just..."

   I felt Steve's hand at my neck, gently brushing my hair back again,
   and I jumped. Evidently he could see me better than I could see him.
   And once again, after the initial terror, the feeling of him touching
   me, even in such a seemingly trivial way, was electrifying, and I was
   momentarily disoriented by the small buzz that went through me. When I
   didn't pull away from his touch, or say anything, he continued, his
   voice even softer. "Sometimes I look at you, and I wonder why I get
   these feelings. Like, I don't think I'm like that, you know? This
   place gets to a lot of people that way, but not me. But... I don't
   want to offend you, but the way you move sometimes, and the way you
   look when you're sleeping..."

   Steve had been watching me sleep? That was news to me. I felt his hand
   go down the back of my neck and then his other hand touch my shoulder.
   Despite my nervousness I almost wanted to purr. I could sense him
   shifting slightly closer to me, and feel his hand beginning to move
   across my back.

   "Ah, Steve..." I began.

   The hand on my shoulder was immediately withdrawn, as though he feared
   from my voice that he'd crossed a line. But at the same time his other
   hand had dropped just slightly further down my back, and his hand made
   contact with my bandage beneath my t-shirt.

   "What's that?" he asked.

   "Shit," I said, reality suddenly returning to me. What had I been
   thinking? I had been enjoying the way he had been touching me. I
   hadn't had another person touch me in such a long time. Maybe I was a
   fag after all. Did the pills Dr. Blaha was giving me change that about
   me, too? I didn't want to think so, but...

   I liked Steve. I liked him a lot. I liked the way it felt when he
   touched me. I'd even started to get to like the way he looked at me
   sometimes. It made me feel... well, just liked, I guess.

   No, I told myself, I wasn't a fag. Neither was Steve. He didn't act
   like a fag or anything. I thought we were probably both going to
   regret this in the morning. I turned away from him again, and
   collapsed down into the bed. In a moment I realized I was crying.

   "What?" asked Steve. "What's wrong?" He reached over to touch both my
   shoulders again. Despite my misgivings only a moment earlier, I lay
   still, wondering how in the world I would explain to him the full
   weirdness of what I had become at the hands of Dr. Blaha. I sensed
   that the events of the evening had gone far enough that explaining it
   to him was somehow inevitable, but I felt a curious sense of
   powerlessness. It was almost as though from then on whatever happened
   that night was going to be not quite real, and therefore too hard to
   deal with consciously. Perhaps it was the sexual charge that still lay
   in the air.

   Whatever.

   While I cried, Steve slowly began to massage my shoulders, and then
   gradually to work further down my back to the bandage again. He felt
   the bandage once or twice and then reached down the bed to the bottom
   of my t-shirt and tried to pull it up. I didn't say anything, but I
   shifted slightly to let him. When he saw the bandage he was briefly
   solicitous.

   "Are you okay?" he asked gently.

   When I didn't say anything again he reached for the safety pin I used
   to fasten the bandage on my right side and undid it. I felt the
   pressures in the bandage begin to release, and then Steve tried to
   unwind it around my side. He couldn't do it while I was laying on my
   front like that, and I had to stop him.

   "Steve. Just wait for a moment, okay?" I whispered.

   I felt him release me and I began to unwind the bandage myself. It was
   about eight feet long, so it took a few twists and turns to get it off
   while I was lying in bed. Finally I cast it aside and sat up, facing
   him. I waited for him to say something, sure that he could see me
   properly in the dim light. There was no reaction at all from him. He
   seemed stupefied by what he was seeing.

   That was the worst response he could have made. I was suddenly
   terrified that he hated me because I was a freak. Despite my fears I
   had to find out what he thought. After he stayed motionless and silent
   for a few seconds more, I gently guided his hand to my left breast.

   "Omigod," Steve said softly. "H-How? I mean, uh..."

   "The wonders of medical science, I guess," I whispered. Steve had
   moved his hand around my breast so that his thumb was at the edge of
   my nipple, which immediately stiffened at his touch. It felt good. A
   little pit opened in my stomach, and my insides threatened to tumble
   into it in a warm, gooey free-fall. I felt his other hand on my right
   breast, doing the same thing. Mmmm. I knew I shouldn't be doing this,
   and shouldn't be allowing Steve to do it, but it felt so good. Much
   better than when I touched myself. There was something about Steve's
   hands, and the attention he was paying to me, that made this special.
   Strangely enough, the sensations were nothing like the ones I used to
   have when I jacked off. They were spread more throughout my body, deep
   into my belly. In fact I didn't think I was even a little bit hard,
   even though I became aware that I had moaned softly when he traced his
   fingers around my breasts.

   After a few more minutes of this I found myself laying down fully,
   with Steve beside me, running his tongue around my nipples and down my
   chest to my belly. He paused, then started flicking his tongue over me
   again, beginning up behind my ears and around my neck before
   concentrating on my breasts again. The feeling was kind of calming and
   exciting at the same time, and I writhed in pleasure. My body had a
   motion all its own, and my hips began moving, slowly, rhythmically as
   I grasped Steve's shoulders. I moaned again and he put a hand over my
   mouth to quiet me. Then, after several more minutes of touching and
   kissing me until I was almost becoming delirious, he rolled me over
   onto my front. I didn't know what I needed, I still wasn't hard, but I
   felt better than I had ever done even when I was jerking off.

   "Sweet Jesus, you're a girl," Steve said softly, wonderingly. "What
   the fuck -- "

   "-- No. Maybe. I don't know," I said, confusedly. "No, I'm not. Not a
   girl."

   "Are you? Do you have...?" I still couldn't see him well, since he was
   between the light and me, but from his voice I knew what he was
   talking about. I felt his hands running down my back, then removing my
   underwear. His hand started to go around to my crotch, and it was then
   that I reached around and stopped him. That was too much. I didn't
   want that. He stopped trying, and then he kissed me some more. Then I
   felt him caressing the cheeks of my butt. I heard him make a small
   "mmm" noise as he did so, then felt him slipping his hand between the
   crack. It was wet, with what seemed like saliva. I had a momentary
   flash of panic. This was what fags did, right? The panic passed in the
   pleasure as Steve bent down to kiss the small of my back and then lay
   himself down again and kissed behind my ears. I liked the behind the
   ears thing especially. Then he lay on top of me more directly, and I
   felt his hardness laying in the crack of my ass. He continued to kiss
   me, and then I felt him put his hand, coated in saliva again, between
   my legs. He fingered my hole, gently. I must have gasped, because he
   kissed me and told me gently to relax. Then I could feel him shift his
   weight, and he was poking into me.

   It hurt, a lot. He felt so big. I felt for sure that he was going to
   tear me apart. Again I must have made a noise, because he withdrew
   slightly and waited until I had relaxed. Then, in one quick thrust,
   Steve was all the way inside me. It hurt in that moment and I squealed
   in pain. He put his hand over my mouth again. It hurt *so* much! But
   then in a few moments the hurt was replaced with a different feeling
   as I felt him moving inside me. He grunted a few times, in a way that
   didn't sound like him but which I knew meant he was enjoying himself.
   I tried to relax and go with what was happening, and in a few minutes
   I felt him spasm inside me, and then relax on top of me.

   For the next half-hour or so after he withdrew Steve caressed me, and
   kissed me, and gently played with my breasts, which seemed to
   fascinate him like he'd never felt a pair before. We lay together all
   through the night, his arm around me, while he slept heavily and I
   wondered what all of this meant for the future.

   ***

   Chapter Five.

   It was starting to get light outside. I gingerly untangled myself from
   Steve and began to wind the bandage around my chest. As I did so I
   looked over at the bunk. Steve lay stretched out along it, his body
   clearly visible in the slowly brightening room. He really did have a
   good physique, I thought. Even though I told myself wasn't attracted
   to him that way, I could see that girls would go for it. I thought
   back to the events of the night and began fastening the bandage before
   I reached for the t-shirt. Then I noticed he had woken, and was
   watching me.

   "Uh uh," he said softly, shaking his head slightly. "Take it off again
   for a minute, just for me."

   My first ridiculous impulse was to turn myself away from him so he
   couldn't see much of me, but then of course he had a great view of my
   butt. I held one hand to block the view of my crotch, and held my
   other hand up to the bandage stretched across my chest.

   "You look amazing," he said. "Really. I noticed some things about you,
   but who'd a guessed?" His smile got broader. He was very persuasive
   when he smiled like that. He sat up in the bed, and motioned for me to
   come closer to him. Softly he began to talk to me, to tell me that
   although he didn't know why these things had happened to me, he loved
   the way I looked and felt. I blushed, and he reached out for the
   safety pin and undid it. As he unraveled the bandage again I stood
   nervously. Finally it was undone and my breasts were free.

   "So beautiful," he said. "So perfect."

   At about that moment the stress of my conflicting emotions got the
   better of me, and I began crying.

   "Hey," Steve said. "What's the matter? I didn't hurt you or anything,
   did I?"

   I sat back on the bed and told Steve everything, about how the events
   when I first came to Brand got all screwed up and how they, connected
   with what had happened to me outside, convinced Grieves and Blaha that
   I was a violent and aggressive kid with a problem. And how Blaha had
   kept giving me these shots, and now pills as well.

   Steve put his arm around me as I cried. After about twenty minutes I
   had cried everything out, and I began to dry my eyes.

   "So how do you feel about it?" Steve asked. "I mean... don't take this
   the wrong way, but you... you look great."

   "You just haven't seen a girl in ages," I retorted.

   "I was just wondering, like, what it feels like," he said.

   "At first I hated it. I hated everything that was happening," I said.
   "Steve, I didn't choose this, you know?"

   "I know," he said, caressing my shoulder with his hand. "It's kind of
   hard to understand, though, you know?"

   "Yeah, it's fucking weird," I said bitterly, and then regretted it
   when he stiffened a little. "I mean..." I tried to correct myself. "I
   just don't know what to think," I said. "Sometimes I just want to die,
   sometimes it doesn't seem so bad... I even like some of the feelings
   when you... you know."

   "So you don't mind?"

   "Mind?"

   "Last night?"

   "No." There. I had said it.

   "Good. Now you can bandage yourself back up before the goon comes."

   I dressed, and we went about the day in our separate ways as we
   usually did. A different guard accompanied me for the first half of
   the day, and then I had Gonzales in the afternoon. I kept thinking
   he'd notice something different about me. I felt different. Apart from
   feeling sore where Steve had been inside me, I also felt much more
   conscious of my body than usual. It felt rounder, softer, kind of ...
   I allowed myself to think about it. Maybe it felt... sexier. Was that
   it? I found myself thinking of Steve, and the way he had held me and
   talked to me softly, all through the day. But all Gonzales seemed to
   notice was that I was more distracted than usual.

   In the afternoon I went out to the exercise yard and stood at the
   side, watching Steve and his friends tossing around a baseball. He
   grinned at me, and I blushed and turned away. But I stood there a
   while longer, watching him. I liked that he looked at me, even in
   front of his friends. After a short while I became aware of the gazes
   from the other guys, and of the way they looked at Steve as if to
   gauge where I stood. It got a little uncomfortable, all that
   attention, but Steve kept smiling at me, and as I was walking back to
   our room I realized that no matter what I thought, he wasn't ashamed
   of me.

   That night Steve slept with me again. At first I was awkward. He sat
   at the edge of my bed, stroking my hair. He had been playing guitar
   again, before lights out. First it was a bitter song I'd never heard
   before, something about a woman making a man poor, then some bluegrass
   style stuff which I didn't know and he didn't sing to, and then he
   played a couple of Stones songs.

   He didn't really have a very good voice, but he had a nice expressive
   way of singing. The last one he played was a slow song he said was
   about someone's wife, Angie. He sang it deep and gravelly, not at all
   like Mick Jagger, and I was amazed at how different it could be. In
   the last verse I started singing along quietly, and he stopped, and
   then he made me sing it from the start.

   I was embarrassed, and sang very softly, but it's not a complicated
   song to sing and he smiled while I was doing it. I closed my eyes and
   sang. It was easier than watching him watch me sing.

   As he stroked my hair after lights out he kept singing, softly,
   "Angie, Angie, when will those clouds all disappear." He could tell I
   was nervous about him touching me again, and he took his time with me,
   stroking my shoulders gently and then turning me onto my back and
   lifting my t-shirt over my head. He stroked his thumb around my
   breasts -- the bit the encyclopedia called the aureolae -- and I felt
   a little shiver go through me as my nipples hardened and I felt my
   insides go soft. I loved that feeling. It was so strange, so warm and
   exciting and yet so soft at the same time, as though my body was full
   of energy but somehow not able to let it go. He stopped singing and
   bent to lick my nipples, and then kiss my neck and behind my ears
   again. I just melted.

   This time when he came inside me I was better prepared, and it hurt
   less. It was still painful but it didn't feel like I was on fire or
   anything. He came after a few minutes again, this time gasping as he
   did so and grasping my shoulders so tightly that I noticed the marks
   the next day. Afterward I cried a little again, but I don't think the
   tears had much to do with shame. I just felt kind of overwhelmed. Then
   we lay together for a while again, Steve gently running one hand over
   my hip and the other over my cheek.

   After a few days I stopped asking myself questions about whether what
   Steve and I were doing was right. I felt less self-conscious about
   being semi-naked around him. After a couple of weeks maybe I even got
   a little bit proud of the way I could distract him just by beginning
   to unbutton the top of my shirt. It was just nice to have his
   attention, and to feel wanted. I stopped feeling so ashamed of the way
   I looked. Without making any conscious decision about it, I stopped
   agonizing over whether Steve and I were gay or not.

   Instead I enjoyed the things he showed me about myself, and the
   pleasure I could give him. I even kind of liked it when he took down
   some of the posters of girls on the walls -- it was weird, but I liked
   it that he preferred looking at my chest to theirs.

   So far as the rest of the guys at Brand were concerned, nothing had
   changed, and I still needed protection on a daily basis even though
   the threat from Pangianis seemed to have passed. But in our room at
   night Steve and I had quite a different life.

   It got harder for me to hide things from Dr. Blaha as he got to know
   me better. I think he sensed that there was something new happening in
   my life on the first visit I had with him after Steve and I got
   together, but he didn't say anything and I didn't volunteer. Then,
   about five months after that day, I broke down in front of him, and he
   asked me directly how I was feeling about the changes to my body now.

   I started to put on the same face I'd had with him all long -- it was
   an outrage -- but I think he could see that my heart wasn't as much in
   it as it had been. Watching me closely, he started to talk about
   stopping the shots, and perhaps ordering a mastectomy to stop me from
   worrying about my breasts any further. Something about that gave me a
   little shiver. I didn't realize it at the time, but much later I
   understood I actually liked my breasts, especially since Steve liked
   them so much. Anyway, I complained bitterly to Blaha about what he had
   done to me, but I think something in my face must have given him
   doubts about me. Not that it changed anything. He kept giving me the
   shots anyway.

   Gonzales was much more clued-up. Whenever he took me anywhere like the
   showers or to Blaha's office he would chat to me about his family and
   stuff, and gradually I noticed that he was acting kind of different,
   maybe gentler around me than he had been. I guess he had seen me in
   the showers a few times. He wasn't supposed to look, but he probably
   rationalized it like it was for my own protection or something.
   Whatever. One day coming back from the showers he stopped me abruptly
   in the corridor and said to me "That Hammond. He is good to you?" When
   I blushed, he smiled, and then I laughed and he laughed softly too.

   "Not as good as you, my friend"

   "Ah. Mike." He seemed to weigh my name for a moment. "It is none of my
   business, but... things have changed."

   "You could say that, Carlos."

   "Can I say, I hope you are happy?"

   "You can say that, thank you."

   "Because, if it is alright for me to say this, it suits you very
   well."

   "I am still not sure what to think," I said softly.

   "You should do whatever feels right for you. For me, I think this is
   right for you. But I can see it is hard. But I am not, how can I say
   it, I am not prejudiced about this as some others from my country are.
   If you were my child, I would say this was okay, because it suits you
   so well."

   "You are a very good man, Carlos," I said, still unsure what I thought
   of all this. "Thanks." I meant what I said, too. He was a good man. I
   had nothing to offer him but a friendly ear, but he stood by me when
   most other people would have turned away. He made me feel good about
   myself when I needed it, and I appreciated it. If I hadn't thought it
   would embarrass both of us I would have hugged him.

   Gradually I noticed that the other guys at Brand were treating me
   differently. I don't know, maybe they'd been doing it for a while
   before I became aware of it. My shower schedule had been shifted back
   to before breakfast, before everyone else had theirs, so that I could
   go to classes, and I noticed that while I was walking back from my
   shower a lot of the guys I passed with Gonzales looked at me very
   intently. At meals, I noticed a couple of guys watching me as I walked
   back to my table. In the library, I noticed the kid who was in charge
   flicking his eyes over me, in the same way I'd noticed Steve doing
   before we first slept together. My first thought that time was that
   the bandage must have come loose or something, but that wasn't it. I
   tried to pretend he wasn't doing it, but it gave me the creeps. Then I
   figured it was my hair, which was now well and truly down past my
   shoulders and getting down my back. I had thought of cutting it
   several times, but Steve said he liked it long, so I hadn't done
   anything about it. It had kept growing, and now it was longer than
   anyone else at Brand wore his.

   I caught glimpses of myself in the mirror on the back of Dr. Blaha's
   door when I was leaving after each visit. I was getting more and more
   used to the way I looked, but after the kid in the library had been
   staring at me I stopped at the door and did it more carefully. There
   was no doubt about it. I looked completely like a girl. My breasts
   were still small, but they were filling out. I even had a bit of
   cleavage. And my hips had definitely gotten bigger. I was getting
   quite curvy, really. It was so weird. I suddenly realized that
   dressing like a guy didn't mean anything at all. No wonder the guys
   were starting to stare. Most of them hadn't seen a girl in months or
   even years.

   I thought of the song Steve had been playing the night before. The
   lyrics seemed pretty apt. "Trouble comin' every day."

   Dr. Blaha noticed me looking at my reflection. "What are you thinking,
   Michael?" he asked me as I was studying my face closely.

   "I'm wondering how you thought this was ever going to work," I said
   quietly.

   "Michael, it has worked very well, so far. You are less aggressive,
   and you even seem happier," Dr. Blaha said. "By any objective standard
   this has been a profound success."

   "But people are going to notice eventually," I said. "I mean ... I
   think they have already. How many people in here do you know look like
   me?"

   "Perhaps they have noticed. What of it?" said Blaha.

   I looked at him. Surely this was some kind of bluff on his part? He
   couldn't really think that having a girl -- a guy who looked like a
   girl -- around a bunch of adolescent males wasn't going to create
   trouble. I studied his face carefully. I wondered if I detected a hint
   of nervousness in the way he was acting towards me after all this
   time. Did he think he had gone too far with me? Was he worried about
   what would happen if people found out? I remembered the erection he
   tried to conceal when he saw me totally naked, and I wondered whether
   this therapy was really one the State would have approved of. Maybe he
   was bluffing?

   Maybe he was just getting carried away with his own little fetish. The
   way he looked at me, the way he touched me sometimes -- there was no
   doubt he was turned on by what had happened to me.

   I shrugged off the thoughts -- it didn't matter much. So long as I was
   at Brand Blaha could do whatever he wanted. It wasn't like there was
   anyone who knew me in the outside world who would make a fuss about
   what had happened to me.

   "I think you're nuts," I said, and turned to go.

   "Michael. You can always go back to isolation, any time you choose."

   I pondered what Blaha had said as one of the guards took me back to my
   room. Was I happier? At first I dismissed the idea out of hand -- how
   could I be happier when Blaha had turned me into some kind of chick
   with a dick? But later that night, as I lay in bed with Steve spooning
   me with his body, his hand on my breast, I realized that I had never,
   in my whole life, ever felt wanted by anyone the way I felt wanted by
   Steve.

   As I drifted off to sleep I saw Danny, in a fleeting glimpse, but he
   wasn't laughing at me, he was smiling.

   Gradually it became obvious in the Brand community that Steve and I
   were together, as Cary had said months earlier. I got to start eating
   with Steve and his friends, and I guess it was just simple body
   language that tipped everyone off, since we obviously shared each
   other's space way more than guys at Brand usually did. I was surprised
   that it didn't seem to change the attitudes of the other guys there to
   Steve. He was a pretty popular guy, but even so I couldn't help but
   think that people would give him a hard time about being a fag. After
   a few weeks of watching other people, I realized that people were a
   little bit afraid of Steve, so maybe that was it. Anyway, whatever it
   was, it meant there were now a bunch of other, older guys, who at
   least spoke to me when we ate together.

   I guess most guys who wind up at Brand aren't too bright. They mostly
   get sent there because they've screwed up pretty bad and been arrested
   a few too many times. I don't know whether there are very many smart
   crooks in the world, but there weren't any in evidence at Brand.

   Anyway, we didn't have a lot to talk about. Most of them seemed pretty
   nervous around me, too. I didn't know at the time whether that was
   because I was "with" Steve and they were worried about his reaction,
   or whether it was just because they thought I was weird. It didn't
   worry me. Most of them I didn't like much, anyway. Especially Travis,
   this big, dark guy who hung around Steve like a bad smell. I hated the
   way he looked at me, like he was undressing me in his mind. And a few
   times I heard him talking to some of the other guys when Steve wasn't
   listening, and he kept using the word "she." It took me a while to
   catch on that he was talking about me.

   Steve's best friend was this enormous guy called Leon. I swear he was
   maybe three or more times my weight, and most of it looked like
   muscle. Him I liked. I knew I made him nervous, but it was kind of in
   a good way, the way I made Steve nervous sometimes, like when I undid
   the top buttons on my shirt and Steve's train of thought abruptly
   stopped. Leon was always trying to feed me at lunch. "You eat like a
   bird," he kept saying. The truth was I had discovered that lately
   whatever I ate found its way onto my hips. Anyway, Leon was kind of
   sweet, even if he wasn't very bright, and I always enjoyed meals more
   when he was around. I guess the fact that he wouldn't hurt a fly meant
   his sheer size made me feel kind of safe.

   Most of the time the guys didn't talk to me that much anyway because I
   was still accompanied everywhere by a guard. The surveillance was
   beginning to get more relaxed, but they was still always a guard
   within twenty or so feet of me most of the time. I got the impression
   that there was some stuff being discussed by the guys that wasn't for
   my ears, since whenever I approached there was always an awkward
   silence followed by some lame attempt at conversation. So mostly I
   only spoke to them at meals, when the guards stood further away.

   When Spring approached I started going out into the yard a bit more,
   just to feel the sun on my arms and face. I kept the rest of my body
   well covered, since I didn't want to start a riot, and I didn't walk
   around too much since I knew I attracted attention whenever I did
   that. So mostly I just hung around the sunny corner of the yard. From
   the other side of the yard Pangianis kept a close eye on me each day,
   but then so did Steve and Leon. Each day, independently of Pangianis,
   Cary would stand along the fence, watching me, inching closer and
   closer as the days went on until he was maybe only 10 feet from me.
   One day I just turned to him and said "What?"

   "What?" He looked puzzled.

   "Yeah. What?"

   "I don't know what you mean." He had such a prissy way of speaking.
   Even though he had a southern kind of accent, like Steve, he managed
   to use it in way that just screamed 'fag'.

   "Well, you've been hanging around for weeks now, I was just wondering
   what you wanted? Got another message from your boyfriend?"

   Cary looked hurt, and for some reason that made me feel guilty, even
   though I hated him just for knowing Pangianis. "No," he sulked.

   "Sorry," I said, and I sat down on a bench and began to draw on the
   ground with a stick I'd found. Cary moved closer. From the corner of
   my eye I could see Steve, Leon and a Guard stiffen slightly as though
   they expected something bad, but I pretended not to notice Cary
   standing next to me until he spoke again.

   "I thought maybe you and I..." he began.

   I looked up questioningly, and this seemed to motivate Cary to sit
   down beside me. Then suddenly he was in flood of tears.

   I looked away. Jesus. Where had this come from?

   On the other side of the yard Pangianis had been watching us, but when
   Cary began to cry I saw him turn his back on everyone else in the yard
   and begin to walk inside. I looked around helplessly. Everyone else
   seemed to be studiously ignoring Cary, who was sobbing wretchedly
   beside me. I didn't know what to do. Eventually I reached over and put
   my arm around his shoulder. In turn he launched himself toward my
   shoulder, still sobbing. "It's okay," I found myself saying again and
   again, even though I had no idea what had prompted all of this.
   Pangianis, I guessed.

   "It's not like I don't try," Cary said, sniffling.

   "Yeah, I know," I said soothingly, still wondering what in hell was
   going on.

   "He just... just... I don't know anymore," and the sobbing started
   again.

   He. Well, that narrowed it down. Pangianis, clearly. "You shouldn't
   let him eat at you like this," I said, still wanting to make a break
   and leave Cary to cry hear alone. But, you know, when someone is
   really distressed it's hard to treat them badly.

   "I know." Sob. More sobbing.

   "It's just not worth it, you know?"

   "What would you do?" Cary asked, and I realized I was in over my head.

   "Maybe you should tell me what happened," I said, and slowly he dried
   his tears and commenced telling me.

   A new boy had come in three weeks ago, and he was, well, like Cary,
   and he was dark and pretty, and Nick had been paying him a *lot* of
   attention. The same old stuff. Except it was pretty new to me. I
   didn't ever think about gay guys like that much. Anyway, now Cary was
   feeling like the jilted wife, and even though I had been rude to him
   ever since I'd been at Brand he felt that maybe I would understand.
   "Since you and Steve Hammond..." he trailed off.

   "Yeah, I guess I know," I said, surprised to hear myself admitting my
   relationship with Steve. What the hell, I thought. Everybody knows
   anyway.

   Nick had organized to have Cary moved out of his room and the new kid
   moved in. I didn't know how he could arrange that, but apparently he
   had something over one of the administrative staff or something. So
   now Cary was almost "out in the street" as it were, in a cell with
   some fat kid who wouldn't talk to him. Hardly anybody at Brand would
   talk to him, because people still weren't sure if he 'belonged' to
   Pangianis.

   I made lots of sympathetic noises, and we talked a while until it was
   time to go inside again. He was really cut up, but he wasn't
   self-pitying or anything. Cary wasn't too bad, I decided, once you got
   around all the mincing and flouncing and prissiness.

   "Thank you," he said as we walked down the corridor flanked by my
   ubiquitous guard.

   "It's nothing," I said.

   "Yes, it is," he said. "You know, most guys, you come to them with a
   problem, they want to solve it for you. I knew I could just come talk
   to you and we could just, you know, talk, without having to solve it."

   I nodded. "I guess. Some things just can't be solved, you know?"

   "Exactly," Cary said. "But it helps to talk about them."

   "You take care, Cary," I said when we got to the door of my room.

   "I will, honey. You know, call me Cee, okay?"

   I nodded uncertainly, and then went inside.

   "What was that all about?" Steve said to me as I entered.

   "The heartache of love," I said, easing myself onto my bunk.

   Steve looked over at me and grinned. "Sheesh! Queens! She's always
   been into drama."

   I flinched when I heard him say "she," and he noticed.

   "You're different," Steve said, his grin gone.

   "Uh huh. You got that right," I said coldly.

   "No, I meant..." he paused, as though to consider what he did mean,
   and then he shrugged. "You're right. I'm sorry."

   "Is that how you think of me, Steve? Like Cary?" I asked softly,
   half-afraid of the answer.

   I guess Steve could see he was in dangerous territory, but there was
   no going back now. "No," he ventured tentatively. He came and sat down
   next to me, and took my chin in his hand. "You're smarter, and
   prettier, and... Well, I could never be interested in Cary, but
   you..."

   Later that night, as we were laying together after making love, I had
   to continue with my questions. There was some mad whirlpool pulling me
   into it, demanding answers to questions that were better left
   unanswered.

   "Steve?"

   "Uh huh."

   "Do you think of me as..."

   There was a long silence. We both knew the words I hadn't said.

   Finally he leant across and kissed me. "I love you for what you are,
   you know that."

   I couldn't let it alone. "And what is that?" I asked, too afraid to
   look at him.

   "A beautiful girl. You are, you know." He stroked my breast, and
   kissed me again.

   I let that remark echo around in my head for a month or so afterward.
   Mostly I tried not to think about it too much. I mean, it was probably
   easier for Steve to do this stuff with me if he thought of me as a
   girl, and I guess the things he most liked about me were the things
   like, well, my tits and ass, I guess. Not for nothing had those
   posters been on the wall of the room.

   Steve had taken to calling me 'Em' instead of 'Mike', which I guess
   helped him to forget the inconvenient pieces of my life when he needed
   to. Gradually his friends were doing likewise. Something else Cee and
   I had in common.

   Life went on. The guys talked about whatever it was that they talked
   about, and I hung out at the corner of the yard and got some sun. I
   started getting kind of bold and rolling up my pants to get some sun
   on my legs, even though, being a redhead, I didn't tan much. I only
   got an hour or so of sun each day anyway. Cee and I pretty much staked
   out that bench as our own, and talked about everything and nothing. I
   discovered I really did like him. He was a good judge of character. He
   *was* a drama queen, but he didn't have any self-pity in him, and I
   admired that since he'd had a pretty shitty life even before he came
   to Brand.

   Although some Italian guy had been kind of sniffing around, making it
   known he was interested, Cee was treating him with contempt, stringing
   him along. "Neanderthal," he said to me, "That's his only defect. No
   class. A great body, but no class. Me, I like them to have something
   between their ears as well as their legs." For some reason that sent
   me into a fit of giggling. I tried to suppress giggling around other
   people, but I was getting pretty relaxed around Cee.

   Steve and I got closer and closer. I loved the time we spent together
   in our room, where -- depending on which guard was on duty -- I could
   unbind my chest and let my hair out and just relax. I loved the way
   Steve acted towards me, with kindness and attentiveness and
   gentleness. A lot of evenings we spent with music. Steve was *so* into
   music. He said once to me that even at those times he never had
   anything around to play, he would just play in his head, which was
   almost as good. He was gradually making me less self-conscious about
   my singing, so most nights he would play stuff and I would sing along,
   or he would sing and I would do harmonies. "Honey, you turn me on, I'm
   a radio," one of the songs went. Steve wasn't much of a singer
   himself, but he knew a little bit about it, and he was a good teacher.

   I always wondered what I really sounded like, and one night Steve
   recorded me on his cassette player and played it back to me. Wow. I
   think it's always weird when you hear the sound of your own voice from
   outside your head, but it was even weirder for me, to hear that
   singing and then have to wonder about what the other guys in the place
   thought of me. I tried to shrug it off, but it was another thing that
   reinforced my difference.

   I *loved* singing, though, and I was so grateful to Steve for the
   musical education. Occasionally I would sing unaccompanied when Steve
   was out of our room at workshop or in the shower. Usually I chose old
   pop songs with good melodies, the kind of stuff that my Mom used to
   sing along to when I was young. "The only boy who could ever reach me,
   was the son of a preacher man." I thought of Mom often, and sometimes
   when I sang those songs it made me feel a little bit like she was
   still with me.

   The more time I spent with Steve the more enraptured I got. He could
   make me tingle to my feet just by touching me on my neck. We slept
   together every night, and made love almost every night, too, except
   for a week when I had some kind of flu and then the following week
   when Steve caught it, too. If anything the sex after we were both sick
   was even better, since Steve was gentler. As we both got to know each
   other's bodies better we learned what pleased each of us most,
   although I still had some kind of block about Steve touching my penis
   or my balls. I think, in retrospect, that my reticence about that was
   probably a good thing. Steve wanted to please me, but I think he
   mostly liked to think of me as a girl.

   My body just continued to do its thing. My tits weren't exactly in
   Dolly Parton territory, but they were pretty prominent on my chest
   when they weren't taped up, which was the whole time Steve and I were
   alone. He just couldn't get enough of them. Even Dr. Blaha expressed
   surprise at their continued growth. And when he measured me on my
   sixteenth birthday we discovered my hips were bigger than my bustline.
   32 bust, 20 waist, 34 hips, 5'4" tall, 105lbs. He said he was lowering
   the dose, but neither of us mentioned anything about stopping it. By
   this stage I wasn't sure *what* I wanted. Part of me still knew it was
   all just too weird and guys just didn't *do* this sort of thing. But
   the other part of me thought of the way Steve made me feel when he ran
   his hands over my ass, or my breasts, or when he kissed me behind the
   ear.

   Dr. Blaha did drop me off the other tablets I was taking, which I had
   discovered a few months earlier were Valium. Actually I had been
   making some income on the side with those, palming them each morning
   and afternoon and selling them to Warren, this weedy looking kid
   further down the hall, in return for books he got his mother to send
   me. So I was kind of disappointed about that. Still, at least Dr.
   Blaha remembered my birthday, and gave me a small volume of poetry.

   The real surprises on my sixteenth birthday were some other presents.
   Leon gave me a diary, which was sweet. I had no idea how he got it,
   but I was very appreciative. I almost kissed him to say thank you, and
   I think he knew it, because both of us blushed right down to our toes
   and tried to find something else to talk about. Cee gave me a
   tortoiseshell clasp and some barrettes for my hair, which was now
   about halfway down my back since Steve insisted I shouldn't cut it.
   "Your hair is *so* beautiful," Cee said when he gave me the present.
   "You should do more with it. Your friend Gonzales helped me get
   these," he said, "so I guess it's sort of from him, too."

   I wasn't going to wear the clasp around the rest of the guys, since it
   was way too girlish no matter *what* they thought of me already. But
   apart from my hair being long it was very thick, and I was grateful to
   have something to keep it off my face when I was writing in my room,
   or when I was trying to play guitar. (Steve had been teaching me that,
   too, and surprisingly none of the guys complained when I practiced).

   But nothing really prepared me for the present Steve gave me. Even he
   must have had second thoughts about how far he was pushing me, because
   he wound up giving me two presents.

   The first was pretty tame, and obviously something he organized as an
   afterthought. It was the sheet music to an old Gram Parsons album.
   "You can sing this stuff now," he said, "and I know you'll be able to
   play it soon enough."

   Then he produced the real present, and held it out to me tentatively.
   I unwrapped the small parcel, and pulled out the contents.

   I looked at him, unsure of what to say.

   He looked back at me uncertainly, I guess fearing that maybe he'd made
   a mistake.

   "Steve," I said softly. I didn't know what to think.

   "Well, I want to know if they at least fit," he said.

   "Turn around" I said. I was till shy about letting him see the front
   of me when I undressed -- well, my lower half, anyway. He turned
   around, and I undressed. Then I held up the small black items from the
   package, and tried to figure out how they worked. The panties were
   easy enough, and I pulled them on quickly. Then I had to readjust
   myself in them and tuck my penis underneath, since they didn't quite
   fit right otherwise. Once I had done that, though, they fit great.
   They were much better around my butt than the shorts I had been
   wearing.

   Then I took a look at the bra. I tried to struggle into it, but the
   straps were set too short, and I had to take it off again and adjust
   them before trying again. It took a bit of contortion to get it done
   up at the back, but it wasn't too hard.

   Wow. That felt... weird. Weird but good. Suddenly I understood why
   women wore these things. Not that my breasts were sagging. They
   weren't big or mature enough for that. It just felt nice to have them
   supported a little bit. The bra was a pretty good fit, and I briefly
   wondered how Steve had known what sizes to get.

   Steve seemed kind of impatient, but I gave him a warning against
   turning around too soon. The next item I tried on was the garter belt.
   I only knew what it was from seeing all those old Playboy magazines;
   otherwise I would never have figured it out. Lastly I unwrapped the
   stockings. There was a little diagram on the back of the pack that
   explained you had to sit down and adjust them bit by bit instead of
   pulling them on, so I did this, all the while telling Steve to be
   patient.

   Finally I told him softly that I was ready. I threw my hair back over
   my shoulders and stood there, very self-consciously, while he turned
   around. It was pretty much worth it. He didn't just gawk, he got
   positively incoherent. I guess I blushed in response.

   "Em." He said, like he was in awe or something. That only made me more
   embarrassed. I learned that day that sometimes there are things more
   sexy than nakedness (though there's nothing wrong with *that*).

   "I guess they fit pretty good," I giggled.

   "Em, you're beautiful."

   Pretty soon, of course, he had most of the stuff off me again, and we
   made love slowly and tenderly until near the end when Steve seemed to
   be in some kind of frenzy and was more aggressive and forceful than
   usual. I didn't mind. I liked to feel him get kind of desperate and
   out of control when he got close to orgasm, and then to lie next to
   him while he went through 'le mort petit', as I'd heard it described
   in some novel. He had all that strength, and then so little energy.

   That night, as we were mumbling things to one another before sleep,
   Steve said something about "When we get to Mississippi," but I thought
   he was rambling and I just let it go so we could both sleep.

   ***

   Chapter Six.

   The plan would probably have gone better if it hadn't been for me. I
   know I screwed with their concentration just by being around. Then
   again their plan would never have even existed if it hadn't been for
   Pangianis's continued obsession with me, or they would have had to
   find some other plan, or something.

   I don't know. I guess that even after all these years I still try to
   rationalize all that stuff. Personally, I blame Travis, whose dick was
   always about forty times the size of his brain.

   Whatever. I didn't find out about the whole plan until the night
   before, when Steve and I were laying together and he said softly to me
   "Em, if you had to take anything from here, what would it be?"

   "You" I said immediately.

   "No, I meant any *thing*. I hope I'm more than a thing to you."

   "Well, it's a nice thing," I said teasingly as I reached down and
   tugged at his cock briefly. "But if you mean what would I take for me?
   I haven't ever thought about it. I guess the only things I really want
   to take out of here when I leave are the birthday presents I just got.
   But they'll all be pretty old by the time I'm out of here. And I don't
   have anything else"

   "Not really," said Steve. "We're out of here tomorrow."

   "What?! And who's we?"

   "You, me, Travis, Leon, anyone else who can take advantage of the
   situation."

   "What situation?"

   "At breakfast tomorrow morning, I want you to go down to eat as
   usual."

   "Uh huh. So?"

   "I want you to act... sort of sexy during breakfast. Get Pangianis
   steamed up. At the end of breakfast I want you to take off your
   bandage in front of him."

   "What?! Are you outta your mind!"

   "Not at all. Oh, come on, Em, everyone knows you're different. They
   just haven't seen how different."

   "You want me to go naked?"

   "No, my love, I would never ask you to do that, you know that." He
   grasped my nipple in his hand. "But you know, you are very perky these
   days, and if you just wore a t-shirt..."

   "I'm going to get killed." My mind was flip-flopping between this
   preposterous notion and the fact that he had just said the L-word. My
   Love. He'd never said that before.

   "No you won't. Leon and I will see to that, I promise. On my own life,
   I swear we will not let anything happen to you."

   "What's going to happen?"

   "It's best if you just stay alert and follow my lead. Wear whatever
   presents you want. They're all wearable things, aren't they?"

   I nodded. "Except the diary Leon gave me, and the book Blaha gave me.
   But I can live without books."

   "I'll make sure your diary comes with us."

   "Steve?"

   "Yes, Em?"

   "Why? Why are you doing this now? Won't you get out next year? I mean,
   you were convicted as a juvenile, like me, right? That means they can
   only hold you for another few months, until you turn twenty-one,
   right?"

   "Yes, my love, that's right."

   "So why now. Why not just wait? Isn't this going to make it much
   worse?"

   "Because you, my love, are going to be here for a lot longer than
   that. Five more years. You're not going to get any time off for good
   behavior or any of that stuff, not after spending so long in isolation
   already. After I'm gone, who's going to take care of you?" He kissed
   me gently and I snuggled into his shoulder and began to cry.

   In the morning my first thought was that it had all been a weird dream
   the night before, but Steve was up and organizing things in the room
   before I woke. Gonzales came to get me before breakfast, and I went to
   the showers with him, worried that Steve's plan was too adventurous
   and something would go wrong. I washed my hair, and pulled it back
   after I'd towel-dried it. Gonzales commented on it as we walked back
   to the room. "Miz Em," he said, and I was surprised to hear him call
   me that, too. "Your hair is even longer than my daughter's. Very
   nice."

   As we were approaching my room I was suddenly torn. I didn't want
   anything bad to happen to Gonzales. I didn't want to upset Steve's
   plans, but Gonzales had saved my life, and been a good friend, even if
   he was a guard. I was going to say something to him, about being
   careful, but I realized there was no way to do that. Instead I stopped
   and quickly hugged him. He was surprised, but as I turned to enter our
   room I could see him smile. "Shower time, Hammond," he said to Steve
   before turning back to me. "I'll be back to take you to breakfast in
   thirty minutes, Miz Em."

   Inside our room after his shower Steve took a long time to get
   dressed. As he pulled on his pants I noticed with some unease that he
   had found some duct tape and taped a knife to his calf. I never even
   knew he had it. It looked like a knife from the mess that had been
   sharpened up, and I was reminded of the time Pangianis and Sonny had
   cut me with a similar blade. Steve saw me looking, and smiled that
   winning smile of his to reassure me. "No, I'm not planning on using
   it, Em. It's just for protection, for later."

   I didn't want to ask what later was.

   I noticed Steve looking pensively at his guitar. Even though it was
   just a cheap one, we'd had a lot of good times with it, and I could
   tell he was having difficulty leaving it behind. Finally he shrugged,
   and left the room.

   I dressed, putting on the panties and the garter belt and stockings
   under my pants, and stuffing the bra into one pocket. The other pocket
   I filled with the clasp and barrettes.

   As we walked down to the mess hall I noticed Steve standing near the
   door. He pulled Gonzales to the side as we went in and murmured
   something, and I saw him slip something into Gonzales's hand at the
   same time as the guard's face drained of color. Inside the mess hall
   everything was pretty much as normal, except Leon and Travis had
   staked out some seats adjacent to Pangianis's table, which was
   unusual. We walked over to the seats they had saved, and I saw
   Pangianis eyeing me closely as I walked. I deliberately gave my hair a
   flick as I sat down, which I knew was a gesture that a lot of guys
   found hard to take, and then I looked him in the eyes across the two
   tables and smiled at him. He was no pushover and it didn't faze him in
   the least. His eyes flicked to Steve and Leon and Travis for a moment,
   then he just kept right on looking at me.

   As I went to get breakfast I put a little more swing into my hips than
   usual. There was something about having that sexy lingerie on under my
   clothing that made me feel more provocative. So help me, I got a
   little buzz out of acting, well, sexy. There were a few whistles, and
   Gonzales and the other guard on duty looked nervous. As I walked back
   I could feel Pangianis's eyes -- and the eyes of every man and boy in
   the place -- firmly locked on to me, and I played up to it. I was
   nervous as hell, if you want to know the truth of it, but Steve had
   gone over the instructions again that morning and I knew what he was
   aiming for.

   I was too nervous to eat, so I played with my hair and waited for the
   signal from Steve. Pangianis never took his eyes off me, and I licked
   my lips a few times for good measure while looking directly at him.
   Then I noticed Gonzales step outside the room briefly, and a friend of
   Travis's get the attention of the other guard over at the serving
   counter.

   There was Steve's signal. I reached under my arm and undid the safety
   pin that held my bandage in place. Then I undid one my shirt buttons,
   slowly. Pangianis was watching every move, and I could see there was
   something about all this that was getting him nervous, or at least
   distracted. I took off my shirt, leaving the t-shirt on underneath.
   Then I reached up under that and in one smooth motion removed the
   bandage, which sprang off now that there was no safety pin to hold it.
   My breasts swung free.

   I thought Pangianis and Sonny were going to cum there and then. No-one
   behind me could tell what I had just done, but the eyes of the guys in
   front of me were totally locked on my chest. You'd think they hadn't
   seen a woman in years. Well, I guess they hadn't, and for all that
   Pangianis seemed to go for boys when there was nothing else available
   it was clear he hadn't lost his taste for women. But he wasn't moving.
   He was too stunned. Rats. This wasn't part of the plan.

   I reached up and tweaked my nipples, and they got hard right away. I
   thought Sonny was going to burst a blood vessel.

   It was then that Travis had the inspired idea. At least I thought at
   the time it was inspired. He picked up the plastic jug of water on the
   table and abruptly threw it all over me, drenching my t-shirt. It
   clung to my breasts, and was semi-transparent. My nipples became even
   harder with the shock of the cold water, and stuck provocatively out,
   clearly visible.

   That did it. Nick and Sonny erupted from the table.

   "You fucking tease cunt," Pangianis yelled. The guard turned around to
   see the two of them flying across the space between the tables, and
   ran to try to intercept them. Gonzales was still outside. Leon and
   Travis intercepted Pangianis and Sonny and tripped them, and the guard
   arrived to hold them down, a foot on Nick's back and a baton on
   Sonny's neck. That was when I went into my real act. I stood up on the
   table, and turned around.

   The room dissolved in total uproar. None of these guys had seen a
   woman in years, let alone what seemed to be a young woman in a wet
   t-shirt. They started whooping and hollering and stamping on the
   floor, and then it was only a matter of time before a few morons at
   the side of the room started tearing up the furniture and throwing it
   through the window. "Oh, baby!" "Come and get it honey!" "You're hot!"
   They were screaming. "She's a he!" one cried, but that seemed to get
   lost in everything else and anyway I don't think anyone would have
   cared even if they'd thought about it.

   The guard holding Pangianis and Sonny looked panicked. He knew he
   couldn't let them go, because they'd probably kill him, but he didn't
   know how to stop me without doing that. I winked at him as Steve gave
   me his hand and I jumped down from the table. The poor guy looked
   completely stunned. He hesitated, and Pangianis seized the moment to
   twist him down and roll away. The guard reacted quickly, bringing up
   his stick as he was going down and striking Pangianis across the back
   of the neck. Even in the confusion I could hear the sound of the stick
   hitting his neck, and I could see his head jerk in reflex. He fell to
   the floor and the guard kneeled over him, stunned, then seized the
   moment to grab Sonny, who seemed to be moving in slow motion. Once he
   had him, he wasn't letting go of him.

   Everyone seemed briefly distracted, and then Leon and Steve helped me
   through the broken window and the four of us were out, streaming
   across the lawn to a truck at the rear of the building. The guard
   looked at us helplessly as we were standing in the window, then at
   Sonny, and then we were running. I heard the footsteps of some others,
   but I didn't look back.

   For all its pretensions, Brand was not like an adult jail in terms of
   security. We didn't have any towers or anything like that, just a
   double security fence with razor wire around the perimeter, and an
   armed guard on the front gate. Coupled with all the security on the
   building. I guess they just weren't used to juveniles being so
   determined. I followed Leon as he scrambled into the back of the
   truck. Steve and Travis took the front while a few other people tried
   to scramble over the lift on the back. One of them was Cee, and I
   helped him up. Another was Warren, the weedy guy I had sold my Valiums
   to. There were a couple of others I didn't know well.

   I don't know how Steve planned it, but the truck must have had the
   keys left in it, because the engine fired up straight away and we made
   for the side perimeter fences. There was a lot of scraping and noise
   as a fence post was flattened under the truck and the wire strained
   and broke, but we just drove straight through them.

   The ground was pretty rough outside the fences, because it was all
   undeveloped land. I got thrown around the back a lot while we crossed
   over it, and Leon reached out to steady me. I grinned at him as we
   were flung together by a huge bump, and his arms encircled me. Then we
   hit some paved road, and he abruptly released me, turning bright red
   as he realized what had happened and a brighter red when I moved to
   the other side of the van and he could see my tits through the
   still-damp t-shirt. "Ooh!" Cee squealed. "Girl, you sure have grown
   up!"

   I blushed. I don't know why, after the exhibition I had just put on,
   but I was all of a sudden self-conscious. Leon, bless him, seemed to
   understand, and he took off his shirt (he had a t-shirt on underneath)
   and handed it to me. It smelled a lot of Leon, and I could have worn
   it as a dress it was so huge, but I was grateful to be able to cover
   myself up while I was stuck in the back of the truck with all these
   guys. Especially after what had just happened.

   About fifteen minutes down the road the truck slowed and turned and
   then stopped, and a few moments later Steve and Travis appeared at the
   tailgate. "Okay," Steve said. The rest of you can take the truck.
   Anyone know how to drive it?"

   One of the guys I didn't know grunted.

   "Okay, it's all yours, do whatever you want with it." Steve continued.
   "Em, Leon, we're outta here." He helped me down from the truck and
   began to walk over to a Malibu parked behind a few trees. I looked
   back at the truck. Cee was standing at the top of the tailgate,
   looking nervously at the other guys, obviously wondering what to do
   next.

   I turned to Steve. "Steve."

   "Hurry up." he said, as Travis got into the driver's seat of the car.

   "Uh, what about Cee?"

   "Huh? Oh, shit. Look, the deal is just us four, okay? I said whoever
   got out was welcome to seize opportunities, but this isn't one of
   them." He kept walking to the car, but I stopped. Eventually he turned
   around. "Shit, Em, don't do this to me."

   I just stood there. Behind me I heard the truck start up again. Steve
   looked angry, then frustrated, and then finally he said "Okay. Just to
   the border. That's it."

   I turned back to Cee and motioned for him to jump and come with us,
   then ran to the car myself. Travis had started the car, but got out of
   the driver's seat and stood by the door. "No fuckin' way, man," he
   said to Steve as the truck began to move off.

   "Way. Just to the border, that's all."

   travis waved at Cee. "I ain't driving *that*."

   "You just did. So shut the fuck up and drive some more, Travis," Steve
   said, holding open the door so Cee and I could scramble into the back
   seat next to Leon.

   It was one tight fit. Leon wasn't built for the back seat, and my hips
   seemed to take up more room than they used to. Cee squeezed up between
   the window and me and giggled, which made Travis angry. He shoved the
   car into gear and we roared off in a shower of stones. "Fuckin' faggot
   patrol," he said.

   "Shut the fuck up, Travis," said Steve.

   "You heard the man," said Cee, I thought a tad unwisely. I looked at
   Leon, who shrugged.

   We drove for a while in silence. Travis took out his aggression on the
   car. I don't know whether it was that, or that he hadn't driven in a
   few years, but we took some of the corners pretty wildly and Steve
   told him to slow down and stop attracting attention. Then we were on
   the interstate and he settled down anyway.

   Things got a bit tense for a while when a cop got into the stream of
   traffic behind us, but he pulled off a few ramps further along and
   everyone sighed audibly. We stayed on the road about three hours, and
   then pulled off just over the state line and drove up into the hills.
   I didn't know how Travis knew how to get wherever it was we were
   headed, but he seemed confident. Around noon we turned off the narrow
   blacktop and up a small track to a cabin. Travis turned the engine off
   and we all got out of the car and stretched.

   It was pretty. The cabin didn't look like much, but it overlooked a
   broad, open valley of patchwork fields. There was a shed behind the
   cabin, and a water tank, but no sign of electricity or phone or any
   other connections. "Whose place is this?" Cee asked.

   Travis scowled. He just hated the sound of Cee's voice. He walked up
   the steps to the cabin and took a key from above the door, then let
   himself in.

   "Travis's cousins," Steve said after a few moments. He stretched some
   more, then put his arm around me. "Hey, bet you didn't think we'd make
   it."

   "Yeah, I did," I said, and it was true. I had a lot of faith in Steve.

   Leon went for a walk around the back of the cabin, and Cee, Steve and
   I walked up the steps and went in. It was dark and musty inside, and
   Steve opened a blind and then a window.

   Travis was obviously in the only other room, because we could hear him
   moving around. In a moment he reappeared, dressed in a pair of jeans
   and a plaid shirt. It was kind of startling, since I'd only ever seen
   him in Brand issue until now. He look almost friendly, until I noticed
   he had was carrying a mean looking gun, some kind of assault rifle or
   something, by the stock. He walked across to Steve and handed him a
   large envelope, which Steve opened. It was full of money. It looked
   like a lot of money, even though it was all twenties. A twenty bought
   a lot more back then. Travis played with the gun for a moment,
   weighing it in his hands, and then lay it on the small table near the
   door.

   "Won't be needing that." Steve indicated the gun, as he stashed most
   of the money in his wallet and handed what looked like a few hundred
   to Leon and Travis.

   "I hope not, Steve," Travis said. "But my cousin thought it was a good
   idea, and who am I to argue with that kind of generosity?"

   Cee and I went to see what was in the other room. There were two
   suitcases on top of the only bed, one of them open and filled with
   men's clothing. Steve joined us. "I'm afraid we didn't get a chance to
   be choosy," he said to me. "So see if any of this fits you. Travis's
   cousin didn't want to go shopping for women's clothes."

   Cee went out to the porch and I started to strip off. I still had the
   panties, garter and stockings on under my pants, and I left them on.
   As I straightened up from taking off the pants I felt Steve's arms go
   around me. "Mmmm," he said. "Pity we can't stay. That bed looks pretty
   good, whaddaya say?" He snuggled his nose in behind my ear and kissed
   the back of my neck. I wanted to melt. He cupped my breasts. "Say, did
   you remember the bra I bought you?"

   "Of course I did," I said, and bent down again to retrieve it from the
   pocket of my pants. I straightened up and Steve helped clasp it behind
   my back.

   "Em, you look so hot," he said. He kissed me some more. "But we gotta
   keep moving. Try to find something to wear. We'll buy something more
   appropriate later."

   I settled on a large man's white shirt. All of the pants were way too
   long for me, or too big in the waist, so I settled for the dark blue
   pants I'd worn at Brand. I'd long ago figured they were in a woman's
   cut anyway, so I figured they looked better. Then I brushed my hair
   out and pinned it back with the barrettes. Looking in the mirror I
   figured I was pretty safe -- there was no way I looked like an escapee
   from a *male* juvenile correctional facility.

   The thought suddenly struck me -- I didn't have to do this any more. I
   was away from Brand, away from Grieves and Blaha, and I didn't have to
   look like a girl if I didn't want to. I clasped my hair behind me and
   pulled it back. No joy. Even if I hadn't had the barrettes in my hair,
   I still looked like a girl from all the shots Blaha had been giving
   me. Then I looked across at Steve and noticed him watching me. He
   smiled, and I blushed.

   If I didn't look like a girl anymore, would Steve still like me? I
   mean, would he still *love* me?

   I let go of my hair and walked over to kiss him again. After we'd
   snuggled for a minute or two I remembered something that had been
   bugging me in the car. "Steve, about Gonzales..."

   "Yes."

   "Is he going to be in trouble for this morning?"

   "Huh?"

   "Did you pay him off or something?" I was worried. Carlos was one of
   the goons, but he was a nice guy, and I had actually grown fond of
   him.

   "I slipped him some money, yeah. But that was just a parting gift. I
   wanted to warn him to be at the back of the room when the shit went
   down."

   "Do you think they'll suspect him?"

   "Doubt it. He was there, and he tried to settle things down, he just
   couldn't get through the crowd to where the action was happening,
   y'know?"

   "Good," I said. "I'm actually going to miss him, Steve."

   "Don't go getting all mushy on me about Brand," Steve smiled. He
   kissed me again. "We don't have to think about that place any more."

   Steve gave me some money "just in case", and I checked my hair again
   before we went out onto the porch together. Cee was sitting on the
   front steps. "What now?" he said.

   "Now we head into town for some supplies, and then we drop you off at
   the place of your choice," Steve said.

   "I don't really have a place to go," Cee said.

   "You should have thought of that before you climbed onto the truck,"
   Travis said from the end of the porch.

   Steve ignored Travis, and continued. "You should probably try to put
   some more distance between yourself and Brand if you can," he said.
   "Maybe we can drop you at a bus station or something." He paused. "In
   the meantime, there are some clothes inside. See if you can find
   something that will fit you. You're gonna stand out like a sore thumb
   in those issue clothes."

   Cee went inside to change, and Travis moved closer to Steve. "You know
   it was a mistake to bring *it* along." he said.

   "Well, we did," said Steve evenly. "No point worrying about it now."

   "What if it gets caught and gives us away?" Travis said quietly.

   "How? I ain't planning on staying here long, you know that" said
   Steve.

   "It ain't *your* cousin's place," said Travis.

   "Fair point," Steve said. "But who's to say he'll get caught anyway?
   And if he does, what makes you think he'll talk?"

   "He's a fag, man. He'll 'fess everything in a minute."

   "Knock off the fag shit, okay," Steve said tersely, and Travis looked
   guilty for a moment before turning and heading off to find Leon.

   That exchange set the tone for our trip into town. We all climbed back
   into the Malibu, Travis driving again, and bumped down the road
   without saying a word to one another.

   Davenport is not a big town, at least not by the standards of where I
   grew up. Back then there were maybe 10,000 people, a couple of cafes,
   the courthouse and a small library, a few blocks of stores, but
   nothing to get excited about. That worried me, because it seemed to me
   that any strangers were going to stick out, and five teenagers in a
   Malibu with out-of-state plates on it were probably going to be
   remembered by the locals. "That's where the bus picks up," Travis said
   to Steve as we drove past a run-down looking store. Travis cruised
   around the three blocks that made up the downtown area, and angled the
   car in to a parking space only a few doors up from one of the larger
   stores. Steve stepped out as Travis shut off the engine, and Leon got
   out from the seat beside me.

   "C'mon, Em," Steve called. "Shopping time." The other guys clambered
   out as well, and Travis announced they were headed to get some stuff
   from a guy he knew. I looked at Cee, who clearly wanted to come with
   us instead of Travis and Leon. I was worried about leaving him alone
   with Travis, but I trusted Leon. But Steve had other ideas. "Cee, you
   make sure these two stay out of trouble, okay?"

   Cee looked doubtful, and Travis looked pissed, but the three of them
   crossed the street and entered a hardware store.

   Steve and I walked down a few doors until we came to a clothing store,
   Wilson's. It was kind of dark inside, and the displays in the window
   were all about five years behind the current fashions I'd seen on the
   few occasions I watched television, but it was quiet too. We were the
   only customers inside, so far as I could tell. At the back of the
   store I could see a couple of women unpacking some clothing and
   hanging clothes. A bored-looking black girl sat behind a counter over
   to the side of the store, reading a magazine. She hadn't even glanced
   up as we came in.

   "Don't go crazy," Steve said quietly. "Just get something for today
   and maybe tomorrow. Whatever you need." He peeled off about three
   hundred dollars from a roll of bills he had in his hand and gave them
   to me.

   "Steve," I began questioningly.

   "Never told you my folks had money, did I?" He smiled. "Lots. They
   wouldn't give it to me, not after what happened, but they give my
   sister anything she asks for. My sister and I get on just fine. Might
   as well enjoy it while it lasts."

   He walked across to the men's department, at the other side of the
   store. I nervously made my way across to the nearest rack of women's
   clothing. It was tops, mostly the halter-necked kind although there
   were a few sleeved tops with plunging necklines on the rack as well. I
   skimmed through a few of them, and then realized that I had no idea
   what size I was. What were my measurements the last time I saw Blaha?
   I really couldn't remember. I knew the panties I had on were small,
   and the bra was a 32c, but what did that mean in these tops? Mildly
   panicked, I moved across to another rack, which was full of skirts.
   These were marked 6,8,10,12. That was no help, either. I turned to
   catch Steve's eye -- not that he'd have been any help -- and was
   startled to find that the bored sales assistant was standing right
   behind me. I jumped.

   "Oh, I'm sorry, sugar, I didn't mean to startle you," she said. "Can I
   help you with anything?"

   I tried to regain my breath. "Uh, I grew... I put on some weight this
   year, and I was just wondering..."

   "Okay, sugar. Let's see, I think you're a 6 in that skirt you've got."
   I realized that in my shock I had pulled a skirt from the rack as she
   surprised me. It was short -- it looked very short, in dark blue
   cotton with small white flowers on it. It wasn't so bad, except maybe
   for the shortness of it. I didn't mind showing off my legs for Steve,
   but I'd never worn a skirt before in my life.

   "You want to try it on?" she said, holding a skirt. She was only a
   couple of years older than I was, I guessed.

   "Uh, I guess." I said.

   "Well, you might wanna try a different top on to see how it looks.
   You're not gonna see any of it under that shirt." She said. "How 'bout
   this?"

   "Uh, maybe," I said. I had no idea how that piece of fabric was going
   to cover my chest.

   In a few moments I had the skirt, and three tops, and she was ushering
   me toward the changing cubicles. I had a moment of panic that she was
   going to stay inside with me, but she hung the clothes up and pulled
   the door to as she left. "You just call out if you want something
   else," she said.

   I stripped off my shirt and pants and saw myself in the full-length
   mirror for the first time since my last visit to Blaha's office. With
   my cock tucked between my legs there was no way anyone could tell I
   wasn't a girl. I had never seen myself in a bra before, and I was
   amazed at the way it made me look, even though it was too flimsy to do
   much in the way of support. I didn't need much support anyway. But the
   bra seemed even a little small in the cups for me, since the flesh of
   my breasts bulged over just slightly.

   I tried on the skirt, and then pulled on one of the tops over my head.
   They both fit perfectly. The top was in a purple synthetic material,
   pretty much like a t-shirt, except it clung to my body a lot more, and
   it had a low neckline that showed the top of my breasts. As I bent
   over to pick up another top from the chair in the room I caught a
   glimpse in the mirror of my cleavage revealed as I bent over. I
   remembered how I used to try to sneak glimpses down the top of Maria's
   blouse whenever I thought she wasn't looking.

   Maria. As I turned in the mirror to see -- as best I could -- how I
   looked from behind, I remembered Maria, and how great she had looked
   in just jeans and a t-shirt. Looking at myself I realized that we had
   pretty similar figures. She was probably bigger in the bust, but I was
   narrower in the waist.

   I tried to shake off her memory, and I tried on the other tops. The
   second one, in a pale blue, went well with the skirt and was slightly
   less revealing. I decided I felt more comfortable in it.

   The third top was a halter, and I realized after I put it on that I
   wouldn't be able to wear a bra with it because the straps wouldn't be
   covered. I took it off again and had just taken off my bra when the
   salesgirl knocked on the door and then entered immediately without
   waiting for me to say anything.

   "How you doin', sugar," she said.

   "Okay," I said nervously. No-one except Steve and Blaha and Gonzales
   had seen me naked since I had come into Brand. I hadn't been
   near-naked in front of a woman since I was eight, when my mother saw
   me in the shower. At first I was anxious, but then I relaxed. It
   wasn't like she had never seen a pair of breasts, after all, right? I
   began to try to do up the halter, but I couldn't get it fastened in
   the back.

   "Here, let me help you with that," the salesgirl said. "It's easy once
   you get the hang of it, but why they didn't put an easier clasp on it
   I'll never know." She fastened it and I felt it press my breasts up
   higher on my chest, snugly gathered in by the stretchy fabric. It felt
   kind of good. I looked in the mirror. The top left all of my body
   below my breasts and above the waistline of the skirt totally bare,
   and really showed off my slim waistline. My nipples pushed out against
   the fabric of the top.

   "Maybe you put on weight, sugar, but it's done gone to the right
   places," the salesgirl said. "Is that your brother or your boyfriend
   out there?"

   "Steve? Uh, my boyfriend."

   "I figured -- saw you come in together. I think he's gonna love you in
   this."

   "You think so?"

   "Absolutely. Honey, they all gonna love you in that outfit."

   "Okay. Thanks." I reached down to the pants and shirt I'd discarded,
   then thought better of it. "Say, can you cut the tags off these so I
   can wear them out of here?"

   "Sure, sugar." She looked with disdain at the clothes I'd worn in.
   "But you gonna need some new shoes if you want to wear that."

   I looked with dismay at my Brand-issue sneakers. They were androgynous
   enough, but they were old and shabby and she was right, they didn't go
   with the skirt.

   "I guess..."

   "There's a store right across the street."

   "Yeah..."

   "Don't you be worrying about the cost, sugar. I done seen the money
   your boyfriend got, he gonna pay for this when he sees you like that."
   She said. "What else you need?"

   "Uh..." I stopped to think. It was Steve's money, after all.

   "Did you like just fall off a bus here or somethin', sugar? I mean,
   you got strange clothes on for such a pretty thing."

   I tried hard to think clearly. "Uh, yeah... Yeah. I was, I was in a
   small accident on my way here to see my cousins, and when they towed
   the car we didn't get our bags out, and I had to borrow this from my
   cousin Travis." It sounded kind of lame even to me.

   "Accident? You mean you don't have anythin'?"

   "Not really... I mean, we can get my clothes in a day or so, but until
   then I need some things."

   Within fifteen minutes she had me in new lingerie, pantyhose, a denim
   jacket and a pair of jeans, and so many sweaters and dresses I had to
   stop her. Everything I tried on she pronounced perfect, and after she
   complimented me on a short yellow sun dress I collapsed on the chair,
   laughing. "Don't you be laughing, now" she said. "Looks like your
   boyfriend is gonna help pay for my holiday."

   We settled on three tops, a sweater, the pair of jeans and the skirt.
   And the lingerie and the pantyhose. And the denim jacket. I wore the
   jeans and the blue top out of the fitting room, barefoot, and she
   began to ring them up on the register. Steve joined me, an anxious
   look on his face.

   "That took a long time," he said.

   "Don't you be giving her a hard time," the salesgirl said. "After
   she's been in an accident and all. That'll be three hundred and nine
   dollars and eighty eight cents." Steve looked at me, stupefied, and
   handed over the cash without a murmur. I had a little explaining to do
   when we left the store.

   When we got back to the car there was no sign of Travis, Leon or Cee.
   At first we were both worried, but there was no sign of anything
   untoward, so Steve and I went across the street to the shoe store. The
   sales assistant there seemed to get some kind of kick out of feeling
   up my feet, which made me giggle and got Steve a little pissed. We
   came out of the place with a pair of boots for Steve and three pairs
   of shoes for me.

   We sat in the car nervously for almost half an hour, expecting at any
   minute to be set upon by the local police. Finally the others showed
   up. Travis was clearly tanked, carrying a half-empty bottle of Wild
   Turkey. Leon might have been drinking too; it was always hard to tell
   with him. Cee looked bad. At first I thought maybe he was drunk, too,
   but it wasn't that; it was more that he looked pale and, well, kind of
   dazed. There was liquor on his breath, but I didn't think that was the
   problem. My senses went into overdrive trying to put together all the
   ugly emotions that were coming from the guys.

   Steve was pretty mad with Travis, but he didn't say anything. That's
   how come I knew he was mad. He took the keys from Travis and got back
   in the car without saying a word, and the guys meekly got in and
   looked suitably chastened. Steve drove over to the supermarket and he
   and I got some food while the guys stayed in the car. Then we all went
   back to the cabin. Not a word was spoken the whole time we were in the
   car.

   ***

   Chapter Seven.

   Sometimes I think guys aren't so bright. Oh, they're smart enough when
   it comes to physics and engineering and cars and stuff like that, but
   most of the ones I've met haven't known a whole lot about people. I'd
   only known Steve a couple of years, but I knew him well enough to know
   that when he's pissed, it's best just to leave him alone. Travis had
   known Steve a lot longer, but he hadn't learned that yet.

   After we arrived back at the cabin Travis broke the silence, "Aw,
   shit, man, it's just a little relaxation, y'know?"

   Steve turned on him, and said quietly and tersely that Travis was an
   idiot. "I don't care what the fuck you want to do, Travis, but I don't
   want to go back to Brand in a hurry."

   "I haven't had a drink in four years," Travis mumbled.

   "So get some stuff, and bring it back here! Jesus. A fuckin' bar!"
   Steve hit the table with a resounding thwack and stormed out of the
   front door of the cabin.

   Everyone lapsed back into silence. I unpacked the stuff from the
   supermarket and tried to figure out where the pots and pans were.
   There was a single bottled-gas hotplate. I set some stuff in a pot and
   tried to cook up a kind of chicken stew kind of thing. Cee assisted
   me, wordlessly. After the vegetables were all chopped up and the
   chicken was browned and everything was in the pot I went out onto the
   porch while it was simmering. Steve was nowhere to be seen.

   After a few minutes Cee came outside and sat next to me. Neither of us
   said anything for a minute or two, but I could sense he wanted to tell
   me something.

   "So what happened?" I asked.

   "Travis was an asshole," Cee said quietly.

   "Yeah, so what else is new?"

   "I didn't want to go in, y'know?"

   "Yeah"

   "There were only two people in there. So we kind of stuck out. I mean,
   I guess I stuck out, anyway. Travis ordered some drinks, and I think
   the guy was gonna card him, but he let it go. So he and Leon drank a
   few, and nobody said anything much. I sat over the other side of the
   place. Travis ain't exactly my idea of a good time. Then, after a few
   drinks, Travis decides he's gonna buddy up to the guy at the bar. He
   hadn't been asking any questions or anything, but Travis volunteers
   some story about how he's just in town to visit his cousin, and the
   guy behind the bar looks at me and says 'He a cousin, too?' It got
   kind of awkward for a moment. Then Leon decides to go pee, and as soon
   as he left Travis comes over to me and says 'Hey,' ... " He stopped.

   "Hey?"

   "Hey pussy." Cee looked away. "Hey Pussy, let me cut your dick off.
   That's what you want, isn't it?" He shook his head and looked back at
   me. "Real dumb. I didn't wanna hear any more, so I walked over to the
   bar, and Travis followed me over, and it was kind of headed for a
   scene, y'know?"

   "So what happened?"

   "Leon came back, and we went to a liquor store for more booze, and
   then... then we left."

   There was definitely more to the story than this, but I could see that
   Cee wasn't going to tell me anything more. At least not right then.
   But the three of them must have been very conspicuous. Steve was
   right. Travis was an idiot. I hoped that the bartender hadn't talked
   to the police or anything.

   Something about Cee's story sparked a flash of memory in my head, of
   Pangianis's dick coming toward me that first time in the showers at
   Brand. I thought I knew what might have happened to Cee. I reached out
   and touched his hand, and smiled gently. He flinched at my touch, and
   couldn't look me in the eye. I resolved to ask Leon for his version of
   events some time soon.

   Eventually Cee reached over to me and took my hand back, and held it
   in his. I looked over at him.

   "Can I ask you something real personal, Em?" he asked.

   "Okay."

   "You never told me how -- why -- you know, how come you changed." When
   I didn't say anything for a moment he obviously thought he'd hurt me
   or something, but the truth was I didn't know what to say. "I'm
   sorry," he continued, "I didn't mean to pry --"

   "-- It's okay," I said. "You're not prying." I turned my head for a
   moment and looked out at the valley below the cabin. "I, um, it's
   just, it's kind of complicated to explain, Cee."

   "I bet."

   "Basically, it started off being Blaha's idea, you know?"

   "Uh huh... so does that mean it wasn't always his idea?"

   "No, it was always him. It's just..."

   "You started to like it, huh?"

   I thought about that for a moment. "Well, Steve started to like it,
   and I like Steve..."

   "Just be sure it's what you want, girl," Cee said. "He's a nice guy.
   Hell, I wish he went my way, you know? But -- you know I want you to
   be happy."

   "I know you do," I said, and I hugged him, tightly. I had grown very
   close to Cee while we had been at Brand. After Steve he was probably
   the only real friend I had.

   Steve walked onto the porch. He didn't say where he'd been, or whether
   he'd overheard our conversation, and I didn't ask. We all went inside,
   and I served up dinner.

   It wasn't great, but it was edible. There was hardly any conversation,
   though. We should have all been incredibly happy to be free from
   Brand, but instead the events of the afternoon clouded the meal. I was
   nervous because Travis kept leering at me, and when I bent over to
   serve him the food I could see him looking down my cleavage. Creepy
   drunk, I thought. Steve glowered at everyone all through dinner, and
   Leon just ate and ate right through the three servings I gave him.

   As he pushed his plate away Steve finally spoke. "Travis, I'm gonna
   give you the Malibu, okay? Leon and I are gonna go into town tonight
   and get another car."

   Travis looked kind of puzzled. "Whaddawe need another car?" he said,
   his voice still a little fuzzy from the alcohol.

   "We're gonna split up. Me and Em are gonna head south. You can keep
   the Malibu and do whatever you want. It's clean, it's not stolen or
   anything, so as long as none of the other guys from Brand got the
   plates or anything you'll be fine with it."

   "I thought we were, you know, like partners or something," Travis
   said. He was clearly surprised at Steve's change of plan.

   "Yeah, well, I can't take the chance you're gonna do something like
   this afternoon again," Steve said. "Tonight Leon and I will get a
   local car and drop Cary at the bus station, and then Em and me'll be
   moving on."

   "Shit, man, this ain't what we planned," Travis whined.

   "Yeah. Well, I don't have to give you the car, Travis. Be thankful for
   small mercies."

   Cee and I cleaned the table. Steve came over to the sink with me and
   said quietly "I'm gonna have to go out soon, but it won't be for long.
   But I just can't have Cary and Travis together too much anymore, okay?
   I know Cary's your friend, but there's just too much tension. It's
   time to cut Travis loose, too. That okay with you?"

   I nodded. I was kind of surprised to be consulted, since Steve had
   planned the whole escape and I was going to go along with whatever he
   thought. But I was pleased he at least told me what he was thinking.
   We were a partnership. Him and me. A couple.

   The guys went and sat out on the porch. I could hear Travis
   complaining some more for a short while, but not much of what Steve
   was saying.

   I looked around the room, which was in pretty bad shape. Apart from
   the detritus from dinner, the guys had strewn magazines, clothes, a
   few beer cans and even some playing cards around the room in the short
   time we'd been there. On the table near the door were Travis's gun and
   some ammunition, and on the arm of the couch was the large knife Steve
   had taped to his leg earlier in the day.

   As we cleaned up, Cee said "Well, I guess it's goodbye for us, girl."

   "Yeah, I guess," I said. I didn't flinch when he called me 'girl'. I
   guess I was starting to think of myself that way.

   Cee went over to the table and scribbled on some paper that Steve had
   been drawing on earlier. When he came back, I could see it was an
   address and phone number.

   "Em, these are some good people I know in Memphis. You get in any
   trouble, you head down there and you tell them Cary Philips sent you,
   and they'll take care of you," he said.

   "What about you?" I asked. "Are you going to go there?"

   "No, honey, that's where I grew up. There's too many old memories
   there for me. I've got a friend out in San Francisco I'm gonna look
   up. I think someone like me can get a little lost in San Francisco,
   what do you think?"

   Leon and Steve came into the room to fetch their jackets, and Cee and
   I hugged and said our farewells. Both of us started to cry, and Steve
   and Leon looked at one another and shrugged. Eventually Steve stepped
   in to separate us. "I'll be back in about a half hour, okay," he said.

   Then Steve, Leon and Cee were in the car and driving into town. I
   waved from the porch as I watched Cee waving sadly back at me from the
   back seat of the car.

   That left Travis and me. I went back inside to finish cleaning up, and
   he followed me. In fact, he kept following me around as I cleaned up.
   At first I was just pissed with him, and I thrust a washcloth into his
   hand and said, "The pots aren't done yet."

   "'S women's work," Travis grunted, thrusting it back at me. I ignored
   him, or tried to, and began to scrub the pot myself. I had left the
   heat up a little too long, and there was quite a bit of food cooked
   hard in the base of the pot.

   Travis was standing behind me, just watching me, which was making me
   uneasy. "You could do something to help," I said. "Is lighting a fire
   men's work?"

   "I'm just fine," Travis said, and just stood watching me while I
   worked. Eventually, after about another five minutes, he went and got
   the Wild Turkey bottle he had been drinking from earlier in the day.

   "You sure are a good looking chick," Travis said. I didn't acknowledge
   that I'd heard him, but I knew he was looking me over just from the
   way my skin was crawling.

   "How'd that happen, anyway?" he continued, swigging from the bottle.
   When I didn't answer, he went on. "You bein' a chick and all, I
   mean... they sure are a good set of titties you got. Ain't no way you
   can still be a boy. How'd that happen?"

   "Shut up, Travis," I said finally, after he'd continued on to talk
   about what a cute ass I had, and how hot I looked in the tight jeans I
   was wearing. "If Steve heard you talking like this he'd whup you
   good."

   "Yeah, well, the thing is," Travis said, walking over to me and
   putting his hand on my ass, "Steve's not here right now, is he?"

   I froze the minute I felt Travis's hand on me, but then I reached
   around to slap it away.

   "Oh, you're a feisty one, too. I like that," Travis said, moving his
   hand to my shoulder, to turn me around. I shivered. I had never felt
   so cold inside. Travis looked me over, and his eyes fixed on my
   breasts, which were hugged closely by the blue top I was wearing.
   "Damn, but you are a good looking bitch."

   "You're drunk, Travis," I said, pulling away from his grasp.

   "Yep. I reckon I am." Travis said.

   "What's going to happen when I tell Steve about this?" I said.

   "Oh, you ain't gonna tell Steve about this," Travis said, putting down
   the bottle and grasping both my arms. "You're gonna be worried about
   what he'll think about you putting out for me." He twisted one of my
   arms behind my back, and then grasped the other and drew it behind me,
   too. He could hold both my hands in one of his, I discovered, but
   mostly he held them separately, twisting each arm viciously.

   "What? Let me go! You're fucking crazy!" I screamed at him.

   "Steve and I been friends for years," Travis continued. "Way before
   you arrived. I'm gonna tell him you came onto me, and he's gonna
   believe it." He began to twist my arms, and force me to walk toward
   the other room. I flailed with my legs as much as I could, and tried
   to kick him between the legs, but he twisted my arm further behind my
   back until I couldn't stand it any more. "Oh, yeah, he'll believe me,"
   he said, as though he was trying to convince himself.

   "Or maybe I won't tell him anything, if you don't," he added. As I
   twisted my head around to see him to try to aim another kick I could
   see something positively evil in his eyes.

   He took my wrists in one hand, and started playing with my left breast
   with his free hand. It was awful. Completely unerotic. There was
   nothing in Travis's touch that could excite me, in fact he made me
   feel stony cold inside, and hard in my belly, almost exactly the
   opposite of how I felt whenever Steve caressed me. In years since
   then, I've read books where some people have said that some women get
   some kind of erotic kick out of rape, and those kind of books make me
   angry. There was always an erotic element whenever Steve took control
   in our lovemaking and got forceful and kind of animalistic, but that
   was *so* different than what I felt with Travis. It gives me the
   shivers just thinking about Travis again now.

   He drove me into the other room, where the bed was. He looked at the
   bed, and then at me, and at the clothes I was wearing. "Hmmm, this is
   gonna make for some problems," he said. I was still struggling, and
   now I started screaming for Steve. For anyone.

   "No one's gonna hear," Travis said. "So you can stop screaming.
   Personally, I kind of like a girl who struggles." He pushed me until I
   was facing the bed, with him behind me, grasping my hands. I felt his
   free hand go to the button on the front of my jeans, and then begin to
   unzip them. I struggled and screamed more and more, but the grip
   Travis had on my hands made it hard. He pushed both my arms upward,
   which forced me to bend down over the bed.

   I hated being so weak, so small. He was so much stronger, and there
   didn't seem to be anything else I could do. I kept trying to kick him,
   or stand on his feet, but he was able to dodge me easily, and increase
   the pressure on my arms. Eventually I felt him get the zipper on my
   jeans all the way down, and then I felt his hand reaching inside. He
   was having trouble, because the jeans were very tight, and I was
   struggling as much as I could, and while he had me bent over like that
   he couldn't get very far into them. My cock was tucked back in my
   panties, so tightly that there was no apparent bulge in my crotch, and
   Travis was reaching inside but he couldn't reach down far enough to
   feel it from inside the jeans. Whatever he did feel around my pubic
   hair seemed to convince him I was a girl.

   "I knew it," he grunted, as he tried to pull my jeans further down.
   "You are a girl. No way could Steve be a fag." His hand was only a
   fraction of an inch from finding out he was wrong. "What I don't get
   is how they made you a girl," he mumbled drunkenly as he continued to
   struggle with the jeans, trying to get them down over my hips.

   At that moment I got one of my arms free, and I lashed out with my
   hand toward his face. I could only manage a kind of backhand slap, but
   it startled him enough that he let go of me entirely, and I spun
   around and hit him, hard, on the side of the head. He staggered
   drunkenly and then hit back at me, catching me hard in the shoulder
   and spinning me right down onto the bed. I was too weak to hurt him
   with my punches, I realized, but I was beyond being rational and I
   continued flailing with my arms and legs as much as I could. I was
   screaming, screaming harder than I ever had in my life. Travis got
   hold of one of my arms again, and then punched me, hard, in the belly.

   All the wind went out of me, and I lay on the bed, gasping.

   "That fucking hurt, bitch," he said to me, as he tried to pull my
   jeans down again. I was still stunned from the blow, and he was having
   more success. He rolled me over onto my belly and kept pulling them,
   until finally they were off completely.

   I heard him unzip his own pants as I lay there, still gasping.
   Summoning what little self-control I had left, I made one last attempt
   to kick out at him, and I caught him directly in the leg, just missing
   his crotch. Not enough to stop him, but enough to slow him down. He
   grunted, then rolled me back over. I began flailing again, my breath
   partially restored, and he got only a little way toward removing my
   panties before he was forced to try to control me. He pinned my legs
   by sitting on them, and then tried to take both my hands in one of his
   again. My breath returned and I resumed screaming, pleading, sobbing,
   and just hoping that someone would make this stop.

   He had just succeeded in getting both my hands in one of his, and was
   trying to remove my panties again, when I heard the loudest sound I
   have ever heard in my life, and felt wetness all over my face and legs
   and back and wherever my skin was bare, and then Travis slumped on top
   of me.

   I was still struggling, and as soon as Travis went limp I managed to
   throw him to one side.

   There was a loud thump as he hit the floor, and I looked up to see
   Steve standing in the doorway, with Travis's gun in his hand. He came
   over to me, and held me tightly. I was still screaming, and shaking,
   and nothing could make me stop. Leon came into the room with the Wild
   Turkey and made me take a few swigs from the bottle, and the burning
   from the liquor, or maybe just the interruption to swallow, let me
   stop screaming. Then I realized that Travis had been drinking from
   that bottle, and I started sobbing uncontrollably.

   Steve told me later that it took them more than two hours to calm me.
   Eventually he figured out I wouldn't drink from the bottle again, and
   Leon got a glass and they poured the whiskey into me, and gradually I
   calmed down to the point where I was only shaking. It was only around
   then that I noticed I was totally covered in blood, and even in bits
   of flesh.

   You ever seen a guy get shot in real life? Up close, I mean? It's not
   like the movies. I mean, I didn't really see Travis get shot, but I
   saw what happened afterward. The bullet went right through him, and
   out the other side, and it took a huge chunk out of him where it left
   his body, and bits of that chunk went all over me, and the bed, and
   the walls, and, well, everything. It's not like a bullet makes some
   nice neat hole or anything.

   Steve had been hugging me to try to calm me, and he was covered in
   blood, too. Then I realized we were both wearing the new clothes we
   had bought that day, and they were ruined, and that made me cry even
   more. Go figure. You'd think I'd have felt some relief or something,
   from being rescued, but that didn't happen for days.

   While Steve was taking care of me, taking me into the main room and
   laying me on the couch and trying to sooth me, Leon took Travis's body
   outside. Steve told me later that Leon buried Travis in a shallow
   grave near the shed out back. Then Leon went to work cleaning up the
   mess in the other room, and Steve helped undress me and wash us both
   down.

   ***

   Chapter Eight.

   Eventually I guess I just got too drunk to stay awake. I have vague
   memories of Steve dressing me again, and being carried out to a car,
   but that was about it until I woke up next morning, stretched out in
   the back seat of the Malibu. Steve was driving; Leon was in the
   passenger seat. Dawn was just breaking through the trees at the side
   of the highway we were on. My head hurt. Actually, lots of parts of me
   hurt. It took me a few moments to figure out what was what, and then I
   remembered Travis, and that explained why I hurt. I must have groaned
   or something, because Leon turned around to look at me.

   "Are you okay?" he asked. I nodded.

   "What?" said Steve, who had his eyes on the road. He couldn't see me
   in the rear-view mirror while I was laying down.

   "I'm fine," I said. "Uh, thank you." Then I immediately knew that was
   a lie, and I sat up quickly, rolled down the window, and retched out
   the contents of my stomach, mostly over the side of the car.

   Steve pulled over to the verge and I continued throwing up, heaving up
   everything until I thought I would cough up my actual stomach. I felt
   wretched. Steve and Leon watched me, and thoughtfully left me pretty
   much to myself. Leon had a flask of water that he let me wash my mouth
   out with when he thought I'd finished up. I swished a mouthful around
   and spat it out, and then Leon used the remainder to try to wash off
   the mess I'd made on the outside of the car. Steve half-carried me
   back to the car and we hit the road again.

   Leon had his hand on the back of his seat, near Steve's shoulder, and
   he reached over to rub my leg reassuringly from time to time. I tilted
   my head so I could see out the window. The sky was that funny color,
   almost green, that only happens for a few minutes after the dawn, when
   the yellow near the horizon meets the blue above that's still speckled
   with a couple of stars. The occasional tree branch overhanging the
   highway flashed by.

   The guys had found a blanket to throw over me, and the heater seemed
   like it was on in the car, but I still felt cold inside, the way I'd
   felt cold when Travis had touched me. I lay there for an hour, maybe,
   watching the sky turn blue and the trees vanish from view as we hit
   the plains again, and I thought of Travis, and of the blood, and then
   of Maria, and that horrible night years ago. I kept shaking. I
   couldn't help myself. Leon kept trying to reassure me, but there was
   nothing I could do to stop shaking. "Man, I think she needs a Doctor
   or somethin'," he said to Steve.

   We stopped at a gas station, and I got out of the car to stretch,
   still wrapping the blanket around me even though the day was quickly
   getting warmer. When Leon had finished filling the car and Steve had
   washed the rest of the vomit off it and paid for the gas I lay huddled
   in the back seat with the blanket and tried to sleep. Mostly I
   listened to the radio, and to Leon complaining about the "perfectly
   good stolen car" he'd had to abandon last night a few miles from
   Davenport because they'd taken the Malibu after Travis's death..

   By the time it was near lunch we pulled off the highway and into a
   small place that didn't seem to have a name identifying it. There was
   a kind of bar and grill sort of place at the far end of town, and we
   stopped there to get something to eat.

   Inside it was dark, so it took a moment for my eyes to adjust, but I
   was glad to see the place was almost deserted. Steve had dressed me in
   the blue floral skirt last night, and the purple top with the low
   neck, and even though I had the denim jacket on over that I felt kind
   of naked. I'd never worn a skirt in public before. I think if I hadn't
   been feeling kind of numb from everything that had happened I would
   have been even more self-conscious.

   We sat down in a booth and a waitress in her late twenties with real
   big hair took her time walking over to us. I had never seen hair that
   big on a woman in real life -- they just don't wear it like that up
   North -- and so I guess I stared for a moment or two too long. "You
   'kay, sugar?" she asked, looking at me strangely.

   "Um, maybe you got some aspirin or something?" Leon said. "She's just
   got a headache."

   "I'll see what I can find out back," the waitress said cheerfully, and
   left us with the menus.

   "We're not in Kansas any more, Toto," I said. "Or are we, Steve?"

   "Alabama."

   "Your sister, man, you sure she's gonna be cool?" Leon asked Steve.

   "She has been so far," Steve said. "She came through with the money
   and the car, didn't she?"

   "Yeah. Yeah, I guess, you know, maybe I've been inside too long," Leon
   said.

   "Amen to that," Steve said, as the waitress came back.

   "I'm not really s'posed to give you these, sugar, so don't you be
   telling no-one," the waitress said as she handed me some aspirin and
   put some water on the table for each of us. "But y'all not from 'round
   here, I can see."

   "'S right, Ma'am," Steve said.

   "Thank you," I said softly as I took the aspirin from her. I was
   suddenly conscious of my voice. I knew I looked like a girl, but did I
   sound like a girl? I hadn't worried about that, yesterday, but then I
   hadn't worried about a lot of things.

   "So where y'all from?" the waitress asked Steve.

   "Well, I grew up in Jackson, Ma'am, but Emma and Leon here are both
   from up North. First time in the South for both of 'em."

   "Well, I hope you're showin' them the finer points of our fair state,"
   she said, warming to Steve. He *was* cute, even if he was at least
   five years younger than she was, and he'd disarmed her with a smile
   very quickly. She took our orders and fairly swished off.

   "Why'd you use our real names, man?" Leon was asking quietly.

   "She's not gonna remember," Steve said. "Leon, one thing you gotta
   know about things down here, people are real polite to one another.
   They pick up real quick on you if you act surly or unfriendly, and
   they remember that. You can be a genuine sumbitch, but so long as you
   say 'please' and 'thank you' and 'ma'am' and 'sir' a lot, things go a
   lot smoother. This ain't Chicago, thank the Lord."

   "Yeah, but --"

   "Look, it's not like you're Jesse James or anything," Steve said. "If
   there was anything in the papers about us escaping, it would have been
   up North, not here. You ever seen a newspaper in these kinds of towns?
   Real estate news, and stuff about the local school, and maybe how many
   arrests for drunkenness the cops made last week. That's it. I don't
   think we're famous enough to make television, do you?"

   Leon appeared to relax, since everything Steve was saying made sense.

   "As far as I can see," Steve continued, "if we didn't use our real
   names, at least our first names, we'd prob'ly get ourselves in trouble
   by saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. Just relax, and enjoy the
   meal."

   Leon and Steve discussed the car, and what they would do with it when
   we got to Oxford, where his sister was living while she was studying
   at the University. There was still the possibility that one of the
   other guys from Brand would blab about the color and model if they
   were caught, so keeping it wasn't risk free. On the other hand it had
   been purchased legally in Steve's sister's name and it was worth a lot
   of money. Selling it was risky, but so was just dumping it. If they
   dumped it in Oxford, Steve figured, someone would eventually notice
   it, and maybe, even though the escape was three states away, people
   would put two and two together. Something in his reasoning didn't work
   for me after the way he'd just told us we should use our real names,
   but I wasn't thinking real clearly that day and I didn't pick up on
   it. Leon figured we should keep it until we worked out where we were
   headed after Oxford.

   The food arrived, and I ate what I could, which wasn't very much. It
   did make me feel a bit better, I thought. The waitress flirted with
   Steve, and he flirted just a little with her. If I had been feeling
   more alert I might have been jealous.

   Leon had ordered a huge amount of food, but when I didn't want to
   finish the rest of mine he ate that, too. "You still eat like a bird,
   Em," he said, as he always did when he watched me eat.

   I was still feeling cold and shivering slightly. The aspirins didn't
   seem to do much to change that. And my skin felt kind of clammy. As I
   watched Leon and Steve eat I realized I needed to pee, as well.

   "'Scuse me guys," I said as I stood up. To my amazement Steve stood up
   briefly as I did, and lifted Leon's arm to get him up too. I stopped.
   "What's wrong?" I asked.

   "A gentleman should always rise when a lady sits or rises," Steve
   said.

   Leon looked at him like he was crazy, but -- through the fog that
   still enveloped my brain -- I had to smile. A lady, huh?

   It was just as well that he had reminded me, I thought, or I probably
   would have gone to the men's room. As it was I felt pretty awkward
   opening the door to the ladies, but inside it was no big deal. Just
   two stalls. I went in to the closest one, raised my skirt and sat
   down.

   As I raised my skirt I became aware of a lot of creases in the
   material at the back. I had crushed it when I had sat down. It was
   fairly thin cotton, so the creases would probably fall out soon
   enough, but I realized that I would have to remember to smooth my
   skirt under me as I sat down each time, the way girls did. It had been
   so long since I'd seen a girl; there were probably a thousand things I
   didn't know like that. I hoped I didn't screw up too badly.

   I finished peeing and adjusted my skirt and left the stall. Opposite
   were a washbasin and a mirror. I studied myself carefully. I sure did
   look like shit. I realized I didn't have a purse, or anything, either.
   No brush, no lipstick, no nothing. There probably wasn't a woman alive
   in this part of the world who would come in here without her purse, I
   thought. I was going to have to do something about that. I tried to
   untangle my hair with my fingers, and hoped that when Steve had packed
   the car last night he'd remembered my barrettes and comb.

   As I walked back to the table I could see the waitress flirting with
   Steve again. Oh well. As I got to the table the guys stood again, only
   this time more like we were planning on leaving.

   "How's your headache, sugar?" the waitress asked me.

   "Ah, okay, a little better, I guess," I said. I remembered Steve's
   speech about politeness. "Thank you." I paused for a moment, and then
   thought about the hair and makeup situation. "Say, ma'am, um... I
   don't want to bother you, but I lost my purse last night, and I need
   to get some stuff, you know. Is there anywhere in town I could get,
   you know..."

   Evidently my inarticulateness sent the wrong message, because she
   looked at the boys, and then at me, and then she steered me over to
   the counter at the far side of the room and retrieved her bag from
   beneath it. "I can help you out for the moment," she said.

   I was about to refuse, thinking she was going to try passing me off an
   old lipstick or something, when she reached in and rustled around for
   a moment, then pushed a small, soft object into my hand
   surreptitiously so the guys couldn't see it. I looked down, and -- of
   course -- it was a Tampax. I almost laughed, but luckily in my dazed
   state I wasn't in much of a mood for that. I thanked her, profusely,
   and put it in the pocket of my jacket and smiled.

   "It's okay, honey, I need them aspirin myself every time, too. There's
   nowhere here in town I'd recommend," she said. "But Decatur down the
   road a ways is a good sized town. You can find the other things you
   need there."

   I thanked her again, and then Steve and Leon and I left, me feeling
   very strange indeed. I didn't need the damned Tampax, but even when I
   was out of my head and with ratty hair people definitely thought I was
   a girl. No problems there. Tampax!

   "What was that all about?" Steve asked as we walked over to the car. I
   could see the waitress watching us through the window, and I put my
   arm around him briefly as we walked.

   "Nothing really," I said. "Just girls' stuff." As I got in the car, in
   the back seat this time, I thought to myself it was all going to be
   girls' stuff from now on.

   ***

   We did stop, briefly, in Decatur, and I picked up some mascara and a
   pale brownish-pink lipstick and some apple-scented shampoo and a
   hairbrush from a drugstore, as well as a little red plastic change
   purse with daisies on it that just seemed too silly to pass up. I was
   still feeling pretty weird, and shivering occasionally, but I managed
   to get to the register without passing out or anything. Back in the
   car I gave Steve back most of his change except a couple of quarters
   and dimes that I put in the change purse.

   On the outskirts of Decatur we got more gas, and I went to the ladies
   room again while Steve made some phone calls and Leon bought some
   whiskey and some beer from the store next to the gas station. In the
   ladies room, which wasn't very well lit, I tried the mascara, which
   wasn't too hard to figure out, and then the lipstick, and managed to
   get it on my lips without going over the edges surprisingly easily. I
   brushed my hair out enough to get out most of the tangles, and thought
   I'd work on it some more while we were on the road. When I got back to
   the car Steve looked at me a little weird, like he was trying to
   figure out what was different, and then he smiled and told me I looked
   much better.

   As we got back on the road the boys cracked open a beer each. I was
   going to settle for a coke, but Leon thought I should add some whiskey
   to it. "Hair of the dog," he laughed. The more Coke I drank the more
   whiskey he added, and I got pretty toasted on just that one can by the
   time we made it into Mississippi.

   It would probably have been a good idea to be sober when I first met
   Steve's sister. You know, like meeting your boyfriend's family is
   always a big deal, right? I hadn't thought about it until then.
   Anyway, we pulled into a funny looking old place which had a sign out
   front saying it was a "Sporting Goods Store and Cafe" on the road
   through Abbeville, a small town a few miles North of Oxford. As soon
   as Steve turned the engine off a blonde woman maybe 19 years old came
   barreling out of the front door, and as Steve opened the car door and
   straightened up she flung herself upon him.

   "Oh! This is great! Oh!" She kept saying, as Leon and I got out of the
   car and stood, kind of bemused. "Stevie, Stevie, Oh!" She pulled away
   from him, and looked him up and down before hugging him again. "Oh,
   you got so *big*."

   Eventually they separated again, and Steve turned to me, a huge smile
   on his face. "Em, Leon, I want you to meet my sister Julia." I could
   see he was really happy, maybe the happiest I'd seen him.

   Julia was gorgeous. Really. She was like one of those blonde goddesses
   you only ever saw in television commercials, with lightly tanned skin
   and enormously long legs and a smile that lit up her face. There
   wasn't a whole lot of family resemblance, except maybe for coloring
   and something about both of them around the eyes. Julia was tall, too.
   I figured at least five-ten, maybe taller. She towered over me.

   "Em? Emma, is it?" She said as she came over to take my hand, and then
   she turned to Leon and took his, too. I could see Leon was kind of
   dumbstruck by this vision from one of his wet dreams, because he could
   barely get a word out. Julia, on the other hand, couldn't stop
   talking.

   We went into the 'Sporting Goods Store and Cafe', which turned out to
   be a pretty standard general store, only with a little eating area --
   12 stools along a counter -- out the back. We were the only people
   there except for a guy in his fifties at the general store register
   and a woman near the same age behind the counter of the cafe. Julia
   introduced all of us. They were Jesse and Evelyn, and somehow Julia
   had become friendly with them since she'd started studying.

   Julia and Steve sat on two stools at the end of the counter, and me
   next to Steve, with Leon next to me. Evelyn poured us all some coffee
   and -- without asking -- served us all a piece of cobbler. Then she
   seemed to deliberately make herself scarce while Steve and Julia
   talked.

   Julia started off by talking about their parents, who of course knew
   Steve had escaped from Brand but didn't know Julia was meeting him. It
   seemed that neither she nor Steve had much love for their father, who
   I knew had pretty much abandoned Steve when he had been charged. It
   was the last in a long line of juvenile offences for Steve, but it had
   been while the family had all been away with his father on business.
   Their father evidently thought that the shame the case had bought him
   with his clients had cost him money, and that had been worth more to
   him than his son.

   I didn't get all that from the conversation, of course. I had heard a
   lot of it from Steve over the time we'd been together, and of course I
   believed him, but it was interesting to hear what a low opinion of her
   father Julia had as well.

   Actually I didn't get too much of the conversation at all. As I
   mentioned earlier, I was kind of toasted from the whiskey, so the
   coffee was welcome, but I was also feeling kind of strange, the way I
   had ever since I had awoken that morning, like everything was a little
   distant. I picked at the piece of cobbler, but I couldn't really eat
   much, so I gave it to Leon, who as expected demolished it in seconds.

   "Thanks for everything, sis. I really mean it," Steve said. "I don't
   want you to get into trouble for all this, so we... well, we'll move
   on from here, at least in a day or so."

   "Don't be silly," said Julia. "I've got everything completely
   organized."

   "Yeah, but the police will probably be looking for me to come visit
   you sometime --"

   "Which is why we're meeting here first, silly. Don't worry, the police
   already visited me, and I said I hadn't spoken to you in years. Nobody
   knows our family up here in Oxford, Stevie. Don't worry about
   anything."

   Julia and Steve probably talked non-stop for at least an hour and a
   half, and all the time I felt weirder and weirder. She told Steve,
   quietly, that Jesse and Evelyn didn't know the family, so as far as
   they were concerned he -- in fact all of us -- were perfectly clean
   and free.

   They kept on talking, and Julia brought us into the conversation as
   well, talking about how she'd organized with friends to put us up in
   an apartment near hers. The apartment belonged to a professor who was
   on sabbatical. She had told her Mom and Dad that her car had been in
   an accident and needed repairs, which wasn't true, but they had given
   her an additional thousand dollars which she would give to Steve later
   that night. She had a friend -- "my boyfriend, he's cool" -- who was a
   printmaker and knew a lot about art and printing and stuff, and he had
   a little business on the side doing fake ID's for the freshmen, and
   she could probably get us something from him.

   She was right. She had thought of just about everything. I was
   impressed. Julia was gorgeous, and she was smart and organized, too. I
   wondered how many boys' hearts she'd broken since she'd arrived at Ole
   Miss, as they called it.

   The shadows were lengthening outside, and I was feeling very strange
   and lightheaded and cold to my core when Julia finally asked a
   question we all should have seen coming. "Okay," she said. "I know how
   you and Leon got to be friends, Steve, but how in heck did you meet
   Emma in a place like that?"

   I don't know what was said after that, because my body chose that
   moment to make all my decisions for me, and I passed out and slid off
   the stool to the floor with a loud thump.

   ***

   Chapter Nine.

   I woke up on a single bed somewhere. I was laying on top of the crisp
   white sheets. The smell in the room reminded me a little bit of the
   smell of the infirmary at Brand, but there was also a heavy floral
   scent coming through the open window across the room. It was still
   light, but only just. My head hurt, and my body hurt, and I remembered
   the whiskey and then thought to myself that I'd been really stupid to
   let Leon give me that much. Before last night I'd never had a drink in
   my life.

   Then I remembered the conversation that had been going on just before
   I passed out. Oh! I turned to roll over and put my face in the pillow,
   but I must have groaned or something because a moment later I heard
   someone come into the room and a male voice I didn't know, an old
   man's voice, said "You're awake." It wasn't a question, more of a
   statement.

   I rolled back and saw a short, almost bald man in his sixties, in a
   suit, looking down at me. "Yes," I said. I realized I was still fully
   clothed, even though I was still not sure a cotton skirt qualified as
   fully clothed.

   "I'm Doctor Bagley," he said, in a slow southern way. "You gave your
   friends quite a fright I'm afraid."

   I tried to sit up, but he firmly put his hand on my shoulder to
   restrain me. "You just lie there for a moment and tell me a few
   things. First thing, are you pregnant?"

   "What?" I responded without thinking.

   "It's a reasonable question. A girl your age, travelling with two
   older boys. A girl who faints. Are you?"

   "No. No." I wondered what to say next. Obviously he hadn't examined me
   thoroughly.

   "Don't mean to cause you offence. But I had to ask. In the
   circumstances," he said. "So when was your last period?"

   "What?" I said again without thinking.

   "When did you menstruate?"

   "Listen, Doctor," I began, wondering how to explain any of my
   situation to him.

   "Has it been in the last two weeks?" he asked.

   "Yes," I said on the spur of the moment.

   "Good, then we can rule that out, I think," he said, clearly glad to
   be past that line of questioning, although I am sure I was gladder.
   "If you don't mind, can I examine you?"

   "What?" I said again. I was going to have to come up with some
   different responses.

   "Can you take off your jacket and top?" he asked.

   Oh, that! That I could manage. "Sure, I think so," I said. "But I'll
   need to sit up to do it."

   He helped me sit up, and then took my jacket from me as I got it off.
   I peeled up the pale blue top I was wearing, over my head, until I was
   clad only in my underwear and skirt. I was still shivering, but it
   wasn't from cold. Part of it was from still feeling strange, but
   mostly it was from being nearly naked in front of a strange man, even
   if he was a Doctor.

   "Where did those bruises come from?" he asked. I looked down, and I
   could see that my arms were badly bruised where Travis had held them,
   and that my shoulder was an ugly black and yellow color where he had
   hit me. It was a good thing I had worn the jacket all day, I thought
   to myself.

   I didn't respond to his question at all because I couldn't think of
   what to say. As soon as I thought about Travis I started to shake. Dr.
   Bagley seemed to notice, and although I got the feeling he was about
   to press me for an answer he thought better of it and shook his head.
   He had me sit on the side of the bed, and then he approached me with a
   stethoscope. He listened to me breathe, then he took my pulse. "Well
   that's better'n it was an hour ago," he said. Eventually he told me I
   could put my top back on, and then he took blood pressure readings. He
   looked in my ears, then in my eyes with a small light, and then had me
   do some exercises with my eyes following his fingers and stuff like
   that.

   Without saying anything to me, he went to the door and opened it, and
   in a moment Steve and Julia entered. "Has she had any... any surprises
   today?" Dr. Bagley asked them, as though he wasn't sure he was going
   to get a straight answer. "Apart from drinking, I mean."

   "Uh..." Steve looked at me, then at Julia, then at the Doctor and back
   at me. "Uh, she was, uh... attacked by someone last night." Julia
   looked startled, but the Doctor just nodded. "Uh... Leon and me, we
   got him off her, but he hit her a few times, I think."

   "Indeed he did, young man. That's not something I approve of, although
   there's some in these parts will say a woman sometimes asks for it."

   "She wasn't asking for it," Steve said. "Trust me, I saw her."

   "Is the man who did this... What happened to him?" the Doctor asked.

   "I'd rather not say, sir," Steve said awkwardly.

   "It was not you, now?"

   "No!" I interrupted, trying to stand up. "No!" I lost my balance and
   Steve sprang forward and caught me and laid me back on the bed. "No!"
   I said once more as firmly as I could. I reached out for Steve and he
   sat on the bed next to me and put his hand on my arm.

   "Well, I think her reaction answers that question for us, young man.
   Is this man that attacked her likely to be a threat to her in the
   future?" Dr. Bagley asked.

   "I think I can fairly say there's no chance of that, sir," Steve said.
   "Leon and me, well... besides, sir, it was a long way away from here."

   Julia came to stand at the side of the bed, too, and began to stroke
   my forehead gently and arrange my hair on the pillow. It felt nice.

   "I think, nevertheless, that in these cases the police should be
   notified. And I think a proper pelvic exam in these cases --"

   "No," I said again, though not as forcefully. I tried to sit up to
   look Dr. Bagley in the eye, but Steve held me back and instead the
   Doctor came over to look at me more closely.

   "No, I don't want the police. Steve and Leon taught him a lesson," I
   said to Dr. Bagley. "Thank you," I said to Steve. I turned back to the
   Doctor. "I feel kind of strange, but I'd really just as soon forget
   this, if you don't mind. Nothing... nothing really happened. Steve
   stopped him before he had a chance to..."

   The Doctor looked at Steve, and then back at me, and then back at
   Steve again.

   "Nevertheless, she's still in some state of shock. Giving her hard
   liquor was very dangerous in those circumstances."

   "I'm sorry about that, sir. We were just trying to, you know, calm
   her."

   "There are other ways to do that, which I trust y'all will observe in
   the future. Young man, you seem to have been quite gallant, and I'm
   sorry about my earlier question to you. But I must insist that if you
   are going to take it upon yourself to rescue these... distressed
   damsels, that y'all do the right think and get them to a doctor before
   you head for the nearest liquor store."

   'Distressed damsels'. I reminded Julia of that phrase a few days later
   and we had a good chuckle. Seriously, parts of the South have a real
   charm, and their own compensations, but there are some very
   old-fashioned things about life there -- or at least there were twenty
   years ago.

   Steve and Julia managed to get me out of Dr.Bagley's surgery without
   any further examinations. Julia didn't know that I had a better reason
   to avoid a pelvic exam than the usual aversion, I thought, but I was
   grateful that she was so supportive. Dr. Bagley knew Julia, and seemed
   to trust her more than Steve, and he made her promise to take care of
   me for the next few days. Because of that I found myself travelling to
   Oxford in Julia's little English sports car, while Steve and Leon
   followed behind.

   We stopped at the apartment that Julia had organized, and at her
   request I stayed in Julia's car while the guys unloaded what few
   possessions we had into the building. I wasn't feeling physically as
   bad as I had been earlier. Dr. Bagley had given me a shot (in the
   butt, but he hadn't seemed to notice anything unusual) and some
   tablets, and although they made me feel kind of distanced from the
   world I wasn't any worse than I had been earlier.

   The apartment was in the attic of an old, once grand timber home that
   had a huge tree in the yard that gave off the same heavy scent I had
   noticed outside at Dr. Bagley's. "It's Magnolia," Steve said when I
   asked him about it as he came to kiss me goodnight. He went to kiss me
   the way we normally would, but there was something wrong with me -- I
   don't know exactly how to describe the feeling, but somehow I was kind
   of turned off by him. I loved him, I was sure of that. I just didn't
   want a guy being intimate with me right now. Not even Steve.

   It upset me. I think maybe it upset me more than it upset Steve. We
   kissed, but it wasn't good. I turned away and Julia helped me back
   into her car.

   Julia and I drove to her place, and she helped me up the stairs. Her
   roommate was stretched out on the couch when I came in, and she stood
   up as soon as she saw Julia had someone with her. She was a tall girl,
   taller even than Julia, and I felt like I was in the presence of
   giants. She wore no makeup, and had her black hair cut short in a
   mannish kind of cut that wasn't very common back in those days in the
   South. It showed off the elegant planes of her cheekbones. She smiled
   broadly and reached out to shake my hand, just like a guy would.

   "Emma, Priscilla Arsenault." Julia said. Pris, this is Emma... Y'know,
   I don't know your second name."

   "Boyle," I said after a moment's hesitation. I had actually discussed
   that name with Dr. Blaha, years ago, when he kept referring to be my
   old surname. I told Dr. Blaha that I didn't want anything to do with
   my father's name, and that I'd start using my mother's maiden name
   whenever I left Brand. That was a silly thing to have told him, I
   guess, since if he wanted to find me it would make it easier, but I
   really didn't want to use the surname I'd been born with, ever again.
   It was kind of ironic in the circumstances, using my mother's name,
   since I couldn't use my male Christian name any more either.

   Julia told Pris, who hated her own Christian name and hissed at Julia
   whenever Julia called her "Priscilla," that I was her brother's friend
   -- I noted that she didn't say "girlfriend" -- and that some bozo had
   tried to rape me the previous night and so I was going to stay with
   her for a day or so.

   "Good idea," Pris said. "Keep away from men for a while. Emma, I try
   to stay away from them as much as possible."

   "First thing's first," Julia said, in one of those tones I'd already
   recognized meant she was ready to organize things. "A shower, I
   think."

   Mmmm. That sounded good to me. "Thanks. It's been a long drive,
   and..."

   "You don't have to tell me about feeling dirty after a guy has touched
   you," Pris said. "C'mon, I'll get you a towel."

   "I'll take care of her, Pris," Julia said, in a friendly tone but one
   that indicated she was firm on the matter.

   Julia steered me to the bathroom. "Okay," she said, closing the door.
   "I'll get you a robe, and some underwear. You're what, a six?"

   "Eight," I said. I was pleased I knew the sizes so well.

   "Okay, well, everything we've got's going to be too big on you, but I
   might be able to scrounge something that's not too uncomfortable.
   There's some shampoo on the window ledge there, and --"

   "Rats. I bought some shampoo today, but I left all my things with
   Steve and Leon."

   "It's okay, we'll get them tomorrow." She left, and I began
   undressing. I pulled off my jacket and then the top and the skirt, and
   hung them on the end of the towel rack. I was still in my bra and
   panties when Julia came back in without knocking, carrying a robe and
   a pair of panties. I turned, startled, and she stopped, and stared at
   me.

   "Steve said..." she began, and then petered out. "You're..."

   "Steve *told* you?!" I practically shrieked.

   "Well, he told me... but you're not, I mean, you're real..." She was
   blushing. "I expected, you know, I'm sorry..."

   "What did Steve tell you, exactly?" I asked, my heart sinking. How
   could Steve betray me to someone? Even if she was his sister? I felt
   like I wanted to dissolve into the floor.

   "He said -- you know, when I asked how he had met you, and you passed
   out?"

   I nodded.

   "He told me that you were at Brand because you were -- used to be -- a
   boy."

   A tear escaped from my right eye, followed by another from my left.
   Was I some kind of freak if everyone knew about me?

   "But you're not -- I mean, those are real, right?" Julia was looking
   at my breasts. Then she looked down at my crotch again. "You sure
   don't look like a boy."

   "Is that why you followed me in here? To find out?" I asked.

   "Well, you know, I didn't believe you could be. You sure didn't look
   like a boy with your clothes on."

   "Julia, I think I should leave," I said, reaching for my skirt again.

   "No. No. I'm sorry. It's just... why would Steve say that?"

   "I don't know," I said. "Did he say anything else about us?"

   "Us?" She repeated. "You mean, you and him?"

   "That's what I mean." My tears were flowing more freely now.

   "Oh, god," she said. "I should have figured *that* out."

   She hung the robe and panties on a hook on the door, and opened it as
   though she was going to leave.

   "Listen, Emma?"

   "Yes?" I said.

   "It's okay with me. Honestly. I wouldn't have asked you to stay if it
   wasn't. I'm just stupid sometimes. And Steve probably didn't want to
   tell me about the two of you yet."

   "But he's your brother, and I... I'm..." I began to sob, and Julia
   came over to me and put her arms around me. I only came up to her
   shoulders, but it felt nice. I cried, and cried, and she rubbed my
   back, and eventually I relaxed.

   "It's okay. Let it out," she said. She rubbed my back for a few
   minutes more as I cried, and then stepped away from me for a moment to
   turn the shower on. Then she turned back to me, and reached behind me
   to undo my bra. My breasts sprung free. They were a little marked from
   the lines of the bra since I'd had it on so long.

   "You're very beautiful, did you know that?" she said softly. "I can
   see why Steve would think so."

   I sniffled. I didn't feel beautiful. Steve had made me feel beautiful,
   but now I felt like... like a freak.

   "Do you want to take those off --" she indicated my panties -- "or do
   you want me to help with that too?"

   I turned away from her, as I would have from Steve, and stepped out of
   my panties, then stepped into the shower with my back to Julia.

   "You take a good long time and scrub yourself clean," Julia said.

   I didn't hear her leave, but I gradually realized I was in the
   bathroom alone.

   I washed my hair, and soaped myself more thoroughly than I ever had
   before. I wanted to wash the past few days off me. I would have liked
   to have washed years away, but soap and water only does so much. My
   tears got lost in the rest of the water, and I stood directly under
   the shower fitting with the water hitting the top of my head and
   sending my hair straight down, over my face and shoulders and breasts.

   Eventually I felt the water begin to run a little cold. My hands were
   all pruned up. Pris came to the door of the bathroom just as I turned
   off the water. "Emma, are you okay in there, honey?"

   "I'm fine, thank you," I called back.

   I toweled myself softly and slowly, and then put on the panties Julia
   had provided, which were a little large but not too much so. I tucked
   myself back in them, and reflected that if I was a boy I wasn't much
   of one these days.

   I reached for the robe, which was a plain white toweling one with pink
   piping on the collar and sleeves. It was way too large, and reached
   right down onto the tops of my feet, but it felt good and once I tied
   it with the belt it seemed like it wouldn't come adrift too easily.
   Then I tried wrapping my hair in the towel and throwing it back up
   over my head, the way I had seen women on television do it. It took a
   few tries, but eventually I figured out how to wrap it over my
   forehead and twist my hair in it so it stayed put.

   Tentatively I went back to the living room.

   Julia made me up a bed on the couch while Pris made me some tea. I'd
   never drunk tea before. Mom and Dad had been coffee drinkers, and at
   Brand I'd stuck to coffee for some reason. I liked tea, I decided.
   Pris couldn't believe I'd never had it before. "Where *are* you from?"
   she asked jokingly.

   Julia hugged me again as she sat down on the bed next to me. "I'm
   sorry if I said the wrong thing, Emma." Pris looked at her
   questioningly, but didn't say anything.

   I tried to make light of the situation, but I was still a little out
   of it, even if I did feel *so* much better for having cried. I don't
   know if I was too coherent, but pretty soon we were talking about
   other things. Mostly about Oxford, and the life of a single college
   girl. "Meat City," Pris called it, referring to the emphasis the
   University of Mississippi put on its football team. She and Julia were
   not especially impressed with most of the boys on the team. "Is there
   any one of them hasn't asked you out yet, Jules?" Pris asked.

   Pris was not the kind of girl who got asked out a lot, it seemed. At
   least not by boys she deemed worthy. "I have this problem," she said.
   "I'm only interested in guys who are taller than I am, and at least as
   smart. The basketball team is taller, but, you know..." she shrugged
   and raised her hands in frustration. "Jocks." She laughed heartily.

   We talked for about two hours. Pris made a chicken salad, which I
   picked at a little bit, and then the three of us watched television. I
   hadn't seen much television while I was at Brand, because I had been
   in isolation for so long and I would rather listen to Steve play
   guitar than watch most of it, but it was nice to lay on the bed that
   Julia had made, with Pris on one side of me, and Julia on the other.
   They told me the next day that I fell asleep on Julia's shoulder, but
   I don't remember anything beyond watching a movie with Jill Clayburgh
   and Peter Falk in it and crying again.

   I woke up to hear Pris in the kitchen, singing softly to herself as
   she made some coffee. I discovered that at some time in the previous
   night she or Julia -- I was guessing it was Julia -- had given me a
   nightgown to wear. "Hey, Emma, how you doin' this morning?" she said
   cheerily.

   I thought for a moment, and realized that I felt a little better. I
   had stopped shaking at some stage yesterday, and I didn't have the
   hangover from the whiskey anymore. I said as much to Pris, and she
   poured me coffee, and we sat at the table and talked a while about
   trivia. At one point in the conversation I found myself thinking that
   she was such an easy person to talk to, but that talking with her was
   such a different experience than I'd had with all the guys at Brand.

   Julia, it seemed, had left the house already. Pris wasn't sure where
   she had gone, only that she'd be back before ten. "I have a class
   then." she said, "and we didn't want to leave you on your own."

   Sure enough, at about 9.30 Julia came back, with Steve. I was so happy
   to see him I think I was a little rude to Julia and Pris. He hugged
   me, but there was something wrong, something different in the hug.
   Maybe he was feeling awkward after the way we had kissed, or maybe it
   was me, still uncomfortable with being close to a guy since Travis...

   Pris went off to class, and Julia and Steve and I sat at the table.
   Julia had organized for Steve to get ID and other essentials today, so
   it wasn't long before he had to leave again, with the address she had
   given him and a few hundred dollars in cash. As he left he kissed me,
   but again it felt... I felt somehow empty afterward. I didn't know
   why.

   Then Julia and I sat at the table and had the discussion we might have
   had the night before if I had been more together. I started at the
   very beginning. The real beginning, with the fact that I was innocent.
   I don't know if she believed that or not, but I hoped she did, and I
   continued. I didn't know how much her brother had told her about life
   at Brand, but it turned out to be not very much, because she was
   aghast at learning about Pangianis. When I began to tell her about my
   trips to the infirmary, and then solitary, and Dr. Blaha, she reached
   across the table, and took my hand. I could see she was upset for me.
   I wasn't sure whether to tell her that Steve had fought it out with
   Pangianis, and done a lot of time in solitary too, but eventually that
   came out as well.

   "Why did they make you into a girl?" She asked.

   I shrugged. "Some new therapy, I think. They were convinced I was
   aggressive, and a sex fiend or something."

   "I'm sure it's illegal," she said.

   "I think when you're a minor that they can do anything they like," I
   said.

   "How... How do you feel about it?" Julia asked.

   "At first... At first I hated it. Sometimes there are moments when I
   still do." I paused and thought of the past year with Steve. "But then
   there are some things that weren't so bad, you know? Like, do you like
   the way your body feels?"

   "I haven't thought too much about it," Julia said.

   "I -- you know, I would have been embarrassed to admit this even a few
   months ago -- but once the doctor talked about giving me a mastectomy,
   and I just, you know...?" I trailed off, and Julia nodded. "It gave me
   the creeps, really," I continued.

   "So you like being a girl." It was a statement.

   "I think so. I'm not sure I know very much about it, really..."

   "Well, you do it pretty well," Julia said.

   "I think that's just the way I look... You know, I still don't know
   how I didn't just freeze up that time in Davenport buying clothes. I
   don't really know anything about being a girl -- in the real world,
   you know? If I hadn't been... so out of it yesterday... I'm still
   waiting, you know, for reality to come up and bite me and tell me that
   this is all just impossible."

   "Would you want to go back to being a boy?"

   "I... I don't know." I realized with a start that it was true. I
   didn't know. I had been outraged with Dr. Blaha for so long, but then
   there was Steve... And the way I looked now... I shook my head. "I
   don't even know if that's possible."

   There was an awkward pause, and I tried to get back to the story.
   "Anyway. Then they finally let me out of solitary, and then I guess it
   was just a matter of time before Steve found out."

   "You were pretty lucky they put you with Steve," Julia remarked.

   "I think they knew they might have problems if they put me with anyone
   else," I said. "like maybe a riot. Steve is -- was -- pretty respected
   at Brand."

   "And when Steve found out, you started to...?"Julia hesitated.

   "Sleep together? Yes. He was the first person -- I don't know if I
   should tell you this, you're his sister -- he was the first person who
   really cared about me, you know?"

   "I think so."

   We talked for a while longer about how difficult it was to disguise
   the changes to my body while I was at Brand, and how my new "assets"
   had been an integral part of Steve's breakout plan.

   "I must admit that seeing you, and hearing this, explains a lot,
   Emma," Julia said. "When Steve first sent me a message saying that he
   needed money and a car and all that, I didn't understand, because I
   knew Steve only had a year to go before he would get out. But he told
   me this morning it was because of you. I didn't understand, fully,
   what he meant, then. I think I do now."

   "I worry that he's made things very difficult for himself," I said.

   "Well, yes. And no. Yes, if he gets caught it will probably mean an
   extension of his sentence, he says. But he hated it at Brand, and he
   felt that he would always have a stigma hanging over him even after he
   got out if he stayed. Then he killed Travis --"

   "-- You know about that?"

   "He told me this morning. I kind of worked it out listening to his
   conversation with Dr. Bagley yesterday, but not all of it. In normal
   circumstances I doubt any court would convict him, considering what
   Travis was doing. But that would mean explaining you, and your
   relationship to Steve, and then there's his record already. And our
   parents... Let's just say our family life is far from perfect, Emma.
   In many ways Steve is better off trying to start a new life, as a new
   person."

   "Can you do that?"

   "He seems to think so. That's why he's off seeing some people today.
   Pete -- my boyfriend -- is going to do him a fake ID. I don't know
   what he's planning to do about a social security number so he can
   work, but Pete seems to think there's a way around all that."

   It was after noon by the time I had finished telling Julia about
   everything that had happened since I entered Brand, and she had told
   me a little about their family. I already knew some of that from
   Steve, but I knew that some reciprocal listening would be appreciated
   and I was feeling more comfortable with Julia the more she confided in
   me.

   Julia and Steve's father was a prominent businessman in Mississippi.
   Most of his money came from his own father, but that didn't stop him
   from being one of those hard-hearted sons of bitches who thought
   everyone who wasn't rich had only themselves to blame. He was a hard
   man, who cared a great deal about reputation, and he abandoned Steve
   when Steve was charged. He still lavished money on Julia, but he was
   constantly trying to introduce her to the sons of businessmen he was
   doing deals with -- or worse, the businessmen themselves.

   According to Steve, Mrs. Hammond was an alcoholic before he went into
   Brand, and Julia told me that her drinking hadn't diminished at all in
   the years since. "Of course," she added, "that might be because
   Daddy's gone got himself a real-live Barbie Doll, which Momma pretends
   not to know about."

   Julia had been very close to Steve as a child, and in their early teen
   years, before Steve went to Brand, they had become even closer as the
   full horror of their parents' marriage sunk in. Julia told me she
   would do anything at all for Steve, and I believed her.

   When she noticed the time she put on her 'organized' tone of voice
   again and told me we were going shopping together. "I warn you," she
   said. "Oxford is not exactly the fashion capital of Mississippi. But
   we have to get you some more clothes. You sure aren't going to fit
   into any of mine, or Pris's."

   But first I had to get dressed. Julia had gone over to the apartment
   Steve and Leon were staying in and retrieved the few clothes I had.
   Since the blue top had been ruined (and buried) when Travis was
   killed, the only clean top I had left was the halter-top. "Pretty
   daring," said Julia. I felt kind of self-conscious in it, and said so,
   but I didn't have a whole lot of choices, really. She ironed the skirt
   I had been wearing yesterday, and I wore that as well. Then she showed
   me how to style my hair without having to wet it first, using a
   curling wand to put some ringlets down the front of my otherwise only
   mildly wavy hair. She stepped back to consider the results.

   "Sometime today we are gonna get you a hairstyle, too," she said. "You
   have beautiful hair, Emma, but am I right in thinking that hairstyles
   were not a big item where you were?"

   "Uh... does it look that bad?"

   "No, honey, but it's a bit flower-child, you know? Things have moved
   on since the sixties."

   We drove through town slowly. I still wasn't used to seeing so many
   people, or to being outside without a fence around me. And I still
   wasn't used to wearing a skirt. After I got into the car Julia told me
   I had to learn to get in differently next time, otherwise I was going
   to give a lot of guys a look at the tops of my legs or worse. She made
   me do it again until I got it right by sitting down and then turning
   in the seat to face forward. Then I had to remember to untwist the
   skirt from underneath me, so I didn't crease it again.

   Oxford didn't have a mall. The town had that old-style "village
   square" kind of feel people pine for these days. We parked on the
   street in the square, and Julia led me through a selection of stores
   she deemed worthy, starting with the town's only department store.

   Wow, Julia could stop those guys in their tracks. She was far too
   classy-looking for them to even think about cat calls or whistles or
   anything as crass as that, but there was no denying that every time we
   came out of a store onto the street that every male within eyeshot
   locked onto her. She was gorgeous, and she knew it and wasn't
   embarrassed by it the way some more insecure women are. I was amazed
   to look at the expressions on the faces of the guys we passed, though.

   Being out with Julia was good for me. I was too young for most of the
   guys to be interested in me anyway, but next to Julia I might as well
   have been invisible. Which was good, since it stopped me being
   self-conscious about the way I was dressed.

   "Anything that takes your fancy, honey" Julia said to me when I asked
   her what we were going to buy. "Daddy lets me use his card any time I
   want. He gets worried that maybe I'm not 'keeping up appearances', as
   he puts it, if I haven't been shopping for clothes at least once every
   month. He's not going to know whether they're for you or for me. And
   besides, I may buy something for myself anyway. We'll see."

   We shopped, and we shopped. Well, as much as you can shop in Oxford. I
   was impressed by Julia's attitude to the whole thing. She would walk
   into a shop and somehow know exactly where to find a perfect skirt or
   blouse right away. At first I thought it must be because she shopped
   there a lot, but nobody seemed to recognize her, so I wasn't sure
   about that.

   We bought a few things for me. I was kind of embarrassed to have Julia
   come into the change room with me at first, but she didn't seem to
   think anything of it, and gradually I got used to it. It was good
   having her assistance, because she knew much more about women's
   clothing than me and was able to recognize whether it was a bad cut
   instead of the wrong size.

   We had a late lunch in a little cafe just off the square. I had
   noticed the day before that southern food seemed to have all sorts of
   weird names I'd never come across before, but Julia just ordered
   salads for both of us, which made my confusion about what a hush puppy
   was moot.

   Over lunch Julia talked some more about her childhood with Steve, and
   about how much she had missed having her brother around while she
   finished school. Steve had been a rebellious kid, Julia said, and her
   parents hadn't known how to deal with that. They thought that giving
   him money, or fancy stuff like a trailbike, would settle him down,
   but, well -- and here Julia spread her arms in a gesture of
   bewilderment -- they didn't see that Steve was pissed with them, and
   with the world, and that he wasn't going to settle down and become a
   businessman like his father. Steve, Julia confessed to me, had always
   wanted to be a professional musician. In Junior High, before he went
   into Brand, he had formed a band with some friends. "They were pretty
   good," she said "for a bunch of fourteen year olds."

   We finished lunch and Julia took me across to Dauvergne's, the beauty
   parlor. I was nervous as all hell. I'd never been inside a beauty
   parlor in my life, but as a kid I had walked past the one on Halsted
   Street near our apartment and smelt all the smells coming from it, and
   seen those big hair dryers, like astronauts' helmets. It all seemed
   very arcane and not entirely pleasant.

   Julia didn't seem to notice my hesitation as she guided me gently
   through the front door.

   A woman in her mid-twenties approached us and smiled. "Hello, Julia,
   back so soon? A special occasion, perhaps?"

   "No, Helen," Julia answered. "I want you to meet my cousin, Emma
   Jane," she said, indicating me. 'Emma *Jane*', I thought. Heck, why
   not. I hadn't even thought of a second name.

   "Pleased to meet you, Emma," Helen said. "Are you visiting, or are you
   planning on stayin' here in Oxford?"

   I wondered how she knew I wasn't from around here. I hadn't opened my
   mouth yet. Surely it wasn't that obvious I was a stranger to these
   parts.

   "Emma's visiting for a while, Helen. Though she may stay. Her parents
   passed away recently." Julia sure was slick with the explanations, I
   thought.

   Helen was very solicitous after hearing that my folks were dead. It
   was almost true, I thought. Mom was dead. Dad was in prison and I
   wished he was dead. Julia had an uncanny knack for describing things
   the way they should have been rather than the way they were.

   Helen took me over to a chair and introduced me to Marie, the stylist
   who would cut my hair. The three of them conferred on appropriate
   styles, ignoring me completely. I was going to protest, when I
   realized that having Julia take care of this aspect of my appearance
   was probably a good idea. After all, she'd had years of experience as
   a girl, and I'd had... well, I wasn't sure whether my experience in
   Brand counted as boy or girl experience.

   Looking around the salon, I just hoped they weren't going to make me
   look too... Southern. That big hair stuff still had me freaked. The
   three other customers in there were all older than me, and all in
   various stages of getting a "big do." I was relieved when I heard
   Julia say "no perming." I didn't exactly know what a perm was, but I
   was sure I probably wouldn't like it. "She isn't going to be able to
   take care of a perm." Julia continued. "And anyway I think her hair
   has enough of a natural wave in it."

   "I've still got a little more shopping to do, honey," Julia said to
   me. "I'll be back later to pick you up, and then perhaps we can look
   at some new shoes for you."

   As Julia left I caught one or two fragments of her conversation with
   Marie. She made a comment like "Her momma never did teach her how to
   look proper." I was embarrassed. Even though it was true, it was
   misleading.

   Marie came back over after Julia left and began to run her fingers
   through my hair. "You sure have nice healthy hair, sugar," she said to
   me. "Y'all understand what we were just discussin'?"

   "Not really," I admitted.

   "This the first time you ever bin in a salon?"

   "Yes," I admitted. "Is it that obvious?"

   "It's okay, sugar, we're gonna take real good care of you. You'd be
   surprised how many girls from some of the towns near here only get to
   a salon once a year or so. Then there's them like Julia, who can't get
   enough of our place." She smiled. Then she went on to describe what
   she was going to do with my hair. She got about halfway through and I
   must have looked concerned, because she stopped and said "Is there
   somethin' wrong?"

   "My boyfriend..." I began.

   "Yes, sugar?"

   "He likes my hair long," I said.

   "Oh, don't you worry about that," Marie said. " I ain't gonna take
   anythin' much off the length. I'm just gonna give it some shape and
   trim up the ends."

   I was led over to the shampoo basin, even though I'd only washed my
   hair the previous night, and Helen massaged my scalp while she cleaned
   and conditioned my hair. Then I was led back to the chair and Marie
   went to work cutting it while it was still wet. She trimmed the front
   and a little on the sides, and I could see that she was giving me
   bangs. She trimmed small amounts from various parts of my head and
   commenced a kind of twenty questions thing while she was cutting,
   asking where I was from, what I was doing in school, what I was going
   to do, did I have any family besides Julia, what was my boyfriend
   like.

   I was pretty nervous answering most of those questions, since I hadn't
   quite caught all that Julia had said to her before she left, and
   anyway some of them were just plain hard. I told her I was from
   Indiana, which wasn't true but was close enough to fit my accent. But
   I didn't know what to say about school. I think she took my
   inarticulate response to that question as disinterest, though. "I was
   never any good at school either, honey," she said.

   The family question was pretty easy, really. "No-one left," I said.
   "All dead, except for my cousins" That was true enough again, as true
   as it needed to be.

   "No sisters, huh?" Marie asked.

   "No, how'd you guess?" I asked. She shrugged, then took to drying my
   hair off with a round stiff brush and a large hand-held hair dryer.
   That pretty much took care of any remaining conversational
   possibilities.

   When she had finished I was pretty amazed. I don't want to sound
   big-headed or anything, but Marie had really done a good job. My hair
   looked full, and silky, and it framed my face and made me look --
   well, cuter. There was still enough guy left in me to know what a cute
   girl looked like, and even though I have never much liked my hair
   color or complexion much I had to admit that I looked as good as any
   red-haired girl I'd ever seen before. I smiled.

   "I'm glad you like it, sugar."

   Marie showed me how to blow-dry it myself without damaging my hair.
   Because Julia still wasn't back and she didn't have any other clients,
   she spent some time showing me a few other things I could do with it,
   like put it up in a twist behind my head, and then how to brush it
   without tearing at it and taking the curl out of it or frizzing it.
   "Your hair has a very beautiful natural wave, Emma," she said. "Most
   girls spend a fortune to get hair like that."

   Finally Julia returned and settled up the account. I said goodbye to
   Marie and Helen, who both admonished me to come back and have myself
   attended to more often than once a year. Then Julia and I went a few
   doors down to a shoe store, and we both tried on about ten pairs each.
   I couldn't believe how demanding Julia was, sending the sales
   assistant back and forth searching for different colors and never
   quite seeming satisfied. Nonetheless we left with five pairs, three
   for me and two for her. I got a pair of black slingbacks with a small
   heel, some white strappy sandals with a two inch heel that I thought
   was more than I could deal with and some dark green pumps with a small
   bow on the front and a three inch heel that I thought were going to
   kill me for sure.

   As we drove home I realized that I was exhausted just from the
   shopping. Julia and I dumped all the parcels on the floor near the
   coffee table and I made some tea for both of us while she went to the
   bathroom.

   "Julia," I said when she had sat back down on the couch and I had
   passed her tea to her, "Thank you so much for everything today."

   "It's nothin', Emma," she said. "It's not really my money, you know.
   I'm just glad to see you looking happier. I'm truly sorry about last
   night --"

   "-- You don't need to apologize again, Julia," I said. "I mean, he's
   your brother, you've every right to be worried about who he's involved
   with."

   "Well, I am still sorry, honey. After all that's happened to you these
   past few days..."

   I was still for a moment, remembering Travis suddenly. Julia must have
   seen my thoughts on my face, because she immediately tried to change
   the subject and cheer me up. She talked about the nightlife in Oxford,
   such as it was, and how best to avoid the "meat markets" that the Ole
   Miss football players inhabited.

   "I'm way underage, Julia," I said. I don't think I'll be hanging out
   in too many bars, anyway."

   "Shoot, Emma, there's ways around that for a girl pretty as you," she
   said.

   "Emma Jane," I corrected her, and we both laughed.

   "I ain't legal either, but my I.D. says I am,"Julia continued. "Heck,
   girl, this is a college town. The bars'd go bust quicker than a minute
   if the students couldn't drink."

   Pris came in soon after that, and I was required to model everything
   we'd bought that day. It wasn't until I started taking everything out
   of its wrapping and bags that I understood just how much money Julia
   must have spent on me that day. "God, Julia, this is just too much!" I
   said.

   "You want to be careful how you say 'God' in these parts," Pris warned
   me. "The only thing more important than religion round here is
   football."

   The last bag I found was one I didn't remember seeing at all. Inside
   was something wrapped in tissue paper. "This must be yours," I said to
   Julia, offering it to her.

   "No, honey, it's yours. It's sort of a present for my brother,
   really." I opened the parcel and discovered some lingerie. Apart from
   two very pretty lace bras and matching panties, there was an
   all-in-one thing that had little shoestring straps and a catch in the
   crotch. It was made of beautiful dark green lace except for a small
   panel at the bottom to allow for the fastenings.

   I looked up at Julia, unsure of how exactly I was supposed to wear
   this.

   "It's called a teddy," Julia said. You can wear it under a dress, like
   that green one we bought today, or you can wear it when you and Steve
   are alone."

   "Grrr," said Pris, teasingly. "I can guarantee you'll get a response
   from anyone in that."

   I dressed in a dark green wrap dress that went well with the teddy and
   that Julia told me was just right with my hair.

   Around seven Steve came in with Leon. As soon as he saw me he did a
   kind of double take, then did it again for laughs. I went over and
   kissed him, and he hugged me. It felt better. Still not exactly right,
   but better than it had been that morning, when there had been
   something really wrong.

   I'm sure it was some kind of pre-planned thing, that Pris and Julia
   and Leon all went off together to get takeout for dinner. That left
   Steve and me alone in the apartment. He hugged me again. He must have
   noticed something himself. "Em, Em," he whispered in my ear. "It's
   okay."

   I separated from him and looked at him. "Steve..."

   "Yes"

   "Steve, do you... do you still..." I didn't know exactly what I was
   searching for, but everything just felt so hollow.

   "Do I still what, Em?" he said gently.

   "You still want me, after all that's happened?"

   "Oh, Em!" He hugged me to him more tightly. "Shhhh."

   "It's just, you know, Travis, and everything," I began to sob again.
   "I just feel so, dirty, you know?"

   "Em, my love." There, he said it again. In spite of everything that
   had happened, I still loved him more than I could say. "Em, you have
   nothing to feel dirty about. You're the best thing that's ever
   happened to me."

   I stopped crying and stepped back from him and undid the tie that held
   the front of my dress closed.

   "You still like me?"

   He reached out and touched his hand to my face and ran his fingers
   down to the top of the teddy where it sat just above my nipples. "Em,
   you're the most beautiful woman I know...." I could see desire in his
   eyes as his fingers traced the top of the teddy. His voice was soft
   and soothing and his touch was making me tingle. "You have no idea how
   beautiful, do you?"

   "I want you inside me, Steve."

   Within about twenty seconds he had me naked and straddled over a
   chair. There was a brief moment when I was slightly freaked,
   remembering Travis and the events of a few nights earlier, but Steve
   was nibbling on my neck as he bent over me, and nuzzling my ear and
   telling me how much he'd missed me, and how beautiful my breasts were.
   As he came into me I forgot all about Travis, at least for the moment,
   and after the initial pain I began to enjoy the way he filled me so
   completely again.

   ***

   Chapter Ten.

   The next few days went quickly, although it wasn't as though I had
   much to do. Julia and her boyfriend Pete took the Malibu down to
   Jackson and sold it without any difficulty. She gave the cash to Steve
   but he took me aside and asked me to hold onto it. "I still have the
   money Julia gave me," he said. "You should keep this for yourself. I
   have a feeling you'll be better with it than I will."

   Julia and Pris decided that I should continue staying with them for a
   while, although I desperately wanted to be sleeping with Steve. He and
   I were having sex practically every minute we were alone together,
   which was at least once a day and sometimes more often, but -- well, I
   missed just being with him. We had been together so closely, for so
   long, that it seemed incredibly strange to be spending the nights
   apart, and I fretted as I tried to get to sleep in my bed on the
   fold-out couch.

   I had other things to worry about apart from missing Steve. He and
   Leon seemed to have something going on, some kind of business they
   were involved in that they didn't want to tell me about, and I was
   worried about that, since I was sure it was probably illegal. They
   hadn't said anything, but there was that sense I had about them that
   told me that something was going on. I didn't know quite what it was,
   but I didn't like it anyway. Wasn't Steve trying to get a new identity
   and make a fresh start? Why jeopardize that?

   Pris told me the real reason she and Julia felt I should stay with
   them was the possibility of attracting attention. The apartment Steve
   and Leon were staying in was above the home of a rather straight-laced
   Baptist couple, and Julia and Pris worried that a girl shacked up with
   two boys would bring attention from them. I could visit Steve, but it
   wouldn't do to be living there with him. I wondered why Julia hadn't
   thought of that earlier, when she had arranged the place for Steve,
   but I didn't dwell on it. Maybe she hadn't known I was coming too.

   Of course she hadn't known. That's why she was so surprised at the
   cafe.

   The longer I stayed in Mississippi, the more I realized that the girls
   did the right thing not letting me stay with Steve. Oxford is about as
   liberal a place as exists in the South, but even there, the idea of
   two young people cohabiting outside of marriage was looked upon ...
   Let's just say that Steve and I would have become a focus of attention
   at a time we were trying to keep a low profile.

   The plus side of living with Julia and Pris was that I learned a lot.
   I might have looked like a girl, but I had never had much of a chance
   to hang out with girls before, and the more I did the more I realized
   that there is so much more to being a girl than just the way you look.
   Girls do everything differently than boys. Well, maybe not everything.
   I had noticed that Pris wasn't your typical southern girl. In fact she
   was pretty much a tomboy, if you can still be a tomboy and have a
   startlingly attractive figure.

   So I hung out with the two women, and watched, and learned. When Julia
   and I were alone she coached me in a few things, like some of my
   gestures. Even though I had been at Brand for a long time, Julia
   thought I seemed to have a lot of pretty naturally feminine gestures,
   and this surprised me, because I couldn't figure out how, in the midst
   of such an awful, masculine place, I could have picked those up.
   "Maybe you always had them," Julia said. I thought maybe she was
   putting me on, but she seemed very genuine.

   Julia didn't seem to study much at all. At least, she hardly ever
   seemed to go to classes. A couple of times I saw her reading some
   books, but it didn't seem like she was paying a whole lot of attention
   to her studies. Most of that first week she and I sat around the
   living room in the apartment, and she showed me how to do stuff like
   braid my hair, and apply eyeshadow, and paint my toenails, and stuff
   that seemed silly and superficial to me but which I found I kind of
   enjoyed. She said she did, too. "Emma, I always wanted a baby sister.
   Do you mind?"

   I still didn't know how much Pris knew about me. At first I figured
   she knew everything, since that first night I had been in the
   apartment Julia had been so weirded out by me. But as the days went by
   I started to wonder if maybe Julia hadn't kept my secret from Pris.
   There were a couple of things she said that just didn't make any sense
   if she knew. For example, she got her period about three days after I
   got there, and it seemed just the most natural thing for her to ask me
   whether it was as bad for me and didn't I hate it as much. I blushed
   and didn't know how to respond. I settled for making her a cup of tea
   and we sat on the couch together and talked about her childhood.

   I liked Pris. She was a real no-nonsense kind of girl. I got the
   feeling that some of her seemingly straightforward manner was really a
   way of gliding over intimacy with people, but in so many other ways
   she was so giving and warm that I felt very comfortable with her
   anyway.

   On the fourth day I was there I got to meet Julia's boyfriend, Pete,
   the one who was the artist. He seemed like a pretty clean-cut guy for
   an artist, I thought, as we were introduced. I had been expecting some
   kind of wild man with long hair and dirty clothes, but Pete was clean
   and trim and good-looking. From some of the remarks he made in
   conversation he seemed like he might be kind of wild underneath,
   though. He and Julia went out for dinner and Pris and I hung out
   together and watched TV until Steve came over, and then Pris excused
   herself and went to her room and Steve and I made love on the couch as
   quietly and discreetly as possible.

   When the weekend came Steve and I spent all day Saturday together, on
   our own. Steve borrowed Julia's car and we drove out to a pretty place
   on the river out of town a ways. We had a light picnic lunch, and a
   few beers, and some sweet, slow, gentle sex that went for hours and
   hours. I was worried at first that someone would see us, because even
   though the spot was isolated it wasn't very well screened by trees or
   anything. But Steve just had a way of touching me so that I forgot my
   inhibitions quickly. I sound like such an easy lay, but that day with
   Steve was very special. We were free, and in love, and Steve made me
   feel like I was the most beautiful woman in the world. At least he
   kept telling me that, and I think after a while I started to think it
   might just possibly be true. He could be *very* persuasive.

   On the way back to Oxford around dusk we stopped back in at the cafe
   in Abbeville where we had first met Julia. Jesse and Evelyn, the folks
   that ran the place, remembered me. "It's not every day a young lady
   collapses in our store," Jesse said gravely, before Evelyn admonished
   him and served us both up a piece of pie. We stayed a while and
   chatted with them. They had lived in the area for years and knew
   everyone there was to know, and Jesse enjoyed entertaining us with
   stories about some of the more eccentric characters they had met.

   Evelyn had managed to talk Steve into another piece of pie when a
   couple in their early-twenties came in and Steve spent a long time
   talking to them about the local music scene. Their names were Brett
   and Lisa Page. Lisa was warm and friendly and although Brett was kind
   of quiet he seemed like a nice enough guy. She was quiet and blonde
   and pretty in that overdone Southern way, but there was something in
   her eyes that told me she could be tough when she needed to. He was
   thin and dark and energetic, with hands that windmilled around to make
   a point. They had been living in Abbeville for a couple of years,
   after Brett's uncle had died and left him a house and they had come to
   Abbeville to take care of his estate. They had liked the place so much
   they had stayed. Lisa taught elementary school in Oxford, and Brett
   worked as a linesman for the phone company.

   It turned out that Brett was something of a musician himself. "Nothin'
   serious," he said. Mostly he jammed with friends. He and Steve talked
   about bands that were playing locally, and where to go to hear some
   good sounds. "Y'all are welcome to come 'round tomorrow and hang out
   with me and the boys," he said to Steve.

   "I don't have a guitar right now," Steve said.

   "Heck, Brett's got three," Lisa said. "I can't see as how he can play
   all of them at once."

   So on Sunday afternoon Steve and I showed up at Elroy's, a joint out
   on the road to Tupelo. Brett and his friends formed a kind of
   unofficial house band there, filling in on nights that Elroy couldn't
   book someone. Since Elroy didn't make a whole lot of money, Lisa told
   me later, that was nearly every Friday night. Saturday nights Elroy
   got a minor 'name' band in. He let the guys practice there all they
   wanted whenever the joint wasn't open.

   Brett's band was a five piece outfit: guitar, that was Brett; bass,
   Jim; keyboards, Rick; drums, Bo; and Jeff on trumpet when he bothered
   to show up, which Lisa said was about once a month. It was an odd
   combination of talent, to say the least. They'd never thought to give
   themselves a name -- people referred to them generically, as 'The
   House Band'.

   I was kind of nervous when we first entered Elroy's. I hadn't known
   whether it was a good idea to go with Steve, but I always liked to
   hear him play, and I wanted to spend more time with him because we had
   seen so little of each other while I was staying at Julia's.

   As we walked in and I could see Brett smile and walk over to shake
   Steve's hand, I could see the other guys' eyes giving me the once
   over. They weren't exactly predatory, but I still wasn't completely
   used to having men look me over in that way. It gave me a strange
   feeling in my stomach whenever I saw that kind of look from a guy. I
   wished Julia was there -- then they would have ignored me and stared
   at her instead.

   I was the only girlfriend there, as it turned out. I had hoped that
   Lisa would show up with Brett, but apparently she didn't even go to
   the gigs very often anymore. So I sat over at the side of the bar, and
   watched and listened as Brett's band went through a raggedy version of
   'Motherless Children'.

   They were terrible. But they were terrible in a good way. They each
   had a lot of enthusiasm, and Brett had a good technique, but it was
   like they were playing in separate bands. Rick and Jeff seemed to want
   to give the song the R&B treatment it needed, but Jim and Brett seemed
   to think they were playing straight rock and roll or maybe something
   that hadn't been invented yet.

   Brett could sing pretty well, though. At least better than Steve.
   Steve was clearly a better guitarist, but he didn't have any range in
   his voice. He could do blues okay. Brett's timing probably wasn't as
   good, but he had a voice that was suited to a much broader range of
   material.

   Brett wanted Steve to play with them straight away, but Steve
   demurred, saying he wanted to listen to them for a while since it had
   been a long time since he'd played with other people. Fortunately
   nobody questioned why that was the case.

   The guys played a few more songs, mostly old R&B standards, with a
   country-style song I didn't know thrown in for good measure. They were
   better on the country stuff, I thought, except that Jeff sat there
   like a shag on a rock while they played it because there didn't seem
   to be a way to work a trumpet into a country piece like that.

   "How 'bout you join in, Steve," Brett said.

   "What are y'all up for next?" Steve asked, as he picked up a guitar
   and plugged in to an amp. But Brett had already begun the opening
   notes to 'Sin City,' and everyone picked it up right away. Except for
   Jeff. There's no place you could fit a trumpet in 'Sin City,' either.

   I'd really like to be able to say that Steve's influence on the band
   lifted them to new heights, but the truth was that they were all
   pretty much still doing their own thing instead of acting like a band,
   and it came out in an unholy mess. Their enthusiasm and obvious
   enjoyment made it a much more pleasant experience to watch than to
   listen to. They completely messed up 'Steady Rollin' Man' and a few
   blues-tinged numbers I didn't know. Then they played some more modern
   stuff, including a Bruce Springsteen song that took me by surprise
   because I hadn't figured they would be into that sound.

   After a few more songs the guys took a break and opened up a few
   beers, and Steve kept picking away at odd fragments of music while
   they all shot the breeze about a bunch of stuff I wasn't much
   interested in. Fortunately I had found a year old copy of 'Rolling
   Stone' tucked behind the curtain that hung behind the "stage," so I
   had something to read.

   When Steve started playing 'One Hundred Years From Now' the
   conversation ceased and Brett joined in. The country flavor of the
   song suited them much better, and then all of them went back to
   playing for a while, sticking mostly to country-tinged numbers. After
   about another hour of playing they broke up. Rick and Jeff left, and
   the others went out on the porch of the bar and sat drinking a few
   more brews.

   Once they were out of there I walked over to the acoustic guitar that
   Brett had standing to one side and picked it up myself. It had been a
   few weeks since I had done any practice at all, and I didn't want to
   get too rusty since I was really glad Steve had been teaching me.

   After about ten minutes Steve came back inside. I think he was
   probably feeling guilty for having ignored me for so long. He listened
   to me pick my way through some fairly simple tunes, and then sat down
   next to me. "So what'd you think?"

   I smiled at him and raised my eyebrows. "Well, it looked like you were
   all having a good time, I guess..."

   He smiled back. "Yeah. well, it was fun." Then he reached for the
   guitar I was holding and began to play one of the songs the two of us
   most loved, 'Ain't No Sunshine.' What a great song. He played, and we
   both started singing, and I decided to harmonize over his voice, and
   it was great. We moved straight into the next song, one that Steve had
   written himself when we were at Brand, and then another and another.
   At the end of the fourth song Brett, Bo and Jim came back in, but
   instead of joining in they listened and watched and sucked on their
   brews. I immediately got kind of nervous about them listening to me
   singing, and my voice wavered and I quit.

   "No, no, keep going," Brett said. "That was great."

   "Uh, no, thanks," I said, beginning to stand up.

   "Really, Emma," Jim chimed in. "That was fantastic. Steve didn't tell
   us you could sing like that."

   "See?" Steve said to me softly. "What'd I tell you?"

   "I... um... I don't sing in front of people," I said to everyone in
   general.

   "Hell girl, we ain't people. We's just some bums in a band," Bo said,
   smiling.

   "Sing something else," Brett suggested.

   "I'm kind of nervous," I said.

   "Take your time, then. Whenever you feel comfortable."

   I looked at Steve, who was still sitting down on the edge of the stage
   with the guitar in his hands. He smiled at me and nodded.

   I looked at the other guys, who were watching me expectantly.

   "I'll sing if you guys are playing too," I said. "That way we can all
   make fools of ourselves."

   Bo laughed heartily. The guys came over to the gear and Steve played a
   few bars of a song he knew I liked, "American Girl," which was fast
   and loose and hard to think too much about. It was a good choice. I
   got right into it quickly.

   "And if she had to die trying she, had one little promise she was
   gonna ke-ee-ee-eep, oh yeah, alright, take it easy baby, make it last
   all night."

   It turned out that Brett had grown up with one of the guys from
   Mudcrutch, Tom Petty's first band, and he knew most of Petty's stuff
   very well. They all joined in on the line "make it last all night" and
   we finished the song smiling and laughing. We did a couple of Petty's
   other songs, and then we did some Stones covers, some Neil Young, and
   some more recent stuff. Then I suggested a song that the guys had
   heard but hadn't played, 'Mohammed's Radio.' It's not a really
   difficult song musically, but you need to get the timing right when
   you sing it or it sounds bland. I had practiced it a bit these last
   few weeks with Steve in the little time we hadn't devoted to sex.

   "Dang, girl, Linda Ronstadt'd be pissed if she heard you do that so
   well," Bo smiled after we finished it. I liked Bo. I knew he was just
   being nice, but nice guys are hard to dislike.

   Steve suggested we do a quieter number he knew I also liked, and then
   another. I could tell he was trying to bring my singing to the fore,
   but I was much more relaxed now and I wasn't worried about
   embarrassing myself in front of the guys.

   We tried some pop -- including Alex Chilton's 'September Gurls,' which
   must be one of the best pop songs ever written, even if it really
   needed another girl to harmonize with me. Then we finished up by
   trying to do Van Morrison's 'Sweet Thing.' It was way beyond any of
   us. I couldn't remember all the words, and Jim and Bo couldn't get the
   timing right. It was fun, but we were going to need to practice that
   one to pull it off.

   "That one's for another day," Brett said as we finished our ragged
   attempt.

   "Sure 'nuff," said a voice from the back of the bar.

   "Hi Elroy," Brett said. "Didn't hear you come in."

   A tall, craggy giant of a guy in his early fifties came into the
   light. "Oh, I bin here a while. Girl," he said, turning to me, "you
   sure do have a pretty voice."

   I blushed, and shuffled, and looked over at Steve.

   "Can sing, too," said Elroy. "I liked the faster numbers, myself.
   Ain't too many girls with a sweet voice like yours can pull off a rock
   song."

   "I, uh, I guess I had a good teacher," I said, indicating Steve.

   "I reckon you did. Page, ain't you gonna introduce me to these young
   people?"

   Brett did the introductions. I thought to myself as he was doing it
   that an awful lot of people were being introduced to us by our real
   names, which seemed kind of stupid since Steve had an alias worked
   out, and although my name wasn't the one I was born with it could be
   traced by Grieves pretty easily.

   Elroy wanted to hear us play some more. "Just you two," he said,
   indicating Steve and myself. Steve and I both looked over at Brett and
   the other guys, to see if they were offended we were going to be
   singled out, but it seemed that they all kind of looked to Elroy as
   'the boss' and deferred to him.

   I was nervous again, and Elroy got a little impatient. "Just sing
   something you like," he said. So we did a soft, gentle song to start
   with, 'The Face of Appalachia,' which was lyrical and sweet and gave
   me good opportunity to show off my range and for Steve to show off his
   skills as a guitarist.

   When we finished the guys all made polite noises but it seemed obvious
   they were waiting for more, so after a brief conference we did another
   song Steve had written, which felt good.

   "When the chips are down I'll still be around No matter what These
   walls here won't be stopping me When the chips are down"

   Steve had written several songs with me in mind, and while we were
   going through that one I forgot where we were and what we were doing
   and scrunched my eyes up tight and thought of how we'd made love the
   night after he'd first played it to me and we'd practiced it.
   Everything flowed smoothly and I just let myself go with the song. I
   was thinking about Steve and sex and all the other things the song was
   about, and -- although I didn't realise it until I finished -- my
   nipples got hard and I felt that same feeling I always felt when he
   took me in his arms and kissed me.

   Music is interesting like that, when it's really good. When it sends
   shivers up your spine and makes you go all gooey inside. Even rock
   songs can do that to me; at least they could do that then.

   When we finished there was a silence and I remembered where we were.
   Slowly I opened my eyes and noticed the guys standing at the side of
   the bar still watching us. Then Elroy began to clap and the other guys
   joined in. I blushed bright red and turned back around to Steve, who
   hugged me and guided me off the stage. Brett clapped him on the back
   and complimented him on the song, and on his playing.

   "Dang, girl, how'd you get to sing like that so young?" Bo said, and I
   blushed again. It was nice that these guys liked to hear me, because I
   liked to sing, but until now it had always been a private thing
   between Steve and me, and I wasn't used to the praise. Jeff handed me
   a beer and I took a quick swig from the bottle, then another.

   I was saved from further embarrassment when Brett took Steve back to
   the gear and got him to work through a few of the changes he'd rung in
   the last song, so the focus went off me for a while. Jim and Bo
   started rolling cables.

   Elroy talked to me a while about where I was from as the boys packed
   up the equipment. I tried to give mostly non-committal answers, and
   asked him a lot of stuff about himself to divert attention. He was a
   pretty nice guy. I was getting the feeling that most of the folks I'd
   meet in Mississippi were more relaxed than the people I'd grown up
   with. I learned that Elroy was a musician, too, and pretty easy with a
   range of instruments. He'd played with some pretty big names when he
   was younger, even with Elvis once.

   Elroy had bought the bar after the settlement from a car accident. He
   indicated a long scar on the side of his face "That's how I came by
   this, too." He changed the subject back to music and we talked for a
   while longer about that. Then the two of us fell silent and watched as
   the guys came back in and removed the last of the stuff.

   "You old enough to be drinkin' that beer on my premises?" Elroy asked
   me in a friendly voice to break the silence. He had a really nice
   fatherly kind of manner -- like I'd imagined fathers should be, not
   like my father was.

   "I guess not," I said, guiltily.

   "That's alright, we're not open." He had a twinkle in his eye and I
   could see he was just winding me up.

   The guys came over to where Elroy and I were sitting. "Brett, I'd like
   a word with you for a moment," Elroy said.

   "Sure thing," Brett said, and the two of them went into the small
   office at the back of the bar. The guys and I sat and had a beer
   together and talked about the other places in the district that had
   decent music. There sure seemed to be a lot of places to play. That
   might sound kind of obvious, but this was back when disco was killing
   live music at places on the coasts, and I had thought it might have
   made an impact in Mississippi, too. If it had, it wasn't a big one.

   Eventually Brett and Elroy came out of the office. Brett asked Steve
   if he could have his phone number to call him next time they were
   jamming. We all said our goodbyes and went out into the night.

   ***

   Chapter Eleven.

   Brett called Steve the next day and asked him whether we'd like to
   play with them on Friday night at Elroy's. Elroy had pretty much
   insisted on it, Brett admitted.

   Steve told me later he was hesitant at first, mostly because we hadn't
   put in any *real* practice on Sunday, so he asked Brett to read him
   their song list. Since the band played all cover material it would be
   pretty easy for Steve and me to brush up on the songs before then. We
   were both still worried, though.

   I was nervous as all heck. For one thing, I didn't know whether I was
   going to be singing harmonies or lead on any of the songs. Steve
   hadn't asked Brett about that when they had their conversation, and I
   gave him a lot of grief over it.

   "Em, I'm sorry, okay? I can't be any sorrier," Steve said.

   'Well, you can just call Brett back and see whether we can get
   together before Friday to find out."

   "I don't have his number. He called me," he said sheepishly.

   I was pretty pissed with Steve and he knew it, and he wisely made
   himself scarce Tuesday night. Julia was out with Pete and Pris and I
   had the house to ourselves. We prepared a light dinner together and
   Pris even opened a bottle of wine. Over dinner I told her about the
   session at Elroy's and the forthcoming gig, and she promised to come
   along to offer some moral support.

   After dinner the two of us sat on the couch and watched some
   television while we finished the entire bottle of wine. I got up to go
   to the bathroom and realized I was unsteady on my feet. "Cheap drunk."
   I said, and we both giggled.

   When I came back Pris was spread out on the couch, but she put her
   feet down and sat up straight as I approached. When I sat down she put
   her arm around me. At first I was kind of startled, but nothing else
   happened. We sat there watching television, and I put my head on her
   shoulder. It was pretty nice, if you want to know the truth of it. I
   hadn't ever been that close to a woman who wasn't my mother. When the
   movie finished she gave me a kiss goodnight on the cheek and she went
   to bed.

   By Thursday I was still anxious about Friday night, but I had given up
   trying to stay pissed with Steve. Whatever it was he and Leon had been
   getting up to during the days, Steve didn't have anything planned that
   day, so I went over to his apartment and we made love for most of the
   day, before he took me out to dinner that evening. After I let him
   kiss me and begin to fondle my breasts I wasn't angry with him at all.

   Steve was kind of cagey about what he did when we weren't together,
   but a large part of his time on the evenings he wasn't with me seemed
   to be spent searching out music. He was very enthusiastic about some
   of the stuff he had heard at little holes in the wall here and there.
   Mississippi is the kind of place you can find some startling blues in
   little cinder block shacks with no windows. "It's the real thing, Em,"
   he said. "God, it makes you feel so alive. Although they look at you
   awful funny if you're a white boy in places like that," he added.

   On Friday Pris and I went shopping in Oxford. I had one thing I wanted
   to buy for Steve, and she said she wanted to do some window shopping
   for other stuff. Our first stop was the music store downtown. I had
   the money from the sale of the Malibu, and I wanted to get Steve a
   guitar of his own. He could use Brett's Stratocaster on stage most of
   the time, but I wanted to get him a good acoustic guitar that he could
   play when we were together. Of course he could use it onstage too, but
   I thought if it as a kind of intimate present between us. The time we
   had spent playing and singing at Brand was incredibly intimate, and I
   missed hearing Steve play when we were alone together.

   I didn't know much about guitars at all, but the guy who ran the store
   was pretty helpful and surprisingly candid about his stock. His name
   was Levon, and he told us he was pleased to have two pretty girls in
   his store and he'd knock ten percent off right away if it meant we'd
   be coming back in more often. Coming from anyone else that might have
   sounded sleazy, but Levon was a wiry old guy with a great smile and a
   good line in bad jokes and Pris and I laughed and joked with him as he
   demonstrated various guitars to us. He was a pretty mean guitar player
   himself.

   I settled on a vintage Gibson 12 string that had a beautiful warm
   sound. Levon sang its praises very loudly, complaining because Gibson
   had stopped making 12 strings altogether. When he played it I was
   sold. It was more expensive than a lot of the other guitars there but
   I knew how much Steve needed a guitar and I wanted to get something he
   would like. Anyway it wasn't even half as expensive as some of the
   guitars there. I knew if we kept playing with the band that Steve
   would have to get a really good guitar, and I guessed some of the
   money from the Malibu should be set aside for that, too.

   Levon made a couple of sweet remarks about my dedication to Steve and
   said he'd like to hear the guy who was lucky enough to have pretty
   girlfriends buying good guitars for him, and I blushed. Because I'd
   let slip about being in a band Levon asked me about it, and it turned
   out he knew Brett and Jim pretty well. I guess owning the only music
   store in town meant he got to meet most local musicians. We talked for
   a long time about the kind of music we liked, and Levon had me try out
   another guitar myself and sing few bars of one of the Neil Young songs
   I'd learned at Brand. He loved my singing, which made me feel good.
   "Emma, I'll definitely be out there to see you tonight."

   The rest of the shopping trip with Pris was low-key, but fun. Neither
   of us had any money to spend on clothes, so the rest of our shopping
   was very different than the time I had been out with Julia, but we had
   a good time all the same. Pris was a real down to earth kind of girl.
   I started to think of her as a real friend.

   When Friday evening came I didn't know what to wear. I tried on about
   ten things and none of them seemed right. I still wasn't too sure
   about what the right thing was to wear to any given occasion. I said
   as much to Julia, and she reassured me. "Emma, every girl I know
   spends forever thinking about what she's going to wear on a big
   occasion, like a date or something."

   We settled on a basic black shift dress. I thought maybe a dress was
   going overboard for a place like Elroy's, but Pris said it made me
   look more grown up than pants and a top. Anyway, it was a very simple
   style, so it wasn't like I seemed overdressed or anything. I was more
   worried about the shoes I was wearing, the black slingbacks that I'd
   bought on that first shopping trip with Julia. They only had a two
   inch heel, but even that seemed like a lot to stand up in all night.

   Julia's boyfriend Pete offered to drive us all out to Elroy's in his
   Microbus. We all got together an hour before it was time to leave, and
   as we were walking out the door he pressed a small envelope into my
   hand. Inside the bus I opened it. Inside was a driver's license in the
   name of Emma Donaldson. It was hard to see how good it was by the
   streetlights as we drove through Oxford, but it seemed like it must
   have taken an awful lot of work, and I was very grateful to him.

   Pete took me aside as I alighted from the van outside Elroy's. "That
   was the best I could do, Emma."

   "It looks great, Pete. Thanks." I looked across at Julia, who was
   smiling, and then stretched up to give him a kiss. Pete seemed kind of
   awkward about it, but I thought at the time that maybe that was just
   because he had to bend over so I could reach his cheek.

   "What was that all about?" Pris asked me as I walked over to where she
   and Julia were standing. I suddenly thought that if Pris wasn't in on
   my past I couldn't really explain fully what Pete had done for me.

   "Fake ID," I said, hoping Pete had also changed the date on the
   license -- I hadn't been able to see by the streetlights yet.

   "Cool," Pris said, and she turned to Julia "Hey, if we get some makeup
   on her, I bet we can take her out anywhere."

   We went in through the back door to Elroy's, along a hallway and into
   a small none-too-clean room that was reserved for whatever band was
   performing. Bo called it a green room for reasons I didn't understand
   at the time -- I found out later that's what television people call
   backstage rooms where artists congregate before shows. This one was
   painted white and was barely big enough for ten people to stand in,
   let alone sit. I had a feeling it had been a storeroom in a former
   life.

   As soon as we walked in -- make that squeezed in -- I could feel Bo
   and Jim almost undressing me with their eyes, and I wished I had worn
   pants instead of the dress. But Bo was smiling his gentle relaxed
   smile and I knew that he was no threat to me, and Jim smiled and
   turned away when I met his gaze so I knew I didn't have anything to
   worry about from him tonight either. Besides, I could see their eyes
   bug out when they saw Julia and I knew I wouldn't be foremost on their
   minds.

   Steve kissed me hello, and then Brett introduced Julia, Pete, Pris and
   I to two guys I hadn't met before, Dave and Wendy. Wendy's real name
   was Wendell, and he was maybe the least androgynous guy I'd ever seen
   after Leon, but he didn't seem to mind being called that so I didn't
   laugh. He wasn't as solid as Leon, but he was at least 2 inches
   taller. He reminded me of that actor who played the bad guy in 'Urban
   Cowboy', Scott Glenn. He had a weatherbeaten, craggy looking face and
   a lean, tough looking physique. Wendy was going to be mixing for us
   tonight, Brett explained, and Dave was going to sit in for Rick on
   keyboards, since Rick had come down with the flu. Jeff had opted out
   for the night, but apparently that wasn't unusual.

   We all exchanged hellos and Steve introduced Julia and Pete and Pris
   and Leon. I tugged at Steve's arm and pointed to the guitar case that
   I'd placed beside the door as we came in. "What?" Steve said. "Whose
   is that?"

   "It's yours," I said.

   He loved it. I knew he would. He was cross with me for spending the
   money, but he knew I knew how much music meant to him. After he'd
   taken it out of the case and played a little and re-tuned it and then
   set it aside he grasped me to him and lifted me off my feet. "I love
   you, Em," he said as he held my face level with his and kissed me. I
   was giddy from the experience. He was so strong, and I felt so small
   when he did that. He set me down again and we kissed the way we
   normally did, with me on my toes reaching up to him. Then we
   remembered we were in a crowded room and I blushed and we separated.
   Everyone was smiling at us.

   Pete and Julia and Pris and Leon excused themselves and went into the
   bar to wait for our performance. Julia gave me a kiss for good luck
   and Leon even gave me a little squeeze on the shoulder just before he
   left.

   In a sudden rush of panic I suddenly thought that the reason Pete was
   embarrassed when I kissed him to say thanks was that he knew about me.
   Julia must have told him something to get him to make me up a fake ID,
   right? My face burned as I wondered what he must have thought about
   me.

   I opened my purse to retrieve the envelope Pete had pressed into my
   hand and looked at the ID. Pete had given me a totally different
   birthday. According to the license I was nineteen. That was odd -- it
   wouldn't get me a drink in any bars. The name on the license was Emma
   Donaldson. He had changed my name, too.

   Brett and Steve looked over the playlist and the guys discussed a
   couple of things to do with ending a few songs. I looked it over and
   saw, with relief, that I knew all the songs on it, and none of them
   seemed very complicated. As I learned later, the Friday night audience
   at Elroy's wasn't there to think too much -- basically they wanted to
   dance, drink, and hopefully fuck when they got home. If the music was
   good while any of that happened it was considered a bonus.

   Then it was time to go on. No sound check, nothing. Brett reassured me
   as we walked out that he and the guys had played here so often that
   they didn't need to do sound checks, but I wasn't convinced. I was
   worried about more than the music, though. Even though I had begun to
   become used to people around Oxford treating me like a girl, and I had
   even come to enjoy hanging out with Pris and Julia as 'one of the
   girls', I was still terrified about appearing in front of a bunch of
   total strangers in a dress.

   The emptiness of the place reassured me. It was only 8.00pm, and there
   were less than three dozen people in the place. None of them paid us
   any attention at all as we walked up to the stage area. I could see
   Julia, Pete and Pris standing over at the bar. Pete raised his beer in
   a mock toast as a show of support. I smiled back, nervously. If he
   knew about me then he sure was being a nice guy about it. Julia gave
   me a "thumbs up" signal and Pris smiled.

   Once on the small stage the guys plugged in their various instruments
   and Brett and Steve plucked a couple of notes while Jim ran through a
   bass riff and Bo thumped around on the drums once or twice. I just
   stood there feeling awkward. Then Steve began to pick out the opening
   notes and Brett stood up to the microphone and began the first line of
   our set. "Ooh Las Vegas, ain't no place for a poor boy like me..."

   The first half of our performance that night wasn't a complete
   debacle, but it was close. The reason we were terrible was pretty
   obvious -- no practice. I started off singing harmonies, but Wendy
   didn't have any proper levels for my voice, so it took him a couple of
   songs to get that right, and he seemed to have trouble getting the
   cheap desk to deliver enough of the vocals to stay above the guitars.
   That was made doubly difficult because Steve and Brett were supposed
   to be swapping off on guitar, but since they hadn't spent enough time
   together the result was confusion, and the two of them seemed to be
   playing over each other more than with one another. My harmonies with
   Brett were terrible, too. A couple of songs on the list seemed like
   they were 'girl' songs -- I don't exactly know how to describe why I
   felt like that except to say that I was surprised to hear Brett trying
   to do a slow number like 'Dark End of the Street'. I thought when I
   saw a few of them on the list that it meant that Brett wanted me to
   sing lead and he would do harmonies, but instead he just sang right
   along the whole song. Whenever I tried to harmonize above his voice on
   those songs he would just follow me right along -- which sounded
   *disgusting*. We stunk up the place unbelievably bad.

   At least it wasn't too crowded. There was a feeble smattering of
   applause after each song from a couple of people who were either tone
   deaf or unbelievably polite.

   We took a break after an hour or so and went backstage. Nobody said
   anything at all. Steve and Jim went straight to the ice bucket in the
   corner where Elroy had thoughtfully provided a couple of beers, and we
   all sat down and looked around awkwardly at anything except each
   other. Jim passed the beers around, and I went to the ice and used
   some of it to wipe over my neck and shoulders. It was hot out there.
   We didn't have much in the way of lights, but it was hot all the same.

   After about ten minutes Elroy came in. We all looked guiltily at the
   floor as he walked over to the ice bucket and checked to see how much
   beer was left. "I thought since you was all playing so loose out there
   maybe you'd bin drinkin' more than you should," he said to Brett.

   We all continued to look at the floor. "Shoot," Elroy said. "This is
   s'posed to be fun, you morons. T'aint nuclear physics. Anyone'd think
   someone had died up there on that stage for all the fun you looked
   like you were having."

   "We should have practiced more," I said guiltily.

   "That's as may be," Elroy said. "But it's too late for that now. God
   save us, if you're gonna be that bad out there with your second set
   maybe it'd be best if you just called it a night."

   "We'll work it out, Elroy," Jim said. "We're just not used to playing
   together. Me an' Steve, I mean. And Emma."

   "I can see that," Elroy said. "So why don't you play what you know?"

   "We don't know much. I mean, we haven't practiced much," Steve said.

   "Well, I heard you play at least a dozen songs last Sunday. Y'all
   seemed to enjoy yourselves then," Elroy responded. "Why don't you just
   play those?"

   "All of them?" Steve asked.

   "All of 'em. That should fill up at least an hour set."

   "But, you know, the other day we finished up with just Steve and me,"
   I said.

   "Ain't nothin' wrong with that. Is there Bo?" Elroy said, looking for
   some support.

   Bo looked surprised. "Uh, no. No. Fine with me."

   "Brett?" Elroy asked.

   "Fine." He didn't seem too concerned, which surprised me since Elroy
   seemed to be taking over his band.

   I must have looked doubtful, because after looking at me for a few
   moments Elroy sighed and asked Brett for a copy of the song list for
   the second set. He studied it for a few moments, probably listening to
   the songs in his head as he read them.

   "Okay. Emma," he said. "I heard you do some Warren Zevon the other
   day, that 'Mohammed's Radio' song. You know the words to 'Lawyers Guns
   And Money'?"

   I nodded.

   "Well, y'all can make that your second-last song, after you 'n Steve
   have done your quiet stuff. The boys here were playing it a couple of
   weeks ago so they won't have any trouble with it, but it'll be more
   interesting with you out front. Then you can close by singing backup
   for Brett on 'Dead Flowers'. You up for that?"

   "I guess so," I said. "Brett, is that okay?"

   I should have realized that Elroy really ran things around here, but I
   felt bad about muscling in on Brett's status as the lead singer.
   Having Brett sing lead on our final number seemed like a good idea.

   "Sure thing, Emma," Brett said. He seemed genuine. "Heck, I'd much
   rather listen to you sing than me, any time."

   "That's settled, then," Elroy said firmly. "Shoot, Brett, when I
   suggested you get Emma and Steve here to play with you I didn't mean
   you should just tuck them away on the sidelines, okay?"

   "Yeah, Elroy. I know."

   "That's m'boy," Elroy said, clapping Brett on the back. Everyone was
   all smiles now. Elroy cracked open one of the beers and passed it to
   Bo before repeating the gesture with everyone else, and we all downed
   the beer quickly to try to relieve whatever tension remained.

   When we went back out I was surprised to see that the size of the
   crowd had grown. The place wasn't anywhere near full, but all the
   tables were taken and all of the bar was blocked up with guys leaning
   against it.

   "Well, at least most of these people weren't here for the last set,"
   Brett mumbled as we walked out.

   "With any luck they'll be drunk," Bo grunted.

   We stepped up to the tiny stage and in a few moments Steve was ringing
   out the opening notes of 'American Girl'. I stepped up to the mic and
   let myself go.

   "She was an American girl, raised on promises, she couldn't help
   thinking that there, was a little more life somewhere else..."

   After we'd ripped through about five songs we were all feeling *much*
   better. We even got some pretty good applause. Steve and Bo were
   grinning madly, and even Brett was smiling when he didn't have his
   face screwed up thinking about what he was doing. Everything came
   together, and suddenly Brett and I knew, just knew, who should carry
   the main melody and who the harmonies, and we swapped off on three
   more songs before Brett told me to take over completely. After Julia
   and Pete made the first move a few other people had come up front to
   dance, and I could see a couple of the guys at the bar tapping their
   hands on the bar. Pris was over at the side near one of the speakers,
   singing along with me on most of the songs, though of course nobody
   could hear her above the racket we made.

   Soon enough it was time for Steve and I to do 'our quiet stuff' as
   Elroy had called it. Bo stayed behind to add some very light
   percussion, but Brett and Rick headed over to the bar to get a beer.
   Without the mad rush of all the guitars I felt kind of nervous again,
   and I closed my eyes for a moment to block out everything before I
   started singing one of the songs Steve had written when we were in
   Brand together. Bo had heard it when we played it on Sunday, and he
   laid down a sympathetic gentle brush.

   The audience got really quiet and I tried to concentrate on what I was
   doing instead of thinking about everything that was going on around
   me. As I had on Sunday, I tried to think about the time Steve had
   first played the song to me, and about the wild, unbelievable sex
   after that, and the way his hands had felt as they ran over my
   breasts...

   We finished the song, and there was a horrible moment of silence. They
   hated it. I thought the audience had hated it. But then they erupted
   in applause and I opened my eyes and everyone was looking at me like I
   was -- it's hard to explain what it's like when an audience likes you,
   but when they *really* like you there's this feeling you get that's
   not just about the applause and the noise and all that. There's some
   mysterious connection between you and the audience. God, I've never
   got over that first time, that night.

   I looked across at Steve and he was still smiling. Before the applause
   had even begun to die down he started the first few notes of our
   second song together.

   The rest of the set passed incredibly quickly. After Steve, Bo and I
   had done some slow numbers Brett and Rick came back and we rocked out
   with 'Lawyers Guns and Money' and a final blasted out version of the
   Stones' 'Dead Flowers'. Then we were offstage and back in the dirty
   white "green" room. The audience wouldn't stop. They kept yelling and
   clapping and whistling, and after thirty seconds they were still at
   it.

   "Fuck, man, they want a freakin' *encore*," Bo said wonderingly. The
   guys all stood looking at one another as though this was the first
   time that had ever happened. I found out later it was only the second
   encore in the whole time they'd been playing together.

   "Let's do it!" Brett said, and we all walked back out to even more
   applause.

   "Hey, guys," Steve said. "Wanna do me a favor? Just follow me for a
   moment."

   They all looked at him dubiously, but when he started in on a
   distinctive opening riff they all smiled and joined in. I just stood
   there and smiled and danced, since there wasn't a lot for me to do on
   such a ripped up version of 'Purple Haze', but Steve had the time of
   his life. It was a really dumb song to play after all the rock and
   country numbers we had played throughout the evening, but people
   seemed to like the contrast and everyone was smiling.

   Except for Steve, but he looked more interesting. Wow. He looked so
   sexy up there with his face all scrunched up, looking like he did
   sometimes when we made love face to face and I put my feet up on his
   shoulders and he exploded inside me in a scary, nothing matters kind
   of way. I looked over at Pris, and saw her grinning wildly. She winked
   at me and looked back at Steve.

   They finished 'Purple Haze' and the audience still wanted more. We did
   the old Zombies song 'She's Not There' and they still cheered for more
   even after we screwed it up pretty badly. We went into a small huddle
   trying to figure out what we could do that we all knew. Before the
   applause died down Brett made an off-the-wall suggestion that everyone
   agreed to instantly, and so we closed the show with the old Buddy
   Holly song "Well Alright." It was a good choice.

   "Well alright so I've been foolish, Well alright let people know About
   the dreams and wishes you wish All alone when the lights are low."

   In the green room I hugged Steve, and then Bo and Brett and Rick as
   well. We were all grinning our heads off. Elroy came back and he was
   grinning from ear to ear too. "*That* was more like it," he yelled.
   "Best dang Friday night we've had in years." I gave him a hug for good
   measure. He seemed to like that.

   After we had wound down with a beer we all went back into the bar. The
   crowd had thinned out since we had stopped playing. Pris was over at
   the side of the bar talking with a some people I didn't know but who
   seemed to know her well. Leon was standing with Pete and Julia, and
   Steve introduced them all to Elroy. A table over at the side of the
   bar had become vacant and we all went to sit there. I'd been standing
   up in these two inch heels for most of the night so I was glad to rest
   my legs. Everyone made polite noises about our performance, and Elroy
   got everyone a round of drinks, including me.

   As the drinks arrived I whispered to Julia. "I have to talk to you!"
   We excused ourselves to go to the ladies room.

   "What is it?" Julia said as soon as we were inside.

   I looked around to see whether anyone else was in the room. "You told
   Pete about me?"

   "No! No. Of course not!" Julia seemed offended.

   "So why did he make me the ID?"

   "Because I asked him to," Julia said. I had no doubt of Julia's powers
   of persuasion, especially when used on a man. "He makes a lot of IDs."

   "So he doesn't know?"

   "No. Why would he?"

   "Well, why didn't he make me older?"

   "Pardon?"

   "I can't use this for ID in bars -- it says I'm only nineteen."

   "We didn't think we could convince anyone you were twenty-one, Emma."

   "What's the use of it, then?"

   "Do you have any other ID at all?"

   "Uh, no, I guess not."

   "We thought it might be a good idea if you did."

   That made sense. "Why did he change my name?"

   "What's it say?"

   I handed her the license and she looked it over in the dim light.
   "Hmmm," she said. "I don't know the answer to that, you'll have to ask
   him."

   "Okay, sorry. I'm grateful and all, Julia. I was just kind of freaked
   out that maybe you..."

   "Emma... I'm not going to tell anyone."

   "I know," I said, feeling guilty for having doubted her. "I'm sorry.
   I'm just kind of nervous about tonight, I guess."

   Back at the table Brett had joined in the conversation and I sat down
   with Julia on one side of me and Steve on the other and all of a
   sudden I felt really good about life. Here I was, with a good friend
   and a great boyfriend and people seemed to like me. Life sure had been
   a whole lot worse. Then Brett took Steve and I aside and gave us each
   twelve dollars, which was our share of the Band's earnings for the
   night. "Whoo hoo! We get paid!" Steve said to Brett. "Man, I don't
   want to tell Elroy, but you know I'd do this for free."

   Pris came over to tell Julia and me that she was going to get a ride
   with some friends, and Leon drove home with a girl he met and so Steve
   and I got a lift back with Julia and Pete in the Microbus. The night
   was bright and clear and we sat close in the back and looked out at
   the stars. Steve had one hand on my breast and was lightly stroking it
   most of the way home as he nuzzled my ear and the back of my neck with
   his mouth. By the time we got there I was so aroused I could barely
   wait for Pete and Julia to disappear into her room before I threw
   myself at my man.

   ***

   Chapter Twelve.

   In the next few weeks we managed to fit in some practice every Sunday
   so we had a more robust set of songs for the Friday night gigs. At
   Brett's suggestion we started including more of Steve's original
   stuff. "That's what really makes the audience go for us, man," Brett
   said one day during practice. "Cover bands are everywhere, you know,
   but if we have good original material it makes us... special." We kept
   the quiet numbers Steve had written especially for me, but Steve
   contributed a few hard rocking numbers that needed the full band and
   he and Brett collaborated on a few songs that had more of a pop feel.
   Brett was getting influenced by some of the English music that was
   just beginning to become popular -- stuff like the Buzzcocks and Nick
   Lowe. It made for an odd mix with some of the looser, more blues
   tinged rock we played, but we were certainly developing a distinctive
   sound.

   When we had first begun playing together I was singing backup for
   Brett, but now every new song we performed had me up front with the
   guys backing me.

   The second Friday night at Elroy's went better than the first, and the
   following week Elroy arranged for us to do a Saturday night gig at a
   bar down in Jackson. It meant we had to drive for hours to get there,
   and Pete volunteered to take our gear in his Microbus with Julia and
   Pris, who wanted to come along to see us play again. Wendy and Rick
   took Wendy's near-new Ford pickup while Leon drove the rest of us
   crammed into an old Chevy Biscayne he'd picked up somewhere. "Did he
   steal it?" I whispered to Steve when I first saw the car. Leon heard
   me and grinned and reassured me it was perfectly legal even though
   he'd bought it in a false name. I wondered where he got the money to
   buy it from, and then realized I probably didn't want to know.

   After a stop for gas on the trip down I swapped with Pris and rode
   with Pete and Julia in the Microbus. I wanted to find out why he had
   used a different name on the drivers license he had made for me. I
   wasn't sure how to get around to asking about it, because I was still
   afraid that he knew the real reason I needed the fake ID, but Pete
   brought it up himself. We were listening to some really weird music on
   his tape deck -- some of it was Frank Zappa and some was Captain
   Beefheart -- and when I confessed that I had never heard anything like
   it Pete started to tell me all this stuff about alternative
   lifestyles. I didn't know what that had to do with Frank Zappa, but
   Pete started off on a tear about his feelings about the world, and
   about the need to subvert 'the system'. He said he was an anarchist. I
   had that mixed up for a few moments with the antichrist, and Pete
   laughed hysterically and said that in Mississippi they might just as
   well be the same thing so far as most of the population was concerned.
   He had to explain anarchy to me. I thought it sounded kind of
   unworkable, but I kept my opinion to myself. I wondered what Julia
   thought, but she wasn't venturing any opinions.

   I told Pete he looked like a pretty straight guy for an anarchist, and
   he said that looking straight was just another way of messing with
   people's expectations. "People expect artists to look wild," he said,
   "so where's the fun in that? I'm thinking of getting back to button
   down collars and buzz cuts to really make a statement. You know, the
   astronaut look. The artist as astronaut." He mused on that a while as
   Frank Zappa sang a song about molesting young girls.

   Eventually Pete got around to the subject of fake ID's, and said that
   he did them to help screw with the system. "Yours is a beauty," he
   said. "It's fake, but it's real." I asked him what he meant and he
   said he had taken the name from a dead girl, "just about the only
   other Emma I ever came across, I reckon." I told him I felt kind of
   weird, using the name and license of a dead girl, but he said it was
   only the name and details he had used -- the license was something he
   had whipped up. "I like to think of all this the way Dali did," he
   said. "He goes around signing his name on all the forgeries of his
   work, so that no-one can tell the forgeries from the real thing, and
   all the dealers get confused. This is just IDs, but I figure if
   everyone has multiple IDs then it's harder for the system to put us
   all in neat little holes."

   Pete was a stranger guy than I had imagined, and I wondered what Julia
   saw in him apart from his good looks. She laughed, and seemed to treat
   his ideas as some kind of entertainment. Maybe she liked him because
   he represented everything her Dad was against. Who knows? It seemed
   clear from our discussions, though, that he had no idea about my past,
   and he didn't seem especially interested. That was cool with me.

   When we got to Jackson we did a sound check. While we were setting up
   Brett said we had to think of a name for the band. That was *hard*.
   'The House Band at Elroy's' wasn't going to cut it in Jackson. The
   guys all started throwing out really asinine suggestions that sounded
   more like names for jet fighters than rock bands, and I gave each of
   them the withering raspberry they deserved, until that became more
   annoying than the dumb names they were coming up with. Brett tried
   variations on the name 'House', none of which were too successful. Bo
   was being kind of sweet and suggested that since I was such a big draw
   with the crowds the name should have something to do with me. Blondie
   was just beginning to break on the US charts and he was searching for
   something to do with my hair. Somehow red hair didn't quite lend
   itself to appropriation as easily. Jim suggested Red House, as a kind
   of combination of the two ideas. At that moment a fire truck passed on
   the street, and Brett and Bo said simultaneously "Firehouse". Everyone
   mulled it over and agreed it had the right kind of ring to it.

   The Jackson show went well -- the audience loved us and we were
   approached after the show by a guy who said he was a writer working
   for Billboard. We started buying the magazine after that but didn't
   see anything about the show or about Firehouse. Maybe he was a
   bullshit artist.

   It wasn't until we'd been playing a few weeks that I figured it was
   much more sensible to choose one or two outfits just for playing, and
   keep my other clothes separate. Spending that much time in smoky bars,
   under hot lights, meant that I had to wash the clothes I wore onstage
   every day, and the constant washing took its toll on them. My main
   outfit became a pair of jeans, a black halter top covered in shiny
   black beads and a black suede jacket, although the jacket came off
   pretty quick after the first two or three numbers. At first I was kind
   of reluctant to wear the halter top, because I couldn't wear a bra
   with it, but Julia talked me into it. "Em, honey, you sure as heck get
   their attention in that!"

   "I don't want them looking at my tits, I want them to be paying
   attention to the music," I said irritably. I had been getting
   irritable a lot in the past few weeks, for no good reason.

   "We'll they'll be listening, too, but it doesn't hurt to be a hot
   looking singer," she smiled.

   I looked at myself in the halter and I had to admit I didn't look too
   bad, really. Even though my breasts weren't huge, the top brought them
   together with quite a lot of cleavage and the shiny black beads
   shimmered as I moved. The beads helped, I decided. You couldn't see my
   nipples under them. It was going to need to be handwashed after every
   performance, though.

   "I feel kind of naked wearing it," I said. "But I guess I feel kind of
   naked on stage all the time, so what the heck."

   Steve loved it, of course. He loved anything that showed my breasts
   off. The night I first wore the halter onstage we sat close together
   in the car on the way home, his hand touching my thigh as he drove. We
   were flying along the road from Tupelo to Oxford with the windows down
   and the warm wind on our skin. The music on the radio was good, and I
   was buzzed from performing. Halfway to Oxford Steve stopped on a side
   road and we got out to look at the stars, both standing close together
   with our arms round one another. The night was clear, warm and ripe
   with the bugs and rush of summer, and all the stars were performing
   extra brightly for us. When I got back in the car Steve was all over
   me. We made love for hours and hours on the back seat of the car until
   my back hurt worse than my butt and I could see the color of Steve's
   eyes in the early morning light.

   ***

   I missed Cee. I guess we had gotten much closer at Brand than I had
   realized, and although I couldn't stand him at first we had become
   very firm friends after Pangianis had dumped him. There was stuff we
   could talk about when we were together that I couldn't tell *anyone*
   else, not even Steve. I had no way of knowing if he had made it to
   California, or if I'd ever see him again. I still had the names of his
   friends in Memphis, though.

   After we played Jackson Leon told Steve he thought he'd better be
   moving on, too. Steve was disappointed, because he and Leon had been
   close for a long time, but Leon didn't really fit in around Oxford and
   he needed to find a way to make some money soon.

   In the meantime the shows at Elroy's kept getting better and better,
   and the crowds got bigger and more enthusiastic. Julia was right about
   guys wanting to see me. Brett and Steve and Jim developed little fan
   clubs of women who hung around after the shows wanting to talk to them
   (poor Bo and Rick and Jeff didn't get much attention), but I was
   slowly becoming the big draw card so far as our performance went, even
   if I do say so myself. It was most evident in our quieter numbers,
   which were pretty intense. The amazing thing was that nobody, I mean
   nobody, thought of talking while I was singing those quiet songs. You
   have to know the Mississippi bar scene to know how unusual that was.
   People stopped and paid attention. It was scary, but I have to admit I
   liked it.

   Guys occasionally tried to hit on me after shows, and so I took to
   being more open about my relationship with Steve while I was on stage,
   to try to give them the hint. Oddly enough that didn't deter the guys,
   but several women commented that they thought our act was wonderful
   because it was obvious the two of us were in love and they thought
   that made the passion in the songs come through more strongly.

   It might have been obvious to them but I was starting to get worried
   about Steve. He seemed distant several times when we went out together
   in the evenings, and one evening he was an hour late. I didn't want to
   intrude into his life too much, but I worried about whatever it was
   that he was doing during the day. One evening after we had made love I
   tried to ask him what was going on, but he shied away from the
   subject.

   It wasn't money that was bothering him; at least it didn't seem to be.
   We didn't make much from the gigs at Elroy's after the band's money
   was split six ways, but Steve always seemed to have cash whenever we
   went out. I figured Julia was slipping him a share of the allowance
   she got from their parents. Then again, when I asked Steve when he
   could get another place so that the two of us could live together he
   told me he couldn't afford it yet, and I had to be patient a while
   longer. Elroy offered me a job cleaning the bar a couple of days a
   week while the guy who usually did it was off with a broken leg, and
   after I sorted out a lift over there, with one of Brett's linesman
   friends who went to Tupelo three times a week, I got a little cash
   from the cleaning to help us by too.

   For a brief time I worried that perhaps Steve had met another woman
   and that was the reason for his occasional moods with me. After all, I
   thought to myself, when we had first begun being intimate I was the
   nearest thing to a girl around. Now he was surrounded by women, why
   would he settle for me?

   Every time I got really concerned about him and began to think that
   things might be over Steve would bounce back cheerfully and my fears
   would be assuaged. When he was feeling good he lavished attention on
   me, and praise, too. The one time I mentioned my fears about not being
   enough for him any more he put his finger to my lips to stop me
   speaking. "Emma, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever met.
   Ever," he said. "There won't ever be anyone else."

   How I wanted to believe him.

   ***

   After one of our practice jams on a Sunday Elroy and I were sitting at
   the bar and he was joking about our performance, which had been
   sloppy. The guys were packing away the gear. Elroy suddenly turned
   serious and started talking to me about a career in music. "Em, you
   have a great voice, and you're getting better and better at using it."

   "Thanks."

   "You've really turned Brett and the boys around."

   "Well, I don't think it was just me. I just sing, you know?"

   "Steve is great with a guitar. There's no doubt about that. But these
   guys are just good ol' boys who like music. They needed someone to get
   behind to become a band."

   "Maybe."

   "I know what I'm talking about, Emma. This band is really happening
   now. I think we can book you on a road tour."

   "Don't you want us to play here?"

   "Emma honey, I'll be the happiest man in the world each time you grace
   the stage here, you know that. But you have talent, girl. You were a
   hit down in Jackson, and you need to be playing lots of places. You
   guys could go places."

   "Thanks for getting us the Jackson thing."

   "My pleasure. I wish I could get you more, you know. Management's not
   really my thing, though. Y'all need someone with more contacts. If
   you're interested I'll see what I can do."

   "Elroy, thanks for everything." I leaned over and gave him a kiss on
   the cheek. "Really. I still can't believe people want to pay to let us
   do this."

   "Emma, honey, you have no idea of how much people will pay when they
   realise how good you are. Just try to keep ol' Elroy in mind when
   you're rich and famous, okay?"

   The guys bought their girlfriends and wives to our performance the
   following Friday, which was a rare thing. Each of our shows was more
   popular than the last, and people were jammed out into the parking lot
   out front trying to get in. The police showed up around eight, before
   we went on, and Elroy had to go out front and pacify them because it
   was illegal for people to be drinking outside the premises but there
   was no way they could all fit inside.

   Fortunately the police never came inside, and we didn't know they'd
   been in the parking lot until after they left. Steve went white when
   it was mentioned later, and I wondered what would have happened if
   they had come into the "green" room while we were there. Were they
   still looking for us in Oxford?

   After the show Elroy brought a young guy back to the green room, and
   introduced him as Ray Curran. He was short and weedy looking and
   wearing a black suit jacket over a t-shirt and a pair of jeans. He
   didn't look like much at all, but Elroy clapped him on the back and
   said to us "I want y'all to listen to what Ray has to say. He's done a
   power of good for a lot of people in this business, and I think y'all
   will be interested in his ideas."

   I didn't pay as much attention to Ray as I should have, because I was
   concerned about Elroy. There was something bothering him that he was
   trying to suppress. I wondered whether it was something to do with the
   cops. He caught me looking at him and he averted his eyes and I made a
   note to myself to talk to him soon.

   Ray began haltingly to describe some of the bands he had worked with.
   None of the names meant much to me but I could see Brett and Steve and
   the boys recognized them. He told us he liked the show he'd just seen.
   "Do you have more original material?"

   "We've been working on it," Brett said. "Steve'n'me have a few new
   songs we haven't worked into the sets yet."

   "Well, if you think you can include more original material and fewer
   covers, I'd like to see about booking you guys a few places. If that's
   alright with you."

   We all retreated to the bar, and over beers Ray outlined what he
   thought he could offer us if he was our manager. It all sounded great,
   but somehow I couldn't get myself enthused. I listened to Ray talking
   about taking us on the road, and into the studio, and it all sounded
   like -- it sounded like some of the stories I had heard at Brand, the
   kind of stories the guys told one another about what they were going
   to do when they got out. I could see Lisa and some of the other
   girlfriends were taking Roy with a grain of salt too.

   Eventually I excused myself from the table and went over to Elroy's
   office, where he was counting the night's takings. "Elroy?"

   He looked up from the cash. "Yes, Emma?"

   "I guess since you introduced him to us that you think Ray is okay,
   huh?"

   He smiled. "I guess so."

   "He seems to think we're going to be the next big thing."

   "Welcome to the music business, honey. All managers say stuff like
   that. Heck, I got promised a number one record by my manager back when
   I was Steve's age."

   "Really? What happened?"

   "What happened is I can't sing. Never could. Seemed like a minor
   impediment to my manager."

   "Elroy?"

   "Hmmm?"

   "Do we need a manager? I mean, can't we just keep playing here?"

   "Sure you can, Em. If that's what you want, I'm honored. And I've
   gotta say, business is booming thanks to you guys. I make more on a
   Friday now than on Saturday, and I have some big names playing here
   Saturdays. I think you can do better than this place, though."

   We had a another drink together and Elroy turned all sentimental on
   me, and then, as our conversation progressed, almost moody. I asked
   him what was wrong and at first he was reticent.

   "Is it something to do with the cops who were here earlier?"

   "The cops? No, Emma, nothing like that. Those guys are alright."

   Elroy could see I was still curious about what was bothering him, and
   he sighed deeply and then opened the drawer to his desk and retrieved
   a photograph. In the photograph a younger Elroy, sans scar, was
   standing with his arm around a petite blonde woman. A red-haired girl
   about ten years old stood in front of them. It was clearly a family
   portrait.

   "Eight years ago today," Elroy said. "It's not your fault, Emma, but
   sometimes you remind me a lot of her, and since she would have been
   around your age by now... sometimes I look at you and..." He shook his
   head sadly.

   "I'm sorry, Elroy." I walked over beside his chair and put my hand on
   his shoulder. He put his own hand up to grasp mine and hold it to him
   and we stayed like that for a good ten minutes before I bent down and
   kissed him on the cheek and went back out to join Steve and the boys
   while he resumed counting the money.

   When I got back to the table Ray had left, and the guys were
   discussing his ideas heatedly. Brett and Bo obviously thought he was
   great, Jim, Rick and Jeff weren't so sure. As usual, Steve was holding
   back from talking until everyone else had their say. The heart of the
   discussion was whether or not everyone wanted to get serious about the
   band. Brett and Bo were all for total commitment. Lisa wasn't sure how
   Brett could fit in his job and more time with the band, and the other
   girlfriends echoed her thoughts. Jim kept repeating that he had a
   family to support, and Rick, after seeing his girlfriend Jenny's
   reaction, said over and over that there was no way he was giving up
   his day job. Jim and Rick were both adamant that the band was fine as
   it was, that playing Friday nights at Elroy's was as far into the
   music business as they wanted to get. Unstated in their objections to
   taking on more gigs was the idea that Steve and I had somehow hijacked
   the band when Elroy got us to join -- but even though it was never
   said aloud the sentiment was definitely lurking beneath the surface of
   the discussion. I'm sure it was a big influence on Jeff.

   Elroy closed the place up and gave us our share of the take and we
   continued the discussion in the green room, without the wives and
   girlfriends, as we began to stow away the gear. Eventually Steve spoke
   up with a compromise. Over the next few months Ray would book us
   occasional gigs, no more than a half-day's drive away. If they worked
   well we could think about doing a road trip for a couple of weeks
   after that, and see whether or not we had any appeal to audiences
   beyond the Ole Miss frat crowd. Brett, Jim and Rick all had holidays
   due from work, and Bo and Steve were currently unemployed. Elroy would
   give me any time off I wanted. If the others could be convinced to
   take their holidays in the same two week period we could spend it on
   the road as part of a test to see how viable a full-time commitment to
   music could be.

   Jeff said no right away. He thought the band was headed in the wrong
   direction, and he thought it was probably time for him to go his own
   way if this was what everyone wanted to do. I felt a little sympathy
   for him when nobody tried to persuade him to stay, but then he'd never
   played big part in the band and he missed most of our practice
   sessions.

   I was surprised when Jim and Rick agreed to the plan, but I think
   maybe Jeff leaving crystallized things in their minds. This wasn't
   going to be like Brett's old gang just hanging out at Elroy's. Ray was
   going to try to take us to a wider audience, and it seemed all of a
   sudden like an all-or-nothing proposition. There was always the chance
   to go back to the way things were, but would we know whether we were
   really up to it unless we tried?

   After the gear was packed away everyone gathered outside the front
   door and the deal was done. It was a trial arrangement for six months.
   Over the next few weeks we would play gigs in the major cities within
   three or four hours drive, and then if that worked out in about four
   months we would go on a road trip for two weeks, with Brett, Jim and
   Rick taking leave from their jobs. Before then Steve and Brett would
   finish a few more songs they were working on and Ray would get us some
   studio time. Ray would get paid ten percent of whatever we earned, but
   we would have to pay for posters and the studio and all the costs of
   going on the road.

   If the whole thing was a miserable failure after the first few gigs we
   would ditch Ray and come back to Elroy's every Friday night. We would
   still play there anyway, except for our time away on the road trip.

   All the guys shook hands on it. I noticed Lisa and Jenny, Rick's
   girlfriend, looked unhappy about the arrangement, but I suppose they
   were mollified by the fact that it was all a trial. We said our
   goodnights and Steve and I got into the Microbus with Pete to drive
   home. Just as Pete started the engine I remembered something I had to
   do, and I asked them to wait. I ran back inside through the back door,
   and found Elroy still sitting in the office. He still had the
   photograph of his family on the desk. He looked surprised to see me,
   and stood up. "What's up, Em?" he asked. I didn't say anything, but I
   went up to him and hugged him tightly. When I finished the hug I made
   him bend down, and then I kissed him on the cheek.

   "I know nothing's going to bring them back, Elroy, but if it's any
   consolation, there's still a lot of people who love you," I said.

   He looked at me and I could see him fight back a tear. I stretched up
   to kiss him on the cheek again and then went out to the waiting van to
   go back to Julia's.

   ***

   True to his word, Ray organized us a gig in Memphis for two weeks
   time, in a big place, with second billing. Getting any sort of billing
   at all seemed like a bit of a coup, since we were unknown in Memphis,
   although I found out later that we got the slot because another band
   backed out late.

   Ray also booked us some studio time. Brett and Steve had spent a lot
   of their free time writing, and Steve and I worked on two songs
   together as well. I liked working on songs with Steve. It reminded me
   of our time at Brand together, and although I had hated being at Brand
   I thought of that period as the one in which Steve and I had been
   closest.

   Julia was spending a lot of time with Pete, and so there were quite a
   few nights when Pris and I had the apartment to ourselves. I was
   getting to like Pris more and more. We did lots of dumb stuff
   together, like listening to really sad songs and crying our eyes out,
   and telling each other scary stories late at night and doing stupid
   quizzes in Cosmo. When I mentioned one night that I had never had much
   practice dancing, Pris and I practiced for hours and hours.

   Pris started teaching me to cook, too. After just a couple of nights I
   took on most of the cooking duties. I liked it. It made me feel like I
   was at least partially giving something back to Julia and Pris for
   having me there.

   Steve's moodiness increased in frequency, and a couple of nights he
   never even called to let me know what was going on. I called him a
   lot, and it seemed to me at one point that I was the one doing all the
   work in the relationship. But the next time I saw him he reassured me
   that he loved me, and apologized for neglecting me. "There's just some
   stuff going on," he said. He wouldn't elaborate. I didn't really
   understand it since we had lived together for years at Brand and he
   hadn't been at all moody then, but I didn't push the matter. Then, the
   very next night when he had said he would call to arrange to take me
   to dinner, I didn't hear anything from him at all. I called his place
   at 7.00pm and there was no-one home. At first I was worried, but then
   I just became pissed at him. He'd been all talk, lately. We hadn't
   even been having sex as often as we used to.

   I was angry and sad and I just wanted to mope around the apartment,
   but Pris dragged me along to a party that one of the fraternities was
   having. I was reticent about going, because I hadn't mentioned it to
   Steve and I hadn't been out a lot socially without him, but Pris said
   if I wouldn't go with her she wouldn't go at all. So I gave in. She
   helped me do my makeup, and the way it worked out she said it looked
   like I was older. I wore a coffee-colored silk blouse and a black
   skirt and Pris lent me some jewelry.

   At first I was intimidated at the party. It was being held in the
   garden of the Frat house, and there was a live band as well as a DJ to
   cater to the disco crowd. Everyone else there seemed very
   sophisticated -- well, except for the guys on the football team, who
   lived up to the stories I had heard Julia and Pris tell. Most of the
   people there seemed like they came from well-to-do families, and all
   the women were much better dressed than I would have expected college
   students to be. They weren't dressed up, but you could tell their
   clothes were expensive.

   Pris hung close by me for an hour or so but eventually we got
   separated and I found myself hemmed in almost immediately by a cute
   guy named Wiley who had a voice just like Steve's and a smooth
   southern accent to match Steve's too. Wiley was even taller than
   Steve, and had dark hair, and although he wasn't quite as good looking
   as Steve his manner suggested gentleness and courtesy even though his
   eyes suggested he'd like to undress me. I was getting used to guys
   looking at me like that, and I liked him in spite of it. Early in our
   conversation I dropped the hint that I was attached to another guy,
   but that didn't faze Wiley at all. "Is he here?" he asked, and when I
   admitted Steve wasn't he simply said "Dumb guy, letting such a
   beautiful girl out alone."

   We danced, and I drank way too much of the sweet-tasting and very
   alcoholic stuff they were calling 'punch' that night. I didn't think
   much of the band, and I told Wiley so. He seemed to find that very
   amusing. After one long slow close dance Wiley guided me off to a dark
   corner of the garden. Uh oh, I thought. I was drunk as can be, and he
   knew it, but he was a perfect gentleman. There was a brick retaining
   wall there about four feet high, and he picked me up around my waist
   and sat me on it so our faces were almost level. "There, that's
   better," he said. "You have a pretty face, Emma, but you are a tiny
   little thing, aren't you?"

   "I'm not that short," I protested. "It's just that you're enormous.
   Are you on the basketball team?" I asked. He was definitely tall
   enough.

   He shook his head. "Football."

   "I've been warned about guys like you," I said.

   He smiled. "Emma, I'm sure everything you've heard is true. But I'm
   more interested in hearing about you."

   I blushed. I hadn't had much experience with guys apart from Steve. It
   was strange to be getting this attention. I felt guilty, as though I
   was somehow betraying Steve just by talking to Wiley, but I liked
   being with him, and I liked the way he looked at me.

   I made up some stuff about having come to Oxford to visit a friend.
   That was sort of true. I didn't mention she was my boyfriend's sister.
   I told Wiley about "Firehouse" and then he understood my criticism of
   the band at the party -- he had smiled because according to his friend
   the band at the party was just a bunch of frat boys who got together
   to play, and Wiley thought they sucked too. "Maybe they can book your
   band to play next time," he smiled. "I sure would like to hear you
   sing, Emma."

   I wasn't very comfortable talking about myself and so I steered the
   conversation toward Wiley. He was studying engineering in Atlanta,
   following in his father's footsteps to take over the family business.
   He had come to Oxford with a friend, just for the ride, and was headed
   home in three days time. From his comments I gathered that his family
   had money, but he wasn't boastful about it. The more I listened to him
   talk the more I liked him. He was softly-spoken and courteous and not
   at all like I'd imagined from the stories Pris and Julia had told me
   about football players. Maybe Atlanta football players were better
   than Mississippi ones, I thought.

   "What are you studying?" Wiley asked.

   I was embarrassed, and it must have showed. "I haven't had a whole lot
   of school, Wiley" I said.

   He seemed surprised, but it didn't diminish his interest in me. "Why's
   that, Emma? You seem smart enough."

   "Family stuff. You don't really want to know."

   "Yeah, I do."

   "No, you don't," I said firmly. He didn't push the issue. Instead he
   asked me about the music I liked. It turned out we had similar tastes.
   I wouldn't have picked him for a fan of women singer-songwriters.
   Somehow that didn't go together in my head with the stuff that
   football players were supposed to like. Wiley sure was an interesting
   set of puzzles.

   At around 1.00am Pris reappeared to tell me she was heading home.
   After all the alcohol I'd consumed I was almost tempted to tell her to
   go on ahead, since I was having such a good time with Wiley, and I
   briefly toyed with the idea of doing something to make Steve jealous,
   but that wouldn't have been fair to either Steve or Wiley.

   As I began to say goodbye to Wiley, Pris walked back into the house to
   give us some space. I reminded myself through the fog of alcohol that
   there was no point encouraging Wiley anyway. What would he have
   thought if he knew the truth about me? Encouraging him might lead to
   some unpleasantness for both of us. Anyway, he was only in town for a
   couple of days.

   Good sense prevailed, but he must have noticed my change in mood as I
   reminded myself I wasn't enough of a woman for a guy like him. "Hey,
   Emma, what's wrong?" he asked.

   "'S nothing," I said. "I'm okay. Too much to drink, I think."

   "Want me to take you home instead?"

   "No, Pris is ready to go, and ... I don't think it would be right,
   Wiley."

   "You're kind of an old fashioned girl, aren't you?"

   "No! I just..."

   "It's okay, Emma. I like it. So many girls I meet, you know,
   they're..." He evidently thought better of trashing the other women in
   his life. "Could I call you sometime, Emma?" Wiley asked.

   "Wiley," I said gently, "I did tell you there was someone else."

   "Yes, Emma, but I'm a persistent guy, And you're the most beautiful
   girl I've ever seen" He smiled.

   I blushed. I had to admit I liked Wiley, and he made me feel
   wonderful. "I'm flattered, but no, thank you."

   "But I'm only here for a few days."

   "All the more reason to say no," I smiled.

   "I'm also not very smart when it comes to women," he said jokingly.

   I didn't believe that for a moment, but I nodded. "You need to
   concentrate on the available ones."

   He smiled, and scribbled his own number on a scrap of paper. "If you
   ever change your mind, Emma... You should come to Atlanta some time."

   I accepted the paper and smiled back, then went to find Pris.

   When we got back Julia was already home, asleep. Pris and I tiptoed
   around the apartment, trying to be quiet until I tripped over one of
   Julia's shoes and knocked over a chair. "OOoow!" I hissed, and Pris
   cracked up. I hit my shin on the chair as I knocked it and I hopped
   around until Pris led me over to the couch. "A little too much punch."
   I muttered.

   "Are you okay?" Pris put her arm around me and guided me down to sit.
   She was still laughing.

   "'S not funny," I grumbled.

   "I'm sorry," she cackled. "It *looked* funny."

   The two of us collapsed back onto the couch. Pris kept her arm around
   me. It felt good.

   "He's such a bastard, Pris," I said.

   "Ah, but he's a handsome bastard, Em. And you do love him, I know
   that."

   "I thought of going home with Wiley tonight, just to teach him a
   lesson."

   "Well, you made the right choice."

   "Pris?"

   "Yes, Em?"

   "How come you didn't go home with anyone?"

   "Pardon?"

   I was drunk enough to be rude. "You're a good looking girl, and that
   guy I saw you talking to tonight seemed keen enough. You saving
   yourself for marriage?"

   Pris smiled. "Just haven't met the right person, I guess." She
   reflected for a moment. "Or the people I'm interested in are the wrong
   people." She mussed my hair. "Stand up and we'll get the bed out."

   We dragged the bed out and made it. I had a lot of trouble with the
   bedding because the alcohol was really getting to me. As we finished I
   stumbled again and Pris grabbed my arm to steady me. "Thanks," I said,
   and I hugged her. She felt good. She was so soft, so different to
   hugging Steve, and she smelled good, too. Not better than Steve, just
   very different. I took a half step back and looked up at her. She
   smiled down at me. My thoughts were kind of confused, but I can't
   pretend I didn't know what was happening. I hugged her again, then
   lifted my head and kissed her on the cheek. She went to disengage but
   instead I guided her head with my hand and kissed her on the lips
   instead. She kissed me back. It was lovely. She tasted sweet and
   clean, and although it felt very different than anything I had ever
   felt before I enjoyed it.

   Pris broke the kiss off before I did. "You're drunk," she said.

   "Yes," I said evenly. "Guilty. So what?"

   She looked at me uncertainly and kissed me again. I liked it a lot.

   I don't want to sound like a total idiot, but as all of this went on I
   was behaving like one. Honestly, it sounds unbelievable, but over the
   weeks I had been living with Pris and Julia I had started to think of
   myself as a girl. Apart from the times that I felt inadequate with
   Steve, I never thought about myself in a guy way, and since I never
   had any erections any more the way my genitals looked didn't mean much
   to me. In the alcohol and the excitement, I honestly had forgotten
   that I had anything to hide from Pris. When she kissed me again, my
   brain suddenly started working and I realized what would happen if all
   these nice things continued.

   I sat down on the bed abruptly, and she sat down next to me. "Are you
   okay?" she asked.

   "Yes. I'm just not very smart."

   Pris seemed confused. "Emma, I --"

   I hugged her again. "Pris, you're great. I really like you. I'm sorry
   I kissed you."

   "Well, I'm not," Pris said. "I enjoyed it, if you want to know the
   truth."

   "So did I," I said. "But I need to think about... things. Is that
   alright?" I straightened up and looked her in the eye.

   "Of course," she said, as she pushed my hair back from my face. "It's
   okay, Emma. You don't have anything to be worried about." She clasped
   my hand in hers.

   "Thanks, Pris."

   "Sometime when you're not drunk maybe we should have a talk."

   "Okay"

   "In the meantime you *are* drunk, so what say we put you to bed, huh?"
   She smiled.

   "Okay. I need to pee first, okay?"

   I went off to the bathroom and stripped off and changed after I'd peed
   and brushed my teeth. I was pretty unsteady on my feet. I put on a
   large football top that Julia had given to me a few weeks earlier to
   use as a nightgown and went back to the living room. Pris helped me
   into the bed and then tucked me in, and bent down to kiss me
   goodnight, on the lips. I wriggled in the bed. I liked it. She broke
   off with a grin. "Well then, Miss Sobriety, I'll see you in the
   morning."

   She left and turned out the light, and I felt the room spin a few
   times before I got to sleep that night.

   Steve came over early the next day and was bright and charming and
   tried to get me to go out with him. I was dark and surly and hungover
   and said no. Pris was terrific, and let everything that had happened
   the night before pass without comment. It took the rest of the day
   before I felt well enough to leave the apartment, and fortunately
   Steve was still in good form that evening. I made a big show out of
   forgiving him for the previous evening, and we had dinner in a little
   cafe. Afterward we made love in the apartment while Pris and Julia
   were out with friends.

   The next evening I managed to get Julia and Pris together to discuss
   something that had been bothering me. We sat around the table with a
   pot of tea I had made. "I need to get another place to live," I began
   tentatively as I poured for the three of us.

   "Why?" Julia asked.

   "Well... doesn't it bug you that your living room is a bedroom now?"

   "Nope," Julia said. "Not at all. I won't pre-empt whatever Pris wants
   to say, but I like having you here."

   "But you must want to be able to use the space, you know, as a living
   room."

   "Not really, Emma. If I want to be alone with Pete I'll go to his
   place."

   "What about you, Pris?" I asked.

   "Emma honey, you're no imposition at all. Hell, I'd be offended if you
   left us."

   "But..."

   "Do you want more privacy?" Julia asked me. "Is it too difficult for
   you this way?"

   "No, no, that's not it. You guys are great, you know that."

   "Emma," Pris said seriously. "We like having you around. If you want a
   room of your own maybe we should all look for a bigger place."

   "No. I'm sorry. I just thought --"

   "-- Is it because you want to live with Steve?" Julia asked. "You
   know, Emma, we discussed that, and it's really --"

   "-- No. Yes. Maybe that's part of it, but it's not most of it. I guess
   I just feel guilty. You guys have been so good to me."

   "I think we've gotten a lot more than we've given," Pris said.

   "Yeah," Julia smiled. "Where else could I find such a cool little
   sister."

   I was momentarily overcome, and had to blink back some tears. These
   women were so good to me. "I'm not sure I deserve all this," I said
   hesitantly. Then the tears did flow. Julia reached across to take my
   hand. I tried to smile through the tears but I couldn't cope with the
   idea that there were people other than Steve who really did like
   having me around. I hadn't had a woman in my life that I could talk to
   since Mom, and I realized as I cried that it meant so much to me to be
   accepted by other women now.

   "Well, that's settled I think, Julia," Pris said as she stood up. "We
   need to get a place with space for the three of us," Pris said.

   She walked around behind my chair and began to rub my shoulders. "Ooh,
   honey, you need to relax. Don't you go getting in a knot worrying
   about what might offend Julia and me. We'll tell you if you're bugging
   us, don't you worry about that.

   "In the meantime, you *are* a part of this household and I won't hear
   any more talk about you leaving because of us. If you ever want to
   leave it should be because you want to for yourself, not because you
   think you're some stupid inconvenience."

   I looked up over my shoulder at her. It didn't feel right that she was
   so good to me and she didn't even know I wasn't really a girl. But it
   didn't seem like the right time to go into that. I dried my eyes and
   stood and hugged her, and then Julia, and no more was said about me
   moving out.

   ***

   Chapter Thirteen.

   We got into Memphis at 2.00pm and found the motel where we were
   staying. Then we went to do a sound check over at the bar we were
   playing that evening. We'd finished by 4.30, and as we weren't due to
   go on until 10.00 we had some free time. Everyone went to do their own
   thing. The guys all had people they wanted to see and Steve -- who
   seemed to be in one of his moods -- said he wanted to go off by
   himself. I was secretly glad since I, too wanted to pursue some
   private business. I took the number Cee had given me for his friends
   in Memphis and dialed it. A man's voice answered and I asked for
   Vanessa. She came to the phone and I introduced myself as a friend of
   Cary's, and said he had told me to look her up if ever I was in
   Memphis.

   "Do you have some time to meet for coffee?" I asked.

   "The heck with coffee, honey, let's find some place we can get a
   drink."

   Vanessa suggested we meet in the bar of the Peabody Hotel. It was a
   very grand looking place. When I entered the hotel in the early
   evening it appeared there was a ball or function of some kind taking
   place elsewhere in the hotel. The lobby was full of men in tuxedos and
   women in elaborate evening gowns. The lobby itself was a grand
   two-story affair with a fountain and large overstuffed furniture. I
   was dressed in a simple dark green dress and my black slingbacks and
   as I walked through to the bar I felt plain and strangely unfeminine
   amongst such finery. Then I noticed a bunch of ducks in the fountain,
   and I was reassured. They were real, live ducks, quacking and
   splashing. I smiled. It was hard to feel like you were weird when
   there were ducks living in the hotel. The Peabody seemed like it had
   character.

   At the bar I ordered a lime and soda and waited for Vanessa. I had
   told her on the phone how to recognize me, but she had given me no
   clues about herself, and I eyed all the women in the place to see
   whether she might have missed me come in. I was the only unaccompanied
   woman in the bar, and definitely the only one under thirty, so there
   seemed little chance of that. I took the copy of 'The Dice Man' that
   Rick had lent me from the mesh shoulder bag I was carrying and began
   reading it. I had just read the first line and realized it began with
   a story about rape when I saw Vanessa in the margins of my vision.

   I knew it was her before I saw her clearly. She swept in and made a
   beeline for me. Wow. She was *huge*. At least six feet tall, maybe
   more. At least as tall as Pris. And big with it. When she spoke her
   drawl was pronounced, even for Memphis. "Emmmm-ahhh!" she oozed. She
   had blonde hair -- make that platinum blonde -- piled high on her head
   and a black wrapover dress that barely contained her extraordinary
   breasts. Her face was round and fleshy, and she had the beginnings of
   crows feet beginning to mark her otherwise creamy skin. It was hard to
   guess her age. Her voice was quite deep, and on the phone had
   suggested she was older, but she seemed no more than 35 to me in the
   flesh. She was smiling, and she had her arms open as though she
   expected me to stand up and be swallowed up in them. "I'm sooo sorry
   to have kept you waiting!"

   I said hello and she sat and ordered a vodka and tonic. "None of that
   Scandinavian crap daaahling" she insisted to the Bartender before
   turning to appraise me. "Emma, you look just diviiiiine."

   For some reason I blushed. "Thank you for meeting me."

   "I could hardly wait," Vanessa breathed. "Dear, Cary Philips is like
   my own child. I was so, so heartbroken to lose him when they... when
   he was involved in that unfortunate business."

   "Have you heard from him?"

   "I had a postcard --"

   "-- From San Francisco? Is he okay?"

   "-- And a letter. Yes, they were, and yes, he is."

   "That's good to hear."

   "He's a sweet boy."

   "Do you have an address where I can write to him?"

   "I'm afraid not." Her vodka arrived and she drank a large mouthful
   right off.

   "Oh."

   My face must have fallen, because Vanessa immediately tried to
   reassure me. "But I'm sure he'll write again. Emma, if I understand it
   he's not really at liberty to tell anyone where he is. Do you know
   anything about that?"

   I briefly considered how much I would have to tell Vanessa. Since she
   couldn't help me locate Cee I wasn't sure I needed to tell her
   anything.

   "Tell me, Emma, how is it you came to meet him?" She continued.

   I knew we would get to this at some point if I pressed her for
   information, but now I was on the spot. Cee had said she was a good
   friend, so...

   "We met when he was at Brand."

   "Inside?"

   I nodded. I suddenly found it difficult to meet her eyes.

   "Were you doing volunteer work or such?"

   I was still staring at my hands in my lap. "No ma'am. I was an
   inmate."

   Vanessa didn't say anything for a long, long time. I figured she was
   either puzzled, or shocked, and eventually I looked up at her to find
   out which. She didn't seem to be either. Instead she had a small smile
   on her face. "I knew that, Emma," she said gently.

   Now it was my turn to be puzzled.

   "Cary mentioned in his letter that you might contact me if you needed
   help. Pardon me for intruding on your life, but I had to know if you
   were going to be honest with me."

   "I uh... I don't need help. I was just trying to find a way to reach
   Cee -- Cary."

   "Cary thought there would be things you would need."

   "No. No, I can't think of anything."

   "Would you like... would you be willing to tell me how you came to be
   at that place?"

   I sat awkwardly for a moment. Vanessa gestured to attract the barman's
   attention. "Sugar, we could do with two more Vodka's. We'll take them
   over there." She indicated a table at the far end of the bar, away
   from other people. I could see the bartender was thinking of
   protesting to Vanessa about serving liquor to someone my age, but she
   gave him a look that evidently made him rethink.

   We went over to the table. I felt more like a freak than ever as I
   walked. I hated it when people knew about my odd situation. I felt so
   self-conscious. I made sure I smoothed my dress under me as I sat and
   I crossed my legs and offered her a weak smile.

   "Start at the beginning, sugar," Vanessa said as the bartender set our
   vodkas down on the table and left. So I did. I abbreviated all the
   stuff about my innocence. Something I couldn't put my finger on about
   Vanessa suggested to me that she had seen more of the world than I
   had, and I figured she would draw her own conclusions about whether I
   was or wasn't a good person based on more than any story I could tell.
   During the course of the telling I became slightly emotional once or
   twice, which might have been due to my memories or the two additional
   vodkas Vanessa ordered, or perhaps a little bit of both.

   I finished the story at the point at which I'd last seen Cary, in the
   back seat of the Malibu bumping down the track from the cabin where
   Travis was now buried. I didn't feel the need to tell Vanessa anything
   beyond that.

   "Are you happy, Emma?"

   "Yes ma'am."

   "Please, call me Vanessa. Good. I'm surprised. Not many boys would
   have dealt well with what you've been through. There must have been
   something in you?"

   I shrugged. I wasn't defensive about my masculinity any longer. I
   didn't even think of myself as having any masculinity any more, and I
   said as much to Vanessa.

   "Pardon me for asking, sugar, but is that all you?" She waved a hand
   at me to indicate my body, and I blushed for some reason -- it was
   strange to be embarrassed about that after everything I'd just told
   her.

   "Yes ma'am."

   "Vanessa, please. The gods have been kind to you, haven't they? You're
   a beautiful woman, Emma." I blushed again. "I really can't pick
   anything about you that would give you away at all. So tell me, sugar,
   what are your plans for the future?"

   "I don't know, ma -- Vanessa. I guess I'm just happy ..."

   "Do you want more?"

   "More?"

   "Do you want... do you want to become a woman?"

   "How?" I genuinely didn't understand.

   "Surgery, sugar."

   "They can do that?"

   "You really haven't been out in the world much, have you? What have
   you been doing for hormones?"

   I confessed that I hadn't had any at all since the last shot Blaha had
   given me nearly six months earlier. Vanessa seemed concerned, and
   grilled me about my feelings, and suddenly some of my unease in the
   previous weeks seemed to make some sense to me. My old male self was
   starting to come back as the hormones Blaha had given me faded. I
   wondered what would happen if it continued. Would I become more like a
   guy, and less like a girl? Would I wind up looking like a girl, or
   like a guy with tits? What would happen to Steve and me if I started
   looking less like a girl?

   I had just started getting used to being a girl, and I was happy. I
   didn't know whether I could be anything else, now. Being a guy just
   seemed so... it seemed so completely different to who I felt
   comfortable being. So... other.

   Vanessa seemed to read my mind, and she told me she shared my
   concerns.

   "Thanks, I think," I said.

   "Emma, do you trust me?" Vanessa asked.

   "Pardon?"

   "Do you trust me?"

   I paused for thought. "You're a friend of Cary's, so..." I shrugged.

   "Do you have any money with you?"

   "Some," I said. "I think sixty dollars." In fact I had almost a
   hundred that Julia had thrust at me before we had come to Memphis, but
   I didn't want to reveal that.

   "Good." She downed the rest of her drink and motioned for me to do the
   same. "Come with me, then, dear."

   We took a cab, down south on Second Street, past Beale Street which
   seemed like it was being torn apart building by building, and on a
   couple of blocks into a neighborhood that looked the worse for wear
   for different reasons. Most of the people on the streets were colored,
   and the houses were different, but I had a feeling that in lots of
   other ways it wasn't too different from the neighborhood I had grown
   up in. People here were doing it hard, and always would.

   We stopped at a two-storey place with an old ornate porch. The flaking
   paint on the building was so old that its weathered gray color was
   almost indistinguishable from the decaying bare timber patches. "I'll
   need forty dollars, Emma," Vanessa said.

   I was going to ask her what it was for but something in her face told
   me that just by being in the cab outside this place I had already
   forfeited a large amount of whatever rights to control I had. I was
   pretty buzzed from the vodka anyway. I reached into my purse and gave
   Vanessa forty dollars, and she indicated that I should pay the cab as
   well. I sighed and dug into my purse again as Vanessa consigned the
   forty dollars to an envelope she extracted from her own purse.

   A group of black men were slouched around the door to the building.
   They reluctantly shifted their hips as we approached so we could
   squeeze past them into the hallway beyond. Vanessa knocked on a door
   and after a few seconds we were admitted. Inside it was so dark I
   couldn't see anything for a few moments, but I was aware of others in
   the room and I could almost feel their eyes sizing me up. Eventually
   some dark faces took shape in the gloom, and in the light from a
   television set at the far end of the room I saw a pale skinned figure
   observing us.

   "You a pretty one, girl," the figure said. I recognized the voice as
   the man who had answered the phone when I first rang Vanessa, but
   something about that voice didn't quite ring true with the mass of the
   figure it was coming from.

   "Hush now," said Vanessa. "Girls, this is Emma. She's a friend of
   Cary's, and y'all know how I feel about Cary, so I want you to make
   Emma feel real welcome." She turned to me and indicated a chair beside
   a dark skinned girl next to me. "Sit down, honey, and I'll be right
   back." She disappeared into a room beyond the television set and I
   heard her begin to say something to someone inside before she closed
   the door.

   I sat awkwardly, still nervous at being the centre of attention.
   Everyone in the room was staring at me, and at first I averted my eyes
   and looked at the floor in front of me. When I flicked my eyes back up
   at the girl sitting opposite me she was still looking at me, and I
   blushed and studied my hands for a moment. In the quick glimpse I had
   got I had noticed her heavily made-up eyes and short red dress, and my
   impression was that she was very possibly a working girl. Another
   quick glance up and a nervous smile at her confirmed my opinion. She
   gave only the most imperceptible smile in return, and met my gaze
   confidently. The woman next to her was older, but similarly attired
   and made up. Was this some kind of brothel? I wondered.

   The male voice from the end of the room said something I didn't catch,
   and the women laughed. I instinctively felt it was a comment about me,
   and I blushed. There was something odd about the laughter of the girl
   next to me, and I turned to look at her. Although the only light in
   the room was the television I found I could make out her features much
   better now, and to my shock I noticed that even with her
   coffee-colored skin she seemed to have noticeable beard shadow. She
   was a guy. Maybe. I didn't want to stare so I looked away, back at the
   girl opposite me. She seemed normal enough.

   "Where you from, girl?" the man at the end of the room asked. I
   realized now what had seemed incongruous -- the voice belonged to
   someone who looked extremely androgynous.

   "She lives in Mississippi, Delia," Vanessa said as she opened the
   door. "Not that it means anything to you. Emma, would you like to come
   in?"

   I stood up and followed Vanessa into the next room. It was slightly
   brighter than the one I'd just come from, but only just, lighted by a
   single desk lamp that shone directly downward. There was a figure on
   the other side of a large wooden desk, visible only in the light that
   reflected off the dark, worn leather inlay on the desk top, which is
   to say hardly visible at all. Vanessa guided me to one of two chairs
   in front of the desk and we both sat down.

   "Lester, this is Emma Boyle. Emma, Dr. Lester Savage," Vanessa said.

   "Charmed, m'dear," the barely visible Dr. Savage said. I could see
   that he was white, and that he was fat. A pint bottle of whiskey,
   three-quarters empty, sat on the edge of the desk not far from the
   Doctor's right hand. "I understand you are having some women's
   problems."

   That was one way to explain it, I thought. Dr. Savage asked me a
   couple of questions about my health. I felt awkward about even being
   in the office with him, especially since I had quickly guessed the
   nature of part of his practice from the women in the room outside, but
   his inquiries were brief and pointed, and a few moments later he had
   scrawled a prescription and passed it across the desk. Then he asked
   me to undress and lie on the examination table that was barely visible
   in the gloom over at the side of the office. I looked at Vanessa and
   she nodded.

   I undressed down to my bra and panties and lay on the table as the
   Doctor lumbered to his feet and went to the other side of the office
   and unlocked a small cabinet. He took out some packages and unwrapped
   them as I looked to the ceiling and tried not to be fearful. My mind
   was full of the possible consequences of being examined in what was
   clearly an unhygienic environment. He lumbered towards me and I
   stiffened. "Lie on your side," he commanded, and I complied and waited
   for his sweaty fleshy touch. Instead I felt a quick swab on my thigh
   and then the jab of a hypodermic, followed by some pain as a thick
   substance was injected into my muscle. He finished the injection,
   swabbed me again and then told me to get dressed. As soon as I was
   decent, before I had the chance to sit down, he told me he would
   provide the prescription by mail every two months, and that under no
   circumstances was I to relate the details of what had just transpired
   to anyone so long as he was alive. Vanessa slid the envelope across
   the desk to the Doctor and then stood and led me out of the office.

   Out on the street we had to walk to the end of the street to a busier
   road to hail a cab. I kept rubbing my thigh where Doctor Savage had
   jabbed it. It had been a while since I had received a shot like that,
   and Blaha had always given them to me in the butt, which didn't hurt
   quite so much. Vanessa noticed me rubbing and smiled. "At least it
   will keep you looking pretty, sugar."

   We took a cab to another house in a slightly more upscale
   neighborhood. By more upscale I mean the windows in the houses all had
   glass in them -- otherwise there wasn't a whole heap of difference. We
   walked up a flight of stairs to a large apartment in a run-down
   building. The place looked totally different inside, clean and bright
   and well-maintained, although I noticed an electrical outlet was taped
   to the wall in the small kitchen off the hallway. "Welcome to my
   place," Vanessa said cheerfully. "Make yourself at home, sugar." She
   pulled some papers from the top of the refrigerator and passed them to
   me. "You might be interested in these while I make us a drink."

   I begged off the drink, explaining that I had to go onstage at ten.

   "You're a little short to be doing the clubs, aren't you sugar?"
   Vanessa asked.

   "What's height got to do with it?" I asked, puzzled.

   "Most of the owners hereabouts, they like their girls a little
   taller."

   I honestly didn't understand what she was getting at for a moment, and
   then I wondered whether I should be insulted. "Vanessa," I said
   gently, "I *sing*. I'm not a dancer or anything."

   "You sing?" I could tell by the inflection in her voice that she still
   thought my singing was part of a sex act or a strip show.

   "Rock and Roll, R&B," I said. "I'm in a band." I reached into my purse
   and extracted a flyer for the trip that Ray had given me at the sound
   check. "Firehouse."

   "Oh, my lord!" she said as she finally understood, and then she
   laughed. "What must you think of me, child!"

   "It's okay, really. But I'll stick to water if that's okay with you.
   The vodka has already been a bit much."

   "Heavens, sugar," she said, looking at the flyer and handing me a
   glass of water. "You do this for a *living*?"

   "It's not much of one," I admitted. "But we're just starting out,
   really. If you want to come tonight I'll put your name on the door."

   We went into the living room and I looked at the papers she had handed
   me. There was a postcard from Cee, and a letter which ran to almost
   four pages. Reading it didn't add much to the details that Vanessa had
   told me, but it was nice to see Cary's thoughts on San Francisco and
   his feelings about being away from Brand. Both were overwhelmingly
   positive, which was hardly surprising. As Vanessa had said, there was
   a brief mention of me in the postcard, and then a much longer
   description of my situation in the letter. 'I believe Em will need
   help soon,' Cee had written, 'and I hope you'll do everything for her
   as you would for me. She was my best -- my only -- friend in that
   horrible place and she deserves only good things.'

   I sat in the living room missing Cee more than ever. I was glad he was
   enjoying California, but I wished I was with him.

   I probed Vanessa about Doctor Savage's, and the 'girls' in the room
   outside his office. "How did you know about a place like that,
   Vanessa?" I asked. I idly wondered whether she was a real girl. After
   all, she was so tall, and her voice was quite deep. But her breasts
   were so large, and her mannerisms seemed very feminine.

   "It's okay, sugar, I'm all girl, if that's what you're wondering. Born
   and raised that way. I'm a kind of aunt to most of them I suppose, and
   a few of the gay boys working the bars. Most of them don't have anyone
   else, so I take care of them."

   "Take care of them?"

   "A little money when times are tough; a lot of love because times are
   always tough." She drained her glass again. I hadn't seen her pour
   them and I suspected that hers contained vodka.

   "But why?" I asked. "You don't... please pardon me if I'm being rude,
   but you don't seem to have a lot of money to go around."

   "Oh, I have money, sugar. I'm very careful with it, is all." I
   remembered that I had paid for the cabs -- but then I had told Vanessa
   I had money.

   "As to why," she continued, "I don't rightly know. I suppose I have a
   kind of natural resistance to the forces that make everyone walk the
   narrow path, Emma. There's a lot of love in the people society casts
   out, but very few get to see it."

   Vanessa had a soul as big as her body. Maybe bigger.

   I asked about the room at Doctor Savage's again. Why were all the
   girls sitting there? Were they waiting for appointments? Had I jumped
   a queue? Vanessa explained that they lived there, in the other rooms
   aside from Savage's office. "He's a harmless old fool who's obsessed
   by boys in dresses but incapable of doing anything about it since he
   made friends with the bottle," Vanessa said. "He doesn't have any
   other practice these days, and the girls take care of him in return
   for medical services rendered. So long as he treats them well he gets
   a place to live and he gets to keep his license."

   We sat and discussed the Memphis 'scene', which involved a substantial
   number of drag queens and transsexuals. Vanessa explained the
   difference to me, and then we got into more personal discussions as
   she asked me again about my future and then told me about the various
   surgical options open to me if I decided I wanted to go "all the way".
   She was a treasure trove of information.

   When I left at 9.15pm I felt refreshed. Although surgery had never
   been on my mind before, the other issues were the sorts of things I
   had sometimes discussed with Cary, and even though Vanessa was very
   different to Cary I felt better about having talked about my specific
   problems with her. They weren't the sorts of things that I could
   mention to Julia and I was always afraid to raise them with Steve for
   fear of how he might begin to think of me.

   The gig went well, *really well*, and the crowd cried for more. The
   only difficult moments were before the show, when Steve seemed
   uncharacteristically subdued and pallid and I worried that he might be
   getting sick, and after the show when Vanessa and the person named
   Delia came backstage and Delia's appearance made the rest of the band
   nervous. Embarrassed, I hustled the two of them off for a drink out
   front before the bar closed. They had loved the show, and loved my
   singing, and I found Delia a most intriguing androgyne, with features
   neither entirely female or male which drew very odd glances from some
   of the other patrons of the bar, and disturbed me more than I
   admitted. Her appearance settled one thing in my mind, though: Steve
   definitely didn't like being reminded of my in-between state. He'd
   been as disturbed as the other guys in the band when Delia was
   introduced.

   ***

   We'd been playing to packed houses for months now in Tupelo, and Ray
   had found us more gigs in Jackson, Knoxville and Nashville that had
   gone over well. He organized some time for us in a small studio back
   in Memphis. We went up there on the weekend and laid down ten songs in
   the two days. Being in the studio was interesting, but it was really
   pretty hard work. You lay down the tracks separately and combine them
   in the mix, and it's hard to sound spontaneous and fresh after you've
   sung the same verse four or five times. I wanted to take a look around
   the town but there really wasn't any time because we worked so hard
   all day and were all exhausted by the time we finished.

   The engineer who worked on our songs was a cheerful Greek guy named
   Con who was very patient with us and our naivete about the recording
   process. He had done some work with Alex Chilton, which blew Brett
   away because we all thought Alex's records with his band Big Star were
   fantastic. We stayed late on the Saturday night to record 'September
   Gurls' in a rough single take as a kind of homage.

   Everyone tried their best and Con was a lot of fun to work with, but
   in the end neither Brett nor Steve was totally happy with the way the
   songs sounded. It wasn't really very surprising that they sounded
   rough considering how much stuff we'd tried to record in one weekend!
   Steve was unhappy with a couple of his solos and Brett thought the
   overall sound was too muddy. He wanted my vocals to stand out more in
   he mix. I was flattered, and I was impressed, too. As a singer himself
   I expected him to want more of his own performances in our recordings,
   but he was genuinely interested in us succeeding as a band.

   During the following week we met up with Ray in Oxford, and he
   listened to our complaints and then arranged for Steve and I to redo
   our parts on a couple of tracks the next Saturday, with another
   engineer doing the mixing. Steve and Brett thought the mix was much
   better and we ironed out one or two things in my performance that had
   worried me too. Of course going back into the studio cost us a lot of
   money, but Ray was supportive and told us we'd get it back eventually
   in record sales and increased crowds.

   Ray rush-pressed an EP of four of the songs from our studio sessions.
   It contained a song that Steve and Brett had written together, one
   that Brett had written alone, one that Steve had written alone, and
   one that Steve had written with me while we were at Brand together,
   'No Questions'. Ray said he needed the EP for distribution to radio
   stations where we were touring. He also got Pete the anarchist to take
   some photographs of us performing at Elroy's that he could use for
   publicity.

   It cost more than seven hundred dollars for the studio time and the
   record and the distribution, but everyone kicked in money. I think
   Julia put up Steve's share. Elroy said he'd put in mine. I tried to
   protest but I really didn't have any other way of paying. Elroy was a
   sweetheart. I promised him I would pay him back. I don't think he
   believed it, but I meant what I said.

   When Ray gave us the record we all went over to Lisa and Brett's house
   and played it about thirty times until nobody could bear to hear it
   again. Except Bo, who kept playing it over and over again until people
   begged for mercy. A few weeks later he was *still* playing it.

   Our shows featured only original material now, except for encores
   which were always covers. Our choice of songs to cover was eclectic,
   to say the least. Brett was well and truly into a Britpop 'punk'
   phase, while Steve was much more into R&B and my own tastes were
   slightly more folky. Rick liked any song that gave him a chance to
   show off on keyboards, Bo liked flat out Rock and Roll and Jim was
   leaning into a kind of Jazz Fusion, of all things. We usually did at
   least three songs for an encore, and sometimes more if it was a really
   good night.

   Four months had gone by since our deal with Ray had begun, and it was
   time for us to go on the road. Our first stop was probably the
   toughest town we were going to play the whole tour -- a huge gig, to
   more than 2,000 people, back in Memphis. Ray told us it was going to
   be okay, but I paid more attention to Elroy's comments. "If they like
   you in Memphis you'll find acceptance everywhere, but if they hate
   you..." he said. Seeing that I was worried he tried to reassure me.
   "'S alright, Emma, they're gonna love you, you know that."

   ***

   Although most of the guys in Firehouse had been in other bands before
   none of them had ever played a really big house, and none of us really
   had any idea of what to expect. We loaded everything we had into two
   vehicles, a van Rick had borrowed from a friend, and Wendy's pickup
   which held most of the gear. I never really figured out what Wendy did
   for a living besides hang out with us, but whatever it was he could
   afford a nice truck and he was able to just up and leave to come with
   us.

   We all gathered at Brett and Lisa's to pack everything into the van
   and the truck. Everyone was acting like we were going to be gone for
   months instead of two weeks. Elroy showed up and gave us a couple of
   six packs for the journey, and I gave him a big thank-you hug and told
   him we'd send postcards. I think he was almost as excited for me as I
   was. Julia and Pris said farewell and Pris reminded me with a smile
   that going on the road trip did not mean I was moving out.

   ***

   From Memphis we went to Jonesboro, and then down to Little Rock. At
   first being on the road was fun. When the Memphis show went over well
   we felt good, and they liked us in Jonesboro, too, even though it was
   a small gig by comparison. In the weeks before we went on the road we
   had been practicing a lot, and some of the new songs Steve and Brett
   had written were really fantastic. Everyone felt great. What's better
   than playing good music and making people feel good with it?

   By the third day we were all getting irritable with one another. We
   had all stayed up late after playing in Jonesboro, drinking and joking
   around. We had never performed more than two nights in a row before,
   and driving between cities was really pretty boring, although we had
   the constant schizophrenic accompaniment of Iggy Pop and Townes Van
   Zandt alternating on the cassette player so there was always something
   to listen to. It wasn't difficult work -- each day we didn't get up
   until at least 9.00am, and that was usually only because we had to be
   out of the motel rooms. We were staying in the cheapest places we
   could find, places where the walls were thin and the mattresses were
   rotten and the plumbing was shot. We tried to be in our rooms as
   little as possible. Steve and I had a room to ourselves, but Rick and
   Bo and Brett and Jim doubled up to save money. Three motel rooms were
   eating into our earnings anyway, and when gas and food and booze were
   included we didn't make much out of most of the shows.

   In Little Rock, our third stop, we were part of a double bill with a
   band called Sons of the Railroad, who were more hard rocking than we
   were and came from some town I'd never heard of in East Texas. We
   played first, and then hung around while they played. I got carded, of
   all things, and asked to leave the bar area, even though the barman
   had seen me onstage only an hour earlier. It was only 10.30pm and we
   didn't want to leave. We had all planned to go back to the motel
   together at the end of the night and Rick and Brett were nowhere to be
   seen and Jim was dancing with a girl, so Steve and me and Bo and a
   blonde girl he had met went backstage to the band room to wait for
   them. We all sat around the room and the girl passed around a flask of
   whiskey she had.

   "This is Maggie," Bo said to us. "Maggie, this here's Emma and Steve."

   The girl nodded. "You guys were great tonight. Really."

   There didn't seem to be a whole lot to say to that. It was nice to get
   the praise, but kind of awkward. "Thanks," said Steve, affecting an
   oh-so-cool air. I couldn't believe the expression on his face and
   laughed.

   "Here, man, you look like you need to relax and deflate your ego," Bo
   said jokingly. He had some grass and he rolled a joint and passed it
   over to Steve, and we all laughed kind of nervously. Steve took a hit
   from it and passed it on to me. I looked at him uncertainly. I'd never
   tried it before, and I didn't smoke tobacco. He looked at me like I
   was a child, and so I took it and inhaled and then immediately coughed
   and spluttered and dropped the joint.

   "Sorry!" I said.

   The girl, Maggie, picked it up from the floor and took a hit from it
   like she'd been doing it for years. I felt like such an idiot. She
   passed it on to Bo with an approving nod, and then it came around
   again. This time I waved it off. "I don't think I'm made for it," I
   said. I didn't care if Steve thought I was uncool for not wanting to
   get stoned.

   Maggie was alright. She was not an especially beautiful girl; her skin
   was pockmarked from a difficult adolescence and her thighs were quite
   large, but she had a good heart, an open face and a ready laugh, and
   that seemed to make her more attractive than most of the other women
   Bo brought backstage after our gigs. I thought at first that Bo had
   just hit on her out of the blue after our set, because the guys in the
   band were always making jokes about Bo being such a ladies man. I
   remembered an old off-color joke Steve had told me about drummers when
   we first joined the band. But it turned out Maggie was an old friend
   of Bo's. They went to high school together in Texarkana. She hadn't
   known he was playing tonight, but had been in the bar and had
   recognized him. They were both glad to get somewhere quieter to talk,
   and I thought they deserved some privacy, but Maggie was a real live
   wire who crackled with jokes and talk and liked to have an audience.
   She had lost her job clerking at a local business the week before when
   the old accountant who ran it upped and died, and she was looking to
   move on out of the area, she said.

   After the joint was finished Bo rolled another, and then another, and
   I think the three of them were pretty stoned by the end of the third
   one. I felt kind of out of things. Later that night when we all went
   back to the motel -- Maggie accompanied Bo, I noticed -- Steve was
   very distant again, and he barely acknowledged me before he hit the
   bed and slept.

   Next morning he was much more cheerful, and we made love after we
   woke. We lay together afterward and I stroked the hairs on Steve's arm
   as I lay my head on his chest. I liked Steve's hairyness. I don't know
   whether I liked it just on its own, or because it reminded me of how
   different the two of us were and that made me feel just a little more
   feminine. Maybe it was a bit of both. I was stroking his arm, and he
   was running his fingers over my neck, when I noticed there was a lot
   of bruising around the inside of his elbow.

   "What's that?" I asked.

   "Hmmm? What?" Steve said.

   "Your arm. What did you do to it?"

   "Huh? Oh, I don't know."

   I let the subject go at the time, but I should have known what it
   meant. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom instead. When we
   checked out Bo announced we needed to swing by Maggie's place to pick
   up some stuff -- she was going to come on the road with us. I thought
   it was interesting that someone would make such a snap decision and
   just up and leave pretty much everything she had for a week or more,
   but I was also glad to have another girl riding along with us, even if
   it did get kind of cramped in Rick's borrowed van. Even though we had
   been away from Oxford for only a few days, I found I missed having
   women around. The guys were nice enough, but somehow I just didn't fit
   in with guys anymore. If I ever had, I thought.

   Our tour called for us to swing across through Texas, and into New
   Mexico, then back into Southern Texas and then into Louisiana. After
   that it was along the coast and up toward Atlanta taking in most of
   the major cities along the way. After Atlanta we had Gadsden and
   Birmingham and then we were back in Oxford. I had never even seen the
   ocean, so I was looking forward to the coast part of the trip.

   I had discovered that washing clothes on the road was impracticable
   most of the time, and so I'd had to wear a variety of things onstage,
   from my green dress, in a place that looked better than most in
   Houston, to just plain t-shirt and jeans in a rough looking place in
   Alexandria. Mostly it didn't seem to matter much. As Julia had
   predicted, people liked to look at me and the first part of our shows
   always went better when I dressed up than when I wore t-shirts, but
   once we got to the part of our second set everyone called 'the quiet
   songs', the ones that Steve had written for me specially, the
   atmosphere in every room we played changed and got really intense. As
   we performed in front of different audiences I got more comfortable
   with myself on stage and Brett and Steve and I even worked out some
   onstage banter between songs that the crowd seemed to like. Everywhere
   we went people thought we were great, and we actually sold a lot of
   the EP's that Ray had given us. After we did the show in Baton Rouge a
   guy from one of the local radio stations came up and asked us to do an
   interview with him, and he made us a feature of his next show. Ray was
   ecstatic, and ordered more records.

   I was beginning to warm to Ray. At first I had dismissed all his talk
   about big success and records and all that, but I had to hand it to
   him: he worked hard. Every gig he had ever set up for us had been in a
   good, well-run place that could pull a crowd, and on the road trip
   every place we went he had already sent records on ahead to the local
   radio stations and followed up with phone calls to make sure they
   would play them. He had a network of people in most of the towns we
   went to who put up posters promoting our shows and got articles placed
   in the local paper. Whenever we got into town Ray would visit the
   local record store to see whether they would stock the record. We
   weren't the only band he managed, but it seemed like he gave us all
   his attention.

   Our first single broke in Dallas -- Ray had taken the song from the EP
   that Steve had written with me, 'No Questions', and done a separate
   pressing of it backed with our cover of 'September Gurls', and some DJ
   there just wigged out on it and convinced the program director to put
   it on high rotation. Within a week it seemed like it had rippled out
   from there. By the time we got to Louisiana it was getting nation-wide
   airplay, our gigs were selling out, and scungy journalists started
   calling our motel rooms. Ray flew down to Baton Rouge to be with us,
   and begin to plan putting an album together.

   I noticed that all the guys smoked dope, and there was a lot handed
   around. I was kind of curious about it -- I don't want you to think I
   was some kind of ultra-straight kid who was morally opposed to it or
   anything, and I sure didn't want the guys to think that. But I had
   never smoked tobacco, and after that time with Maggie and Bo I thought
   I couldn't smoke anything. Steve tried to teach me, but it didn't
   work. I just coughed and spluttered and everyone laughed at me. So I
   was the only one who didn't get stoned most nights.

   We were in the van just outside Mobile, joking about the amount Bo had
   drunk the night before, when a cop pulled the van over. Rick was
   driving and Ray was in the front seat beside him, and Steve, Bo, Brett
   and I were in back. Wendy and Jim were in the pickup and kept on going
   after we got pulled over. I didn't know what was happening at first --
   Rick said "Shit" and began to pull over and I thought something was
   wrong with the van.

   "It's cool," Ray said. "Bo, make sure your stuff is hidden away
   somewhere safe."

   "What's up, man?" Bo said.

   "Cop," Rick said dejectedly.

   I felt, more than saw, Steve stiffen in the seat beside me. I took his
   hand and squeezed it. "It's okay," I said. "Everything will be okay."
   I don't know why I said that but it was probably to reassure myself as
   much as Steve.

   Rick stopped the van and turned off the engine. A few moments later
   the cop walked along the side of the van and appeared at Rick's
   window. He was tall and thin and hard looking. "See your license?" the
   cop said. Rick handed it over. "Registration?" the cop said.

   Rick got it from the glove compartment. "It's not my van. It belongs
   to a friend." I looked over at Steve. He looked like a caged animal. I
   could see his muscles flexing as he considered leaping from the van
   and running.

   "Good friend, lettin' you drive it this far," the cop said. "Know why
   I stopped you, son?"

   "No, sir." Rick said.

   "You got some wire" -- he said it 'wayuh' --"hangin' from the back of
   your van. It's draggin' behind you."

   "Oh. Thanks," Rick said. "Mind if I get out and look?"

   The cop nodded his assent. Ray and Rick both got out and went around
   the back of the van. The cop peered in past Rick to try to get a look
   inside as they opened the back door. He was looking straight at Steve.
   I could sense Steve's body go rigid.

   "Damn," Ray said. Sure enough a lead had flopped out of one of the
   boxes in back of the van, and whoever had packed it had shut the van
   door without noticing it hanging out. The plug on the end of the lead
   was ruined. "Well, thanks for letting us know, officer."

   The cop looked away from Steve and I could feel the tension ease
   slightly.

   "Musicians, huh?" the cop said, peering at some of the gear in the
   back.

   Ray couldn't resist handing him a handbill for the trip with the dates
   for the tour.

   "Firehouse. That's easy to remember." He folded the handbill and put
   it in his pocket. "Well, y'all enjoy your stay. And pack your load
   better next time."

   Ray closed up the back and he and Rick got back in the van as the cop
   drove on. "Jesus," said Bo as Rick started the van, "*Now* I could use
   a drink."

   I noticed Maggie was staring at Steve strangely as we drove off. Had
   she noticed anything unusual about his behavior?

   We got into Mobile early in the afternoon and did our sound check
   quickly. Wendy was getting practiced at our setups and was able to do
   everything much quicker these days. Then we went to the motel to check
   in. Afterward the guys and Maggie wanted to get out and look around,
   but I was feeling tired, and thought I'd lie down for a while before
   dinner. I fell asleep for an hour and woke up around dusk.

   I suppose I shouldn't have pried. I should have left well enough
   alone. Steve's guitar case was lying in the corner of the room, and I
   was bored, and I went over to pick up the Gibson to try to play a few
   of the songs we had been working on. I picked it up from the case and
   carried it over to the bed, where I sat on the end and strummed a
   couple of chords, thinking about the opening to 'Nowhere I Could Go',
   a song Steve and Jim had written together that Steve had been trying
   to teach me to play. The guitar didn't sound right, but it wasn't the
   tuning. I held it up and heard something moving inside it, and when I
   turned it over a small plastic bag with a tiny amount of white powder
   in it fell out.

   Ohhhh, Steve... My heart fell to the floor along with the bag.

   It was almost 7.30pm when Steve returned to the motel. We were due to
   go on at 8.00pm. I had found the syringes he used in his shower bag
   with his razor, and I was waiting for him, sitting on the end of the
   bed with the guitar lying beside me and a syringe and the bag of
   heroin in my lap. As soon as Steve opened the door to the motel room
   he saw me, and his face fell. Neither of us said anything for a few
   moments. I guess my face was saying "Well?" and I didn't have to.

   "Em... " He didn't know what to say, and he threw his hands up. He
   walked over to his duffel bag and extracted a shirt from it, then
   peeled off the t-shirt he was wearing to change. When I saw his naked
   torso I started to notice the signs I should have picked up on
   earlier. There were bruises on both his arms, and his once muscular
   chest had lost some definition. He didn't look too bad, but if I had
   been paying more attention I should have noticed him getting run down.
   Well, I had noticed him looking pale and thinner, but I hadn't thought
   about heroin.

   "You're not going to say anything?" I said finally.

   "What do you want me to say?" He said as he pulled on the shirt and
   began to button it up. "Sorry? I don't think that's really it, do
   you?"

   "Steve... Why?"

   "Why not?" He shrugged again. "I wouldn't expect you to understand,
   Em."

   That hurt. That he couldn't talk to me. That he thought I wouldn't
   understand. That really hurt. I tried to hold it back but a tear ran
   down my face.

   "I *don't* understand, but maybe if you talked to me more..."

   "That's the problem, Emma, alright? I don't want to talk to anyone.
   Okay?"

   "Steve..." I got up and walked over to him. I wanted to hug him, but
   he turned away.

   "Not now, Em. We're gonna be late for the gig."

   "Fuck the gig!" I said, really crying now.

   "Oh, shit," he said wearily. "Look, can we not do this now? Please?"

   "Steve, I --

   "I mean it, Emma. You know why I didn't tell you? Because I didn't
   want any of your 'we can work it out' stuff, alright? That's not what
   it's about. Just let's forget about it now and we'll talk about it
   later." He brushed past me and scooped up the heroin from where I'd
   left it on the bed, then went into the bathroom and closed the door.

   He was right. I didn't want to do this now either. I didn't know what
   i wanted. I went outside and got into Wendy's pickup to go with him to
   the bar. A few moments later most of the other guys came out and got
   into the van, and then Maggie joined me in the pickup.

   "What's the matter, honey?" She said when she saw my tear-stained
   face.

   "Steve," was all I could say. She put her arm around me and I sobbed
   for a few moments.

   "He was acting kind of strange this afternoon when that cop stopped
   us," Maggie said. "Is he in any trouble, Emma?"

   I lifted my head from her shoulder. "What do you mean?"

   She looked embarrassed. "Sorry, it's none of my business, right? It
   was just... he looked like he was hiding something. Has he been
   hurting you?"

   "No," I said, wiping my nose. Why did people always assume that about
   me - assume that some guy was hitting me? "No. He's just... I don't
   know what to think, Maggie. I just wish he'd talk to me about stuff,
   you know?"

   "He's a guy, Emma. Haven't you worked all that out yet? Guys never
   talk about stuff that's important. Not unless they're about to die or
   somethin'."

   "Maybe."

   "Don't push him, just let him talk to you in his own time," she said.
   Then she laughed. "Hah! Here's me givin' you advice. I'm practically
   the winner of the Elizabeth Taylor award for stable relationships!
   Emma, ignore everything I say, okay? I want you to promise me you'll
   ignore any advice I offer you."

   "I promise," I said, and smiled. Maggie was a good tonic. I was still
   hurting inside but it was hard to stay upset around her for very long.
   Wendy came out and got in the driver's seat and we headed off to the
   gig, and Maggie did her best to put my mind on other things.

   ***

   At the bar Steve and I didn't speak to one another. The guys were all
   looking at us like they were afraid to say anything. I think that was
   sensible.

   We played like shit that night. I was all messed up emotionally and my
   sinuses were all blocked up from crying. I think Steve had shot up
   before we left the motel now that he didn't need to hide it from me.
   His guitar changes were sloppy and although I managed to sing on key I
   couldn't put any feeling into the songs.

   During the break between our sets Steve and I couldn't even bring
   ourselves to look at one another. "For god's sake!" Brett said. "I
   don't know what it is, but can't you two make up?"

   "I don't know, Brett. Why don't you ask Steve?" I said. I felt lost
   and alone, caught up in swirling waters that were taking me in
   directions I didn't understand.

   After we finished the show Steve left on his own. The others looked at
   me like there was an explanation I should give, but I burst into tears
   and crumpled into a little ball on the floor. Bo and Maggie pulled me
   up and hugged me, and Ray told them to take me back to the motel. I
   was really upset. The stress of the day was getting to me. Ray tried
   to get me to take a pill he had, but I hissed "No drugs!" at him and
   he recoiled like I'd bitten him.

   When I woke up next morning Steve was lying on the bed next to me,
   still in his clothes. I looked at his face while he was sleeping. God,
   I loved him more than I could say, but I was so worried for him, and I
   was still hurt from last night. I couldn't believe he felt he couldn't
   talk to me. I felt so much for Steve there was nothing I wouldn't tell
   him. Why didn't he feel the same way?

   When I reflected on this later I saw that what I thought wasn't really
   truthful. There were many things I hid from Steve or tried not to
   remind him of, like the male parts of me, the way I worried about our
   future and the way I felt about not being enough of a woman for him. I
   hid those things from him because I didn't want to worry him. Maybe he
   thought he was protecting me, too.

   I got up and took a shower and washed my hair. My hair was halfway
   down the middle of my back and in need of another trim, and it needed
   a lot of shampoo and conditioner each time I washed it. I felt better
   after the shower, but I still felt numb inside. I combed my hair out
   carefully and blotted the excess water from it and thought of how
   happy Steve had been in those first weeks after I had revealed my
   secret to him at Brand and we had made love several times a night.
   With a tear in my eye I reflected that since we had been out of Brand
   things hadn't been quite so good, what with Travis and then Steve's
   moods and now the drugs. I thought on it and realized that Steve's
   moods were probably related to the drugs rather than anything I had
   done, unless he was taking drugs because of something to do with me. I
   shook my head as though to clear the thoughts from it. How the hell
   did I know what Steve thought or felt when he wouldn't talk to me?

   When I came back out into the motel room Steve was awake and sitting
   on the edge of the bed, and he watched me as I walked across to my bag
   and selected some clothes for the day. When I dropped my towel I faced
   away from him, as I always did when I dressed, and I pulled up my
   panties and tucked myself back in them and then reached for my bra.

   "Em, I'm sorry," Steve said. I turned to face him. "About last night,
   I mean."

   I thought that was all I needed to hear and I turned to look at him.
   In the subdued light through the crack between the curtains I could
   see his blue eyes, shadowed with dark rings beneath them from lack of
   sleep and who knows what else. I knew he meant the apology sincerely,
   and I crossed the floor to him and sat on his lap. He cupped my left
   breast in his hand. I lay my head against his. We sat with our arms
   around each other for a few minutes, not saying anything, just feeling
   closeness with each other.

   Eventually there was the issue of Steve's drug use to consider. I
   didn't quite know how to bring it up, and Steve seemed to sense that I
   wanted to say something but couldn't. "It will all be okay, Em, I
   promise," he said. "I can keep it under control."

   I didn't really believe that but I didn't want to fight with him.
   Instead I lay down on the bed and he lay next to me and touched me, so
   gently, on the face and neck and breasts. I felt those familiar
   butterflies running through my insides in a soft fluttering as my body
   responded to his touch.

   We touched each other slowly and softly and sweetly as though we were
   discovering each other for the first time, both afraid but entranced
   by one another. He was hard, and I ran my fingers lightly up and down
   the length of his cock as he stroked his fingers up my belly and over
   my breasts and neck to my mouth. Then he bent over me and started
   kissing my neck, and my breasts, and my stomach, and then my thighs
   and all the way down to my toes. I tried to give his cock more
   attention but he pushed me back on the bed and continued to stroke me
   and kiss me, and then nibble on my nipples until I thought my insides
   were going to melt. Whenever he did those things to my breasts I felt
   the sensations somewhere deep inside me, in a way that went right to
   my core, and it was beautiful and scary all at the same time -- scary
   because it felt like if I gave in to the blissful sensations my body
   would melt away, dissolve away, and never come back. I felt warm and
   soft and pliable, and gradually I became aware that I was moving my
   hips, needing him, wanting him in me to respond to those movements.
   After who knows how long he paused in his kissing and nibbling and
   stroking and rolled me onto my front and pulled my panties down. He
   took a pillow from the top of the bed and thrust it under my hips, and
   then I felt him apply some lubricant to me and then position his cock
   at my opening while he put his hands under me to touch my breasts. In
   a moment he was inside me, in a quick thrust that made me cry out
   because it hurt, but then the hurt turned into something different, a
   deep satisfaction, and he was moving in me and I was moving my hips in
   return and he felt so good and I felt warm all over and tingling
   sensations in my nipples and crotch and then it was even more intense
   and I thought I wouldn't be able to bear his fingers on my nipples a
   moment longer and his cock felt like it would break me in two and then
   he found a spot inside me that sent me into spasms of pain and ecstasy
   and confusion and then again, more ecstasy, I needed him so badly, I
   wanted it never to end, never, and he thrust into me harder and
   stronger and we had never ever fucked like this, slow but strong and I
   kept spasming until I was weak and moaning and I thought I was going
   to lose myself forever. And then I did, there was no me, there was
   just us, just Steve and me as one and I had no thoughts, just
   sensations over and over and stronger and wider through my whole body
   radiating out from my belly but up through my arms and legs and then
   back again, my *whole* body, my fingertips, and I was hot and confused
   because there wasn't only me, there was us, and then his breathing
   changed and we were fucking more quickly, urgently and there was a
   grunting noise coming from one of us and some moaning from the other
   and then Steve came inside me with a gasp, and it was him and me again
   and he thrust six, eight, twelve times into me and collapsed on top of
   me. I could hear his breathing next to my ear and he whispered my
   name, "Emma, Emma... Emma."

   ***

   Chapter Fourteen

   During the next few days Steve and I maintained a different kind of
   relationship than we had before I discovered the heroin. In some ways
   we were even closer, but in others... I think I had lost some of the
   respect I had for him. Before, he was invincible. Afterward... I
   couldn't understand why he felt that way; why he felt so bad about
   himself that he needed it.

   I was sure Steve was still shooting up. Whenever we got into town he
   would disappear for a few hours, and he always looked distant and dull
   when he showed up to play. After that bad night in Mobile his
   performance improved, though -- in fact in Columbus, two nights later,
   he put in one of the best sets I'd ever heard him play. After the show
   he left alone, without talking to anyone. I went back to the motel
   with Wendy, Bo and Maggie. "Great show," Bo said, "but this ain't what
   I signed up for, y'know?" I nodded sadly.

   The next morning I woke to find Steve laying on the bed next to me
   again, and he apologized once more.

   I looked deep into his eyes.

   "Steve, what is it you want?"

   "I don't know, Em," he whispered. "I don't know."

   "Is there something I can do to help?"

   He didn't say anything. We both lay together for about five minutes
   without saying anything at all. Then he turned his head back to look
   at me and said quietly "You don't know what it's like. You should try
   it."

   I didn't see how both of us developing a drug problem was going to
   help us. "I don't think so, Steve."

   "Just once, Em. Then you'll know why."

   I didn't want to lecture him. I just knew that wasn't the way to bring
   us back together. Steve wasn't going to give it up just because I said
   so, and I knew from watching him in the preceding few days that if I
   made him choose between me and the drugs I'd lose. Not at first -- I
   hoped that initially he would choose me --but one day I'd find another
   needle. I ran my hand over the stubble on his cheek. His skin was dry
   and dull-looking.

   "When did you start?" I asked.

   "Uh... the first time was about a week after we arrived in Oxford.
   Leon and me were out at a place over to the west, listening to some
   wild music, and we hung out with the guys playing it later on, and
   they offered it and, you know... it was alright."

   "Leon was doing it too?"

   "He decided he didn't want to keep on doing it. I think he thought he
   liked it too much."

   "Was he right?" I wished Leon had stayed. He had been good for Steve.

   Steve shrugged.

   "Who do you get it from?" I asked.

   "All over. It's not hard, Em."

   "You've been buying it in places we've toured?"

   He nodded. "I scored some in Memphis, and Houston, and Mobile."

   That gave me something else to worry about. I would always wonder
   whether he was going to get arrested for heroin when he went out. It
   wasn't enough that he was a wanted escapee, now he was a drug addict
   too. There had been very little in the plastic bag when I had found it
   in Mobile, and I guessed that he would need to get more soon. If he
   hadn't already.

   "You said you could keep it under control, but that's not true, is it,
   Steve?"

   "Emma, you know you mean everything to me. I wish... I wish you could
   understand this."

   We hit the road to Atlanta. Although our shows had been great since
   the debacle at Mobile, the atmosphere in the van was bad. No-one felt
   much like talking, except Maggie who kept trying to cheer everyone up
   without much success. When 'No Questions' came on the radio as we were
   driving into Atlanta nobody smiled, and Brett turned the volume down
   on the pretext of asking for directions and not being able to hear
   Bo's reply. At the venue Steve bailed on us as soon as the sound check
   was over, as usual, and I went back with Maggie to the cheap motel
   we'd checked into earlier.

   I called the apartment in Oxford. Pris answered, sounding cheerful. It
   was great to hear her voice. She was on her own because Julia and Pete
   had gone to Jackson for the weekend with some friends. "It's kind of
   quiet without you," she said. I didn't want to tell her about Steve
   and the drugs over the phone, so I talked about the shows we'd done
   and she told me about the events of her week. I was suddenly lonely
   and wishing I was back in Oxford. After I finished talking to Pris I
   rang Elroy and felt even more homesick. He told me he was missing me,
   too. We talked for about ten minutes until my supply of dimes was used
   up.

   I was still musing over what to do about Steve, and so Maggie tried to
   divert me by steering me into a co-operative beauty session. We spent
   the late afternoon in my motel room painting each other's nails and
   fooling with our hair. I touched up the roots of Maggie's hair --
   which wasn't naturally blonde at all -- using a bleaching kit we
   picked up at a drugstore around the corner, and she helped me put mine
   in rollers and then style it with lots more body.

   Steve still wasn't back at the motel at 7.00pm, when we were due to
   head off to the gig, so we all waited, and waited next to the van in
   the parking lot. Brett was really pissed at him for being late.

   At 7.45 Steve finally showed up, completely stoned. Whatever Brett was
   planning to say to him never came out, since it was obvious that
   arguing with Steve while he was in that state would be fruitless. We
   got to the venue at 8.30 and went on for our first set at 9.00. The
   place was cavernous, maybe the biggest bar I'd ever seen, but it was
   packed with college kids who gave us a huge welcome when we took the
   stage.

   I never really understood how Steve could play so well while he was so
   out of it, but he could. If anything he played even better when he was
   stoned. Perhaps he wasn't great in a technical sense, but when he was
   stoned the feeling that he put into the music was extraordinary. It
   was like he was feeling the music as much as playing it.

   The rest of us were just as good that night. Whether we all fed off
   Steve or just finally learned to put our differences aside and really
   play as a band, everyone came together for three really powerful sets
   of music. We did an encore, and then we were out of original material
   and so for the second encore we did a high-octane frenetic version of
   one of Brett's recent discoveries, Pete Shelley's 'Ever Fallen In Love
   (With Someone You Shouldn't've)' with him out front and me backing and
   then closed with me doing a rather melancholy version of an obscure
   song we'd practiced at the soundcheck the past three days, 'Junk Man'.
   It was a song I'd liked a lot since I'd heard Pris playing it in the
   apartment a few weeks earlier, but now there was an ironic tinge to
   the words.

   "Southside girls they told me That you were hot as fire And I remember
   every word you said When you told me I'd get burned I said don't worry
   baby I'll just live and learn I should have listened to the junk man"

   When you're onstage under lights it's hard to see past the first row
   or two of people in front of you unless the bar is very well lit too.
   Most of them aren't. You can see thirty or so faces, and between songs
   you can occasionally hear louder people further back, but mostly
   you're only aware of the people onstage with you. You get almost all
   of your feedback from the crowd at the end of each song. With the
   exception of the Mobile show, the applause had been getting better and
   better every night we'd been on the road, and in Atlanta that night
   the crowd stomped and hooted for more for a full three minutes after
   our third encore.

   Because we couldn't see, or hear above the ruckus, we didn't know when
   we finished the encore that the police had entered the bar, and so we
   all went backstage unaware of any problem. Once we got into the room
   set aside for us I could see as soon as Steve laid his guitar down
   that he was about to head out into the night again, and I went over to
   him and put my arms around him. "Stay with me tonight," I said softly.

   He looked at me and I could see he was momentarily torn, but I knew
   I'd lose and was a fool for trying. "I'll only be a little while, Em,
   I won't be late." He pulled away from my arms and walked out of the
   room and out the back door. Bo looked at me and shrugged, then passed
   me a beer.

   About 30 seconds after Steve had left the cops showed up at the door
   to the room. I was busy helping Rick with some cables and didn't
   notice them at first. It was only when I became aware that everyone
   else in the room had stopped moving that I looked up. There were two
   of them, a man and a woman, both in plain clothes, both holding badges
   up for us to see. The guy was probably in charge, because he spoke
   first.

   "Looking for Steve Hammond," he said to Brett, who was closest to him.

   Brett looked over at me and then at the rest of us before he looked
   back at the cops. None of us knew what to do. Finally I spoke up. "You
   just missed him." I nodded toward the corridor that led to the back
   door.

   At that moment we heard a loud cracking sound outside through the
   small barred window in the room that opened onto the parking lot. My
   heart went into my throat. I recognized the sound, even though it was
   further away than the last time I had heard it. It was a gunshot. The
   male cop ran toward the back door and the policewoman drew her gun and
   pointed it at us one by one.

   I felt the beginnings of panic.

   None of us moved. It wasn't just because of the gun pointed at us; we
   were all hanging on the next sounds. From the bar there was the dull
   thump of some canned music that management had put on after we
   finished playing, but we were waiting to hear what was going on
   outside. In a few seconds we heard shouting, it sounded like the cop,
   and then we heard a siren, briefly. It seemed like it was right below
   the window. Then some more, indistinct shouting, and then just the
   dull thump thump of the bass from the music in the bar.

   The policewoman broke us from our freeze. "You all in the band?"

   Brett spoke up this time. "Yes ma'am."

   "'Cept Maggie and Wendy," Bo said, indicating them with a nod of his
   head. "They work behind the scenes." That wasn't quite true in
   Maggie's case, but it was the shortest way to explain their
   involvement.

   "Would you mind not pointing that thing at me?" Jim asked the
   policewoman. She showed no sign of lowering the gun. She didn't look
   much older than any of us, I reflected. She was nervous, and her
   nervousness while armed was making us all nervous. We all looked at
   one another uncertainly.

   In a few moments the male cop came back to the door, looking flushed
   and sweaty, accompanied by two uniformed cops. "Okay, everyone, up
   against the wall,' he yelled. "Arms on the wall, legs apart!"

   There was shouted chorus of complaint from everyone except me. I knew
   how this worked from my time at Brand.

   "I said up against the wall, people!" One of the uniformed cops
   grabbed Brett's shoulder and muscled him toward the wall, then forced
   his hands upward. The rest of us reluctantly followed suit. The
   policewoman came over to Maggie and began to frisk her roughly. I
   figured she'd probably get to me next. I could hear the other cops
   patting the guys down. My panic was increasing as I was wondering what
   the shot meant, worrying about where Steve was, and feeling sick.

   Bo gave voice to all our thoughts. "What happened outside?"

   "Your friend just shot a cop," the male plainclothes policeman said
   with venom. At that point all my senses failed me and I hit the floor.

   ***

   I came to with four people standing over me: the two plainclothes
   police, Bo and Maggie. It took me a little while to focus enough to
   make out their faces, and a little longer to realize where I was and
   what had happened.

   "Are you alright?" The policewoman asked me.

   Steve shot a cop? It didn't make any sense. Steve never carried a gun.
   The only time I'd ever seen him anywhere near one was in the cabin
   when he shot Travis, and those were exceptional circumstances. I
   couldn't imagine what he'd want a gun for.

   "Emma?" It was Maggie asking this time.

   I blinked a couple of times and tried to sit up. Whoa. Slowly, I
   thought to myself as my head spun again for a moment.

   "Are you okay?" Maggie asked again.

   "Yes. Yeah... Yes, I think so. What happened?" My head hurt. I must
   have hit it on a nearby chair when I went down.

   "You passed out, Em," Bo said. In the background I could hear the
   other cops taking names and addresses from Jim, Rick and Brett.

   "No... no, I mean what happened to Steve?"

   "Munsey, call for another ambulance," the female cop said. "We need to
   get her checked out."

   "No ambulance," I said. "I'll be okay. What happened to Steve?"

   "I don't know yet," she admitted. She mouthed 'do it' to one of the
   uniformed cops. "I was in here with you. The report back was that your
   friend shot a cop in the parking lot."

   "Steve would never do that," I said. I looked around for the male
   plainclothes cop but he had left the room. "Please can you find out
   --"

   "-- What's your name?" she interrupted.

   "Emma Donaldson," I said. I was sharp enough to remember that the
   license Pete had given me said 'Donaldson' instead of Boyle. I noticed
   Bo look at me strangely, though. He only knew my surname as Boyle.

   "What's your relationship to Steve Hammond?" she gave me her hand and
   helped pull me up to rest in one of the room's few chairs.

   "He's my boyfriend," I said. "Can you find out what's happened to
   him?" I wondered whether he really had shot a cop. It didn't make any
   sense. Had the cop busted him for heroin possession? Or was it
   something to do with Brand?

   My head hurt.

   "How old are you?" she asked.

   "Nineteen."

   "You don't look it."

   "Yeah, that's what everyone says."

   "Lean over," the Policewoman continued. "It'll help keep the blood to
   your brain."

   I put my head down. The uniformed cops had finished taking names and
   addresses, and there was relative quiet in the room. Outside I could
   hear car doors slamming and many voices, all too low to be understood
   above the bass from the music next door. Even with my head down I felt
   dizzy, and sick. I thought of Steve onstage just twenty minutes ago,
   and I raised my head again to argue with the policewoman and find out
   what had happened. As soon as my head came above my shoulders I knew I
   wasn't in a fit state to argue with anyone. My head swam and I felt
   sick. I felt a dull ache inside me, in that part of my belly that
   Steve had made feel so good so many times. There was a sharper pain on
   the back of my head, but it didn't hurt in the same deep way that my
   insides did.

   "We'd like you all to come down to the station to make statements," I
   heard the policewoman say to the others before she turned back to me
   and said "I'm still going to have a doctor look at you."

   "I'll go with her," I heard Maggie say. "If that's all right. You can
   ask me questions there, right?"

   "What about our stuff?" Brett asked. I could tell he was still pissed
   from being frisked. I realized they hadn't frisked me yet, unless it
   was when I was unconscious. Maybe they had, and that was why the
   policewoman wanted me to see a doctor. I wondered what she thought if
   she knew my secret. I wondered whether the others knew now too. Bo and
   Maggie had seemed concerned when they were leaning over me, so it
   seemed unlikely, but... None of this was making a lot of sense to me.
   What had happened to Steve? I needed to know before I could think
   properly about anything else. I began to weep, noiselessly.

   "Your stuff will be locked up, here. We may need to search this room
   anyway," the policewoman said as though she was only just thinking of
   the possibility.

   "We don't have to go to the station, do we?" Rick said. His voice also
   indicated he was hostile after being frisked. "I mean, if you're not
   charging us with anything."

   "Is there something we should be charging you with?" One of the
   uniformed cops said darkly.

   The police began hustling the guys out of the room. "I'm gonna stay
   with Emma," Maggie said to Bo. To the policewoman, she said "Where
   will you send her?"

   The policewoman shrugged. "Probably Northside."

   "Can you go there after the police station?" Maggie asked Bo. "I think
   we'll be there a while." I felt her hand on my shoulder. I idly
   wondered why she thought we'd be a while.

   The guys left with the uniformed cops and about five minutes later two
   paramedics arrived to take me to hospital. Before we left I was able
   to raise my head, and I saw the policewoman talking to the male
   plainclothes cop in the corridor. I tried to hear what they were
   saying but it was difficult

   "Are you in any pain?" one of the paramedics asked me as he took my
   pulse. I was puzzled at all the attention. All I really wanted to know
   was what had happened to Steve. Was he alright? I still felt sick, and
   my head hurt, but none of that meant anything until I knew whether or
   not Steve was okay. He injected something into my arm.

   "It's not her fault if she has lousy taste in men," I overheard the
   policewoman say in a brief break in the music from the bar. The guy's
   reply was lost as the next song began.

   Whatever the paramedic gave me began to kick in, and the rest of the
   night became a bit of a blur. I remember the back of the ambulance was
   crowded. I was lying down on one side of the compartment. The
   paramedic was next to my head on the other side, and next to him near
   my arm was Maggie who was holding my hand. At the rear near my feet
   was the policewoman. She kept trying to ask me questions. I don't
   remember what I answered. I remember Maggie was great.

   The policewoman told me Steve was uninjured but had been arrested.
   More than that she either didn't know or didn't want to say.

   We arrived at the hospital I was put on a gurney and wheeled into a
   little cubicle with a bed in it, and various doctors and nurses asked
   me questions. Maggie answered a lot of them. I had to answer the dumb
   ones, like where was I and what day was it and who was the President,
   and then they did stuff like stroke the bottom of my foot with
   something sharp, apparently to test my reflexes. Eventually a doctor
   started poking around at the back of my head. From his questions and
   comments I realized that I had a large gash at the back of my head
   where I had hit it on a metal chair as I fainted. That explained why
   my head hurt so much. I hadn't bled too badly, but they wanted to make
   sure I was okay. The doctor was finding it hard to see the wound
   through all my hair.

   "You're not going to cut my hair, are you?" All of a sudden I was
   overcome with paranoia about that. I thought that if my hair was cut I
   might look more like a boy, even though I knew that was unlikely from
   my own experiments tying it back.

   "I don't think we'll need to do that," the doctor reassured me. "I can
   see it now." He wiped the wound with something and made some 'Uh huh'
   noises, and then told me I could sit back against the pillow again.

   "I don't think it's as bad as it looks," he said. ."But we'll do some
   x-rays to be sure. Are you pregnant?" He asked. When I didn't say
   anything, he said "What's wrong?". I looked past him at the
   Policewoman and Maggie, and he took the hint and asked them to leave
   the cubicle for a few minutes. Then he asked me the same kinds of
   questions Dr. Bagley had asked me back in Mississippi. I wondered if
   he was going to want to do a pelvic exam. I figured the answer was no,
   so I pretended everything was normal, and didn't tell him the truth
   about my body. He seemed to accept my answers. I guess he had no
   reason to doubt them.

   Then the Doctor had me shunted off to x-ray while the policewoman
   asked Maggie a lot of questions about Steve. By the time I got back Bo
   was there, along with Brett and Wendy.

   "You okay, kiddo?" Brett asked.

   "Yeah, I guess. Do you know how Steve is?"

   "He's in a shitload of trouble, Emma." Brett looked. "I can't believe
   that he did it, but..." he glanced at the policewoman, who was still
   sitting at the other side of the cubicle. I think he realized we
   couldn't really talk about Steve with her present.

   "You guys are all okay, though?"

   "Yeah," Bo said. "They just asked us a bunch of questions, like how
   long had we known Steve, that sort of thing."

   "That's good," I said. "I was worried about Steve, but I was worried
   about you guys, too."

   "Em, do you have the number for his sister? We should, you know, get
   him a lawyer and stuff," Brett said.

   I gave Brett the number. "I don't know if Julia... Um, Julia has
   money, but not a lot of her own. And Steve didn't exactly see eye to
   eye with his Dad, you know?" I looked at the policewoman, unsure of
   whether I should say anything more. "Give her a call. No, no, wait."
   Maybe it was the drugs and all, but I had forgotten about my phone
   conversation with Pris momentarily. "She's away for the weekend. Um,
   can you, can you phone Pris instead? She might know how to get Julia.
   Tell her I'll call her as soon as I can, okay?"

   Maggie and the guys left, and it was just the policewoman and me in
   the cubicle. "Now that you're more lucid," she said, "perhaps we can
   go over a few more things."

   "Are you going to arrest me?" I asked.

   "I don't think so. Have you done anything wrong?"

   "No," I answered truthfully. If she had asked me if I'd done anything
   illegal, I might have thought about a different response. But I had
   done nothing wrong.

   "How long have you known Steve"

   So much for being truthful. From her comments and questions I was
   beginning to think she didn't know about my time at Brand. Maybe she
   didn't know about Steve's time there either. Of course, it would only
   be a matter of time until they found out about Steve's record. I
   wondered if he would say anything about me.

   "About six months," I lied.

   "Has he ever been in trouble before?"

   I didn't know if I should continue to answer her questions, because I
   knew that if my story was in any way different to Steve's they would
   use my deception against him. "I don't think --"

   "Emma, I'm just trying to help," she said.

   She had been pretty nice so far. That was pretty remarkable since
   Steve was accused of shooting a cop. I'd heard that when people do
   that the cops usually go crazy in revenge, Maybe it was because she
   was kind of young for a cop.

   On the other hand I didn't think for a moment that me speaking up
   would help Steve. Fortunately at that moment the Doctor returned.

   "I don't think I should say anything until I talk to a lawyer, you
   know? I don't want to get Steve into trouble," I said to the
   policewoman.

   Her eyes narrowed and I wondered whether my stance would make her look
   more closely into my own background. But after trying one more time to
   get my cooperation she gave up. She turned to the Doctor "Are you
   going to keep her all night?"

   "I think so," he said. "Just for observation."

   She left, and then the Doctor left. An orderly came and wheeled my
   gurney up to a ward with three other women in it, and then a nurse
   came and gave me a pill. I lay there worrying about Steve and
   wondering what was going to happen until the pill kicked in and I
   slept.

   ***

   The next morning a nurse woke me at about 7.00am. I guess people get
   woken up early in hospitals. She looked at my chart, and then at my
   head, and told me the doctor would come to see me later in the
   morning. At 8.30am she came to give me a message. "A guy who says he's
   your boyfriend's lawyer called. That make sense to you?" I nodded. She
   gave me a slip of paper with a name and number on it.

   I got up and showered and tried to fix my hair as best I could. My
   scalp was very tender and it hurt to brush my hair much, so I tried to
   untangle it but I left it loose and a little untidy. Pris would have
   called the look I wound up with 'bedroom hair,' I thought. I wondered
   if she had managed to talk to Julia yet. My mascara had run in all the
   trauma of the night before and I had slept without cleaning my makeup
   off, so I looked a fright. I cleaned off my face as best I could and
   then dressed and sat on the bed to await the doctor. The woman in the
   bed next to me struck up a conversation with me and offered to let me
   use some of the cleanser and moisturizer she had in her cosmetic case,
   and that made me feel a lot better.

   At about 10.00am a couple of doctors I hadn't seen before came by and
   inspected my head and announced I could be discharged, and by 11.00am
   I was outside, under the covered entry to the hospital, wondering what
   to do next. As I stood by the door a drunk wandered up to me. He
   looked like he hadn't washed in years. "Aaarrrrr," he slurred. He
   didn't look very old, perhaps only thirty-five, although it was hard
   to see his face under his wild mane of dirty hair. I wondered what had
   happened to him to reduce him to this. A security guard and someone in
   a white medical-type coat moved toward us and took one of his arms
   each.

   "Stupid cops," the drunk muttered.

   "Can I help you?" the medical guy said.

   "Need to see a Doctor." As he said this he raised his face, and looked
   straight into my eyes. For a drunk, his gaze was quite disturbing. His
   eyes, I realized with a start, looked just like Steve's when he was
   high.

   "What's the problem."

   "Need to see a Doctor," the bum repeated. He was still staring at me.
   I turned away.

   Yeah, buddy, everybody wants to see the Doctor," the security guard
   said.

   "Your name is?" the medical guy asked.

   "Jesus Christ," the bum said coolly.

   "Ah, yes, we've been expecting you." The Security guard turned to me
   and smiled. "Sorry about that, Miss." As they led him away he called
   out something about salvation to me but I could only make out that
   word.

   I was shaken by the way the bum had stared at me, and I went back into
   the lobby of the hospital and sat down for a moment. After a few
   moments I got up and tried calling the motel to talk with Brett, but
   the guy at reception told me that everyone in our group had checked
   out already. I was stunned. We were supposed to be staying in Atlanta
   for two nights. Why would they check out early when we still had
   another show to do tonight? I guessed the show was off because of
   Steve. But I was surprised that they had left without letting me know.
   I understood that they might have been upset about Steve, but I
   wondered what I had said or done to make them so angry with me that
   they'd leave me behind.

   I asked if they had paid for our room and the guy on the phone seemed
   surprised and said no. I figured that made sense, since Steve and I
   had always paid for our own room and the guy in the motel probably
   thought we were still in bed. He seemed alarmed that I was phoning and
   asking these questions -- he probably thought I was going to skip off
   without paying. I reassured him that I would come back. "My stuff's
   still there, and my boyfriend's still here," I said.

   Then I phoned the number on the message the nurse had given me. A kid
   answered the phone. I guessed it was the lawyer's home number. "May I
   speak with David Breslin?" I asked. I could hear footsteps thudding on
   a wooden floor as the kid ran off to get him, and a few moments later
   David Breslin came to the phone.

   "I'm Emma Donaldson," I said. "I got a message you called."

   "Thanks for calling back, Emma," he said. "I need to talk to you about
   Steve."

   "Is he alright? Where is he? What's going to happen to him?"

   "Can we meet?"

   "This morning? Sure," I said. I had nowhere else to go except back to
   the motel. "Is Steve okay?"

   "Steve is fine. Are you still at the hospital?"

   I said yes, and he asked me to meet him at a coffee shop a few blocks
   down the road in 30 minutes. "I think I'll recognize you from Steve's
   description of you," he said.

   I hung up the phone and walked down the road to the coffee shop. It
   was developing into another warm day, and I had to take my jacket off.
   I felt kind of conspicuous walking along the street, because I still
   had on the clothes from the show the night before, and going braless
   in the black halter top wasn't something I had ever done during the
   day before. A couple of guys in a passing car yelled something at me
   and I knew it was a comment on my breasts, or maybe my ass in the
   tight jeans I was wearing, and I noticed that the men I passed as I
   was walking all looked at my chest instead of my face, but there
   wasn't anything I could do about the way I looked until I got back to
   the motel.

   The coffee shop had a dozen or so tables and was fairly busy for a
   Saturday morning. I ordered some juice and a danish and sat to wait
   for the lawyer. A guy at the neighboring table was reading the
   'Journal-Constitution'. There was a paper stand outside and I went and
   bought one and returned to the table. On page 5 there was an article
   about the shooting, and it named the cop, Anthony Figueroa, and Steve
   Hammond "musician and heroin addict". It made me depressed. Here it
   was in black and white. The article was short on details, but it said
   that the police had visited the bar looking for Steve. "Hammond had
   recently escaped from a juvenile detention centre, but was recognized
   by a sharp-eyed highway patrolman who stopped a vehicle he was in some
   days earlier... " The article said. "As Hammond fled the bar there was
   a scuffle with Officer Figueroa, and Hammond allegedly shot Figueroa
   with the officer's own gun."

   The radio that was playing in the cafe had just begun the opening bars
   of 'No Questions' when I heard a voice. "You're Emma Donaldson,
   right?"

   I looked up. A sandy-haired guy in his early thirties wearing jeans
   and a plaid shirt was standing at the other side of the table. He
   didn't look much like a lawyer, I thought. More the kind of guy who'd
   mow lawns. He had a friendly look on his face, and a charm in his
   voice that was different to Steve's but still kind of disarming.

   I nodded agreement.

   "I'm David Breslin, Emma."

   "Uh huh. Hi. How is Steve?"

   "He's fine. The cops were pretty rough on him, but he's okay now. I
   got to see him late last night. He asked me to meet with you."

   "He's not hurt or anything?"

   "No, he's fine. Not exactly happy, but that's understandable. He's in
   a cell by himself."

   "What's going to happen to him, Mr.. ah... Breslin?"

   "Call me David, please Emma. I can't really say until I know some more
   about what's going on. I've talked to Steve. He's told me a great
   deal. Now I need to talk to some of the other people who were with him
   in recent weeks. You are his girlfriend, right?"

   I nodded again. Stay calm, be nice, I thought.

   "Well, we need somewhere private to talk," he said. "I would have
   suggested that we meet at my office but I live close by and I thought
   it was silly for both of us to travel downtown. Do you have somewhere
   you need to be after this? Maybe I could drive you there and we could
   talk in the car."

   "Uh, I'd *really* like to go back to the hotel and get changed," I
   said. "If that's okay."

   I felt awkward about getting into a car with a strange man, but he was
   Steve's lawyer and I figured I could trust him. We walked out onto the
   street and he guided me to his battered old Mercedes. I think I had
   been expecting him to have a newer car since he was a lawyer, but
   Public Defenders don't make a lot of money. He was a gentleman,
   though, and he opened the door for me and closed it after I was
   seated. I discovered I liked it. I liked it that he had done that,
   even though it was such a trivial thing. I leant over to the driver's
   side and popped up the lock so he could get in easier. He smiled.

   I gave him the address of the motel. I realized that I had no real
   idea how to get there, and that I had put myself completely at this
   guy's mercy, and would have to trust that he was taking me to the
   motel instead of someplace private where he could do terrible things
   to me... I looked over at his face. He didn't look like the serial
   killer type. As though I knew what serial killers looked like.

   "Well, Emma, I'd like you to start from the beginning. Where did you
   meet Steve?"

   I looked at him uncertainly. Where should I begin? I still hadn't
   worked out why nobody had come after me. And I was still shaken up
   from the events of the previous night.

   I wondered what Steve had told him, and whether he knew the *truth*
   about me.

   I supposed he noticed my hesitation, because he continued. "Emma, you
   don't have to worry about Steve. I'm his lawyer; I'm here to defend
   him. I won't be trying to trick you into anything." He turned away
   from the road for a moment and smiled again. "Now the police, and the
   district attorney, they'll be trying to trick you."

   "I figured that already."

   "Yeah." He returned his attention to the road. "They're usually not
   that subtle."

   "What about me?"

   "What do you mean?"

   "Well, what if what I say gets me in trouble?"

   He seemed genuinely puzzled. "There aren't any charges against you,
   Emma."

   "Might there be?"

   "Are you worried about something?"

   "I don't know whether I should say anything."

   "Emma, I'm only trying to help Steve."

   "If you're my lawyer, then anything I say to you can't be passed on to
   anyone else, can it?"

   "That's true Emma. But only if I'm your lawyer."

   I considered this for a moment. "Will you be my lawyer?"

   "I don't think so, Emma. I'm a public defender. I get assigned to
   cases. Even if I could, well... I don't know what your concerns are,
   but whoever represents you should be independent. If you think there's
   any chance they might come after you... I don't know why they would,
   but if they do, for some reason, then you need to get someone
   independent."

   I suppose I looked depressed. I looked down at my knees.

   "I can't afford a lawyer, anyway," I said glumly.

   "Will you tell me your version of last night's events anyway? Anything
   you say to me is probably going to be useless in court anyway. Even if
   I wanted to repeat it, it would only count as hearsay unless you said
   it again in court."

   He seemed trustworthy, but I decided to err on the side of caution,
   and not give away anything that the guys wouldn't have already told
   the cops. I recounted what I'd heard outside in the parking lot -- the
   sirens, the shouting, the shots. There really wasn't a whole lot to
   tell. I hadn't seen anything -- none of us had.

   "How did you and Steve meet?"

   Here was the time to see whether Steve had told him everything. I
   decided to lie. "Music stuff, you know..."

   "Uh huh. And this was, ah...?"

   "About six months ago, when he got out of Brand."

   "So you know about that."

   "We don't have many secrets, really."

   Breslin was a nice guy, but I didn't think Steve was going to do too
   well with him. He seemed dedicated -- here he was turning up to meet
   me on a Saturday morning -- but the case seemed pretty difficult. At
   least he knew that. "I won't kid you, Emma, being charged with
   shooting a cop is about as serious as it gets," he said. "Plus he has
   a record already, and..." He let the sentence trail off. He didn't
   need to emphasize the problems.

   We drove for about 35 minutes until we arrived back at the motel. As
   the day was wearing on I was feeling worse and worse. My mind already
   knew that Steve's situation was hopeless, but my heart wasn't ready to
   take on that burden yet. We sat in the car outside the motel room as
   David asked me a few more questions. We discussed Steve's drug use,
   and his behavior in the weeks leading up to the shooting. "Can you put
   me in touch with the other band members?"

   "I would, but I don't know where they are," I admitted. I was still
   hurt that they had checked out of the motel without calling me, and it
   probably showed in my voice. "I think they've probably gone back to
   Mississippi."

   "They left without you?" he asked.

   "Yes... I honestly don't know..." I was close to tears. I tried to
   pull myself together and show some control. "I'm sorry I can't be more
   helpful," I said formally. "Can I see Steve?"

   "He's not allowed any visitors right now, Emma," David said gently.
   "Just me."

   "Can you at least give him a message for me?"

   "Sure," he said.

   I thought for a moment. There were so many things I want to say to
   Steve. I remembered the conversations we had conducted using Carlos
   Gonzales as our intermediary. Breslin was unlikely to remember much at
   all with everything else that was on his mind. Keep it simple, I told
   myself. "Tell him 'Wild Horses'," I said.

   "Wild Horses?" He seemed puzzled.

   "Couldn't drag me away," I finished. "He'll know what it means."

   "Okay." He looked doubtful. "Anything else?"

   "Can you get something to him?"

   "He can't really have any possessions until they move him to prison to
   await trial. That will happen later on today. I can get something to
   him then. What did you have in mind"

   "A guitar," I said. "Music keeps him going."

   I gave David the number of the motel and scribbled Julia's number back
   in Oxford down as well. "I don't know when I'll be back there. In the
   meantime I'll probably be here. Can you let me know when Steve will be
   allowed visitors?"

   "I'll see what I can find out, Emma." He paused. "Are you going to be
   okay here?"

   "I think so," I said. I really had no idea what I was going to do, but
   I didn't want to burden him with anything more than Steve's problems.

   He gave me his business card and scrawled his home number on the
   reverse. "If you think of anything else you want to say, or if you
   need anything, give me a call, okay?"

   "Thanks," I said as I got out of the car. I watched him drive off with
   a heavy heart. He was Steve's best hope, and while he was a nice guy I
   didn't think nice was going to cut it in the courts.

   ***

   I went into the motel reception area, depressed as hell. I called
   Pris, but the phone just rang off. I stood in the reception area and
   held the handset in my hands, trying to work out what to do. Most of
   what I owned was in the room two hundred feet away, but that wasn't so
   important, really. I stood there, confused. I had no place to go,
   except maybe back to Oxford. I wasn't sure I could afford to pay for
   the motel room if I stayed, but I couldn't think of anything else to
   do. I wanted to see Steve, and I couldn't do that in Oxford.

   Eventually I rang Elroy.

   "How you doin' honey?" he said as soon as he heard my voice. "Brett
   called, told me what happened. Is Steve okay? Is there anyone you want
   me to call?"

   I wanted to stay calm, but hearing Elroy's voice made me suddenly
   emotional. Damned hormones or something. I broke down in tears and it
   took him a few minutes to get anything coherent out of me. "Elroy,
   it's just terrible, they're going to throw the book at Steve and the
   cops were really horrible to him the guys have just left me and I need
   a lawyer and I can't afford it and --"

   "Slow down, honey. Now, why do *you* need a lawyer?"

   Silence.

   "Where are you?"

   "I'm at the motel."

   "The one y'all were in yesterday?"

   "Yes. I didn't know where else to go, and my stuff was still here and
   I had to get it anyway and..."

   "Have any money?"

   "Uh, no, not really," I said sheepishly.

   "What do you mean, the guys just left you?"

   "They checked out of the motel and... well, I don't know where they've
   gone, Elroy."

   "They were supposed to collect you from the hospital," Elroy said. "I
   spoke to Brett this morning and he said they were going over to get
   you and bring you home."

   "Well, I didn't see them."

   "I expect they'll be looking for you over there. Okay. Back to this
   business of the lawyer. What's Steve's lawyer like?'

   "He's the public defender or whatever they're called. He seems okay,
   so far."

   "What did he tell you?"

   "He can't tell how it's going to turn out yet, but it doesn't look
   really good."

   "What about you? Why do you need a lawyer? Did you do anything last
   night? Are you doin' drugs, girl?"

   "No! No, it's... Elroy, I can't tell you. I'm sorry. I just needed
   someone to talk to. But you're right, I can't burden you with this --"

   "-- What do you mean, 'you're right' and 'burden'? Emma, my dear, I
   care about you, y'know. I know I come over all gruff sometimes, but
   that's just an act. Whatever it is that's wrong, you know it won't
   change the way I think about you. You're just about the sweetest girl
   I know, and --"

   I hung up.

   I felt really guilty doing it, but I couldn't even begin to explain to
   Elroy what my fear about my own situation was. I wished Julia or Pris
   would answer the phone. I tried their number one more time, without
   success.

   I stumbled back to the room, and lay down on the bed. Around seven I
   tried Julia and Pris again. No luck. I didn't feel at all like eating,
   so I popped a Valium and lay down. My head was full of images of
   Steve, and the cops, and the bum that morning and his terrifying eyes.
   Jesus Christ, salvation. I remembered Steve's eyes the last time I saw
   them when we came offstage the night before, all dull and scary.
   Eventually the Valium kicked in and I went to sleep, a dull uneasy
   sleep filled with hospitals, the guards at Brand, Bo and Maggie,
   unseen gunshots and a wild eyed man who claimed he was Jesus Christ.

   ***

   Chapter Fifteen.

   I woke up because of the knocking at the door. I wasn't sure what had
   woken me up, at first, until I heard it again about fifteen seconds
   later. I got up and went to the door, still groggy from sleeping
   during the day and the Valium that was probably still in my system.

   It was Pris. Her eyes lit up when she saw me and she swept into the
   room and hugged me fiercely. "I came as soon as I got the call from
   Brett," she said. We separated after another minute of hugging, and
   she looked at me. "How's Steve?"

   "I uh, met with his lawyer this morning. He says he's okay,
   considering. They won't let him have visitors right now..." It felt so
   good to see Pris, but my emotions came to the surface again, and I
   became aware that I had tears running down my face. Pris wiped my
   eyes, and took me over to sit on the bed, and held me again until I
   stopped crying. I was cross with myself for being such a crybaby, but
   I felt much better afterward.

   Pris told me she had initially gone straight to the hospital, but they
   had told her I had been discharged, and so she had rung Elroy, hoping
   I might have called him, and he had told her where to find me. I
   wondered why Brett and the others hadn't thought to check back at the
   motel too. Maybe they were all still too freaked out by what had
   happened.

   "First thing," Pris said as she surveyed the motel room
   disapprovingly, "We're gonna get the hell out of this dump."

   I reminded her that I didn't have any money, but she dismissed my
   objections. "We'll take care of that later. Get your stuff, and let's
   check out, okay?"

   We gathered up my bag, and Steve's duffel, and carried them outside.
   It was dusk, and the temperature had just begun to drop, and I felt
   momentarily disoriented, as though everything that had gone on before
   had been a dream. I noticed that Pris had borrowed Julia's little
   yellow MG. Pris smiled at me. "I wasn't sure if my car would make it.
   She doesn't know yet. She and Pete are down in Jackson. I don't think
   she'll mind, in the circumstances." We slung the bag in the trunk and
   Pris settled up the motel bill in the office, and then we drove
   further into Atlanta to find somewhere else to stay. "I know people
   here in Atlanta, Emma. Everything will be fine."

   Being in Julia's car with the top down was pleasant in the evening
   air, although I had to get Pris to stop after a block so I could tie
   my hair back. I tucked the long ponytail down behind me so it wouldn't
   whip around in the wind as we drove. After about twenty minutes in the
   car Pris pulled off the freeway and we came to some beautiful,
   tree-lined streets with huge, expensive-looking houses and lavish
   gardens. Pris guided the little car past mansions and Mercedes. I had
   never seen so much money on display in my life. Every blade of grass
   was perfectly in place, every car polished, every house pristine. Pris
   swung the car into the cobbled semicircular driveway of an enormous
   white neo-Georgian mansion and shut off the engine.

   I looked at Pris expectantly. What were we doing here?

   "This," she announced with a smile, "is my Daddy's place."

   I was taken aback. Pris never talked much about her father. I knew
   that her parents were separated, and I knew that her father had
   remarried, but Pris never gave any sign that her family had money, and
   the house in front of us suggested that its owners had a great deal of
   money indeed.

   Pris seemed almost able to read my thoughts. "Momma was Daddy's first
   wife," she said as she opened the door of the car and stepped out.
   "Cindy is number two. I get along great with Daddy, but Cindy and I
   have never seen eye to eye, so I don't visit all that much."

   I got out of the car too, and felt underdressed just standing on the
   driveway. The house was only two storeys high, but as we had driven up
   I had noticed that it went back a very long way. A formal porch stood
   out from the front of the building, shielding the elaborate double
   doors at the main entrance from the elements. Bronze gryphons guarded
   the side of the porch as we went up the steps to the door, and a
   strange statue of a bulldog clad in a red and white football shirt sat
   beside the front doors. It looked cheesy and out of place amongst the
   grandeur of the rest of the house.

   Pris rang the doorbell and we waited. She must have sensed my
   nervousness because she reached for my hand and gave it a quick
   squeeze before the door opened. The man who held it was a giant, at
   least 6'4" tall and maybe 220lbs but still trim despite his age, which
   I guessed to be around fifty. His eyes settled on me first, but then
   quickly moved on to Pris, and his face broke out in a broad grin.

   "Hi Daddy," Pris said, and he gathered her into his arms. They hugged
   for a few moments before he released her. "Daddy, this is my friend
   Emma. Emma, this is my father, Daniel Arsenault."

   "Yes, yes," he said, still beaming. He had a deep, mellifluous voice
   which oozed charm without being in the slightest way sleazy, and a
   certain grace in his movements that suggested he might have been an
   athlete some years ago. Despite his age he remained a very good
   looking man. "Very pleased to meet you, Emma. Delighted."

   He stood aside and ushered us into the entrance hall. The inside of
   the house was everything the outside suggested, and my feeling that I
   was in a foreign country was increased. I knew my mother had only ever
   imagined such luxury. Although I had no way of knowing whether the
   paintings on the wall were expensive or the antiques authentic, the
   decor seemed like it had been meticulously planned down to the tiniest
   detail, and I thought to myself as we walked through that it looked
   more like pictures of museums I had seen than a house people lived in,
   and utterly at contrast with Mr. Arsenault's warmth. He led us through
   the building, past room after room decorated in heavy period style
   until we came to a much less formal room near the rear of the house.
   It was enormous, extending right across the back of one wing of the
   house, and seemed bright, cheerful almost, after the heavy period
   furnishings at the font of the house. There were four enormous wicker
   chairs with deep, soft green cushions at one end of the room and a
   large home entertainment system and bar at the other. French doors
   opened from it to a terrace paved in some kind of stone. Through the
   doors I could glimpse a very large pool below.

   Mr. Arsenault gestured to the chairs. "Why don't you girls have a seat
   and a drink and I'll see if I can rustle up Cindy."

   I noticed a faint trace of disapproval cross Pris's face when he said
   that. She sat down awkwardly. Part of her awkwardness might have had
   to do with the chairs, which swallowed us up when we sat, but mostly I
   think it was the mention of Cindy's name. Her father evidently noticed
   her tension because he walked around behind her and put his hands on
   her shoulder. "It's so good to have you here, my dear. You have no
   idea how happy it makes me to see you." He looked over toward me. "And
   it's a rare honor to have you here too, Emma. We so seldom get to see
   Priscilla, and she hasn't brought a friend with her for... I can't
   remember how long it's been."

   "Thanks, Daddy," Pris said. "Emma has been..." She paused, evidently
   thinking better of telling her father about Steve and me. "We were
   wondering if we could stay here for the night?"

   "But of course!" He exclaimed. "I'll be offended if you don't stay at
   least three or four. We'll make up your room. And a guest room for
   Emma. You should have called to let us know earlier, or I'd have had
   it organized."

   "I did call, Daddy. I spoke to Cindy."

   "Ah..." There was an awkward pause, and then he shook his head as
   though he wanted to clear a thought from it that way. "Well, I'm sure
   she was meaning to tell me." He took his hands from Pris's shoulders
   and walked to the other end of the room. "What can I get you to
   drink?"

   "Whiskey," Pris said, and turned to me. "Emma?"

   I had bad memories of whiskey from the time in the car after Travis
   was shot, so I shook my head. "Something non-alcoholic if that's okay.
   Coke, maybe?"

   "There ain't nothing else in Atlanta," Mr Arsenault smiled. He began
   pouring the drinks and made small talk with Pris about her progress at
   college. After a few minutes he set the drinks down on the coffee
   table and excused himself from the room.

   "Your Dad seems pretty cool," I said to Pris.

   "He is, isn't he," Pris said. "I'd like to see more of him, but..."
   Her voice trailed off.

   I waved my hand to indicate our surroundings. "You didn't tell me he
   was rich, though. I thought Julia was the one with all the money."

   Pris looked slightly uncomfortable. "Oh, I guess, you know, Daddy
   would give me pretty much anything I asked for, if I asked. But I
   mostly grew up with Momma, and she... Well, we never wanted for
   anything, Momma saw to that, but she didn't really approve of Daddy
   spending too much money on me... I think maybe she was afraid he was
   going to try to buy my affections or something stupid like that. Daddy
   and Momma had a pretty strained relationship for a long time, you
   know?"

   I nodded. "So, you used to live here?"

   "No, Daddy bought this place after he and Cindy got married four years
   ago. He used to live a few blocks away on Valley Road." She sipped at
   her drink. "I see Daddy about once every year, and he spends a lot of
   money on me, and that makes Momma angry, and... Anyway, I don't really
   need that much money, not the way Julia does. She's so into clothes
   and stuff. Daddy pays my share of the rent in our apartment, and
   anything else I ask for. He wanted to buy me a new car, but I don't
   like to upset Momma too much."

   Pris went on to describe her parents marriage break up. I was
   surprised that she seemed so calm about it, because it sounded very
   much as though Mr. Arsenault had been at fault in having an affair
   with another woman, and after a few minutes listening to her story I
   said so.

   "No. Not really, Emma. I think when people... when my Dad was looking
   for someone else, it was maybe because Momma was being... " She left
   the last part of the sentence unsaid and changed tack. "I love my
   Momma, but she's no angel either." She looked very sad, and I thought
   about hugging her, but getting up out of the enormous tub chairs would
   have been awkward. In any case we were interrupted by Mr. Arsenault
   and Cindy.

   Where to begin to describe Cindy? I think I described Julia as
   beautiful, and Pris was no slouch in the looks department either. But
   Cindy was astonishing, every guy's wet dream. Lightly tanned skin, an
   avalanche of golden blonde hair, plump sensual lips and a body she
   made sure to show off in a sleek azure silk shirt and white linen
   pants. Her legs looked like they made up most of her body. As we were
   introduced I thought to myself that she couldn't have been more than 5
   years older than Pris. Twenty-six, tops. Daniel Arsenault had his hand
   behind her back, almost as though he had needed to guide her toward
   us.

   I noticed Cindy's eyes pass over Pris and then settle on me, and I
   could see in them a calculation of my worth, of my place in the order
   of her world. I was immediately sure I was found wanting in some way.

   Mr. Arsenault introduced us and Cindy enquired politely about Pris's
   health and studies. Her voice was every bit as impressive as her
   looks, a soft contralto with a musical lilt that suggested many years
   at expensive schools in foreign lands. Although she hadn't said
   anything to indicate her sharpness of mind she *talked* as though she
   was speaking about important things, and although I knew Pris was
   uncomfortable with her I was impressed with Cindy's reserves of charm
   and grace. As Mr. Arsenault made her a drink she turned her attention
   to me. "Where are you from, Emma?"

   "Chicago, ma'am," I said. Inside myself I was conducting a dialogue
   with my heart, trying to work out why this woman was having such an
   entrancing effect on me. I wasn't sexually aroused or anything like
   that, but it was quite a novel experience to meet such a flawless
   beauty, and I was spellbound by her. I wondered if it was because I
   was really a guy that she had that effect on me, but it couldn't have
   been that. I didn't really want to sleep with Cindy, I just wanted to
   be near her. I almost felt guilty about my feelings since Pris clearly
   didn't like her, but Cindy was a hard person to really dislike if you
   were looking directly at her.

   "Chicago? Mmmm. I'm afraid I don't know all that many people from
   Chicago. Unless you know the Edson's?"

   "No, ma'am. I don't think you'd be all that likely to know the people
   I grew up with." That was sure as heck true. I couldn't even begin to
   think about a woman like Cindy in the old neighborhood. She'd have
   started a riot. But then she probably couldn't even conceive of such a
   place herself.

   "No, I suppose I wouldn't," She said quietly, but it didn't seem like
   it was a putdown. She turned to Mr. Arsenault. "Dan, I think it's a
   little late for Etta to make dinner for all four of us. Why don't we
   head out for something to eat?"

   I looked across at Pris. Even though I had slept for several hours in
   the afternoon I was still exhausted, and I thought Pris must be tired
   from the long drive too. She caught my eye and took the hint. "Cindy,
   we're a little worn out. Why don't you and Daddy eat and I'll whip up
   something for Emma and me."

   "I think Etta would sooner kill you than let you into her kitchen
   while she's cooking," Cindy said, and Mr. Arsenault smiled.

   "No, really," Pris said. "We have had a very trying few days."

   "Even I only get in there on her day off," Cindy smiled. "It will be
   safer for all of us if we eat out. Besides, I'm sure your father would
   like to celebrate your visit. But we don't need to go anywhere too
   fancy. Right, Dan?" Mr. Arsenault seemed happy to go along with
   whatever she suggested. "Perhaps both of you would like to freshen up
   first. Dan, can you make the reservations?"

   Pris showed me to the room I would be sleeping in that night. It was
   upstairs at the rear of the house, above the living room we had just
   been in, and it looked as though no-one had ever stepped foot in it
   before. The room was huge, almost as big as the entire apartment I had
   grown up in, and had its own antique desk at one side. The bed was
   preposterously large, and I flopped down on it with a huge sigh, then
   wondered immediately if that was rude in a household like this.
   "Pris?"

   "Yes?" Pris was peering through the curtains to look down at the
   terrace and pool below.

   "I uh... You will tell me, won't you, if I do anything that isn't...
   you know... correct manners and everything?"

   She turned to look at me and smiled. "Oh, don't let Cindy get to you.
   Just because she went to some Swiss Finishing School doesn't mean her
   shit don't stink."

   I smiled. "I know, but, well, you know..." I got up and walked over to
   her so I wasn't talking so loudly. "I haven't had a lot of experience
   with stuff. I don't want to offend your Dad."

   "I don't think you could be offensive if you tried, Emma," Pris said.
   "Just be yourself." She opened the door to the private bathroom I
   could use.

   "I get my own bathroom?" I asked. I still couldn't get used to the
   opulence of the house. The bathroom was lined in marble, with an
   enormous tub and separate shower. There was a big fluffy white robe
   hanging near the door.

   "Why don't you have a shower and get changed for dinner," Pris said.

   "What should I wear?" I thought, terrified. Heaven only knew where
   rich people ate "nothing fancy."

   "Anything you want," Pris said. "Emma, just be yourself. Please?"

   ***

   Ninety minutes later we were sitting in a small Italian restaurant. I
   was wearing my green dress, and feeling as though I was slightly
   overdressed. Everyone else looked more casual, although Cindy's blouse
   and skirt were obviously expensive. I had let Mr. Arsenault order for
   me, since I had no idea of what most of the dishes on the menu were.
   "You've never been to Italy, Emma?" Cindy said.

   "I'm afraid I've never been out of the country," I said.

   "Now Cindy," Mr Arsenault chided her gently. "Not everyone Emma's age
   has had the benefits of foreign study." Cindy seemed genuinely
   appalled that anyone could have had such a deprived childhood. That I
   hadn't seen Florence was bad enough, but not to have been to Europe at
   all! She seemed quite perplexed. I briefly considered explaining the
   culture of Cabrini Green to her -- it would easily have been the most
   foreign place she'd encountered -- but I held my tongue.

   The meal was a kind of education itself. I had never tasted such
   wonderful flavors before. For an appetizer Mr. Arsenault had ordered
   me something called orichiette pesto, and I was struck dumb by the
   extraordinary taste of the sauce. Pris explained that it was made with
   an herb called basil. I had eaten enough just with the appetizer, but
   then the entree came, chicken cooked with thin strips of lemon rind
   and something that seemed a little bit like bacon. "Pancetta," Mr
   Arsenault told me. "Unsmoked pork. With sage. I hope you like it."

   The food was sublime, but it was everything I could do to eat all of
   it. I was still unsettled, I guess, from the events of the previous
   day. Mr Arsenault insisted that I should try some wine with the food,
   and I had two glasses of white wine, enough to make me slightly
   light-headed. As we got to desert, which was a smooth creamy substance
   called zabaglione, Mr. Arsenault politely probed me about my
   interests, and then Cindy was full of questions about my schooling
   that initially panicked me, but fortunately Pris was more alert than I
   was and deflected their queries with only minimal assistance from me.
   Mr. Arsenault seemed to take an unconscious cue from Pris and turned
   the discussion into a series of amusing anecdotes about politics in
   Georgia. I gathered from his comments that he considered himself an
   outsider, set apart from many of the other prominent businessmen in
   Atlanta. "I was born in Canada, Emma," he explained. "Acadian stock,
   I'm afraid, which doesn't go well with some of the society people
   here. How's the song go? Acadian driftwood, gypsy tailwind --"

   "-- They call my home, the land of snow," I finished. Rick had been a
   big fan of The Band's music, and we had heard their new album
   'Northern Lights, Southern Cross' a lot while we were on the road.

   Mr. Arsenault seemed surprised that I knew the song. "I thought
   everyone your age was into, you know, Punk Rock..."

   "No safety pins where I grew up, I guess," I said. Mr. Arsenault
   smiled.

   "Emma plays in a band, Daddy," Pris said.

   "I used to," I said glumly.

   "Really?" Cindy chimed in. "How interesting. What instrument do you
   play, Emma?"

   "I sing," I said. "And I can play a little guitar. Our band seems to
   be kind of breaking apart, though."

   "I'm sure we'd love to hear you sing sometime, Emma," Mr. Arsenault
   said.

   "Well, you know," I said. "I kind of need the band behind me to
   perform." The line of conversation had started me thinking about the
   band, and Steve, and my mind was suddenly filled with all the turmoil
   of the past 24 hours again.

   "Emma's very modest," Pris said.

   "Cindy plays the piano," Mr. Arsenault said.

   "I know quite a few musicians," Cindy mused. I could see Pris roll her
   eyes, but Cindy evidently missed it. Mr Arsenault signalled for the
   check. "My father has a little place in the Bahamas," Cindy continued,
   "and a few musicians have stayed there from time to time."

   I think I was lost in my thoughts, and I didn't properly acknowledge
   her. Being ignored was probably a novel experience for Cindy, so she
   pressed on. "In fact I believe it was Keith Richards who stayed there
   last."

   Keith Richards. The name hung there in my head a few moments. Cindy
   had met Keith Richards. What would Steve do to meet Keith Richards?
   What would Steve say to him? Would they play guitar together, swap
   hints on difficult riffs, discuss Lightnin' Hopkins and Robert
   Johnson? Or would they just shoot up together?

   I managed to make polite noises and Cindy regaled us with tales of
   wild times at her father's house in Grand Cayman while Mr Arsenault
   paid with a credit card. Cindy was still talking when we got into the
   car, and Pris patted my arm sympathetically. I don't think she knew
   what was going through my head, but I was beginning to understand why
   she wasn't totally crazy about Cindy.

   It was only 10.00pm by the time we returned to the house, but Pris and
   I pled tiredness and retreated upstairs to our respective rooms. I
   showered again before bed. No matter how often I washed it seemed like
   I still felt somehow oddly contaminated by the events of the previous
   night, covered in a thin film of fear and despair. At least the warmth
   of the water relaxed me.

   I came back into the bedroom to find that someone, I suspected Pris,
   had laid out a cream-colored nightgown for me on the bed. I wasn't
   sure what kind of fabric it was made of, but it looked beautiful and
   felt softer than I'd ever imagined possible. I undid the robe and
   tried it on. It fell right to my feet, sweeping silkily over all the
   curves of my body. I was turning to look at myself in the mirror at
   the far side of the room when there was a knock on the door and Pris
   poked her head around it.

   "Wow. I thought that would look good on you," she said, stepping into
   the room. "I didn't think it would look *that* good. Daddy bought it
   for me when I was thirteen, and I grew out of it in, gee, about a
   month I think."

   "Your father bought you something *this* sexy?" I asked, plucking at
   the fabric where it flared out over my hips.

   "I was pretty much a tomboy," Pris admitted. "I think it was a last
   ditch attempt to try to make me a more suitable daughter." She
   shrugged. "It looks great on you, anyway."

   "Thanks," I said.

   "Anyway," she said, "I just wanted to make sure you were okay, you
   know, before I went to bed."

   "Thanks, Pris." I walked over to her and hugged her, and after a
   moment or two of that I remembered the time we had hugged and kissed
   back in Oxford. Pris sure felt good to hold. She led me over to the
   bed and peeled back the covers and I momentarily wondered what her
   intentions were, but then she guided me down into the bed and pulled
   the covers up and kissed me goodnight on the forehead. "Sweet dreams,
   Emma. Things will be okay. I'll make sure, alright?"

   I thought back to Carlos Gonzales, who had made me the same promise,
   thousands of miles away and over a year ago. He had kept his promise.
   I didn't know how Pris could make everything okay, but I appreciated
   the words and I smiled as she turned out the light and closed the
   door. I was asleep within moments.

   ***

   I woke late, around 9.00am, and lay in bed awhile going over things in
   my head. Eventually, after about forty minutes, I got sick of that and
   raised myself to go to the bathroom. After a gorgeously long shower I
   dried my hair and put on jeans and a white blouse and went downstairs.
   No-one else seemed to be around, and I stood at the window at the base
   of the stairs for a while, looking into the back garden at the birds
   hopping over the lawn. After about ten minutes I heard a door close
   somewhere, and then a few minutes later the sounds of someone busying
   themselves in the kitchen. I padded over to the kitchen door and
   peered in.

   The kitchen matched the rest of the house, oversized and lavishly
   fitted. The stove looked like it could have cooked for a small town,
   with three ovens and ten burners. There was a pantry cupboard open at
   one side of the long bench beside the oven, and windows above the sink
   that looked out onto the yard at the east side of the house, where sun
   was streaming in.

   "Mornin'," a voice called out. I couldn't see where it came from for a
   moment until a small colored woman straightened up from beneath the
   island bench near the stove. She was a plump but attractive looking
   woman with a charming smile. I'd estimated she was about fifty. "You'd
   be Miz Amma, I'd be guessin'," she said.

   "Good morning. Emma. Yes. You must be Etta."

   "That ah am, Amma. Come in, child, you ain't gonna get any coffee
   standin' out there in the hallway." Etta pulled a cup from a hook on
   the wall at the end of the bench and poured coffee from a half-filled
   glass pot under the coffee maker. Coffee splashed from the spout of
   the machine onto the hotplate below and she wiped it quickly with a
   cloth.

   I walked in and sat at one of the stools beside the island bench, and
   Etta handed me the coffee. "Cream is in the refrigerator. You's old
   enough to fetch that for y'self," she said.

   "Thanks." I sipped on the coffee as Etta pulled things from the
   refrigerator and the pantry. The coffee was strong, but pleasantly
   sweet even without sugar. I learned later that Mr. Arsenault was
   something of a connoisseur, and very particular about the beans Etta
   used. The kitchen was spotlessly clean, and seemed well organized, but
   she bustled around the kitchen in a manner that suggested she used
   much more energy for every task than was necessary, and after five
   minutes or so I reflected that she was making me tired just watching
   her. "Can I help with anything?" I asked.

   "Lord no!" Etta replied. "Mr. Dan be sure ahm not doin' ma job if he
   sees you helpin'." I remembered Cindy's comment the previous night
   about Etta not letting anyone else cook in 'her' kitchen and reflected
   that she was probably being disingenuous about Mr. Arsenault's
   putative disfavor, but I let the thought go without saying anything.
   My question must have indicated to Etta that I was interested in
   conversation, however, because she seized upon our discussion as an
   excuse to ask me a series of questions about myself. They were mostly
   similar to the ones Cindy had fired at me the night before, but I was
   more alert that morning and managed to answer most of them without
   distorting the truth too much. While she was interrogating me she
   began cooking, and the smell of bacon began to blend with the odour of
   coffee in the room. I realized I was hungry in a way I hadn't been for
   days, even though I had eaten more the night before than I had ever
   eaten at one sitting in my life. When she set the ham and eggs in
   front of me I almost leapt at them.

   "How long you and Miz Prizla plannin' to stay?" She asked after a few
   moments watching me, in a way that almost suggested I had passed some
   test of admission.

   "I don't know," I admitted.

   "You's the first friend Miz Prizla's we's had stay," I nodded. "Mus'
   be a good friend," she continued.

   I didn't understand, and I shrugged. "I guess so. I like Pris. She's a
   lot of fun."

   "Sure is nice to see her again, anyways."

   We heard the sound of the back door closing and Mr Arsenault appeared
   in the doorway to the kitchen a few moments later, dressed for jogging
   and sweating profusely. "Morning Emma, Etta."

   "Morning Mr. Dan," Etta said cheerfully. My mouth was full of bacon
   and eggs so I waved a hello, and he smiled.

   "Sleep well?" I nodded, and tried to chew my food faster, and he
   laughed. "Don't hurry. I'm going to shower and come back down for
   breakfast later."

   While Mr. Arsenault was showering I decided to plug Etta for
   information on herself. She'd been with Mr Arsenault since his first
   marriage, almost since Pris was born. "Bin with him through two
   marriages and four houses," she smiled. She had no children of her
   own, and had never been married. When our conversation turned to Cindy
   she was very discreet but I got the feeling that their relationship
   wasn't perfect.

   Eventually Mr. Arsenault came back downstairs and sat on the stool
   beside me. "I see you're an early morning person," he joked.

   "Not as early as you, apparently. I'm impressed. Do you run every
   morning?"

   "You inspired me to start again."

   "I did?"

   "Last night, when we were talking about music. I remembered the last
   time I listened to that song, and that started me to thinking about
   the way things were a few years ago. I was fitter then, for one
   thing."

   "Uh huh. You look like you're in pretty good shape now," I said. He
   did, too, but maybe that wasn't the right thing to say. He looked away
   for a moment as though he was embarrassed. Etta broke the moment by
   putting some breakfast down in front of him, and refilling my coffee.

   "I want to thank you." Mr Arsenault said after a few moments.

   "What for?" I asked.

   "For bringing Priscilla home."

   "Ah, she brought me, Mr. Arsenault."

   "Nonsense. She doesn't come here if she can avoid it." He fell silent
   for a moment, and I drank some coffee. I didn't think there was
   anything I could say about that, since to judge by Pris's statements
   to me it was true.

   "Well, I want to thank you anyway, Emma. You're very welcome in this
   house at any time. If there's anything you need, just say the word."

   "Thank you, Mr Arsenault."

   "Please call me Dan. You're making me feel old." He sipped his coffee.
   "Have you ever been to Atlanta before, Emma?"

   "No, no. I haven't travelled very much at all," I admitted.

   "Don't let Cindy make you feel bad about that," he smiled. "You will.
   Would you like to take a drive today to see a few of the sights?"

   "That would be lovely," I said. "But first, uh... I need to make a
   phone call to someone, and depending on ..." How could I explain to
   Mr. Arsenault about what had happened to Steve, and that what I most
   needed was to find a way to see him?

   But Mr. Arsenault didn't pry. "Yes, yes, of course," he said. "You can
   use the phone in my study if you'd like some privacy." I must have
   looked blank, because he motioned in the direction of the hallway.
   "Just inside the front door."

   I nodded, and slipped off my chair and padded up the hallway. Mr
   Arsenault's study was overdecorated, like everything else in the
   house. It was dominated by a huge antique desk, with a large green
   leather chair behind it. I eased myself into the chair carefully and
   extracted the piece of paper with David Breslin's number on it from
   the pocket of my jeans.

   Our call was uneventful. David couldn't tell me anything new beside
   the fact that he'd spoken to Steve, who was doing okay and asking
   after me, and to Brett and Bo, who were back in Abbeville and Tupelo
   respectively. I asked him when I would be allowed to see Steve, and he
   said he didn't know yet, but that he would call me as soon as he did
   because Steve was very anxious to see me. I told him that I was
   staying at the Arsenault's, and gave him the number. I hoped Mr
   Arsenault didn't mind.

   When I went back to the kitchen Pris was eating breakfast and having
   an animated conversation with her father about the forthcoming
   Presidential elections. I didn't know much about Politics myself so I
   sat and watched and listened. I could see they both enjoyed sparring
   with one another in a friendly way. After a few minutes they reached a
   laughing kind of truce after Pris made a joke about President Carter.
   Mr Arsenault told Pris he had offered to take me sightseeing, and so
   the two of them spent another few minutes discussing the high points
   of Atlanta to show me.

   We spent the rest of the day sightseeing, with a stop at a small cafe
   in Buckhead for lunch. In the afternoon after we had visited most of
   the main attractions Mr Arsenault drove further out of town to the
   North-east until we came to an airport, then drove right up to a
   hangar and ushered us out of the car and inside to a small
   twin-engined airplane.

   "I thought a small aerial tour might be a nice way to round off the
   day," he said with a smile.

   There was a small step on the wing, which was slightly too high for me
   to get to, so Mr. Arsenault had to help me up. I clambered on board,
   followed by Pris and Cindy, and Mr Arsenault walked around the plane a
   few times and then climbed in and sat in the pilot's seat. After a few
   minutes of testing and checking things we taxied along to the runway,
   and a few minutes later we were aloft and heading back toward downtown
   Atlanta.

   I had never been in an airplane before. At first I was going to play
   it cool and try to act nonchalant, but it was too exciting, and when,
   after a few minutes, Pris looked at me and said "Emma, you are
   grinning fit to bust!" I confessed that I had always wanted to fly but
   this was my first time. Everyone made a huge fuss about it and I could
   see that Mr Arsenault felt pleased he had been the first person to
   introduce me to flying.

   We turned and headed back Northeast and out over Stone Mountain, and
   Mr Arsenault climbed higher to avoid some cloud. We scythed through
   the white tufts and into the blue, clear air, and my heart lifted with
   the airplane, soaring, whirling.

   That evening we had dinner in the house, and I was treated to some of
   Etta's specialties, which were truly delicious. Mr. Arsenault opened a
   bottle of red wine from his cellar, and we toasted my first time in
   the air. He and Pris joked together about her childhood and some of
   his passing flirtations with Est and other self-improvement fads. It
   was easy to see that Pris was enjoying seeing him again, and he was
   beaming. Even Cindy seemed more relaxed. At one point during dinner
   the discussion turned to new advances in treating diseases, and then
   healthy eating and I think I startled all of them with my knowledge of
   anatomy and medicine, most of it gained from my reading at Brand. "Why
   Emma, you're a regular expert,' Cindy said.

   As I went to bed that night I almost felt guilty about having had such
   a lovely day while Steve was locked in a cell somewhere, but the day
   had been so pleasant, and my mind was slightly addled from the wine,
   and instead I fell asleep and slept undisturbed through the night.

   At 7.30am the next morning a call came from Julia. She sounded almost
   hysterical on the phone. She had stayed at Pete's the previous night
   after they got back from Jackson, and come home that morning to find
   Pris's note. It took a while for me to calm her down, and I slowly
   told her what happened. Pris came to another extension and joined in,
   and together we talked to Julia gently until everything that could be
   said was out. Julia announced she would fly to Atlanta immediately,
   but I asked her to wait until I had had a chance to see Steve, in case
   there was anything from Oxford that he would need. I promised to call
   her as soon as I heard more.

   After Pris and I hung up we talked briefly in her bedroom. Pris had
   said that she would need to return to college soon for the start of
   her senior year, and it had occurred to me while we were talking with
   Julia that Steve's trial could take some time. "I can't go back to
   Oxford, Pris. I'm going to have to get a job here and look for a place
   of my own." Pris nodded, but didn't say anything. "I wonder if I can
   get a job."

   "That's silly, Emma. Why wouldn't you be able to get a job if you want
   one?"

   Oops. I had been thinking about my ID, and whether it was good enough
   for me to prove my age to an employer. Then there was the social
   security number problem. I'd forgotten that Pris wouldn't know why I
   mightn't have a social security number.

   "Ah, I don't know. I guess, you know, I've just never worked much
   before, except at Elroy's..."

   She didn't seem to think anything of it, and I excused myself and went
   into my own room to think. Maybe I should say mope. I was feeling
   sorry for myself, but then I started thinking about Steve, and I
   realized that my own troubles paled beside his. I was still lying on
   the bed an hour later, when someone knocked at the door. "Come in," I
   called out.

   It was Pris. She stuck her head in the doorway as though she was
   looking to see whether it was safe, and then came in clutching an old
   guitar. "Thought Steve might like this," she said. "It's kind of old,
   and it might need some new strings, but..."

   I sat up and took the guitar from her eagerly. It was a battered old
   Martin, but I couldn't see anything wrong with it just from looking. I
   strummed it and realized it would need tuning. I looked up at Pris,
   who was still standing next to the bed.

   "It's Daddy's," she said. "He doesn't play it any more, and I thought
   maybe..."

   "Thanks, Pris." I stood up and gave her a hug.

   She really was a great friend. As we stood there together with my head
   pressed against her breasts I started to tear up just thinking about
   how lucky I was to have such a good friend. When we separated she
   noticed my watery eyes. "What's wrong, Emma?" I told her how I felt
   and she smiled and sat me back down on the bed. "Don't you go getting
   too sentimental on me. You're such a sweetie, honey. So..." she
   indicated the guitar with her eyes. "Is it alright?"

   "It needs a tune, and yes, some new strings, but thank you. I'll take
   it in to Steve first chance I get if that's okay."

   "Of course it is."

   I began to try to tune the guitar. If Steve had been with us it would
   have been easy -- he could tell if a string was even a little off just
   by plucking it on its own. Elroy said he had 'perfect pitch'. Me, I
   had to do it the hard way, and even then I wasn't completely sure I'd
   done it right. But eventually I got it to sound halfway decent, and
   then Pris pressured me to sing something. So I started out on a song I
   knew she liked which was easy to strum, the old Byrds arrangement of
   'Turn, Turn, Turn." It didn't sound as good as it had when Steve had
   played it once on the Gibson, and I messed up a few of the changes
   anyway, but the singing actually helped me relax, and Pris began to
   sing along too. She had a nice voice, deeper than mine and slightly
   raspy, and it made for some interesting harmonies. I played another
   three songs and we both sang along to them before I broke two strings
   in an enthusiastic rendition of 'American Girl', the song Steve and I
   had first sung to the band.

   Pris and I went shopping for some new strings, and stopped off in a
   record store to browse as well. We wasted most of the afternoon
   strolling around the stores window shopping, the way we had back in
   Oxford, and returned home just before dinner. We put in a call to
   Julia. She still seemed incredibly agitated, but we tried hard to
   convince her that it was best for her to stay in Oxford until we knew
   more.

   Over dinner Cindy dropped more names and Pris rolled her eyes and even
   Mr Arsenault looked embarrassed once or twice, but I nodded politely
   and Cindy seemed to relax by the time dessert arrived. After dinner
   Pris and I sang a few more songs up in my room, and hit our respective
   beds early after a reassuring bedtime hug.

   Tuesday morning came and there was still no word from David Breslin
   about when I could get to see Steve. He had promised to call as soon
   as he heard about visiting privileges, and I thought that he had
   called and perhaps not left a message, so I called him. His office
   said he was out and wouldn't be back until the afternoon, so I amused
   myself by practising guitar again while Pris tried to catch up on some
   study. I hoped the noise didn't bother her. Later I went down to the
   kitchen and hung out with Etta, who grudgingly agreed to let me help
   prepare the evening meal. Although she put up a fearsome display of
   being territorial about her kitchen, she was a real softie at heart
   and I learned a lot from her about cooking. At least the activity
   helped me take my mind off things and relieve the tension I could feel
   in my body. Again the afternoon slipped by without any news from the
   lawyer.

   Once again the evening meal was a lot of fun, even though I still
   didn't feel completely relaxed or entirely healthy. Everyone else
   seemed in good form, though. I understood that Pris didn't always feel
   all that comfortable with Cindy, but some days Cindy was more relaxed
   and less -- well, up herself -- and everything in the household flowed
   smoothly. Although the Arsenault household was hardly a typical one I
   found myself wondering whether most families got to enjoy each other's
   company the way they did. My experiences with my own father had never
   prepared me for the kind of warmth that Dan was able to generate with
   people, and he and Pris radiated such affection for one another that
   it was lovely to bask in the reflected glow from both of them. They
   kidded one another, and Cindy, and me, and I kidded Pris back a few
   times. After dinner we all sat together for another hour or two,
   talking about all manner of subjects from cooking to philosophy. I
   enjoyed the evening so much, especially listening to Dan and his
   wealth of knowledge on so many subjects, and by the time I went to bed
   my head was spinning pleasantly from the buzz of a little wine and a
   lot of wonderful ideas.

   The following morning I made yet another call to David Breslin. The
   receptionist in his office kept me on hold for a very long time, and
   for some reason that made me worried that something about Steve's case
   might have gone wrong, but when Breslin answered he seemed unfussed,
   and apologized for keeping me waiting so long. He told me I would be
   allowed to see Steve at the prison the next day, after he had been
   arraigned for trial in the morning. He was going to plead not guilty.

   Pris offered to drive me over to the prison, and I accepted
   gratefully.

   The outside of the prison looked much as I'd expected; bland
   institutional architecture, maybe ten years old at most. Pris looked
   it over with apprehension. For a moment I almost wondered why, until I
   realized that most people hadn't had my experience of Brand and
   thought of these places as the pit of hell. Which is what they are,
   but I knew what to expect because of my experience, and Pris had only
   ever seen these places on TV. She opted to wait in the car while I
   went in. "Is that okay, Emma? I thought maybe you and Steve would like
   some time together, alone."

   I kissed her and got out of the car. She was such a good person.

   I stood outside the pit of hell. I'm inclined to think that if there
   is a hell, it's like prison. Bland, featureless, gray, creepy. I think
   flames and all that would be too dynamic, too interesting, to be truly
   hellish. Walking into the prison was bad enough. The doors, walls, the
   florescent lighting all brought back vivid memories of Brand, and when
   I followed the string of other women into the visitor's room I noticed
   that even the chairs seemed the same. There was a long window across
   one end of the room which separated us from where the prisoners would
   be, and the chairs were spaced along it about five feet apart. There
   were twenty or more other women and a handful of men all waiting with
   me, and a tall guard reading from a clipboard began to call out each
   visitor's name and a number that corresponded to numbers on the backs
   of the chairs at the window. I had given my name and Steve's name to a
   guard when I first entered the prison, and as I stood looking at this
   window he read my name. I was still mildly freaked out from the
   atmosphere of the prison, and was off in my thoughts about Brand, and
   Steve, so at first I didn't hear the guard call me, but a few moments
   later I realized that all the other women were seated at the window
   and the guards were all looking at me strangely. "You're here for
   Hammond, right?" the tall guard said, and I nodded. "Four," he said,
   indicating an empty chair. I scurried across to it and sat down. The
   glass in front of me was thick -- I could see at the joints that it
   was at actually a couple of sheets of glass joined together. Beside me
   was a telephone handset, and I could see on the other side of the
   glass there was a corresponding handset for the prisoners.

   A few moments later they let the prisoners into the area on the far
   side of the glass. Steve's eyes lit up as soon as he saw me, but the
   guard at the door on his side wouldn't let him sit immediately. He
   didn't look too bad, really. There was a large bruise on the left side
   of his face above the cheekbone, and his hair looked like it needed a
   wash, but his eyes looked clearer than the last time I saw him, and
   his gaze was unwavering. Our eyes stayed locked as the guard let
   several other prisoners past him to seats further along the row, and
   then Steve walked over to the chair and sat opposite me and lifted the
   phone receiver to his head.

   "Hi Em." His voice through the headset sounded clipped and mechanical.
   I wondered whether the receivers were tapped.

   "Steve..." I had prepared myself for this moment and had promised
   myself I wouldn't cry, but I could feel myself choking up. Our eyes
   were still locked together, and as I looked into them I got myself
   back together. He didn't seem afraid. There was even a small sparkle
   in his eye.

   "I screwed up, huh," he said quietly.

   "Yeah. Yeah, I guess."

   "What happened?"

   He lifted his free arm in a shrug. "I dunno, Em. I was kind of out of
   it, you know?" I nodded, and he went on. "I'm really, you know,
   sorry."

   "It's okay."

   "Well, no it's not, y'know. I screwed up."

   I nodded at his bruise. "Are you okay?"

   "Yeah, pretty much."

   "The cops?"

   "Yeah. This is from the fight with the guy who got shot. I got hit a
   few times when the other guys first arrested me, and beat up pretty
   bad Friday night in the cell, but they're kind of careful how they do
   it, y'know, so's they don't leave too many marks." He indicated the
   bruise on his cheek. "This one's an embarrassment to them. Since I've
   been in here it's been okay."

   "How was the arraignment?"

   Steve described the procedure, and told me the trial was still twelve
   weeks away. "My lawyer says that's good, because it will give him time
   to build a good case." He didn't sound especially convincing.

   "They know about Brand."

   "Yeah, they know all about me," he said. Then he mouthed *but not
   about you*. I nodded.

   "I was worried for you," I said quietly.

   "Yeah, well I was worried for *you*."

   We stayed silent for a few moments, just looking at one another. I
   wanted so badly to be able to *feel* him, to be able to hold him and
   feel his arms around me. I put my hand up to the glass, and he matched
   it with his hand on the other side, spreading his fingers so that they
   traced along mine, although of course his hand was much bigger than
   mine. Despite my promises to myself I started to cry.

   "Hey, hey, Em..."

   "Steve. Steve..." I tried to bring myself under control, but once I'd
   started crying it didn't seem like I could stop. "You know I don't
   think I can be without you..."

   "Em, now you just stop that."

   "What?"

   "That kind of talk. I won't have it. You have to be strong for me,
   okay?" I couldn't feel it, but I could see the pressure his hand was
   exerting on the glass, where it overlapped mine. His eyes were clear
   and his voice was low and firm. "I can't live in here unless you're
   strong for me. If I think you're giving up on me, outside, I'm not
   going to be able to keep it together inside."

   He made me promise him I would take care of myself, and do what I
   could to help David Breslin. Then he waited until I stopped crying
   until he said anything more. It was blackmail, but it worked on me,
   and I managed to bring myself under control. I told him what Breslin
   had said to me, and what I'd told Breslin. "I didn't know if I should
   tell him about my childhood," I said.

   Steve thought a moment. "You don't have anything to hide, Emma," he
   said, in a way that made me think he was saying it more for the
   benefit of anyone else listening than for me. But it told me what I
   needed to know. Breslin didn't know about me, and as far as Steve was
   concerned he didn't need to.

   Steve seemed very pleased to learn that I was staying with Pris's
   family. "She's a great girl, Em. I know Julia thinks the world of
   her."

   "I think the world of her, too," I said. I described the house, and
   Pris's dad and Cindy, and Steve seemed to get a kick out of hearing
   about all that. I tried to change the subject back to him, and to what
   things were like for him inside, but he didn't want to discuss that at
   all and kept deflecting things back to what was happening outside.

   "You hear from Brett?"

   "No." I admitted. "Not a word."

   I could see that this hurt him. I told him about seeing them in the
   hospital, and then going back to the motel to find them gone, and this
   seemed to make him angry. "I can't believe they just left you on your
   own," he said.

   "At least Brett called Pris," I said.

   "Yeah, at *least*," Steve said sneeringly. "Man, I can't believe it."

   I noticed the guard at the door check his watch and then begin to move
   toward Steve, and realized our time together was coming to an end. "Is
   there anything you need?" I asked Steve.

   "I haven't got this place worked out very well yet, Em. Maybe wait a
   few days until I work out what I'll be able to take care of."

   His remark hung in my head later after the guard tapped him on the
   shoulder and ushered him away. I remembered what my first few days at
   Brand had been like, how difficult it had been to know what was safe
   and what was taboo. Steve was much smarter than me at figuring out the
   politics of the yard, but I knew that there would be some kind of test
   of him in the next day or so, if it hadn't happened already. At Brand
   Steve had been an old hand, but here in Atlanta he was young, and
   ill-prepared. I shuddered as I stood up and walked toward the door of
   the visitor's room.

   David Breslin had told me that I'd only be allowed to visit three
   times a week at most, on Mondays, Thursdays and Saturdays, and that
   even then I might have trouble getting access depending on what was
   going on in the prison. There was some kind of dispute between
   management and the guards that meant that visits were restricted for
   the time being. When he first mentioned it to me I felt like it was
   yet another strike against Steve, but as I walked out of the prison I
   felt strangely relieved that I wouldn't be back for a few days. Don't
   get me wrong, I loved Steve and I desperately wanted to see him, but
   going inside the jail was hard.

   Outside at the car I gave Pris a brief rundown of Steve's situation. I
   could see she understood that it had been a difficult session for me,
   and she didn't ask too many questions as we drove back to her father's
   house in Julia's MG. As we stopped at some traffic lights Pris leaned
   across and fished for some tissues from the glove compartment. "Here,"
   she said. "You look like a racoon." When I looked at her
   incomprehendingly she made a motion with her fingers around one of her
   eyes. "Your mascara," she said. I suddenly realized what the problem
   was and dabbed away the sooty black mess from my eyes.

   Once we were back at the house I excused myself and went to my room. I
   stripped off as soon as I was inside, and headed for the shower to
   wash off the lingering smell of the prison that seemed to have stuck
   to my skin. I felt a little better afterward, and went downstairs to
   find Pris in the kitchen with Etta, talking about old times. I didn't
   say much, just sat on a stool and listened to the two of them laugh
   and joke.

   The phone rang, and Etta answered and passed it over the kitchen
   counter to me. I was surprised, because I wasn't expecting any calls.
   It was David Breslin, calling to ask me to meet with him again later
   in the week so we could go over testimony.

   As I hung up Pris turned to me. "Emma, I think we should tell Daddy
   about Steve. Maybe there's something he can help with."

   "I suppose I'll have to explain eventually, Pris, but..."

   We continued to discuss the problem, and it wasn't until several
   minutes had gone by that I realized that Etta was hanging on every
   word we spoke. "Uh, Etta, sorry... We're just ah, talking about my
   boyfriend. He's in a lot of trouble."

   I told Etta the story, as briefly as I could, leaving out any mention
   of my own past and how I had met Steve. Etta listened, and chimed in
   with supportive comments when they seemed called for. When I finished
   with an account of our trip to the jail that day I suddenly broke down
   and cried again, and she came to my side and put her hand on my
   shoulder while Pris took my hand across the kitchen bench. "Y'all's a
   good woman standin' by him, Amma," Etta said. "Miz Prizla's right,
   though. You's needs to tell Mr Dan to get anythin' done 'bout it."

   Pris and I put in another call to Julia before dinner, but we got her
   machine. I left a brief message telling her that Steve seemed to be in
   pretty good spirits, and asked her to call back when she got in.

   My body was doing weird things to me again. My right eyelid kept
   twitching every 30 seconds or so. There wasn't anything I could do
   about it. And I felt tired, but I also felt very restless. I tried
   taking a series of deep breaths to calm myself, the way Steve had
   shown me a couple of times before we'd gone on stage together, but
   that didn't seem to help a lot. To top it all off I had a little pain
   in the corner of my lip, which felt like maybe there was a coldsore
   about to come through. I wondered if anyone would care if I went to
   bed and stayed there.

   I was depressed, although I didn't put a name to what I was feeling at
   the time. But depression colors everything a weird shade of hopeless,
   and I felt like everything was getting too much for me. Winston
   Churchill used to call his depression 'the black dog'. When I read
   that a few years later I understood exactly what he meant. I felt it,
   back in those months after Steve's arrest, although I didn't recognize
   the leash I had in my hand until it was too late to do anything with
   it. That's the trouble with depression -- it doesn't feel as though
   you *can* do anything.

   Fortunately dinner that evening was a quiet affair. Mr Arsenault
   worked late, so it was just Cindy, Pris and me at the table, and
   although Cindy talked quite a bit she seemed to be on some kind of
   autopilot that didn't need corresponding conversation from either Pris
   or myself. When dinner was over she excused herself and went upstairs,
   and Pris and I watched a video on Mr. Arsenault's Betamax. Around
   eleven I went to bed too. Pris stayed up, saying she needed to talk to
   her Dad when he came home from work. I fell asleep almost immediately,
   but it was an uneasy sleep, punctuated with strange dreams of Steve
   and me, imprisoned together in the visiting room of the jail.

   ***

   Chapter Sixteen

   Next morning, Friday, I woke early and showered and dressed before
   going downstairs. Mr. Arsenault was still in his running clothes at
   the kitchen table reading the morning paper while Etta prepared his
   breakfast. His face brightened as soon as he looked up and saw me
   entering the kitchen.

   "Emma. You look lovely this morning."

   I looked down at the clothes I had chosen that day -- a simple blue
   blouse and a black skirt -- and then back up at him questioningly. The
   coldsore seemed to be held at bay, but I still felt tense and very
   unlovely indeed. Dan just smiled at me. I flushed, embarrassed,
   mumbled a good morning, and sat down. Etta set his breakfast before
   him as he poured me a glass of orange juice from the pitcher on the
   table. He set his paper aside and took a mouthful of his breakfast.

   "Mmmm. Etta. Just great." It seemed like he was in an exceptionally
   good mood. He took several more mouthfuls, and I glanced at the paper
   to see if there was anything in it about Steve's case. Not on the page
   that was open on the table, at least.

   "Priscilla tells me you might be looking to stay in Atlanta a while,
   Emma." Mr Arsenault said between mouthfuls of breakfast.

   "Uh, yes sir. I have some, uh..." My voice trailed off. I still didn't
   know how to broach the subject of Steve. I could see Etta making a
   face at me to urge me to open up to him, and I avoided her gaze.

   "Well, you know you are welcome to stay here with us, for as long as
   you like, even when Priscilla goes back to Mississippi," Mr Arsenault
   said.

   "Thank you, sir, but I couldn't impose." I wondered as I said it where
   I was going to live, and how I was going to support myself.

   "Oh, you wouldn't be imposing, Emma. We have all this room... It's
   nice to have some kids in the house, to tell you the truth." He
   smiled. "Sorry, I forgot that at your age it's probably not such a
   great thing to be called a 'kid'. Anyway, my offer stands."

   "Thank you, sir. It's very generous, but --"

   "No buts, that's settled then. You stay here. But call me Dan, for
   goodness' sake, you're making me feel like I'm at work. Yesterday it
   was 'Mr Arsenault', today it's 'sir'!"

   "Thank you, Dan. I'll look for a place of my own as soon as I can --"

   "Speaking of work, Priscilla mentioned you might need some."

   "Huh?' I was momentarily taken aback. "I'm sorry?"

   "She said you were looking for work. I suppose that makes sense if
   you're going to stay here in Atlanta. I don't know your family
   circumstances, Emma. Do they help support you in Oxford?"

   I was struck dumb. I had no idea what to say to him about my family,
   or my past. When I didn't say anything he looked worried. "Heavens, I
   sound like Cindy, prying into your life like that. I'm sorry, Emma. I
   guess I've been bossing people around at work too much lately." He
   smiled again. "I just closed a really big deal with Japan last night,
   and I'm still a little hyped up about it. My apologies."

   "You don't need to apologize," I said. Etta laid some breakfast in
   front of me. "I, uh, I'm extremely grateful to you for your
   hospitality."

   "That doesn't mean I have the right to demand information from you.
   I'm sorry to intrude."

   "I, uh, I don't have a family, Dan. My parents are dead. So you
   weren't prying into our finances."

   "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, Emma."

   I shrugged, and took a mouthful of egg. "It's okay," I said when I had
   swallowed. "It was a while back."

   "In the circumstances, then, I insist that you stay with us while
   you're here in Atlanta."

   "Thank you, sir."

   "Dan. Dan."

   "Sorry." I giggled. He was a pretty imposing guy, even though he was
   friendly. He was the kind of guy you automatically called sir.

   "About work, then," he continued. "What was your major at UMiss?"

   "Oh. What has Priscilla told you?"

   "Not much, aside from that you are roommates, and you want to stay in
   Atlanta, and you need a job." He paused. "And that she thinks the
   world of you."

   I looked over at Etta. She nodded to me, as if to say 'go on'. So I
   took a deep breath, and I told Mr Arsenault about my life in Oxford as
   a singer and sometime cleaner at Elroy's, and then about the band in
   general, and about Steve in particular, and then, after another deep
   breath and a reassuring look from Etta, about the shooting a few
   nights earlier. When I got to the part about the shooting he sucked
   his breath in slightly, but he didn't say anything. I let it all spill
   out and when I was finished I sat at the table with my head bowed,
   waiting for condemnation.

   "You love him, Emma?"

   "Yes, sir. Yes, Dan."

   "It doesn't sound good."

   "No, I guess not."

   "I'll have a talk to his lawyer, if that will help."

   "I don't know, sir. Dan. I mean, I don't know what anyone can do."

   "We'll see. I might be able to help out, you never know. So, about the
   other things -- are you telling me you never finished high school?"

   "That's right, sir. Dan."

   He smiled. "Dan. Just Dan. I must say I'm surprised. You certainly
   seem well educated. Where did you learn all that medical stuff?"

   I shrugged. "I guess I like to read."

   "Mmmm. Well, you know you should finish school some time, Emma.
   There's a lot of southern girls think they can get by on just their
   looks, and lord knows you're pretty enough, but it'd be a terrible
   waste." He sighed, and I wondered why. "In the meantime, though,
   there's the question of work. What kind of work were you planning on
   getting?"

   "Um, cleaning. Or maybe waitressing or something," I said. "I'm not
   really qualified for anything else, I guess."

   "I'm going down to the office in about an hour. I'll have a talk to
   some friends. I think we might be able to find some things need doing
   that you'd be qualified for without too much trouble."

   "Really? Uh, sir. Dan. Um..."

   "Yes, Emma?"

   "Why are you being so nice to me?"

   "For heaven's sake, girl. What ever has happened to you to give you
   such a bleak view of yourself?" He shook his head. "I'm going to go
   upstairs and shower. Enough of this foolishness."

   He stood up and carried his plate over to the sink. As he turned back
   to head for the door he stopped and looked me in the eyes and said
   quietly, "Emma. You don't get anywhere in this world by running
   yourself down. When people are pleased to see you, pleased to be with
   you, it's not polite to call into question their reasons for being
   friendly."

   I nodded. It seemed like reasonable advice. I've kept it close to my
   heart ever since, for those moments when I've been plagued with
   self-doubt and fear that I haven't been worthy of my friends. It
   hasn't ever totally banished those feelings, but it's stopped me from
   making a fool of myself a few times.

   After Dan had gone upstairs I looked over at Etta, who smiled and
   nodded at me. "He likes you a lot, girl. You gon' be alright."

   Pris came downstairs a few moments later and groggily stumbled around
   to the table. "Up too late," she grumbled.

   "You okay?"

   "Yeah. I sat up waiting for Daddy."

   "Yes, I know. We had a talk this morning."

   "Oh, good," Pris said as Etta set down some coffee in front of her.
   She took a sip and brightened. "Did he say anything about working?"

   "He's going to talk to someone."

   "Good! I knew things would work out."

   I admonished her for trying to influence her father that way, but Pris
   would have none of it. She seemed quite pleased with herself. Then I
   told her that I had been very open with her father so far as the
   situation with Steve was concerned, and she seemed pleased about that,
   too. I protested that I was imposing too deeply on her family, who I
   hardly knew, but this seemed to make her even happier. Frustrated, I
   gave up trying to argue with her, and when Cindy came downstairs for
   breakfast as well we dropped the conversation and turned to discussing
   Cindy's plans for a forthcoming surprise party at the house to
   celebrate Dan's Birthday. We were interrupted about ten minutes into
   that discussion by a knock on the door. Etta answered it and returned
   to tell us that "some people from Oxford are here lookin' for Miz
   Prizla and Miz Amma."

   ***

   Even though the Arsenault's kitchen was enormous it seemed suddenly
   crowded as Elroy, Julia, Bo and Maggie greeted Pris and I, and Dan
   stood in the doorway looking somewhat nonplussed. I was overcome with
   emotion to see them all, and after hugging each of them fiercely I
   found I had to sit down. Pris admonished Julia for coming when she had
   promised to stay in Oxford, but Elroy made excuses for her. "It's my
   fault," he said. "After Emma hung up on me the other night I got
   myself kinda worked up, and when I finally got in touch with Julia and
   she told me where you were I knew I had to come see you both and make
   sure you were okay. All this talk of lawyers and such --"

   I was so pleased to see Julia and Elroy, but I was pleased to see Bo
   and Maggie, too. It had really hurt when the band had fled Atlanta
   without warning me. The fact that they'd returned didn't make that
   hurt go away completely, but it meant a lot to me that they had come
   back. Bo whispered "It's good to see you" to me when I hugged him.
   That was about as demonstrative as Bo ever usually got.

   Cindy had to go to a meeting of some charity committee she was on, and
   Dan had to go to work, but before he left he gave Etta instructions
   for taking care of the new arrivals. Elroy wouldn't hear of staying at
   the house, and Bo and Maggie were also insistent that they'd prefer to
   stay in a motel, but Julia needed a room, and everyone was glad of the
   offer of coffee and a shower after driving all night from Mississippi.
   Elroy, Maggie and Bo dispersed to the bathrooms and Julia, Pris and I
   sat around the kitchen table catching up. Mostly Julia wanted to hear
   news of Steve, and there wasn't much more we could tell her than we'd
   said on the phone the day before, though of course she hadn't received
   that message since she was on the road. She seemed agitated to learn
   that we couldn't visit the jail that day because of the guards'
   dispute, but there wasn't anything we could do about that so it didn't
   seem worth brooding about too much.

   After discussing Steve for a while Julia dropped her bombshell. "Can
   you guys keep a secret?" Pris looked at her like she was insulted by
   the question, and she protested. "No, really. I mean, really keep a
   secret. At least for a few weeks. I've only told Pete so far..."

   "Well, what is it?" Pris demanded.

   "I'm pregnant," she said. It was about the last thing I expected to
   come out of her mouth. In the circumstances, that is.

   It was big news, and Pris and I sat there slightly open mouthed. Julia
   was only 20. Pete was older, but not by much. She seemed very happy
   about it, though, so I ventured a response. "That's great, Julia. When
   did you find out?"

   "Yesterday. I went back to the doctor in the morning. I had an idea
   before that, but I wasn't sure."

   I leant over and gave her a hug, and then Pris did the same. "You're
   not showing at all," Pris said.

   "I'm only just gone three months."

   "You really didn't know? You didn't say anything before I left..."
   Pris said.

   "No morning sickness at all. Must be born to it," Julia said, still
   smiling. "I can't wait to tell Steve he's going to be an uncle."

   There were about a thousand things I wanted to ask Julia, but I
   couldn't figure out how to say them politely. How was she going to
   finish college, if she had a baby? Were she and Pete going to get
   married, or was that against Pete's principles? Had they planned this?
   I couldn't believe a girl as smart as Julia would get pregnant by
   accident. I mean, I know those kinds of accidents happen, even to
   smart people, but the fact that she was pleased seemed to suggest that
   she had planned the pregnancy. Why now?

   But Elroy came back in at that moment, so we all changed the subject.
   Once again I had to explain how Steve was, and what the lawyer had
   said, and that the general outlook was pretty gloomy. Elroy nodded,
   and asked a couple of questions, and then gave me a lecture for
   hanging up on him that time I had called from the motel, and I looked
   sheepish and nodded and apologized.

   Maggie and Bo came back downstairs, and after we'd all brought each
   other totally up to date about what had happened since I'd last seen
   them, and Bo and Maggie had apologized again and again for leaving
   with the others, Pris offered to show everyone around town. "That'd be
   great," Maggie said. "We didn't get a lot of time to look around the
   last time we were here. Sorry 'bout that, Emma."

   They had driven from Mississippi in Elroy's big old barge of a
   Cadillac, and we could probably have all piled in it and driven
   around, but I was very tired after all the emotion of the morning, and
   five people in the car seemed like enough, so I begged off the tour.
   "I already got the grand tour. You guys let me relax." I could see
   that Elroy wasn't all that happy about leaving me on my own, but I was
   very insistent. By the time I had bundled them all out of the house it
   was after lunch, and I was exhausted. The tic in my eye was going
   berserk, and my head was spinning from all the questions and
   conversation and from Julia's news. I was pleased to have a chance to
   lie down.

   Later that night we all went out for dinner, and then to see a band at
   a bar in Buckhead. It was pretty weird to be in a bar for the first
   time since the shooting. Bo knew the bass player, and afterward we
   went back to his house with two of the other guys from the band and
   had a few drinks. All night I could see Elroy watching me
   solicitously, like he was afraid I was going to break or something. In
   fact everyone except Pris seemed to be treating me like I was
   incredibly fragile. I suppose they thought the whole thing with Steve
   was weighing heavily on me, but mostly I was okay. A couple of times
   in the bar I got morose, especially while watching the lead guitarist
   play, but the band was okay and mostly I was caught up in the music,
   and in conversations with Elroy and Maggie between sets.

   It was only when I was cleaning my face before bed that I really
   missed Steve. Then I really felt the weight of the evening fall
   heavily on me and wished he could be there.

   ***

   Chapter Seventeen.

   That Saturday morning was as hectic as any weekday at the Arsenaults'.
   Cindy had some friends around for an early morning game of tennis, and
   Dan had a contractor around to talk about building something at the
   back of the property. Julia was up before me, and we spent most of
   breakfast watching all the activity from the terrace. By the time Pris
   joined us I had managed to ask all the questions I'd had from the day
   before, evidently without offending her. Yes, the baby was very much
   wanted, although surprisingly it wasn't entirely planned. "These
   things happen, Emma. I'm glad, but it's not exactly the timing I would
   choose." I hugged her again and told her I was very happy for her.

   That afternoon Elroy came by with Bo and Maggie, and all of us except
   Pris made the trek out to the prison to see Steve. Bo and Maggie spent
   little more than a minute or so with him, mostly apologizing I think,
   but Elroy spent a little longer and I cut my time with him short so
   that Julia could get some privacy with him and have a longer talk.
   Both she and I cried, and I knew that Steve would be cross with both
   of us for that, but there wasn't much I could do about all the
   emotions I felt whenever I saw him behind that glass. At least he got
   a kick out of Elroy and Bo and Maggie visiting -- I know it meant a
   lot to him, even if he didn't say so directly. Even though he was in
   good spirits, just being in that visiting room -- seeing him behind
   the glass -- was depressing. We were all very subdued when we returned
   to the Arsenault's, and Julia excused herself and went to lie down.
   That night we went out to see another band, but everyone seemed to
   have the visit on their mind and no-one wanted to stay out late.

   Sunday morning Dan was out playing golf, and Cindy took Pris and me
   aside to discuss his forthcoming birthday with us again. As we talked
   through her plans for what was going to be a very big party I
   marvelled at her poise and confidence, but I also reflected that she
   seemed less tense and 'up herself' as Pris sometimes said. I had
   noticed during the week that she and Pris had been getting on better,
   and she seemed to laugh a lot while we joked about the plans for the
   party. She was definitely much more relaxed than she had been when I
   had first arrived at the Arsenaults', and much more likeable.

   Cindy asked me whether Pris and I could take charge of the
   entertainment. She had made some arrangements herself but they had
   either fallen through or she had decided they were unsatisfactory -- I
   wasn't sure, and she didn't elaborate. "I wanted to ask you, Emma,
   whether perhaps you could sing? I know that Dan thinks the world of
   you, and he has heard you sing around the house. He's too embarrassed
   to ask you to sing directly, but I think he'd be really pleased if you
   did." I wondered what on earth would be appropriate for a gathering of
   people as old as Dan, but I put the thought behind me and agreed. The
   Arsenault's had been so generous, it was the least I could do. When
   Cindy told me the budget I could spend on entertainment I almost died,
   and I idly joked about hiring the Rolling Stones to play the party. I
   could see she was about to tell me she could ring Mick or Keith, so I
   made it clear I was joking. Actually it probably wasn't that much
   money -- it just seemed like an incredible amount to someone like me.
   We had been earning less than a tenth of it at our most popular gigs
   on the road.

   Cindy asked Pris to take care of tracking down a couple of old friends
   of Dan's who hadn't RSVP'd. Cindy didn't know them, but Pris
   remembered a couple from her childhood. The party was only a month
   away, so it was short notice to track people down, but Cindy had sent
   out most of the invitations months ago so it really only amounted to
   rounding up the stragglers, as she put it.

   After we finished planning the party I excused myself and went
   upstairs for a while. I was still feeling tired, and the euphoria of
   seeing Julia and the others was beginning to wear off, while the
   reality of the two visits to see Steve had set in.

   Just after lunch Elroy called up again and asked me to go for a walk
   with him. After he arrived at the Arsenaults' we strolled the leafy
   avenues of Buckhead. It was a pleasant day, hot but not oppressively
   so, and the trees provided enough shelter from the sun that I didn't
   feel like my skin was going to flake off under its rays. Elroy was
   quiet for the first few minutes. To break the silence I made a couple
   of comments about the houses we walked past, but he didn't respond
   immediately. After we'd walked about a half-mile he drew his breath,
   as though he'd come to some conclusion, and I looked across to see the
   expression on his face. He seemed serious, but not solemn, but there
   was something in his eyes that reminded me of the time I had hugged
   him in his office in the bar, a few weeks earlier. It was only a few
   weeks earlier. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

   "I was very upset when you hung up on me, Emma."

   "I'm sorry, Elroy. I said that the other night."

   "I know. It's just that... I felt powerless, and it's not a feeling I
   like... I've been powerless a couple of times in my life when things
   have gone wrong, and up until now they've been times that have haunted
   me."

   "I'm sorry."

   "I know. I'm sorry too. I don't mean to rub it in. Emma... how long
   have we known one another?"

   "I don't know, Elroy. It seems like... about ten months?"

   "I guess so. Well... I've grown very fond of you, m'dear. More than
   you know." He chuckled. "No, don't look at me like that, or they'll
   have me locked up." I was relieved to hear his laugh -- this was more
   like the old Elroy. "No, Emma, I've grown to love you... but like I
   loved Juliet."

   I swallowed, and stopped walking. His laugh had masked something much
   more serious. Juliet was Elroy's daughter. The one who had been killed
   in the accident. Elroy turned to face me, and I reached across and
   took his hand. "Elroy..."

   "I know it's selfish of me, Emma. But the one thing I regret most
   about Juliet's death is that I never gave her all the love I wanted
   to... I never looked out for her the way I should have. Over the past
   few months we've seen quite a lot of one another, and you've..." Here
   he looked over my shoulder, trying to keep his emotions in check by
   focusing on the middle distance as I'd seen Steve do a few times.
   "You've meant a great deal to me, just by being around, by having so
   much life in you.

   "It's very selfish of me, Emma, but I don't think I can deal with it
   again if you make me feel that powerless and useless again. I'm an old
   man now, but it's nice to feel... useful. And wanted. And while we
   were in Tupelo I thought that... maybe... maybe I was useful, helping
   you and Steve out --"

   "Oh, Elroy, you were. But more than useful --"

   "-- Well, the other night just drove me insane. I don't know if Julia
   told you, but I pretty much made her tell me where you were. I think
   she thought I was some kind of crazy man, which is why she wanted to
   come along --"

   "-- I think she really needed to see Steve --"

   "Yes, that too. Anyway -- just shoot me before I make an old fool of
   myself, Emma. I know things are very tough for you right now. But I
   needed to come say this to you: whatever you need, whatever I can do,
   I will be there for you. I don't have Juliet any more, and you don't
   have your parents. I know it's not the same thing, but if it makes up
   for anything at all, you know I'll always be there for you. Just don't
   ever shut me out like that again."

   We hugged each other for at least a minute, then separated and walked
   on. After a while, when the mood had eased slightly, Elroy asked me a
   couple of questions about how I was coping living at the Arsenault's,
   and I answered truthfully that it wasn't difficult, although I wasn't
   terribly comfortable with staying once Pris returned to Oxford.

   "You have to stay here?"

   "I do, Elroy. As long as Steve's here."

   "That could be a very long time, Emma."

   "I don't plan on staying with the Arsenault's forever."

   "I know that. But -- what will you do?"

   "I don't know that... not at all. I'll get a job, I guess."

   "You love him, Emma?"

   "I do, Elroy."

   "I can give you some money --"

   "No. Thank you. But I feel bad enough staying at the Arsenault's. I
   don't want to be dependent on anyone else as well."

   "Don't think of it that way. Think of it as me feeling useful."

   At that moment I wanted to scream. I loved Elroy, I loved that he
   cared so much about me. But I didn't care for myself. Here I was,
   living a lie. I was sure that if Elroy knew about my past he would
   distance himself from me immediately. He seemed to think of me as a
   kind of surrogate daughter, and I wasn't even a girl. Not really, It
   was getting harder and harder to think of myself as anything else, but
   I knew that I wasn't really as good as all the other women I knew. I
   was a freak, an object of strangeness and otherness. I didn't deserve
   his love, or his concern. Only Steve had made me feel really wanted,
   really worthwhile, and now all that was... broken. I wondered whether
   Steve would have taken up heroin if I had been better able to satisfy
   him..."

   "Emma?"

   "Mmmm? Sorry, Elroy. I guess I've just got a lot on my mind." Now I
   really felt like shit. Elroy had just poured out his soul to me, and
   all I'd been able to say was that I had a lot on my mind. Elroy
   deserved better. I didn't deserve his trust, or Dan's, or Pris's. None
   of them knew the truth about me. Only Steve knew. And Julia. I
   wondered why Julia put up with me.

   We walked along a little further, saying little to one another. I was
   deep into a rut of depression, and although I knew that I wasn't
   thinking especially logically that didn't seem to matter as much as my
   feelings of worthlessness. The more Elroy told me he cared about me,
   the less I felt I was worthy of his care.

   We stopped outside the gates to a huge estate. Through the gates and
   the trees I could see an elaborate building which looked much too
   large to be a house. "Country Club", Elroy said, answering the
   question I hadn't asked. I looked at the building again, but it was
   set too far back from the road to see much. As we were standing there
   an expensive-looking sports car with the top down and two
   gorgeous-looking men in it swept past us into the driveway and on
   toward the main building. The two guys looked like they had never had
   a stressed day in their lives, and I momentarily felt bitter about
   them and all the troubles I had.

   "Could be worse, Emma," Elroy said. "Could be like those guys."

   "Huh?" I said, unsure of what he meant.

   "Carole Bayer Sager," Elroy almost spat. I must have looked at him
   blankly. Then I realized he was talking about the music that had
   blared from the car as it went by us. "Wouldn't you rather be dead
   than listen to Carole Bayer Sager? I mean, the Porsche is nice, but if
   you have to listen to Carole Bayer Sager then clearly you need help.
   Might as well be dead."

   I laughed. Elroy was quite serious, which is what made it funny.

   As we walked back to the house I changed the subject away from Steve
   and I and back to music. I asked Elroy for advice about booking a band
   to play Dan's party, and he said he'd give me a couple of numbers to
   call. He got very enthusiastic about the whole thing, and I could see
   that the concept of usefulness really was something he relished. I
   wondered if it would be okay with Cindy if I invited him to come back
   for the party -- he sure would be a big help, if he could spare the
   time away from Tupelo. When I told him that Cindy had asked if I would
   also sing he got a huge grin on his face, and I could tell that I'd
   got him onto thinking about the event in a big way.

   When we got back to the house Dan was home again, and in an effusive
   mood. Apparently he had won the golf game. He and Elroy retired
   downstairs to shoot some pool, and when we next saw them a few hours
   later it was as though they had been friends for years.

   Late that afternoon Elroy, Bo, Maggie and I headed back to the bar
   where Steve had shot the cop. The owner of the place still had some of
   our stuff, and although nobody was very keen to re-live the events of
   that horrible night I knew that Bo and Maggie weren't so well off that
   they could afford to lose instruments and leather jackets. Denis, the
   guy who ran the place, was pretty nice towards us considering all the
   shit that must have gone down around him that night and all the bad
   publicity that his place must have had as a result. He'd made sure
   that our stuff had been secured in a storeroom near his office. I
   think Elroy might have slipped him a little cash as a way of saying
   thanks, but I didn't see it so I wasn't not sure.

   On our way out of the place we passed the door to the room we'd been
   standing in when we heard the shots. I must have looked kind of
   strange, I guess, because I felt Bo's hand in the middle of my back,
   steadying me, and Maggie took my hand as we walked by.

   Elroy, Bo and Maggie all had plans to head back to Mississippi on the
   Monday, so Sunday night we all went out again, this time to a small
   pizza place that Pris recommended. I was still pretty down, and I
   think Elroy and Pris went out of their way to cheer me up. At the end
   of the evening Elroy gave me a hug and made me promise to keep in
   touch with him. "I'll come back in a couple of weeks," he said. "But I
   don't want none of this abrupt phone call business."

   We said our goodbyes on the street outside the pizza place, and then
   Julia and Pris and I got into the car and drove home in silence.

   The next few days were relatively uneventful. On Monday afternoon
   Julia and I went out to the prison to see Steve, and once again he
   seemed to be in pretty good spirits -- he was much better than me. We
   both got to spend twenty minutes each with him, which didn't seem like
   much but was much better than the Saturday.

   It was wonderful to spend time with Julia again. Even though it had
   only been a couple of weeks since I'd seen her, I had been spending so
   much time with her in Oxford that I really had missed her while I'd
   been on the road. I was amazed at how well she was taking the whole
   situation with Steve. At first I thought, uncharitably, that maybe she
   was more relaxed about it than I was because she had gotten used to
   Steve being in jail for all those years he was at Brand, but I became
   aware that she was quite distressed by the situation. She was simply
   better at dealing with it than I was. She was the kind of woman who
   liked to have everything under control and organized, even if she
   didn't feel especially under control herself. I was glad to have her
   around.

   Most days Cindy seemed to be out of the house doing things while Dan
   was at work, so Pris and Julia and I had the house pretty much to
   ourselves. Etta would chase us out of the kitchen if we hung around
   there too long, so a lot of the time we sat out on the patio, me in
   the shade and Pris sunning herself. The days were hot, but it was a
   relatively mild summer for Atlanta. On the Tuesday Pris suggested we
   go swimming, and I panicked slightly, but Julia came to my rescue by
   saying she hadn't bought a swimsuit either. She could probably have
   fitted into one of Cindy's, but she said she didn't feel comfortable
   about that.

   That meant a shopping expedition to buy new swimsuits for Julia and
   me. At first I was petrified. I hadn't worn a swimsuit since I was
   about twelve, and -- well, things had changed. I was absolutely sure
   that people would notice the thing that made me different from other
   girls. So I tried making excuses about being broke, but unfortunately
   that didn't wash with either of the girls since they both offered to
   pay. Then I tried to make excuses about not being able to swim, which
   wasn't untrue. Pris offered to teach me. "It's about time you
   learned," she said. "And you'll never get a better chance. Besides,
   you don't have to actually swim, you just have to get into the water
   and cool down. It's all settled, then. I'm going inside to get my keys
   and purse. I'll meet you out front in five minutes. We can take
   Daddy's other car again so we can all fit."

   Although she seemed just as determined to see me in a suit, I could
   tell that Julia understood my paranoia, because while Pris was inside
   getting her purse she clasped my hand and said "It's okay, honey. A
   little bit of tape will take care of what's bothering you. Go ask Etta
   whether there's a first aid kit in the house."

   Etta seemed mildly alarmed at my request, but when I assured her I
   wasn't bleeding she seemed to be reassured. I asked Pris to wait a
   moment, and disappeared upstairs into my bathroom. I think that first
   time I must have used about a foot of tape, such was my paranoia about
   being exposed for what I was, but after I had pulled up my panties
   again there didn't seem to be any evidence of a problem. I smiled at
   Julia as we walked out to the car, and she gave my hand a little
   squeeze. I think Pris was slightly confused by us, but she didn't
   press either of us for details.

   Tape or not, shopping for swimsuits was mildly terrifying. They all
   looked so... insubstantial. I had long ago gotten used to feeling
   exposed in halter tops and short skirts, and I had become very
   comfortable walking around in lingerie in front of Steve, but I had
   never even contemplated the idea of wearing a bikini. I tried to look
   through the racks of one-piece suits, but Pris would have none of it.
   She bundled me into the changing rooms in a succession of bikinis. At
   least she gave me the opportunity to change in private. At first I was
   too scared to come out of the room to show anyone, and I tried on
   three suits before she asked me how the first one looked. "Not so
   good," I called out.

   Pris knocked on the side of the change cubicle. I finished pulling on
   the third bikini top and pulled the curtain aside just a fraction. She
   smiled. "That looks great," she said.

   "I don't know. I think I look fat." I did, too. My flesh seemed to
   spill out of the top of the bra, and my hips seemed even bigger in the
   bikini briefs than they did when I was naked. Plus there was my skin.
   I looked so incredibly pale, except for a few freckles on my
   shoulders. I swear I could almost see my veins under my skin in the
   places that hadn't seen any sun at all. All that white skin made me
   look even fatter. At least that was what I thought.

   "Honey, you're such a tiny thing. How could you think you looked fat?.
   Still, if you don't like that one..." She disappeared for a moment,
   and then returned carrying a hangar with something on it. "Emma, you
   would look fantastic in this," she said, holding up a bikini that
   seemed to consist of tiny little green triangles held together with
   even tinier green strings.

   I pulled the curtain closed and tried to work out which bits of string
   tied to which. I got the bottoms on easily, but the top was difficult
   because it was a halter style. The hardest thing about tying the
   string was that my hair kept getting tangled in it. I wished I had
   bought something with me so I could tie it up.

   Julia stuck her head around the curtain. "You okay?" she said, as I
   wrestled with the string of a bikini top that tied around my head.
   "Here, let me help." She came in to the changing room and I turned and
   offered her my back. I held my hair up and Julia tied it without any
   trouble at all. Then she thrust the curtain aside so that Pris could
   see. "Ta da!"

   "Wow," Pris said. "That's the one, Emma. I wish I looked so trim."

   I looked at myself in the mirror in the back of the changing cubicle.
   I still thought I looked fat, but Julia and Pris both thought it
   looked great. The salesgirl, who until now had paid us almost no
   attention, also chimed in with praise.

   I tried to look at myself objectively, but it was no good. I thought I
   looked terrible, and everyone else thought I looked wonderful. Apropos
   of nothing another woman in the store chimed in with a positive
   opinion too.

   "That's it. I'm buying it for you," Pris said. "If you want a
   different one you're going to have to pay for it yourself.'

   "That's a dirty trick," I said. "You know I don't have any money."

   "The dirtiest," Pris said. "Don't worry, Emma. You look beautiful."

   It was Julia who got to buy the one piece. "We mothers-to-be have to
   look more modest," she joked, although it was still impossible to see
   any sign of the pregnancy. She looked incredibly sexy in the swimsuit.
   Even today I think one piece suits look better than bikinis. Sometimes
   less flesh is much more sexy.

   Pris paid for my suit, and we spent some more time browsing around the
   stores. Then we headed home. It was still only early afternoon when we
   got back, and so we were soon all changed into our suits. I tied my
   hair up behind my head and gingerly explored the water at the shallow
   end. I had never really spent much time in water before, apart from
   two family expeditions when I was a little kid, when I paddled in the
   shallows of Lake Superior. At first I just hung off the ladder in the
   pool, but then Pris coaxed me out into the water, teaching me to
   dogpaddle, and then to tread water, and then to float on my back. It
   felt kind of ... intimate, the way she held me around my waist to
   support me.

   We lazed around the pool for the rest of the day. Pris and Julia
   seemed relatively unconcerned by the sun, but I knew better and
   slathered myself with sunblock for most of the day. I thought back to
   the days I used to sun myself in the yard at Brand, and marvelled at
   the luxury that surrounded me at the Arsenault's. It was almost like
   those memories belonged to someone else, even though they were only a
   year old.

   I discovered that evening that there was a penalty involved in using
   tape to hide my sex. Getting the tape off was excruciatingly painful.
   Over the next couple of days we continued to use the pool, and
   fortunately I got much better at using the tape. Eventually I could
   tape myself without attaching the tape to hairy parts of me, and then
   I made things simpler by shaving myself entirely down there. Once I
   had mastered that I began to tape myself every day, regardless of
   whether we were swimming or not. It felt good not to have to worry
   about casual discovery.

   More days went by, and Julia and I went out to the prison as often as
   we were allowed. David Breslin called in a favor from someone and I
   was finally allowed to give Steve the Martin, and Julia gave Steve a
   picture of me in my bikini, which he said was the best thing he'd ever
   been given. I was cross with Julia and pleased at the same time.

   The hardest thing about seeing Steve was the glass between us. We
   could put our hands up to it but there wasn't anything we could do to
   actually touch one another.

   About three weeks after I had arrived at the Arsenault's I was helping
   Etta clear up after dinner on a Tuesday night, when the doorbell rang.
   Cindy got the door, and I could hear her talking to someone. A couple
   of moments later Dan appeared in the kitchen and asked me if I'd mind
   having a talk with him in his study. I was slightly alarmed as we
   walked down the hallway together. What could be so serious that it
   required this much privacy? Dan usually discussed things openly over
   the breakfast table. When we got into his study he ushered me inside.
   I was surprised to see David Breslin and another older man in the
   study too.

   Dan closed the door, and introduced me to the older man. "Emma, this
   is Bob Douglas, a good friend of mine. David you already know." He
   indicated that I should sit down. I did, feeling nervous. Dan had been
   so good to me. Maybe he had found out about me... maybe...

   "We need to talk to you about Steve, Emma," he said as he sat down in
   a chair a few feet away.

   "Yes?"

   "Would you like to tell Bob what happened?" Dan asked.

   When I hesitated for a moment David Breslin held up his hand to
   reassure me. "Don't worry, nothing you say is going to go outside this
   room."

   "I'm only asking," Dan continued, "because I've done some asking
   around about his chances, but I need you to talk to me honestly about
   what you know before I go any further. I can confirm David's statement
   that whatever you say to us will stay within this room."

   "Um, the truth is, sir, I don't really know. I didn't see anything."

   "But he must have said something to you."

   "If you want to know what I think, then yes, I think he did shoot the
   guy. He hasn't denied it. I don't think he denied it to the police,
   did he?"

   "He was smart enough not to say anything to the police," David said.

   "Oh. That's good, I guess."

   "Well, yes, it is and it isn't," Dan said. "Look, Emma, I won't beat
   around the bush. I asked my friend Bob to talk to David about the
   case. I hope you don't mind. Bob and I have known one another for
   years, and he's one of the top defense lawyers in the country. He has
   discussed Steve's case with David, and this afternoon he called me to
   tell me what he thought. Bob?"

   "I won't get your hopes up, Emma. It's not good." I could see that
   David Breslin looked slightly embarrassed when he said this, and had
   difficulty meeting my eyes.

   Even though I knew, right from the time I heard the policeman say
   'Your friend just shot a cop', that Steve was finished, I hadn't let
   the idea percolate to the top of my brain. I think I'd deliberately
   denied the reality of the situation to myself, as a means of dealing
   with it. Even at those moments I was most depressed I hadn't
   contemplated the idea that Steve would be in jail forever.

   I didn't say anything, which seemed to make all the men uncomfortable.
   Bob Douglas broke the silence. "Dan asked me for an opinion, Emma, and
   I'm happy to give it. Dan was asking me with a view to having me take
   Steve's case, so I've discussed it thoroughly with David, and I met
   with Steve this afternoon. I will be happy to take it on, with Steve's
   approval. But before I talked to him again I thought it prudent to
   talk to Dan, and to you, about the likely outcome. Steve was
   especially concerned that I talk to you. Mounting a proper defense
   will not be cheap," here he glanced at Dan, "and I must say that the
   outcome is unlikely to be what you might hope."

   "What do you mean?" I said in a small voice.

   "I don't see a defense that will allow us to secure Steven's freedom,
   Emma. I think we can try bargaining for a lesser sentence, but the
   prosecutor is seeking the maximum penalty. It's unlikely they'll even
   try for a plea bargain unless we push the issue. They feel very
   confident of a conviction."

   "I thought he pleaded not guilty," I said, my voice still quavering.
   That nervous tic in my eye had returned.

   "Yes," David said. "But that was a tactic to give us time. You always
   plead not guilty if you're sure the case is going to trial. I know the
   D.A. wants a show trial so he can look like a law and order hero."

   "We may be able to secure a lesser sentence if we agree to change his
   plea to guilty," Bob continued.

   "And that means Steve will spend how long in jail?" My voice seemed
   very far away. It was almost as though it belonged to someone else.

   "I expect they will want life, Emma," Bob said gently. "That might
   mean he can get out in fifteen to twenty years if he's lucky."

   "Although with his record as a juvenile it may be more like
   twenty-five," David said.

   "Twenty-five years. Can't you do something?"

   "I'm prepared to mount a strong defense in court, Emma," Bob said.
   "Dan has agreed to pay for my services. But I have an obligation to
   advise him of the likely outcome. Since Dan tells me he is doing this
   for you, that means advising you, too."

   I looked at Dan. Once again I felt unworthy. If these people knew the
   truth about me they would never agree to help Steve. I had to keep
   hiding my past from everyone so that Steve could have some chance of
   freedom. And yet, I couldn't let Dan spend his money without knowing
   that I wasn't worthy of his kindness.

   "If we offer them a guilty plea it won't cost much, Emma," Dan said.
   "Bob will take over the case and make the deal, and it will mean a
   lesser sentence."

   "Life? Life is a lesser sentence?"

   "It is in this state," David said grimly. "We should be very grateful
   that Steve is white, Emma, or there would be no chance of even going
   for the plea."

   "In the event that you and Steven decline my services, David here will
   continue to represent him," Bob said. "But I think you'll find that
   his advice is likely to be similar to mine."

   David nodded. "I've talked it over with Steve, Emma. You should talk
   it over with him too."

   "If Steve wants to fight this the whole way, Emma, I can afford it,"
   Dan said. "But I thought we should discuss it openly first, so that we
   know going in what our options are."

   "I have to talk to Steve first," I said. "And what about Julia? This
   affects her as much as me --"

   "Steven asked us to discuss it with you first," Bob said.

   "Before I can say anything. Dan, I honestly don't think we can take
   your money --"

   "--Nonsense," Dan interrupted. "We can discuss this later, Emma, after
   you've talked with Steve. This is a man's life we're talking about.
   Money can come later."

   "Speaking of discussing it with Steve," Bob said, "one thing that may
   make life easier for you is better access. I can arrange it so that
   you are affiliated with the case. I can get you paralegal status. That
   should get you better access to Steve, without having to go through
   the regular visitors' channels."

   I no longer felt unworthy and guilty. I felt empty. I had no idea what
   the proper responses to Bob and David and Dan should be. I could tell
   that I was going through the motions, nodding my head and answering
   questions at the right times, but I was doing it all on autopilot. The
   denial that had kept me going through the past few weeks was gone, and
   in its place was a yawning chasm of hopelessness that was paralyzing
   me. What was the point to any of this if Steve was going to spend
   twenty-five years in prison?

   ***

   Chapter Eighteen.

   I woke late the following day, after Dan and Cindy had both left the
   house and Pris and Julia were already out by the pool in the warm
   morning air. Pris had made me take a sleeping pill after my meeting
   with the lawyers, and my mouth still tasted stale even after mouthwash
   and toothpaste.

   Etta made me go out on the patio to eat breakfast. I didn't have the
   presence to tell her it tasted like cardboard. Everything seemed dull
   and empty. Pris saw me and came up from the pool. She looked at me
   with concern. "How are you?"

   "I'm okay, I guess. I don't think sleeping pills agree with me." I
   squinted in the morning sun. "How's Julia?" I had discussed the
   lawyer's proposals with Pris and Julia before bed, and both Julia and
   I had cried and cried until Pris cried too.

   "She's okay," Pris said. "I think ... you know how Julia deals with
   things."

   "Yeah."

   "You going to be okay?"

   "I guess so," I said.

   "There was a phone call for you from Bob Douglas's office this
   morning. I left a note for you under your door."

   "I didn't notice," I said. "I'll make the call after I've had
   breakfast."

   "Sure thing. Emma?"

   "Yes?"

   "It's up to us to take care of Julia. You know that, right?"

   "I thought you said she was okay."

   "I did. But she's not, really. She just hides it all inside. A bit
   like you. But she's got the baby..."

   I nodded, and Pris squeezed my hand. Months later I realized how
   clever Pris was. By playing on my sense of responsibility and my
   feelings toward Julia, she gave me something to do. Something
   positive: take care of Julia.

   I called Bob Douglas's office, and sure enough he had arranged for me
   to be given paralegal credentials and regular access to Steve. The
   woman in his office said that I would be able to see Steve at almost
   any time after they finalized all the paperwork.

   I wondered many times in the next few days why the Arsenault's were
   allowing Julia and I to intrude so much into their lives. Apart from
   the tension in the air because Julia and I were both prone to burst
   into tears, Dan had made an offer which must have been a big
   commitment even for a man as wealthy as he was. I wondered why Cindy
   was okay with us staying when we brought such gloom and despair with
   us, especially since we were Pris's friends and she and Pris didn't
   seem to get along all that well.

   That was changing, I reflected. Cindy had turned out to be much more
   sensitive and caring than any of us might have predicted. She wasn't
   intrusive, which was also surprising. I had to approach her later that
   week to apologize for being such a burden, and she didn't pry into my
   thoughts or feelings. Instead she turned out to be very understanding
   and supportive, and I came away thinking that I had misjudged her.
   Even Pris seemed surprised, and I noticed that the tension between
   them seemed to ebb even further over the next few days.

   On the Thursday I took my new paralegal credentials and went to the
   jail in the morning, so that Julia could have the afternoon visitor's
   period with Steve on her own. Instead of having to use the visitor's
   room I was shown through another door, and asked to submit to a
   search. I almost panicked as I wondered what sort of search they
   meant. A female prison officer approached me and I raised my hands. I
   gave silent thanks that I had taped myself up that morning, so when
   she gave me a pat down between my legs she felt nothing unusual. It
   was a creepy experience, though. At Brand I had almost never been
   searched -- at least not after Dr. Blaha had wrought his madness upon
   me. The officer gave me instructions in a bored tone as though she
   recited them a hundred times a day, which I suppose was true. "You may
   not be alone with a prisoner unless you are in the direct sight of a
   guard in another room. You may not have any physical contact with a
   prisoner. If you need to obtain the signature of a your client you
   must pass the pen first to a guard, who will then pass it to the
   prisoner. You may not give anything to, or take anything from, a
   prisoner without declaring it. Do you understand?"

   A guard took me down some corridors, through several sets of security
   doors, to a small room. He left me there alone, and shut and locked
   the door. The room was totally bare apart from a table and several
   chairs. I sat and waited. After a few minutes my heart leapt as
   another guard led Steve through the door. There was no glass between
   us! I wanted to throw myself at him and hug him and feel his touch and
   kiss his mouth and smell his wonderful familiar smell, but I knew that
   it was forbidden.

   The guard motioned for Steve to sit at the opposite side of the table
   to me. He looked at me greasily, and then at Steve as though assessing
   the likelihood that Steve might try to rape me. Frankly I felt like
   the guard was a much bigger risk to me than any of the prisoners I had
   seen on my visits to see Steve. Finally the guard shrugged, and then
   went out of the room and closed the door. A window in the door meant
   that he could watch us at all times.

   "This is better," Steve said with a smile.

   "Much better," I agreed. My heart had lifted out of its pit of
   despair. Oh, we couldn't touch, but how wonderful it was to see Steve
   in front of me, without the glass to separate us!

   "Dang, Em, you look so good!" Steve said. I shifted my chair back
   slightly so he could see my legs. I looked at the window, and saw that
   the guard wasn't looking, and so I shifted back toward him again and
   furtively reached my hand across the table. Our fingers touched, and
   it was like electricity flowed between us, so strongly that it was
   almost painful. Just that one touch felt almost as exquisite as some
   of the best sex between us. We touched again. I almost swooned.
   "Steady, Em. Don't get carried away. We can do this more often now.
   Once the guards get used to you..."

   I withdrew my hand, but oh it was torture then not to be able to
   touch. Fortunately we were chastely separated when I saw the guard
   look back through the window.

   Steve smiled. "It's good to know I can still have an effect like that
   on you."

   "You have no idea," I said.

   "Oh, I have some idea," he grinned.

   Eventually my heart settled, and I broached the subject that had been
   on my mind for the past two days. "Steve, I talked with Bob Douglas,"
   I began. "He --"

   "Yes. I asked him to talk to you. He seems like he knows what he's
   talking about."

   "Yes. I guess."

   "He tell you what he thought was gonna happen?"

   "Yes."

   "Can't see as I think there's any point to it."

   "Point to what?" I was confused.

   "Pleading guilty."

   "But if you don't make a bargain it will go to trial, and if it goes
   to trial then they can give you the death penalty."

   "Yep. That's true." He stretched and settled in his seat. "I'm not
   worried about that, Emma."

   "You're not worried about dying?"

   "Well, of course I'm a little bit worried. Isn't everyone? On the
   other hand, there is the chance that Bob might be able to get me a
   lesser penalty even if it goes to trial."

   "He didn't seem very optimistic the other night."

   "He's not. Apparently this prosecutor feels like he has to make a big
   show of things... I dunno, Em. I mean, I screwed up, I figure I should
   take the consequences, but I don't think I should be makin' their
   lives any easier by pleading guilty. There's only one thing makes me
   think I can't get Bob Douglas as my lawyer and get him to get me the
   lesser shot anyway."

   "The money?"

   "Yep. Doesn't seem right to get Pris's Dad to pay all that money for
   something that I could maybe get just by pleading guilty."

   "He says it's a genuine offer, Steve."

   "I know. Can't figure out what I've done to deserve it. I guess you're
   the one who's charmed her way into his heart."

   "I think maybe Pris had something to do with it too."

   "Yeah. Probably. Anyway, I don't know that I can let him spend that
   money. On the other hand... I don't know if I can spend twenty-five
   years in here. Dyin' doesn't seem so great, but living here for the
   rest of my life doesn't seem like such a great idea either. It was
   different when you were with me, Em... "

   "Steve..."

   "You don't know how different. You changed my life, Em. I only wish I
   had realized how much before all this happened. I was such a fucking
   idiot."

   Neither of us said anything for a few moments, and I reached across
   the table and took Steve's hand. I didn't care whether the guard was
   looking or not.

   "Steve?"

   "Yep?"

   "I know it's a lot of money. But I've though this over, a lot. And you
   know, if it's the difference between living and dying, I think you
   should take it. I'll pay Dan Arsenault back."

   "It'll take you years."

   "I know. But you know I'll do it."

   "I know, Em. I hope it's worth it."

   ***

   Chapter Nineteen.

   A few weeks later Julia was finally starting to show under her one
   piece swimsuit. School had already started back in Oxford, and Pris
   was making preparations to head back there. Although Julia was still
   visiting the jail at least twice a week to see Steve, it seemed
   probable that she'd head back too, even though she wouldn't finish out
   the year there. She still hadn't told her parents about the baby. We
   all knew, just from her tales about her family, that all hell would
   break loose when she did.

   I think she was torn between her loyalty to Steve and her desire to
   see more of Pete, who was still back in Oxford gearing up to sell fake
   IDs to a new batch of freshmen.

   Before Julia and Pris left we had the summer's final hurrah to
   celebrate; Dan's birthday. Cindy had planned an extravaganza for his
   50th. More than 400 people were invited for the party, to be held in
   the garden in exclusive Buckhead. Of course Cindy had to invite the
   neighbors: it wasn't just to avoid offending them with the noise --
   the neighbors were among the cream of Atlanta society, so it was
   inconceivable that Cindy would leave them off the list.

   Elroy had come through for me on the entertainment stakes. Since his
   outburst when he visited in July I had called him at least twice a
   week, and we had discussed the party in many of those calls. Elroy had
   taken it upon himself to coordinate the music, and had found a band
   out of Tennessee fronted by someone called John Davis that he seemed
   to think would be good. They had three albums under their belt, and
   weren't big enough to headline stadiums but could still manage to make
   money out of a national tour. Dan's would be the very first private
   party they'd ever played as a private gig, and I wondered whether
   Elroy had called in a favor to get them to do it. I trusted his
   judgement, and was happy he did the negotiating. I had told him that
   despite Cindy's request I wasn't very happy about singing myself, so I
   was pleased that he'd found someone good who would entertain everyone
   and save me from having to make an impression on Dan.

   In the days before the party Cindy went back to being her old tense,
   pretentious self. She was totally preoccupied with the party, and
   mostly ignored Pris, Julia and me while she busied herself organizing
   things. How she managed to keep the whole affair a secret from Dan
   given the small army of people involved was a mystery to me. I think
   it helped that he was still enmeshed in his Japanese deal, and so he
   was spending many evenings and the occasional Sunday at the office
   (Sunday in America is Monday in Japan). In the final week of
   preparations the thing that mostly concerned Cindy was what we would
   all wear to the party, and on the Wednesday before the big event she
   made a point of taking Pris and I aside and telling us -- in no
   uncertain terms -- that we would be going shopping.

   If I had been overwhelmed by my experience of shopping with Julia in
   Oxford it was nothing compared to going hunting armed with charge card
   with Cindy. It might have been that Cindy, Pris and Julia together
   constituted possibly the most gorgeous trio of women in all the South.
   Everywhere we went men -- and even women -- literally stopped in their
   tracks to stare at such beautiful women. I didn't feel in the least
   bit self conscious with them, since I knew nobody was paying the
   slightest bit of attention to me.

   Like Julia, Cindy had mastered the art of not feeling guilty about
   shopping. At no point did she even hint that she felt bad about
   consuming hours of a sales assistant's time, even if she purchased
   nothing. On top of that I had to admit that she had impeccable taste.
   I don't know whether some women grow up with that taste or have to
   learn it, but however that worked Cindy had an instinctive knack for
   knowing what combinations of clothes would work and which would be
   disastrous. Because we were shopping for something to wear at a garden
   party, but in the evening, she had a whole set of requirements about
   what would and wouldn't be suitable. Julia made disparaging remarks
   about something called 'the Junior League' which whizzed right over my
   head but which Pris found amusing.

   At any rate Cindy directed us like a small army -- actually it was
   probably more like a guerilla squad. We swept down upon each
   unsuspecting boutique, and tried on several outfits each until Cindy
   declared them all unsuitable, and left the sales assistants with an
   inferiority complex. I think several of them may have gasped in our
   wake. We found a slinky black halter dress that Cindy deemed
   appropriate for Pris in the third store, and a beautiful loose fitting
   pale blue silk dress for Julia in the next, but it took another three
   stores, and the better part of the afternoon, before we could all
   agree on a short white dress for me. It was very simple design, but
   beautifully cut, ending well above my knees in a feathery hemline
   without being at all trashy. At first I worried that white against my
   pale skin would make me look like a blimp, but after all three of the
   women accompanying me poo-pooed that idea I had to stop worrying about
   it. My objection after that was to the price, which I thought was
   probably marginally more than Julia had paid for the Malibu we had
   driven to Oxford in, but Cindy dismissed my objections as though I was
   a child and paid for the dress on one of Dan's cards before I even had
   the chance to take it off again. I wished my mother could have been in
   the store with me, just once, to see such beautiful clothes. I felt
   wonderful in the dress, but it pained me that she had lived her whole
   life without ever once owning anything so beautiful.

   As I put my regular clothes on I mentally slapped myself for always
   having a painful memory at the most pleasant times. I was becoming
   more and more focussed on the negative, when I was consistently the
   beneficiary of extraordinary largesse.

   After buying the clothes we -- of course -- had to find new shoes to
   accompany them, and that occupied the remainder of the day. Julia and
   Cindy managed to talk me into a pair of strappy pale blue high heeled
   shoes that made me feel like I would totter forward. When I protested
   that heels like that would almost certainly be disastrous on the lawn
   I was ignored, although I could see I got some sympathy from Pris.
   Cindy paid without a murmur, so I felt like it would be rude to seem
   ungrateful.

   On the Friday Cindy bundled us all off to the salon to have our hair
   done. Once again we invaded the place like we were taking it over.
   Cindy and Julia were very definite about what could and could not be
   done to their own hair, and Julia was equally insistent about what
   should be done to mine. I lost about eight or nine inches off my hair
   at the back, which bought it up to just between my shoulder blades but
   made it possible for me to put it up in a chignon more easily. Julia
   promised to show me how to take it up and down myself.

   Elroy arrived the day before Dan's birthday, and he, Pris, Julia and I
   hit the town on the Saturday night. Julia wasn't drinking, so she
   drove Elroy's Caddy and the rest of us got pleasantly tipsy in a place
   that had some great local music. I don't know whether it was because I
   was with Elroy, but nobody carded me the entire night.

   The day of the party everyone was up early, but playing it cool until
   Dan left. His friend Bill showed up around 9.30am to take him off for
   a game of golf and then off to a classic car rally, and everything
   swung into high gear around Cindy. Within fifteen minutes of Dan's
   departure a team of caterers had arrived and commandeered Etta's
   kitchen. She seemed quite pleased to relinquish it, though, and
   breezed off to spend time with her sister's family. Elroy arrived soon
   after, slightly the worse for wear after the previous night's
   activities, and supervised a bunch of guys erecting a small stage at
   the side of the garden. He had obtained a selection of equipment, and
   the labor, from Denis, the guy who owned the bar where Steve had been
   arrested. I was out talking to Elroy as he supervised them when a guy
   who was delivering the P.A. turned and I caught sight of his face. He
   noticed me, and broke out into a broad grin. "Mighty pleased to see
   you, miss." he said, beaming. It was Wiley, the boy from the barbecue
   in Oxford all those months ago.

   I smiled back. I had fond memories of Wiley, who had been a perfect
   gentleman. "Wiley, this is Elroy Williams. Elroy, this is Wiley --
   Wiley, I'm afraid I can't remember your second name --"

   "-- Kennison. At your service, ma'am."

   Wiley was doing a good job of laying on the southern charm thick, I
   thought. It was a wonder Elroy managed to keep a straight face. I
   finished introducing them, and then asked the inevitable question.
   "Wiley, what on earth are you doing delivering a P.A.?"

   "It's my uncle's business, Emma. Summer break is all."

   "Are you going back to school?"

   "Next week. What brings you to Atlanta?"

   "You remember Pris?" I waved my hand toward the patio, where Pris was
   directing two young guys from the hire company who were stringing
   colored lights over the patio. "This is her father's place."

   "Nice house," Wiley said.

   "How is it you know Emma?" Elroy chimed in, for all the world like a
   solicitous father. I could see Wiley hesitate for a second, as a trace
   of nervousness crossed his face. I could see him trying to work out
   whether Elroy was my father or not, and I momentarily felt sympathy
   for him. Guys have it tough with girls' fathers. I guess it's not too
   tough, though, or they wouldn't grow up and do it to the next
   generation.

   "Emma and me met at a football thing in Oxford, sir," Wiley said.

   "A football thing. You play football, boy?"

   "I do, sir. Yellow Jackets. Defensive end."

   "That's a fine team." They launched into a discussion of the changing
   nature of college football. All this time I'd known Elroy I'd never
   known him to have an interest in football, but then as I gradually
   learned in subsequent years all Southern boys seem to love football.
   After a few minutes I left them to their discussion and went into the
   house to see if there was anything I could help Cindy with.

   As I suspected, she had everything totally under control. She and
   Julia were sitting in the front room, what Cindy called the 'receiving
   room', going over a checklist of things that remained to be done. It
   was an incredibly short list. A couple of people had called late to
   say they weren't going to make it, after all, but Cindy had more than
   480 acceptances out of the 500 invitees. Dan was a popular man.

   The band arrived a couple of minutes later, in a van and an enormous
   old Lincoln. I took them out the back to meet Elroy, who was still
   discussing football with Wiley, and they all helped set up the PA and
   instruments. While I was back in the house I heard noises that sounded
   like the beginnings of a soundcheck.

   I didn't venture back out into the yard for about another hour, but
   when I did Wiley was waiting for me out on the patio. "You should have
   called and told me you were in Atlanta, Emma," he said. "Or did you
   lose my number?"

   "I didn't expect to be staying here this long, Wiley," I said, evading
   the question. I had lost his number. I never expected to see him
   again.

   "You sure found a nice place to stay," he said.

   We chatted for about fifteen minutes, and I remembered how charming
   Wiley could be. Not in quite the same way as Steve, but he had a
   gentle way of speaking that certainly did something to me. He lived a
   couple of blocks away from the Arsenaults' house, and was helping his
   uncle out over summer until his senior year began. But mostly we
   discussed music again. "This isn't your band," he said.

   "No. We... we split up, I guess."

   "That's too bad. I would have liked to hear you sing. But say, there's
   some guys I know through my uncle's business who are looking for a
   singer, maybe I could introduce you to them?"

   "I don't know how long I'll be staying in Atlanta, Wiley. It probably
   wouldn't be fair to join up with someone and then leave."

   "You're going to go back to Oxford?"

   "I suppose so. I don't know, really. I think our household there will
   probably be breaking up, too. I mean, I'm not studying..." Suddenly I
   found myself telling Wiley about living with Pris and Julia, and about
   Julia's plans to move in with Pete eventually. I didn't mention the
   baby.

   "Well, I think it would be wonderful if you stayed in Atlanta, Emma.
   Say, does the fact that you're here mean that you're not with that guy
   anymore?"

   "No, he's... Steve's here in Atlanta too." His face fell almost
   immediately and I had to smile at how transparently his face presented
   his thoughts. He'd have made a terrible poker player. "So don't you go
   getting your hopes up again."

   He smiled back. "I'm always hopeful, Emma. My mother always tells me
   that persistence pays off, and I pay attention to my mother. If you
   don't mind my asking, are you out with this fella every night of the
   week, or might I be able to show you the sights of my fair town
   sometime?"

   "I don't think I can date anyone else, Wiley. Sorry. No offense,
   you're a lovely guy, and maybe in different circumstances..."

   "Maybe we could just have coffee some time? You're an interesting
   girl, Emma, as well as a beautiful one. I'd just like to spend some
   time with you. If you're not too busy."

   "Maybe..." Wiley was such a nice guy. I honestly wasn't interested in
   dating, but perhaps we could be friends.

   His face lit up. "Great. I'll call you in a couple of days then."

   "Okay. Wiley... just friends, okay? Not a date."

   "Okay, Emma. No problem." He was beaming. "Say, I should probably be
   going now anyway. I hope this party goes well. It looks like it's
   going to be awesome."

   "Cindy sure knows how to put on a good show," I said. "You know, just
   wait here a minute." I went inside to the receiving room and had spoke
   to Cindy for a few moments, then came back out and handed Wiley an
   invitation. "It's not really up to me to invite people, but they had a
   couple of guests couldn't make it anyway, and since this party is
   definitely not a date... If you wanted to come by around seven, that
   would be pretty cool."

   "Really?"

   "If you don't have anything on tonight. Besides, you can keep an eye
   on your uncle's P.A."

   "That would be terrific, Emma." He looked at the invitation. "I guess
   I should be getting dressed up, though, huh?"

   "Well, it's a surprise party, so Dan will probably be in jeans. But,
   yes, it would probably help keep Cindy happy."

   ***

   Cindy had organized everything so well that by 1.00pm there was
   literally nothing for anyone to do. The caterers had taken over the
   kitchen and seemed to have everything well under control, and
   everything outside was set up correctly. Elroy and the guys in the
   band had gone off to see someone about a piece of equipment that
   wasn't working, but apparently it wasn't crucial anyway. So Pris,
   Julia and I sat around the house reading magazines and picking at
   little bits of finger food we smuggled out of the kitchen.

   Around 4.00pm Elroy and two of the guys in the band returned, and the
   four of us sat and picked at a few tunes for a half hour until it was
   time for me to go get dressed. It was nice to play with people who
   knew what they were doing. I realized that I missed the feeling of
   performing with other people. Although I still couldn't imagine myself
   on a stage without Steve, I enjoyed the few short songs we fooled
   around with, and I went up to shower and get changed with a pleasant
   buzz from the music. It had been a long time since I'd been that
   relaxed and happy.

   Julia and I helped each other fix our hair, so we both finished and
   came downstairs at the same time. Pris was already done, and I almost
   gasped when I saw her. She looked incredibly beautiful. She was never
   especially girly, and dressed up to the nines she still had a very
   elegant simplicity about her that had a slightly androgynous tinge,
   but she was gorgeous. The black halter dress showed off her athletic
   physique beautifully, and with her hair cut short and her cheekbones
   accented she looked like a goddess.

   Elroy took a photograph of the three of us. I still have a copy of
   that photograph today; Pris in the middle, almost a full foot taller
   than me, looking almost supernatural while Julia, always beautiful,
   has a slightly knowing smile. The blue silk she was wearing hid the
   swelling in her belly very effectively. On the other side of Pris is
   me, also smiling like I hadn't a care in the world. I can't believe I
   ever looked so young.

   The most difficult thing about surprising Dan turned out to be car
   parking. Cindy had organized to have two boys take guests cars and
   move them a few blocks away so that Dan wouldn't notice the congestion
   around the house when he arrived, but two of them proved inadequate to
   the task, so Elroy pitched in to help and as soon as Wiley arrived he
   also started moving cars. He was standing out the front waiting for
   the next guest when Dan arrived, and was about to take the car from
   Bill and Dan when Bill managed to flash him a quick warning glance.
   Fortunately Wiley was quick enough to pick up on it. Dan was certainly
   mystified by Wiley's presence but he didn't realise what was going on
   until he got inside the house. Cindy was very happy that his surprise
   was complete, and after Dan got over the initial shock of finding
   almost 500 of his friends scattered over the property so was he.

   I spent most of the first part of the night with Wiley and Pris and
   Julia. At first I thought Julia was going to be mad at me for even
   talking to another boy while Steve was in prison, but I guess she knew
   I loved Steve more than anything, and anyway Wiley's charm worked just
   as well on Julia as it did on me, and soon she was laughing and joking
   with him like they were old friends. Even Pris, who usually regarded
   football players with disdain, seemed to warm to Wiley more than most
   men.

   The band was great, and after a while Wiley shyly asked me whether I'd
   like to dance on the little wooden dance floor the guys had laid out
   on the lawn earlier in the day. There were two older couples shuffling
   around on it. I didn't want to say yes, because I still wasn't very
   confident about dancing even though Julia and Pris had been teaching
   me, so I asked him to wait a couple of songs.

   Julia shook her head. "Emma, you're hopeless. Wiley, would you like to
   dance?" She grabbed his hand and the two of them got out there and
   grooved around. Julia wasn't yet pregnant enough to feel too
   inhibited, and Wiley moved pretty well for a white boy. A lot of
   people were watching them go at it, and they inspired a couple of
   other couples to take to the floor. When they finished the dance Julia
   pleaded off, so Wiley asked Pris. When he asked me to dance again
   after they had finished I didn't feel like I could say no, so I
   accepted his outstretched hand.

   We danced three songs, including a slow number. I was nervous about
   that, but once again Wiley was a perfect gentleman, and I relaxed. I
   had almost forgotten what it was like to dance in a man's arms, and
   although I felt guilty that they weren't Steve's arms I also had to
   admit I liked it.

   When we finished the dance Julia and Pris were off somewhere else, so
   Wiley and I stood around the pool and talked. Mostly we talked about
   him, about his studies and his family. We must have talked for at
   least an hour, maybe more, before Elroy found us and ushered me over
   toward the little stage. "The band's gonna take a break soon, and
   Cindy asked if you and me would fill in with some music while they're
   gone." I looked past Elroy and saw Cindy standing at the edge of the
   patio, watching the two of us. I smiled, and she smiled, but I knew
   from her expression that she expected me to sing, as we'd discussed. I
   wasn't going to be able to duck out of it.

   I looked at Elroy doubtfully, but he smiled and took my arm. Wiley was
   enthused. "I always wanted to hear you sing, Emma."

   "What are we going to play?" I asked Elroy.

   "I think I know your entire set by now," Elroy said. "I sure heard it
   enough."

   So we took the stage, just Elroy and me, with an acoustic guitar each.
   I looked at him uncertainly, and he smiled reassurance. He picked out
   a couple of notes and I recognized the song as one of my favorites
   from our sets at Elroy's, a song Steve had written called 'Nowhere I
   Could Go'.

   Said sorry Said goodbye Said it strong But I couldn't be gone for long
   Soon as I was gone Kept thinking of you alone Nowhere I could go but
   home

   When we started I think we were mostly just background noise, because
   most of the people at the party were talking and laughing and we
   weren't using the amps or the mics or anything, but after we were
   halfway through that first song I noticed a couple of people turn to
   look. I hesitated for a moment, but Elroy kept up the pace. It was the
   first time I had sung in public since that night with Steve, and for a
   moment a whole flood of memories swept over me, but I focused on my
   guitar playing, which frankly needed improvement. Steve had written
   some insane chords into 'Nowhere I Could Go' so it was all I could do
   to keep up with Elroy, but I didn't have to think too much about my
   singing. That came naturally, and I think Elroy covered most of my
   sins with his impeccable playing, and at the end a few people
   applauded and I realized that I really, really missed performing. I
   noticed Dan watching us from the other side of the yard. He was
   smiling mightily, and gave me a thumbs up sign. I smiled back.

   Elroy tuned up some more, and picked out a few bars of another song
   Steve had written, and I joined in and we flew through that one with
   ease. Then another, then another, and soon I had almost forgotten
   where I was and what I was doing. I felt safe there with Elroy,
   wrapped up in songs I knew well, and I threw myself into them the way
   I used to with Steve. It was only when I caught sight of Wiley, a few
   yards away, watching me with a slightly stunned expression on his face
   that I was reminded of the real world. When we did 'No Questions' I
   could see a flicker of recognition from him, and from a few other
   people, as he connected my voice with the voice he'd heard on the
   radio.

   I noticed the band had come back and was milling around at the side of
   the garden, waiting to come back. Elroy must have seen me notice them,
   and he smiled and said "one last song. What do you want to do?" I
   thought for a moment and then I sang the opening to "Ain't no
   sunshine" without any accompaniment. I sang but didn't play, and Elroy
   didn't come in until the second verse, and although I worried that my
   voice might have been too thin I could tell that the audience we had
   now, which was at least a hundred or so of the guests at the party,
   was right there with me.

   "Ain't no sunshine when he's gone It's not warm when he's away Ain't
   no sunshine when he's gone And he's always gone too long Anytime he
   goes away."

   We finished the song and walked off the stage. Wiley was still looking
   like he had been electrocuted or something. The band came on and John
   Davis shook his head and said something like "hard act to follow
   that', but I didn't catch all of it because I was suddenly
   self-conscious again, probably because of the way Wiley was looking at
   me, and I grabbed a drink from a passing tray and took a huge gulp.
   Then I gave Elroy a hug, and he wrapped me up tight and hugged me
   back.

   "Wow," I heard Wiley say as I was still wrapped in Elroy's arms. "You
   guys were great. Really. Really great."

   Fortunately I didn't have to feel self-conscious for very long,
   because John Davis and the guys blew everyone away after that, with an
   infectious, upbeat set that even got Dan up to dance.

   After the band finished it was pretty late, and the party started to
   thin out a little. By that time I was sitting over at the far side of
   the garden, next to Wiley who had been steadily trying to inch his way
   closer to me as we sat on the wooden bench. He was still a perfect
   gentleman but I knew that my idea that we could be just friends was
   probably not realistic. I realized sadly that guys just don't know how
   to be friends with women, without wanting to ruin the friendship. He
   had gone on about my singing so much that I had eventually had to
   steer him onto other subjects that didn't involve anything personal at
   all, like astronomy and the civil war. Actually that's a fairly
   personal subject in Atlanta, since most people had ancestors who
   fought and died, and Wiley's family was no exception. He was very
   knowledgeable about it, at any rate, so I learned a lot.

   We had been talking for about half an hour before we were interrupted
   by John Davis and a tall, painfully thin guy in his thirties I hadn't
   met before. "Emma?" John asked, extending his hand. "I just wanted to
   say I thought you were great."

   "Uh. Thanks," I said, shaking hands and blushing, although I'm not
   sure he could see the blushing in the dim light. "You guys were pretty
   great yourselves."

   "We had a good time," John said. "Anyway, we were just about to go,
   but Aaron here," he motioned to the tall guy, "really wanted to meet
   the woman who sang 'No Questions'."

   "Hi Aaron," I said, and introduced Wiley to both of them. I made a few
   nervous comments about some of the songs they had played, which John
   seemed to appreciate. Wiley said a couple of sensible things, too. I
   realized he was almost as much into music as I was, even though he
   didn't play anything. He was a surprising guy.

   John and Aaron seemed like pretty nice guys, even if John did have a
   little too much of the 'good ol' boy' to his personality to my taste.

   "Are you playing much, Emma. Recording anything new?" Aaron asked.
   "Elroy said you had a gig at his place for a while."

   "Uh. I did, for a while," I said. "But the band... it kind of fell
   apart."

   "Do you still have representation?" Aaron wasted no time in telling me
   he'd like to introduce me to a couple of people in Memphis, "if you're
   interested in performing again."

   "I... uh... Thanks. But I'm not sure just now. Things have been kind
   of crazy, I don't know if I can travel much."

   "Well, any time you're in Memphis, if you're ever in Memphis, you be
   sure to look me up." He pressed a card into my hand. It said "Aaron
   Carter, Management", and there were phone numbers for Memphis and Los
   Angeles on it.

   "I'll be upset If you talk to him and don't give me a call to tell me
   you're in town," John smiled.

   We got to talking about John's upcoming tour plans, and about music we
   liked, and John dragged us over to the side of the garage where a few
   of the band's cases were still stacked while the other guys were
   loading them into the Lincoln. He pulled out a guitar and handed it to
   me, then took out another for himself. The four of us sat down and
   John started picking out a couple of songs we'd been discussing, and I
   joined in as best I could, and together we started playing again. "You
   must be exhausted after playing," I said, but John smiled and took a
   drink of whiskey and said something about never really getting that
   tired. I noticed Elroy and Julia come over to join us a few minutes
   later when we were playing the next song. John and Aaron told the band
   to go on back to the motel without them, and apart from a couple of
   breaks for drinks I think we played for about two and a half hours,
   covering everything from Elvis to a half-assed version of a silly
   Talking Heads song called 'Psycho Killer' which John seemed to love.
   Aaron had a terrible voice, as did Wiley, but we all had a lot of fun
   anyway.

   Eventually I think John really did wear himself out, and he and Aaron
   said their goodbyes. Julia offered to call them a cab and see them to
   the door, and they staggered off much the worse for the whiskey they'd
   been drinking, clutching the guitars as though they were life
   preservers.

   Elroy turned to me after they'd gone. "Think you made an impression
   there," he said. "You want to keep in touch, I think, if you ever want
   to do some performin' again."

   "Hah. If they remember any of tonight," I said. "I think John's pretty
   out of it."

   "Not so out of it he'd waste his time," Elroy said. Then Wiley said
   something about picking talent, and for some reason that got Elroy
   onto some tangent about football scouts, and he started picking
   Wiley's brain about talent on the college circuit, and the two of them
   rambled on about football for about ten minutes before Elroy noticed I
   was totally bored.

   "Well, anyway," Elroy stretched and stood up. "I'm thinking of heading
   off myself. I'm on the road early in the morning, so I don't know as
   I'll see you before then." We both stood up, and he gave me another
   hug, and then clasped my arms with his hands and held me in front of
   him. "You make sure you call me. Okay?"

   Wiley and I walked Elroy out. Inside the house Pris and Dan and a few
   guests were sitting in the living room listening to some records.
   Elroy said his farewells to them, and Pris explained that Julia had
   gone to bed after seeing John and Aaron off. After about twenty
   minutes of further farewells Wiley and me walked Elroy out of the
   house to his car and said goodbye. He hugged me yet again before he
   got in.

   Wiley and me stood alone together on the sidewalk after he drove off.
   Almost all of the party guests had gone and the street was quiet. I
   looked back at the house. I could see Cindy through the windows of the
   entrance hall, farewelling someone else. The house looked like
   something from a movie, all lit up against the dark sky. I became
   aware that Wiley was standing much closer to me than he had been. I
   sighed. It was such a beautiful night. If only Steve had been there. I
   looked at Wiley and judged that the moment was dangerously close to
   being romantic. Sighing again I leant toward him, stood on my toes,
   and gave him a peck on the cheek.

   "Emma --" he began.

   "I know, Wiley, but it's late, okay?"

   "Dang. Can't fault a guy for hoping for more, can you?"

   I smiled. "No, but I can fault one who doesn't know when it's time to
   go home."

   "Oh."

   "I enjoyed tonight. Thanks."

   "Good." He brightened. "I'll call you during the week?"

   "I'll call you, okay."

   "Okay."

   "Just friends, Wiley. Okay?"

   He bent down and kissed me lightly on the forehead. "Whatever you
   want, Emma." Then he was gone, walking off toward his car which was
   parked a block or so away.

   ***

   Chapter Twenty.

   Cindy was a happy woman in the days after the party. It was generally
   agreed to have been the best one Buckhead had seen in a long time, at
   least so far as parties where everyone kept their clothes on were
   concerned.

   A few days later Julia decided it was time to head back to Oxford. "If
   I don't go soon I'll never be able to fit into the car," she said, and
   as she was squeezing into the M.G. Pris and I were inclined to agree.
   She wasn't exactly huge yet, but the car wasn't all that big either.
   Pris insisted on driving. As I saw the two of them sitting in the car,
   about to leave without me, I began to cry, and they both got out and
   came over to hug me. We all hugged and cried, until I realized I
   wasn't going to stop crying for a while, so they got back in the car,
   promising to call regularly. As they drove off we were all still
   blubbering, and I spent most of the rest of that day crying quietly in
   my room, glad to be left alone.

   I put off calling Wiley for a few days, afraid that if I showed too
   much interest I'd never be able to keep him away. He called a few
   times after I'd ignored him for a week, but I wasn't ready to return
   the calls yet. I mentioned him to Steve, since I didn't want to keep
   anything from Steve at all, and anyway there was nothing between Wiley
   and me to hide anyway. Steve seemed more amused than anything else,
   which at first made me kind of mad but which I later realized was a
   sign that he trusted me to be faithful. I also told Steve about John
   and Aaron, and about the band, and the fact that they had liked my
   singing, and he was very pleased at that. "See, what have I been
   telling you all these years," he said. "You should follow that up,
   Em."

   I disagreed, because I really didn't want to have anything take me
   away from Atlanta and Steve, even for a few days. Plus there was the
   matter of a job. I was going to have to get a job if I was going to
   stay in Atlanta. It wasn't right for me to live off the Arsenault's
   generosity. If I had a job there would be no way I could travel. Steve
   was unconvinced. "You should go to Memphis and see if this Aaron guy
   can get you some work singing," he said. "Em, you're terrific, and I
   bet you can make much more money singing than you can waiting tables."

   Our sessions together were getting much, much better. The guards had
   begun to get used to my face at the prison, and apart from searching
   me thoroughly every time I went in and out they no longer paid much
   attention to what went on while Steve and I were together. We managed
   to touch each other a lot. The sexual charge I got when Steve kissed
   me, or touched my thigh, or my back, or even, in our bolder moments,
   my breasts, was electrifying. Not being able to be naked with him was
   terrible, but somehow it heightened everything we did, every time we
   touched.

   A few days later I got a call from Bob Douglas. "I've been thinking
   about those paralegal credentials we got for you," Bob said. My
   spirits fell. I felt for certain that he was going to tell me it was
   too much trouble. But instead he continued on. "Dan was mentioning to
   me that you were looking for work, and I was thinking that -- since
   we're already employing you officially -- you might like to actually
   do some work for us."

   Bob laid it out for me in the remainder of our phone conversation.
   They wouldn't expect me to do more than basic help around the office,
   making coffee, helping with filing, running errands downtown. I could
   work five days a week, but finish at 3pm Tuesday and Friday so I could
   spend more time with Steve. For all that they would pay me the
   handsome sum of $250 per week. It doesn't sound like a lot of money
   now, but I knew then that it was a good deal for an undereducated
   teenager down on her luck. I also knew that Bob was doing this as some
   kind of favor for Dan. I felt mildly guilty about that, because I
   didn't want to be even more indebted to Dan, but I accepted
   immediately anyway. I told myself that perhaps if I worked very hard I
   could begin to pay back some of the debt Dan was incurring with
   Steve's defense.

   The following Monday I made my way downtown early, eager to make a
   good impression on my first day at work. Tickenor, Douglas and Bremmer
   was a small law firm in a large characterless office building. Inside
   the reception area the firm seemed more modest than the size of the
   building and Bob's apparent success had led me to think it would be.
   In fact it was quite drab, with undistinguished desk and leather
   chairs in the waiting area, and no decorations on the timber panelled
   walls apart from a few modernist paintings that seemed out of place in
   the otherwise conservative surrounds.

   The people appeared friendly, though. After I introduced myself at the
   reception desk Bob himself came out to meet me. He greeted me warmly
   and then introduced me to everyone we passed as we walked in. I
   thought at the time that it could have simply been because Bob was the
   boss and everyone felt they had to be nice to him, but most of the
   smiles seemed genuine, and I found out later that Bob and the two
   other senior partners were pretty popular employers.

   After a brief round of introductions to the partners, Bob introduced
   me to Elaine, a plain woman in her late twenties. "Elaine will show
   you what to do. You listen to her, Emma, and then at the end of the
   day you and I can talk and see whether this will work out for you. Is
   that alright?"

   I nodded my thanks and Bob returned to his corner office. Elaine
   looked me up and down and offered me a seat on the other side of her
   desk. "Would you like a coffee, sugar?" She asked. At first I thought
   she was asking me if I wanted sugar as well as coffee, but I put two
   and two together and smiled and said yes. "Kitchen's down the hall
   then," Elaine smiled, and we walked there together.

   "You're a friend of the Arsenaults?"

   "Yes ma'am," I said. "I'm staying with them right now."

   "Don't call me ma'am, hon, I ain't your grammy. That's right. Yes, Bob
   talked to me a few days ago to tell me you were coming in." She put
   some instant coffee into two cups and added boiling water from a small
   tank on the wall. Then she got the cream from the refrigerator and
   poured some for both of us without asking me. "So, tell me, honey,
   what kind of jobs have you done before?"

   "Cleaning," I said.

   "Cleaning?" She seemed mystified. "Like, houses and stuff?" We began
   to walk back down the hall to her office.

   "A bar, actually. I can give you a reference --"

   "I don't think you're going to need that, sugar. This is Bob's firm,
   all of it. I'm just surprised that Bob' even *knows* anyone who's
   actually done menial labor before."

   "I, uh, I can do other things, though, I'm sure of it." I tasted the
   coffee. It was horrible, especially after the good coffee I had grown
   used to at the Arsenaults, but I tried not to show it.

   "Can you type?"

   "No, 'fraid not."

   "Hmmm. That's not good. What's your education like?"

   "Not good. Uh, I'm sorry, maybe this is not such a great idea."

   "Oh, don't you be worried, sugar. So long as you can read and write
   we'll find you somethin' here, even if it's just packing boxes. You
   *can* read and write, can't you?" She grinned. "Just kidding. Tell you
   what, we'll start you off helping me this morning, and I'll call talk
   to a few of the other girls and we'll go from there. Everyone is
   always bitchin' to me that they're overworked, so there must be
   somewhere we can put you. That okay with you?"

   "Yes. Thank you."

   "Don't thank me, sugar. Thank Bob Douglas. I just work here. So do
   you, if you want to. In the meantime I've got a bunch of stuff for you
   to fill in, and I'll show you where the lunchroom and powder room
   are."

   Elaine took me on a more extensive tour of the small office. There
   were three different areas of the practice: commercial, criminal and
   family law, each focused around one of the three founding partners and
   another six senior partners. Then there were the common areas like the
   library and the conference rooms, and accounts, where Elaine worked.
   Although Bob had told me the firm was quite small the offices were
   extensive, and Elaine told me more than sixty people worked there.

   When we returned to her cubicle Elaine introduced me to Anthea,
   another woman who worked in accounts, who was about twenty-five by my
   estimates and the thinnest woman I think I had ever seen. Too thin.
   When Karen Carpenter died I became aware of the proper name for what
   was wrong with Anthea, but back then I just thought she was incredibly
   thin. When she smiled and said hello it was kind of eerie the way her
   face looked, all taut and stringy, but I kept my uneasiness to myself
   and smiled and said hello.

   Elaine told me to sit at her desk. She gave me a computer printout, an
   enormous stack of files and a handful of forms. "The files are for you
   to go through. We're upgrading our payroll system, and I need you to
   check off each of these people's names against the complete corporate
   register to make sure there are no spelling errors or typos, and then
   double check the dates of birth, social security numbers and addresses
   to make sure we have everyone entered in the new system correctly. The
   woman who did the original entries wasn't too clever, and we've had a
   lot of trouble with the system. I've been putting off doing it because
   it's a pretty boring job. Sorry, but I promise you that if you can do
   this properly then I'll never give you anything as horrible again.
   Sound alright to you?" I nodded. "Good. These forms here are for you.
   You'll recognize them as the same ones you'll see in the file. Fill
   out the information they ask you for and leave them for me when I get
   back, okay? I'm going to be in a meeting for a couple of hours, but if
   you need me tell Mary -- that's the girl on reception -- to phone
   through for me. She knows where I'll be."

   Elaine left and I looked at the forms she had given me to fill in.
   They were pretty simple. Name, Age, Date of Birth, Place of Birth,
   Social Security Number. I had a twinge of panic as I remembered that
   my ID was fake. What had Pete said about the license? "The details are
   all real, only the license is fake." I supposed that meant that the
   date of birth for Emma Donaldson was real. I took the license out of
   my wallet and copied down the details with the fingers on my left hand
   crossed, and gave silent thanks to Pete. When it came to the social
   security number I just decided to wing it, so I just made one up. At
   the time I knew that wasn't a very smart thing to do, but I tried to
   shove those thoughts to the back of my brain.

   Elaine was right about the work being boring. I had to open each file,
   and compare the details in it with the printout from the company's new
   system. The first ten files I opened all seemed correct, and I was
   starting to breeze through the eleventh more casually when I noticed a
   transposition of two numbers in the entry for the social security
   number of one of the engineers at the plant. I made a note of it on
   the computer print-out and then realized that I might have browsed the
   first ten files too casually, so I went back through them and, sure
   enough, found a transposition in two numbers in the date of birth of
   one of the employees so it read 12 instead of 21. The more I looked at
   the files, the more I saw transpositions of numbers, usually 1's and
   2's, and a few letters like 'd' and 'f'. Whoever had input the data
   into the new list had typed faster than they should have. I circled
   the errors that I found and moved on through the files.

   While I worked Anthea tried to make conversation. At first I was a
   little bit annoyed, because I was trying to concentrate and I found
   her distracting, and I was a little put off by the way she looked
   anyway. But I didn't want to seem rude, so I gave away as little as I
   could, and then she began telling me about herself. After an hour or
   so I realized that my hesitancy in talking to her was really just
   based on the way she looked, which scared me, and I was ashamed of
   myself for that. So I opened up a little bit more, and she kept
   talking in return, and pretty soon we had gotten to know one another
   pretty well. I finished the task Elaine had given me by 11.00am and so
   Andrea and I spent some time after that discussing the pros and cons
   of working for lawyers. I mostly just listened since I hadn't had time
   to form any opinions on that subject yet.

   At midday Elaine reappeared in the doorway. "How you doin', sugar?" We
   sat together and looked through the errors and I explained how much I
   had done, and the errors I had found, and she seemed impressed that I
   had made it through so many files so quickly, and made a point of
   mentioning that to Anthea. After a half hour of sorting through the
   changes that she needed to make to the data she plucked her purse from
   the bottom drawer of the desk and took me down to the first floor
   where a small cafe was nestled at the corner of the building.

   Over lunch Elaine chatted to me about working at the firm, about the
   house she and her husband Bill had just bought, and about her
   husband's family and the pressure they were putting on her to have
   children. I listened attentively, glad not to have to talk too much
   about my own life, and sympathetic to her dilemma. Elaine fancied
   herself a 'modern woman' who wasn't planning on having kids until she
   was at least thirty. That was still two years away, she said. She
   asked me about my own love life, and I mentioned Steve, but left out
   all the stuff about prison and shooting. While we were chatting two
   other women who worked at the firm, Linda and Paige, came by and
   Elaine introduced me to them and we all sat and I had to describe
   Steve to all of them. By the end of our lunch hour two more women had
   sat down, Liz and Carol, and tales of bad dates and better
   relationships were flying around the table with a lot of giggling. I
   was easily the youngest at the table by several years, but all the
   women accepted me as an adult and I found that I really enjoyed
   myself. Apart from the times I hung out with Pris and Julia, and a few
   experiences with Maggie, I had never spent all that much time in
   groups of women before, and I discovered that I liked it. I relaxed
   and laughed along, and listened, and everyone seemed so genuine and
   friendly. As Elaine and I caught the elevator back to the office I
   began to think I was going to like working there.

   Elaine asked me to fill in for Mary, the receptionist, while she took
   her lunch break. After a few minutes in which Mary showed me how to
   work the switch and Elaine explained company policy for dealing with
   calls, they both watched while I took a couple of calls and managed to
   route them to the appropriate people without too much delay. Then Mary
   went off to lunch and Elaine went back to her office.

   Answering phones is harder than it looks in a company of 60 people. I
   had to look up each name to find the extension, which took time, and
   calls started piling up. I'd get through the backlog only to find new
   ones coming in. That first day I felt like I was in panic mode the
   whole hour just keeping up with what Mary said later was a pretty
   light day for phone calls.

   After Mary came back from lunch I returned to Elaine's office,
   expecting to continue processing the files, but instead she sent me
   off to the commercial department to assist there. To get to it I had
   to pass the open doors to a conference room where men were lounging
   around between meetings and as I clip-clopped across the parquetry in
   my low heels I became acutely aware of a sudden silence from inside
   the room. When I raised my eyes to look inside I saw that all the men
   had stopped working and were looking at me appreciatively as I passed
   by. I blushed, and turned my eyes away and headed for the commercial
   department on the other side of the building.

   Eventually I found the office I was looking for, and I spent the
   afternoon processing paperwork on some shopping centre. I was still
   deep into it when Elaine called me and asked me to report to Bob's
   office.

   His assistant Debbie was just tidying up her desk and reading out a
   list of the next day's appointments when I entered, and Bob smiled and
   introduced us. Then he turned to Debbie. "Do you know if Bill is still
   here?" When Debbie said no, she wasn't sure, Bob ushered me out of his
   office toward the office next door. The ante-room to the office was
   empty and so he strode on through, calling ahead for Bill.

   I followed, and saw a good-looking blond man in his forties with his
   back turned to us as he put on a suit jacket. "What's up, Bob?" he
   said as though he was tired.

   "Bill Duffield, I'd like you to meet Emma Donaldson," Bob said. I
   smiled and Bill and I shook hands. Bill wasn't quite as tall as Dan
   Arsenault, but he still towered over me, and even though I could see
   that the tiredness in his face matched the tone of his voice he still
   emanated a sense of strength and power similar to Dan's, as though at
   one time he had been an athlete too.

   Bob and Bill talked for a few minutes about their plans for the
   weekend, and then Bob mentioned that he had brought me to meet Bill
   because he thought that I might be able to help Bill next week.
   "Elaine is looking for a more permanent position, but I thought since
   you and Shelley were complaining."

   "Well, I sure could use the help, but it's not simple work, Bob, you
   know that."

   "Emma here's not simple, Bill, she's been dazzling Dan Arsenault with
   science for weeks."

   "Well, maybe we could get together on Monday morning and talk, then,"
   Bill said. "Emma, would that work for you?"

   "Yes sir," I said. Bill joked later that my head was going up and down
   so enthusiastically he thought it would come off.

   The following Monday began working as the assistant to Bill Duffield.
   Actually the assistant to his assistant, Shelley. The work was easy, I
   hardly saw Bill, and Shelley was great. She was a stunning blonde who
   was almost as tall as Pris, with a ready smile and a calm, no-nonsense
   attitude to everything around her. She'd grown up in Minnesota, and
   ran the office in much the same way as I imagine she'd worked the farm
   -- organized, neat, efficient and yet relaxed. She and Bill had an
   interesting relationship, which was obviously close and yet strictly
   business. My work mostly consisted of organizing documents related to
   a development project Bill was working on, something to do with
   compensation for the side effects of a drug that was too technical for
   me to absorb in much detail but easy to understand in a general sense.
   Apart from the documents I had to learn the systems Shelley had in
   place for organizing Bill's life, so that I could fill in for her on
   her lunch break.

   Steve was doing okay. He'd settled into a routine at the prison, and I
   guess after all the time at Brand he probably even felt kind of
   comfortable in the environment. He had the guitar, and he had made a
   couple of friends on the yard, so his mood was generally brighter than
   it had been in the first few weeks after he was arrested. I noticed a
   couple of times when I visited that he seemed to be a bit out of it,
   and wondered whether he was still doing drugs, but I decided not to
   pry about that. I wasn't about to tell him how to cope with the mess
   that he was in.

   Getting paid was good. I bought a cassette player for Steve, and some
   casual clothes for myself. Cindy had given me a whole bunch of
   clothes. I had protested, but she had said she was going to give them
   to goodwill if I didn't want them, and even though I didn't really
   believe that Cindy was so whacko about buying new clothes I didn't
   feel too guilty about that. Most of them fit me okay, although i had
   to take up a couple of skirts and a few pairs of pants, but all her
   stuff was so classy it felt kind of weird to wear it. I mixed and
   matched some of the more casual stuff so I had things to wear to work,
   but I just couldn't ever imagine wearing some of the Halston and Gucci
   and other designer dresses.

   I finally called Wiley. I felt guilty for putting it off for so long,
   but I was still uncertain about seeing him, despite Steve's okay. What
   good could come of it? I wasn't interested in him, and he was always
   going to want more from me than I would be prepared to offer, so
   wasn't it pointless to put him through any time together?

   The Black Dog's bite was getting worse. Since Julia had left I didn't
   have anyone to be responsible for except myself, and I didn't feel
   much like I was a worthwhile project. I was exhausted, because I was
   working down at the office five days a week, then going straight from
   there to see Steve most evenings, before I came home to the
   Arsenaults' and collapsed in a depressed heap. I knew Dan and Cindy
   were concerned about me, but somehow their concern only made me feel
   worse. The same thing was true whenever I spoke to Pris or Elroy on
   the phone. They all seemed so damned caring, and yet I felt that if
   they knew the real me, the me with the criminal record and the bizarre
   body, that they'd be bitterly disappointed in me. My self-esteem was
   shot to pieces. I missed talking to Julia, too. She was the one person
   who knew all about me, apart from Steve, that is. I didn't want to be
   a burden to Steve, considering all that he was going through. I tried
   calling Julia several times, but it seemed like she was always out
   with Pete, or down in Jackson visiting her parents.

   Wiley wasn't going to let any moodiness I might have had get in the
   way of seeing me again. He was quietly persistent and persuasive,
   until I finally agreed to accompany him to a movie the following
   Saturday night. As the time to meet approached my doubts about going
   out with him increased, in spite of Steve's insistence that I should.
   It just didn't seem right, somehow. To his credit, Wiley was polite
   and low-key all through the evening, beginning with a meal before a
   screening of 'Ordinary People', which is not exactly the most
   lighthearted movie ever. During the meal I tried to keep the focus off
   myself by asking him questions, and that mostly seemed to work. We
   talked about his studies. Wiley had always wanted to be a doctor, but
   his parents had talked him into studying engineering because that's
   what the family business was based on. He had no problems with his
   studies, except that his heart wasn't really in it. "You could always
   transfer, couldn't you?" I asked. We talked about a mass of other
   stuff, too, including a bunch of deep stuff about cosmology and
   astronomy -- Wiley was pretty knowledgeable about all that. We stayed
   so long over dinner that we almost missed the start of the movie and
   had to make a mad dash to the cinema.

   After the movie Wiley drove me back to the Arsenault's house. We were
   both pretty quiet for most of the way. He pulled up at the kerb and
   turned to face me, as though he was waiting for me to invite him in. I
   didn't want to do that. But instead of saying something soppy he
   suddenly launched into a discussion about family, and tragedy, and a
   whole bunch of stuff that I guess was sparked by the movie but which I
   wasn't well equipped to deal with. At first he kept it very
   intellectual, not touching on any specifics, and I managed to hold up
   my end of the strange conversation for a few minutes, but of course I
   was reminded of Danny and Mom, and I found myself trying to hold back
   a few tears, not very successfully. That alarmed him and then he was
   all apologetic and I had to reassure him that I was okay and that I
   wasn't an emotional cripple or anything like that. The truth is I
   enjoyed discussion philosophy with Wiley. He was very smart, and
   although he wasn't very perceptive about people he had an encyclopedic
   brain and was pretty well read, for an engineering student. So I
   reassured him and tried to wind the evening up.

   "I had a nice time tonight, Wiley," I said, and reached for the
   doorhandle.

   "So did I," he said, and I saw him shift in his seat. Oh lord, I
   thought, he wants to kiss me.

   "Wiley, we agreed that we would just be friends, right?"

   "Yeah." In the light from the house I could see his disappointment.
   "Um, can I ask you a question?"

   "Yes." I had been about to pull the handle to open the door, but I
   hesitated.

   "This guy you're dating... "

   "Steve."

   "Yeah. It's serious, right?"

   "Yes Wiley. Very serious."

   "So how come you're not out with him on a Saturday night?"

   I sighed. "It's a long, long story, Wiley, and it's not really any of
   your business."

   He looked hurt, but he let the matter drop. "So can I see you again?"

   "I'm pretty busy all through the week."

   "Say, you want to go catch a band next Saturday night?"

   I looked at my hands, folded in my lap. Suddenly Wiley's hand was on
   mine. I looked back at him. "I promise to behave, Emma. But you know,
   I like being with you, and tonight wasn't so bad, was it."

   I shook my head. "No, it was lovely. I had a nice time, Wiley."

   "So are you doing anything next Saturday?" Again I shook my head. His
   face lit up. "Good. Same time next week then."

   I opened the car door and he got out to walk me to the door. Always
   the perfect gentleman, I thought. We walked together up to the front
   porch and then it was time to say goodnight. There was a lot of
   awkwardness between us -- I knew he wanted a kiss. I bent up to his
   face and kissed him on the cheek, but as I did so he must have thought
   (hoped?) I was going to do more, and he put his arms around me. We
   stood awkwardly for a moment after I'd pecked him on the cheek and
   then he let me go. We both smiled in embarrassment.

   "Just friends, Wiley."

   "Good night, Emma."

   "Night." I opened the door and went inside. Damn. I had forgotten how
   nice it was to be hugged by a man. Wiley's embrace made me want more.
   Then I thought of how disloyal I was being to Steve. I was sure Steve
   would have hugged me if he could. I shook my head and went to bed.

   ****

   Chapter Twenty-one.

   My days were so full that they slid by one after another without me
   noticing. Without Pris and Julia around the house wasn't as much fun,
   although Dan and Cindy seemed to be doing their best to keep me
   cheerful. I was up early every morning to do my hair and makeup, and
   then caught the bus to work. Shelley and I were becoming good friends,
   and the other women at the office were nice as well, but sometimes I
   felt like I needed a few moments to myself, just to catch my thoughts.
   After work every evening I caught a bus out to the prison and saw
   Steve for about two hours, before coming back to a late dinner that
   Etta kept for me. I was exhausted. And depressed. I was keenly aware
   of the generosity that Dan and Cindy were showing me, and I felt
   unworthy of it, no matter what Dan said.

   As he'd promised, on the Saturday night Wiley picked me up and we went
   out to dinner and then dancing at a little place where they played
   bluegrass. Despite my general depression I had a pretty good time
   again, and Wiley was well-behaved all night. I still wasn't sure how
   to handle him, because I knew that if I gave the slightest sign of
   approval that he'd practically ravish me on the spot, but Wiley was a
   fantastic dancer, at least in the traditional style, and it was easy
   to let go of myself and enjoy the way he guided me around the floor.
   I'd never met a guy who danced so well -- most of the guys back north
   would rather have died than be seen dead on a dance floor, and Steve
   had been all feet the few times we'd danced anything other than rock
   and roll. But Wiley was assured and stylish and gracious, and
   good-humored about my comparative gracelessness, and we had a
   wonderful time. Once again I gave him a peck on the cheek at the end
   of the night, and once more he hugged me. I noticed this time that he
   rubbed my back and that his hand moved further toward my ass than it
   had previously, but I didn't make anything of it.

   I was so sexually frustrated after I came inside that I wanted to
   scream. I decided a bath might relax me, even though it was almost
   1.30am, so I ran the taps and stripped off. As I clipped my hair up
   above my head I looked my body over in the full-length mirror on the
   back of the bathroom door, which was just beginning to steam up
   slightly. I hadn't looked at myself in the mirror naked since several
   years earlier in Blaha's office. I guess I just avoided doing it
   because it used to bother me. It bothered me that night after the date
   with Wiley, too. I looked pretty much like any other girl my age,
   apart from that one small thing between my legs. I hadn't even thought
   about it much in the past few months since I'd been taping myself up.
   The taping was kind of a reflex thing now, a bit like putting makeup
   on in the morning, or styling my hair, and so I didn't think of my
   penis as really even a penis -- it was just a thing that was there. I
   didn't get hard any more. I hadn't in years. Sometimes I could come by
   rubbing myself up against a pillow in bed, but when I did that it was
   the same kind of feeling I got when Steve had made love to me. Kind of
   a warm, diffuse wonderful warmth that went through me and made my
   nipples tingle and my insides melt and my muscles turn to jelly
   afterward.

   Standing before the mirror I looked at my strange body,. I realized
   that I had thought about 'other girls', implying that I was one of
   them. I shook my head and got into the bath, which was nearly full.
   After I turned the taps off I began soaping myself, and while I was
   running my hands over my breasts, which were still tingly after the
   hug with Wiley, I started to think about that phrase. 'Other girls'. I
   didn't think of myself as a boy any more. Sometimes I thought of
   myself as a freak. But while I had been with Steve I had learned to
   think of myself as a girl; as a woman. In most situations my identity
   didn't bother me. It was only when I thought too much.

   I sighed and slipped back into the water, letting it come almost up to
   my chin.

   I ran my hands over my body to get the soap off. It was hard to
   remember what I had been like before Blaha had started pumping me full
   of hormones. I couldn't imagine myself as I had been then. I could
   remember being a little boy, but that seemed so very long ago, in a
   strange city. It didn't seem like it was really me. Had I really
   lusted after Maria?

   Maria...

   I shook my head to clear it. At least with all this thinking my sexual
   tension had begun to dissipate. Unfortunately the questions running
   around me head weren't a relaxing substitute. What was I going to do
   with my life? What was I thinking, going out with Wiley? I didn't love
   Wiley, I loved Steve. Steve. But he was in prison, so the idea that I
   was ever going to find happiness with him again was... laughable. I
   was going to grow old by myself; an old, freakish lonely woman.

   I wondered about what Vanessa had said, months ago in Memphis. There
   was surgery to make me into a woman completely. Did I want that? How
   much did it cost? The trouble was, it wasn't complete. There would be
   no way I could ever have children.

   Children? Where did that thought come from? I'd never really
   considered children before. Idly I considered that my chances of
   bearing a child as a man were non-existent too -- the hormones had
   seen to that.

   Fuck. I didn't know what to think about myself, except that there
   wasn't any easy solution. One thing I should do, I thought to myself,
   was to stay the hell away from Wiley. He was getting me more confused,
   every time I caught him looking at me. If I stayed away from men I
   wouldn't get so goddamned sexually frustrated.

   Yeah. Right...

   Everything felt so black, and the water was beginning to chill. I got
   out of the bath and patted myself dry. This time I avoided looking in
   the mirror.

   The questions continued to run around my head until I finally went to
   sleep.

   I spoke to Julia on the phone on Sunday night. She was home for a
   change, instead of at Pete's. We talked about her pregnancy, and about
   Pete, and what they were planning to do. Julia was working up the
   courage to tell her parents about the baby. She hadn't told them
   anything at all about Steve yet, and she figured once she had dropped
   the baby bombshell on them that they'd be so stunned that she could
   tell them about Steve then too. We discussed his forthcoming trial.
   Bob Douglas had asked to reschedule, and it was still three months
   away. Julia wanted to come back to Atlanta for it, but she would be
   very pregnant by then and her doctor wasn't in favor of her spending
   too much time away in case any complications developed with the
   pregnancy. She was still planning to come, but she asked me if I could
   ask around for the names of some good ob/gyn people in Atlanta, just
   in case. She hadn't dropped out of college yet, mostly because if she
   did her parents' insurance wouldn't cover the cost of the doctors.

   I got off the phone feeling humbled. I had been so concerned about my
   own problems, I hadn't given much thought to Julia's situation. She
   was probably just as concerned about Steve as I was, and she had all
   the hassles of the pregnancy, and having to deal with her family, as
   well.

   ***

   I think having to hide my depression from Steve was one of the few
   things still keeping me sane. I didn't want to worry him, and compared
   to his problems mine were trivial anyway. So each time I saw him I
   tried to be upbeat, and confident, and supportive. Most times it
   worked, although it was hard for me to do it those times that he was
   high. I couldn't believe drugs were that easy to get in prison,
   especially considering the way I had been searched the first few times
   I had visited, but it seemed like they were -- at least if the number
   of times I saw Steve glassy-eyed were any indication. The first few
   times I noticed him that way I was upset -- surely he should have
   learned his lesson by now? But gradually I got used to it. After all,
   I told myself, it wasn't as though he could get into any more trouble
   than he was already in.

   I told Steve all about each and every time I went anywhere with Wiley.
   I didn't want him to think I was cheating on him. He was adamant that
   I should continue to see Wiley, or anyone else I wanted to go out with
   socially. He told me he knew I loved him, and that made me very happy
   because it was true, but it was beautiful to know that he was so
   certain of it that he would trust me that way.

   Although that didn't stop me from feeling guilty about the way I felt
   when Wiley touched me.

   Steve and I had become more daring with our contact, and the guards
   had obviously become so used to my visits that they no longer paid me
   as much attention as they had. So we were able to sneak the occasional
   hug, and kiss once or twice, although only furtively. Those small
   contacts almost made life bearable for me, and I like to think that
   they helped Steve, too. But as the date for his trial approached I
   could see that Steve was becoming less carefree about his fate. He
   still pretended to shrug off the consequences, but I think the idea
   that he might get the death penalty was beginning to hit home, and
   once or twice we discussed the option of a plea bargain again. Each
   time he was adamant that he'd rather die than spend his life in
   prison. I wasn't so sure. It wasn't what I wanted for him, but in my
   opinion it was a lot better than being dead.

   I wasn't the one in prison.

   I hated myself all the more whenever I thought that if it wasn't for
   me Steve wouldn't be there. If he'd never met me he would have served
   out the rest of his time at Brand and then been released. If he hadn't
   needed to live a fugitive life he could have been happy as himself and
   he never would have got started on junk...

   Even as I lashed myself about that I wasn't sure it was true. I had a
   feeling -- that I didn't want to admit to myself -- that he probably
   would have got into heroin eventually no matter what had happened.
   Steve was really into music, and the music scene is awash with drugs,
   so it was probably inevitable that he would have shot himself up
   eventually. But I was so depressed and black that I wouldn't admit
   that to myself at the time, and so I took on the burden of everything
   that was happening to Steve as well.

   Apart from the effects of the forthcoming trial, and the drug use, I
   noticed some other things about Steve that concerned me. He had some
   severe bruising on his face for about a week, but he didn't want to
   talk about it. He still smiled whenever he saw me, but I could see
   something in his eyes that told me that being in an adult prison was a
   lot tougher than being in Brand. I wanted to hold him, to take care of
   him and sooth all the problems away, but there was no way Steve was
   going to admit to me that he couldn't deal with them, and no way for
   me to get him to open up. I worried even more.

   Aaron Carter had been bugging Elroy about me, and I reluctantly agreed
   to appear on stage again. The first time was an informal duet with
   John when he played a gig in Memphis one night, but after that I did a
   couple of solo performances in Atlanta. I didn't think there was much
   spark in any of the stuff I did, but Aaron seemed pleased and there
   was no shortage of people wanting to book me. Two guys flew out from
   LA just to catch one of my shows.

   Wiley insisted on taking me out at least once a week. I was too tired
   during the week so that usually meant Saturday nights, if I wasn't
   performing. He showed me around Atlanta and introduced me to his
   friends. Between Wiley's social circle and the women I was friendly
   with from work, I started to have a little social life on weekends,
   which partly made up for the absence of Pris and Julia.

   Pris came back to Atlanta for the weekend once, and we had a wild time
   on the town together and both drank far too much. I think Dan was mad
   at both of us because he hardly got to see either of us the whole
   weekend she was there. Pris seemed surprised that I was seeing so much
   of Wiley, but I reassured her that it was strictly platonic and she
   seemed to understand.

   Wiley was still behaving like a complete gentleman, although it was
   always clear that he'd jump my bones in a moment if I even hinted it
   would be okay. I wondered why he continued to ask me out, since I
   wasn't his girlfriend in any way and he was an attractive guy who
   could have dated practically any woman he wanted. But I didn't want to
   ask him that in case he thought I was thinking of our relationship too
   seriously. I did discuss it with Pris. Her theory was that he was just
   biding his time.

   The awful thing was that I had begun to really like him. He was a nice
   guy, although sometimes I thought he lacked drive. I couldn't really
   fault him for that, though, since my own head was so confused about
   what I wanted from life. He treated me like a princess, and was always
   attentive to me.

   After the way Steve had behaved once he had started on heroin I had to
   admit I liked the attention.

   ****

   Chapter Twenty-two.

   Two weeks before Steve's trial Julia gave birth to a healthy seven
   pound baby girl. Dan flew me down to Jackson, and Pris met me at the
   airport, and we both went to see her and Pete and the baby. They all
   looked wonderful. She had Julia's face, but she had a lot of Steve in
   her too, from her grandmother I suppose. Pris took about two hundred
   photos, and I took a mere twenty with a camera that Dan had lent me. I
   hugged Julia and got to hold the baby and joked with Pete about how
   many identities the baby would grow up with. It gave me a small shock
   to see Julia and Pete together with the baby and realise that they
   were parents. They were only a few years older than me, and here they
   were with this small, very dependent little person who needed them so
   much. When I looked at Julia nursing the baby I almost wanted to cry.
   It was all very, very beautiful, and yet very sobering too.

   While we were there I finally got to meet Mrs. Hammond. She swept into
   the room and made a beeline straight for the baby, and started off
   talking to Julia without even acknowledging any of the rest of us. I
   didn't really mind, because it gave me a chance to take stock of this
   woman. Steve's mother. She had already seen the baby before, but that
   seemed to make little difference, and she fussed and spluttered over
   the child as though she'd never seen a baby before, let alone had two
   herself nearly twenty-five years earlier.

   Valerie Hammond was a good looking woman, although I could see that
   her drinking had taken its toll. She had the same gorgeous bone
   structure that Julia did. When Julia introduced us I saw her eyes for
   the first time, and I could see a lot of Steve in them, until Julia
   mentioned that I was Steve's girlfriend and whatever sparkle had been
   in them went cold. She eyed me up and down and seemed to find me
   wanting, so she turned back to Julia without even saying hello and
   continued talking as though neither Pris nor I were even in the room.
   I looked at Pris and she shrugged. The two of us sat down in the
   chairs at the side of the room and talked quietly to Pete for the next
   half hour until Mrs. Hammond left.

   Julia looked good, although I could tell she was tired. Pete looked
   even more tired, but it was obvious the two of them were very happy. I
   joked with Pete about anarchy and children. Pris ventured that kids
   were anarchic enough without needing any political philosophy, and
   Julia laughed. Pete, she said, had told her he was going to get
   respectable now that he was a father. "As if", she said, smiling. Pete
   looked both guilty and offended at the same time.

   Pris and I had dinner with Pete that night, and then stayed overnight
   in Jackson in the same scummy motel on the north side of town that
   Pete was holed up in. The Hammonds still weren't really acknowledging
   Pete as the father of their granddaughter. He pretended not to mind
   "that bunch of asswipes" as he called them, but it was obvious he was
   hurt. I said I hoped that they would come to their senses for the sake
   of the baby, but looking at Pris and Pete I could tell that none of us
   thought that was very likely.

   Coming back to Atlanta was hard. I was glad I had been to see
   everyone, but I knew that not seeing the baby would make prison seem
   doubly confining for Steve, and I wasn't sure how I was going to be
   able to talk to him about it. I made sure to get the photos developed
   before my trip out to the prison on Monday night, so that at least I
   had something to show him, but I couldn't help but feel as I passed
   them across the table that I was watching him on the brink of losing
   it. I was right, I could see in his face that he was both happy, for
   Julia, and tormented, for himself. I hoped Julia would be able to come
   back to Atlanta to visit soon, so that he could see the baby.

   Over the next three visits I could see that Steve was getting even
   worse. He'd been moved into solitary confinement after a fight. I was
   still allowed to see him because of my paralegal credentials, but he
   was denied other visitation rights, and only allowed out of his cell
   for one hour a day, alone in the yard. I knew only too well what he
   was going through. I had sustained myself at Brand through books, and
   Steve had music. His guitar playing was extraordinary now. I had never
   heard such intensity before. I arranged to have his Gibson brought in,
   and one afternoon we played together, Steve on the 12 string and me on
   the old Martin, singing some of the old songs we'd last performed more
   than eight months earlier. At first I thought the guard was going to
   stop us from playing, because after all it was hardly a legal
   conference, but he relented and stayed out of sight and let us
   continue. It was beautiful, but sad, too, because both of us were
   reminded of how things had been before Steve was arrested. We sang
   some Neil Young together.

   "I was lying in a burned out basement With the full moon in my eyes
   Hoping for a replacement When the sun burst through the sky"

   Each time I visited in the next month I hoped that we could continue
   playing, because I had thought that they might have helped him get
   through the times alone, but somehow even in solitary Steve managed to
   get heroin, I guess from one of the guards, and he was glassy-eyed
   when I saw him. He was still prepared to play, but somehow I didn't
   have the heart for it.

   "There was a band playing in my head And I felt like getting high I
   was thinking about what a friend had said And hoping it was a lie."

   He was lucid and clear again on the Friday evening before he was due
   to go to trial. Unfortunately I wasn't in great shape that night. It
   had been a long, tough day at work while Bill was preparing a big
   case, and I was exhausted by the time I arrived. I had started that
   morning at 7.30am, and apart from all the work I had been doing for
   Bill and Shelley I was trying to help Bob's assistant Debbie finalize
   some of the stuff for Steve's trial, too, so I stayed at work until
   5.30 instead of my usual 3pm Friday finish.

   As I was finishing up Elaine called me over. "Emma, I got something
   back from Social Security -- something about your file." I swallowed
   and asked what the problem was, but Elaine said she was just
   mentioning it so we could make some time to meet on Monday. I knew
   what the problem was -- the numbers wouldn't match up. I had no idea
   what I would do when she confronted me with the evidence, but I would
   have to think of something quickly.

   I didn't make it out to the prison until 7pm. I was surprised but
   pleased to see Steve happy and apparently drug free. When we were
   alone and out of sight I hugged him, and he kissed me for the first
   time in almost a month. It was beautiful. I thought to myself
   afterward that I would never be able to kiss Wiley again, because
   there was only one man who would be able to move me like that. We
   broke apart nervously, and made small talk for a while, before Steve
   touched my hand and told me, quite out of the blue, how much he loved
   me, how much he had always loved me.

   ***

   On Saturday night Wiley drove me home after we'd been out dancing with
   some friends. I was high from all the exercise, and probably still a
   little drunk from some beer we'd had earlier at his friend's house. So
   when he turned the engine off to talk to me before I went inside, I
   was relaxed, and not at all nervous the way I had been the first time
   we'd dated.

   Wiley was talking about his Dad's business. We often talked in the car
   after we'd been out together, and when he talked about serious
   personal stuff he often looked straight ahead through the windscreen
   rather than directly at me. As we sat there that night he was staring
   ahead as he talked about his plans for the future. Encouraged by me,
   he had started to think that he could do medicine if he put his mind
   to it, but he still wasn't sure how to break that to his parents.

   "I think they'll be okay, Wiley. They'll probably be pleased that
   you've decided to follow your heart." I smiled reassuringly.

   He turned to face me. "I've always been following my heart, Emma." He
   leant across the car and I could tell he was going to kiss me. I
   remembered my vow of the night before, but I was weak, and I didn't
   offer any resistance. His lips met mine, and his arm went around me
   and his other hand moved to my shoulder.

   I don't know why I didn't resist him that night. I can't entirely
   blame the alcohol, or that dancing with him had left me sexually
   charged. It wasn't any of those things on their own. It was that I
   liked him, and although I loved Steve I was lonely. I was lonely.

   Even though I didn't get the charge from him I got from Steve, it was
   a beautiful kiss. Different than Steve's, but beautiful. For a few
   moments I almost forgot where I was, and let myself go, but eventually
   I pulled back. "Wiley, I --"

   "-- Shhh," He said, running his hand over my shoulder and down my arm
   to take my hand. "It's alright, Emma."

   "No, Wiley, it's --"

   "-- Let it go, Emma. You've been good to him, but you can't live life
   like a nun. He'll understand."

   I pulled back further. "What do you mean?"

   "I know about Steve, Emma. I know how hard it's been for you."

   I was taken aback. Were we talking about the same thing? "What do you
   know?"

   "Well..." He moved his arm from around me so that he could sit up
   straighter and give me a little bit of space, although he kept holding
   on to my other hand. "I was, you know, intrigued by who the heck this
   mystery boyfriend was who you never seemed to go out with, even though
   you said he was in town. And I remembered the name of your band... So,
   I was working at my Uncle's a few months ago and I think I said
   something about how great your singing was and how you used to be in a
   band, and this other guy who works there said he'd heard the band. He
   was in the audience the night you ... the night that the shooting
   happened." Wiley looked down at our hands, and then back up to my
   eyes. "I wasn't trying to pry, it was just something I found out."

   I nodded. I didn't know what to say. I was sorry he'd found out that
   way. I wondered how hard it had been for him to learn that he was
   seeing the girlfriend of a junkie murderer?

   "I should have told you, Wiley. I'm sorry. I didn't know how to."

   "It's okay, Emma. You were right, it really wasn't any of my
   business..." He put his hand to the side of my face. "I can't imagine
   how tough it's been for you."

   I didn't know what to say. When I didn't say anything Wiley kissed me
   again. For some reason I let him keep kissing me. Then I think
   something broke inside me and I started crying, sobbing huge,
   desperate sobs and gulping for air in a very unromantic way. Wiley put
   his arm around me again and tried to console me. "Shhhh. It's okay...
   it'll be okay."

   Eventually I cried myself out and we both sat there in the car, not
   saying anything. It felt good to be in his arms, and eventually I lay
   my head on his shoulder to relax. When I turned my face back toward
   him he kissed me again. I sniffled, broke the kiss, and then giggled.
   "Sorry. I'm a mess, huh?"

   He didn't say anything, just kissed me again. And then again. I raised
   my hand up to the back of his neck. He kissed me more passionately. I
   put my other arm around him and he began to kiss my neck. I think I
   moaned. My neck is ... it's my weakness. I felt his hand move to my
   shoulder, and then, a few moments later, to my breast. He was still
   kissing me, little feathery whispery kisses across my neck and behind
   my ear, and then he began to stroke my breast. I felt his hand undo
   the top button of my blouse, and then the next button, and then begin
   to caress me through my bra. I didn't care. He was whispering in my
   ear, very softly, between those feathery kisses. "I love you, Emma...
   I love you. I've never forgotten you since that first night we met, in
   Oxford."

   I wasn't really hearing him. My insides had turned to jello. He had
   his hands around the back of my blouse as he kissed the front of my
   neck and then down, down. I could feel him undo my bra, and then feel
   his finger stroke my erect nipple, then both of them. He nestled his
   face in my chest, and slipped the bra up over my breasts so it lay on
   my chest above them. He had his hands on both my breasts and his face
   in my cleavage, and then his mouth was on my nipple and I think I
   gasped. It felt so good. Oh, it felt wonderful. Ohhhhhhh...

   He moved one of his hands to my shoulder and then to my neck, to
   caress it. Oh god. I wanted him so much. But we couldn't...

   I felt his hand go from my neck down to my leg, and then underneath my
   skirt. I raised his head from my chest. "Wiley..."

   He lifted his head briefly. "It's okay, Emma." Then he sucked on my
   nipple while his hand caressed my other breast.

   "No, no, it's not, Wiley. Not here." I lifted his hand from my breast.

   He lifted his head again, and kept it up. "Emma..."

   I slid away from him and pulled my bra down over my breasts. It felt
   awkward getting them into the cups that way. "No, Wiley. We can't."

   He looked at me with a wounded look on his face.

   "Wiley, I just can't. I'm sorry."

   "Sorry, Emma." He straightened up and took his hand off my leg.

   "Well, then we're both sorry."

   "I'm not really sorry," he said with a small grin. It broke the ice.

   I laughed and hit him gently. "Bastard. Taking advantage of me like
   that."

   "I do love you, Emma," he said more seriously.

   "I know. Oh, Wiley, I don't know what to do."

   "It's okay, Emma. I love you, but I recognize ... you know, you love
   Steve, and ..."

   "It's not just that, Wiley. I'm very... very fond of you, too." I
   couldn't bring myself to say love. I think I did love Wiley. Not the
   way I loved Steve, but there was something there in my heart for him
   all the same. But I wasn't ready to say that. "But it's not just
   Steve, it's... well, there's other stuff, too. But I can't talk about
   that." I sat up and straightened my clothes.

   "I'm a patient guy, Emma."

   "I've noticed." I said. "Although not so patient tonight."

   He smiled a slightly sad smile and reached out a hand to stroke my
   hair. "I don't want to make life difficult for you, Emma. You let me
   know if you change your mind, okay?"

   ***

   Sunday morning I made my way out to the prison. It was a pleasant
   morning, and I was on the side of the bus that got the most sun, and
   in any other circumstances I think I might have been tempted to nod
   off during the journey. But my trips out to the prison were never very
   lighthearted ones, and I'd been more worried than ever about Steve in
   the few weeks leading up to the trial, especially as his drug use had
   increased. Instead I sat on the bus and brooded about the forthcoming
   trial, and the certainty that Steve and I would never be together,
   free, again.

   The guard admitted me to the lobby and I made my way across to the
   checkpoint to have my bag inspected. The guards had long since stopped
   frisking me for contraband, which at least gave me some idea of how
   drugs were getting into the prison.

   As I made my way across the ten feet or so of floor I caught the eye
   of Jerry, the head guy on duty that morning, and he averted his eyes
   from mine. I was taken aback. It wasn't as though I could call any of
   the screws friends, but over the ten months I'd been coming to the
   prison I'd gotten to know them pretty well, and Jerry had never
   behaved that way before.

   "Morning," I said to Keith, the guard who would normally search my
   bag.

   Keith looked nervously at Jerry, and then turned back to me quietly
   and said, "Morning Miz Donaldson. I'm 'fraid we can't let you in this
   mornin'."

   "Pardon?" I said.

   "If you're here to see Hammond," Jerry said, finally giving me his
   attention, "then we can't let you in."

   "What? What do you mean?" I looked around, as though somebody else
   could help explain what was going on, and then I saw Dan and Bob
   Douglas coming through the door from outside.

   Dan met my eyes and I knew that something terrible, horrible, was
   about to happen. He and Bob crossed the floor in what seemed like slow
   motion and he took my arm. "Emma. They called just after you left.
   It's Steve. He's dead."

   ***

   Chapter Twenty-three.

   Everything fell apart. Everything. I don't recall what I said. I don't
   know if I said anything at the time. I don't even remember leaving the
   prison. I do remember the inside of Dan's Jaguar as he and Bob drove
   me home -- back to the Arsenaults', I mean. I wasn't really sure where
   'home' was any more.

   I didn't cry. I didn't cry at all. For a few hours I just went through
   the motions of living, nodding when people spoke to me and drinking
   the things they gave me. A doctor came to take a look at me but I
   don't remember too much about that. By late afternoon Cindy and Dan
   had decided it was okay to leave me by myself so long as I took the
   medication the doctor had left and slept. Cindy counted out two pills
   for me and I swallowed them and put myself to bed. It was while I was
   lying there, before sleep, that I thought of Steve, in the prison the
   night before, calmly taking too much junk, alone in that gray blank
   hole of a cell while I lay in Wiley's arms, betraying him. And then I
   cried.

   I didn't dream. I suppose it was the medication. I had been half
   afraid of sleep, afraid of what Steve would say to me when I dreamt,
   but whatever drugs the doctor had prescribed knocked me out
   completely. I didn't wake properly until early Monday.

   It wasn't quite light yet outside. I lay in bed looking out through
   the window at the color of the sky as it slowly began to lighten. My
   head felt woolly and thick. I suppose that was the residual effect of
   the drugs. A little part of me was surprised how calm I was. I
   remembered the things Bob had said the day before, about Steve's
   overdose and the call that he had received at 5am Sunday, and I
   remembered the call that had come through from Pris in the afternoon,
   trying to cheer me up in some small way. I remembered Cindy and Dan's
   concern, and Cindy carefully rationing the sleeping pills as though
   she was afraid I would overdose. And I remembered my tears the night
   before. But that morning what I felt was different, something calm,
   almost resigned. I wondered whether it was the same emotion Steve had
   felt before he had shot himself up that last time. I knew the overdose
   was deliberate.

   Mostly I just felt an overwhelming sense of emptiness. The last time I
   saw him hadn't given me clues about him killing himself -- none that I
   had recognized. He hadn't said goodbye with any more gravity. He had
   been clean, and he had told me he loved me with more fervor than
   usual, but I had put the intensity of his kisses down to his being
   drug-free for the first time in weeks.

   I thought of his face, and his arms around me, and the feelings I had
   when he touched me. I thought of the time we had spent together, in
   Brand, at the cabin the night Travis was killed, at the river outside
   Oxford, in the bar at Elroy's. I heard his voice, in my head, singing
   the songs he loved so much. And then I thought of him singing "Tired
   of living, is easy to do," then the interview room at the prison. And
   I thought of some of the other inmates I'd seen.

   I felt hollow, as though everything that ever mattered had been
   suctioned out of me.

   I got up and put on my robe. Dan would be getting up soon for his
   morning run, and I wanted to be on my own. I padded down the stairs to
   the kitchen and poured myself a glass of orange juice, then carried it
   over to the window. The sky was just beginning to be tinged with
   yellow. In a few moments it would be light.

   I sat down at the kitchen table and noticed the bottle of pills on the
   kitchen counter. I leant over and picked them up. Take two at night,
   the label said. I held it in my hand and looked at the remainder of my
   orange juice. Then I undid the top of the bottle and smoothly, in one
   motion, poured the entire contents, maybe 30 pills, into my mouth.
   'Fuck,' I thought, as I raised the orange juice to my lips. 'It's too
   many, I'll never be able to swallow them all.' I got about half of
   them down and knew I had to spit the remainder into my hand. Quickly I
   stood and spat out about fifteen pills. They left a horrible bitter
   chalky taste in my mouth. I went to the fridge and got out the orange
   juice, then put the remaining pills back into my mouth and swallowed
   them with the orange juice straight from the container.

   Then I slowly walked up the stairs to go back to bed and wait for
   death to come free me.

   ***

   It was because I had to get the orange juice again that I fucked it
   up. If I had been able to swallow all the pills in one go I would have
   calmly screwed the cap of the pill bottle back on, and replaced it on
   the counter, and nobody would have noticed for at least a few hours,
   and by that time everything would have been over. But when I got up to
   get the orange juice a second time I still had half a mouthful of
   pills, and the horrible taste they left in my mouth as I expelled them
   into my hand interrupted my chain of thought so I forgot to screw the
   cap back on, leaving it and the bottle on the kitchen table like a
   bright red flashing alarm for Dan to find when he came downstairs a
   few minutes later to begin his morning run. He didn't even come up to
   check on me first, he just dialled the number for the ambulance
   immediately and yelled for Cindy. I think I can dimly recall that
   shout, but I could be imagining that. Your brain does strange things
   when it's just about to slip into unconsciousness.

   It was Pris's face I saw first. She was sitting right next to the bed,
   with one hand clutching mine under the hospital blankets. The first
   thing I thought when I saw her was that the light on her face from the
   lamp over my bed made her short dark hair shine like it was sprinkled
   with silver. She saw me open my eyes and the look on her face made me
   snap them shut again. "She's awake," I heard her say, but I didn't
   hear anything else and she say anything else.

   I didn't want to talk to any of them. I still didn't want to talk to
   anyone. I kept my eyes closed and lay still, hoping they would go
   away. I kept still for what seemed like fifteen minutes, believing
   they would think I had gone back to sleep and would leave without
   saying anything. But when I opened my eyes again. they were still
   there, Cindy and Pris seated in the chairs beside the bed and Dan
   standing behind them.

   If I felt worthless before I took the pills I felt even more worthless
   now. Fuck, I couldn't even commit suicide properly.

   "Emma, I know things have been bad, but everything is going to be
   okay," Dan said gently.

   I stayed mute.

   "It's alright, honey, you don't have to say anything," Cindy said.
   Looking at her eyes I could see genuine compassion. That made me feel
   worse. I didn't want everyone to feel sorry for me, or feel sympathy
   for me. I didn't deserve any of it. Looking at Pris and Cindy and Dan
   made me feel even more in debt to them, and even more undeserving, and
   when Cindy opened her mouth to say something else that enormous well
   of self-pity I was collecting inside me swelled, and a few tears ran
   down my cheeks.

   Pris reached over with a tissue to wipe the tears from my face. The
   look of concern on her face was too much for me, and I burst into
   great, heaving sobs of pity, for myself, for Steve, for everyone who
   had ever had the misfortune to meet me and watch their lives turn bad.

   "I, I can't..." I said.

   "You don't have to," said Pris. "You don't have to do anything."

   "You don't understand. It's not just Steve, it's everything." I was
   gasping out my words between sobs. "It's me. I just can't --"

   "It's all right, Em," Pris said, and she stood up and took my head in
   her arms and let me sob into her sweater. "There's nothing wrong with
   you."

   The enormity of everything I had to say sat in my mouth like a huge
   wad of cotton. I couldn't begin to think how I could get words out
   that would mean anything.

   I let her hold me for a long time.

   Eventually I stopped crying. "It's alright," Pris said again.

   "You don't understand." I sat up, still hugging Pris as she hugged me.

   "What don't we understand, honey?" Cindy asked gently.

   "I'm a boy!" I blurted out. I really hadn't meant to. Although I had
   run a scene in which I confessed to Pris over and over again in my
   head I had always imagined telling her calmly, and carefully, in a way
   that wouldn't make her think of me as a freak. I had never managed to
   get the scene to play right in my head, and at that moment I
   understood why. There just isn't any calm and easy way to say
   something like that.

   "You could have fooled me,' Pris said lightly.

   I hesitated, and then threw caution to the wind. "No, really!" I
   pulled myself away from her and looked straight into her eyes. "My
   name is Michael Boyle, and I was at James Brand for rape and murder
   and I escaped with Steve and I'm a boy."

   I could see Pris and Dan exchange glances as though they thought I was
   crazy.

   "Goodness, so you used to be a boy" Cindy said. "Is that all? Honey,
   you don't want to worry about that."

   We all looked at her.

   "Some things make sense, now, but you shouldn't worry about a little
   thing like that. I've known lots of girls like you, without half your
   charms," Cindy continued. "Daddy's house always seemed to be full of
   them. I sometimes wondered whether half the girls I met through the
   music business weren't really boys. Have you ever met Amanda Lear?
   She's a friend of Mick's. I think she's Salvador Dali's mistress now.
   A little spot of bother about gender never stopped her from getting
   ahead in life."

   "You don't --"

   "-- Don't be silly," she said. "It doesn't matter what's between your
   legs, Emma, it's what's in your head that counts. And you're as much
   of a girl in there as I've ever seen. Now, what was this other
   nonsense about rape and murder?"

   I looked at Dan, and then at Pris. I think Cindy being so
   matter-of-fact about my revelation had suddenly made them believe in
   what I had said, and I could see shock in Dan's eyes, but a kind of
   recognition in Pris's. She reached out her hand and touched me on the
   cheek. "I believe you, Emma, if that helps."

   "I'm sorry," I muttered, and turned to Dan. "I'm really, really sorry.
   I didn't want to deceive you."

   "I'm not sure I do," Dan said. "Believe you, that is. No offense,
   Emma, but you don't look like... well, you know. And I think I know
   you well enough to know you'd never murder anyone."

   I looked at the three of them, looking at me, and I drew a deep breath
   and began to tell them my story.

   ***

   Chapter Twenty-Four.

   I was discharged from the hospital the next day. Dan and Cindy came to
   pick me up. Pris had been there almost continuously ever since sheĠd
   flown in. Although I was still feeling hollow and miserable I had to
   concede that it made a difference to me, having her around. It
   especially helped when the doctor showed up to talk to me for the
   first time. Unlike my previous stay at Northside they found out all
   about my odd physique this time, because they'd had to undress me to
   remove the fouled nightgown I was wearing when I was brought in. The
   doctor was trying to be discreet but I asked Pris to stay, and it
   helped to have someone who cared about me present to fend off some of
   the more difficult questions about how I came to be the way I was.

   I didn't tell him the truth, of course. One of the first things Cindy
   had said when I finished explaining myself was that I should keep the
   how and why of my situation to myself until after I was discharged,
   and it turned out to be good advice. I pretended to the doctor that
   taking hormones had been entirely my idea. He seemed shocked enough by
   the whole thing that he didn't delve too deeply into detail with his
   questions.

   After I got back to Dan and Cindy's Pris made sure to be with me
   almost all the time. It didn't take a genius to figure out that the
   three of them were making sure I wasn't left alone to do something
   stupid to myself. Over the next few weeks I understood how stupid it
   was, but at first I just felt so depressed and powerless that I would
   have seized almost any opportunity to try again if I thought it might
   have worked.

   It was Pris who managed to get me thinking about life again, as
   opposed to dwelling on everything that had already happened. Her first
   question to me after I had finished telling her my story had been "so,
   do you want to be a boy? Is that the problem?"

   It was then I realized, for the very first time in a real, visceral
   sense, that I was much more comfortable being Emma than I ever had
   been being Michael. It wasn't just the way my body was that made me
   feel that. It was something inside myself. In the past I had told
   myself that I was happy being Emma because of Steve, but now that
   Steve was gone I couldn't rely on that anymore. I reached inside
   myself and I saw ... Emma. For better or worse, that was who I was.
   There wasn't any Michael. He belonged to a world that was years ago
   and far away.

   The one thing I hadn't counted on having to deal with was Wiley. He
   had been pestering Dan and Cindy to let him see me for at least a
   month before I relented and said I was ready. I wasn't, but there
   really wasn't any way for me to put him off any longer. I knew even
   before I saw him that he would be upset about me trying to kill
   myself. He was, of course, but he held that in for the first few
   minutes after Cindy let him in to see me in the receiving room. We
   were alone, standing about ten feet from one another, trying to
   negotiate the space between us without injuring one another's
   feelings.

   "Are you alright?"

   "Yes, I think so," I said.

   "Really?"

   "Yes. I'm not about to slash my wrists, if that's what you're worried
   about."

   "Emma, don't. I'm not trying to make you feel bad."

   "I know. I'm sorry, Wiley."

   "Well." He paused and looked around the room before his eyes came back
   to me again. "I was surprised. But then I heard about your boyfriend,
   and --"

   "Wiley?"

   "Yes?"

   "I don't really want to get into the reasons why, okay? I'm sorry. I
   don't want to dwell on it too much. Yes, I was screwed up. I'm sorry
   about that. I'm okay now. Well, not okay, but, you know..." I shrugged
   and sat down on the couch. Wiley came and sat next to me.

   "Um. So..." I began. I wasn't sure where I wanted this to go, but I
   knew that denying everything wasn't going to work any more.

   "So, there's something I have to tell you," I began, "and it might go
   some way to explaining why. But it might also mean you won't ever want
   to see me again."

   "I doubt that, Emma. About not wanting to see you again, I mean. What
   are you going to tell me? That you've done something terrible, I bet."

   I started to interrupt, but he shushed me.

   "No, wait. It doesn't matter, Emma. I don't care what it is, I just
   want you to know that I care about you, and I know you're hurting and
   I know it will take you a long time to forget about what happened to
   Steve --" He must have seen my expression change because he quickly
   corrected himself. "Not that I'm saying you'll ever forget him. But,
   you know, I'd like to think that you care about me, too. And I love
   you, and whether we have any future together or not I'd like you to
   know that you can count on me to be there when you need me."

   "Wiley, I..." I wasn't any surer of where to start than I had been
   with the Arsenault's at the hospital. I was silent for a few moments
   to collect my thoughts.

   "It's okay, Emma," Wiley interrupted. "Whatever it is, it's okay."

   "Wiley, I'm not who you think I am," I began. I looked him in the eyes
   and then it was so hard to say. "I'm, I'm not really a girl."

   At first he looked puzzled, then he smiled. "You're growing up, Emma."

   "No, Wiley. What I mean is that I used to be a boy."

   His smile faded and he looked puzzled for a moment, and then a wave of
   fear passed briefly across his face and he looked for a few moments,
   almost as though he'd been confronted with a gun. "What?"

   "What I said. I used to be a boy."

   There was an agonizing silence. I could see his eyes move across my
   face, and then my chest, and then that look of confusion cross his
   face again, and then the look of fear.

   "You, you... You had a sex change."

   "Not exactly. Not, uh, not yet."

   "Oh, my god." He stood up, and took several steps away from me. I
   stood up too. He stepped toward me as though he was going to touch me.
   The expression on his face told me he wasn't sure whether he knew that
   I was real or not. "God. You're not joking, are you?"

   "No, Wiley, I'm not."

   He took several more steps back.

   "Emma... Emma. What's your real name?" He held up his hand. "No. No, I
   don't want to know that."

   "I had to tell you, Wiley."

   "Uh huh."

   Neither of us said anything for a few moments.

   "So, you and Steve were..." Wiley began, but his voice petered out. He
   shook his head as though he was trying to clear it. "Emma. I don't
   know if I can discuss this right now. I don't know if I can still feel
   the same way about you... I don't know... I don't know anything, not
   any more."

   He looked me directly in the eyes for a moment, and then turned and
   left the room. A moment later I could hear the front door open and
   then close. He was gone.

   Pris was in the room almost immediately after Wiley had left, hugging
   me tightly and holding my head to her breast. "Don't go thinking about
   it too much, Emma. It's for the best. If he can't love you the way you
   are..."

   ***

   Wiley came back three weeks later.

   Pris had gone back to college. I was sitting in the kitchen having a
   cup of tea before bed. Dan and Cindy were still out at a business
   dinner. It was so unusual for someone to knock at our door without an
   invitation that I was briefly startled. There aren't too many people
   go door to door in Buckhead, especially at 11.00pm. I glanced out the
   window next to the door before I opened it. He must have noticed me
   move the curtain to do that, because our eyes met through the glass.
   It looked like he had been crying.

   Hesitantly I opened the door. "Wiley."

   "Hi, Emma. Uh, do you mind if I come in?"

   "Um, it's kind of late, Wiley."

   "Uh, yeah. I know that. It's just..." He looked around, then back at
   me, and shrugged. "Only for a few minutes. Please?"

   I was reluctant to let him in, but I swung the door wider, and he came
   into the hallway. I led him down the hall into the kitchen. "I'm just
   having some tea. You want some?"

   "Uh, no." He shuffled his feet. The thing is, Emma... I came to say
   I'm sorry."

   "Sorry?" I stood next to the kitchen table and picked up my tea. Wiley
   came across and stood close. Close enough to touch me if he wanted to.
   I was momentarily nervous.

   "Yeah, you know. I behaved like a jerk."

   "I dunno, Wiley, you know, if that was the way you felt --"

   "It was. But I was, well, confused. I mean, it's not something anyone
   ever said to me before."

   'Hah, I bet." I laughed quietly, bitterly. "So you have a bunch of
   questions, I guess."

   "Well, maybe, if you want to talk to me about it."

   I wasn't sure about that. "Wiley, you really hurt me."

   "I know. I know. I fucked up. Emma, I'm sorry."

   "I mean," I started, then stopped. "I had to tell you, Wiley. Up till
   then, through everything, the thing with Steve, you know, you stuck by
   me. I misinterpreted it, I guess. I thought if you were just trying to
   get into my pants --"

   "There was that too," Wiley smiled. He reached across toward me, and
   pulled my hair back from my face. He took my chin in his hand to turn
   me to face him. "Emma, stop torturing yourself. It's okay. Yes, I love
   you. Yes, I've been in love with you since the first time I saw you,
   at that party all that time ago in Oxford. So yes, the attraction I
   felt for you, well, there was a big physical component. But you should
   know me well enough by now to know that a pretty face and a great body
   aren't enough for me. I fell in love with you, with the you that's
   inside your incredibly beautiful body --"

   "It's alright, Wiley. Stop. Okay."

   He kissed me, and I let him, and we hugged, and I let him do that,
   too.

   ***

   Pris made me promise to use some of my free time to come back to
   Mississippi. I was reluctant to go, because there were so many ghosts
   for me there, but she laid the trump card on me right away. Elroy.
   Elroy had called me almost every day since I had been released from
   the hospital. Pris told me he had wanted to come and see me but she
   had persuaded him that I needed time before I saw too many people.
   Now, Pris said, it was time.

   The other trump was the baby. I hadn't seen Lindy, as Julia and Pete
   had called her, since immediately after her birth, in Jackson. They
   were all living back in Oxford, "far enough away" from Julia's parents
   that Pete didn't feel too uncomfortable.

   I flew into Memphis, and Vanessa met me at the airport. I hadn't seen
   her since that time after our first gig in Memphis, but she hadn't
   changed at all. She swept across the gate lounge like a force of
   nature, and gathered me into her arms before I could properly say
   hello. When she let me go again I could see scores of people staring
   at us, but I didn't mind. I still didn't know Vanessa all that well,
   but I couldn't help but like her style. It was easy to see why she and
   Cary had been friends.

   Vanessa and I caught a cab downtown, to the Peabody. When I had said
   that I wanted to overnight in Memphis Cindy had insisted I stay at the
   Peabody. For once I didn't argue. I had never forgotten the place
   after the first night I had met Vanessa there, and I had never stayed
   in a proper hotel before, just scummy motels on the road while we were
   touring. It turned out that Cindy knew someone who knew someone who
   knew the CEO of the company that owned the place, so I got a good
   rate. I put all the charges on the card Dan had given me, as we'd
   agreed.

   After I had checked in Vanessa and I sat downstairs in the bar, and I
   enjoyed myself watching Vanessa intimidate the waiter into not carding
   me. She gave me news from Cary, who was happily shacked up with a
   sugar-daddy San Francisco industrialist twice his age. I had sent
   Vanessa a letter after my release from hospital, so she already knew
   about Steve's death, but I had to fill her in on everything that had
   happened to me before that, and the events since. We talked on through
   our third vodka and tonic, and then went a few doors up from the hotel
   for burgers and beers. We were sitting at a table in the burger place
   when two cops came in and sat at the table behind me. For the first
   time in my life I didn't become anxious. I had nothing to fear from
   the police now. I had a place in the world, a kind of family again,
   and people who loved and protected me. For the first time in my life I
   felt like I belonged.

   At noon the next day Pris arrived at the hotel to drive me back to
   Mississippi in a shiny new Volkswagen Rabbit convertible. "Cindy
   convinced me it was okay for Daddy to finally buy me a car," she said
   as the porters loaded my suitcase into the trunk. "But I think he's
   grumpy because he hasn't seen it yet. Pete and Julia helped me pick it
   out."

   Julia had moved out of our old apartment and into a small house on the
   south side of Oxford, not far from where Pete's old place had been. He
   had a studio in the garage of their new place, which he used mostly at
   night as a place to paint and write and do whatever illegal things he
   was still doing. He spent all day taking care of Lindy while Julia
   went to classes. Half of Oxford was scandalized about them "living in
   sin", which made Pete happy as a clam.

   The first night I was back in Oxford we stayed in. Pete cooked, and
   Julia and Pris and I talked and I got to play with the baby. "Pris,"
   Julia informed me, "isn't nearly clucky enough and makes a terrible
   baby sitter, Emma, so we were kind of hoping you'd move back here and
   take it on for us."

   She looked completely serious and I must have looked worried, but then
   she laughed, and I knew she wasn't serious. Pris scowled, but from
   what I could see that first night back Julia was right -- Pris was
   perfectly lovely to the baby, but it was obvious children weren't her
   thing.

   It was very different for Pete and Julia. Children *were* their thing,
   and they were very happy. Lindy filled their lives completely, but in
   the very best possible way. Some people become terribly boring after
   they have a child, because all they can ever talk about is their
   child, or the world as it affects their child. As I played with Lindy
   that night I could tell that she was the absolute center of everything
   for them, but although I could see that they weren't getting much
   sleep there was a lovely calmness about both of them, and they never
   allowed the conversation to get bogged down in 'baby' stuff. They both
   went to bed much earlier than they had in the days when I'd last lived
   in Oxford, and they were super-attuned to every movement Lindy made,
   but they were great company and I loved seeing them both again.
   Especially Julia. I wasn't conscious of it that night, but later I
   realized just how happy I was for her, and how good it made me feel to
   be around someone who was so happy in herself.

   The next day Pete offered to drive me over to Elroy's, because he had
   some business to do over near there. Neither of us said much as Pete's
   Microbus rattled its way toward Tupelo with Lindy asleep in the back,
   but if I had been scared about confronting Elroy since my attempt at
   suicide, I needn't have been. As soon as Elroy saw me he swept me up
   into a hug. We both began talking and it wasn't until at least an hour
   later that we paused and looked at one another and laughed. It was a
   Friday, and Elroy had to prepare for business that night, so I helped
   out behind the bar, and with some office work that Elroy had
   neglected. It was almost like old times. That night his new house band
   was on, a bunch of young Tupelo boys whose enthusiasm made up for
   their lack of finesse. While I was watching them my mind went back to
   those happy times we'd first jammed together, clowning around and
   exploring songs we barely knew. I was just beginning to tear up when I
   felt Elroy's hand go around my shoulder. He hugged me and then he
   started swaying to the music with me. I smiled, and we swayed together
   and I felt much better.

   It wasn't until very late that night as he drove me back to Oxford
   that he lectured me about what I had done, but he tempered it by
   saying that he remembered the way he had felt when his wife and
   daughter had been killed, so he couldn't say he didn't understand it.

   "There's only one thing I want from you, Emma," he said. "I want you
   to have a life."

   I spent a week in Oxford. It felt good to be back around the people
   I'd come to love, but there were so many reminders of Steve that I
   found it hard to keep myself together several times. I knew that there
   was no way I could go back there permanently, no matter how much I
   loved Julia, Pris and Elroy.

   ***

   My job with Tickenor, Douglas and Bremmer was over. I'm sure Bob and
   Bill would have considered taking me back, but I had taken too much
   time off work and everyone there knew I had tried to kill myself and I
   really didn't think I could face seeing everyone there all at once. I
   phoned Bill to apologize for letting him down, and I went downtown to
   have coffee with Shelley. We agreed to stay in touch, and over
   subsequent years we became firm friends. Bob Douglas remained a great
   ally and managed to sort out my social security problems without
   raising any undue suspicions. I've never quite figured out how he
   resolved them, but I got a proper, legal number, and I've never had
   any difficulty since.

   One night a few weeks later, Dan sat back in his chair after dinner
   and said quietly that there was something he and Cindy needed to
   discuss with me. The way he said it sounded ominous. Although he and
   Cindy had been wonderful, and although it seemed to me at least
   superficially that my revelation to them hadn't changed their feelings
   for me, I couldn't really believe that Dan could still feel the same
   way about me as he had before he knew. And I very much doubted that
   Cindy could feel the same way about a scruffy half-boy-half-girl from
   the Chicago projects as she had about me before. I couldn't help
   thinking that things must have changed between us, no matter what they
   said when I was in hospital.

   I was wrong, of course. Dan invited Cindy and me into his den, and sat
   me down and offered me a drink. I think I must have been shaking,
   afraid of what was coming. Where would I go? How could I support
   myself? There was Wiley, but...

   "Emma, what are you going to do with your life?" Dan began as soon as
   he sat down.

   "Pardon?"

   "Well, you're very bright. It seems a shame to have you stuck as a
   clerk in some law firm."

   "I don't think I have that job any more, sir." I took a gulp of the
   whiskey he had poured for me. It burned my throat.

   "No, I don't suppose you do. But even if you did, I hardly think it's
   what you want to do with your life, is it?"

   "I don't know, sir."

   "Enough with the 'sir'. I thought we got over that last year."

   "Uh, yes. I think it's the desk." I giggled. "It has a kind of
   formality, you know? Like I'm being interviewed."

   Dan smiled. "Yes, I guess it does. Mmmm. Perhaps you are being
   interviewed. Emma, have you thought of going to college?"

   "Uh, no sir. I don't even have my high-school diploma."

   "Yes, I know."

   "You're certainly smart enough to get one, if you apply yourself,"
   Cindy said.

   "I suppose so."

   "Well, here's the deal, then." Dan said decisively. "Cindy and I have
   been talking, and we'd like you to keep on staying in Atlanta, if you
   want to. I understand you are back on speaking terms with young Wiley
   --"

   "-- He's not, we're not ... in a relationship. I'm not ready for that
   yet." I said.

   "-- Well, all in good time. If you want to keep staying here, we'd
   love to have you. You've become part of the family."

   Dan continued on. He and Cindy were offering to provide for me as long
   as I promised to sit my high school equivalency and apply for college
   the following year.

   "It's a very generous offer, uh, Dan." I said. I looked over at Cindy
   to let her know I was including her in my thanks. "I don't know that I
   really deserve it, but --"

   "Nonsense, Emma. Just don't say no." Cindy said.

   "Thank you."

   "That's better," Dan said. "Ah... there is one other thing."

   "Yes?"

   "Your, um, future." Dan said, hesitantly. "You meant what you said to
   Pris, about not wanting to ... go back/ about staying the way you are
   now?" Dan never could bring himself to say "being a boy". It was kind
   of sweet.

   "Yes. Yes, I did."

   "Cindy was thinking..." Dan said. "She knows some people, and they
   know something about this, and there's a doctor in Casablanca. Do you
   know about this?"

   I shook my head. "Not much. I discussed it with Vanessa, that woman I
   told you about in Memphis? She knows a little bit about it. I think
   there are doctors in America that do it too."

   "Is this what you want?" Cindy said.

   "I think so. I think I'd just like to be like everybody else."

   "Well, you can't go to an American doctor until you're twenty-one,
   apparently."

   "I didn't know that."

   "Yes, but you can go overseas now, if you want."

   I shrugged. "Um, there's one problem."

   "Cindy is offering to pay for it." Dan said "From her own money,
   nothing to do with me."

   I was momentarily stuck dumb. I looked at Cindy. She smiled.

   "If you want it, Emma."

   "Um... This is all a bit... ah, much." I finished the last of my
   whiskey and looked back and forth between them. "It's just... a bit
   unexpected... I don't want to seem ungrateful, but can I think about
   it for a while?"

   "Of course." Cindy walked over to the whiskey decanter and came back
   to pour us all another drink. "But that's not all we wanted to talk to
   you about tonight. Emma, everything you've told me... Well, it seems
   like everything has just *happened* to you. You haven't made things
   happen. You've had some horrible things..."

   She seemed to be at a loss for words for a few moments, and she looked
   away for a few moments, but eventually she collected her thoughts and
   turned back to me. She looked me very directly in the eyes. "Emma, the
   thing is, you can either go through life just letting things happen to
   you, or you can make things happen. You can take control of your life
   and make whatever you want of it."

   I didn't say anything, but I was thinking of what lay ahead of me. No
   education, no skills, no money. It was easy for Cindy to say 'make
   whatever you want of it' but she wasn't the one with a criminal record
   and a false I.D. But she must have seen the doubt on my face, because
   she went on.

   "I don't mean you have to do it on your own, Emma. You know that Dan
   and I care about you, and we'll help you out any way we can." She
   anticipated me beginning to interrupt her and she raised her hand.
   "No, don't interrupt, I don't much care for your 'I don't deserve it'
   remarks. Dan and I are quite capable of deciding what we can and can't
   do with our money, thank you very much, and anyway this is my money.
   My point is, just giving you money isn't going to make you happy. I'm
   very happy, we're both very happy, to help you in any way we can, but
   it's going to take effort from you. Ambition, commitment. Emma, you've
   got to want *life*."

   I didn't say anything for a few moments. Cindy was right, of course,
   and in different words she was echoing what Elroy had said in a
   gentler manner. I knew that. But I wasn't sure how I could be what she
   wanted. I had never felt ambition. There were things I enjoyed, like
   singing, but I didn't think seriously about that as a career, and
   until that moment I had never considered my own life in any terms
   other than the present. Maybe it was because I had spent so much of my
   adolescence in Brand, and I never had a reason to think about what I
   would do when I got out. Or perhaps it was that I couldn't imagine --
   then -- a normal life for myself. Not after what Blaha had done to me.

   Then I mentally slapped myself. I was falling into the exact same trap
   Cindy had just described. I was dwelling on the past, and on all the
   reasons why I was too fucked up to do anything with my life. I needed
   to focus on the future.

   "I didn't mean to upset you, Emma," Cindy said gently.

   "Huh?" I said, coming out of my reverie. "Uh, no, um... you didn't,
   sorry. I was just thinking, and, you know, you're right, actually."

   "I know that," she said, smiling.

   Dan laughed. "She's always right about stuff like that," he said.
   "That's why I married her."

   ***

   That night I had a very vivid dream. I dreamed I was performing, to a
   huge crowd in the old cafe on Division Street, which seemed to have
   expanded to the proportions of the big place we had played in Memphis,
   with a band comprised of Steve, Brett, Bo and Elroy. Leon was on
   stage, too, holding a guitar but not playing. From the audience I
   could hear a voice calling me, calling for more, and more,
   insistently. I could see Vanessa and Julia and Pris in the front row,
   and behind them were a few people from Oxford with Shelley and Anthea
   from work, and then beyond them Cee, standing next to Mary Wozecky.
   When Cee stepped aside I saw Cindy and Danny standing with my Mom, all
   smiling. They were the ones stamping their feet and calling out. Steve
   was playing right next to me, rocking his guitar around me and smiling
   and singing. My Mom was calling to me, but she was calling me Emma.

   ***

   Chapter Twenty-five. 

   Pete may have been an anarchist, but he was a gentle man, and I can't
   believe he would have been the one to start it. In my mind I can see
   him trying to settle Julia's father, trying to use humor to take the
   sting out of whatever family horror had just struggled to the surface
   of the conversation. But I never met Mr. Hammond so I don't know
   whether or not he had a sense of humor. I do remember that Steve had
   told me he was a gun nut, and that he had a vicious temper. After one
   of the stories he told me while we were in Brand I always associated
   his father's name with the image of my own vicious and brutal father.
   Which means I'm probably prejudiced and will never make sense of what
   happened anyway.

   The police report went something like this: there was a family
   argument, and it got progressively worse, and Mr Hammond stormed off
   and returned to the kitchen of their house in Jackson a few minutes
   later with a pistol. According to the statement the police took from
   Julia before she died at the hospital, Mr Hammond aimed the gun at
   Pete, and Mrs Hammond stepped between them and somewhere in the rage
   the gun went off and Mrs Hammond was hit. Pete attacked Mr Hammond and
   the gun discharged and hit Julia, and then Mr. Hammond shot Pete at
   close range. After that he turned the gun on himself. For some reason
   he never thought of the four year old child sleeping in the bedroom on
   the other side of the house, for which we should all be grateful.

   Mrs Hammond survived. It was in all the papers, but I didn't read the
   papers. Pris called me and told me, and she and I went to Jackson with
   Wiley and Dan and Bob Douglas. There wasn't anything we could do, of
   course. Julia died in hospital before we got there.

   Oddly enough I didn't cry at the hospital. Cindy's first thought was
   about Lindy, and she and I spent a half-hour tracking the child
   through the maze of hospital bureaucracy until we found her, and all I
   could think about was how much she meant to Julia. When the nurse told
   us that Lindy would probably be put into state-managed foster care the
   thought of tears was the furthest from my mind. I held little Lindy's
   hand and looked over at Dan and Bob, and then at Cindy. There wasn't
   any way I was going to let that happen, and I wasn't going to cry
   either. I made Dan promise me he would help me work out a way to take
   care of her.

   Based on Julia's will, and on some work Bob did, and on Mrs. Hammond's
   complete lack of interest in the baby, we managed to get child
   services to release Lindy into Dan's care, and we all went back to
   Atlanta together, to the big house in Buckhead, where Cindy redeemed
   all the nasty things anyone had ever said about her by being the soul
   of sensitivity and going out of her way to make everyone feel as
   relaxed as we could in the circumstances. It was only then, when I
   could relax and feel that everything was going to be alright, that I
   cried.

   When I finished crying I phoned Wiley, and told him he would have to
   take on a lot of responsibility if he wanted to have any kind of
   relationship with me. Starting with a child and marriage.

   ***

   With Dan and Cindy's encouragement I started college. At first I
   planned to study law, because I knew a lot about it from working with
   Bob and I thought I could make a difference to society by helping
   people. But I was wrong. As Cindy said, I lack the show-off gene
   that's necessary to be a good lawyer. I transferred into arts and
   sciences, and after some hiccups while I went part-time to look after
   Lindy, I graduated summa cum laude with a major in English. Ironically
   the subject I had the most trouble with was music. I never could study
   theory properly. Elroy told me it was because I was too rock and roll
   for academia. During my breaks from college I played some gigs with
   John Davis and did some session work as a backing singer with some
   bands in L.A and Memphis, including a bunch you would certainly have
   heard of. At Elroy's urging and the invitation of a well-known A&R
   executive I was persuaded to cut an album in 1985, mostly of songs I
   had written after Steve's death, but although it was well reviewed,
   and got me a lot of invitations to perform with more famous people, it
   never sold well and I didn't see any real money from it.

   Wiley and I kept seeing each other, and in my sophomore year we
   married. He finally got the courage to talk to his parents about what
   he wanted, and then went on to study what he'd always wanted,
   medicine. Money was very tight, but we managed. He did well in his
   studies, and has been well-rewarded by his choice of career.

   I decided against having any surgery. I worried from time to time
   about the possibility of being discovered for what I was, but from
   what I read of the state of surgical technique it sounded like an
   unsatisfactory compromise. Wiley said it didn't matter to him, and
   even though Cindy stood by her offer to pay there were other things
   that came up that required money and meant I had to borrow from her
   and Dan, and I felt indebted enough. I think Cindy may have been
   slightly disappointed that I didn't do it, but if she and Dan ever
   thought less of me they never said anything.

   In 1988 I was seated next to Keith Richards at a dinner that Aaron
   Carter was hosting in Los Angeles. Keith was urbane and witty in a
   quiet, casual way, and when I didn't fawn all over him he relaxed and
   we chatted cordially. He had a wicked, low chuckle and a talent for
   devastatingly funny sotto voce remarks about other people at the
   table. I can't remember anything we talked about, but it wasn't music.
   I remember being struck by just how ravaged and beaten his face had
   been by heroin and alcohol, much more than I had ever seen in
   photographs, and feeling momentarily glad that I had never seen
   Steve's face drained of its vitality and beauty in that way, but I
   didn't dwell on the moment and I'm sure Keith never noticed the flash
   of sadness on my own face that memories like that usually bring.

   ***

   Epilogue.

   So here I am, on this day, my thirty-eighth birthday. I'm three years
   younger than that, of course, but I long ago stopped using my real
   birthday and used the real Emma Donaldson's for everything. From time
   to time I've wondered whether anyone is ever going to catch up with me
   about that, but I suppose once you have enough time in a particular
   identity it never occurs to people to question who you are, and anyway
   these days my social security number matches Emma Kennison, my married
   name. Pete was a thorough man, and I'm sure Bob Douglas made a few
   adjustments to some documents at Dan Arsenault's request.

   Lindy is seventeen now, older than I was when I first met Wiley. As
   I'm writing this she's about to head off East for her first year of
   college. Wiley is outside helping her pack her little Toyota with more
   stuff than I thought she owned. Of course she's taking all her music
   gear, which means more keyboards and computers than I've seen in most
   professional studios. She's become quite the musician, even if it is
   on the club circuit where it seems to me to be mostly knob-twiddling
   and punching computer keyboards instead of getting down and playing. I
   can hear her bossing him around, and although I can't see his face I
   know he's smiling and nodding and letting her have her own way as much
   as she wants.

   He and I have had a good marriage so far. I know he's been faithful to
   me, and he's been a good father to Lindy. Since she's been talking
   about college I've been worrying about us, about what we'll do when
   there is only the two of us, and last night Wiley raised the idea of
   adopting a couple of kids. I'm thinking maybe surrogacy might be a
   better idea. He has no children of his own and that sometimes worries
   me. He says it doesn't matter to him, but the fact that he's thinking
   about children at all says to me that it's important to him.

   It still bothers me, too. I would have liked to have had my own
   children. But I've been very fortunate to have Lindy, and there's no
   point getting lathered up over something that's impossible. Elroy and
   I taught one another that, although we didn't ever say it that way.

   Wiley and I can provide a good home to more kids, whether they're
   adopted or Wiley's. We're both young enough to still be able to think
   about it. Wiley is a partner in a very successful practise here, and
   eighteen months ago he went in with some other doctors in the
   development of a new hospital. I'm happy enough teaching at Georgia
   Tech, although trying to teach English to kids who spend too much time
   online and not enough time reading books is sometimes a challenge.

   We don't have to worry about money these days. We bought a small house
   last year here in Buckhead. It's around the corner from Wiley's folks,
   and a few blocks away from Dan and Cindy's place, although they're not
   here very often these days since Cindy inherited her dad's place in
   the Bahamas. We see them from time to time when they're in town, and
   Dan still makes me laugh and smile. He and I jam together with a
   couple who live up in Roswell, and a few months ago we all played a
   half-assed gig together at a bar a friend owns.

   I don't miss professional music. There was always a buzz from
   performing in front of an audience, and sometimes I think back to some
   of the wonderful moments I've had working with some great musicians,
   but the hype, and the money guys, and some of the no-talents who have
   enormous egos, all take their toll. The music was great, but the music
   industry is awful, so eventually I ditched the industry. I still get
   some royalty cheques from 'No Questions', and a hip-hop duo sampled
   the vocal hook a couple of years ago and I got payment for that, too.

   I think I enjoyed singing with Lindy when she was a little girl more
   than anything else. She was a big fan of Tom Lehrer when she was about
   ten, and we used to sing those songs together all the time. "Poisoning
   Pigeons In The Park" was our favorite. That and Dusty Springfield
   songs. Lindy probably wouldn't admit to liking them now, since she's
   become so serious about music herself and hates all the stuff I love,
   but I used to sing around the house, like my mother did, so Lindy
   knows all those old songs well.

   I still see Pris from time to time, although not as much as I used to.
   Ten years ago she finally came out completely and moved to New York
   with Barbara, a very striking lawyer she met at a party at Bob
   Douglas's place one Christmas. They both seem ecstatically happy but
   she doesn't get back to Atlanta all that often and my commitments
   don't allow me to get to New York to see her more than once a year.
   Lesbianism was something that crept up on Pris gradually, but once
   she'd made the choice she embraced it wholeheartedly.

   Elroy sold the bar outside Tupelo and opened another one in downtown
   Oxford, just off the square. He ran it successfully for six years
   until he died suddenly, of a heart attack one morning as he was
   sweeping leaves from the sidewalk outside.

   I miss him, and I miss Julia, but what I miss most is Steve. I feel
   guilty admitting it, because Wiley has been very good to me, and every
   time I think of Steve I feel like I'm betraying Wiley in some small
   way. But there are times when I hear fragments of music running
   through my head, or smell the magnolia on the night air, feel the sun
   on my skin in a certain way, and I hear Steve's voice in my head, feel
   his touch on my neck, as though he was next to me again. Sometimes I
   think I space out for a few moments at those times, and I've noticed
   Wiley looking at me oddly afterward.

   "I remember something you once told me And I'll be damned if it didn't
   come true Twenty thousand roads I went down, down, down And they all
   led me right back home to you."

   Damn, do you know how often the Rolling Stones get airplay all these
   years later? Sometimes I'm glad Steve isn't around any more so he
   can't see what happened to those guys, and I can't disagree with
   Lindy's disparaging remarks about Mick -- she's right. But I can't
   hear those songs from 'Sticky Fingers' and 'Exile On Mainstreet' and
   'Beggar's Banquet' without hearing Steve singing them, and feeling my
   heart come apart. There isn't a single day that's gone by since
   Steve's death that I haven't felt that terrible pain of heartbreak and
   loss. I know that's not fair to Wiley but it's just impossible for me
   to overcome. Whatever it was that I had with Steve, it's forged
   something in me that's been impossible to break. Wild horses couldn't
   drag me away. Steve wasn't the one who changed my life in the most
   radical way, but he was the one who showed me how to find my soul.
   Goddamned junkie bastard, I still love him so badly it hurts.

   I'm still not sure how I feel about what happened to me when I was a
   teenager. As I said when I started telling this story, I don't drag
   the past around with me like a ball and chain, but I admit that I
   still feel hatred toward Grieves and Blaha. Not for what they made me
   become -- I have enjoyed most of my life and I like who I am now. No.
   I hate them for their abuse of power. I hate them for their ignorance,
   and their contempt for the feelings of others.

   It was all so long ago, that sometimes it seems like it happened to a
   different person. In most ways I guess it did.

   I'm going to step outside in a few moments to kiss Lindy and wish her
   a safe trip. We wanted to go up there with her to see her settle in,
   but either she's too embarrassed to be seen with us or she just wants
   to be more independent. Wiley and I will hug each other afterwards and
   settle into this new phase of our lives as empty-nesters, and then
   we'll kiss and I'll forget all about this story, until the next time I
   hear the sound of a twelve string guitar, or an old Rolling Stones
   song, and I'll think of Steve.

   ***

   fin.

   Authors note: I first got the idea for this story after I read an item
   in the New York Times back in 1996, about a very young guy who had
   been subjected to a pretty horrible chemical castration regime in a
   juvenile detention program back in the 1970s. He developed female
   secondary sexual characteristics, never grew much, and eventually
   required mastectomy. The NYT article was about a lawsuit he mounted. I
   never saw a follow-up story, so I don't know what the result of the
   lawsuit was. Anyway, I just used it as a jumping off point for this
   tale. At the time I read it I was living overseas, and my best friends
   there were afficionadoes of seventies and eighties music, and I guess
   I tried to be ambitious and write this as a period piece, because it
   seemed to work better told from a distance, and I really don't think
   they could get away with doing this sort of thing to people these
   days. Sorry if I've got some timelines mixed up, or made any
   particularly egregious errors about what life was like back then. I
   was born in 1971, so most of the period I'm writing about in this
   story didn't make a huge impression on me. 

   One other data point: I don't even particularly *like* the Rolling
   Stones! :)

   Apologies if the style changes throughout the story. I began writing
   this in 1998, so it's been a long, long journey and I've changed a lot
   along the way.

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