CHAPTER EIGHT

When Hattie initially supplicated to join our coven she was living with a gargantuan man, a man called Tuft. Over six foot tall and nearly as wide as a church door, he had a reputation as a brutal sadist. Rarely seen without a big ugly bowie knife, affectionately called ``Baby,'' strapped to his belt, it didn't take much imagination to picture him terrorizing defenseless old men and women. Hattie alleged that Tuft was keeping her with him against her will. I had no way of knowing if she was telling the truth, but I believed her. She was a convincing actress. Her portrayal of a distraught young woman on the verge of suicide was convincingly played, a strategy I would later discover was a recurring theme, although only one in a repertoire of stratagems.

Coming to me, as her High Priest and religious advisor, Hattie begged for help to free her from Tuft's merciless grasp. Baring parts of her body, she exposed five T's, scars that Tuft had carved into her body using a penknife. It was convincing evidence of his sadism and substantiated her other charges, that he had forced her into prostitution, drug use, and drug trafficking. Allegedly Tuft was connected to some heavy people, the implication being the Mafia. I didn't believe it. I figured Tuft for nothing more than a two-bit hoodlum. Still, I couldn't refuse her request. I was her High Priest. But I knew I would need help and so I asked Peter for assistance. Peter, Hattie, and I met at Helsing's, a local restaurant, to seek a solution to Hattie's troubles. With the three of us seated at the restaurant, Peter came directly to the point, ``Hattie, are you sure he's connected?''

``Sure, I can name names,'' she responded.

``NO! No names!'' cautioned Peter. ``Names have power on the physical plane, just as they do on the mystical plane. Used properly they can get you anything you want, used improperly they can get you killed.''

``Afraid, Peter?'' I asked.

``Damn straight! If you had any sense you would be too.''

``I don't believe it. The Mafia wouldn't use a jerk like him to scrub toilets.''

``Maybe! Maybe not! They've used worse.'' responded Peter.

``We'll keep it simple,'' I advised, ``We tell him she's moving out for a few days, that she loves him, but she can't live with him until he gets a divorce.''

In addition to everything else, Tuft had a wife in a mental asylum. I wondered if he had driven her there. Nonetheless, setting one of the conditions for reconciliation as a divorce from his wife, was a perfect ruse. It would make it seem Hattie still loved him and wanted to come back.

``It could work,'' acknowledged Peter reluctantly.

On the big day Peter and I picked up Tuft and took him for a ride while, covertly, Hattie was packing her belongings. ``Tuft,'' I began gently, ``there's no easy way to tell you this, but Hattie's leaving you. Do you have any idea how much that woman loves you? How much she wants to be married to you? This thing about your wife has her severely depressed. Only a couple of days ago she came to me bawling her eyes out and threatening suicide.''

``She's always threatening suicide,'' answered the big man gruffly, speculating over where this conversation was leading.

``Threatening doesn't mean a person won't do it,'' I declared. ``Anyhow, Hattie's moving out. She's coming to stay at the ranch with Mary and me. You can call her whenever you like and I'll do what I can to help you work things out. But for the time being, she doesn't want you to visit.'' Emanating from Tuft, like a grey cloud rolling in over a Los Angeles beach, was a dark and menacing aura. Suppressed violence hung heavy in the air, like L.A. smog.

``When's she leaving?'' he asked, obviously hoping for a little time.

``She's packing now. When we drop you off, we're picking her up and taking her to the ranch. Tuft, if you try to stop her you'll lose her for sure. Either she'll kill herself or she'll run away and never come back. Is that what you want?'' I asked the question, playing my trump card, the card with only one answer. What else could he do?

Baby, strapped to his belt, had at first made me apprehensive, but as the conversation rolled on I felt more in control. Despite all the stories, Tuft was turning out to be a reasonable man. It puzzled me a little, but more than puzzled, I was grateful. Upon returning Tuft to his house we found Hattie finished with her packing. Peter and I loaded her luggage and gear into the car while she and Tuft, at his request, said a brief goodbye.

Mary greeted Hattie moving in at the ranch with less than warmhearted enthusiasm. However, reluctantly she gave in when I insisted I had a responsibility to fulfill. Mary wasn't a mean minded person and with her, as well as with me, refusing someone in need was out of the question, not if we had the ability to help.

Immediately after moving in Hattie began to weave her magic, in particular she began her seduction of the High Priest. Priding myself on my intuition, I was nonetheless oblivious to her machinations. I believed everything she said, thought of her as a woman in distress, and of myself as the noble hero coming to the rescue. During this time of my life I was fluctuating between working as a man, living as a woman, and functioning in the craft as a High Priest. The heroic image of myself as the noble warrior and spiritual leader was necessary to offset the condemnation I still felt from society toward my expression of femininity. Hattie, for reasons I have never understood, set out to seduce me and I missed the cues that should have set off warning bells. They were there too, others pointed them out to me at the time and hindsight confirms them.

Unlike others, Hattie never thought of me as two people, she thought of me, as with herself, as a game player. Which is why, on the third day at the ranch, she introduced us to Cathy, a little girl personality freshly confabulated from her fertile imagination. There was another personality too, Shelly, a newborn baby. Hattie declared she had these personalities most of her life, but had never showed them before.

``I don't like her. I wish you had never brought her here,'' growled Mary shortly after Hattie disclosed her multiple personalities.

``Why don't you like her? She's a hard worker. She helps with the housework and does odd jobs outside the house. She stays out of our way. What's not to like?'' I asked, defensively.

``I don't know. She's always hanging around you. I just don't like her and I want her out of the house, the sooner the better.''

``She likes you! Cathy likes Steve at any rate. Doesn't that mean anything to you?''

``Yes, Cathy's a lot nicer than Hattie. But it's just a game. Cathy's not real. Hattie made her up.''

``I don't think so! No one in their right mind would make up something like that.'' In no manner could I conceive that someone would voluntarily put their self through the turmoil I had experienced in my life. That Hattie was fabricating a complicated scheme with multiple personalities as only one part of it was unimaginable.

Cathy, as portrayed, was a lonely eight year old and she ``needed'' Mary and I to be her parents. That is she wanted Steve, Mary's masculine persona, to be Daddy, and I was to be Mommy. What better way for Hattie to insinuate herself into the privacy of my life with Mary? Cathy came often, every day or two, and would sometimes stay for hours at a time. Cathy spent most of her time following me around when I did the housework; just asking me questions like a little kid with her Mama.

After Hattie felt safe personifying Cathy, she brought out Shelly, the little baby. Shelly, when out, would often stay for an entire day. Occasionally, when I would come home from work unexpectedly, I would discover Shelly in bed sucking on a baby bottle. Very convincing!

Except for her adult size there was no difference in caring for Shelly than for any other baby, the details of that I leave to the reader's imagination. Whatever doubts others had, I believed Hattie's personalities were intensely real. They represented deep and unfulfilled emotional needs. Even had they been total fabrications, which I found difficult to believe, they were consistent with her brooding moodiness and had to spring from deep-seated wounds suffered in her past.

Then, one stormy night a couple of weeks after she had arrived, Hattie revealed another personality. Hattie and I were sitting together on the floor of the magic room, a bedroom we had turned into a temple. We were talking about the concerns of the craft when Hattie, switched personalities and became a new personality; Sharon, a loose woman lusting after anyone in pants.

``Larry,'' Sharon began, the two of us all alone in the house, ``I've got something to tell you and there's no other way to say it. I want you to fuck me.''

``Don't be silly,'' I replied, momentarily taken back by her proposition. ``We're good friends, nothing more.''

``Oh, don't worry, I know you could never love me. There are too many things you don't know about me,'' she stated in a pouting voice. ``I just want to fuck. Besides, you like Hattie too much, and when a guy likes Hattie too much I fuck their brains out. I steal them away from her.''

``Who the Hell are you?'' I asked, my curiosity the only thing aroused. After all, I had tried the ``fucking thing'' with Ted and his wife; I didn't feel like going through that kind of misery again.

``I'm Sharon. I'm a slut and I love a good fuck.''

``Sharon, when I love someone, it isn't just to fuck them.'' I replied. Then I blurted out, ``Fucking you wouldn't stop me from loving Hattie,'' Embarrassed, I added, ``If I loved Hattie, I mean.''

Sharon was quiet for a short time and then there was a visible transformation. Her lips became fuller, her eyes sparkled, her body seemed rosier and her movements became sensuous. She exuded sex, reeked of it, as did her full throaty voice. ``You can't resist me,'' she declared. ``You're no different than any other man.'' She moved closer to me on the sofa and unzipped my fly. Stunned, I made no move to resist. In a moment her moist wet mouth swallowed my organ sending electricity throughout my body. ``You see!'' she said, pausing to taunt me as my penis plumped to half-mast. ``No one can resist me.'' Gaining control of myself I pushed her away and zippered my pants.

``No . . . You see!'' I scolded her.

``You didn't like it?'' she taunted. ``Tell me you didn't like it.''

``No, I didn't like it. It annoyed me.'' To be honest, it had felt good, how could it not feel good? It was designed to feel good, but it was also true I hadn't liked it.

``Do you love Hattie?'' she asked sarcastically.

``I don't know. Maybe. More than I could love you. Hattie's very special.''

``She's a dumb shit. She don't know nothing. I know what a man wants. I'm the special one. I give men what they want. I'll give you what you want too,'' she replied, her tongue slipping across her lips suggestively.

``You're not special. You're common and you're wasting my time,'' I retorted. ``Let Hattie come back.''

``You're afraid of me. You want me to leave because you're afraid you can't resist me.'' she goaded, sliding her body closer to mine.

As I pushed her away, conflicting emotions flowed through my body. There was temptation. I felt it tugging at me. ``Not on your best day. You make me sick.'' I retorted, standing up and moving away from her. Sharon faded away then, leaving Hattie and I staring at each other, wondering what to say.

Over a period of ten years my job at the city of Phoenix had undergone a number of interesting transformations. I was promoted from Tab Operator I to Tab Operator II, then went on to Computer Operator I, Computer Operator II, Computer Programmer, and finally Computer Specialist, a one of a kind job as troubleshooter for all the divisions within the department. During the change over from tab equipment to computer, over 400 employees of the City of Phoenix turned out to test for Computer Operator. The test had seemed particularly easy and that made me apprehensive. What if I had misunderstood the instructions? Maybe it seemed easy because I didn't understand it. What if I blew it?

My boss, Ken Crider, called me in his office to discuss my results. ``Who'd you copy your answers from, Lansberry?'' he demanded sternly, his face stony and angry.

Feeling guilty, despite my innocence, I spoke up, ``What? I didn't cheat. I never cheat.''

Ken, breaking into laughter, replied, ``It would've been hard to cheat, kid. You got the highest score.''

``Then I'll get to work on the computer?'' I asked eagerly, more than a little proud of myself.

``Yeah, we're sending you to Computer Operator's school for two weeks. Honeywell said they'd offer you a job if we didn't put you to good use. We couldn't let them take you, they'd never forgive us,'' Ken said jokingly.

Over the next few years, advancing from one position to the next, the City of Phoenix paid me to attend special computer training classes. Eventually I arrived at the position of Computer Specialist, a job I had created for myself. I was trouble shooter for Management Information Service. Any problem, any division, day or night, at home or at work, call me. I'd solve it. Yeah, I was a hotshot. I worked hard at being a hotshot, knowing it would buy me what I wanted most, elbow room. Elbow room in my manner of dress, in my behavior, and in my attendance. Elbow room that no one else working for the City of Phoenix enjoyed.

Testing the limits of what I could get away with, I started by wearing colorful, lacy, see-through shirts to work, then women's glasses, women's flats, and a ladies watch. Whenever I wanted I would take off work, sometimes leaving in the middle of an afternoon. Nor did I feign illness or some other lame excuse. Management knew and I knew that I delivered what they needed when they needed it. If I wanted to goof off once in awhile nothing was said, not as long as I left a number where I could be reached in case of an emergency.

Eventually, the director of MIS, a retired Colonel in the Air Force by the name of Art Chapman, called me in his office for a friendly chat. He ordered me to sit down. I did. Then he read me the riot act. ``Lansberry, you're smart, you could be the smartest bastard in City Government. What do you do it for? If I had your talent I'd own this god damn place. Why in the hell do you play stupid games?'' His question wasn't rhetorical. Agitation showing in his voice and in the drumming of his fingers on the desk top, he waited for a reply.

``What do you mean?'' I asked feigning innocence.

``Don't bullshit me! You know damn well what I mean. Your cutesy way of dressing. Taking off whenever you feel like it. You're playing us for a bunch of fools.''

``Are you firing me?'' I asked smugly.

``Damn you! No, I'm not firing you. The people upstairs are watching you! They want you to straighten up your act. They want you on the ninth floor. All you have to do is play ball. Hell boy, five years from now you could be City Manager.'' He offered me the possibility as if it was the prospect of Olympic Gold.

``The city managers were talking about me,'' I thought silently, ``So what?'' I wasn't impressed. Looking him directly in the eyes I decided to tell him the truth, at least part of it. ``Art, I don't want the ninth floor. There are things going on in my life that I don't understand, but I'm not playing games. I'm just trying to get by. I'm good at what I do. I work hard at being good so I can explore these things in myself. If I embarrass you, hide me away from the public eye, but don't expect me to be something I'm not, and don't dangle carrots in front of me.'' The discussion over I got up and walked out before he could dismiss me.

After leaving Art's office I returned to the computer room. Lloyd, an operator, was there and he looked at me puzzled. ``What'd Art want?''

``Reaming my ass,'' I told him. He smiled. Everyone liked it when I got my ass reamed.

``Hey Lansberry, if you're a witch do something witchy,'' Lloyd taunted me in the afternoon of that same day.

I was across the computer room, about 20 feet from the computer console, and on a whim I said, ``Sure, watch this!'' I threw a pencil. Spinning end over end, it flew across the room and landed on the computer console on its rubber end, bounced once into the air, and dropped into a triangular pencil box, the top of which was smaller than the bottom. I was more surprised than Lloyd.

``That was just dumb luck,'' he exclaimed, although conspicuously baffled, ``You couldn't do it again.''

``Maybe not,'' I said, knowing he was right. ``I don't chew my meat twice.''

``Okay, over there,'' he said pointing at an employee walking down the hall. ``Dennis's coming down the hall. If you're a witch, make him trip.''

On impulse I snapped my fingers and pointed at Dennis. Dennis tripped, nearly but not quite sprawling on his face. Lloyd turned ashen. Had he not been so shocked he might have noticed my color also paled. It was a weird coincidence, but taking advantage of the opportunity, I said, matter-of-factly, ``Lloyd, keep this to yourself, understand?'' He nodded, dumbstruck for the moment. ``After talking to Art I'm in a foul mood or I would never have showed off. Understand?'' He nodded again.

I used everything that came my way, everything that might give me a little credibility. Every coincidence was an opportunity to show off. Why? Was I an egotist? Did I look down on people? Did I despise people? Hell no, I loved people. Almost everything I did was calculated to get people to like me. Maybe, if I was special enough, people might overlook the strangeness that was in me.

Hattie and I drove out to Peter's dome to visit. Renegade wizards, even loveable ones, don't believe in telephones, so we couldn't call in advance. When we arrived Peter wasn't at home, but, using the key he had given me, I let us in. It was strange and eerie alone there with Hattie in that great circular chamber where voices echoed and magical artifacts surrounded us. The air itself seemed pregnant with promise and there was something else hanging in the air, a peculiar presence I wasn't able to identify.

Before leaving for Peter's dome I told Hattie I loved her as a sister, and I declared my love for Mary. I also told her that I had never made love to any woman but Mary and didn't expect I ever would. Hattie couldn't believe I had turned down Sharon, that I had refused a willing piece of ass. Shrugging my shoulders indifferently, I walked over to Peter's desk, and sat down to write him a note.

While writing I felt a hot tongue licking the left side of my neck and hot breath blowing down my collar. I shivered. Realizing Sharon had popped in for a visit, I was deliberately callous. ``A little higher and to the left,'' I directed contemptuously. ``I itch!''

``Damn you,'' screamed Sharon, turning around and storming toward the door. Her voice echoing and reechoing from the curvature of the dome sounded like a shotgun explosion. Rushing after her I grabbed her arm and swung her around. ``Where do you think you're going?'' I growled, my words loud and reverberating in a cacophony of sound.

``If you won't fuck me I'll find someone who will,'' she spat, her echoes mingling with the fading sounds of my own.

``Let's have this out, right now,'' I shouted. ``Why don't you drop this whole damned act. Get out of Hattie's body and stay out. She doesn't want you. I don't want you. No body wants you!'' Memories of how Tim had dealt with me and failed leapt unbidden to my mind. Could I just dismiss Sharon as Tim had tried to dismiss me? It felt wrong. I knew it wouldn't work.

``I need fucked,'' she shrieked. Our voices merged in a crescendo of sound building louder and louder as our tempers flared. Not a heartbeat passed between the words she was screaming and the words I was screaming.

``Hattie needs love. Real love. She'll never find it with you fucking everyone. What's more important? Loving or fucking?''

``Fucking! Fucking! Fucking! Fucking is real! Love ain't real!'' she screamed, the echoes from the curved dome ceiling ringing painfully in my ears.

``Love is real!'' I screamed back. ``Have I betrayed Hattie? Have I betrayed Mary? Have you seduced me? Someday I may make love to Hattie, if I can, but I'll never fuck her, and sure as hell I won't fuck you.''

``Oh yeah, well I got you figured out. You don't care about fucking 'cause you ain't a man. You're half-man, half-woman, a faggot. You're a freak,'' she snarled. Her words echoing and rolling over me were like an immense wave of sound. I turned pale, momentarily speechless. She had cut deep, attacking me in my Achilles heel. Was she right? Who was I to judge her? What were my standards? My own identity was conflictual and confusing. Was I a man? Was I a woman? Was I two people caught up in one body. Had I refused Sharon's offer because I valued love, or because I was terrified of sex?

Seeing my confusion and doubt, Sharon zeroed in for the kill. ``Maybe I can't get you to fuck me, but I can hurt you. You're obscene, a freak.'' Whip words! Was I obscene? That was close enough to being called an abomination to bring up agonizing memories.

``Whore!'' I lashed back, her words still searing in my mind like a bullwhip sears flesh. Staggering under the impact of her name calling, I reeled. Then pulling myself erect I spoke in kind, ``I'm a freak? I'm obscene? What are you? You aren't a woman. You're a piece of meat dragging your ass through the gutter. Okay! Yeah! I'm a freak, an abomination, but whatever I am, I'm a helluva lot more than you. Hurt me! Hurt me! You can't hurt me! There isn't anything you can do to hurt me.'' I was lying, of course, her words had wounded me as severely as words had ever wounded me.

A pained look came over Sharon's face. ``You're not gonna fuck me are you?'' she whispered.

``No, not now, not ever.'' Walking over to her I softened and put my hand on her shoulder. ``Sharon, you've been hurt by a lot of guys, but all men aren't alike. Give love a chance. Give Hattie a chance.''

She shrugged my hand away and then snapped, ``Fuck off!''

A cloud seemed to cross over Sharon's face and she hung her head. When she looked up again it wasn't Sharon anymore. ``Sharon's gone now,'' weakly echoed the small voice of Cathy. ``She doesn't want to talk anymore. Can I stay awhile? I like it here.''

``Yes, you can stay,'' I answered calmly, wondering if I was up to dealing with Hattie's many personalities. I wondered too, was I that hard on Mary? Living me had to always be a constant challenge. It was a constant challenge to be me.

One late evening, a few days later and a few days before the full moon, Hattie and I were once again talking in the magic room. ``Hattie, it can never work between you and me. Mary and I love each other, we've even created Steve to compliment my femininity. I don't want to leave Mary or hurt her.''

``You don't mean that,'' pleaded Hattie. ``I love you and you love me. I know you do.''

``Aw, for Chris' sake Hattie, I don't even know what I am. I know that since you moved in I've had damn little chance to express my femininity and I can't handle it. You wanted me to be Cathy's mother, but you keep trying to work on me to be your lover, and a man. Damn it, I'm not a man.''

``I've got something else to tell you,'' she said softly, taking on a conspiratorial whisper.

``What?'' I asked, distantly.

``I have another personality I haven't told you about yet.''

``Another one?'' I questioned incredulously.

``Yes, this one is a man,'' she exclaimed, her eyes wide, her brow wrinkled, and a look of expectancy on her face.

``You're making it up,'' I replied, reading her body language.

``No, I'm not! I've been afraid to tell you.''

Throwing her arms around me she kissed me. ``Don't worry! Trust me! Everything will be fine,'' she cooed soothingly, pushing me down on the floor of the magic room. Then, laying on the floor of the magic room, her body on top of mine, she began undulating. As Mary had taken me many long years ago, now history repeated itself. Hattie took her time, biting my nipples, massaging my breasts, stroking my legs, kissing me with long lingering, passionate kisses. I didn't try to stop her. Then it was too late, I didn't want to stop her. Stroking me until I was ready, she mounted me. She had discovered the magic, how to stoke the fire in my body. Responding to her touch, almost helpless, I touched back. My hands drifting over the flesh of her body were electric. As she took me, our bodies moving and writhing in sensual ecstasy, I gave in, my body matching the pace and energy of this strange creature on top of me. We reached climax together. Then, laying quietly, we enjoyed the afterglow, the mellow. It seemed after all, that I wasn't incapable of sex with another woman. I had only needed the right touch.

Now, I was more confused than ever. My mind was in a whirl. I had made love with a woman other than Mary, but to do it she had to take me as a man takes a woman. What did it all mean?

A few weeks later Peter and Marge, with Hattie and I, held an overnight circle at Peter's dome. Our tools were laid out on a black cloth covering his altar. At each cardinal point a candle burned, and two more burned on the altar. There was a fire in the fireplace.

After the rites and ceremonies were concluded Peter paired off with Marge and Hattie with me. Skyclad, we huddled together for added warmth, preparing to pass the long dark hours of the night with wine and eerie stories as only witches tell. The darkening shadows surrounding us became demons, the wind blowing violently outside emerged as the gathering forces of evil sent to destroy us. The smoke from the poorly damped flu of the fireplace was sulphur and brimstone from the bowels of hell. Through our lips the Elder Gods came to life. Even I, con- firmed non-believer, felt the primeval tug of deep dark horrors from our aboriginal past, the residue of past ages that still resides in the hypothalamus, our animal self. These were nightmares springing from the fears inherited through our genes, the genes of our prehistoric ancestors. As then, we are still savage superstitious creatures living in an unknown and frightening world.

Eventually, as slumber parties tend to do, we tired of scaring each other and drifted off to sleep. Hattie wanted to make love. I did my best to oblige. It was erratic and colorless; she was demanding I take the masculine role. Neither of us had an orgasm that night but she seemed satisfied and fell asleep with a contented smile on her face.

When I awoke in the morning, Peter and Marge were preparing breakfast. Hattie was gone!

``Better get Hattie,'' suggested Peter, noticing I was awake. ``Breakfast is almost ready.'' I could smell the bacon and eggs cooking and was aware of a healthy appetite.

Stepping outside Hattie wasn't anywhere to be seen, only the desert landscape and its scant vegetation. Off to the left, about twenty yards away, was an old dead mesquite tree. Knowing Hattie's tendency to melancholy I suspected she had been drawn to it. As I approached the tree I noticed several tiny brightly colored flowers growing in the rotting debris, colorful buds springing from the desolation of the barren remains. I looked around again. From the hollow, I sensed she had walked toward a nearby rise. Climbing the rise, just over the crest, I saw her.

``Hattie!'' I called. ``Breakfast!''

She looked up, smiled, then came to me. We greeted and she threw her arms around my neck and kissed me. On the way back we paused at the fallen tree.

``I want to show you something,'' she said, bending down to cup the flowers gently in her hand. ``I was looking at this dead log a little while ago and I realized it wasn't dead at all. Look! These little flowers, and beside them green shoots are growing. In death the tree has brought forth new life. Is this the secret of death and rebirth?'' she asked. I smiled and nodded. Then, holding hands, we ran toward the smell of bacon wafting from the dome.

After breakfast Hattie and I went for a walk. Over the last few days I realized I was in love with her and believed she loved me. I loved Mary too, but I wanted to be with Hattie. After all, my relationship with Mary had been deteriorating steadily. Her active dislike of my friends, not to mention never sharing in any of my activities, made for a rocky marriage. Now that Hattie had found the key to my sexuality and had convinced me her masculinity was real, how could I not love her? How could I not want to be with her?

I told Hattie I wanted to divorce Mary and marry her. Hattie was adamantly against it. She loved me and wanted to fuck around with me, but she didn't want to get married. I was dumfounded. I hadn't let Hattie make love to me just for the hell of it. In no uncertain terms, I told her so. ``Hattie, I don't fuck around. Either we're in love and want a life together or we break it off. Which is it?''

Hattie reluctantly agreed to get married. Eventually, I would discover Hattie didn't love me! She only loved what I represented. That was her way of expressing it. I ``represented'' the potential to make money, the door to material possessions and a better way of life. I ``represented'' excitement, security, and happiness. She kept repeating the word ``represented'', it was chaffing. It was a strange word for someone in love to use. Still, making allowances, I wanted to marry her. It was frightening to think of leaving Mary, but I felt it would be ignoble to ignore what had happened between Hattie and me. Although, in reality, my love for Hattie wasn't any healthier than her love for me. Hattie was my hope for a happier life, a life with a woman who would share my friends, a woman who would keep herself clean, but most of all a woman who wanted to play a man role for me. The foundation of our love was set securely on a fluffy cloud of illusion, somewhere orbiting Pluto and the greater universe.

Later that night, in the magic room with Hattie at my side, I told Mary I was leaving her. At first she refused to believe it. She thought I was making some kind of horrible, cruel joke. This couldn't be happening, not to her. When she finally realized it was true, she produced an ear splitting wail unlike anything I have ever heard. A tormented soul in hell couldn't have made a more horrendous sound. Her face twisted into a grotesque parody of a human face, a painting by Dali, and her arms were flailing up and down helplessly as her legs high stepped up and down without seeming volition, but worst through all was that God awful wail.

Suddenly, without warning, Mary bolted into the magic room. Tears blinding her vision she clutched clumsily at an athame on the altar. In a split second, raising the vicious looking knife with one hand, she plunged it downward toward the soft vulnerable flesh just below her rib cage. Fortunately, having the presence of mind to run after her, I reached out, grabbing her descending arm with my left hand and striking the knife from her grip with my right.

``Honey, Mary, you can't do that,'' I said, crying and hugging her to me. Our cheeks brushed and my tears mingled with her tears. Her body trembled with grief. I too trembled, because I was the source of that grief. ``Mary, I love you. I must be insane to be doing this, but I can't help myself.''

``You're my whole world,'' she shrieked at me through enormous moans. ``I don't want to live if I can't have you.'' Then, shrieking ever louder, sobbing while shaking her hands violently, she called out, ``I can't stand it. I can't stand it. Somebody help me, please help me.''

Holding her and stroking her hair, I cooed to her, trying to soothe the wounds that I was making. Confusion, bewilderment, disorientation, insensibility, ignorance. She felt like a rag doll in my arms and I was tearing it apart with one hand while trying to mend it with the other.

``Look honey, I don't understand what's happening to me, but killing yourself isn't the answer. You have to be patient, to wait for me. You have to be here when I get over it. You've got to promise me you won't kill yourself.''

``You still need me?'' she asked in a heart wrenching voice that sounded ever so much like a wee small girl.

``Oh yes, yes, I need you. I'll always need you,'' I answered with as much fervor as I could muster. ``Promise me you'll be here for me.''

``I promise,'' she replied, sniffling. ``If you promise to come back someday.''

``I'll try. I promise to try,'' I answered, knowing her suffering had marked me, had marked both of us, forever. Picking her up in my arms I carried her to the bedroom and we spent one last night together. Hattie, of course, wasn't happy about it, but, for one night, Hattie could go to hell. A few days later Hattie and I moved into an apartment of our own. Mary had given me a letter in a sealed envelope and asked me not to open it until I was alone. Under pretense of taking a bath I locked the bathroom door and read the letter.

My Dearest Darling,

My happiness has always been wrapped up in one person, and that person, in my heart, is so much a part of me that it is impossible to separate us from one another. This then is a letter about my love for you.

Love is giving, enjoying, building, developing, sharing, receiving, all positive things. It is asking, but not demanding. It isn't changing someone to your image of them, but letting them be their self and loving them for it. It's understanding what the loved one wants and it's trying to help them to be happy.

Love is wanting the highest form of happiness for your loved one, even if it means your own misery. I can honestly say I have such love, and I can bear the misery of losing you if I know you have a more perfect happiness.

To me, my man is a man among men.

He is silent when silence is needed, and comes on strong when it is needed. When he speaks everyone stops to listen. He's alive, intelligent, fascinating, fearless, beautiful of soul and body. When he enters a room the atmosphere changes. He charges it with some special energy that only he possesses. People relax with him, let their hair down, become real. They talk freely and openly to him as with no other man. He smiles and gloom is gone. He winks and their worst fears disappear.

No one can take from me the memories of the years we shared. What we shared can never die, for love, freely given, as only true love can be, can never be destroyed.

There is no greater love, my darling, than the love I have for you.

All My Love Forever
Your Wife,

Mary

I wept as I read her letter. It was beautiful and I yearned to go home, to hold her, to tell her how much I still loved her, to hear her tell me how much she loved me. I yearned to, but I didn't, not just then.

As beautiful as it was, her letter demonstrated the dilemma of our marriage. Mary loved deeply, but she loved a phantom, an illusion. She loved a man, a man that she saw in me. If man at all, I was only part man and, man or woman, not what she described in her letter. Why didn't she love me, the me I knew? That was the reason I went with Hattie. Hattie had promised a greater sensitivity. Blindly, I was leaping from the frying pan into the fire.

On the day we moved in together Hattie revealed yet another personality, to me, a disturbing personality; Coweyes, a slave girl from Gor. Revelations of new personalities were ceasing to surprise me. Every time she wanted to try something new one would magically pop up, like popcorn kernels in an automatic popcorn machine. Now there was Coweyes, a masochistic personality demanding to be treated as a slave girl. Strange slave girl that dictates her own handling. Although, to some extent, I understood her streak of masochism. What I didn't understand was sadism. I had no desire to be anyone's master.

When we played Gor in our apartment it took considerable effort to pump myself up to be a master; rough, primitive, disdainful, and with a hard cock to tickle her fancy. It was almost as titillating as eating live worms. Still, a few times, I managed a plumper, and fucked her as best I could. Even though I did have to fake orgasm.

On one occasion, Coweyes came up with a masochistic demand that opened my eyes to the real relationship that had existed between Tuft and her. Tuft, it seemed, wasn't the heavy Hattie had let on. In fact, Hattie had lied from the first moment I met her.

``See the T cut into my breast?'' she asked, pointing to a small T shaped scar over her right breast.

``Yes, Tuft did it. You already told me.'' I answered, a little perturbed that the woman I was planning on living with had been marked by someone else.

``Right. There's one on the back of my shoulder, one on my ass, and one on the inside of my thigh. I hate them! Will you fix them for me?''

Misunderstanding what she meant, I replied, ``I don't know any way to remove them.''

``I don't want them removed. I want you to brand an L over top of them.''

M'god, Hattie wanted me to brand her. I couldn't do it. Faking orgasm was one thing, or pretending to be her Gorean master, but I couldn't brand her. The sheer horror of it sent shivers up and down my spine. Over a period of many days she hammered away at me, and finally, persuaded by frustration, I acquiesced. I agreed to make a small quarter moon brand, not the L she had wanted. I didn't tell Hattie, but I didn't want my initials on her. If we ever broke up, I didn't want someone thinking about me what I had thought about Tuft.

Cutting out a half-moon from a piece of aluminum, I warned Hattie that if the first one hurt her too much, I wouldn't do the others. Then heating the brand over the flame on our gas stone I waited until the metal crescent, held by a pair of tongs, turned blue-white. Removing the makeshift brand from the flame, I could see the heat waves issuing from the heated metal. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I would feel better if I knew exactly how much this was going to hurt. Impulsively I applied the fiery crescent to my left shoulder. At the last minute I flinched, hardly managing to singe the skin. Pissed at myself, I reheated the crescent and this time thrust it tightly against my shoulder and held it there. The stench of burning flesh was offensive, but surprisingly there wasn't any pain. What a marvelous discovery. Evidently branding killed the sensitive nerve endings and pain wasn't transmitted to the brain. I removed the brand, reheated it, and turned to Hattie. I branded each and every T, as she had requested. She also found it painless, which was an obvious disappointment. Realization, awareness, epiphany, it had never been Tufts idea to cut T's in Hattie's body. She had badgered him into it. Just as she had badgered me. What other lies had she told? What lies might she tell about me? Did she ever tell the truth?

Hattie and I lived together for three months. Every night was the same. She would play the slave girl, I the Gorean master, and then she wanted me to fuck her. I hate that word, but what we did wasn't lovemaking. We fucked! Just managing to get and keep an erection was difficult enough with Hattie, orgasm was impossible. After fucking her, if I had any energy left, I dressed up and could ``play'' the lady of the house. We might as well have been on Gor. Our life was alien, intolerable, not at all what I had expected. I wasn't cut out to be a master and ``playing'' the lady of the house wasn't enough. I had more of a life with Mary. I realized I missed Mary, most of all, however, I missed my kids. I wasn't sure what to do yet, but I knew that the road I was on was covered with broken glass and I was in bare feet.

If only Hattie had been what she promised. What she wanted from me, was what I wanted from her. Only I hadn't lied to her as she had lied to me. Evidently, she hadn't believed me, or believing me had thought to remake me. It was the beginning of the end. What I gave her wouldn't satisfy her, anymore than what she had to give would satisfy me.

In the midst of these misgivings, there were other misgivings prompting a reunion with my family. James, who I considered the most emotionally stable of my children, had attempted to cut his wrists with a kitchen knife. Mary didn't tell me about it for over a week. When I learned of it, I picked James up after school and we talked.

``What's this I hear about you trying to kill yourself?'' I asked, looking at the small man/child sitting beside me on the front seat.

``Ah, I just lost it. I won't do it again,'' he answered with a shrug, attempting to dismiss the subject.

``Look,'' I said, ``I expect I'll be coming home in a few days. This thing with Hattie isn't working out. Even if it does, I'll send for you, all of you boys. We won't be separated for long.''

``Naw, I've got to stay with Mom,'' he answered.

``Why's that? I thought you missed me.''

``I miss you. But Mom needs someone to look after her. Since you left she's not doing too good.''

``James, you're a kid. You can't take care of your mother. It's our job to take care of you.''

``It's what I want,'' he said firmly. I knew he would only resent it if I opposed him.

``What about this suicide thing?'' I asked.

``That's over. I wasn't really going to do it. I thought I could get you to come back if I pretended to cut my wrists.''

James was a tough little guy, but whatever else happened I couldn't let him nursemaid Mary. Either I returned home, or, no matter what he wanted, I'd have to have custody.

Another misgiving prompting me to return home was the bedlam my absence was creating. Mary, distraught, was keeping the boys home from school. A social worker, Tish Lohe, had been assigned to determine why the boys weren't in school. She was threatening to place the children in foster care if the absenteeism wasn't corrected.

One more misgiving; an unsolicited confidential conversation with my landlord revealed Hattie had been entertaining male callers while I was at work. Was Hattie fucking these guys? The doubt in my mind became a certainty after a conversation with Tish Lohe. Tish came to my apartment on a Saturday afternoon while Hattie was out visiting her parents. Child Welfare, Tish told me, knew all about Tuft and Hattie. Tuft had two children that were already in foster homes, and an investigation of Hattie had shown her to be emotionally unstable and extremely promiscuous. According to Tish, Hattie was unfit to raise small children.

``Neither Mary alone, nor Hattie under any circumstances will be allowed near your children,'' stated Tish resolutely. ``You can have custody if you return home, or if you move away from Hattie.''

``What about me?'' I asked, ``I'm transsexual and I'm a member of a divergent religion. Have you investigated me?''

``Yes, we've investigated you. Your sexuality and religion are your own concern, although personally I think your family would be better off without all that nonsense. What we use to determine fitness is your relationship with your children. You have a strong relationship with your children.''

The road I was on, filled with broken glass, now had burning embers. Even if Hattie hadn't been running around behind my back, I couldn't let anything threaten my children. It was time to return home. ``I'm going home,'' I informed Tish later in the conversation. ``My kids are the most important part of my life.''

I returned to Mary.

Hattie returned to Tuft.

Mary was elated.

Tuft too.

That, I thought, was the end of it.

Mary and I, fearing more interference in our life from Tish Lohe, decided it would be best if we moved out of Arizona. I think she also wanted to put some distance between Hattie and me. A consideration that showed a healthy respect for preserving our marriage. My emotions were still raw and vacillating. I was still vulnerable. We decided on Indianapolis for no other reason than the streets were laid out in checkerboard style, the same as Phoenix. That would make it easy to get around. Resigning my position at MIS, having given them ten years of service, I received a check for 3,000 dollars, the money from my pension fund. Our plan was for the four boys and I to go on ahead and get settled. I was to find a job, and once I had money coming in, Mary would quit Motorola and join us. It was a good plan. After all, we weren't sure we would like Indianapolis, or that I could get work there.

While preparing for our trip, Spirou, visiting from L.A., dropped in on us. Over the years he had finally broken the psychological grip Kevin had on him and he had become closer friends with my family and with me. Knowing I was transsexual and that I had begun living primarily as a woman, he seemed to prefer me as a woman.

One day, half in jest, I suggested he go with us. Taking my proposal seriously, he accepted. Not only did he agree to go along, but he offered to play the part of my husband and father to my children. Thus it was that Spirou, my new husband, my four children, and myself, having loaded our brand new, robin's egg blue, Ford Ranchero, took to the open road.

In Flagstaff, Arizona, the car, practically new, needed a battery. In Albuquerque, New Mexico, an impulse to turn around and rush home nearly overwhelmed me. Instead we took a motel room for the night and, in the bright light of dawn, I recovered my composure enough to go on. Bucklin, Kansas! Kansas was a dry state and Spirou, a drinking man, picked up a pint of Vodka and a half gallon of orange juice before crossing the state line. He knew we'd be spending the night in Kansas and, a poor man's version of W.C. Fields, he couldn't bypass a single night without his fix. I was a little concerned about the strict laws on alcohol, and god only knew what kind of laws they had restricting transsexuals. Still, after settling the kids in the motel room, Spirou and I, with a certain amount of understandable apprehension, strolled along the dark empty streets sipping screwdrivers. Seven o'clock in the evening and the streets were deserted. I wondered, in addition to everything else, were we breaking some insane curfew. We didn't stay out long, for which I was grateful, although before entering our room we raised our glasses, saluting the state of Kansas and the sturdy souls who live there.

Arriving safely in Indianapolis we took a motel room for the first night and the next morning rented a two bedroom house, unfurnished. At Spirou's suggestion we drove through alleyways looking for discards. We found three mattresses, a flat board and two orange crates for a desk, and a third orange crate for a chair. Viola! Instant furniture by that most versatile of decorative artists, Mother O. Necessity.

All four boys enjoyed the novelty of cold weather and frolicked wildly in the few patches of snow on the ground. It was late enough in the spring that their light jackets kept them warm, but early enough that they still managed a snowman and a few snowball fights. Watching them through the kitchen window I remembered the pleasure I had as a kid in the winter. For some reason, tears came to my eyes. It was as if I was watching a scene from my own distant past. I almost wished those years had not passed away. Yet, as an adult woman, I was content to stay in the house and away from the nasty chill. Maybe they were tears of happiness, for once in my life I was content. I was a woman, a wife, even if only in pretense, and a mother.

Helen and Bill, our next door neighbors, accepted us as a family. Bill even came over and helped Spirou start our heater. It was satisfying to be a woman, comfortable, without the tension and stress that invariably accompanied my tumultuous flip flop life in Phoenix. Yes, there were some anxious moments. Helen had a habit of walking in unannounced and more than once almost caught me before my morning shave. I decided to keep the door locked until after my morning toilet. Helen didn't like it and would pound on the back door until I came running to let her in. Then we would sit down and have our morning cup of coffee, Helen unloading her troubles on me.

We had only been in Indy about two weeks when Mary and I, talking on the phone, decided Indianapolis wasn't the right place for us. It was too cold, the three oldest boys already had the flu and I was coming down with it. Mary had been having second thoughts anyway. She didn't want to leave the warm winters of Arizona and she didn't want to quit her job at Motorola. She decided, if Hattie was really out of my system, that we should come home. Feeling a bit like a yo-yo, I agreed. Spirou, oddly enough, was reluctant. He had liked playing husband and father, and when we returned to Phoenix that would be all over. Still, his role was a sham and his objections carried little weight. There was also another matter Mary talked to me about. Tuft had threatened to kill me the next time he saw me. I saw scarlet! No one threatened to kill me.

For one sleepless day and night I loaded and packed the Ranchero. Spirou slept and the boys slept. I worked on through the long night. On the second day we waited for the gas money. Mary was sending $200 through Western Union. As we waited, we were ready to go, and I was too wired to sleep. The money arrived early in the morning. I cashed the check, filled the car with gas, and we were on our way, with one small necessary delay. For the first time in two weeks I dug out a male pair of slacks and a male shirt and put them on. I was dressed for war.

Possessed by an insane demon, I streaked across the nation stopping only for gas. From Indianapolis to Phoenix in twenty five hours driving a six cylinder Ranchero loaded with personal belongings, four kids, Spirou and myself. We were a little blue rocket flashing across Indiana, Illinois, tearing through the Ozarks of Missouri at night in a blinding rainstorm, never going less than eighty miles an hour and often going over a hundred miles an hour. We streaked through the Texas Panhandle, through New Mexico and, at last, arrived in Arizona. The Super Chief Express, pride of the railways, averaged eighty miles an hour and made the same trip in twenty seven hours. We were eating up the highway and spitting it out. I'll never understand why we weren't stopped by the cops. It was a miracle.

Burning like a flame, my life energy at high intensity, I had two reasons for returning at such a reckless pace. One, I wanted to see Hattie one more time. I wanted to make some insane gesture, to tell her how sorry I was that it hadn't worked out for us. Two, if Tuft wanted to kill me, he'd have his chance. I wanted his threat behind me.

In Phoenix I made a few turns around places where Hattie and Tuft might have been, then made a few inquiries of mutual friends, and finally was informed they had moved to Searchlight, Nevada. Tuft had spread the word that he was a deputy sheriff there.

Spirou and I, unloading the car and dropping the children off at the ranch, gave Mary a lame excuse about visiting witches in Flagstaff and were off and running once again. Three days without sleep and still I kept up the demented pace. Stopping at Peter's dome, Peter not at home, we borrowed an unregistered .38 and an unregistered .22, also two cowboy hats and a couple of beige trench coats. We left Peter a note telling him we would return everything in a couple of days. Wearing three days worth of stubble, trench coats that could have come from a Clint Eastwood movie, and packing the guns under the coats, we looked and felt mean. Neither of us wanted trouble, but I was determined to have a last word with Hattie and if that meant a shoot out with Tuft, then that's the way it would be.

``Spirou,'' I said driving along the highway, ``He's a hinky bastard. If we see him, let me do the talking, but be ready for anything.''

``Yeah, I don't want to kill him, but I ain't gonna let him kill you,'' countered Spirou. His determination to protect me didn't register at the time, but his friendship was appreciated.

``Make sure he makes the first move. We don't want to end up in prison,'' I said, matter of factly, as if the prospect of killing someone was an everyday event. I shuddered, realizing what we were talking about with such unceremonious aplomb.

``They'll find him with his gun in his hand,'' said Spirou matter-of-factly. He sounded more cold blooded than I, at least more cold blooded than I felt.

Unloaded, the Ranchero was easier to drive. As the miles dwindled Spirou and I fell silent, a grim atmosphere settling around us. Then we were there, Searchlight, Nevada. Searchlight wasn't even a whistle stop. Two gas stations, two motels, a cafe, a casino, and a couple of hundred shacks and rundown houses scattered across a desert landscape. Slowly I drove up a steep incline on the only hill in view. From there we could survey the entire town. There wasn't a sign of Tuft's car. We got out of our car to improve our view. It was noon. I smiled and thought, High Noon. We kept vigil until almost two thirty. A cold wind whipped around us, our fingers and toes were growing numb. Spirou, who had slept on and off on our cross country run, looked exhausted. I told him so, and he told me that I looked like a walking corpse. ``You ain't slept at all,'' he reminded me, unnecessarily. Even through the mind fog of sleeplessness I noticed that our manner, our talk, our bearing, had all changed. Civilization had been stripped from us, gone, as if it were mo more than a convenient dream. We were killers now, savages on the trail, primitives on the hunt. The thought terrified me. Not for what might happen, but for what we had become.

``Let's ask some questions at the gas stations and the cafe,'' I suggested. ``Standing around here isn't getting us anywhere.''

``Okay!'' Spirou agreed.

No one at the gas stations had seen anyone who fit Tuft's description, nor at the motels. I noticed the Sheriff's car in front of the cafe and we pulled in beside it. Inside the cafe I sauntered up to the Sheriff and described Tuft, the man who claimed to be a deputy in Searchlight, Nevada. I was distinctly aware of the concealed weapon under my coat, and of the one under Spirou's coat. This Sheriff wasn't a country bumpkin, he had to know we were packing. Still he had no reason to search us, even if he was suspicious.

``Boys,'' drawled the Sheriff, ``Someone's been pulling your leg. I'm the law here, and I'm the only law from Vegas on down to Needles. There ain't no deputy.''

I realized then what I should have known all along, what everyone else had known before me. Tuft was the biggest, loudest, lyingest, fat man on the face of the good green earth. With that realization exhaustion threatened to overwhelm me. We took a motel room for the night and I threw myself on the bed. Dirty, smelly, and grimy, I felt more miserable than I had ever felt in my life.

``The room's whirling,'' I informed Spirou. ``It's like being drunk.''

``I don't wonder,'' he replied.

``You know, I'm really stupid,'' I proclaimed, the patterns on the wall dancing before my eyes.

``I've seen you in better days,'' Spirou acknowledged.

``It all seems so clear now. Hattie used me. She didn't have any feeling for Mary, for my kids, or for me. All she cared about was herself. I was so damned concerned about finding out what I am, I lost track of what's important. Who gives a shit if I'm a man or a woman? We were doing okay until I let an outsider nearly ruin our lives.''

``Are you over it now?''

``Yeah! I don't love Hattie, not anymore. Gawd, I feel like a fool.''

``That's good to hear. Better get some sleep, hero. You've been killing yourself.''

A minute passed. I almost drifted off. Struggling against it I forced the cobwebs away.

``You know something else?''

``What?'' asked Spirou exasperated at my denial of sleep.

``I feel sorry for Tuft. He deserves better.''

``I'm sure he does. Go to sleep!''

The room spinning, I knew he had called me ``hero'' facetiously. I wasn't a hero. I was an idiot. Thoughts of Mary came to mind, how she had reacted when I left her, the agony I had caused her through the entire affair. Suddenly I wanted to be home, to be in her arms, to tell her I loved her and that I was sorry.

``Spirou, we're going home,'' I announced, pushing myself erect on the bed. ``Let's go.'' Trying to get my legs out of bed and ordering Spirou to the car, I discovered neither would obey me. Falling back on the bed, I passed out. Twelve hours later I woke up. Then, we started home.