Right away, as I come out of the building, I’m drawn to a middle-aged man on the far side of the street. He’s leaning against the streetlight and obviously watching our front door. Now he’s watching me. I stare back at him for a minute, but he doesn’t turn away. One side of his mouth is curved upward, the insolent pose so artificial I want to laugh, even as his dark eyes dart across my body. His thinning hair is cut short and spikes up at odd angles, matching a scruffy beard that runs to his larynx. Pulled tight over a bulging chest, his sweatshirt bears the likeness of a wolf.
I slide my hand into the pocket of my khakis, the feel of the paring knife in its sheath comforting and familiar. If he means to do us harm, he’s chosen the wrong Carolyn Grand. I’m not afraid of him, not even a little bit.
Out of nowhere, Martha’s voice thrusts itself into my brain, followed by Victoria’s. They’re talking over each other, but the gist of their demand is plain enough. We’ve got a hearing tomorrow and our freedom is hanging by a thread. Just go about your business. Better still, turn around, get your dumb ass home and lock the door.
I’m not about to return to that prison they call a home. We’re into late September and I plan to enjoy the afternoon, what with New York’s street drama in full swing. Unfortunately, we’re two days short of our disability check and I’m completely broke, not a penny in my pocket, no rides on the MetroCard. I can’t buy a bottle of soda, which means I’ll be drinking from a juice bottle filled with tap water stashed in my back pack. It’ll be warm by then, warm bleeding into hot, but still a lot more palatable than the dry tuna sandwich. By the time I get to the tuna, it’ll be growing fins.
The man across the street folds his arms. He’s standing with his back against the streetlight, his feet crossed at the ankles. I stare back at him for another moment, hoping the ladies riding along with me will imprint his features. I’m thinking he’s a neighborhood freak, a jerkoff artist in search of inspiration. And maybe a little nearsighted, too, if he’s fixated on a man in a woman’s body.
I take a right and head off. I’m planning to walk along Flatbush Avenue to the Manhattan Bridge, cross the East River and walk around the Lower East Side. I’m not expecting anything to come of my jaunt, but my access is rare enough to make any time I get enjoyable. Only not today because the man, though he stays on his side of the street, unfolds himself and follows.
Again, I stop and face him directly. This time he appears startled, like he knows something’s wrong, but he’s not sure what it is. And me, I’m not the brightest star in the sky, because only at that minute do I grasp the obvious. He must know my father. My dead father. In fact, everything, from the stubble on his face to the wolf on his sweatshirt is wrong. The graying stubble is sparse and the wolf shirt would be more suitable on a fifteen-year-old playing street hood. This is a jerk who’s learned every lesson in prison, who will always look out of place unless he’s wearing a jumpsuit.
Too many conclusions? With no supporting evidence?
But I find more evidence in the swell of his biceps and the tree-trunk neck, in his Popeye forearms and his confused expression. Yeah, he’s spoken to Hank Grand about his daughter. And without doubt old Hank claimed that his daughter loved every minute, because that’s what he told everyone. His little girl was a natural whore. But if that’s true, what’s up with this dyke who’s just standing there, one hand in her pocket, like she’s not about to take shit from anybody?
The man reveals more of his street instincts by following when I turn away. He doesn’t take shit, either. I know at some point we’ll have to confront him, but the prunes have got it right this time. We have to get past the hearing and that means keeping the drama to a minimum. If the review board decides to commit us, we’ll be taken into custody on the spot.
And why not? After all, we’re crazy.
Well, if the boy can’t confront, he can still have a little fun on a pleasant afternoon when he can’t afford anything more exciting. I stroll down Lafayette Avenue to Flatbush, then turn toward the waterfront. I take my time, windowshopping at almost every opportunity, including a dog groomer’s and an empty check-cashing store. At one point, I take up a position at a bus stop, just another rider peering down Flatbush Avenue. I even glance at my wrist, just as if I had a watch.
But when the bus finally arrives, I walk away.
The jerk has to know I’m playing him by this time. Mocking him, really. Still, he keeps on coming, the way Hank Grand came after his daughter, testing the waters, stubborn and stupid. I lead him to Gold Street, then turn right. Two blocks later, as I pass the Eighty-Fourth Precinct, a uniformed cop, a woman, steps out of a patrol car. I dart across the street, hands raised, doing my best impression of a damsel in distress.
“That man,” I say, pointing behind me. “He’s been following me since I left my apartment.”
The cop, a sergeant, follows my gesture. “Do you know him?” she asks.
“I’ve never seen him before. But he followed me all the way from South Portland Avenue.”
She hesitates for a few seconds as she sizes me up. Maybe thinking I’m too butch to be a damsel. Finally, she nods and says, “Wait here a minute, I’ll check him out.”
Too late. When I look across the street, the man’s turning the corner. He’s almost but not quite running, headed toward Flatbush Avenue. The cop follows, in no apparent hurry, and I finally relax when she’s out of sight. Now I know something else about the man in the wolf shirt. He’s either on parole or has outstanding warrants for his arrest. I’m picking the former.
Five minutes later, the cop returns. She’s slightly out of breath, but that look in her pale-green eyes, the tight evaluation, like she’s looking into me, not at me, grows more intense.
“He jumped in a cab. He’s gone.” She hesitates. “You say you never met this man?”
“Never, but he was across the street when I came out.”
“And you’re afraid of him?”
I smile and shrug, done with the damsel ploy. “Let’s just say he was makin’ me nervous.”
She steps a little closer to me as she reaches into the pocket of her uniform blouse for a business card. “Well, you should be nervous. In your position, I’d be nervous, too. Here, take this. It’s got my cell number on it. If you need help, don’t hesitate.”
I’m wearing a man-tailored white shirt with the sleeves rolled to my elbows. Instead of handing me the card, the cop slides it into my shirt pocket, her fingertips lingering on my breast long enough to make her intentions clear, long enough for me to notice the wedding ring on her finger.
“Maybe,” she announces, her eyes boring into mine, “I should give you a ride home. In case that asshole is still in the neighborhood.”
“Excellent idea, Sergeant.”
“Sheila will do.”
“Excellent idea, Sheila. Better safe than sorry.”
We take a detour on the way to South Portland Avenue. To a deserted street behind an empty warehouse near the Gowanus Canal. Sergeant Sheila, as I begin to think of her, maintains a tough-cop attitude. She stares straight ahead as she drives, seeming indifferent. But when I lay my fingertips on the inside of her knee, then slowly draw it along her thigh, her leg trembles and the car lurches forward.
The ice broken, I can’t stop touching her. My fingers slide beneath the sleeve of her blouse to stroke the hollow of her armpit, the inside of her elbow, a dimple at the side of her mouth. I trace the curve of an ear and kiss the side of her neck, allowing my breath to wash across her cheek. Then we’re parked and in each other’s arms, mouths joined.
We stay that way for a long time, lips and tongues dancing, until I drop my mouth to the hollow beneath her chin, my hands to the buttons of her uniform blouse. Sheila has red hair cut short, and her pale skin contrasts sharply with the dark navy of her uniform blouse. I’m imagining her breasts, the milky white of her skin, but I’m still fumbling with the buttons when she pushes my hand away.
I straighten as she unbuckles the belt holding her cop gear: gun, mace, spare magazines, and a folding baton. The wide belt rests on her hips, and she slides it off easily.
“I don’t have a lot of time,” she tells me as she stuffs belt and hardware into the space between the seat and the door.
I watch her fumble with the zipper on her pants, then slide pants and panties down to her ankles. I don’t resist when she draws my left hand down between her legs. I don’t protest when she opens my pants, my relaxed-fit jeans, and easily slides her own hand beneath the boxers I’m wearing. It’s been a long while since I touched another woman’s body and I’m ready to provide whatever she wants. Eyes closed, I give way to my sense of touch, stroking, probing, until she begins to squirm, then to thrash, until she finally grabs my wrist. To slow me down, speed me up? I ignore her, continuing at my own pace until she lays her head against the headrest and her body goes limp.
Only a few minutes later, our clothes in place, I’m asking her to drive me to Flatbush Avenue. As we make our way, seeming to stop at every light, Sheila tells me that she’s been transferred. Beginning next week, she’ll be working with a vice unit stationed in the North Bronx. As I didn’t have any real expectations in the first place, I’m not exactly broken up. One-night stands are the only stands I’m likely to get, me and Eleni, and we’re used to it. Still, I nod once and drop my chin, like I give a shit. Like I haven’t had better.
I give Sheila a peck on the cheek as I back out of the car. She nods, her smile seeming almost painful. She wants to be rid of me, but I’m not through.
“One question,” I say. “The wedding ring?”
“Yeah?”
“A man or a woman?”
“A man.”