Ronni and Ruthie                    by: Emmie Dee

 

Chapter One—Homeward Bound

As I dialed the number, I glanced nervously around the Madison bus station. "Wes? Hi. It’s me, Ron. Yeah, I know it’s been a long time, buddy. Listen. I can’t talk for long. Can you meet me at 6:35 in Cherry Hill, at the bus station? Yeah, Wes. I know the bus still stops in Pinewoods, too, just twenty minutes later. But I’m kinda in trouble, and I don’t want anybody to see me. No, not the police, but trouble enough, believe me. You will? Great. I owe you one, I really do. See you then. ‘Bye."

Was I being paranoid? Would Al and the boys try to follow me up from Chicago? Maybe not, but they might guess I was heading home, that I no longer had a car, and the bus was the only way for me to get to Pinewoods, Wisconsin. No use taking chances. I slipped out of the bus station and found a sandwich shop to wait in until the northbound bus arrived. I could keep an eye on anybody who might be looking for me. How could I have gotten into this trouble? Sheer stupidity, I guess. And trusting too much. I’m Ronald Andrew Garner, the stupid one. I’m an artist, and was specializing in computer web design with a business partner, Luis Sanchez. He wrote the codes and did the business managing. I was the talent, the guy with the taste and skill to develop great graphics, wallpapers, and logos. We had done pretty well for almost a year. Then we made some big investments in equipment, and at the same time lost two major contracts. We had maxed out all our credit limits. Then I had an idea. This was just for short term, right? If we could get one big job finished, we could pay off a short-term loan, and still stay in operation. I remembered this guy Al down at Branson’s Pub. He loaned out money. Well, he was a loan shark, and his interest rates or collection methods weren’t exactly sanctioned by the banking system, or the Chicago police. People who stiffed him on loans, who tried to run away, I heard, usually ended up stiffs themselves—or at least mangled pretty bad by Al’s friends. But this was a sure thing, and a week was all I needed. So I borrowed $12,000, more than he usually lent to anybody, and had to start paying on it a week later. So I got the money, put it in the bank, and called Luis. "Let’s celebrate!" Luis hesitated and turned me down—had to finish the project. The next morning, when I went to his loft apartment where we had our 2-guy office, I saw people hauling our equipment out on dollies—the Macs, routers, scanners, laser printers, the whole bit. I yelled for them to stop and asked where Luis was. They showed me a bill of sale, signed by Luis and me—except of course, it wasn’t my handwriting. Luis was flying—first class, no doubt—back to his Latin American home. So I owed $12000 and counting, with no assets, except my own notebook computer, my clothes, and $147.63.

I knew that Al and his associates, Lou and Bart, had a big investment in me, and that they tended to do permanent damage to those who tried to run away from their deals. But what choice did I have? So now I was on my way back home to say goodbye to my mother and older sister in Pinewoods, Wisconsin, (and hopefully to borrow a few bucks), and then try to disappear somewhere and maybe start a new life somewhere else. Before I completely disappeared, though, I would also have to get to the Twin Cities to see my twin sister Ruthie. Ruth Ann Garner.

I was able to get back into the bus station and on the northbound without being met in the shadows by the very large people I was trying to avoid. I tried to stay away from the window, just in case. I’m glad Wes could meet me. Wes was my best friend in high school, and maybe forever. We were the only two guys deep into art in a small town—a subject that wasn’t, shall we say, highly valued among our peers? I had saved him from a few beatings by guys who assumed we were gay. (We weren’t). He was tall, scrawny, and homely, and a very gentle guy. I am shorter, but strong and wiry, and have picked up a few more self-defense skills. I had also saved his life one time when we got really depressed and suicidal. He always remembered that and thought he owed me his life, though I didn’t think it was that big a deal that I had talked him out of the suicide attempt. Later, I went away to art school on scholarship. Wes had gone away to apprentice in a tattoo parlor, and had gone back to Pinewoods two years ago to open his own place. It seemed like a waste of talent to me, but hey, he liked it. And it isn’t easy making a living in the art world.

As I sat near the back of the bus in the late afternoon, I noticed a little girl, maybe 4, peeking back at me and smiling. I smiled back, the first time I had smiled in a few days. She was holding a Raggedy Ann doll. You don’t see them much any more, but it brought back some wild memories. My sister Ruthie and I were sometimes called the RAG twins because of our initials. (Twins run in our family, by the way. We have twin cousins, Megan and Mary, about four years older than us, who grew up in Madison.) Mom would get care packages of leftover clothes as Megan and Mary outgrew them. The clothes were a little old, but better than anything we could afford. Dad had died when we were toddlers, and Mom’s a small town beautician. When we were toddlers, there were some unisex jump suits that we could wear, but as we got older it became obvious that the hand-me-downs gave Ruthie double outfits of everything. When we were five, though, a care package that came before Halloween had a Raggedy Ann and Andy outfit. Mom was charmed. She’d always loved Raggedy Ann and Andy, and Ruthie and I had even had curtains in that pattern in our room. So we went trick-or-treating, with Ruth Ann as Raggedy Ann and Ronald Andrew as Raggedy Andy. Mom added her makeup skills, and we did look pretty great. The trouble was next year. The costumes, a little big the first year, still fit us. Ruthie had a hissy fit. She was Raggedy Ann last year. Why couldn’t she be Raggedy Andy? We all tried to explain that Raggedy Ann and Ruthie were both girls, and Raggedy Andy and Ronnie were both boys. But hadn’t Mary worn Raggedy Andy when she was little? We didn’t have any other costumes, and mom was ready to call off our trick-or-treating. Finally she asked, "Ronnie, would you be willing to be Raggedy Ann? You both look so much alike that with the orange wigs, nobody could tell the difference between you." I didn’t want to, of course, but I didn’t want to go out by myself, either, and most of all, I didn’t want to miss out on the goodies. I agreed after Mom made Ruthie and Renee, my teenage sister, not to ever tell anyone or make fun of me. So, with me decked out in my little jumper, apron, orange wig and cap, red-and-white striped socks, and Ruthie’s Mary Janes, and Ruthie dressed in her Andy outfit, we filled our pillowcases with candy. And the women of my house never gave me a hard time of it.

But the next day, Ruthie was really quiet. She pulled me aside, looked at me with her big blue eyes, and said, "Ronnie, can you be my sister?" "No, Ruthie, I can’t. I’m your brother. I’m a boy." "But you were my sister last night, and I liked having you as a sister. Can you sometimes be my sister?" I sighed. "Well, maybe sometimes." I hoped she would forget it, but she never did. Sometimes, as we grew through childhood, she would just ask me to play girl games with her and would call me her twin sister Ronni. Other times, when we got care packages from our aunt and cousins, she would rope me into trying on the clothes with her, so we could see what the outfits looked like together. And for the most part, except for her longer hair and my shorter hair, we could pass as identical twins. And of course, there was always Halloween. Some years, we had unisex costumes, such as clowns. But we usually depended on what our cousins Meg and Mary sent. My dressing up in girl’s costumes, sometimes ballerinas, sometimes princesses, sometimes cowgirls, always seemed to delight Ruthie. But she wouldn’t tease me.

As we hit puberty, we stopped looking like identical twins, of course. She grew in some places, and I grew in others. But still sometimes, when the other girls would give her a hard time for not having the latest fashions, or whatever, she would want us to "do the identical twin thing," and be her sister, at least to listen to her. Usually I didn’t dress up all the way. Sometimes she’d slip a barrette in my hair, or if she was painting her fingernails, she’d ask me to hold out my hands and she’d paint mine, too. Mom and Renee didn’t know about this, at least most of the time. I thought it was a bit strange, of course, but it seemed to help Ruthie through some tough, rocky times, as we grew up fatherless and poor. It wasn’t a matter of getting turned on, or anything, it was just our own special way of being twins.

As the bus rolled on, I stroked the short beard that covered my face. It had begun growing during my senior year in high school. I liked it. It was a way of putting an end to any more dressing up. It helped cover up some of my what are politely called soft features, and added to my "artist" look. By the time we had reached our senior year, Ruthie and I weren’t identical, obviously. Yet we looked amazingly similar, except for our gender differences. I’m not quite 2 inches taller, my features are a bit more masculine, and of course she bulges a bit where I don’t. Shortly before I grew the beard, she had talked me into a double date, with us going as twin girls! She had lined up a date with a guy from Cherry Hill, the next town over, who intrigued her, but seemed kind of pushy. She figured there was safety in numbers, so she planned a double. The couple she planned to double with broke up the day before Ruth Ann’s date, and since both Wes and I owed her a big favor for helping us pass an English test, she talked us into going as a couple. So with a couple of our cousins’ outgrown party dresses, hers a soft blue and mine a mint green, a wig borrowed from mom’s beauty shop, heels, hose, undies, and a quick makeover, we sneaked out of the house, picked up Wes, and went to the party in Cherry Hill. We looked great, and we looked identical. Ruthie’s date was a jerk. Wes was a true gentleman, but every now and then I caught him looking at me a bit strangely, maybe a bit hungrily. But we were able to get Ruthie home safely, and our mission was accomplished. That night brought a strange mix of feelings. Part of me was thrilled at pulling off such a thing. Part of me was panicked to the core—not just about getting caught, but about dealing with my own feelings. That was the last time I was Ruthie’s "sister." After we graduated, I went to art school and she started playing keyboard in rock bands. She’s been having a relatively long-term gig with a group based in Minneapolis, an all-woman band, the Killer Butterflies. We’re still close friends, and we email each other almost daily.

I was thinking about that when the bus pulled into Cherry Hill. I looked around carefully, watching out for any strange cars with Illinois tags. Slowly I got off the bus carrying my laptop, and waited for the driver to toss out the large duffel with everything else that I owned. I picked up the bag.

"Ron!" Wes’s voice rang out. I dropped the bag and cringed. I glanced around, looking for trouble—Al, Lou, or Bart—but saw only my tall, homely, gawky friend. His reddish hair was combed back. Long sleeves hid the tattoos that decorated his arms. He grasped my hand and shook it hard. His smile lowered as he saw the frightened look on my face.

"I’m sorry, Ron. You said you were on the run from something, and I’m not acting very secret agent at all. Here—the van’s right at the curb." He picked up my duffel as I carried my notebook computer bag with all that was left of my three years’ work on it to an old white van. I could still make out the paint that covered over the old sign—Callahan’s Industrial Shoes—from when it belonged to his father. Now it said "Pine Needles Tattooing and Piercing" with a cartoon illustration, painted by Wes, of a tattoo needle spraying rainbows of ink in front of a row of pine trees. The van, like the building where Wes lived and had his studio, had once been part of his dad’s business. Wes’s dad and mom had retired to Florida.

I suggested to Wes that we turn off the main highway, go past the college campus in Cherry Hill, and take the county blacktop roads that led to Pinewoods. It would be easier to notice if anyone was following. "That campus is part of what keeps me in business," Wes noted. "That and the lumberjacks still around Pinewoods. I love our old home town, but it’s a little small to support my kind of business. Just glad I have so little overhead." My dad had been a lumberjack when he was killed in a logging accident over 20 years ago. He wasn’t the Paul Bunyan type—like me, he was short and wiry. He scooted up the trees to top them off. Funny, how much I still remember him. I wondered if he would have been happy that his son grew up to be an artist, not an outdoorsy type. Even more, I wondered if he would have been happy with his son running away from trouble. "So what’s up, bud?" Wes asked. As the sky darkened, I told my story. "They have a way of making guys who skip out on them pay, and pay bad," I explained. "They leave some permanent reminder on your body when they catch up with you—a busted knee or foot or hand, a bad scar, something like that. Sometimes they send out bounty hunters, other times they’ll follow you themselves—they like the control, the pain, almost as much as the money they bring in. And people who rat on them end up disappearing with no clues."

"Nice guys to get mixed up with," Wes commented. "Do they know where to look?"

"Probably. Al has a mind like a computer. He stores away all those little details that come out in bar talk. He knows where I’m from, he knows my twin sister is a rock musician in Minneapolis-St. Paul. One of those "my twin’s in the twin city" jokes I sometimes make. My plans are to say goodbye to you, to mom and Rene, go over to Minneapolis and say goodbye to Ruthie, and then to disappear. I’m not sure how to get a new identity, but I guess I’ll find out."

"I may be able to call in a few favors over in Minneapolis to help with that, Ron. I’ll see what I can do." I was kind of amazed that Wes would have any contact with the shady operations that would take, but it comforted me a bit. I explained my plans, sketchy as they were. "When I get home, I’m going to shave off the beard and have mom change my hair color, so I won’t be as recognizable from pictures." We changed subject, and we just gabbed for awhile about the old days. I told him about remembering our "date." He smiled. "Prettiest girl I ever went out with—too bad she was a he. By the way—remember the time your junior year when you went to the girl’s sports banquet dressed as Ruthie, so she could sneak out on a hot date?"

"How could I forget?" I replied. "I was desperate because she was the only person who could help me pass chemistry, so I went along with her idea. Mom had to work that evening, getting women ready for a country club ball, so I didn’t have to worry about fooling her. Ruthie worked hard to pull that one off—had to get 6 inches of hair cut off the day before, so she could get her hair the same length as mine. I don’t think I’ve ever been so scared, because if I had gotten found out, well, I couldn’t have lived in this town, anymore. I played like I had a sore throat when the girls on Ruthie’s field hockey team tried to talk with me. So I go up and get my—I mean Ruthie’s—letter for field hockey, wearing Ruthie’s clothes. I could hardly get home fast enough. And Mrs. Pendleton, the coach, congratulated Ruthie the next day for acting so ladylike, unlike her usual rowdy self."

We talked about other stuff the rest of the way, catching up on our lives in general. You know how it is with good friends? You may not see them for years, and when you do, it’s as if no time has passed? That’s the way it is with me and Wes—and me and Ruthie. Wes, too, was close to Ruth, as a friend. "Had you heard that your sister has a really serious boyfriend?" Wes asked. "Yes, some of e-mails to me sounded like she was into a great relationship, but she didn’t tell me anything about the guy," I responded. Wes turned on a crossroad before responding. "Actually, he’s kind of a friend of mine, and he’s a tattoo artist, too. I apprenticed under him. Ruth and her band, the Killer Butterflies, wanted to get butterfly tattoos, and I recommended him. They took an instant liking to each other. I think he’s the best artist in the upper Midwest, and recognized as one of the better ones in the country." "Does he have a name?" I wondered. "John McGinnis," Wes replied, smiling. "He looks like a big, mean biker—my height, but all filled out—but he’s tender and gentle, and I think he’ll be really good for Ruthie." I thought a bit, then said, "I hope so. She’s not had good luck in the boy friend department since she hit Minneapolis. You say this McGinnis guy is a biker, or just looks like one?" "Oh, he is, all right. He’s big in an outfit called the Leather Kings. They’re not mean or hell raisers, or into bondage, or anything, but they can be pretty intimidating. But Big John’s great. You’ll like him once you get to know him. I just thought I’d warn you, that on first impressions he could probably make your loan sharks nervous. Hey, now there’s a thought. If you get in with that group, they could like bodyguard you from your bad guys." Interesting thought. About that time, we reached Pinewoods.

At my request, we drove to Wes’s tattoo parlor first, and went in through the alley. He pulled the blinds. I looked around. It was a lot like the last time I had seen it, about a year ago. Flash on the wall, waiting chairs, magazines, a counter, the chair behind. The only thing new I noticed was a poster of a woman’s face, nicely made up. "Permanent cosmetics," it said, with little words and arrows pointing out eye liner, eyebrows, lipstick, a few other things. "Do you do that here?" I asked, out of curiosity.

"Yeah," said Wes. "Sometimes a woman plucks her eyebrows too much, and suddenly they don’t grow back. Or some of these Swedish girls around here with brows and lashes so light they’re almost invisible, want a darker background. Sometimes I bring your mom in for a consultation, to get the colors right, that sort of thing. I’m pretty good at it, for a guy." Wes is a good artist, and cares about people in a shy kind of way. If I wanted a tattoo, I’d go to him. But I don’t. Pain and I don’t get along. I called home. Mom could sense the worry in my voice. She invited the two of us over for a late supper. We drove the van and parked around the corner, and made sure no other strange cars were around, then we slipped around back and walked in the back door.

 

Chapter Two—The Decision

Mom had homemade vegetable soup ready when we got there. She and Renee hadn’t eaten yet, so we sat down to some good home-cooked soup. I told my story for the second time in a few hours. I could see the growing looks of concern on their faces. "Are we in any danger?" Renee asked. "If Joe were here, we’d have a better chance of keeping you safe." Joe was my older sister’s husband, a career Navy man, currently on a six-month tour on an aircraft carrier in the Indian Ocean.

"I don’t think you are in any danger, but I can’t be 100 % sure of that," I admitted. "But that’s part of the reason I want to disappear, so they won’t have any reason to come after any of you or after Ruthie."

"Ronnie, I was thinking," Renee began. "Do the bad guys know anything about how you used to "play identical?" (That was a code phrase for me dressing up like Ruthie, or her dressing up like me—like we were identical twins.)

"No, of course not. Nobody in Chicago knows about that. It’s not the kind of thing that would enhance my reputation as a macho guy, you know."

"Well, maybe you should play identical, if we get wind of these mobsters coming here after you. We could disguise you as Ruthie, and they wouldn’t recognize you. It would keep us all safe."

"I don’t know, I hope that’s not necessary," I frowned. Mom didn’t feel good about it, either. "But it’s something to think about, I guess."

Wes left to go back home. Mom agreed to dye my hair after I shaved my beard. I went upstairs, and with borrowed clippers from Mom’s beauty shop, I mowed down the sandy brown curly whiskers to stubble. A blade and shaving cream took off the stubble, but I was concerned about the pale area that was left—it was like a farmer’s tan in reverse, brown on top, white on the bottom. I was going downstairs, ready to have Mom color my hair, when the phone rang. Mom answered. I could tell by the conversation that it was Sylvia Trotter, who owned the motel out near the highway, one of mom’s good friends. "No, Sylvia," mom said. "I don’t know why those guests who just came in would be asking if Ron were in town. I haven’t heard from him for weeks." She paused. "Ruthie came in for a visit this evening, though. If I hear from Ron, should I call you? Okay. Thanks, Syl." She glanced up at me, worry on her face. I knew that soon I would look like Ruthie again. There were two guests asking about me, mom reported. One short and stocky, receding hairline—Al. The other a big gorilla with a missing chunk out of his right earlobe—Bart. They must have left Lou home to look after business. I always thought Lou was the creepiest of the three—he really enjoyed using his knife. That’s what I understand happened to Bart’s ear—Bart was a customer before he was a "business associate." He welshed. Lou cut.

Mom told me her plan. I would receive the makeover that Renee had suggested, and stay a day or two as Ruthie. Then if the gangsters were off my trail, she would drive me to Minneapolis, as if she were returning Ruth Ann home. We would check into a motel, she would clip my woman’s hairdo into a crew cut, undo the other parts of the makeover, and I could be on my way as I planned. "Okay," I nodded. "Let’s get busy."

 

Chapter 3—the Makeover

It was already nearly ten, but we decided to get started. Part of it was in case the guys would come over during the night or early in the morning. Part of it was because we were too tense and jangled to sleep, anyway. I got in the tub and began shaving the rest of the hair that identified me as male—my legs, my chest, my armpits. It didn’t take too long to get smooth and slick. Mom had offered a wax treatment, but that sounded a bit too painful. Mom tossed in a pair of panties, a bra, a pale blue nightgown—hers? Renee’s? I didn’t know. Well, as long as I had to act the role, I might as well go for it. Besides, what if they were observing? She had pulled the blinds in the little two-seat beauty shop in the front of our house. She washed my hair, put on gloves, and started working dark soggy goop into it. "Let’s go a lot darker," she explained, as she worked the stuff down to my scalp. "Not raven black, it would really look poor on your coloring. But a dark, rich brown will be a nice contrast to your old look. Renee has a long, black skirt you can wear tomorrow, and she’s doing some stitching to add a little padding in the hips. And Ruthie left a big black tee shirt with her band logo on it. We figure that since they know she plays in a rock band, they would expect her to be a little dramatic. So we’ll go with heavy makeup, contrast between pale skin makeup, nothing too Goth, mind you, and dark eye makeup. A heavy foundation will cover your tan line, and any little beard growth."

"Whatever, mom. I’m in your hands."

When the stuff was soaking into my hair, she tossed me a bottle of pale creamy green nail polish. A pretty shade, if you like green nail polish. "Go ahead and put it on. You remember how, I’m sure. The shade’s a nice contrast with the rest of your look, but not too much of one." I opened the bottle. The once-familiar smell of the polish filled my nostrils. Carefully, I began making vertical strokes. "Do your toes, too. We figure you can wear your own sports sandals tomorrow, they’re unisex enough, and your toes will show through under the skirt. And we’ll do more with your nails tomorrow, but this will get you through the night." After I finished my nails, Mom dried them with a hair blower, and then rinsed and dried my hair. Mom was on a roll, now. You’d think that she was enjoying this, like Ruthie used to. When my now-dark brown hair was dry and combed, she began tracing a line with clippers, starting at my temple, and moving back around my ear to the other side. "One of the principles of a good disguise is to change the general shape and pattern of your appearance so people won’t have that sense of instant recognition. So I’m going to pin up the bottom layer over this line I’m cutting, then clipper the sides and back short, up to where the bottom layer begins, so there’s some overlap. It’ll make your face look taller, even with the bangs. We’ll curl the top up good tomorrow. It’ll be cute, but tough, and punky enough looking for a rock band member." She finished the line, clippered the sides and back very short, trimmed the top, cut bangs into the front, worked the top a little bit with a curling iron, and then we gave in to exhaustion.

"By the way, mom, how do you know so much about disguises," I asked, as I took a last peek at my new hairdo and nails in the big mirror. She had also put some foundation on my face to hide any beard shadow, so it was really like seeing Ruthie in the mirror. "Oh, partly because it’s what I do—disguise people to look prettier than they are. And then there are those spy novels I read between appointments," she smiled. Then we turned off the lights and went upstairs. Renee was sleeping in Ruthie’s old room, so at least I got my old room back. But mom had redecorated it for company, and the peach walls and lacy curtains made a fitting environment for the young lady I now appeared to be. But soon I was asleep.

The night passed without any unwelcome visitors. Mom called at seven, and reminded me to shave closely. It felt strange later to come downstairs in a woman’s underwear, nightie, and robe, but it would only be for a day or two. After a quick breakfast, Renee went off to her work, and mom went to work on me. With me robed and in her chair, she combed out my hair and started rubbing more goo into the front part, and this time wrapped it in foil. "I decided to add some blond highlights and streaks into your bangs," she explained. Then came the painful part. I felt her daubing my earlobes with something that burned slightly and smelled—peroxide, I guess. My left ear had been pierced years ago, but the hole had grown over. I still remembered it, though, and guessed right as she moved the piercing gun onto my lobe and zinged the stud through. I wasn’t expecting the second stud in the same ear. "I think the minimum we can get by with is two in one ear and one in the other," she explained. "They will probably grow closed, eventually, if you don’t want to keep them, that is." Soon I had three shiny little studs in my ear. "We’ll exchange the studs for something more feminine a little later," she said, a little too cheerily. Great.

We took a break so I could go up and change into my skirt and rock band tee. As I sat back down, she gave me a cotton ball and a bottle of nail polish remover and asked me to remove last night’s polish from my fingers. As I did so, she studied my face intently, like a construction engineer studying a house that needed rehabbing. I guess she was an engineer, except I was the house. She replaced the foundation makeup and had me do my own lipstick, a dark red color. "We’ll do your eyes last, right now we’ll concentrate on your nails," she said. "I can put on a new color, if that’s all you mean," I suggested.

"No, it’s new nails, not just a new color. It will do a lot to make you look more feminine." With that, she spread on an adhesive on each nail a little, and then glued on these big, long plastic things. Although I had dressed up in my youth, this was my first experience with fake nails. "Are these acrylic nails?" I asked. Mom chuckled. "I could give you acrylics, but you would have to wear them for at least two weeks. Acrylics bond into your nails themselves. No, these are just a quick fix plastic nail, a little nicer than what you’d buy at the drug store." "Aren’t these a bit long?" I gulped. "Ruthie’s nails aren’t this long." Mom explained that once she got them all on she would cut them back in length and file them to shape. As she worked on them I felt a little more relaxed, and she chatted, catching me up with the town’s life. I chatted back, pleasant daughter that I am—or was becoming. In the middle of the process, she stopped and unwrapped the foil that I had forgotten was on my bangs. I leaned frontward over the sink as she rinsed my bangs and blowdried my hair. Then she finished trimming my nails, and I had to agree that the longish, pale-green, perfectly shaped nails looked nice.

Then came my eyes. She plucked a few more stray hairs, and penciled in spots to shape them better. I cringed when she pulled out the eyeliner. I have always hated it when people got near my eyes. If I ever need glasses, I’m sure I won’t get contacts—the idea of touching my eye makes me queasy. I followed her instructions with lids closed, then open and looking up, as she drew lines around the edges of my lashes. The eye shadow wasn’t so threatening. After I got up out of the beauty shop chair, mom did some more accessorizing. She had me swap my digital sports watch for a Minnie Mouse model, and gave me a ring from her junk jewelry box. It fit okay on my pinkie. As I surveyed myself in the mirror, from my curly, tinted and streaked hair down to my green toes, I saw a slightly punky but attractive young woman. Anyone who knew Ruthie or me well could tell us apart if we were standing side by side, but I was still amazed at the combined results of shared genes and my mom’s professional makeover. I was done before ten when Mrs. Bruce, mom’s first customer of the day, walked in for her perm. "Why, good morning, Ruth Ann. I didn’t know you were back in town. It’s so nice to see you!" she smiled.

"Thank you, Mrs. Bruce." I smiled. "I don’t get home often enough, so I decided to take a couple of days off. And how are you?" So we chatted a few moments, then I excused myself. As the morning passed, I would nervously glance out the window to see an empty street and sidewalk. At nearly 11, the phone rang. Mom answered. "Ron? No, Ron lives in Chicago. He hasn’t been here since last Christmas, as I recall. Should I give you his number there? He’s moved? That’s strange. I hadn’t heard. I’m sure it was just to change his apartment. May I ask why you’re calling? Business? Well, I don’t know anything about his business—computers and all. But if you leave your name and number, I’ll let him know that you called. No? Well, thank you for calling. Goodbye." She hung up and grimaced. It was Al. Mom is one of the most honest people I know, so I knew lying was difficult emotionally for her—but to protect her brood, this mother hen would do what it takes. A little bit later, the phone rang again. Mom said, "Ruth, it’s for you. You can take it in the kitchen."

"Hi, Ruth. This is Wes. Two men are here looking for that no-good brother of yours. Was he planning to come visit while you were here? You don’t think so? I don’t either. He usually gives me a call when he plans to come visit. They say they will check back later, so let me know if you hear anything, okay? Are you looking as beautiful as ever?" I could tell by the sound of his voice that the speaker phone attachment on his phone wasn’t turned on, so I could talk to him privately.

"Mom’s done her work on me, if that’s what you mean. I think I can pass, but I hope I don’t have to. Thanks for covering for me. I will lay low, but I think that I can convince them that I’m Ruthie in case they see me. Just take care of yourself, and don’t get involved with them. They’re dangerous."

Wes answered, "Right, Ruthie. I can hardly wait to see your new hairdo. Those guys looking for your Ron saw your picture on the wall down here, and thought you were a fox." He was warning me. The picture he mentioned wasn’t large, and it included all the members of the Killer Butterflies. If they saw that picture, they couldn’t compare fine details or differences, but they knew at least a little bit of what Ruth looked like. After the call, mom and I talked. They knew for sure that Ruthie was supposed to be here. If they came by the house, would I be able to get in character enough to make them believe I was her? I should show no fear, and shouldn’t hide. Maybe that would throw them off balance. Wes had covered for me that I (Ruthie) had a new hairdo, so that should help explain the difference between me and the picture. Mom reminded me that the picture in Wes’s waiting room showed more ear piercings. Obviously, I didn’t want a whole row of piercings like Ruthie had in her left ear, so we compromised. One more high up on the cartilage, and then she used an eyebrow pencil to draw a few fake holes in my ears. The cartilage hurt, but the hole was close enough to where my ear folded around that it should be nearly invisible when I would be able to take the ring out. She wove a tiny, delicate hoop into my upper ear. Mom stepped back to look, smiled, and then her chin wobbled and she teared up. "For a second, I was just feeling satisfied, like I do when I help any lady look prettier. Then it hit me, you’re not any lady, you’re my son. It makes me feel guilty to have to do this to you."

I hugged her. "Mom, it’s okay. Really. I dressed up often enough with Ruthie, that it doesn’t really bother me—well, not much. It’s worth it if we can shake the two thugs off my trail." Then I told her the double date story, figuring we were too old now to get grounded, and to get her mind off the present problems. She laughed, and told me that Ruthie had told her about it years ago.

Just then, the doorbell rang. I could see through the glass in the door that it was the two thugs. Mom shot me a quick, nervous glance, put on a smile, and walked to the door. I sat down and picked up a magazine and began flipping through it.

"Yes?"

"Ma’am, I’m the one who called, Mr. Johnson. This is my associate, Mr. Wilson. I hate to keep bothering you, but it is crucially important to your son’s future that I have a chance to talk with him. We knew he started this way, so we have reason to believe that he came to this town."

Mom answered, "Are you sure this is about business? You make it sound like he’s in trouble with the law or something, and that’s not like Ronnie."

"No, ma’am, it’s business. We like Ron, he’s a friend of ours, but he is involved in something that needs immediate resolution. If he ignores it and tries to run away from it, it will just keep on following him and mess up his career opportunities and his whole life pretty bad. If he is here, you aren’t doing him a favor by hiding him."

Mom got a look on her face that would intimidate even a gangster. "Are you accusing me of lying, Mr. Johnson? You might just as well be on your way, or I’ll call the police." Even the tough guys stepped back and winced. "I’m sorry, Mrs. Garner. I wasn’t meaning anything of the kind. But please, if you do hear from him or see him, let us know. You know where we’re staying, I imagine. Oh—I’m sorry for being intrusive, " he said to mom, and looked over her shoulder. "Are you Ron’s twin sister? It is an amazing resemblance."

Time to act like I have no fear. "Yeah, I’m Ruth Ann," I said, walking toward the doorway.

Al asked, "Have you heard from your brother recently? We drove all the way up from Chicago to find him, so it’s important for him that we see him."

"No, I got an email a couple of weeks ago, but nothing recently," I shrugged. I stared over at Lou. "Hey, what happened to your ear? Get in a fight with Tyson?" I giggled. I smiled at Lou’s scowl. "Sure, guys. If I see him I’ll let him know you’re looking for him. Bye," I waved and grinned broadly. The skirt hid my shaking knees. The thugs took their cues and stepped away off the porch.

Mom and I laughed and hugged after they drove away. "It worked!" she cried. "We fooled them." But I wondered for how long. "They won’t give up this easy. We’ll still have to be careful, and try to wait them out. They can’t stay here forever, I wouldn’t think." Mom agreed. "However long it takes, though, we can do it. I’ll call Renee and have her stop by the thrift store over in Cherry Hill and pick up some more clothes for you, in case this masquerade lasts a couple of more days. Then we’ll be home free, and you can be my son Ron again." She paused. "But you make a nice daughter, too."

That afternoon, mom and I talked between her beauty clients’ visits. During the visits, I just sat back and tried to plan out how I could disappear, where I might go, how I might start a new identity. Maybe Wes could help. But how could I just stop being me? Of course then I glanced down at myself, and noticed that at least temporarily, I already had. At least I hoped that Renee would pick up some clothes that were more in my generation than hers.

 

Chapter 4—Caught!

I had been at home for nearly 24 hours, and for over 20 hours I was in my girl mode, trying to hide from the thugs that had followed me. Every now and then, I would see them drive by, or sit parked up the street. Renee was late—she had called saying she would run over to Cherry Hill to try to expand my feminine wardrobe at the mall there, and would grab some fast food in the food court. I was setting the table while mom was cooking up something.

The phone rang. Mom had just started down the basement steps to get something from the pantry, and called up, asking for me to answer it. Actually, she called me Ruth Ann, to remind me to stay in character.

"Garner residence, Ruth Ann Garner speaking," I said, expecting to chase away a telemarketer or take a message about an appointment change.

"No, Ronnie, this is Ruth Ann Garner speaking," said my sister. But something was wrong—I could hear tension in her voice. My stomach tied up in knots. I stammered a bit. She went on. "Ron, I don’t know what kind of trouble you’re in, but there’s a real slimeball here in my apartment, says his name is Lou, and that you are to do what he says or I get raped and cut up. I’m furious and frightened, and my legs are tied to a chair with duct tape."

"Oh, no, Ruthie! I’m…I’m sorry. Let me talk to him. I’ll do whatever they want. Whatever they do to me, I won’t let anybody hurt you."

Then Lou’s voice came on the phone. "Ronnie, the boys tell me that you’re really cute in your girl clothes—almost as cute as your sister here is. Now if you want her to stay cute, you will do exactly as I say. If I don’t get a call in fifteen minutes from the time I hang up, saying that you’re in the place that I’m sending you, it will be a very uncomfortable night for your sister, and she will carry the marks of it with her for the rest of her life. First of all, no police, obviously. Second, I want you to go to your friend’s tattoo parlor, alone. Al and Bart will meet you there, and will call me. Third, don’t tell your mother or anybody else what’s happening. Just say you’re going to your friend’s and might be there for awhile. Fourth, don’t take time to change. Just go." I tried to plead with him, to ask to talk with my sister again, but he hung up. I was trembling all over, and underneath my makeup I knew that I was as white as a sheet. I better not let mom see me so shaken.

"Mom," I called, trying to sound as calm as I can. "That was Wes on the phone. There’s a problem over there, and he insisted that I come over. It’s kind of an emergency. I don’t want to leave you alone or miss supper, but I do need to go now. I’m really sorry."

Mom started up the stairs, frowning. "Is this about the men who are after you?"

"Mom, I really can’t say. But I’ll be all right. Wes will help me." She asked if she should call the police. I broke down crying. "Mom, one of them has Ruth Ann. Terrible things will happen to her if any of us call the police. I wasn’t supposed to tell you. Please—just wait and try to be calm. I’ll be okay. I promise." I turned and hurried out the door.

As I walked, I worried. I needed to try to save Ruthie, no matter what. But what would that mean? They would beat the living crap out of me, of that I was certain, and I would have to let them. Then they would probably drop me in a ditch, battered and bleeding. Someone would come along and see a battered girl, and call 911. Then when I got to the hospital, they would discover it wasn’t a girl. Well, I could never come back to this town, again. But I wasn’t going to run away—at least not this time. Then I wondered. Why did they want to meet me at Wes’s place?

In five minutes I was at Pine Needles. The closed sign was in the door, the blinds were pulled, but the lights were on. I knocked. They let me in. Al was on the phone and he motioned me over to the big barber-style chair that Wes used in his work. He talked into the phone. "He’s here, Lou. Followed instructions like a good little girl. Don’t do anything to the twin, for now, anyway. With her, we have all the leverage we need over him," he looked at me, "Don’t we, honey?" I flopped into the chair. It sounded like it would be a long, long night. "Please," I begged. "I will do whatever you want. Just don’t let that crazy man hurt Ruthie."

Wes just stood in the background, looking scared. "Wes?" I asked. "What’s going on? Why are you involved in this?"

Wes started to open his mouth, but Al interrupted. "Wessie here is your business partner now. He’s guaranteed your loan for us."

"Wha—what does that mean?" I stammered. Al leaned over and looked coldly into my face. "It means, dearie, that you may be alive by the time morning comes. With as large a debt as yours, we came hunting for you. If you had no way of paying, we would have had to cut our losses—and use your disappearance, and the discovery of your body, as an example. Wes, though, saved you from that. But we are still going to make an example of you—a living one, not a dead one. Let me ask you something. Are you and Wes sexual partners?"

Wes looked shocked. So did I. "No. We’re straight. Wes and I are close friends, but that’s all!"

Wes added. "Ron is right. He saved my life, now I figured it was my chance to save his. Simple as that." I could see Bart snort. The phone was on speaker. I wondered how much Ruth was hearing, and how much she already knew about my situation.

"One other question. Do you enjoy dressing up like this? Would you like to be a girl? I never knew you were into that scene before today."

"No," I said. "Ruth used to dress me up sometimes when I was a kid. It was just a game we had. I can honestly tell you that this is my first time in women’s clothes since high school, and this wasn’t my idea. My mom and older sister thought I might throw you off the trail this way. It didn’t though, did it?

"Actually," Al said, "this afternoon we didn’t know. We figured you were your sister. But Lou had flown to Minneapolis this morning to track down your sister, and see if you had gone to visit her. When he called to say that he had found her and she was there, we put two and two together. We came back to visit your friend Wes here to get a better idea of what was going on. Then we realized how easy it would be to get to you through your sister. Nobody can call the police or run away without the other getting hurt." Al turned to Bart. "Tie him down, Bart." Bart started tearing off pieces of duct tape and taping my wrists and ankles to the chair. "This is just like your twin sister is tied down, dearie. Keep that in mind. And I’m really glad you told us—and Wes confirmed—that you aren’t a tv or transsexual. We wouldn’t want to be doing you any favors."

"So what are you going to do?" I asked. Al grinned. "It’s not what I’m going to do, it’s what your best friend is going to do to you—if you don’t want your sister cut up. Since you chose to hide behind a dress, we thought you should stay behind one. You’re really cute like this, dearie. So we’re going to give the world one less ordinary guy and one more cute woman. With your best friend’s help, you’re going to look like a woman permanently."

I could hear my voice, Wes’s voice, and Ruth’s voice shout "No!" all at once.

Al just said, "Lou, did you hear that? Here is your chance to do a little encouraging." I could imagine Lou pulling out his knife, holding it closer to Ruthie.

"Wait!" I shouted. "Go ahead and do whatever you want to me, just leave Ruth Ann alone. Don’t hurt her. Please. You’ll get your money somehow. Do what you want to me." Art picked up the permanent tattooing poster and smiled. Bart started looking at some of the piercing jewelry in the display counter and smirked.

Wes shouted, "No! I can’t tattoo or pierce anybody against their will. It’s not right. I can’t"

Al looked at Wes coldly. "So you would rather have your best friend’s twin sister get her face scarred for life—and the rest of her, too."

I jumped in. "Wes, please. It’s not against my will. Do whatever they say." I noticed that Art and Bart were looking at Wes for his response. I mouthed silently, "but stall." I wasn’t sure what good it would do ultimately, but perhaps something could get us all out of this.

Wes nodded. "All right. If it’s what you want, Ron."

Al smiled. "Okay, on with the makeover. I know that tattoos can be covered up and that piercing rings can be removed. But for as long as you owe us money, which will probably be quite awhile, even with your friend’s help, you are going to stay looking like a girl. When you come to pay us, at least once a month, everything that we add to your looks tonight had better be there. And if we hear that Ronald Garner is living as a man in between those payment visits, you will find yourself living as a prostitute, paying off your bill by working in a cathouse, pleasing customers with special interests in she-males. Do you understand?"

Did I understand? I was overwhelmed. How could I get through this? But I had to protect Ruthie. I nodded. "Whatever you say. Just don’t hurt my sister."

"Lou, don’t do anything to hurt the chick unless I tell you," Al said over the speakerphone. "Describe her to me." A pause. "Yes, I know she looks like a prettier, female version of Ronnie. What about jewelry? A whole row up her left ear? How many? Six? What about the right? Only two, and at the bottom? Any other obvious piercings? She has a little hole in the left side of her nose like she used to wear a nose ring? What about tattoos? On the little picture here, I thought I could see something dark on her neck—left side. A little butterfly? Cute. Okay, that gives us something to start with. Just be cool and stay by the phone. Thanks." Al walked away from the phone and looked at my left ear. He said, "We’ll start with the ears. I noticed those silly dots. Now we have time to run real earrings up your ear. Wes, your friend needs to have an earring in each dot."

Wes nodded, and slowly gathered some disinfectant that he doused up the side of my left ear, and then carefully measured the spaces. Punch. Another hole. He slipped a ring through it, with a little bead. Punch. Another. Punch. Another. Punch. Another. My ear burned with the pain of the repeated piercings. With the three mom had put in later, I now had a dangly one at the bottom, a tiny hoop in the top front part of my ear, and 5 rings between. Punch. Another. Six. My right ear already had two rings, though, just like Ruth. Then Bart spoke up. "You made me feel bad when you made fun of my ear at your house, dearie. I want people to stare at yours, too." He turned to Wes. "Put just as many in his right ear. Only use these little hoops," he said, pointing at the jewelry counter. Great. More pain. Like I didn’t have enough already. Wes got out the hoops, swabbed the ear, and began punching. One. Two. Three. Four. When he leaned back, I could see myself in the mirror, Only it wasn’t myself. It was a girl with jewelry-encrusted ears. "Now the nose," Al said. He walked back to the jewelry counter. "A dainty hoop or a pretty stud? Now here’s an idea. A little nose stud with a green stone, and an eyebrow hoop with a stone to match. Just like your pretty nails, and lovely eyes." I almost shouted for Wes to stop when he put the needle through my left nostril wall, but just ended up with a loud moan. Then he set the stud in place. Then he swabbed my right brow, pinched up a little skin, and dug through. Soon the eyebrow ring was in place. If I looked upward and to the right, I could see it there, at the edge of my vision, mocking me. Not only was I ending up looking like a girl, but I was looking like an overly pierced, geeky teen girl. And my whole face was hurting. But more than the pain was the fear. How much more would they do? How far would they go?

"Ronnie?" It was Ruthie’s voice over the speakerphone. "What are they doing to you? Are you okay? Are they hurting you?" I could hear the fright and tension in her voice.

"Ruth, I’m okay. Just try to stay calm, and it will work out somehow. Have you figured out what they’re doing?"

She hesitated and said, "They’re making Wes make you look more like me? More like a girl? Why would they do that? Please, Ron, don’t let them humiliate and hurt you on my account."

"Ruth, it’s not on your account. They were going to humiliate me and hurt me for running away from them. Since I was dressed up like you, this is just the way they chose. Once it’s over, it will be over," I lied. Once it was over, I would probably have a very difficult time passing as a man, for a long time. "Now you’ll be jealous," I added. "I have more earrings than you do—six in each ear." I heard her laugh. "That’s okay. Either one of us can change that. Don’t worry, Ron, the holes will grow over."

Next, Al informed Wes to make a butterfly tattoo on the left side of my neck. Wes looked through his flash and found a small pattern. "No, larger." Wes reluctantly explained that it was a design that he could enlarge as he drew it. Wes soaped and shaved my neck. If nothing else good happened tonight, I should at least be germ-free! Then I could feel Wes use some kind of pen to trace the design just below and behind my left ear.

During the process, I could barely overhear Lou talking to Ruthie, his voice carrying softly over the speaker phone. His words were obscene, as he described what his pals were doing to me, and what he’d like to do to her. Lou was a little sadist, and I’m sure he enjoyed his little games. I just hoped that it would stop with psychological sadism, that Al and Bart would keep to their promise of not letting Lou hurt her if I cooperated.

I had never been tattooed before, not wanting to deal with the pain. So when Wes finally picked up the instrument, I was anticipating the worst. I winced as he started slowly retracing the drawn pattern. It stung, but not as bad as I anticipated. He mouthed "sorry" again, and I mouthed, "It’s okay." As the electric needle kept slowly tracing its paths on my neck, I kept thinking that people do this voluntarily, so I should be able to deal with it.

After what seemed like a long time, Wes asked, "Monarch?" I asked what he meant. "Do you want the butterfly to be a monarch? Orange and black?"

"Oh sure. That’s fine, I guess." Then he changed ink and filled in the spaces in the design. From time to time he showed it to me in a hand mirror. It was attractive. If only I wasn’t a guy underneath. As Wes worked, Al and Bart gave me some unpleasant hints of what was to come for both Ruth and me when the work on my "makeover" was done. It was going to be their play time. "But you promised that Lou wouldn’t hurt Ruthie!" I shouted.

"This won’t hurt her, those rockers are pretty free with sex," Al grinned. "It’ll be fun."

"It’ll be rape," I heard Ruth shout. I noticed that Wes kept working slower and slower.

Finally the butterfly was done. "Now do the eyebrows," Al commanded. "What do you mean?" Wes asked. "Permanent cosmetics. Shave his eyebrows, and tattoo the arched, feminine thin kind above his old ones, so they’ll show if he lets his old ones grow out." My eyebrows went up. I didn’t know they were planning to take it this far. What else did they have in mind? I could hear Ruth yell at the speaker phone. "Ron! Don’t let them do that. A lot of times shaved eyebrows never grow back. You’ll be stuck."

Al chortled. "That’s the general idea." Wes commented. "What would look better would be just to shave off the outer part of the brow, to about here," he pointed just inside of mid-brow, and take the arch up from there, like this." Al agreed. Damn. Why was Wes being so full of good ideas? Well maybe half-brows would be better than none. Wes got out the razor again, lathered my brows, and shaved the outer parts, and narrowed the part that was left. He spent a lot of time looking and measuring, and sketched some lines on my brow. "Like this?" He asked Al.

"No, thinner," Al said.

"Thinner?" Wes asked. I groaned.

Wes drew again. "Yes. And a little higher," Al commanded. Wes finally reloaded the tattoo machine and slowly began making short strokes, re-creating the hairs of my brow, according to its new contours. He changed ink again to a slightly different shade to make the new brows look more realistic. Yes, it hurt. And I was miserable, knowing this might be the most difficult part of my makeover to undo. Then, following Al’s next instructions, Wes carefully cleaned the makeup off my eyes. He began to tattoo on the permanent eyeliner, a dark line along the brow line on each lid, to make my eyelashes look darker and my eyes more feminine. Did I tell you how I hated stuff poking around my eye? And this a vibrating needle. I had visions of me jumping and it slipping, and me needing a white cane. It didn’t happen, but I was a nervous wreck by the time Wes finished. I barely remembered hearing Ruthie tell her captor that she needed to go to the bathroom, during the eyeliner time. Al told Lou to cut the duct tape loop that held Ruthie’s feet to the chair and let her hop to the bathroom, but to keep her wrists taped together. I could hear the thumping as she hopped.

"Next, let’s give our little sissy some pretty red lips," Al said. "Nice, full, red, kissable lips—then we’ll be done with our work."

I groaned. Wes winced, guiltily. "I hate doing lips," he confessed. Wes was slowly beginning to reorganize his equipment when we were all startled to hear a loud crashing sound over the speakerphone. "Lou!" Al shouted. "What’s going on?"

"Lou isn’t able to answer, scumbag!" I heard Ruthie crow. "Twin brother, you owe me a new field hockey stick. I broke my old one over the creep’s head. He’s out like a light. And I have the little jerk’s knife. Stop doing whatever you’re doing to my brother now," Ruthie demanded. "You don’t have the leverage now that you had earlier. Now it’s time to do things my way."

Al squirmed. "What do you mean, your way?"

Ruthie’s voice came through loud and clear. "Just go back where you came from and leave my brother alone. Forget the money you say he borrowed. Or else I call the cops and have your friend here arrested for attempted rape. By the way. Did I mention that my fiance is also a tattoo artist? I’m going to have him come over with his equipment, and we’ll do to your friend what you’ve been doing to Ronnie. That will make him really popular at the state pen, a real dream date, if he gets there—unless he turns states evidence against you to avoid the trip. I’m going to hang up now to call John, and I’ll call you back in five minutes." I heard the phone click. Wes looked as relieved as I felt. "Yes!" I shouted. Bart looked worriedly at Al. "What are we going to do?" He asked. Al shook his head slowly and dialed another number, switching off the speaker. He talked, listened, nodded. Then I heard him mumble something to Bart, beginning with "She said…." Was he referring to Ruthie, or to the person he was calling? I wondered. I suspected for a long time that the loan sharking organization was bigger than just Al, Bart, and Lou. Could it be a woman was their boss? Perhaps it was Altha, the woman who ran the bar where they hung out. Maybe this feminization thing was her idea—it seemed to take a bit more imagination than those three were capable of.

The phone rang. It was Ruthie calling back. The speaker was still off, so I could only hear Al’s part of the conversation, and not all of that. He had his composure, his toughness back. He let Ruthie know that she wasn’t as much in charge as she thought, but we were in a stalemate, a standoff. If she and her boyfriend did to Lou what they had done to me, or if they turned Lou in on attempted rape charges, they would have to watch their backs the rest of their lives, and they would do later what they didn’t do to me tonight. But they were willing to quit their work on me. My humiliation had gone far enough. Evidently, Ruthie agreed to his terms. He nodded and hung up. Now we were back to status quo. He turned to me. "Okay, pretty girl. Your friends saved your neck—the guy here by backing up your loan, and your sister by wielding a mean field hockey stick. Wes is going to meet me in the morning with a down payment. A month from today, you will meet me at the bar in Chicago, all piercings and tattoos intact, in full female garb. No change in the interest rates." They turned and walked out.

Wes looked at me. "Ron, I’m so sorry. I hated doing that to you." "It’s okay, " I muttered. Then I started bawling. What a man I was. Finally, I got my composure enough to gulp, "Mom and Renee need to know I’m okay." Wes called them for me, and explained to them I wasn’t hurt badly, but was so stressed out and tired that I should spend the night at his apartment. I hadn’t planned on that, but it made sense. I was too tired and drained to move. In the conversation, I heard Wes talk to Ruth. She must have been on the phone with mom and picked up on the three-way. I just sat, numb. Wes told me later that Ruthie and her boy friend would come down tomorrow, and should be in Pinewoods by late afternoon tomorrow. My head throbbing, I limped upstairs, took off my skirt, and collapsed on the couch. Wes threw a blanket over me. Amazingly, I fell asleep.

 

Chapter 5—The Next Days

I slept fitfully. How could I start a whole new identity, pretending to be a woman? How could I go back to being a man when—and if—this ordeal ever ended? What would everybody think? Every now and then I would stir. Wes would give me a pain killer and a glass of water, and daub some soothing antiseptic lotion on my tattoos and piercings. Usually, I would moan and go back to sleep. About mid morning, I woke up as Wes came in the door. "The bad guys are on the way back to Chicago, Ron," he said. "I gave them their first payment--$2,000."

I groaned in guilt. "Wes, why are you doing this? And how can I ever repay you? Especially with me like this?"

Wes stared at me. "You’re worth it. You saved my life. You were there for me then, and I’m here for you now. We’ll find a way for you to get back on your feet again, I have faith in you. I have some ideas that might help, but I need to talk them over with John after he gets here."

I thought for a moment. "John? Oh. Ruthie’s boyfriend. He’s coming too?"

Wes tossed me a white jogging suit with pink trim, and a pair of pink sneakers. "Renee dropped these by. She brought them yesterday evening after work to help keep your disguise going, before she knew that those guys caught up with you. Might as well put ‘em on. She told me there were a few more things, but they’d be at your house. By the way, John is Ruthie’s fiance now. She told me last night."

As I slipped on the sweats, I said, "Swell. The big motorcycle guy-tattoo-artist is going to have a great impression of his prospective brother in law."

Again, Wes studied me. "Actually, he thinks quite highly of you. He knew that you didn’t run away from those two because you were trying to keep Ruthie safe. He said it takes a real man to do that, no matter what you look like. Actually," he paused, "I think you look pretty great." My face fell. Wes blushed. "I’m sorry, Ron. But you are attractive. You don’t have to worry about not passing as a girl, if you should choose to live as one."

"If I should choose? Do I have any option?" I shouted. "Yes," Wes quietly answered. "You can take out the piercings. The tattoo work can be cleaned up. You can disappear, like you planned originally. I’ll help."

I shook my head. "Then I’d leave you to take the rap, since you’re my business partner now. They’d take you for everything you had and beat you to a pulp for letting me get away. No, I’ll play the game by their rules. But who am I? I can’t pretend to be my sister. How can I get a job? I have no ID or anything."

Wes answered. "I told you I had some ideas. Just hang in there with me, and I’ll hang in with you. The ID thing can be arranged. What did you call yourself on that famous double date?"

"Ronni," I said. "Short for Veronica. Veronica Annette, I think it was. Funny how I still remember that."

"Veronica Annette it will be, then. Now get some more rest." And I did.

About 2:00, mom came by. I was still really dopey feeling from the stress and the painkillers, but I got out of bed. She broke down crying when she saw me, and kept saying "I’m sorry." She was upset because she felt responsible for what had happened to me. If she hadn’t agreed to dress me up…. Well, I tried to convince her that if they hadn’t chosen this method to intimidate and humiliate me, I might have ended up crippled. One thing I’ll say for her, though. When she found out that I was planning to live as a woman rather than to run away, she promised to help and support me in any way she could. We hugged and cried. She left after I told her that I planned to stay at Wes’s the rest of the day and into tomorrow, at least until Ruthie came and went. We didn’t want too many people seeing too many Ruthies.

About 3:00, I heard someone come in downstairs. I cringed, still not wanting to see anyone, or let anyone but Wes see me like this. But Ruthie and this big huge guy who must have been John came upstairs. They were both wearing motorcycle leather. Ruthie hugged me. "Ronnie!" she cried. "We’re going to beat those scum. I love you, brother." She hugged again, then pulled back, and looked me up and down. "Except for needing a shave, you look good. You always did make a good-looking girl, of course I can say that since we’re twins. But you do look good. Oh!" she paused. "Here’s my fiance, John. We’re getting married late this fall, we think. You two will really like each other! John, Ronnie. Ronnie, John."

The big hulk shook hands, then hugged me. "It was a stupid mess you got yourself into, buddy, but you stood by your sister. You got guts, in my book. You also got me and the Leather Kings watching out for you. We don’t forget when somebody puts their life on the line for one of us." He nodded at Ruthie. She was evidently a Leather King while I was looking like a drag queen.

We sat down and talked. Finally, John McGinnis leaned back and looked me straight in the eye. "Wes showed me some of the designs you’ve drawn, and some of your web sites. Wes may not have mentioned it, but I made him an offer last month to move to Minneapolis and become a partner in my studio. Have you ever done tattoo work?"

I was flabbergasted. "No, I never even had a tattoo until last night. I never even thought about it."

Big John just nodded. "One of my operators, Ann, quit to have a baby, and I doubt if she will be coming back. If you’re willing to live as a woman through all this, you could take her place. A lot of the customers, male and female, prefer a woman artist. You could also build us a good web site. We’d pay well, of course, depending on how business goes. And you’d have time do whatever other kind of art you wanted to work on. I don’t want to embarrass you, but you might end up enjoying the whole thing."

Wes came in, "I may have a buyer for the store here, but it would take a few months. When we sell it, the money can finish paying off the loan sharks. We could live together to save expenses, if you don’t mind pretending you’re my girl friend." We both blushed. Ruthie howled in laughter.

I must have looked as confused and dismayed as I felt. It was all happening too fast. They had a feminine future planned for me. Ruthie picked up on my feelings. She asked me to go downstairs with her, so we could have some private time, and so Wes and John could make plans. Once we were out of earshot, she said, "Ron, those bastards did some terrible things to you because they wanted to humiliate you and defeat you. They wanted to break your will. You don’t have to let that happen. If you live as a girl, a woman, I mean, you have a choice. You can live defeated, frightened, and humiliated like they think you will, or you can beat them at their own game."

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"They want you to be miserable," she explained. "You don’t have to be. Enjoy your female role, have an attitude, even. Remember them asking you if you wanted to be a woman or liked to dress up and you convinced them you didn’t? Make them think that you always wanted to be a woman, and they just helped you along. Besides—forgive me for being blunt, but deep down inside you, there’s a part of you that would like to be a woman."

"What do you mean," I protested. "All my dressing up has been because you wanted me to. It was always your idea."

"But you never said no, and you usually ended up enjoying it," she smiled. "I even bet that when mom and Renee came up with the idea of disguising you, you didn’t fuss too hard, and you fit right into the role. I know you haven’t wanted to admit it to yourself, but you are very comfortable in the female role. I can’t say that it turns you on, but I don’t know that. Anyway, if you let yourself enjoy that side of your personality, you’ll do great. And it’s just until we get those snakes paid off, or you get off the hook some other way."

I looked down. "Maybe you’re right. But I don’t have much self-confidence. When I have to go back to the bar and pay my next payment, they will do everything they can to point out what they’ve done to me, what I’ve become, so they can use me as an object lesson. I don’t know if I can take that without crumbling. Then they might finish what they couldn’t do last night"

Ruthie always had an answer for all my protests. "When you go make those payments, you’ll have an escort. You’ll be a biker babe, like me, and you’ll be surrounded by some of the Chicago members of the Leather Kings. If anybody says anything rude to you, it will be at their expense, believe me. In between times, you can have any persona you want, but with our help, you can be one tough, beautiful, confident chick when you have to face them. Now, just like the old days, will you please be my twin sister?

"Well," I weakly smiled. "Let’s give it a try. You can call me Ronni—with i."

"One other thing, Ronni-with an I," Ruthie smiled. "I was going to ask you to be a groomsman at my wedding. I don’t think that will work now. But down deep in my heart, when I was a kid, I dreamed of you being my maid of honor. Would you? Please?" I never could refuse Ruthie anything. I laughed. "Sure, Sis. If you want me to."

We went upstairs. I agreed to be a part of their plans—roommate, tattoo apprentice, sometimes biker babe, and maid of honor. I probably would have agreed to anything at that point, since everything was just a blur. That night and the next day I still had some panic attacks, but we still kept talking about our plans for my new life.

By that evening, we all got in such a good mood that we decided to go out for pizza, over at Cherry Hill where people wouldn’t recognize us, sort of a replay of the double date several years before. I put on an embroidered blouse and a blue denim jumper that Renee had brought me two nights before, and two guys and two twin girls had a great evening, celebrating Veronica Annette Garner’s birth. At one point that evening, Ruth whisked me off to the ladies’ room. "Sis," she said. "I know that Wes is shy and everything, but if you’re going to convince people that you two are a couple, you’re going to have to start acting like it. Show some affection, okay?"

I cringed. My old fears of people thinking I was gay washed over me. Then I looked in the mirror and saw Ronni staring out at me. "Okay, I’ll try." Wes looked a bit startled when I reached over and squeezed his arm and smiled, but then he smiled back and reached over and gave me a little hug.

 

Chapter 6--Epilogue

Four months later, I am dressing for Ruth Ann Garner’s wedding! I’m wearing a pale blue gown, very simple in cut, and the kind I can wear to parties later. It’s long, so it nearly covers my very low heels—Ruth and I are trying to look identical, except for the dresses and the bridal hairdo, of course. My dress is low in back, and shows off the new butterfly tattoo on my right shoulder blade, a present from John and Wes to help us twin girls look alike. It should be quite a wedding—I was surprised they wanted a formal church wedding, and the church has probably never seen such a crowd as it will see today—folks from the tattoo parlor, the bikers, and the Twin Cities rock band community. Wes is the best man, so I get to walk down the aisle with him. Seeing him and John in tuxes is worth the price of admission.

I take a moment to look back. After a few rough days, I took Ruth’s advice and began to let myself enjoy living in a feminine way. She was right. I had just been denying my deepest feelings. Now I am comfortable with who I am. And I am Veronica Annette Garner, just like my new Minnesota driver’s license says. We live in the Twin Cities now, Wes and I in our own apartment, within walking distance of the studio. I was a quick study on the tattooing, and I have two great web sites up and running—one for the studio, and one for my art. I even have time for my own art in the mornings, and am starting to sell some of that art over the internet. Have I ever been happier? No.

Ruth Ann and I are inseparable now—well, when she goes on her honeymoon, We’ll be apart for awhile. But now we ride together, shop together, play together. She jokes about me acting more feminine than she does, says I’m overcompensating. But I always was quieter. When I put on my biker babe persona, though, I can come through pretty strong. Al, Bart, and Lou found that out the hard way, when I was accompanied by a crew of tough-looking bikers every time I went to make a payment on my loan. John accompanied me all the way to Chicago for the first trip, and introduced me to the local Leather Kings. When Lou saw John, he ran out the back door. John and Ruth had made his night in Minneapolis pretty uncomfortable, as I understand. And I wouldn’t let them embarrass me. I flounced and flirted, gave them the money, and grinned.

Next month, I might be making our final payment. Pinewoods is having a small economic revival as a skiing area, and a sporting goods chain is wanting to buy Wes’s building. Or I might not be making my final payment, because some of the Chicago Leather Kings are also Chicago cops, and they are starting an undercover investigation of the gang. Either way, I’m likely to be home free.

But don’t assume that I’ll be back in pants and beard again. After about two months from that fateful night, Wes asked me what I would do when my "contract" was over and the gangsters paid off. It was awkward, but I finally blurted out that I was happy the way I was, and the way we were. He just grinned and hugged me. The next day he gave me an engagement ring. I began hormone therapy and counseling, and we want to get married after I go through SRS. That’s our next big financial goal, after we’re done with the loan sharks. Mom was unhappy about that decision, but she had promised to stand by me, and she did. She has even started giving me electrolysis when I go home to visit.

Now that I’m dressed and have finished my makeup, I go to help Ruth Ann, my sister, get ready for the wedding. She laughs as I carry one of her wedding presents into her dressing room—I wanted her to see it before I put it out with the others. it’s tied in white and pink but is long, flat, and bent in the middle.

"A new field hockey stick! Ronni, just what I wanted! Now I can really keep John in line!" We laughed together and hugged. I’m so happy for her. She’s happy for me, too. She has her twin sister. And after the service, I know who is going to catch the bouquet.

The End

 

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