The Question and Answer

by Tery Maine

 

The Question
A Transsexual Love Story

This was the first of the Cindy Stories. I wrote it almost nine years ago. When I went to see my therapist, I had brought with me several things I had written along with a 26 page biography. I guess she got the idea that I liked to write. So, she asked me to write for my next visit a day in the life of Terri as a woman. I did, it wasn’ t very good, although it was pretty accurate in retrospect. The last scene of that day in the life was the phone ringing and knowing it was Fred on the other end. At that point I wrote something like, "As I look my crystal ball gets hazy, fog obscures all and I can see no more."

I wrote "The Question" in the third person trying to imagine what it would be like to be in love and have someone propose marriage and the issues that would bring up. When I posted it originally on CompuServe’ s GenderLine, back in the pre-World Wide Web days, I was shocked by the response I got to the story. So much transgendered fiction then, as well as now, was basically fantastic or pornographic. Frequently, it was both. It turned out that people appreciated realistic, upbeat, clean fiction that dealt with real issues transsexuals face during and following transition. Cindy’ s life became something of a soap opera with people writing me to ask when the next story would be published.

I couldn’t tell them, because these stories grew out of my personal journey and were often fictionalized accounts of my own life experiences. Of course, Cindy tends to be much more eloquent than I was in those situations, but then that’ s the value of being able to edit.

Eventually, these stories took on a familiar look. They are told mostly in flashback mode and usually end with Cindy on her knees before God. The story began where my "Day in the Life" story ended - with a telephone ringing……

 

The phone had just stopped ringing as Cindy threw down her purse, grade book, a handful of mail and a stack of essays down on the couch and kicked the door shut behind her. "Hello," she said as she heard a click followed by the dial tone.

She brushed a strand of hair out of her face and collapsed on the couch. As she glanced through the mail she hit the "message’ button on the answering machine. The whirr of the rewind was short. Not many messages today, she thought. Good. Messages usuall y mean work. Tonight, Cindy wanted to just relax for a couple of hours, then settle down to a quiet evening of grading papers.

"(Beep)Hi. Ms. Mason. Uh-This is Bob—er—Bob Benson in your—in your two o’clock class. Well, I was— you know—sick yesterday. I’ll turn in my essay Monday. Uh—Okay."

Good ol’ Bob. One of these days he’ll turn a paper in on time and I’ll faint dead away in class, Cindy thought.

"(Beep) Ms. Mason. This is Ms. Johansen from the library. Your interlibrary loan book is in. Pick it up by Wednesday or we’ll have to send it back."

Good. I’ll need that for next semester’s class on magazine writing.

"(Beep) Honey.—I hate talking to these things—It’s Fred. Can we go out tonight. I’ ve got reservations at the Olive Tree. I have something important to ask you. Okay. Please give me a call as soon as you get in. Bye. Love ya."

Cindy dropped the mail on the couch beside her. Suddenly, relaxation, papers, next semester’s schedule, Bob Benson’ s assignments became unimportant. Cindy had a good idea what the question would be. It was a question she’ d pondered, hoped for, dreaded, but never expected. Now, she had to face it. The question was how?

Oh Fred, why did you have to complicate things like this? Cindy walked over to a drawer, opened it and took out a p icture. In it a man, light brown hair, hazel eyes and two ears which looked like handles on a Grecian Urn smiled a photograph smile with one foot perched on an almost invisible carpet covered box in what was supposed to be a manly stance. He was pale. His clothes didn’t seem right. The smile seemed forced. Cindy knew the face well. She had seen it in the mirror for thirty-nine years.

The counseling, hormone therapy, a year of living life as a woman, and finally surgery had settled many questions in her mind about her gender identity. The one difficulty that remained was one of sexual identity.

When Cindy left the hospital, she determined that she would put her transsexuality behind her and get on with her life as a woman. She canceled her subscription to Tapestry . She quit logging on to the Genderline computer bulletin board. She stored pictures, clothing and artifacts from her male life. This one picture in a crowded drawer remained handy.

Cindy hadn’t thought about the surgery or her past life for weeks. Now, a 20 second message on her machine brought the memories back in a flood.

"Carl, Carl, Carl," she moaned to the picture. "How did we get ourselves into this situation, and how are we going to get out of it."

Staring at that picture like a remnant of a lost civilization, the memories and the pain came flooding back into Cindy’ s heart. The taunts of the high school students, the disastrous dates with women, the posturing and finally the closing and sealing of the self behind walls of erudition, learning, teaching and work. The process of withdrawal and abandonment of hope for a relationship with another person had torn her apart and plunged her into depression for a year. Slowly the wounds healed. The scar tissue formed blocking out both pain and delight. Her life became safer, albeit emptier; stabler, but colder; stronger, but more isolated. The trade-off’s weren’ t easy, but, when hope dies, despair must be moderated.

Cindy slid the picture back into the drawer. The past could be no guide to the future for her. Unlike other women in their 40’ s, she never had puppy love, a date for the prom, other significant relationships with men, no long chats about men with her mother, no high school, college or young adult dating experiences to guide her. She wasn’t prepared for this. She’ d been a woman (or living as one) for less than five years. Five years is hardly enough time to develop the feminine discernment about intimate relationships which develop over a lifetime. She was less experienced in this matter than most high school girls.

She never thought it would happen. The women’s magazines bemoaned a "man shortage." Something about demographics, divorce and economics. She never really understood the reasoning, but accepted the figures on faith. Besides at 40 something, the field narrows for both women and men. Standing 6’ 1" in heels she figured would also limit the prospects.

Then she met 6’2" Fred Parker.

Cindy opened her purse, took out her wallet, flipped open the picture compartment. There was Fred, smiling a broad, toothy smile his gray eyes twinkling with some sort of mischief, the wind tosseling his dark hair. He wasn’ t exactly movie star handsome. His face reflected all of his 45 years, weathered with a experienced ruggedness. The phone rang again. Cindy let the phone ring and the machine answer.

"It’s about 5:30, honey. I hope you get home soon. Please call. It’s very important."

It might not be The Question. Maybe he just needs help with his punctuation. That’s how it all started, Cindy remembered. Cindy ran the P.R. for the church. Knowing the marketing ropes, she’d pulled off a few minor coups in the local papers. He managed Roberts and Sons clothiers. They needed a 100 ^th anniversary promotion. The church secretary suggested he speak to Cindy. (That nigh t Cindy found this message on her machine:"I sent Fred Parker to you. Be nice to him. He’s divorced, successful and has a 14-year-old son and 12 year old daughter. Don’t let this one get away."

Cindy put together a rather simple promotion using vintage carriages, automobiles and c lothing, she arranged a bit of TV and print media coverage and she advised Fred on advertising purchases. He was suitably impressed and took her to dinner "in appreciation." From that point on the relationship took on a different flavor. Their eyes began to focus away from outside projects and more on each other.

Cindy never had a steady date, even as Carl. She remembered that as a male she always wanted a girlfriend, not because of a relationship, but because of the social advantages. But she couldn’t bring herself to use another person in that way. Then, when she began the "Real Life Test," she felt awkward about starting up such a relationship for fear of discovery and embarrassment of both the date and herself. So, she sat by watching the world go by in pairs. She was the "and Cindy" at the end of a list of couples on the guest roster. She told herself, it really didn’t bother her. She almost convinced herself of that fact until her first date . It wasn ’t Fred. It was some guy named Larry Something. The name was forgettable and so was the date. They both attended the singles group at the church. He was divorced (who wasn ’t except Cindy) and he asked her out for lunch. The lunch was pleasant enough, but Cindy was so nervous that to this day she can’t rememb er what she ordered. She wasn’t good company, and they really didn’t quite fit together well. They weren’ t for each other, and they both politely resumed the roles of fellow church members.

The experience though stirred a longing for companionship Cindy th ought she had quenched long ago. It was after her last date as a male. She had asked a woman, Meg Morgan, out to dinner. The conversation was congenial. Two acquaintances discussing the current topics of the day, but Meg sensed something in Carl which said friendship is as far as this can go, and she returned the message. That night, Carl went home cried for a few minutes cursing the prison of that nether region between the genders. Then he dried his eyes, and made a decision. He could fake it no longer. If people thought he was gay, so be it. He couldn’t carry off the performance. And he couldn’ t stand the pain any longer. So, at 28, he ceased dating after his sixth failed attempt in a decade.

It was a door Cindy thought had been closed and locked. Larry whatshisname opened it again for her. The date was another failure, but it gave her hope for a "normal" social life. Fred and her seemed to fit together well. Not that they were alike or they always agreed. But where they differed, they supplied something th at was lacking in the other. It was comfortable being with him. Having someone to sit next to in church, having a date for the faculty parties, having someone to talk to on the phone after grading 32 midterms, having someone hold her when she felt small and hurt, having Fred beside her was the best thing that had happened to her life. She didn’ t know if she could bear to lose that. She wanted things to stay as they were. She cried because she knew that after tonight they would not be the same.

"What kind of answer can I give you?" she asked the picture. "Can I tell you the truth, say, ‘Sure, Fred, I ’d love to marry you. How about a June wedding? Then after the honeymoon, what? You find my bookplates that read Carl Martin. Or you start asking about my childho od. Or you find my M.A. or other papers in my former name. I can’t keep that a secret from you forever."

The chimes of Cindy’s grandfather clock struck six times. She couldn’t delay calling Fred much longer.

Of course, she could try to cool off the relationship. Tell him "I’m sorry, but...." But what? What would be truthful? "I don’t love you?" Hardly. "I don’t want to marry you." As scary as the thought of marriage at mid-life is she could think of nothing she wanted more. He deserved some explanation. I f she was going to walk away from the man she loved, from a man who loved her, he had a right to know why. Neither alternative seemed right, though. Suddenly, Cindy found herself caught in the middle again. She couldn’ t abandon her love, but she couldn’t base that love on deception.

"I should have left that door closed," she whispered. "There are some pleasures which are denied some people. Now, the door is open and the pain will come. What ’s worse, that pain will strike most deeply at the one I love."

Cindy fell on her knees before the couch, "Lord, you said if we lack wisdom to ask of you. Well, I have no wisdom. I’ ve backed myself into this corner, and I see no way out. I just need help." Cindy buried her head into the cushions on the couch, and wept quie tly. The ticking of the grandfather clock measured out the minutes of her remaining relationship with Fred. As she listened to the clock, a scripture came to mind. John 8:32. "You shall know the truth and the truth shall set you free." Then the thought, "Do I love Fred enough to give him the freedom of Truth?"

Could that be the answer? Reveal the secret she had hidden so long? Could she trust him with that information? Was it fair to lay that burden on his shoulders? On the other hand, was it fair to exclude him from this decision which affected them both so deeply? "The truth shall set you free" the scripture read. Yes, Freedom. Truth and Freedom, they do seem to complement each other. A freedom for Cindy from the cage of secrecy. A freedom for Fred to choo se whether he wanted a wife who used to be a man. It was a hard freedom, though. The pain would be great in the telling. The shock and pain would be great in the hearing. Cindy would have to face the possibility (perhaps, even probability) that she would end their relationship with revelation. Did she love him enough, to give him the option to leave? Why do pain and love live on the same block Cindy wondered?

She got up, patted her eyes with a Kleenex, and walked to the phone. Tonight, she would perform her greatest act of love by giving Fred the gift of Freedom.

 

 

The Answer
A Transsexual Love Story Completed

(Sequel to The Question)

Luanna was not pleased with the ending to this story. She didn’ t like its tentativeness as to the result. My feeling was that the important factor was not how Fred would handle the disclosure, but as to my process involved in making it. But in answer to her interest the next week I brought in this story. It does have a happy ending. I wish this type of outcome to follow all such disclosures those in Cindy’s position might make. I’m sure some have. I’m also sure others have not. But I happen to like happy endings.

 

Fred slammed the door behind him. The window cracked. Fred wasn’ t a man who liked to swear, but he cursed the window in the strongest language he knew. Windows should be stronger. They should be less flawed. They should be predictable. They should be better than people.

Fred jerked his tie loose and flung it against the chair. As he jerked his jacket off he felt the soft bump of the small jewelry box in his pocket. Like a pin puncturing a balloon, that bump emptied Fred of his rage and he collapsed in the frayed recliner universally recognized by his two children, the cat and the dog, as his chair. As he sank down into it’ s comfortable cushions, he slipped his hand into the jacket pocket, withdrew the box, pried open the lid and stared at the thin band of gold highlighted by a cluster of diamond chips.

Fred snapped shut the box and dropped it on the end table betwe en the lamp and telephone amid a clutter of magazines, unpaid bills and telephone messages. He glanced at the picture sitting propped against the lamp. "Much love, Cindy," read the autograph in the lower right corner under the head and shoulders shot of a blonde haired, hazel eyed woman. Her blonde hair fell in loose curls around her shoulders; dark eyebrows framed hazel eyes; small laugh lines around the eyes and in the forehead signaled her maturity. These features Fred loved to look at in the past, he now ignored and saw instead the jutting chin, the sharp nose and the slight bulge in the throat. Things he had never noticed before.

Rage returning, he slammed the picture down on the table. Crash. Tinkle. Another breaking of glass, another breaking of heart.

This was supposed to have been the happiest, if most nerve-racking, evening of his life. He had it all planned : reservations made at the most exclusive restaurant; a ring picked carefully to express his love in diamonds and gold; a speech prepared with as much eloquence as a clothier could muster; a heart made ready to commit itself once again. But before the speech compassed two sentences , he was interrupted and received the answer he could never have expected in his wildest dreams—or, more accurately, h is deepest nightmares. Cindy had fidgeted since he picked her up. Her voice was halting, low. She said little. She seemed to be breathing more deeply than usual. Fred thought he knew why. The question he had to ask couldn’ t come as a surprise.

He’d loved her since she showed up in his office carrying her portfolio, tripped over the carpet and spilled its contents on the floor. He almost hated to see the anniversary promotion end. Those "working lunches" with Cindy were the highlight of his week.

After his wife left him and the children, his world crumbled. He knew nothing about the affair. To survive he wrapped his life in his work and raising Jeremy and Jason. He carefully kept his heart safe until she walked, or in this case stumbled, into his life.

For nearly a year, they had dated. He grew to love her with an intensity he never thought possible. He began to feel like a character in a Shakespearean Sonnet or a country and western love song. And he could see the love reflected back in her eyes. It was time for The Question. It was natural for both of them to be nervous. Considering marriage in one’s forties is a serious matter.

The dinner came. Both ate quietly, nervously. Making small talk. Finally, he said, "Cindy, I think you know how much I love you—"

That was as far as he got with his speech.

"Fred, I think I know what you have to ask me," she said. Her voice trembled. "But it’ s only fair I tell you something first. I love you too much to let you ask your question without knowing something about my background."

At first, he thought she was joking. He wondered why this cruel, obscene jest was made during this most serious moment of their lives. His shock at her tasteless wit, gave way to his shock at her sincerity.

Transsexualism. That’s the stuff of TV talk shows. "Phil Donahue interviews five transsexuals and the men who love them." It didn’t happen to anyone in real life. It certainly couldn’t happen to him. But it did, he’d fallen in love with a woman who used to be a man.

As he replayed the scene in his mind the shock, the revulsion, the anger, the feeling of being made a fool of returned.

"How could she—or is it he. To think she had the audacity to--. Why he should be beaten. She should be strangled with his own pantyhose. He—She— it—it was unnatural. How can I marry a man-woman? How could I have been fooled so completely." He lifted up the picture, a piece of glass fell to the table top. As he looked at the smiling face behind the shattered glass, the rage subsided again.

"Lord, help me, Cindy, I still love you. But how can I deal with this. I’m no poet, artist, philosopher, psychologist. I’ m a simple retailer. I don’t have that much imagination or romance in me. Oh, why did you have to tell me why?"

"You have a right to know this," she said, her voice cracking. "I can’ t let you offer your life to me without you knowing the truth." She explained how she grew up feeling trapped in the wrong body. She spoke tragically of her adolescence and youth feeling like a freak. She spoke of the loneliness, of the isolation, of the fears, of the agonizing over the moral and ethical dilemmas presented by the situation. She told him how she cried for hours after losing her first teaching job because she announced her intention to "transition" as she put it. She explai ned about the hormone treatments, the electrolysis, the year of living and working as a woman, about the operation, about the pain, the two weeks in the hospital, the months of recovery. How could she do it, he wondered his hand straying subconsciously to his crotch. He couldn’ t imagine any man having it cut off. He thought about the pain when he was hit in the groin with a softball at the church picnic last summer. The pain was indescribable. What must it have felt like after the operation.

"I felt pain, of course, but I felt right for the first time in my life, I felt set right. I felt like my body finally was a correct fit for my mind," she said. "I felt complete at last." For a moment, her eyes lost focus on him and he could see she was lost in thought a bout that experience. Then they clouded over and refocused on him.

"I never should have allowed myself to become involved with you. I loved you from our first meeting when you helped me pick everything up off the floor and you still trusted me to do your c ampaign. But what kind of love is it that allows a relationship develop which can only result in pain. You must understand. I was so lonely. So hungry for companionship. And you were so handsome, so gallant, so loving. So, I let my heart rule my head. Something very uncommon for me to do. The woman with the high IQ became another schoolgirl in love. To say I’m sorry for the pain means little, but..."

He didn’t let her finish. He fumbled for his wallet, slammed some money on the table and said, "You’re right, you can ’t wipe this away with an ‘I’m awfully sorry.’ Here’s enough money to pay the check and catch a cab home." He stalked away from the table. Cindy asked in a voice barely audible over the pounding of his raging heart, "Will...will I see you again." He paused, Started to look back at her, Checked himself, then said in a voice growing hoarse with emotion, "I don’t know." In the car, Fred cried for the first time since his wife left him. He made a note not to get involved again. The pain of involvement was too great.

Remembering the scene at the restaurant stirred up many conflicting emotions anger, disgust, and horror crashed together against sorrow, guilt, compassion and love. Yes, love. Despite everything else, he loved her still. Transsexual or not, she was still the one he loved. There was a song back in the sixties called "Only Love Can Make You Cry." Fred sure learned the truth of that tune.

He was already missing her. Work had been the center of his life and raising the boys. He hadn’t sought out this relationship. But in the past year, he’ d grown accustomed to having her around, calling her up at odd hours to talk about life, love, politics, the Lord, and sometimes nothing significant at all. Then there were the silences when a touch of a hand, a hug or a kiss spoke more eloquently than any orator. Life will go on without her, but how?

But then how could he continue with her. Knowing what he did about her. Things could never be the same. Besides, he did make sort of a fool out of himself. She probably wouldn’ t want a jerk like him anyway.

He found himself in an unlikely position. He was the one who could always make a snap decision on the job. Just gather the facts and decide. But here he was caught between love and— and what fear, loathing, ignorance. He just couldn’t decide. He slid out of the chair onto the floor. Kneeling beside the chair he prayed.

"God, did I ever step into it this time. I don’t know what to do. Sure I love her. I love her more than I’ve ever loved any woman. I want her for my wife. But, I don’t know how I can handle this. I don’t know if I can handle this. I feel lost. There’s no firm footing. What can I do? I ’m unable to decide. Give me a word of wisdom. Something to guide me."

As he prayed, a scripture came to mind. He couldn’t even remember where it came from in the Bible. But this scripture read: " Love covers a multitude of sin," and another that said, "Perfect love casts out fear."

Yes, love. He was looking at it all wrong. Love wasn’t the problem. Love was the answer to t he problem. Sure, it was a shock. Sure, there were questions which needed answers. And he certainly needed to learn more about certain subjects left out of his schooling. But, those all came after he settled one thing in his mind. Did he love Cindy? If he did, then the other problems could be handled.

It was a question that didn’t need to be asked. Underneath the hurt, underneath the pain in his heart of hearts love burned, an unquenchable fire consuming the anger, the fear, the shame.

Now, he wept again. Not the tears of anger and self-pity he wept in the restaurant parking lot. These were tears of guilt for not listening with ears of love to the tortured confession of someone who loved him enough to let him walk away. Tears of guilt for letting ignorance overwhelm the reason of Love and drive him away from the first person to make him smile in many years. Tears of guilt for inflicting pain upon someone who had already experienced more than her share of pain. Tears of guilt, for not loving as truly as he thought he could.

She said, she was telling him these things so he could be free to leave if he chose. He left. He wondered if he was also free to return. It wasn’ t going to be easy for either of them. He had much to learn, and much to deal with. But with t he light of Love and the spirit of God to guide them, they could indeed become one, not just in spite of this truth, but because of it. Fred had heard it said that " Love means more than just laughing with someone. You only truly love when you have cried with them." More tears needed to be shed, but not alone. Too many lonely tears had flowed already. They needed to be shed together.

Fred picked up the phone. He dialed a familiar number. The machine answered. "Sweetheart, this is Fred. We need to talk, and I need to listen. Oh, by the way I still didn’t get a chance to ask you that question. Give me a call. Soon. I love you."

He picked up the ring, slipped it in his jacket pocket and waited for the phone to ring.

   

  

  

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© 1991 by Tery Maine. All Rights Reserved. These documents (including, without limitation, all articles, text, images, logos, compilation design) may printed for personal use only. No portion of these documents may be stored electronically, distributed electronically, or otherwise made available without express written consent of the copyright holder.