Shirley

by Connor

 

Shirley moved to town at he beginning of my junior year in high school. She was a sophomore, and of course the sophomore (and junior and senior) boys always check out the new girls. Shirley was a little different. She had long black hair, blue eyes, and very fair skin. She was thin and wore clothes almost like my mother’s. No jewelry, though most of the girls wore earrings and several bracelets, and no makeup. The athletes, the guys who got first pick, looked her over and moved on.

As usual, I went out for soccer that fall and, as usual, was cut the second day. I am not, never was, and probably never will be an athlete. I’m small, slow, and have absolutely no "ball sense." But I love sports, all sports, even though my future seems to be as a spectator rather than a participant. The only sport I’m any good at all at is shooting. I’m not bad with a rifle and pretty good with a pistol. It’s kind of weird, really. My family and I are always involved in antiwar rallies, but I shoot. Anyway, I wasn’t too down walking home that afternoon with my soccer shoes and shorts in a bag over my shoulder. As I passed the front door of the high school, Shirley came out. "Hi," she said as she came down the steps.

To that point I’d never had a close enough relationship with a girl to exchange two consecutive whole sentences, but I wanted practice. "Hi yourself," I shot back. "You’re new here, aren’t you?"

"Yes." That’s all she said. No more, no less.

"Where did you go to school last year?"

"I just moved here from Chicago. I went to Longwood there."

"Never heard of it." That sounded bad, so I added, "Not that that means anything. Oh, I’m Charley Barton."

"I’m Shirley Manley. Nice to meet you."

It turned out that her house was near mine, right on my way home. So we walked home, and I learned a lot about her. Her mother was the night manager at the UPS depot and her father was a steamfitter who didn’t work all that regularly. She had only a brother who was out of high school and had stayed in Chicago; he was about the same age as my sister Marcy, who was away at college. She’d never had a boyfriend, just like I’d never had a girlfriend, and she knew almost no one in town.

There was a short silent pause, once this data had been passed, and then she asked, "Do you like rap?"

"Can’t say that I do. I really like jazz, some of the old timers. Like Charley Barnett, Dizzy Gillespie, Marian McPartland, Dinah Washington."

"What about Lionel Hampton?"

"Wow, you know him? You must like jazz too." For the next two blocks, we tossed names and recordings back and forth like a frisbee, each trying to outdo the other. Our tastes were amazingly similar, and she started smiling. Made quite a difference in her appearance.

"I turn here." Her street was a block before mine. "I live just up the street." She was suddenly glum.

"I’ll walk you up that way."

"No, please don’t. Not today, anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow." Even burdened with an armload of books, she was able to run up the street.

The next morning I left home early so that I could wait at her corner to meet her. Mom was a little surprised; it was the first time I’d ever left the house early. Shirley appeared just as I got to her corner, and we had plenty of time to walk to school. We walked back and forth together that day and just about every day after that. But she never let me walk her up to her house. She started coming over to my house, though. She seemed more relaxed and comfortable there.

Then one cold afternoon it started to rain not long after we made it to our house. "Why don’t you take an umbrella and walk Shirley home?" Mom suggested as she left for work.

"It will probably stop by then," Shirley said, waving goodbye.

"Hey, it’s no problem."

Shirley sat down on our blue living room couch and looked at me. "Yes, it is."

"What?"

"It is a problem. My father can’t see me with a boy. He’d kill me."

"Why? You’re almost 15, aren’t you?"

"Yes. But my father is very jealous."

"Jealous? I guess I don’t understand."

Shirley started to cry, stunning me. I’d seen Mom cry after Dad died, but this was the first time I’d seen one of my friends bawling. When she was able to, she said, "If I tell you, will you promise that you won’t tell anyone?"

"Sure."

"No, I mean it. Promise me."

"I promise I won’t tell anyone, not even Mom."

The story poured out. Two years before, when Shirley was in eighth grade, her father had been home all day drinking. When Shirley came home late from school, he had spanked her for being late. The spanking had apparently excited him sexually, and he then raped her. He ensured her silence by threatening to kill her. The next day he took her again as soon as her mother left for work. She’d tried to tell her mother, but her mother told her she was having a common adolescent girl’s fantasy. So the incest went on, she told me, two, three, even five days a week. Sometimes on weekends, when her mother went to the grocery store, her father would pull her into the bedroom. School and my house were the only places she felt safe from him.

And he’d forbidden her to have anything to do with boys. Her father told her that he was the only man she’d ever need, so she shouldn’t bother with anyone else. He said he’d castrate any boy he saw with her. He was 6’5" and weighed over 260 pounds, so he probably could carry out his threat.

Once she’d brought a girl friend home. Her father had been polite for a little while, then started drinking. He’d exposed himself to the friend, suggesting that maybe she’d like to taste him. She’d run out of the house. Shirley had persuaded her friend that it was only because he was drunk; that this was a very unusual occurrence. But she never again invited anyone over.
The tears were streaming down her face as she finished telling me the story. I had my arm around her shoulders, using my other hand to dab at her tears with my handkerchief. I didn’t know what to say. I’d always assumed that all the girls I knew were virgins, but here was a close friend telling me that she had regular sex—with her father. "I wish there was some way I could help," I told her. "He must be a monster. I don’t know how you could live there!"

"What choice do I have? Thank you so much for your offer, but I really don’t know how you can help me. I do appreciate the thought." She smiled, a smile that passed across her face and faded immediately.

"Would you like to take my pistol home with you? Even if you don’t load it, it might be a dissuader."

"Thanks, I don’t think so. He’d know I wouldn’t shoot him. I just feel so helpless." She was wringing my handkerchief with both hands.

"Well, if you do think of something, let me know."

It’s funny, but somehow I saw Shirley differently after that. She was a sexually experienced woman, while I was still just a boy. But I kept reminding myself that she was my friend, and we pretty much returned to normal. She’d come over to my house after school, and we’d watch TV or do homework or listen to jazz or just goof off.

One day Shirley noticed a picture Marcy, my sister, had sent home from school. She looked at it very closely and commented on the family resemblance. "How tall is she?" she asked.

"About 5’5"—like me."

"Can you fit into her clothes?"

"Probably, but I never tried. Why?"

"I have the beginnings of an idea. Would you mind putting on some of her clothes?"

"Me? Dress like a girl? No way Jose. That’s weird—she’s a girl and I’m not." Still, I wondered what her idea might be.

"Please? It could be a help to me. Won’t you try it, please?"

What could I do? Eventually she won, and we went up to Marcy’s room. Shirley began going through Marcy’s dresser and closet, tossing clothes on thee bed. "I think that should do it. But first you’d better get shaved." She led me into the bathroom and looked in the medicine chest. "Here, spread this over your entire body, wait five minutes, then take a shower."

When I’d done as she said, I was completely hairless. The only place I had hair was the top of my head. Shirley knocked on the door. "Are you finished?"

"Yes, but my clothes are all out there."

"So wrap a towel around yourself and come on out."

I went back to Marcy’s bedroom and Shirley proceeded to dress me. It all happened so fast I didn’t know what had hit me. First was a pair of white cotton panties, not too different from the Jockeys I wear. Then a white cotton brassiere stuffed with two pairs of panty hose. Then panty hose and a white cotton slip. A plain white blouse and a navy blue skirt. Surprisingly, the clothes didn’t fit all that badly—at least they weren’t too uncomfortable. The shoes didn’t work. Marcy’s foot was a lot narrower than mine, even if the length seemed to be OK. "Put these on." Shirley gave me a pair of short cotton socks that didn’t go too badly with my white tennis shoes. "I don’t know what to do with your hair—it’s way too short to look feminine."

"Lots of girls wear baseball caps," I suggested. I was beginning to get into the spirit, even though I didn’t know the point of all this. "If I wear it backwards, it’s hard to tell how much hair I have."

"Good idea. And I’ll put a couple of handkerchiefs into it so it looks like your hair is pulled up." She looked at me with her head tipped to one side. "Not too bad, I think. But you still need makeup. Wonder what’s here?" She pawed through the stuff piled on Marcy’s dressing table and found a lipstick. "Here." She spread it on my lips, then watched as I blotted my lips on a Kleenex. "That should be good enough for our purpose," she decided. "What do you think?"

I stepped over and looked at myself in the mirror on the closet door. The image was of a girl. Not a pretty girl, not an ugly girl. Just an ordinary, run of the mill teenager. I shrugged. "What can I say? I won’t win any beauty contests, that’s for sure."

"Today you don’t need to. Come on."

"Where are we going? I don’t want anybody to see me like this."

"It’s not far. And who’ll see you and care? Come on, the quicker we do this, the quicker it will be over."

We walked fast—very fast. I was really worried about someone seeing me, but apparently no one did. At least I didn’t hear any shouts or laughter. As we walked, Shirly explained that she wanted me to see her father. "At least there will be someone else who knows what a scumbag he is. But don’t think you have to defend me or anything. That would only make it worse for me."

He wasn’t home when we got to the house, but he arrived soon after and immediately began making remarks about a ménage-a-trois with Shirley and me. "Scumbag" was a good description of him. He was very tall, very large. And his smell was even larger. I don’t think he’d bathed or shaved in a week or more, and his haircut was months old. He carried his beer bottle, a 40 ouncer, in one hand while he used the other to pat my ass and grope Shirley’s breasts. I almost hauled off and belted him, but a look from Shirley restrained me. He started to unzip his fly, but Shirley screamed and he pulled the zipper up again. Shirley grabbed my arm and dragged me out of the house. "Don’t forget," he yelled. "Eight o’clock in my room."

"Does he mean what I think he means?" I asked.

"Absolutely. I’m to be in his room at eight, stripped and ready for him."

"That S.O.B!"

"If I’m not there, he’ll beat the crap out of me."

"Can’t you go to the police or someone like that?"

"It would be my word against his. My mother won’t even believe me; why should the police?"

"But now I can testify to what I’ve seen."

Shirley nodded. "Right. So far all he’s done is grope us, as far as you can tell. But that’s only a start. And after all, the police may wonder why you are a boy dressed as a girl. We have to get him to go the next step."
"How do we do that?"

"I don’t know, but it shouldn’t be too hard."

Shirley came back to my house and we tried brainstorming. Nothing seemed to work the way we wanted it to. Finally Shirley had to go home.

Just after she left I got an idea. I looked at it from all angles and couldn’t find too many flaws. Right after breakfast, while Mom was still asleep, I called Shirley. "How did it go last night?"

She hesitated before she said, "I guess you turned him on pretty good. He mentioned you a half dozen times."

"While he was…doing you?"

"Yes. It seemed to excite him. He was so worn out he didn’t even try to find work today."

"I’m sorry. But that isn’t why I called. I’m not going to be late for school today. Upset stomach. I hope to get in later."

"I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do? I’ll stop by after school."

"Thanks. Oops, got to run. Bye."

I went back to Marcy’s room and picked out another set of clothes. I didn’t think I needed to shave or use the depilatory so soon, but I was careful doing my makeup. I jammed my jeans, sneakers, and shirt into my gym bag, grabbed one more thing from the basement, and went over to Manley’s.

I realized that Mrs. Manley might be home asleep, so I knocked gently on the door. I had to wait a few minutes, but Mr. Manley finally opened the door. He seemed surprised to see me, but he pushed the door wide open, grabbed my arm, and pulled me inside. He shoved me against the door as he closed it, and started to try to kiss me. I almost vomited right then and there. He smelled like a pigsty and his breath was like an outhouse. "Couldn’t stay away, huh, baby?"

I’d begun to chicken out, but when he grabbed me, I knew there was no alternative. I managed to get my .22 caliber target pistol out of my purse and pointed it up into the soft underside of his chin. He looked very surprised when I fired it. His head snapped back, his eyes opened wide, and he started to sag down. I pushed him away, not wanting to get blood on me, and put another bullet into his left eye as he sprawled on the floor.

I almost vomited right there and then. I had killed someone!

"Gerry? Gerry, are you there?" I heard Mrs. Manley calling sleepily from the bedroom upstairs, so I knew I had to be quick. It took only a minute to pull off the skirt and blouse and replace them with the jeans and sweatshirt from my gym bag. I picked up the two spent .22 long cartridges, put them in my pocket, and went home, trying not to run. I didn’t want to be too conspicuous. It took two minutes to put everything away in Marcy’s room and a little longer to clean the pistol and put it away. When it was all taken care of, I really did get sick.

The paper the next day had a 125 word article on page 3 about the killing. It was called a "gangland style execution," and the police never found a clue. They didn’t seem to look too hard. After the funeral, Shirley asked me if I knew anything about it. I dodged her questions. She thought I’d done it, though, and she kissed me for it.

That was twelve years ago. Last night I told Shirley the whole story after she’d put the kids to bed. It’s safe now, because wives don’t have to testify against their husbands.

 

 

 

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© 2002 by Connor. 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.