75. Crossing

Even today I’m thinking about jumping from one of those long bridges that spans those nooks of the ocean that’ve been misnamed as rivers and bays. There are a few, not very far from this block, and I could walk along their sides. I had to cross one of them to get here; I’ll have to cross it or another to leave. Crossing is just that: You’re not on one piece of land or the other, one state or the other; you’re on the bridge.

On one shore, you freeze, you’re hungry, somebody beats you; none of it changes. But you don’t know what’s on the other side, even if you’ve been there before. The streets on the side you know follow perfectly straight lines—or at least they seem to—to other streets, to avenues, to railroad tracks—you never realize they were abandoned—or to graveyards. On the other side, you don’t know where the streets, the alleys—Are there streets? Are there alleys?—will lead you. Even if you’ve been there before, you’re not sure of where you’re going.

The body the police identified by my former name was rolled on its head on a cellar floor under a house abandoned on a street that ends two and a half blocks from the street that cuts it off at the other end at a storefront of dirt and broken glass that separates rotted ties and rusty rails from the street. No one who doesn’t live on this street, or the street where it ends, has ever seen it. Or died on it: That’s one of the risks you run when you’re there. No escape—to what? Die here, don’t go to the other side. Or maybe you go, die, to the other side.

But there’s no going to the other side without crossing, without the bridge. A place where you’re not there or there. Almost every bridge big enough to take you away from this block has a sign, a marker, on it telling you when you’ve crossed from one town to the next, the county line, the state border, the national frontier. The line is completely arbitrary: You never see it; you never know you’ve crossed it until you see the sign. Still, you haven’t gotten to the other side; you’ve left because to get from the place to which you’ve come, you still have to cross.  (That’s why I think of jumping; that’s why I never will. ) There’s no coming back; there’s only going back. And on most bridges, you can’t do that without going to the other side first.

And you don’t know whether you can leave—actually, sometimes you know you can’t—once you’ve gotten there. You can’t follow the streets, the alleys, or even the wind, in the same way on the other side as you did in your old home. Nothing on the other side takes you in the same direction.

So the only certainty you have is that you’re on the bridge. But you can’t stay there—that’s not the purpose of a bridge. I remember reading that Paris grew into the great metropolis it’s become when the Pont Neuf—the first bridge in centuries to be constructed without houses on it—opened to the traffic of the time.

On the Pont Neuf, on the Brooklyn or Golden Gate or most other bridges, you can stop to look at the view, if you were ever impressed by such things. But you can’t stay, no matter how pretty or tall the buildings, no matter how softly the light shimmers on the water. You have to move along, from it, away, at some point. Then there’s the other side. Or the river, the bay, the ocean.

At least you always know which way the water flows: to the trench opening all around you, inside, at the bottom. The way it’s always gone. Not like the streets on the other side.

I think about jumping now, again, when I’m within sight of what I’d always hoped for. Only days from the operation, if all goes according to plan: I didn’t even know about the operation when I was living on this block. I knew only that I didn’t live in that body, with my former name: dead on this block. Or worse: dying, waiting to die, on this block.

Nearly every day I envisioned that body dropping form one of those bridges, dropping all the way to the bottom of the ocean. I wished there was another place, another body, for me—another time, even.

I left only because I knew the body on this block would kill me before…before I could…kill myself. Kill him. Die. Die on this block. Before this body, this block, this house, could take it—whatever it was—from me.

Yet I never knew what was on the other side of the street where the block ended. Or how I could get there, or if I ever would. But knowing what was there: That kept us here.

Mother always knew I’d go, but I don’t think she knew when. Or how. She also knew I wouldn’t come back because I couldn’t. But now I have no choice but to go.

72. Fatigue

I’d love to make Mrs. Littington disappear. And the lady whose name I never knew, I never want to know. Get rid of all the others, the ones I’ve forgotten or never knew in the first place. What did they have to do with mother, with any of us?

I’ m so tired now. I’ve been tired for so long, I want to close a door and cry. But the tears won’t come now, even if I want them, because I don’t have the emotional energy, or even a space inside me, to allow anyone to see them. For crying in the presence of others is always an involuntary form of sharing, or at least diverting one’s attentions. Those activities require energies that I just don’t have right now.

Maybe it’s this day, and the hope that it will be my last on this block, that’s so drained me. But taking hormones does that to you, too.

The first time you take them, you’re expecting something to happen even though the doctor or whoever prescribes or gives them to you tells you nothing will, at least for a while. Two pills: one is white and has the texture but not the taste of an aspirin tablet. The other, small with a hard shell in a shade of candy-coated cow piss—which is pretty much what it tastes like. Not that I’ve tasted cow piss, candy-coated or otherwise.

After I took those pills every day for a couple of months, I couldn’t notice any difference. But Vivian did. She called me that day, ostensibly because she wanted to return something I couldn’t recall leaving at her house. It’d been a few months since she pronounced me “too much of a woman” for her tastes and broke up our relationship. She’d found a watch with a woven black leather band when she was cleaning, she said. And indeed she gave it to me when we met for supper in a Greek restaurant.

But there had to be another reason for her wanting to see me—I could hear it in her voice when she called. I couldn’t imagine her wanting sex with me again. So what, I wondered, did she want?

As I cut into the piece of chicken I ordered, I got my answer. She called my name—my old one. I looked up at her. “Something’s different about you.”

“What?”

She reached across the table and dabbed her fingertips on my left cheek, where she used to stroke. “It feels different.”

“How so?”

“It’s….softer.”

“Huh?”

“It really feels softer.”

“Really?”

“Yes.”

All right, I said. I’ll confess something: I am taking hormones. Her face grew longer. “The doctor said my skin would get softer. But not this quickly.”

Then she asked me to stand up. “Wow! Your body’s changing.”

“How so?”

“None of your clothes fit you right.”

“I think I’ve gained a bit of weight.”

“Maybe you have. But it’s in your rear…and you’re growing boobs!”

I couldn’t notice those changes yet, I said. And I felt like I needed more sleep. “But,”she cut me off, “You don’t seem depressed.”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not. I don’t even feel sad that much. Or even angry. Maybe…”

She cut me off again, “Maybe you accept things, or are resigned to them.”

“You could say that.”

She could. None of it surprised her. Before that night, I hadn’t told her I was taking hormones. And I don’t know who could or would’ve told her. But she asked me to supper so she could find out what I was like on hormones. Why else?

The old lady whose name I never knew is looking my way again. Who could or would’ve told her.

Make it tomorrow, please. I’m so tired. I want the operation, then some rest.

64. Fall

Days’ve been growing shorter. At times, that would’ve meant more work, or at least more time for it. At times like that, I’d hardly see daylight. I probably won’t for the next few months.

It’s one of those things you never stop noticing if you’ve had to notice it before: the length of darkness, not the lack of daylight. On this block, you don’t see those bright, sunny vistas stretching endlessly, like the ones you see in all those paintings and photos in the books they try to make you like in school. The sidewalks, the street, the tar and slate on the roofs, the darkening bricks and shingles refract any light from the sky into shadows and other shades of gray.

And the night: It’s just another, deeper shade of charcoal—what’s left at the end of the day.

So in spite of—no, because of—all the fears I’ve had, I’ve never been afraid of the dark. On this block, it’s a bit of a relief. When you’re a very young kid, nobody expects anything of you, except perhaps that you sleep at some specified hour. There’s nobody to beat or harass you on your way to or from school. Nobody snubs you or starts conversation when you’re in your house, alone. And nobody else did when I was with mother.

It’ll be night—evening for those who don’t work—soon. Nothing you can do about it, but nothing to fear, either. Didn’t some poet say that we don’t die from darkness; instead, we die from cold?

When it gets dark, I get to come in from the cold. Or at least I’d find ways out of it. Late on a fall or winter afternoon—at least sometimes—I walk in the chilly air, looking for my way out. Shadows disappear and headlights reflect off my shiny boots and glows in the sheen of my make-up.

Someone brings me into a room and turns out the lights. After a while, even the acrid, salty smells of a man’s skin and hair fade away with the honking, shouting and skidding on the street. Here is only the rough, bristly feel of hairs when the flesh presses or pulls away my flesh. Of course it helps to numb your nerve endings with the bottle, the pipe or the needle. You move from one to another as your need deepens. It always does; everyone who’s sold his or her body will tell you that if they’ll tell you anything.

All touching, all kissing, all caressing lead to penetration—something that is always, by definition, against the will of the penetrated. So the practices to which people refer when they’re talking about “making love” always pierce into that same places, into the those same places—for me, under my spleen and back in my throat—where you were first entered, through stealth or overt violence.

I’ve been told that at the end of the transition I’m making, I’ll no longer have a sex life or, as some have called it, a “love life’. That doesn’t deter me now. Until I left this block, my body was always used by people—actually, males—I never saw again. Nothing changed, except that now I get paid.

I guess that in that way, at least, I’m not different from most people, on this block or off it. Things happen for no apparent reason; after you get paid for them, then you pay.

And the nights are getting longer now. Just as mother’s leaving.

63. The Price

All of my life, I’ve respected only one man: Adam. I recall him whenever I’m in the presence of anybody who’s just died, or when I hear about any death that matters to me.

Death is death. Vivian told me that, I think. She’s probably right, although I don’t know how she’d’ve known. We all become the same minerals; we feed worms, fish or some other scavengers when we’re dead. And in the end, I guess it doesn’t matter whether we’ve enabled a swimmer, crawler or flyer to continue living. It probably doesn’t even matter whether we’re interred whole, or buried or submerged in the ocean. There’s not much difference, really, except that the sad people—he ones born into grief and burdened with sorrow—always seem to want their corpses immolated.

After Adam died—was murdered—an intense heat—one that covered or at least occupied and filled—a hollow within—and I’m not just talking about a mere physical “inside of”—me. Mother often scolded me for leaving the house in the dead of winter without my coat. “But I’m too hot!” She insisted, demanded—but to my recollection, never threatened. And I’d wear my coat for as long as I could stand it or until mother was out of sight.

That feeling—heat coursing through me, as if from a fire no one notices because it’s deep in the ground—pushed up through my pores whenever someone I knew died from AIDS or was driven to that act the police and others conveniently classified as “suicide.”

There was none of that after the cops found the body to which they gave my former name. The cops called that one a murder—case closed. And no doubt it was, at least in the way they understand it. But he was not Adam; he was no Adam.

As I am not.

As for mother, the heat is rising, closer to the surface. It has nothing to do with the temperature of the room in which her body has been laid out: The other attendees—both of them—are wearing sweaters over their black dresses. I took off my jacket but I still feel beads of sweat forming just below my neck. Getting hotter; I don’t want the heat to consume me. Oh, if only there were a pool, or even a bathtub, here! The ocean’s only a couple of miles away. But I’ve never gotten to it from this block and have no idea of how to do that. I know the ocean’s there—at least I’ve always accepted it as some sort of knowledge—from the maps I saw when I was in school. Mother’d never’ve been any help on this one: She never went to the ocean, either.

I don’t know that Adam did, either. I’m not even sure he ever left that stoop, except to go in the house. He wasn’t like all the other men I’ve known—at least the ones I recall—who always seem to have the need to go some place or another, even if they’re always going to the same places. If they came back, they’d lie about what they’d done and where they’d been. They’d slept with everybody, or nobody. They didn’t have to pay for it, or they could afford whatever they wanted. Loved and spat upon, conquering fear yet with fear all the time. No need; they can’t do without. The same stuff, everywhere I’ve gone.

Except from Adam. He’s the only person I’ve known—except for mother, and then only after I left this block—who could give me something without demanding something else from me; who didn’t abandon or betray me when I made choices because I had no choice but to make them. He accepted shyness swaddled in 11-year-old baby fat; she never questioned me about the transformation I’m making, the next stage of which she won’t see.

Nor, for that matter, will the other two women in this room. Does the woman whose name I never knew realize who she’s seeing? She glances my way again; I see her squints and stares. Eyes like hers can’t hide furtiveness, which is to say attempts at stealth. They seem gray, lifeless, to anyone who sees her only for a moment. Any more than that, and you can see her color– not quite blue or hazel or any other hue you’ve seen before—registering, it seems, tones and volumes pulsing from your blood, your bones or something else you don’t see when she sees you.

At that moment, it seems, she decides whether or not she decides to speak to you. Today, for the first time, I caught her indecision and uncertainty. When I lived on this block, I knew she’d never speak to me. Or to that man who used to come around to fight with mother. She never spoke to Mrs. Littington, and I doubt that she will today.

She’s looking my way again.

I never saw her speak to Adam: She never seemed to leave her house; nor did he leave his. But here she is, with mother and Mrs. Littington.

And him.

Out of respect for mother. For the ones she knew, with whom she shared coffee or roasted chickens, for whoever ate the drumsticks and wings. But not the necks. I still haven’t tried them. Mother never would’ve allowed that. For the boy she raised, from whom she kept his father, at least for as long as she could.

At least I never had to pretend I belonged to him. In fact, I’ve never had to respect him or any other man, so I never did. Except for Adam. He’s probably the only man I ever met, to this day, who could offer me a simple pleasure without obligations, without entanglements. He offered nothing more than those five-ounce bottles of soda and, when the mood suited him—or me—a conversation, sometimes a story.

Too bad about the way he died. But he’s still the only man who, to my knowledge, didn’t kill or inflict some other sort of violence on another person. I don’t know what he did before he got to this block, or at least whether he got to live because someone else didn’t. But, at least for the time he lived here, he didn’t kill or maim, or cause the death of anyone else.

Though bottles of soda are valuable currency in the world of children, he never extorted promises or confessions with them. Usually, when a man pays for something, he thinks it’s subject solely to his whims, his impulses. Don’t ever let a man pay for you; otherwise, you owe him. If he knows he’s going to see you again, he might wait. But if he’s in your life for an hour, he’ll take whatever he can get. If he pays for dinner, he’ll take the night from you. If he pays for your body, he thinks he can beat you. The only question is whether he’ll do it before or after he fucks you.

My stories weren’t so different from those of the girls who walked the streets. None will ever tell you of an encounter with a man like Adam.

On this block, nobody would ever speak of him.

62. Aftermath

There’d never been a fire on this block, at least not one that anybody remembered, until that body to which they gave my name was found in the basement of that house three doors away from the one in which mother and I lived. The brick shell remained; everything else—the walls, the tables and chairs that’d been left behind, the concrete in the basement—had burned into dusty ash. Including the body, or most of it, anyway.

Word on this block said a lot of things. Someone settled a longstanding grudge. But who? Mother? The lady whose name I never knew? From what I know, no woman ever killed a man on this block, mainly because men didn’t stay long enough. Or, like Adam—actually, there was nobody else like Adam; he lived here alone in every sense of the word.

The cause of the fire, like the death of the body in the basement, was never determined—at least not officially. There was no report of an inspection; as far as anybody knows, none was ever done. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised there wasn’t much of an investigation into the death discovered underneath the house.

It’s probably just as well. Some detective, some inspector, could’ve—if he’d wanted and was allowed to do some work—find some “evidence.” The could’ve used it to prove, or at least claim, that someone died at a certain hour from blows to the head, blood loss or shock, and that the body died before it burned. Or whatever. And that the fire began whenever they said it did, sparked by spontaneous combustion. Or whatever explanation they came up with.

And difference would any of it’ve made, anyway? If that body had been mine, the cessation of its movement would’ve mattered only to two people on this block. And mother’s on her way out. For everyone else, it’s another story to exaggerate or embellish in whispers. You can’t spread anything without stretching, bending or otherwise distorting it.

I was there to revenge or collect—what? And someone stopped me. That’s one story I heard. Another: some lover, some ex-lover did it. What would that person’ve been doing on this block, anyway? What would I’ve been doing there, for that matter?

Funny how nobody asked those questions. Not the cops, not the fire inspectors; nobody. Then again, I don’t imagine that anyone on this block would’ve talked to them. I know I never would. They wouldn’t know a murder if it were mailed to them. I mean, they listed Adam as a suicide. And up to the day I left, that’s what everybody insisted—if they mentioned him at all.