He doesn't know me— I'm his mystery pal. A concerned citizen. The Customs people mail some porno they have lying around to the letter-writers. Then they bust them for possession. I keep the money orders for my trouble. Like a bounty.
Another batch of letters responding to my mercenary recruitment service.
More mail: applicants for membership in the Warriors of the White Night. One human handwrote a long letter along with his entry form. Told the Central Committee how eager he was to link up with real urban guerrillas who knew how to deal with the Nigger Menace. He sent cash— didn't want to wait the customary four weeks for processing.
There's a check-cashing joint in the Bronx that converts the money orders for me. Somebody comes around, they'll describe me to perfection. Black, about six foot four, 230 pounds, shaved head, razor scar down one cheek. Driving a gold Cadillac with Florida plates.
15
Not all my mail comes to PO boxes. My personal drop is over in Jersey. One of Mama's drivers picks it up for me every couple of weeks, brings it to her restaurant. Max takes it from there, stores it at his temple until I come around. It takes longer, but it's safer.
That was the only address Flood had. For years after she left, I waited for a letter. I don't do that anymore.
Michelle's last letter was still on the desk. Shell-pink stationery, a fragrance to the ink.
It's not going to happen here, baby. You're the only one I can tell this to. I'll deal with Terry and the Mole when I make up my mind. Sorry if this sounds incoherent but it looks like your baby sister stayed too long at the fair, honey. I had the money. I still have it— they won't take it. All those years of scheming, risking…
I got myself a lovely apartment, right near the hospital complex. At least it's lovely now, once I got through with it. The psychological screening wasn't much of anything. I mean, I didn't tell one single lie until it got to the part about how I've been living these past years, do I have significant family support for sex reassignment surgery?— you know how they do.
I've been living as a woman. That's what they say they wanted, the hypocrites! But I've been a hustler all my life, ever since I escaped. And I didn't always work dry. I told a psychiatrist about my biological family once. I won't ever do that again.
Anyway, it all looked good. What happened is I failed the medical. I've been on the hormones too long, and those bootleggers I dealt with, they must have mixed and matched too many times. I remember how much it hurt when I started, how I got cramps I wouldn't wish on any of my sisters.
The doctor I asked back then, he said it was purely psychological, the pain— all in my head. Of course, he was a male.
Anyway, estrogens can contribute to clotting, they said, and I'd have to come off them before surgery. But if I stop now, stop the hormones, they said I could crash. I've been on them too long, with too heavy doses.
And when they asked me who did my breasts, I wouldn't tell them. The silicon's still holding up…I'm as beautiful as ever. But I was crazy once. Before you knew me. When I was so young and headstrong. I played around with some other hormones then. I wanted these poor boobs of mine to lactate, and I had to have
Bottom line, baby: they won't do it! Too high a risk, they said. I'm all a mess inside.
God, like I needed some fool in a white coat to tell me that.
So here's my choices. I can come back, like I am. Keep taking the hormones. Even get psychotherapy if I want it. Above the table. That's one thing they gave me, I'm official now, the diagnosis is on paper. Pre-op transsexual.
But I learned some things from this. And there's one thing I know, baby, I can never go to jail. Not ever. I'd die first. So how do I live?
I'm trapped, and they won't fix me here. I can go overseas.
One of my shadow-sisters gave me a name of a hospital in Brussels, and I know it can get done in Morocco too. Casablanca. Only there's no Bogart for me.
I went through the hormones, the electrolysis, everything. All I wanted from these people was the final chop and some reconstruction. I don't need their simpleminded therapy. In my heart and my soul, I'm a woman. Your sister. Terry's mother.
I need some time. To see what's important to me. I'll let you know.
Watch out over my boy.
I love you.
16
The next morning, I took a short walk. Brought back the newspapers and a bag full of bakery for Pansy. Took my time, stretched things out. I read the paper the way I used to in prison, sucking every ounce of juice from the pages. It didn't bother Pansy— she has a dog's sense of time. Only two limits for her: never and forever.
It was almost ten by the time I entered the garage from the back stairs. A piece of paper torn from a yellow legal pad floated under the windshield wiper. Two broad slashes with a heavy black felt-tip pen, running parallel to a small circle at their base. The number 7 to one side.
Max. Telling me I should come see him right away. Telling me where. Not a sign of forced entrance to the garage. I'd offered him a key once— he thought that was funny. Max the Silent doesn't speak. Doesn't make any noise at all.
I found a parking place in Chinatown, just off the Bowery. Made my way to one of the movie houses standing under the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge. Narrow alley along the side. Back door, dull green paint streaked with rust. I turned the knob, not surprised to find it unlocked. Metal stairs to my left, winding up in a Z pattern. I put a hand on the bannister and two Orientals materialized. They didn't say anything. They worked it together: one watched my hands, the other my eyes.
