I marked her entry as one to answer, but before I got around to answering it, a letter came in the mail.

November 19, 1986

Hello Laura,

It was good you included your name. It makes for a strange opener: Hello #1136! I'm #2424, alias Joan Chevalier. You have an interesting range of subjects listed. I love humor - Garfield, Far Side, Calvin and Hobbs, Frank and Ernest, Sylvia, and Fran Lebowitz. Which are your favorites?

Computers - I don't have much experience with except for a design class at college. Psychology - a fascinating subject and a useful science. What makes people tick and how to help them achieve psychological health is interesting.

Transsexualism - an unusual subject. I watched with great interest Renee Richard's story, Second Serve, when it aired on TV. My gramma insists she changed sex for her tennis career. No amount of explaining could convince her it wasn't for that reason. A sample of Telewoman I sent for carried another story about a male to female transsexual. This one was different because Geri saw herself as a Lesbian. This presented extra difficulties in getting the procedures accomplished. She had to keep her feelings in the closet for fear the surgeons would think she should keep her male equipment.

I love books - Favorite authors are: Quentin Crisp, Rita Mae Brown (except for Sudden Death), and Edmund White. Love biographies - last one I read was Martina Navratilova's. History interests me too and poetry. I occasionally write poetry and have been published, small press.

I am a seamstress - worked for 4 1/2 years in a small alteration and repair shop. It's not bad - affords some creativity - enjoy working with my hands and on fine fashions.

What do you do for a living? Who are your favorite authors? And anything else you want to tell me . . . looking forward to hearing from you.

Joan

Her first letter arrived when Anton and I were spreading gravel for the driveway. It was a welcome break from the drudgery and I answered it the same day I received it. Exhausted from my labor, it was only a short note. There was no sense getting long winded until I found out how she reacted to my being transsexual. It was pretty obvious she was a lesbian and, in the past, I had found lesbians tended to keep their distance from transsexuals. Perhaps lesbians, uncertain of their own gender identity, found transsexuality threatening. In any event, I wrote Joan and let her know I was transsexual, and that I was married and had four sons. I also mentioned I had enjoyed her letter and would appreciate reading her poetry. With fingers crossed, I sealed the letter in an envelope, put a stamp on it, and dropped it in the mail box. If she wrote back, then I would write a long letter.

Anton had attended Camelback Union High in Phoenix for three years before we moved to Casa Grande. He was on the honor roll all three years. Camelback required 20 credits to graduate, and Anton had judiciously arranged his credits to graduate at the end of his fourth year. However, when we moved to Casa Grande, we were informed it took 21 credits to graduate. Anton was missing a mandatory gym class. Anton, an honors student, wouldn't be allowed to graduate with the senior class. Before he could graduate he would have to take a gym class. This was insane, intolerable. Anton and I made an appointment to see the principal. Surely they could make an exception in light of his scholastic record. After all, we were talking about jumping jacks and sit ups, not a course in World History or Algebra.

In the arrogant manner of a Christian Fundamentalist preacher the principal informed us that Casa Grande refused to bend the rules for any one student. I threatened that if they couldn't bend the rules, then we would withdraw Anton and return him to Camelback.

``That would be impossible,'' declared the principal, as inflexible as a cigar store Indian and almost as intelligent. ``His parents live in Casa Grande and he has to attend this school.''

``We'll see about that!'' I replied, standing up in a huff. Anton, equally aggravated by the simpleton confronting us, got up and we left. I couldn't believe the reception we were given. Here was a school that was infamous for graduating students that could neither read nor write, and here they had an opportunity to graduate an educated and intelligent student, an honor role student, and they wanted to go to war. Over one damn gym class.

Anton and I talked it over and concluded there was only one thing we could do. If he wanted to graduate on schedule, he would have to return to Camelback High. Fortunately Anton's oldest brother, Larry, had resigned from the Air Force and was living in Phoenix. He was working second shift for Motorola. Anton could stay with Larry and attend Camelback UHS.

Before finalizing our plans I made one last appeal to the principal of Casa Grande high school. We informed him of our intentions if we couldn't enlist his cooperation. Not only did he refuse to cooperate, as a petty gesture of small minded, stiff- necked displeasure, he withheld Anton's first semester grades, refusing to transfer them to Camelback High. Anton would be starting his senior year six weeks behind the rest of his class. If he worked hard he might still pass, but he wouldn't make the honor roll. Nonetheless, Anton would graduate with his senior class, the same classmates he had went to school with since his freshman year. We had won the war, but there had been a price to pay. His last semester wouldn't reflect that, as had been true throughout his high school career, he was an honors student.

One of the few bright spots about living in Casa Grande was receiving letters from Joan. Her second letter seemed downright flirtatious, and a short poem enhanced that perception. It was flattering, but I didn't for a moment take her seriously. My God, nearly two decades separated us.

Butterfly of a Moment I want to float down like A snowflake into sleep, And in dreams to be reborn in yours, Where I in vivid iridescence Would dance, Flickering warm shadows, Across the screen of your sleep journeys. And I would brush your lips with mine, A Butterfly of a moment alighting And then rising, Fluttering away.

Still, her animated and frank manner of writing encouraged me to reveal some of my most intimate feelings. Sensitive and responsive, she asked intelligent questions concerning my children, myself, and how other people reacted to me as a transsexual parent. She showed a sincere interest in learning more about my life. Well, she had come to the right person. I doubt if anyone in the world was better equipped to go on and on about my life, or more motivated on the subject.

During December we exchanged four or five lengthy letters, each of us becoming more impressed with the other. In these exchanges I disclosed my strained and strange marriage to a woman who couldn't see the woman in me. I also explained that I wanted to leave a legacy for my family, irrationally feeling a little guilty for not having used the disability money for sex reconstructive surgery. I sounded almost apologetic, as if by denying myself the operation I had discredited my claim to being a woman. It was important to me that this fascinating woman, a lesbian, understood my motives and believe in me.

Two days after I hurled my defiance skyward, another disability check came in the mail. Eleven thousand dollars. Holding it in my hand, I stared at it for the longest time. Everything was paid, everything was done, and here was money I hadn't expected. It came almost as a gift for a job well done, an answer to that night of madness where I screamed my defiance to the heavens. That the check was made out to Mary Ann Lansberry, my wife, didn't phase me, I hadn't hesitated to spend all the other checks, made out to me, on paying bills and creating a home for her in Casa Grande. Without a moments hesitation I signed her name and deposited it in our joint bank account. Ten days later I drew out ten thousand dollars.

The surgery I dreamt of was now within my grasp. Sure, I could die on the table, but I would die trying to right the mistake I believed nature had made with my body. My old dreams, forlorn hopes, were suddenly given new life. I had paid my dues, had done everything the right way, the honorable way, and fate had been kind. Hell, with this kind of money I could even have my face done. Why not? The kids were grown, except for Anton, and he was almost on his own. Mary too was practically on her own, living with Drenda. Besides, I would likely be dead soon anyway, then she'd really be alone. Why shouldn't I have what I wanted? So what if I could only enjoy it for a short time? Any obligations I had to Mary were settled, my debt was paid. I decided to go for it.

When I notified Mary of my decision to have the surgery the shit hit the fan. ``Where are you getting the money?'' she demanded.

``Another check came in the mail,'' I replied. ``I'm taking it, most of it anyway. I'll sign everything else over to you except for the computer.''

``Do you think having your cock cut off will make you a woman?'' she snarled, her face contorted in anger.

``No,'' I replied. ``If I'm not a woman going into surgery, I won't be one coming out. The surgery isn't to convince me I'm a woman. It's for the rest of you, that damned world out there.''

``You'll never be a female. You can't have a baby, and you don't menstruate. You're a man, a crazy man that thinks he's a woman.'' Her anger struck home. The words would have stung coming from a stranger. Coming from a woman who claimed to love me, they were shattering.

``Maybe you're right. I know I don't have a female body. For Chris' sakes I know it better than anyone in this whole God damn world. What do you think the surgery's all about? In spite of my male anatomy I believe I'm a woman. My mental perspectives incline me toward the feminine. Try to imagine how that must feel! How would you like it if you woke up tomorrow and your body was physically male? Would it make you a man? Would it change how you feel about yourself?'' defensively I rebutted her attacks, knowing that my words were useless, with no power to break through her iron-willed prejudice. She could accept, understand, and believe in every transsexual we knew, everyone except me.

``All right, go ahead then, but I don't want to live with you,'' she announced, playing what she thought was her trump card.

``I never expected anything else, Mary,'' I replied, but I knew she was bluffing. She wanted to be with her Larry. Somehow, no matter what I did, she sustained the fantasy of Larry, her man. God, coming down from heaven and changing my body to a pregnant female, wouldn't shake Mary's conviction that I was all man.

The next day I called Dr. Biber in Trinidad, Colorado and determined the prerequisites needed to qualify for surgery. After that I sat down and wrote Joan a letter to update her on the news.

January 8, 1987

Dear Joan,

Wow! Your last letter was terrific. Fascinating through to the end.

I've got exciting news.

It's finally going to happen. I've got the money for the surgery.

I've told Mary and she blew her stack. I understand how she feels, but it doesn't matter. As soon as I have two psychiatric evaluations and one by a gender identity clinic, Dr. Biber will schedule me for surgery. I'm deliriously happy.

Mary will be fine. She has a home all paid for and she never loved me anyway. She loves Larry. Hard as I tried at times, I was never Larry, never a man. She loves someone who never really existed.

I don't understand how she sees me as a man. When she makes love to me, we rub our teats together, she suckles my nipples, and massages my breasts. We stroke each other, fondle each other, and when that thing between my legs works, she mounts me, making love to me until she gets her rocks off. Sure, I still get an occasional erection for her, but I rarely orgasm. Does that sound like a man to you?

I've made love to plenty of men. None of them make love like I do. Women make love like I do. Mary has all the benefits of a lesbian love affair and none of the responsibilities.

When I told her about having the surgery she said she doesn't want me back. Of course, I know better. She said that only in hope it would dissuade me. It hasn't. It wouldn't even if it was true.

Gee, Joan, who are you? I haven't dumped on anyone the way I dump on you. It's unfair of me. I want to be your friend and wing with you on a thousand twinkling trips into the myriad mysteries of life, to share, as I know we have much to share, from the complexity of our separate lives. I don't want to cry on your shoulder.

Enclosed is a photo of me. Please forgive the slightly provocative pose. A friend of mine and I were horsing around one night and she snapped some photos. We were a little tipsy. I'm not into pictures of myself, that's more of a transvestite thing. This is the only one I have.

Well, I wish I was 28, born female, and starting out in this day and age. I think the world is ready for you, reach out and grab it, but don't let anyone touch your mind. It's crystal clear and beautiful.

Write soon and please, send me a picture. I'm dying to know what you look like.

Warmly, Laura

We were developing an intimate friendship, and that intimacy grew deeper with each letter. Joan's next letter was eye opening . . .

Joan did include a book of her poetry. Her poems touched places within my heart that I scarcely knew existed. It was as if these poems, written before we met, had been written exclusively for me. Joan and I shared a rare intimacy, an intimacy often sought, but rarely found, an intimacy that bridged the physical barriers separating our mortal minds. Our thoughts, our deepest feelings, our view of life merged and blended, not only as one, but as a growing oneness, a single flower blossoming from the meeting of two identical seeds falling upon rich fertile soil.

It was while reading her book of poetry that I realized I had fallen in love with her. With poems such as the following five, she seduced me as readily as ever woman seduced a woman. How could I not love her?

Your Face Your face, Beautiful by reason of honesty, Your eyes, Bravely, gently, piercing, Thy powerful interior light Pierces the darkness. Beacon, I find my way to you.

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ Make Love to My Mind Make love to my mind, Hunger for its secrets And my words will caress you, Your hidden heart, Your hidden . . .

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ To a woman I speak, Our common softness, our Common strength Leading to an uncommon Knowledge, You, having found the path, Trust your feet.

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ To A Woman I Wish I Knew Tell me, Oh tell me On this night of poet's loneliness, Almost solemn. Oh tell me, There is such a long path to your door, Yet I hear laughter from there. You do seem to enjoy life. Tell me What makes you small and awed, Do you ever spend nights alone, Shivering? Do you like poetry, And why is the path so long to Your door?

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ I Saw Your Struggle I saw your struggle, You who would not be free. I felt the fight fought within. How I longed to loose your chains, You could not know . . . I loved from afar No, you would not know it was me who cared. It's such a long distance from there to here: The barrier, your stern denial of need, You are not willing to be freed.

How much I had learned about this wonderful woman, how much I loved her, and as yet I hadn't seen so much as a picture of her. She could be a hag, disfigured, the world's heaviest or thinnest woman. I didn't care. Her mind echoed my mind, reflected it, anticipated it. Whatever image the flesh might take, it couldn't tarnish the radiance of her vital spirit. In my next letter I revealed a little of how I felt about her. I couldn't quite bring myself to tell her I was in love with her, that would have been too bold. I hedged, hoped, and waited for her to make the first move.

January 15, 1987

Dear Joan,

I am awed by your insightful and touching, Journeys: A Retrospective 1978-1984. What a beautiful voyage for the mind. Thank You!

I sent my letter off to Stanley Biber, M.D., requesting an early date with the surgeons.

Please tell me more about your fantasies. I am interested in getting to know you better.

Joan, I love you. I'm not in love with you, although that would not be in any way objectionable, but I sincerely love you. Your mind, your heart, your poems cry out with perceptions that are electric in my mind. I love YOU! Thank you for being my friend.

Love, Laura

January 21, 1987

Dear Laura,

Greetings! I am truly glad you enjoyed the poetry book. It gives me such joy to know that my art can give pleasure. That I can truly reach to the soul. That is the intimacy which matters most.

How soon do you expect to have the surgery? I can imagine you are scared. It's one helluva serious operation.

The first time I came out of the closet I was full of nervous anxiety. I remember sitting at the Gay Community Organization meetings thinking, ``This can't be! Here I am sitting in a roomful of queers. This has got to be a mistake. I'm not a queer.'' Then I'd catch myself eyeing the neckline of a woman's blouse, noticing with tingly interest where her soft breast showed from where her blouse buttoned. ``I'm doing it again - staring at women.'' And an odd sort of breath-taking shock hit me. ``She's the same way. I do belong here.'' But back then I was a little overwhelmed by the whole experience.

Gee, I hope I'm not overstepping my bounds here, but, hoping I am not, I will proceed. Is there much future in a relationship with someone who is unable to perceive you in the manner you need to be perceived? Only you can answer that question, I don't mean to pry.

Much Love,
Hugs and kisses,
many tender little
kisses!

Joan

At first we were just being expressive, a hint of a post office romance, nothing that could take off with a life of its own. We were intimate and connected, in the way women can be intimate and connected, nothing inordinately passionate. After that, somehow our correspondence gained momentum. Had I stirred it up? Or, at some point, had Joan determined she wanted me? Did it matter? I was willing prey.

January 30, 1987

Dear Joan,

I'm not excessively frightened of the surgery, a little of course. All operations are scary if you're the one going under the knife. Not quite so bad if it's someone else. (Grin!)

Deja vu! I know exactly what you mean about meeting others like me for the first time. ``This isn't me. These people are strange.'' Gawd, how society conditions us all.

I suspect you're right, there is no future going on with a relationship where I am not perceived as I need to be. My children are grown and I feel very much alone. I would like a different life, a better life, but it seems an impossible dream. I wouldn't know where to begin.

Anyway, enough for now. Thanks for the hugs and tender little kisses. Wish I were there to catch them in person.

Hugs and Kisses to You,
Much Love,
Laura

Kissing the bottom of the letter, leaving a print in lipstick, and lightly spraying it with perfume, I folded it and sealed it. A warm glow infused me, someone wanted me, Laura, the woman. Oh, it wasn't leading anywhere, I was sure of that. But it felt good for the moment. I didn't know that the change I sought in my life was rushing upon me, nor that Joan, having determined to have me, wasn't wasting any time.

February 3, 1987

Dear Laura,

Ooooooh! I wish you were here to catch my tender little kisses. I am looking at your picture now, thinking of kissing you everywhere! Do you think it possible you could ever get up here to Joliet? I really wish you could! Please! Your picture is nice but you in person would be ever so much better.

I blush to think of the fantasies I have shared with you. (Blush!) So glad such things don't bother you. I thought it truly indiscreet of me. I feel a powerful intimacy with you. I love your mind, your beautiful soul. I want to kiss you, run my hands through your lovely hair, tongue-tease you behind the ears, give you hickies on your shoulders, french-kiss, hmmm, french-kiss again, and in a little trail of kisses . . .

How's that for a fantasy? (Blush!) How satisfying to share it. It wouldn't be nearly as satisfying if I couldn't share it. That's what I meant by unsatisfied hunger. I don't have too many fantasies outside the escapist genre, but perhaps you wouldn't mind more of these fantasies. Kiss! Kiss! Mmmmmm? Mmmmmm? (Blush!) Happy blush. Happy, happy, happy blush! Ahhhhh! I suppose I should get ready for work . . .

Much Love and Tender
Little Kisses
Joan

------------------

February 6, 1987

Dear Joan,

Let me tell you my good news. I had my third and final visit with my psychiatrist . . . she has approved me. My recommendations are already winging their way to Trinidad, Colorado.

Will I come visit you in Joliet? Sure, as soon as my surgery is completed and given a little healing time. I don't imagine you'd want to see me before then anyway. Hopefully it will be this summer. Sound okay to you? Are there places to stay near where you live, or do you have somewhere closer in mind? (Blush!)

I would love to have you tongue tease me.

Love, Laura P.S. See you in my dreams.

------------------

Monday Night, February 9, 1987

Dear Laura,

It's me again! Yes, I've sealed last night's letter and now I'm on the next letter. Just finished a delightful meal of two blueberry muffins and Frito's corn chips. Real nutritious, huh? Generally I don't eat that bad, but I've got a cold and a sore throat so those salty chips appealed to me.

I hate to cook? Do you like it?

I cook less and less these days. When Ronald McDonald, the Burger King, Mister K, and Wendy are so willing to do it for me, why should I bother? I guess I'm a female version of the typical bachelor. I mean you should look around here, Egad, it's a disaster. Geez! I see floor peeping through here and there! Are you a neat housekeeper? But what can I do when there are so many important things to do, like writing letters (smile), etc.?

I don't have great piles of experience with other women and none with men. Actually only two such experiences in my entire life. Very enjoyed . . . and, at least, I'm not without any experience. But I've never had a real lover, so to speak. I hope that such an experience is somewhere in my future. I must say, I'm falling in love with you.

Well, I suppose I should get to bed . . . kiss, kiss!

------------------

Wednesday, February 11, 1987

It's me again! Will continue this letter now. Feeling much better than I did Monday. My cold is almost gone.

I found myself thinking about you all day, even at work.

Are your eyes bluish grey? It's hard to tell from your picture. I'll try to get you a picture of me soon. I hope this letter and my present arrive on Valentine's day. I don't put much trust in the post office. I hope to hear from you soon.

Much Love
and
Many
Tender Little
Kisses
and
a
few
long kisses!

Joan

I tried her phone number that evening, but the phone rang and rang without an answer. I wondered, had something serious happened or was Joan simply an active young woman out conquering worlds of her own, and if so, what did she find of interest in an old warhorse like me. The following evening I called again, primed to use my most feminine voice. Joan answered the phone. She was tongue-tied and flustered and, surprisingly, with two extra decades of experience, so was I. The only coherent snatch of conversation between us was her explanation that she had been at the hospital all evening. Her grandmother, eighty five, had fallen and broken her hip. Which was why Joan was upset and unable to talk. Later, Joan would relate her thoughts at the time. ``Where was the wonderful warm woman of the letters? Would the Laura of the letters ever be the Laura of the phone?''

Before we hung up I managed to squeak out in a shaky voice, ``Ah, I'm nervous!''

Joan answered intensely, ``Me too!''

Unspoken recognition on both our parts that our conversation had been a disaster and an unspoken promise that we would soon try again. That night Joan and I wrote each other letters to be posted the next morning. They wouldn't be necessary, by the time we received them the contents would be repetitious. I called her again the next night. We both needed to know that we could do better than we had that first phone call. Our second phone conversation was as fire is to water. Joan was smooth and effusive, as was I. The intimacy of our letters came alive on the phone. There was no doubt now. We were in love.

How had it happened so quickly? It had seemed to come from out of nowhere. We had been pen pals. Was there some sort of chemistry of mind at work? Joan, a female with a masculine disposition, balanced nicely against my femininity, and she seemed to recognize that I was a woman. What I was getting from our relationship was clear, but what was she getting. There were lots of attractive feminine women in the world. Why pick me?

Joan didn't want me to wait until after my operation to come to Joliet. I wasn't hard to convince, Casa Grande wasn't exactly bubbling with excitement. In fact, there was nothing keeping me there and there were good reasons to visit Joliet. Joan's grandmother was in serious condition and Joan was frantic. I wanted to be there to comfort her. I also wanted to be there to find out how much we loved each other. Falling in love through letters and telephone calls was nerve wracking. Would it be the same when we met?

Joan had a few pictures of me now, hand picked. At least there would be no surprises when we met. I had one picture of her. She was blond, had amber alert eyes, and a stocky, slightly fleshy frame. The substantial look of her appealed to me. The popular conception of feminine beauty, an ironing board draped with skin, had never appealed to me.

Mary would have to be told and Anton too. I waited until Sunday, when Mary was visiting Casa Grande. She was in her bedroom reading. I asked her to come to the living room, informing her that there were things we needed to discuss. Mary, sitting on the sofa, seemed smaller, more vulnerable and fragile than she had in the past. I didn't want to hurt her, but there was no choice. It would hurt her worse if she didn't know what was happening.

``Mary,'' I began, ``I've sent all the necessary paperwork to Dr. Biber. All I'm waiting for is my surgery date.''

``You have to talk to Biber first. He can still turn you down,'' replied Mary hopefully, ``If he doesn't think you should have the surgery.''

``Maybe, but I don't think he will. Everyone seems to know I'm a woman. Everyone but you.'' I paused, took a deep breath and went on. ``I didn't ask you out here to talk about that. I wanted to tell you that I'm going to Joliet for a visit. I have a pen pal there and I think we love each other.''

Mary screwed up her face. ``Oh to Hell with you, you're always in love with someone. You're an incurable romantic.''

``Maybe,'' I replied, ``I've been searching for someone to see in me what I see. Joan's a terrific woman and she knows I'm a woman. It would be hard not to love her. I don't know if we'll feel the same when we meet. Which is why I'm going to Joliet.''

Mary was enraged, a deep purple anger that seemed to engulf her entire body. She screamed at me, ``Go, I don't want you anyway. I hate you. I've always hated you. You never think about anyone but yourself. Everyone has to bow around you. What makes you right and everyone else wrong?''

``I'm sorry, Mary,'' I apologized, wondering why I always felt the need to apologize around Mary. ``I don't want to hurt anyone, but it's my life and my body. When other people tell me about their feelings, I respect them and I believe them. They know themselves better than I could possibly know them and I know me better then anyone, including you.''

``You're wrong. You're a strong, wonderful man, or you were once. You could be again if you tried. I don't want a woman,'' she retorted, rising from the sofa and heading for her bedroom.

``Mary, we need to talk things out. Don't walk away from me. It won't work, not this time.'' Whenever Mary and I argued she would always cut it short, retire to her bedroom, and stew until I came and apologized. It didn't matter who was right, at some point I always apologized and made up with her. That was okay, nothing we ever argued about was worth the aggravation. Until now! ``Mary, I'm going to Joliet,'' I called after her retreating form.

``Over my dead body,'' she screeched back.

The next morning I drove Mary into Phoenix. It was Monday, a work day. We drove in silence, an oppressive silence that shrouded us like a great black mausoleum. When I looked at her I could see barely suppressed tears in the corners of her eyes, occasionally one would roll down her cheek. Her face mirrored my own.

Arriving at Motorola, as Mary started to get out of the car, I said, ``Mary, I'm sorry. I do love you.''

Eyes suddenly flaring, Mary skewed up her face and shot back, ``Well, I don't love you. I hate you. Go to Joliet. See if I give a damn.'' Then she stormed off.

``Damn her,'' I thought to myself. ``This time she loses.'' I turned the Ford Tempo around and headed back to Casa Grande at over ninety miles an hour. The tears I had suppressed now poured. Twice my vision blurred and I almost drove off the road. I had to jerk the steering wheel to prevent an accident. Less than a half hour later I was at the mobile home and throwing stuff into the car. I had to go and go quickly, before Mary's angry tactics worked their magic. We had been married almost twenty eight years and she knew how to push my buttons. Literally tossing the things I wanted into the car, I decided I'd sort them after I was on my way. The only item I put in with care was my computer. I wasn't about to let that behind. Who knew when, or whether, I would be back? My one final act was to clean the house, wash the dishes, and put everything in order. I couldn't leave the house a mess.

How many synonyms are there for sorrow? Grief, anguish, pain, remorse, sadness, heartache, agony, and they all come to the same thing, mourning. On the trip back to Phoenix I called Joan numerous times. We mourned our loss together, helping each other through the torment of breaking up. There was weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth to be sure, but it wasn't directed at me. She knew how dearly I loved her, how painful it was for me to leave, as I knew she loved me and the pain my leaving was causing her. We cradled each other tenderly with soothing words of eternal love.

Early in the morning on March 12, still on the road, I called Joan, my heart aching from the loneliness that lay before me. Joan told me she had written a letter and she wanted to read it to me. She was crying as she read it. I could visualize her face and the tears running down her cheeks. I cried too, wishing I could be there to hold her, to be held by her, to soothe away her hurt and promise her that everything would be all right. But everything wouldn't be all right. Nothing would ever be all right again.

Dearest Laura,

How I love you. But my love is a love that sets you free. I will not bind you with chains, although I shall not live if you don't choose me. Yes, my heart is breaking.

Sorrow If they opened me up And cast my inward parts Into the sea, So with bile, The waters would fill, That all the nations Edges would be touched With sorrow Of the murky fluids.

~ ~~ ~~~ ~~ ~ In Flames I go down to the bed In flames. You have left.

How I am afire with pain, how it sears my innermost tender parts. I know how torn you are. I can feel it in you. The choice lies with you. My love and the life we could have together is waiting. But the choice lies with you, Laura. In this moment of great sorrow I can't know how you will choose, or if the momentousness of the choice will destroy you.

You're too precious a person to let that happen. Remember how I feel your pain. Your destruction would destroy me. Remember that, Laura. Remember too, I love you as a woman, this thing you most desire. I love all of you, the mystery of that very real woman within your body is, to me, beautiful. Yes, Laura, with stubble, with jowls, and the nose you so despise, those things I love so much, and that other piece of flesh that hangs from between your legs makes no difference. With or without, you are and always will be Laura to me.

Have I not needed you enough? Does the `messiah complex' in you raise itself so strong that you will destroy yourself for it?

That is a question only you can answer. Remember, here is a woman who loves you, no matter what you choose. I will love you forever, freely, without strings.

Please, my Laura, my love is a hammock, rest in it. For you should find rest somewhere. But if you feel your home is with Mary, I will let you go. It is the hardest thing I have ever done, but I love you that much. Your joy means more to me than my own. So then choose joy, Laura, choose joy.

With all the love I have to give, our souls, minds, and bodies are one.

Eternally,
Joan

I also called Mary, on a phone at a road side rest in Oklahoma, to let her know I was on my way. I wanted to know if she really understood what I needed from her, that I needed to be loved as a woman. Her answer revealed she was already vacillating, ``I love you as a person, nothing else matters. I accept you as a woman, that should be enough.'' She was reneging on her promise. How could I have thought otherwise? Orwell's thought police didn't exist. Human beings can't alter their thought processes, none of us. I was on the way home and she felt safe now. No longer was it necessary to humor me. She could talk of accepting me again, as if it was an act of immense generosity. Acceptance was intolerable. Acceptance! Every minority group seeks acceptance, never realizing that the concept is poisoned, a condescending implication that your difference requires acceptance. I didn't want acceptance; it wasn't enough. I needed to be loved for what I was, not in spite of what I was. Mary had reverted to form, next I would be a crazy man again, a crazy man thinking `he's' a woman. My stomach was tying itself in knots. I ached to be with Joan, for her to hold me and stroke my hair, to have her whisper in my ear how much she loved me, knowing the fullness of that love. How I longed to turn the car around and drive back to Joliet. Her tenderness, her arms, her kisses, her perfect trust and perfect love were waiting for me. How foolish it felt, following an antiquated and outdated code of honor. Yet, I drove on.

Joan and I, realizing it wasn't healthy to go on expressing our love with such intensity, worked out a compromise. We would be friends, good friends who respected and admired each other. Sure, we would secretly know we loved each other and that we would always love each other, but those feelings had to be repressed, kept in check. Otherwise, yearning for what must be denied, we would be in a constant hell.

In one letter I wrote her:

``I think it unwise to talk about our feelings for each other. It is enough to know the feelings are there. I shall love you always, as I hope you always love me. Sometimes we may slip, and there will be a hint of the stronger feelings we must keep in rein, and sometimes, late at night, you may feel my presence pressing against you, my arms around you, my warm breath on your neck. Let it be only a gentle reminder of the bond of intimacy between us, a bond that neither of us is like to find with another. Yes, my darling, I feel when you embrace me, stroke my hair, or brush my lips. Bittersweet love, and yet better this than nothing, and perhaps as friends we can have some small portion of the greater happiness we could have shared.''

Looking back it was crazy trying to repress our feelings, but I was willing to sacrifice Joan and myself. After all, I was doing the right thing. Slick shit! I understood why Dad put pinholes in the rubbers to have a second child, the first one was an idiot.

Still, it was good that I returned to Phoenix when I did. Anton wasn't attending school. There were two reasons. Transportation had become difficult as the two remaining cars had broken down, and Mary, distraught, often kept Anton home for company. Consequently, after all our efforts to get him in Camelback High School in order to graduate, he was on the verge of not graduating. Actually, he was on the verge of getting kicked out. Then, too, the house at Casa Grande was a disaster. The yard was overgrown and littered with debris, and the inside had been left untended since the day I left. Mary, who kept her room cluttered and disorganized, had spread out into the remainder of the house. Mounds of dirty clothes, piles of magazines and newspapers, dirty dishes, discarded candy wrappings, and an assortment of rubbish were strewn hither and yon. Viewing the work that lay ahead of me, I shuddered and shook my head disparagingly. Being needed was one thing, this was ridiculous.

Worst of all, however, were the finances. With but a couple of weeks passed since all the bills were paid Mary was already struggling with newly made bills. Three department stores were demanding payment; Sears, Penneys, and Wards. Visa was past due, the water and utilities were threatening to discontinue service, and there was no food in the house. The only payment that was up to date, because it came out of her check automatically, was the payment on the Ford Tempo. She had been running up bills faster than I paid them off.

Performance Anxiety, Joan had said. Damn straight! Drive 1750 miles, sleep little, cry a lot, arrive totally exhausted, and do I get a chance to rest? Even a cat nap? No! I had to handle problems. But before I could get to the problems I had to make supper, and before I could make supper I had to shop for groceries.

Everyone was starving. One would have thought they hadn't had a decent meal since I left. Quickly shopping, rushing home, cleaning the kitchen, I then made the meal; spare ribs, asparagus, baked potato, and apple pie. Scarcely able to keep my eyes open, my body aflame with weariness, there was no time to rest. The contrast between Joan in Joliet and Mary in Casa Grande was a fluctuation reflecting heaven and hell. Casa Grande was no longer my home, although duty had brought me here. Mary was no longer my wife, although responsibility bound me to her. My home was with Joan, as was my heart. Joan had said, ``My love is a hammock, rest in it.'' Oh how I yearned for that hammock.

And then the wind blew . . .