Cross Dressing (22 page)

Dan brushed the dust from his black pants and shirt, then checked himself in the side mirror. He straightened his clerical collar, then turned to look at his future. It was a large tan ramshackle building, its paint sloughing off like skin from a snake. Broken windowpanes had been replaced with cardboard and the roof shingles were all but red dust. The place
lacked a lot of things, chief among them hope. It reminded Dan of his past—hell, it
was
his past. And just as he began to conjure unpleasant memories from his childhood, Dan felt something. It wasn’t a shiver or a shock, it was something he’d never felt and it wasn’t altogether unpleasant. Then, as quickly as it had come, it was gone. Dan shrugged it off as mild anxiety.

As he approached the front door, Mrs. Ciocchetti came out. She wore a black veil draped over a crown of gray-black hair as though she were mourning. Her face was despair personified.
Oh Lord
, he thought,
I hate dealing with old people.
It was too late to turn around. She had seen him already and, oddly, she had brightened like a star. She straightened up and beamed a silver smile. “Good morning, Father,” she said, crossing herself. Her tone was sweet and respectful, not at all what Dan had expected.

“Good morning,” he said, surprising himself with a smile of his own. The exchange was simple but no less striking for its simplicity. His mere presence seemed to have enriched this woman’s day. He had made a genuine emotional connection with a stranger without the aid of a gently manipulative longdistance phone call commercial, something Dan didn’t think was possible. It was the same thing that had happened at the grocery store, and it made him consider the responsibility that came with his new station. Ever since he’d put on the clericals, everyone Dan encountered looked at him as if he had something they longed for. Guidance? Hope? Wisdom? Well, something. It was something Dan wasn’t sure he could deliver.

Dan became aware of a slight tingling on the crown of his head. He didn’t know if it was the painful itch of eczema, the heartbreak of psoriasis, or something more divine in nature. In any event, it itched, so Dan scratched.

Dan went inside and wandered down the hall looking for
Sister Peg. His anxiety had vanished. He suddenly felt like he belonged here. The place was no longer a squalid tenement of hopelessness but a haven in need of repair—repair that Dan could supply. Walking down the hallway, Dan could hear a television and he thought he smelled cheese. “Sister Peg?” he called out, but no one responded.

Near the foot of a stairway, he poked his head into Alissa’s bedroom. At first he didn’t see her, but as he turned to leave, she caught his eye. She was sitting in the corner on the floor with her ragged cloth doll. Dan tried to look benevolent. “Hello,” he said.

Alissa looked up, giving Dan a view of her face. It was still slightly discolored from the healing bruises. Dan was struck cold. It was a terrible reminder of precisely why advertisers used images to convey their messages. The sight of this small damaged child was more powerful than Christ on the cross. It also reminded Dan of his childhood. He stepped into the room and crouched down. He hoped his clericals would ease the girl’s mind. “I’m not going to hurt you,” Dan said. “Are you okay?” Dan’s attempt at a tender smile resulted in lips that looked more like a disconsolate oyster.

Alissa pulled her doll closer and watched Dan with distrust.

“My name’s”—there was a long pause—“Father Michael.” It was the first time he’d told the lie and it stuck a little on the way out. The fact that he was lying to an abused child a mere ten seconds after first setting eyes on her may have added to the delay. “What’s yours?”

Alissa looked down at the floor and said nothing.

“Well, you don’t have to tell me if you don’t want,” Dan said. “I understand. I’ve been scared before too.” Dan suddenly felt emotions he’d locked away decades ago, feelings of abandonment and vulnerability. The fear of being small in a large world with no one to protect you. He wanted to comfort this little girl, but he had no idea how. He’d had no practice.
Still, he had to do something. “I tell you what,” he said. “I’ll be around for a while and whenever you want something, you come to me and I’ll get it for you, how’s that?” Alissa looked up just the slightest bit. She seemed leery.

The tingling sensation suddenly returned. It started on Dan’s scalp and worked its way down his body. He looked at his hands hoping to see whatever it was, but it wasn’t visible. It was as if his soul had opened up suddenly and, in one clarifying moment, revealed to Dan that this was his chance to recreate himself—to be born again. The new, improved, holier-than-ever Dan Steele, as it were. “Don’t worry,” he said to the little girl. “It’s going to be all right.”

Dan backed into the hall and eased the door shut. He looked down at his outfit and, like a newly minted superhero coming to terms with the powers imparted by a change of clothes, Dan was reminded of the potential for doing good that came with his new outfit. It wasn’t the sort of good that came from convincing people that they needed whiter, brighter teeth, or fresher-smelling breath. This was real, sincere, honest-to-God good.

I’ve been put here to help these people
, he thought. It was so … not Dan. Yet at the same time, Dan couldn’t believe he had ever felt otherwise. Dan didn’t know whether to be euphoric or terrified. Naturally, he was suspicious of the whole thing, but even his natural skepticism couldn’t dampen this … this thing that had chosen him. It was the strangest thing, and he embraced it.

“Well, hello there.” The voice snapped Dan back from his rapture. He turned and saw a woman in blue jeans, a dirty work shirt, and a baseball cap. She was about his age, maybe a bit younger. She had wisps of brown hair, slick with sweat, stuck to the side of her face and she had the slightest crow’s-feet pointing to gentle brown eyes. After a moment, Dan realized he was staring. “Oh. Hello,” he said, blushing. As he
came back down the stairs he noticed the thing on the woman’s head wasn’t a baseball cap at all. It was a wimple, and that could only mean one thing. The woman wearing it was a nun—presumably
the
nun. “Oh, I’m sorry, Sister,” Dan flustered. “It’s good to see you again.” He extended his hand. “I’m glad to be back.”

Sister Peg gazed at him sympathetically. “You poor man,” she said. She reached over and took both of Dan’s hands. She looked into his eyes, her head tilted just so. “I am so sorry about your brother,” she said.

Her sincerity put Dan at ease. “Thank you, Sister.” Dan had been so struck by what was happening to him and by the image of Alissa that he’d forgotten he was supposed to be playing the role of the grieving brother. Despite his spiritual rebirth, Dan wasn’t convinced that “honesty is the best policy” applied in this situation. His practical side argued it was better to accomplish some good under pretense than confess and risk jail. “I appreciate that, Sister. He was my”—Dan nearly said “twin,” but he stopped—“my only brother. I don’t know how I’ll tell Mom.”

Sister Peg shook her head slightly. “It’s never easy,” she said. “But I’m sure you’ll find a way.” She motioned for Dan to follow her. “Let’s go to my office.” As they walked, Sister Peg wondered what Father Michael knew about her. They had met so briefly that first time, they were essentially strangers. When Monsignor Matthews arranged for Father Michael to work at the Care Center, he told Sister Peg a few things about Father Michael’s past. She wondered if the Monsignor had told Father Michael anything about hers.

As Dan followed Sister Peg down the hall, he made a list of the things he needed to do. The place was gloom central. There were holes in the drywall that needed repair, a door that needed to be put back on its hinges, and the industrial gray paint had to go. They went into Sister Peg’s cramped
office and sat down. Her desk was a storm of paper. Post-it notes with names and phone numbers were everywhere—these were the latest additions to her network of helpful cops, food-bank managers, and potential volunteers. Social service directories and books on how to write grant proposals were stacked like masonry, forming a wall on one side of the desk. Sister Peg moved a pile of papers from a chair and motioned for Dan to sit. She wanted to lend him a sympathetic ear before putting him to work. “Had your brother been ill?” she asked.

“He never said anything to me. It just came out of the blue.” Dan thought about that for a moment. Would Michael still be alive had Dan been more probing about his sickly appearance the day he arrived—or would that have served only to get Dan into the clericals sooner?

Sister Peg rolled her head to one side. “What did he do?” she asked. “For a living, I mean.” Her neck made a satisfying cracking noise.

“He was in advertising,” Dan said. “But he hated it.” This was the first time Dan had acknowledged this. It surprised him, but it was true. All that insane pressure and hustling and energy expended in an effort to differentiate one identical light beer from another. “The creative part appealed to him and he was good at it, from what I gather.”

“Sounds like a good guy,” Sister Peg said.

“He had his moments.” Dan was uncomfortable talking about himself in the dead tense, but he thought it would seem odd not to continue. So they talked about the late Dan Steele for a few more minutes before Dan turned the conversation to his duties and the residents at the Care Center. He wanted to ask specifically about the little girl, but since Sister Peg may have told Michael all about her, he feigned absentmindedness and just asked about her name.

“Alissa,” Sister Peg said. “She’s improved a little since you
saw her. In fact, she smiled a few days ago, thanks to your mom. But she still spends most of her time in her room.” Sister Peg rooted through the papers until she found a discouraging letter from the District Attorney’s office. “I’m still trying to get a court order to keep her dad away when he gets out, but the courts seem to think children should be with their parents, regardless of their parenting skills.”

Dan nodded. In the meager catalogue of things he refused to tolerate, the abuse and neglect of children was at the top, but there was nothing to be done in that regard at the moment, so Dan focused his energy elsewhere. “Sister, if you don’t mind, I think I should go see my mom and then maybe I should get to work.” As he stood, Dan noticed all the overdue bills among the papers on the desk. “Do you know where she is?”

“I think she went upstairs to play cards.”

R
UTH WAS PLAYING IT CLOSE TO THE VEST. “OKAY, SALTZMAN
.” She pointed at him. “Put a dollar in the kitty.” He scowled and did as he was told. Ruth peeked at her cards. “Now, who’s in?” She looked around the table at the competition. Sixty-six-year-old Mrs. Gerbracht was to her left. As always, she was wearing her giant black bouffant wig, copious wagon red lipstick, and a leopard scarf twisted around her crêpey neck.

“Mrs. Gerbracht, we’re waiting.”

Mrs. Gerbracht studied her cards as if they were slides under a microscope. “I’m thinking.” She’d been losing all morning with decent cards, so she didn’t have much faith in her pair of eights. “Fold,” she said finally.

Mr. Avery was the youngest of the older set at the Care Center. He wore a sporty checked shirt and had a spray of freckles across his cheeks that made you think he had played in the outfield as a kid. He was the only one at the table who didn’t wear glasses. Having gone for the long shot with a one-card draw, Mr. Avery was looking at four clubs and a spade. He looked around at his elderly opponents and wondered if their eyes were bad enough that he could get away with calling it a flush. He considered the stakes, then he flipped his cards into the middle of the table. “Shit,” was all he said.

Mrs. Zamora nodded approvingly. She was sitting next
to Mr. Avery and had been looking at his hand the entire time. She didn’t consider it cheating, since she had folded without benefit of drawing any cards. Mrs. Zamora knew the odds were far too long to improve what she’d been dealt. She reached over and took a cube of cheese from the nearby TV tray.

Mr. Saltzman lifted his wrinkled eyelids and looked at Ruth. He tried to read her, but the lines in her face weren’t revealing any secrets. He made a grumbling noise.

“You still alive there, Saltzman?” Ruth asked. “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.”

Mr. Saltzman glowered at Ruth. He looked like a crusty old prospector who hadn’t shaved in a few days; a patchy white growth of stubble covered his bony face. He looked back at his hand. It was the best he’d had all morning. He felt he was due, so he made his play “Straight to the jack,” he said, smearing the cards faceup onto the table.

“Damn,” Ruth said, prompting a smile from Mr. Saltzman. “You stayed with a straight?” Ruth chuckled. Saltzman didn’t. Ruth neatly laid her cards on the table. “Boat,” she said. “Jacks over treys.”

The other women at the table hooted and slapped the tabletop. Mr. Saltzman’s already unpleasant expression soured further. “C’mon, pay up,” Mrs. Zamora said.

“And put on the hat,” Mr. Avery insisted.

“Yeah,” Mrs. Gerbracht said, “you must do it with the fez on.”

Mr. Saltzman, who, at this point, was down to his boxers, stood and glared at everyone. He felt he’d been cheated, but since he couldn’t prove anything, he put on the hat. Then he hooked his gnarled thumbs on the frayed elastic band of his boxers and pushed down, revealing himself to be less of a man than he had led some to believe.

“Sweet Jesus! What are you doing?”

Everyone turned and saw the priest standing in the doorway. Ruth did a double take. “Playing strip poker,” she said. “Care to join us? That collar’s probably good for two hands.”

“No!” Dan said. He’d never seen a sight as unpleasant as what lay before him, a half dozen puckered bodies in various states of undress, one of which was his mother’s.