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Mister

By Dimelza Cassidy

Synopsis: A middle-aged cross-dresser becomes the legal guardian of a girl.

“Damn, a letter from a law firm. What could they want?” I asked out loud while sorting through the letters that I’d taken from the mailbox that sat atop a welded chain shaped like the letter “S” at the end of a quarter mile dirt drive.

My body tensed as I thought of the joke we call the legal and judicial system. I had been named in a buckshot product liability suit filed by a boob who crashed a bike he’d purchased from the motorcycle dealership I once owned. He crashed it less than a mile from my shop claiming the bike had a defective braking system. The manufacturer and I won the lawsuit, but it cost me thousands of dollars in legal fees and a night in jail after being held in contempt of court for telling the judge to shove the gavel up his ass. He had angered me by pounding his gavel when I rose to speak when it wasn’t “my turn.” Spinning wrenches was an exact science with customers demanding that bikes be fixed correctly the first time, while the law was deemed “A Practice.” I could never understand the difference between a law book and a shop manual – both had clearly defined procedures.

If the letter signaled another lawsuit or a verdict appeal I had no idea what I would do.

I opened and read the letter while walking back to the house.

                                               Ashford, Brown, Babbitt and Allen
                                                      Attorneys at Law L.L.P.
                                                                Tower II
                                                        37 Edgewater Street
                                                           Munro, Pa. 19990
                                                          Tel. 616-234-5789
                                                          Fax. 616-837-5309
                                                           e-mail abba.com

Mr. Oliver Jamerson
c/o Stevens V Farm
Rocky Top Way
Summit, Pa. 19919

Re: The Estate of Raymond Van Dyke

Dear Mr. Oliver Jamerson:

Please contact the undersigned at you earliest convenience regarding the above referenced matter.

Very truly yours,

Sondra Griffith, Esq.

“Raymond Van Dyke, Ray Van Dyke. Who the hell was he?”

I folded the letter and put it back into its envelope, stuck it in the back pocket of my jeans, walked back to the main house to put the mail in the owner’s home office, and then meandered out to the barn to change the oil and grease the John Deere Model “H”. I worked as a caretaker for W. Bennett Stevens, V.

As I watched the oil drain, the Ray Van Dyke name rattled around my brain; it seemed familiar, yet I couldn’t place it.

After the oil change, I drove the tractor to the south meadow, and then cut it back to give it the illusion of being a lawn. The heat of the day and operating a tractor with out air-conditioning or a canopy made it intolerable to work any time after two.

I shut down the tractor, and then walked back to the carriage house. I lived in two rooms and a bath above the area that once housed horses and carriages. The three bays had been converted over the years to accommodate automobiles and now provided residence for a Rolls Royce, a Mercedes, and a Corvette. My bedroom had been furnished with a mattress placed over a bed frame and plywood, and a night table. The kitchen doubled as a family room and was home to a couch and a television set in addition to a table and two chairs. The building was wired for electricity, but a Vermont Castings wood stove provided heat. My bath had a commode, a sink and a shower stall.

The Stevens allowed me to store my tools and motorcycle in the barn. Using my tools would be cheaper than buying their own and my transportation would free him from insuring a non-farm use vehicle.

Since I didn’t have a telephone and the one in the main house was off-limits for my personal use, I rode the bike the ten miles to the convenience store to use the pay phone to call Sondra Griffith, Esquire.

I punched in the telephone number that appeared on the letterhead, and then deposited twelve quarters into the slot.

“Law offices,” a female voice seemingly graveled by cigarettes groaned.

“Sondra Griffith, please. Oliver Jamerson calling. I received her letter dated June 30.”

“Hold please.”

I listened to a non-descript song played by an easy listening radio station.

“This is Sondra Griffith; may I help you.”

She sounded young. Perhaps late twenties or early thirties. Her supervising partner probably sloughed the case off on her deeming that she couldn’t screw up a simple estate matter.

“Oliver Jamerson,” I said as a pre-recorded messaged told me to deposit an additional four quarters.

“Mr. Jamerson, please give me the telephone number and I’ll call you back. Our conversation may take longer than a minute or two.”

I gave her the number and hung up. Moments later the phone rang.

“Mr. Jamerson?” she asked.

“Ms. Griffith?”

“Good,” she said. “Okay, Ashford, Brown, Babbitt, Allen have been named as executors of the will of Raymond Van Dyke and you’re named as one of only two heirs.”

“Excuse me, that’s all very good, but I don’t know a Raymond Van Dyke. Are you sure that you have the right person?”

“We’re sure. It took us some time to find you and to verify that you’re the person named by the late Mr. Van Dyke. I’d like to schedule an appointment to review the contents of the will. What’s your availability?”

“Well, I guess that I’ll have to schedule a day off. Let me check with my boss and call you back.”

The name Raymond Van Dyke, Ray Van Dyke continued to bounce around in my brain as I rode back to the farm. It sounded familiar, but I couldn’t place it. What could he be leaving me - a person he didn’t know? With my luck, I’d inherit his debts.

I used the telephone in the barn to call Mr. Stevens to inform him about the letter, my conversation with the attorney, my need for a day off, and permission to use the house phone to call back the attorney. There wouldn’t be sufficient quarters in circulation to accommodate additional pay phone sourced calls. He agreed to a day off of my choosing and the one time use of the phone.

I called Ms. Griffith and made an appointment for the following day at ten o’clock.

That evening, while sitting in the gazebo sipping chilled “Jack Daniels,” I recalled the circumstances that led me to this place at this time in my life. The lawsuit and the loss of my business had soured me. I’d worked my way up from entry-level mechanic to owner -- and wanted to share my passion for motorcycling with others. I called it love, while others called it naïve. Offer honest service, fair prices on new and used bikes and accessories, and modest returns on financing and brokering insurance had been my way. I paid my bills and made a small profit. My business motto had been “Hogs get fat, pigs get slaughtered.”

It all came crashing down when that guy bought the bike. Yeah, he had a license and a completion card issued by the State Motorcycle Safety Program, and had a trade-in, but
trading from an entry-level bike to a high-performance one required a different skill set. He ignored the alternatives -- choosing to buy with his ego.

After selling the business, I used the proceeds from the sale net of debts and legal fees to get lost in a sea of country roads, drinking binges, and women. When the money ran out I took the road home. Two hours riding time from the city I’d once called home, I noticed an advertisement for a caretaker on the convenience store bulletin board. The meager compensation offered satisfied my need for a room, employment, and sufficient money to buy alcohol.

My binges had driven away most of the business and legal demons, but not the one that haunted me most. I had a need to frequently cross-dress. I tried to run from it, but couldn’t hide. Its allure overshadowed bikes, women, and alcohol. The seclusion of the farm allowed me to dress after a day’s work. Regardless of how sore my muscles would become, it would recede by wearing a sundress, or a gown, or a skirt and blouse -- heels and make-up.

The sound of my watch chiming the hour snapped me from my stupor. With the bottle of “Jack” in one hand and my three inch-heeled sandals in the other, I staggered back to the carriage house.

***

I arose the next morning to ready myself for the two-hour ride to the city and Ms. Griffith.

With my riding gear in place, I threw my leg over “Bertha the bike,” the thirty-five year old Honda 750 -- the only bike I’d ever bought new, and with enough sentimental value to keep -- started and warmed it, and then headed off.

The barely paved farm roads held my attention in route to the highway. Both hobby and working farms gave way to housing developments that had sprung up instead of corn as farmers sold off land to developers that abutted roads. They built Mc Mansions - as many as they could. Five thousand square foot houses built on God’s little quarter acre. Who in their right mind would buy a big house on a small patch of land? I’d thought that the idea of a home ownership was to acquire land, build fences, plant grass, and then call it the Ponderosa.

The farm country twisty roads gave way to the straightness of the highway - ending any joy that would arise from a trip to an attorney’s office.

As I neared the city, the condition of the highway grew worse. I surmounted pot holes, swerved around man-hole covers, steel plates, and barely missed various and sundry debris, while drivers who sipped coffee, smoked cigarettes, applied make-up, shaved, all while holding extended conversations on cell phones, and reading their morning newspaper took my life in their hands the last ten miles of the trip.

The false safety of the Tower II underground parking garage loomed off in the distance, but the mid morning traffic had come to a standstill. Rather than sit in it and burn up a perfectly good air-cooled motor, I shut it off, dismounted, pushed poor Bertha up onto the sidewalk, and then began pushing her toward the glass and chrome office building.

At the top of the drive to the underground parking facility, I punched the machine for a ticket, threw a leg over Bertha, and then coasted down to the parking spaces. I put her in a dead space near one of the pillars, and then chained her to it. Early 70s Japanese bikes in original condition had become a popular black market export; and I didn’t want her to become someone’s new pride and joy as she basked in the sun on the French Riviera.

I pressed the elevator button and made the vertical trip to the law offices. The door opened to the waiting area and the bunker that housed the receptionist. It rivaled a Victorian drawing room - mahogany, oak, and leather, windows with views of the harbor, mirrors to make an already big room larger, and Persian rugs. If Van Dyke could afford attorneys that lived like this, then maybe I might make a buck or two out of this deal.

I announced myself to the receptionist who turned out to be Miss Gravel Voice. She punched a few numbers into the telephone console.

“Ms. Griffith, Mr. Jamerson has arrived.”

I couldn’t help but notice her nicotine stained fingers and teeth. ~Sexy~ I thought ~ The woman of my dreams. ~

In anticipation of my meeting with Ms. Griffith, my waiting time was filled with watching the harbor traffic. The view consisted of container ships being shoved around by tug boats, ferries shuttling commuters, sightseeing boats escorting tourists, a floating war memorial, and two cruise ships awaiting a full complement of vacationers.

~A pastoral bustle to lure clients into a mellow state. ~ I thought.

“Mr. Jamerson,” the voice from yesterday’s telephone conversation announced.

I turned to face the body that housed the voice. Had it not been encased in a bag of a business suit it would appear to be petite and possibly athletic. She was only about ten years my junior, despite a voice that still carried a high spirit.

“Yes,” I said while shifting my helmet and jacket to my left hand to accept her right that had been thrust forward to greet me.

“A pleasure to meet you. We had a devil of a time trying to locate you. You’ve no credit cards, bank accounts, utility accounts, or leases. Motor Vehicles had an address, but that wasn’t helpful. By luck we found you. Your fingerprints were on file so it was your check casher that led us to you. It took us three months to find you.

I ignored most of her babble as we made our way to a small windowless conference room. Coffee, juice, water, and donuts had been placed on a tray situated on an oak cabinet . . . and provided, I assumed, at the expense of the Van Dyke estate.

“What’s this all about,” I asked while filling a cup with coffee and grasping a saucer. “I don’t recall knowing a Raymond Van Dyke.”

“Mr. Van Dyke and his spouse had been a client of ours for over fifteen years. He named the firm executor and named you as his heir along with his one living relative.

“How could he name someone he doesn’t know as an heir?” I asked in bewilderment versus surprise.

“Well, Mr. Van Dyke knew you and thought highly of you.”

She had a hypnotic melodic voice. If one wasn’t careful, one would fall into it like a bug into a spider’s web and then get swallowed up in a legal malaise.

“How did he know me?”

“He left this letter. Perhaps it will explain his actions.”

I took the sealed envelope that bore my name, opened it, and then began reading.

Dear Oliver,

If you’re reading this, my wife and I are dead. As you already know, we have named you an heir. I know that you’re wrestling with how you know me - well, let me tell you.

I came into your shop to purchase a motorcycle -- and you wouldn’t sell it to me because I didn’t know how to ride. I became very upset with you and stormed out. At the time I couldn’t understand how a merchant could turn down a sale - a quite sizeable one. After purchasing the bike I wanted from your competitor, I attempted to ride home, and then promptly crashed causing me to never ride again.

As I lay in the hospital thinking about our conversation and my pig-headedness, it occurred to me that you valued people more than money. At that moment I vowed that if anything happened to my wife or me, you would become the legal guardian of our children.

You are a man of great compassion and if a child (children) does (do) arise from the marriage, I want him or her (them) to be raised by you.

The executor has been instructed to liquidate all of the tangible assets. The cash from the sale will be placed in a trust to be used to educate the child (children)

Good luck. I know that my child (children) will be in good hands.

Raymond Van Dyke

I looked up at Ms. Griffith.

“No. This can’t be right. It’s a joke?”

“It’s not a joke, and it’s correct. Mr. and Mrs. Van Dyke had a daughter. She’s eight years old, and you are her guardian.”

The melody coming from her mouth now sounded like fingers on a chalkboard.

“Ms. Griffith, I’m a fifty-seven-year old bachelor - what the hell do I know about raising kids? I barely make a living and reside above a garage that’s not big enough for me . . . let alone someone else.”

I thought of adding that I’m a compulsive cross-dresser, but felt it was none of her business.

Ms. Griffith could have been a stone wall. Neither would respond to my rant.

“Would you like to meet the child?”

“No, I don’t want to meet her. I want to find a way not to take her.”

“You can contest the will, but it won’t be easy and it’ll probably be expensive.”

“I still can’t understand how the attorneys who advised Van Dyke and created this document would allow this.”

“Well, according to the file, there’d been resistance to the will, but Mr. Van Dyke had been insistent and supported his position with documentation,” she said while handing me a folder filled with what looked like the transcripts from depositions.

Van Dyke had done his homework. There must have been twenty different documents claiming that over the years I’d been a compassionate businessman, a caring teacher, and a supporter of civic activities. He went as far as to supply photographs of me standing with a youth soccer team and a baseball team. He even managed to produce a “thank you” card from a former customer that I’d privately trained to ride.

Dear Oliver:

Thank you! Thank you! Thanks for being so patient. Thanks for standing in the rain! Thank you for repeating things ten times only to have me say…What?…and you repeating it for the eleventh time.

Thank you for the encouragement and guidance.

Thanks for the fun!

Elizabeth

I remembered receiving the card and wondered how it came to be in his possession. I’d left it and many other private documents in the files when I sold my business. He must have obtained it from the new owner.

Memories of a woman came to mind, who had been so determined to learn to ride that time and cost hadn’t mattered. I fed off her enthusiasm – maybe that’s what Van Dyke saw and used it to create the will.

The remembrances from the not so distant past caused more anger than smiles due in part to recollections of the toll that the law and all its alleged good took on me. The manufacturer’s attorneys could afford to fight a battle of attrition while I couldn’t. After the liability insurance had been exhausted, my money got used and when that was gone, the business had to go as well.

Van Dyke, in all of his supposed goodness, had placed me in a similar position. My choices would be: accept the kid, or gear up for an extended battle to rid myself of her. It took money to wage war with the judicial system. Since I didn’t have any, I’d have to accept the guardianship.

“Ms. Griffith,” I asked in attempt to try a different approach. “If I came into your office and asked for your guidance to adopt a child, based on what you know about me, would the city agencies allow it?”

She stood silent for a time, and then said, “Your recourse is to contest the will.”

“How could I contest the will when I don’t have a pot to take a piss in? Is there nothing else that I can do?”

“The firm’s hands are tied. It’s a legal document and the only way to oppose it is to, as I said previously, contest the will.”

“Where is she now; and why can’t she stay where she is?”

“She’s in a Catholic boarding school. She can’t stay where she is, because we’ve found you. We are bound to the instructions outlined in the will.

“I know ‘contest the will,’ ” I said while running my hand through my hair, and then shaking my head. “I still can’t believe that lawyers and judges would agree to allow this . . . and please don’t give me a line of shit that it’s reasonable.”

Ms. Griffith’s face was stone-like – not one emotion could be detected.

“As I asked earlier, would you like to meet the child?”

“She’s here?” I exclaimed.

“Her name is Amanda, and she’s waiting in my office.”

“You make the poor kid sound like a package.”

“I’m powerless in this matter. I keep telling you that our firm is bound by the instructions outlined in the will.”

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a kid . . . for Christ’s sake.”

“Look, Mr. Jamerson, You know about the crash. It caused Van Dyke to lose the use of his legs. A faulty electrical circuit caused a fire in their home. His wife managed to get Amanda out of the house, but when she went back in to try to get him, the smoke got her. When the police, EMTs, and firemen arrived, they found Amanda alone and standing in the middle of the street wearing her pajamas. All attempts to resuscitate her parents failed.”

“The Van Dykes had been active in their church. The city Child Services Department agreed to allow the church and the Sisters to provide foster care until we found you. Her only possessions are the trust and a backpack with her meager belongings.”

I stood silently thinking about the child. I was in a pickle, but so was she.

“I’ll go and get her,” Ms. Griffith said.

After she left the conference room, I kicked my helmet across the floor in rage.

~What a way to die and what a way to lose ones parents. ~

Ms. Griffith re-entered the conference room with a tiny, raven-haired beauty with the saddest blue eyes that I’d ever seen. She was dressed in a sack of a school uniform.

“Hello Amanda,” I said while gazing on the pathetic site before me. ~Damn. I’d look pathetic too if my parents were dead and I’d gotten stuck in a nunnery for three months with the Sisters of Corporal Punishment and Perpetual Misery. I felt for the kid – maybe Van Dyke had been correct in calling me compassionate. ~

“Amanda,” Ms. Griffith said. “Mr. Jamerson is going to take care of you from now on.”

The kid stood silent and for reasons unknown to me stared at the floor. I couldn’t have been that scary-looking.

Resigned to the fact that I’d become the not so proud guardian of an eight-year old girl I asked, “Ms. Griffith, can the law firm buy her a helmet, a pair of long pants, and a jacket so I can take her with me? Send me a bill for it; and I’ll repay it over time.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’ll try to bury the cost of the helmet and clothes in expenses charged to the estate.”

Her comment surprised me. It had been the first sign of any kindness. She’d been the consummate cold-hearted attorney to that point.

She summoned her secretary, and then instructed her to procure the items that I’d requested.

I searched my wallet while she spoke to her secretary. I would have barely sufficient funds to pay for parking and lunch for the kid.

“Is there a place nearby to get something to eat while we wait for the helmet and clothing to arrive?” I mumbled.

“We’ll get something to eat in the firm’s dining room; and I’ll stamp your parking ticket,” Ms. Griffith said.

Amanda and I accompanied her to the dining room. Amanda timidly ate a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and sipped a glass of milk; I choked on coffee while Ms. Griffith nibbled on a salad. It would probably be the most expensive lunch the kid would ever eat.

After lunch, we retreated to the conference room to find a child–sized, black warm-up suit and a red helmet. I guessed that the helmet would fit, and if it didn’t I could always tie my bandana around her head to compensate for the size.

Ms. Griffith’s secretary took Amanda into the ladies’ room to help her change, while I got the parking ticket stamped and signed off on the documents that would cause me to become the legal guardian of Amanda Martha Hunter Van Dyke. I also received a business card from Ms. Griffith.

The kid looked a hell of a lot better dressed in the warm-up suit than in her uniform. It bothered me that she hadn’t said more than a mumbled hello, but then again how much of a conversationalist could an eight-year old be. Especially one that had dead parents, had been shuttled off to a boarding school, and now was being turned over to someone she didn’t know.

After bidding Ms. Griffith farewell, I gathered up our riding gear, her backpack, my copy of the legal documents, and then with the smallish hand of Amanda in my right hand, we headed to the parking garage.

With the bike unlocked and running, I strapped on Amanda’s helmet, picked her up and placed her on the seat, and then instructed her to hold onto my belt after I’d mounted.

I felt her hands grip my belt and felt the tension in her body. The poor kid must have been terrified. Some stranger just dressed her up and was now taking her off someplace on a motorcycle. I wouldn’t have wanted to trade places with her for any amount of money. I feared that the whole experience would traumatize her into never speaking again.

As we rode back to the farm, I thought about my lack of qualifications for raising a kid. Stupid ass that I am, I didn’t even ask about where to send her to school. Did she take medication? Did she require a special diet? I had trouble taking care of myself. How could I take care of her? Shit, shit, shit. I’d have to get a phone, find a kid doctor, and buy kid food. She couldn’t survive on my diet on frozen pizza, beer, pretzels, and coffee.

~That’s it. I’ll buy a book. There has to be an “Idiots Guide to Raising a Kid.” There’s one for everything else. Let me get her settled in first. ~

“Oh shit,” I shouted into my helmet. ~My wardrobe of women’s clothing. It’s hanging on the bedroom door. I’m screwed. What am I going to tell the kid? Your new guardian is an old man who likes to dress up like a woman half his age. ~

***

After arriving back at the farm, I parked the bike in the barn, dismounted, lifted her off, and then headed toward the carriage house with the kid in hand. I cursed myself for not removing her helmet. What could she be thinking?

~Why is this on my head? Where is he taking me? What is this place? Where is this place? I’m afraid. I think I’ll cry. ~

Once inside the house, I remembered to remove her helmet.

“Amanda,” I asked. “Do you have to use the bathroom?” ~Are eight-year olds potty trained? ~ I didn’t know.

She looked at me as if I’d just asked her to jump out of the window. I pointed to the commode. She recognized it, smiled, and then headed toward it. While she did what she had to do, I raced into the bedroom, shoved my wardrobe of feminine finery into a plastic garbage bag, and then stuffed it under the bed.

My days of shielding an alter ego in machismo had returned. Over the years I’d hidden it from riding companions, girlfriends, business associates, and drinking buddies. The relative safety of the farm granted me freedom to dress. An eight-year old had just shoved me back into the closet.

She came out of the bath, and then stood motionless in the center of the kitchen. ~Do I try to talk to her? Do I show her where she’ll sleep? Do I unpack her clothes, what little there are? What the hell do I do now? ~

I picked up her backpack from where I’d placed it, and then extended my hand to her. She took it, and then we headed toward the bedroom where I placed her bag upon the bed.

“This is your room. You’ll sleep here.”

She nodded, and then took a seat at the edge of the bed as I left the room.

Food. Oh shit, food. I looked in the refrigerator and took inventory and found one six pack of “Bud,” a bottle of “Jack” one apple, and one orange. The freezer contained one frozen pizza.

~Now what? Leave her here, and then go shopping? I can’t do that. There’s a law about leaving minors unattended. ~

“Amanda,” I called. “We have to go food shopping. Come on, let’s go.”

“Do I need this?” she asked, as she entered the kitchen with her helmet in hand.

~She speaks. When that voice matures, I’d need a club to beat back the legions of swooning randy-eyed boys waiting to date her. Oh shit. ~

***

I’d taken my soft saddlebags as a means to transport our purchases. As we made our way up and down the aisles of the grocery store, I searched my brain and tried to determine what a kid would like to eat.

“Do you like chicken?”

She responded with a shrug of her shoulders.

“Do you like macaroni and cheese?”

She nodded her head.

“Do you like broccoli?”

She shook her head. I didn’t blame her. ~Damn, the first George didn’t like broccoli and said as much. His vice president couldn’t spell potato, or was it tomato. ~

~I had fifty dollars to last me until payday. How many meals could I scrape together on it? ~

~Shit, shit, shit. I have to buy something for breakfast. What about lunch? What about between meal snacks? ~

We once again cruised the aisles and loaded up the carriage with milk, corn flakes, peanut butter and jelly, white bread, and cookies. I also took a chance that the kid would like pork chops, Stove Top Stuffing, and carrots.

“How are you doing, mister. Is she your granddaughter?” a chipper, young cashier asked.

~Now what? Should I tell the truth, lie, or smile and not answer? ~

I smiled. That seemed to be a safe response.

“She has your eyes,” she said, while sliding the purchases over the scanner and packing them in plastic tote bags.

~You idiot, ~ I thought. ~How could she have my eyes? I met her all of three hours ago. ~

“Thank you,” I said.

The purchases totaled almost thirty-five dollars. ~Great, fifteen dollars to last two days. Well, at least we could eat. ~

***

Our first meal together consisted of chicken, macaroni and cheese, and French styled string beans. Dinner conversation became a series of shoulder shrugs, affirmative nods, and negative shakes. ~Maybe she has nothing to say - maybe she’s afraid to talk - maybe the Sisters of Punishment and Misery ate in silence. She’ll talk when she has something to say. ~

As the clock chimed nine o’clock, I guessed that it might be time for her to go to sleep.

“Bedtime Amanda,” I said. “Let’s get your hands and face washed and your teeth brushed and call it a day. Lots of thing happened today and I’ll bet that you’re tired.”

No words -- just the nod.

I watched as she went into the bedroom, opened her backpack, and then removed a toothbrush. She entered the bath, turned on the water, soaped up the washrag, and then used it to wipe her hands and face. After patting herself dry, she worked on her teeth.

Did eight-year olds know how to do all of that stuff by themselves or did she have to learn it from the Sisters, or on the fly?

“Do you have something to sleep in?” I asked.

I got a shake.

I reached into one of the plastic storage containers that served as my chest of drawers and pulled out a motorcycle event t-shirt.

“Sleep in this; we’ll get real pajamas tomorrow.”

With t-shirt in hand she headed into the bedroom. I expected her to close and latch the door. She didn’t – leaving the door open about three inches. Maybe she was afraid of the dark. ~What the hell did I know? ~

After about ten minutes, I peaked into the room to check on her. I felt like such a voyeur checking on her while she changed.

I damn near shit in my pants at the scene in the room. She’d removed the black warm-up suit, folded it, and then placed it on the table. The school uniform and its blouse had also been neatly folded. It appeared that she had another uniform blouse and two pair of clean panties.

Could the Sisters spare it? A toothbrush, one uniform, two blouses, a change of underwear. Sure she lost everything, but couldn’t they give her something? So much for charity, giving, and compassion.

Okay, she was a neat freak. Then again, maybe the Sisters made her do that. Perhaps her mom and dad taught her to be neat and tidy. What caused the pucker was her kneeling at the side of the bed dressed in the too big t-shirt -- saying her prayers.

“God bless Mommy and Daddy, the Sisters at school, the nice lady in that big building and Mister Man who brought me here. Amen.”

She rose to her feet, and then got into the bed and covered herself with the sheet.

I should have tucked her in after she said her prayers. ~Damn. Had the Sisters tucked her in? ~ Her mom or dad or both probably read her a story before bed. She had none of it now. All she had was a tired old fool who knew nothing about kids.

So I’m “Mister Man.” I guess that it’s better than “dope, idiot, or stupid.” One day she may call me Oliver or Ollie. I ‘d settle for either.

I sat at the kitchen table, and then began a review of the folder filled with the papers received from Ms. Griffith.

I’d previously reviewed the guardianship papers. ~Maybe I should consider adopting her. That would be a good idea; and it would prevent anyone from trying to take her away from me. ~

The trust agreement looked like standard stuff. I’d have to call Ms. Griffith about the quality of the investments. The monies should be placed in principal preservation accounts and not in anything too aggressive. If the trust had stocks in it, they, at least should be set up to allow for dividend re-investment. I never trusted investment types so monitoring their activity would be a priority.

I reviewed medical records and school transcripts. ~Hey, the kid’s smart. ~ She’d received nothing less than an “A.” I’d have to line up a kid doctor and enroll her in school. ~I’d better get a telephone or convert every remaining dollar to quarters~

***

I awoke the next morning to the sight of Amanda dressed in her school uniform standing over me. I’d slept on the couch in my work clothes. There would be no way that I could sleep in a teddy or a nightgown with her in the house.

“Hungry?” I asked through the haze of residual sleep.

Her nod told me she was.

I filled a bowl with corn flakes, and then added milk. She took a seat and began to eat while I stumbled around trying to make coffee.

As the percolator perked, I watched her finish her meal. I wondered why she chose to wear that awful uniform instead of the warm-up suit. Perhaps she felt safe in it and thought of it as her only link to a life she once knew.

“I have to cut the grass in the meadow this morning, would you like to come? You can ride on the tractor.”

She answered with the shoulder shrug and a head nod. It would be another day of my questions, responded to by shrugs, nods, and shakes. ~One day she’ll talk. ~

We spent the morning cutting the grass. She sat on my knee as I lapped the field and seemed to enjoy steering the tractor as I operated the foot controls. Her steering, regardless of what she did could be controlled by the braking system. I could compensate by applying one or both of the rear wheel brakes. An occasional smile crossed her face. It was a cute smile, and when it matured would drive boys insane.

After her peanut butter and jelly lunch sandwich she put on her warm-up suit, and then we headed to the convenience store to telephone Ms. Griffith.

The call consumed twenty quarters, but I managed to change the trust’s investment strategy. I also made arrangements to start the adoption proceedings. Not knowing what would be involved, I envisioned spending dollars that I didn’t have.

After the phone call, she pulled me toward the convenience store door. With ten dollars in my pocket I feared the embarrassment of not having sufficient funds to pay for her request.

She headed toward a children’s storybook rack. After a few moments she selected a book. “Little Women” Damn, did kids still read that? I’d thought that it would’ve been out of print.

“Could we buy this?” she asked.

~Hell yeah we can buy it. I’ll sell my watch to pay for it. If the book will get you to talk, I’ll sell the bike. ~ I wouldn’t sell the bike, but I’d find a way to pay for anything that would bring her out of her shell.

We headed back to the farm with five dollars in my pocket and a smile on her face.

***

After putting her in bed and remembering to tuck her in after she said her prayers, I sat at the kitchen table and savored a shot of “Jack” and a can of “Bud.”

~Where am I going to get money to buy her clothes? ~ She needed more than what she had.

“Stupid ass,” I said just above a whisper. “You have those cans and jars of loose change that you’d been stashing away. Break them out, count them up, exchange them for currency, and then go buy the kid something to wear.”

I spent the night counting coins. When she awoke, two hundred dollars had been amassed and there were still five coffee cans remaining to count.

After breakfast, I taught her how to count and wrap the coins. “Put fifty pennies in this kind of roll, forty nickels in this one, fifty dimes in this one, and forty quarters in this one.”

While she counted, I spent the morning cutting the north meadow. She chose peanut butter and jelly over the leftover chicken . . . and drank a glass of milk. ~How can kids eat that stuff every day? ~ She’d made a sizeable dent in the remaining cans. Our treasure now exceeded three hundred dollars. Tomorrow she would have clothes.

After exchanging $410 in coin for currency, we headed for the Target store. I’d made a mental list of what I wanted to buy her, but once in the children’s section - - I froze. Buying women’s clothing didn’t present a problem; I’d done it for years, but children’s clothes. ~How do I do that? ~

~What’s a size two-T? For that matter what’s a four-T? Who invented these sizes? Four to six-x –what the hell is that? Size seven to sixteen – how can a size sixteen fit her? She’s a peanut - damn, I’m a fourteen. ~

We walked the aisles looking at panties, tops, blouses, skirts, pants, dresses, socks, shoes, warm-up suits, pajamas, nightgowns, and jewelry. I knelt down to face her and we both must have recognized each other’s fear.

“May I help you?” a voice from above asked.

I looked up to see a store associate staring at us.

“Ah, yes,” I said. “I want to buy her – Amanda - a new wardrobe.”

“What a sweet grandpa you are. We’ll have to get you a t-shirt that says that.”

That was the second time that I’d been called “grandpa.” ~I must really look old. When she starts school what would the teachers and parents say? ~

“Amanda,” I said. “This lady is going to help us buy clothes. You may have to try stuff on so you’ll have to go into that room over there. I’ll be standing near by so don’t be afraid. Okay?”

I got the nod.

The associate asked, “Where do we start?”

“She needs undergarments and either pajamas or a nightgown.”

“She’s a bit young for a nightgown.”

“You know what I mean.” My patience was wearing thin. Frustration at the futility of someone like me raising a child had set it. “Something other than pajamas,” I said hoping to move on toward our goal.

I wrestled with thoughts of jealousy and joy while watching Amanda and the associate fill the cart with articles of clothing. It had always been my dream to have someone to help me shop and now I had to endure the pain of watching the kid who I watched over revel in the joy of acquiring a new wardrobe.

As articles of kid undergarments found their way into the cart, I thought back to the time when I first purchased lingerie. I guessed at the size based on the charts in a catalog. She had someone to measure her. Her fit would be better than mine had been, and I hated her for it.

I had the same feelings as we selected shoes. She got measured, while I had to use trial and error. Many a pair of unworn shoes had found their way into a used clothing bin as had wrong-sized slacks, blouses, skirts, and dresses.

As she continued her spree, I thought about what four hundred odd dollars would yield if I shopped at the booths at the flea market and the city’s thrift stores. It would have yielded sufficient items to swaddle me in blissful satisfaction for a great many months.

Thoughts of the sacrifices and compromises that loomed on the horizon caused additional anger. The fear of becoming a person that used kids as an excuse for immoral business dealings began to haunt me. They always used the line “…I got kids…” to justify protecting their jobs.

I thought of registering a protest when the sales lady and Amanda purchased bubble bath and an after bath powder. We didn’t have a bathtub so how could it be used? Rather than make it an issue and disrupt the growing smile on the kid’s face, I resigned myself to the line “…I got kids…” My jealousy got the better of me because of the inability to use my powders in her presence.

She had pierced ears. I hadn’t given it much thought as all of the girls that prowled the streets of my youth had pierced ears. It seemed as if they’d been born that way. At the jewelry counter Amanda chose a pair of dream catchers, a faux gold necklace, an ankle bracelet and a ring that looked like some kind of decoder mechanism.

The last two items that landed in the cart were dresses. I’d always thought that little girls gravitated to pink, but she chose pale purple and yellow. I imagined that they were stylish since I had no point of reference. I envied the process, but not her choice.

I thanked the associate and tried to offer her money as a token of thanks, but she refused.

As we headed toward the cashier, Amanda spotted the book and magazine section. The tug on my hand signaled that another book would find its way into the now library of one.

She looked at the children’s book section while I glanced at the cover of “Parents” magazine. The selection of “Idiot’s Guide” books didn’t have one dedicated to parenting, however there was one on step parenting and adoption. Neither proved to be of any value. I’d have to wing it and learn as I went along. I learned how to fix motorcycles on the fly - I could learn how to raise a kid the same way.

Today’s book was titled “Aquamarine” or something to that effect. It had a photo of three girls on its cover - one of which had a fish tail –maybe it was a story about fishing.

Much to my surprise, we’d only spent three hundred-twenty five dollars. The associate chose numerous sale items -- she must be a mom or something. After packing the children’s clothing on the bike, we spotted a Verizon store. With almost all of the remaining money, I opened a cell phone account and received a free telephone. I had to pay for the charger and all of the related paraphernalia, but at least we had a phone now and we’d no longer have to feed quarters to the convenience store pay phone.

My jealousy and anger simmered as we rode home. A two-week change of clothes had been purchased and stuffed into the saddlebags, and if she coordinated, it would be longer. Stored under the bed I had a total of three dresses, one bra, one pair of sandals, and one pair of panty hose - damn her.

A left-turning vehicle that nearly wiped us both out snapped me back to reality. I was bemoaning the fact that I’d spent over three hundred dollars to clothe her when I should have been thinking about a kid who had lost everything and now had something. Granted it was a big box store wardrobe, two rooms over a garage, and an old fart cross-dressing guardian, but it was more than she’d had a few days before.

After unloading the bike and taking the packages into the house she took each article of clothing from the bags, folded it and either placed it on the nightstand or neatly onto the bed.

My brain cells activated and remembered some bits of furniture that had been stored in the barn. Reluctant to leave her alone, I headed for the barn in an attempt to locate something that might serve as a dresser. The room off the barn contained furniture, but there hadn’t been anything with drawers or doors. I spied a massive seven-shelf bookcase and deemed it suitable to store clothing.

After wiping the dust from it I managed to get it into her bedroom. I nearly fell over when I saw her. She was off in her own world spinning around in front of the mirror wearing one of the new dresses. Startled by my appearance she stopped. I imagined that she feared a scolding for playing in her new clothes.

I envied her. The night before we’d met, I’d done the same thing.

“You can put your new clothes on these shelves,” I said, while placing the bookcase against the wall. Turning to face her I asked, “Are you hungry?”

She answered my question with a nod. I gave her milk and cookies, and then tried to figure out what to feed her for dinner. Our fare would have to be the frozen pizza. We’d shop for food for the week when my paycheck arrived in the next day’s mail.

***

She’d been with me for a little over six weeks and we’d started the beginnings of a friendship. Her eyes no longer examined the floor when we ate or I attempted conversation. She’d stopped wearing the school uniform, and each day she dressed in a different outfit. Her color combinations were “out there,” but everything seemed to coordinate. My color sense was pale in comparison to hers.

“We have to go register for school today.”

“Okay,” she said.

My God, an answer, and a cheerful one at that. Perhaps she liked school.

She came out of her room wearing the black warm-up suit. ~She must equate it with riding the bike. ~ I wouldn’t try to change her mind; instead I related it to the same safety that the school uniform seemed to exude.

At the school administration building, I delivered her transcripts, a copy of the guardianship papers, and registered her for school subject to a medical examination. The administrator told me that based on her age, transcripts, and developmental tests, she’d be placed into the third grade. Not having a clue as to her development, I agreed. She also suggested three doctors and was nice enough to call each one to check the availability of an appointment prior to the start of the school term.

We got lucky and one of the doctors would see us so we headed off to the medical complex. After filling out a form, handing over her medical records, and another copy of the guardianship papers, she received a check over. The nurse said she would fax her clean bill of health to the school administrator.

I made arrangements to pay the doctor in installments.

School started the day after Labor Day and with no bus service to or near the farm, I would have to transport her. It wouldn’t be a chore, it would represent more time together and another step toward a growing trust.

As we made our way back to the farm, I stopped at the convenience store for gas and cake mix. Her birthday was two days away and I’d thought it would be a good idea to bake her a cake. ~How hard could it be? Read the instructions, put it in the oven, wait the allotted time, let it cool, and then eat it. ~ If I could read a shop manual and fix a tractor or a backhoe, I could make a cake.

She wouldn’t get a gift because I didn’t have any extra money, but she would have a cake.

“Would you like to invite the Sisters to share your birthday cake?” I asked, as we dined on a meal of chunky beef soup and bread.

“Could we invite the lady from the big building?”

“I’ll call her tomorrow and invite her.”

It intrigued me that she wanted to invite the lawyer. She mentioned her in her prayers so there must have been some kind of connection. She mentioned the Sisters, but didn’t want them to come. Maybe they beat her and she likened them with punishment while she thought of Ms. Griffith as a smile, a cookie, and milk.

The next morning, before we headed out to the barn to grease the wheel bearings on one of the trailers, we called Ms. Griffith. After making the call and getting past the receptionist, I handed Amanda the telephone.

“Ms. Griffith,” I whispered.

“Ms. Griffith,” she asked, “would you like to come to my birthday party?”

The smile on her face told me the answer had been “yes.”

She relinquished the phone, and then headed into her room as I gave Ms. Griffith directions to the farm.

***

When Ms. Griffith arrived she mistakenly tried to enter the main house. I ran out to greet her and escorted her to the carriage house.

“I thought you lived in there,” she said, as we made our way further down the drive to the carriage house.

“I told you when we first met that I lived in the carriage house, and that it was sparse and not all that conducive to raising a kid.”

“I thought you were lying to get out of the guardianship.”

“Ms. Griffith,” I groaned. “I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a liar.”

When she entered the kitchen/living room, her expression was one of surprise, mixed with something that looked like anger. We didn’t live like slobs and we didn’t have that much, but what we had was neat and tidy.

Amanda came out of her room to greet her. Ms. Griffith’s look changed when she saw her. Amanda wore one of the dresses we’d purchased. Her hair was clean, neatly combed, and her eyes had the beginnings of a sparkle.

“Come into my room, I want to show you my books. We can read,” Amanda said, as she took Ms. Griffith’s hand and led her into her bedroom.

I watched from the door as they sat on the floor and turned the pages in the books. Amanda read the story, showed Ms. Griffith the pictures, and gave an explanation of each. She never did that with me. Then again, we’d read the books almost every night. Maybe she didn’t think I needed an explanation.

After about an hour of reading they joined me at the kitchen table. I sat on a plastic milk crate while Amanda and her attorney sat on chairs. Ms. Griffith and I drank coffee with our cake while Amanda sipped milk.

Ms. Griffith’s gaze turned severe when she spied the three bags of empty beer cans that I’d placed near the stove. Her stare could have frozen meat instantly. She probably thought I was a boozer who got drunk in front of the kid.

“Amanda,” Ms. Griffith said. “Let’s go back into your room and unwrap the present that I brought.”

I eavesdropped on their conversation.

“That’s a very pretty dress Amanda, where did you get it?”

“Mister bought it for me. He bought me these too,” Amanda said, as she guided Ms. Griffith to the bookcase. “He said when we get more money we can buy more. It was fun. We took coins and put them in tubes, and then we went to this place that said Bank on the window. We gave the tubes to this lady and she gave us paper money, and then we went to the store to buy the clothes. One time we went into the barn and Mister got some of his tools and we took them to this place where a man gave him paper money for them. Mister said that tomorrow we’re going to a place that will give us paper money for the cans that we found by the road and put in the plastic bags. He said that we can buy some more food and another book.”

“Does he ask you to call him ‘Mister’?”

“That’s his name,” Amanda said. “When we went to the store for food the woman called him “Mister.” At the doctor, the lady called him “Mister.” They called him “Mister” when we went to the school too.”

“Does Mister sleep with you in this bed?”

“No-o-o-o,” Amanda giggled, “Mister sleeps on the couch.”

At four, Ms. Griffith said that she had to leave despite Amanda’s pleading that she stay for dinner.

As the three of us made our way to Ms. Griffith’s car, Amanda held Ms. Griffith’s hand.

“I’m sorry,” Ms. Griffith said to me, “but I didn’t expect this.”

“Going forward, perhaps you should listen to your clients when they speak. They might be telling the truth. What did you two talk about while you played?”

“Not all that much - we played mostly.”

She knew when to lie, when to remain silent, and when to speak almost truths – like a good attorney. I helped her into a car and we waved good-bye as she drove away.

“Did you have fun today?” I asked, placing my hand on Amanda’s shoulder as we walked down the drive to check the mailbox.

I got the nod.

***

The Stevens hadn’t spent much time at the farm during the summer, but called to tell me they’d planned a Labor Day extravaganza. Their parties generally lasted days. Guests would begin arriving the Friday before and possibly leave on Labor Day or the day after. There would be entertainment each night and a caterer would prepare the meals. My tasks would include preparing the grounds, stringing lights, and running an electric service to the gazebo, as it would serve as a bandstand. They also wanted a dance floor, so I’d have to build a platform near the gazebo. The platform didn’t present a problem to build and would require a day’s labor. I’d also have to park the guests’ cars and transport their luggage.

I hadn’t told the Stevens about Amanda and doubted that they’d care that she now lived there with me. In the past, they’d “looked the other way” when I ferried the occasional female companion to the carriage house.

The Wednesday before the Labor Day weekend, they arrived to ready the house for their guests. Amanda and I had been cutting the east pasture when they pulled up. She’d become accustomed to driving the tractor - well - steering it, leaving me an idle moment or two to contemplate the challenges that having a child in school would pose.

We drove the tractor past the front of the house, as Mrs. Stevens stepped out of her car door.

“What have we here?” she exclaimed.

I shut down the tractor, and then Amanda and I climbed down.

“Mrs. Stevens, I’d like you to meet Amanda.”

I damn near fell over when she curtsied to greet Mrs. Stevens. I’d never seen anyone do it while wearing jeans.

“Well hello there.”

Mrs. Stevens was about my age. She and her husband, also about my age, amassed their wealth exporting replacement parts for heavy equipment. Despite the wealth they didn’t flaunt it.

“Mrs. Stevens,” I said. “I’m Amanda’s legal guardian. Her parents passed away and charged me with raising her. She’s staying with me in the carriage house.”

“Oliver, that child looks as if she’s been rolling around in the creek. What do you have her doing?”

“She comes with me when I tend to the property, fix the equipment, and mend the fences. To be honest, I enjoy her company and I kind of miss her when she’s not around. I’ll probably be upset when she goes to school on Tuesday.”

“How will she get to school? Buses don’t come out this way.”

“I’ll take her on my bike. We’ve been out and about on it since she came to stay with me.”

“What about inclement weather?”

“Truthfully, Mrs. Stevens,” I said, angered at my own lack of planning. “I haven’t thought that far ahead yet.”

“I’ll have none of that. Mr. Stevens will arrange for you to use one of the farm trucks.”

The following day, before starting work on the platform, Amanda and I exchanged the farm license plates for commercial ones.

While I built the platform, Amanda pounded on the occasional nail despite it being screwed together.

“Mister,” she asked.

“Yes Amanda.”

“If we use the truck does that mean we won’t use the Bertha bike?”

She hadn’t become a brilliant conversationalist, but she’d begun to talk.

“We’ll use Bertha whenever you like.”

***

The guests began arriving shortly after two on the Friday of the Labor Day weekend. While I removed the luggage from the cars, and then parked them, Amanda watched.

“Mister, the ladies are so pretty.”

“Yes they are, Sweetie,” I said envying them their outfits and wishing that I could be wearing them. “One day maybe you’ll wear clothes like that.”

“Do you think so?”

After the guests arrived, we retreated to the carriage house to have dinner. I’d gotten better at shopping and could actually plan meals. It being Friday, we ate fish. Amanda called it fish fry night. I called it another night without pizza and pretzels.

We had finished cleaning up when there was a knock at the door.

“Mrs. Stevens,” I exclaimed, with some surprise, as it was her first visit to my quarters. “Is there a problem with the lighting, the platform, or the electrical service to the gazebo?”

“Everything is fine,” she said. “I came to visit with Amanda.”

Amanda reverted to shoulder shrug, nod, and shake of the head mode. It appeared that whenever she was unsure of the situation she’d retreat to her shell.

“Amanda dear,” Mrs. Stevens said. “How would you like to come to the party tomorrow night?”

She shrugged her shoulders.

I wouldn’t force her to attend, but I took the unfolding event as a forerunner of her first day at school.

“Sweetie, wouldn’t you like to go to the party and see all the pretty ladies and all the pretty dresses?”

“I’ll bet that you’ll be the prettiest one there,” Mrs. Stevens cooed like old ladies talk to kids when they try to sweet talk them into something the kids aren’t sure about.

I tried to use adult conversation as much as possible to build Amanda’s vocabulary and to try to acclimate her to the adult world, if there was such a thing.

“Could Mister come too?” Amanda asked in whisper.

“Of course he can,” Mrs. Stevens said. “‘Mister’ will be sitting or standing at, or near, the gazebo all evening. You and I can go shopping in the morning for a new dress.”

“Sweetie, get ready for bed -- Mrs. Stevens and I have to talk a bit.” I steered Mrs. Stevens out of the carriage house, away from Amanda’s ears.

“Oliver,” she asked. “Permit me to spoil her when I’m here. She’s such a precious little thing.”

“I don’t know. If you buy her things, she may come to expect it and quite frankly I can only afford just so much.

“That’s why I want to do it. I know that your means are limited. Let it be a treat for her. Let me buy her the little pretty things a girl wants . . . like a dress for tomorrow night.”

“She could really do with a winter coat.”

~Buy me the dress, and her, the coat, and we’ll call it even. ~

“Then I’ll buy her a coat as well. I insist.”

“Before we start planning things for her, why don’t we ask her what she thinks. Amanda, honey, would you come out for a second?” She’d already changed into what I called her little girl nightgown and was ready to wash her face and hands and brush her teeth. “Mrs. Stevens would like to buy you a pretty dress for the party and a winter coat. Would you like that?”

We were still in nod mode.

“We could go shopping tomorrow, dear,” Mrs. Stevens said.

Amanda nodded again, and then ran into the bath.

“I’ll come by for her tomorrow morning, Oliver.”

After she left, I stared at the ceiling wondering how I could raise money to buy her additional clothing. All of the loose change was gone and she still needed clothes for the winter months. ~Well at least she’d have a coat thanks to Mrs. Stevens. ~ Maybe I could sell off more of my un-used tools. I’d inventory them over the next few days, and then take them to the flea market.

***

Amanda and Mrs. Stevens went shopping, while I picked up after the guests who had enjoyed a volleyball match. At Mr. Stevens' request, I hooked two trailers to one of the tractors to create an improvised hayride complete with two musicians.

Mrs. Stevens and Amanda had returned from their shopping trip. True to her word, she had a new party dress and a down jacket.

The kid couldn’t contain her excitement and started to get ready immediately for the evening’s festivities. I dug out an oxford cloth shirt and a clean pair of jeans in anticipation of becoming invisible on or near the gazebo. Amanda, on the other hand, would be paraded around on the hand of Mrs. Stevens. As much as I didn’t care for it, I knew that the experience would be joyful. Amanda needed it - she deserved it as she’d endured a lot in a short time.

Despite the two of them spending the better part of the morning and afternoon together, Amanda continued to be shy in the presence of Mrs. Stevens. I watched as the women gushed and generally acted silly in the presence of the kid. The men too showed silliness. Amanda ate it all up as her shell started to fall away. Her smile, that I’d only occasionally witnessed, seemed permanent. When the music started, it seemed that everyone wanted to dance with her. She’d have a sweet memory to recall - one that would contrast to the bitter ones.

At about eleven I tucked a very exhausted kid into bed. Her prayer that night included Mr. and Mrs. Stevens.

I envied the women dressed in their summer gowns. Had Amanda not been with me, and the Stevens not on premises, I’d been twirling away in the gazebo in my yellow chiffon number.

It’d been two months and two days since I’d last dressed. The forced layoff had begun to take its toll, as I found it more difficult to hold my temper. Past experience had taught me that abstinence caused irritability, which ignited anger, which resulted in fistfights. I’d have to find a private moment of my own -- and soon.

***

At half past six in the morning we headed out to the regional elementary school. It would be a forty-five minute ride so she’d be fifteen minutes early. I allowed sufficient time for a pep talk and a “have a nice day” pat on the head.

I parked the bike in a dead spot, dismounted, lifted her off the seat, took off her helmet, handed her the backpack, took her by the hand, and then led her to the building’s front door. Streams of kids jumped off buses, parents driving all sorts of vehicles shoved their kids out the door, to speed off to wherever, and kids parked bicycles. The teachers -- carrying backpacks, briefcases, and shopping bags -- headed toward the building.

I thought about tagging along with her to meet her teacher after we’d checked in with the office to get her class assignment. ~Would it be “over the top” to do so? Would she be embarrassed by it? ~

While we walked toward the building, she seemed to be taking it all in stride. ~Who was more nervous, she or me? ~

~To hell with it all. ~ After a stop at the office, we made our way to the classroom. Her teacher would be Mrs. Benjamin - a frumpy looking farm wife. I was tempted to tell her Amanda’s story, but decided against it. Word about her had probably made its way to her before we entered the room. Hopefully, Amanda wouldn’t go into shrug, nod, and headshake mode.

With a pat on the head and a gentle press on her nose with my right index finger, I bade her farewell -- farewell until two forty-five.

Before heading back to the farm, I stopped at the laundromat. Between watching the clothes spin in the washing machine and the dryer, I read an article in “Parents” magazine titled “Being the Perfect Parent May Not Be a Good Thing.”

After reading the article, I came to the conclusion that I’d been better off before reading it. Parenting in my mind seemed to be a case of trying to do the right thing and good old common sense.

As I folded our laundry I thought about the old axiom of “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” That would be good - daily beatings - beatings are good. “Children are seen, but not heard.” ~That’s a good one too. I’ll stuff a rag in her mouth so she talks less that she does now. ~

~Screw it all. I’ll feed her, clothe her, and love her - maybe that’ll work? ~

I returned to the farm, put Amanda’s laundry on her bed, mine in the storage bins, and then went out to the barn to change the front tires on one of the tractors. I couldn’t stop thinking about the things that my salary wouldn’t provide. All of my un-used or seldom used tools had been sold, the coffee can coins were gone and few dollars that I’d stashed to buy a new dress for myself bought her shoes. ~Maybe I should find another job? ~

A little before two, I headed out to pick-up Amanda. During the ride thoughts of finding a better paying job came to mind. Moving away from the farm didn’t set well. Exchanging country air for city pollution and country schools for those crowded things in the city didn’t make any sense. Money, money, and more money - throw money at the problem and it’ll go away. The need for more money would create additional problems.

When the school’s bell sounded the inmates stormed the buses, cars driven by parents, and bicycles. Amanda came out of the school alone. ~Has she made any friends? Could kids make friends in one day? ~ It’d taken me years to make friends and the few remaining ones who were still around were moving to warmer climates in search of broken bone friendly weather.

She picked up her pace when she saw me standing by the bike that I’d parked next to one of the light poles that dotted the parking lot. With one knee to the ground to lower myself to her level, we hugged. It felt stronger than her usual one - maybe she’d been happy to see me.

After an affectionate pat on the head and a gentle poke of my index finger on her nose, I asked, “How’s school?”

“Okay,” she answered.

Something in the tone of her voice bothered me. She didn’t sound the way she had the previous day or when I’d left her earlier. ~Maybe she was getting sick - it could also be my imagination. ~

“Did you make any friends?”

“I think so.”

“Does your friend have a name?”

Our conversation went on at a snail’s pace. ~This is nuts. Do I have to ask her everything? Why can’t she string more than three words together? ~

When we returned to the house I left her seated at the kitchen table to do her homework while I returned to the barn to finish mounting the tractor tires. The idea that something had bothered her crowded my thoughts -- making the work on the tires take that much longer to complete. ~Did she trust me enough to tell me? ~ Or would it be kept bottled up inside.

The vibration of the cell phone interrupted my daze.

“This is Ollie,” I said after pressing the receive button.

“Hi it’s Sondra Griffith,” she said. “What’s your availability? I’d like you to come in as there’s a couple of things that I’d like to go over with you.”

“Like what?” I asked. “Are you going to wail away on me that I’m not feeding her good meals, or that where she lives is a dump, and dresses like a bag lady?”

“Quite the contrary. I want to discuss contesting the Van Dyke’s will with you.”

“Hold on,” I stammered, “Things aren’t that bad. You don’t need to try to take her. I’ll fight. . . .”

“Oh no, Mr. Jamerson, I’m not talking about taking her away, that would be crazy. I have feeling that if we present the current facts to a judge, we may be able to obtain child support from the estate.”

“You’d do that? I can’t pay you; and I don’t think that a judge would allow the trust to pay any legal fees especially if you . . . we are contesting it.

“Let’s put it this way, the firm encourages ~pro-bono~ on occasion.”

“So I’m a charity case?”

“You can be impossible at times, but I like. . . . If we’re successful, buy me a drink and we’ll call it even.”

“Sounds fair, but what about the firm? They’ll be looking for something other than an empty glass with lipstick stains.”

“I’ll take care of that. So . . . ten tomorrow morning?”

“Make it half past ten – I have to take Amanda to school.”

“Then half past ten it is.”

A few bucks a month extra would be good, but would a judge go for it? My experience with the judicial system hadn’t been good. Plus, in my current state of mind, frustrated by not having an opportunity to dress, I’d probably spend a night or two in jail for contempt.

After dinner Amanda completed her homework, and then headed off to bed. Her evening prayers seemed to be more somber than they’d been the day before.

The radio station played a Fagan and Becker tune while I stared at the ceiling of the darkened room. Something must have happened at school. She’d picked at her food. If some kid or the teacher laid a hand on her they’d be dead - grotesquely dead.

My thoughts were broken by the sound of her voice.

“Hold me, Mister,” she said through tears while crawling on top of me and placing her head on my chest.

I wrapped my left arm around her and my right hand on her head. ~Stupid jerk that I am, I don’t hold her enough or show enough affection. ~ My forms of physical affection had been a pat on the head and a touch on her nose. Maybe she needed more. Maybe my occasional hugs seemed cold. No one had ever hugged me with emotion, so how could I know how to do it?

After she’d fallen asleep, I carried her back to her bed. Once safely tucked in I took a seat at the table, and then started to project a budget based on the trust’s income stream. If a judge was going to allow support payments he’d want to see need. He’d probably also want to see the impact of the withdrawals on the trust’s integrity.

I didn’t own a calculator so I multiplied and divided - decimal points converted to percentages. ~Did anyone still do that? Did they still teach that? ~ Damn, I’d probably have to figure out a way to buy her a computer.

***

With Amanda dropped off at school, I made the two-hour trip to the city and arrived for the appointment with minutes to spare.

“So what grand plan did you devise?” I asked, while taking a seat at the conference room table that had been covered with files and law books.

“What’s with the sarcasm? I’ve labored away at this since the birthday party.”

“I’m sorry. It’s the kid thing. It’s making me crazy.”

I wasn’t about to tell her that I got wired when I couldn’t dress. She and a judge didn’t need to know that.

She outlined her plan. As the executor of the will, she and the law firm could deem it onerous if it jeopardized the welfare of the child. She used the fact that when the will had been drawn up, I’d owned my dealership and my financial condition had been quite different than its current state. Based on my current affairs, assistance would be needed. The fact that I’d started adoption proceedings and had taken an active role in assuring that the trust would generate conservative growth would attest positively for my main concern for the child.

What didn’t sit well with me would be that Amanda would have to talk to the judge. I didn’t trust judges and feared that if she told the judge about the beer cans he’d misinterpret it.

Ms. Griffith would base much of her argument on the fact that I’d been selling my tools to raise money to buy food, clothing, and to pay Amanda’s doctor bill. She’d also make a claim that the support monies would be used in part to obtain medical insurance.

Her final argument would be that Amanda had adjusted to her present environment and that her health and school grades had not deteriorated since coming to live with me.

“Do you think it’ll work?” I asked.

“It’s worth a try.”

“Take a look at this – I put it together last night,” I said, passing her the financial plan.

Despite monthly support payments of five hundred dollars, the trust’s income would exceed the outflow and continue to grow. My projections had been based on conservative assumptions and took market fluctuations and the occasional recession into consideration.

“You did this without a calculator or a computer spreadsheet?” she asked with surprise.

“I’m old – that’s the way we used to do things back when dirt was still experimental.”

She laughed. “That’s funny. I’ll have to remember that one. This will be useful in supporting the petition.”

She invited me to stay for lunch, but I had to leave, so as not to be late in picking up Amanda. The fear that she’d become traumatized if she didn’t see me in my usual spot overcame the pleasure I derived from staring at Ms. Griffith’s magnificent dress and the thought of wearing it.

***

As the weather grew colder the Bertha bike got put away and daily trips to and from school became truck rides. She didn’t say it but I think she missed the bike. Money allowing, I’d try to find her a bicycle.

The Stevens would not be spending the holidays at the farm so Amanda and I spent Thanksgiving alone. After we watched the parade, we dined on a smoked turkey breast that I’d purchased from one of the local farmers, cornbread, and carrots. While I cleaned up she watched the “March of the Wooden Soldiers.” My Thanksgiving dessert was hearing her laugh when Stan gave his explanation to a puzzled Santa Claus looking for the six hundred one foot soldiers he ordered.

“Oh! I thought you said one hundred soldiers six foot high.”

Because of my name, I’d hated most Stan Laurel and Oliver Hardy movies, but had like “Babes in Toyland.”

I was at wits end trying to scratch some cash together to buy her Christmas presents. While driving back to the farm after dropping her off at school, I spotted a derelict bicycle placed at the side of the road next to a trash barrel. It was in pretty rough shape, but the tires were good. It was fixable -- and with a coat of paint, it would look new.

After changing the oil in the log splitter, I started work on the bicycle. It was a relic of days gone by. It had big balloon tires, a bell housed in a metal case between the seat and the handle bars, a big spring that served as front suspension designed long before the current mountain bike suspensions, and a seat that would seem more at home on the tractor.

After disassembling it, I started to sand off all of the rust -- taking particular care not to damage the logo on the bell case. My color choices had been limited to Case yellow or John Deere green and yellow. Amanda’s first bike would be painted in the classic colors of Deere.

~What if she didn’t like it or didn’t want to ride? What if the other kids goofed on her if she did ride it? Worse yet, what if she cried when she saw it because she hated the color? ~

***

Ms. Griffith, Amanda, and I sat on a bench outside a courtroom on the Tuesday before Christmas waiting to face a judge. Her teacher, Mrs. Benjamin, and the school’s principal, Mr. White, had been supportive of my having to take her from class that day. I did feel bad that she had to miss the holiday play.

We entered the courtroom and took our seats. Ms. Griffith presented the petition for support monies in that groveling way that lawyers do when they face a judge.

The judge listened and occasionally rustled some papers that were before her. I imagined the judge leafing through an issue of “Playgirl” magazine to break the boredom.

After the petition had been presented, we listened to the sounds made by our stomachs, our breathing, the ticking of our watches, and our hair growing . . . in anticipation of the judge’s decision.

The judge broke the silence with a barrage of questions addressed to Ms. Griffith, and then turned her attention to me.

I answered the questions using the coaching tips provided by my attorney and her supervising partner. I’d done it all before – don’t volunteer information, keep the answers short, make eye contact, and speak clearly.

We returned to endless moments of silence while the judge made notes. She probably spent the time reviewing and revising her Christmas list.

The moment that I dreaded had arrived. The judge wanted to talk to Amanda.

“Please don’t go into shrug, nod and headshake mode,” I mumbled, as the judge asked the first question.

“Don’t coach the child,” the honorable Gertrude Willis admonished.

“Your honor,” I said. “When she’s unsure of a situation, she doesn’t talk and answers questions with body language. I believe there’s documentation to support my statement issued by the school. When she’s comfortable with the situation, she opens up.”

Amanda answered the first question with a shrug, the second with a shake, and the third with a nod.

~You go, girl. Show the nitwit judge that I know what I’m talking about. ~

“We’ll take a thirty-minute recess. Perhaps you can talk to her about the importance of answering my questions.”

“Yes, your honor,” Ms. Griffith said. “Thank you, your honor.”

Shit or get off the pot – make a decision you pompous ass, I thought, as Judge Willis entered her chamber.

“Sweetie,” I said, “It’s important that you talk to the nice judge lady the same way you talk to me and Ms. Griffith, so when she comes back in answer the questions that she asks. Okay?”

She nodded, and then hugged me.

~You’re killing me kid. ~

What I’d feared unfolded -she asked Amanda about the beer cans. I’d told Ms. Griffith that the recycling of bottles and cans would be misconstrued. She gave me some crap that it would further support need.

“Amanda, honey?” she asked using a voice that sounded like a honking goose. “Did you see Mr. Jamerson drink what was in the cans that you took to the store?”

“Sometimes,” she said. “Sometimes we found the cans by the road. Sometimes Mr. and Mrs. Stevens gave us some when they had parties.

“What does Mr. Jamerson cook for dinner?”

“Chicken, stuffing, and peas – and things like that.”

“What does Mr. Jamerson drink when you have dinner?”

“Milk – like me.”

I began to fidget in the chair. ~Come on, make a decision you dried up bureaucratic bitch. ~ Despite myself, I envied the judge for her comfortable looking robes.

“Does Ms. Griffith stay overnight at your house?”

“Your honor,” Ms. Griffith spoke at a volume that would have landed me in jail, as she rose to her feet adopting “angry attorney” mode. “I protest that line of questioning.”

“The child has to answer the question. Does Ms. Griffith stay overnight at your house?”

Amanda became frightened by the outburst and shook her head no to the question.

“One last question, Amanda,” the judge said. “How many times did Ms. Griffith come to visit?”

She stuck her finger up to signal one time. “She came to my birthday party and we read my books.”

“I’ll render my decision, after a fifteen-minute recess.”

“That jackass bitch can’t tell us now?” I asked Ms. Griffith, in a low voice so Amanda couldn’t hear.

“That’s the way it goes - you know that.”

After the recess and after the honorable Gertrude Willis had her say, she granted monthly support payments commencing on the first business day of each month. There’d be no retroactive payments. I’d have to submit a monthly accounting of expenses, and I’d be subjected to random drug tests.

We received one-half of the amount we’d requested. Something was better than nothing.

“Thank you, your honor,” Ms. Griffith said.

As Amanda and I drove back to the farm my heart raced, my hands shook, and I’d begun an uncontrollable sweat. The stress of the past four-plus months coupled with not being able to dress had caused an anxiety attack.

“Mister,” she said from beneath my arm. She’d snuggled close to me and had placed her head under my arm and against my chest. “Why did that lady ask me those questions; and why did Ms. Griffith yell?”

“Ms. Griffith and I asked that lady for help and those questions were part of her job. If she didn’t like the answers, she wouldn’t help.”

“Did she like the answers?”

“Yes – you did a good job.”

“Okay.”

***

On Christmas Eve we decorated a tree that I’d cut down. We didn’t have lights, but she’d made all of the ornaments. When decorated our meager tree would be a step or two above Charlie Brown’s and one or two below the one at Target.

While I got some wood for the stove, a UPS truck came up the drive. After I signed his electronic clipboard, the driver gave me two packages addressed to Amanda. The packing slip return addresses listed Macy’s and Neiman Marcus. Who could be sending her gifts? I left the wood in the stand, and then carried the packages into the house.

“Amanda,” I called out. “Look . . . presents.”

She ran out of her room to greet me at the door. For a moment she didn’t know what to do or say.

“Can I open them now?” she exclaimed.

“If you want, or you can wait for tomorrow.”

“I’ll wait for tomorrow. We can open them together. I don’t want you to be left out. You have to open your present when I open mine.”

~Where’d she get the money to buy me a present? Maybe she made it herself. I hope that she didn’t steal it. ~

Our Christmas Eve dinner consisted of the seven fish. It was one of the few things that I’d remembered from the Christmases of my past. ~What would she remember when she grew to be my age? ~

After she said her prayers she went to bed. After she fell asleep I trudged out to the barn to wrestle the bike into the house so she could see it in the morning. I put a big red bow on it when I got it into the house.

When she saw the bike on Christmas morning she screamed with delight. Somewhere amongst the screaming, clapping, and jumping, the bike became “little Bertha.” She wanted to learn to ride it immediately, if not sooner, but I managed to talk her down with the promise of her first lesson occurring after opening the remaining gifts, breakfast, and getting dressed.

The two boxes that came via UPS Santa intrigued me. ~Who sent them? ~

“You go first,” she said handing me a package wrapped in the school’s arts and crafts paper. She’d made her own wrapping paper.

I carefully opened it -- not wanting to destroy a possible memory of our first Christmas. She’d given me a t-shirt with a hand painted facsimile of a motorcycle on it - she made it as well. I immediately put it on vowing never to get it dirty or to the point where it needed washing.

One UPS box contained a matching skirt and sweater. Mrs. Stevens had been kind enough to remember her at Christmas. The note in the card lamented not being able to deliver it personally.

The second package surprised me. Sondra Griffith took time to send her a sweater. I’d thought that she’d be sick of us after the court thing, the monthly calls from me regarding the trust account, and the adoption papers.

The kid glowed as she held the gifts. ~How had Christmases with her parents had been? Had they been filled with hugs, kisses, toys, candy, family friends, singing, dancing, and laughter? ~

“Eat your breakfast and get dressed, and then we’ll learn to ride the bike,” I said in response to her relentless attacks.

After an adjustment to lower the seat, I put her on the bike and explained how to peddle it and how to stop it.

“Look where you’re going,” I yelled while running along side and holding the bike steady with my hand at the back of the seat.

When she acquired sufficient speed to allow the bike to balance itself, I let go and off she went. She was a natural. ~How much would I see of her now that she had a new found mobility? ~

After a Christmas dinner of pasta and jar sauce, I watched a variation on the Scrooge theme while she read a book that Mrs. Stevens sent along with the skirt and sweater set.
I think the title of it was “Best Friends for Never.” Whatever its title, she seemed to enjoy it.

The pasta, “Bud,” “Jack,” and coffee rendered me to a semi-snoozed state. Amanda broke it by crawling up on top of me. She kissed my cheek, and then placed her head on my chest and said, “I love you, Mister.”

I whisked away a tear.

***

We spent our summer days together - I’d drive the tractor and she’d follow along on her bike. She’d grown about an inch over the year. ~If she kept riding that bike she’d have legs like tree trunks. ~

The extra money each month, coupled with medical benefits for her from the Stevens enabled us to get a dental check-up and an eye examination. I’d noticed that she seemed to hold the books of her steadily increasing library a bit too close. Somehow the nine about to turn ten-year old couldn’t come to terms with having to wear eyeglasses.

“You can get ones like mine,” I suggested.

“Could I get ones like Ms. Griffith?”

“Thanks to the two-for-one sale at Wal-Mart and her medical plan she got a pair in each style – unisex and ultra-feminine.

***

I’d baked a cake for her tenth birthday and two of her friends shared it. Ms. Griffith couldn’t attend, but Barbie came to stay. She traveled light - packing only three outfits. A TY bear came to stay too, however it didn’t get all that much playtime. “Bear” got to sleep with her, but Barbie got all of the attention.

Her friends, Emily Messina, and Heather Jones, played Barbie’s while I readied the remainder of the goodies for the party. I also hooked up a Stevens hayride trailer to the tractor to take them for a ride.

After the hayride they returned to Amanda’s room to play. Over time the giggling and laughter waned. I peaked into the room, curious as to why it had grown quiet. The sight before me left me devastated. She and her friends had found my stash of women’s clothing. The boxes that contained my chiffon gown, floral print summer dress, navy blue sequin gown, the bag that contained my lingerie, and the one that contained my shoes. They were in the midst of playing dress-up with my things.

“Mister,” she said. “We found these under the bed.”

Torn between scolding her and her friends and skulking out of the room, I decided to turn it into a joke.

“Can I play too?” I asked.

They giggled and laughed, and then said “No.”

The clothes that I coveted and longed to wear had become little girls’ playthings. I knew that they’d laugh when I asked to play along, but the feel of chiffon upon my body would have felt good and would have rid me of some of the pent up anger that had been growing over the last year. I loved her, however the cost of that love continued to grow in ways that couldn’t be satisfied with money. It was just as well that I didn’t play along. I knew Amanda would laugh about it, but when her two friends told their parents of the game, it probably wouldn’t set all that well.

Again, for the good of the kid I silently suffered.

***

One day after we’d cut the south meadow I’d noticed her rubbing her chest.

“I got itches Mister,” was the answer to my question. ~I needed to buy a different bath soap and use a less toxic laundry detergent. Maybe she was having an allergic reaction. ~

The change in soaps didn’t seem to help and thoughts of making an appointment with her doctor rattled around in my mind while I started the disassembly of the engine that ran the auxiliary power generator. ~She could have poison ivy - maybe she got it when she fell off her bike while riding it in one of the meadows. ~

“Doctor,” I said. “She’s complained a couple of times about her chest itching.”

I stood outside the examining room once her doctor took over, declining to stay with her. I wrestled with the thought of viewing a semi-naked ten-year old girl, as much as I was torn by the need to cross-dress.

“She’s starting to ‘bud,’ ” the doctor said, after he completed his assessment.

~Oh shit, the start of puberty. ~

***

The school year began after the annual Stevens’ Labor Day party. Amanda received a new dress courtesy of Mrs. Stevens and danced the night away. She still went into shrug, nod, and shake mode with her, but it hadn’t been as bad as the first year.

I became a soccer spectator person. Mr. Stevens allowed me to hang a sign in the convenience store to advertise motorcycle and ATV repair and insisted that I add tractor repairs. We’d entered into a sharing agreement regarding the tractor repair. He’d get the profits from the parts, while I’d keep the labor charges. The money from repairing them coupled with my salary and her support money eased some of the crunch and helped to defray the cost of soccer shoes. I was able to buy a hide-away bed so I could move off the couch and Mr. Stevens let me knock down a wall to expand the apartment by two hundred square feet.

She wore the number ten on her soccer uniform. She’d seen a picture of one of my old race bikes and asked if she could wear the number. Little did she know that the numbers had been assigned and not chosen. Wearing that number became another shared experience and drew us closer.

I had no patience with the parents of her teammates. The damn fools would yell at the coach because their kid hadn’t played enough, scream at the official because he hadn’t called the invisible trip, holler at the opposing team for no apparent reason, and roar like a wounded animal for the sake of hearing themselves make noise.

Amanda had natural grace. When she ran it appeared to be in slow motion. Her kicks rivaled a buggy whip in quickness. The things she did couldn’t be taught.

My involvement with her teammates’ parents had been limited to the essentials. On occasion I sold fifty-fifty tickets, or worked the coffee, cider, and cookie table. Vicarious living through her athletic prowess had not been my thing.

***

Something had upset her and her frown showed it as we drove home from school ten days before Halloween. So much so she snuggled her head up under my arm as I drove the truck back to the farm. She threw herself onto the bed and lay face down. The TY bear that she’d slept with since its arrival didn’t get a hug; and poor Barbie didn’t even get a change of clothes. She picked at her food -- which was unusual, as her appetite had always been good.

“What’s up, Amanda?”

“Oh nothing,” she answered as the peas moved from one side of the plate to the other via the fork.

“‘Oh something.’ Let’s have it.”

‘There’s going to be a Halloween party at school and a parent has to come.”

“Okay,” I said patting her on the head. “I’ll come.”

“You’d have to wear a costume.”

“Amanda,” I said. “I’ll go the party and I’ll wear a costume. It’s not a problem.

“It is a problem because I want to wear this; and we have to match.” She pulled a folded up picture of Cinderella from her pocket, and then started to cry. “Boys don’t wear dresses.”

Cinderella hadn’t made my top ten list of women to emulate. Lauren Bacall and Gayle Storm made it, but not “Cindy baby.”

“If the rules are we have to match, we’ll go to the party supply store by Target and buy matching costumes.”

“But boys don’t wear dresses.”

“This old boy will wear one for his favorite girl.”

After our Halloween costume discussion the peas found their way onto the fork and into her stomach along with bits of chicken and mashed potatoes.

Fortunately we didn’t have to buy costumes as the store had a rental policy. As much as I looked forward to being en-femme for a few hours, the thought of having to wear a Cinderella dress didn’t excite me. The store clerk, the mother of a teenaged girl, remembered when she and her daughter attended the party, and told me that I was a special person. If she’d known that I preferred to attend as a Lauren Bacall look alike, she probably would’ve change her mind.

The tall and not so tall Cinderellas entered the party to giggles and an occasional belly laugh. I’d been laughed at before when dressed en-femme. For that matter I’d been laughed at when dressed in jeans or racing leathers. The smile on Amanda’s face compensated for any discomfort I felt.

Altogether there’d been six “Cindy babys” in attendance. Other kids and parents were dressed as soldiers, sailors, police, firemen, witches, astronauts, super heroes, and Harry Potters.

Everyone applauded when I told a male super hero parent, “You might be Superman, but it takes a real man to wear a dress.” He and his sad-faced little girl, who had been forced to wear a Superboy costume, huddled in a corner while the applauding moms and dads high fived and backslapped me.

***

Ms. Griffith took Amanda to see the Nutcracker; and Mr. and Mrs. Stevens took her to a Christmas Eve church service. I used both occasions as an opportunity.

It had been nearly eighteen months, discounting the Cinderella incident, since I’d last dressed. It’d been too cold during the Nutcracker to cavort in the gazebo dressed in the yellow chiffon sleeveless dress, but the warmth generated by the wood stove coupled with apple cider laced with spiced rum and the aroma of cosmetics literally and figuratively warmed me. While Amanda attended the church service with the Stevens, I reveled in my navy blue sequin gown.

As I removed the last bits of make-up, the Stevens came up the drive and shortly there after a tired Amanda entered our home.

After putting her to bed, I sat at the kitchen table and fought my thoughts. On one hand I’d been charged with raising a child and on the other I’d been forced to give up a portion of my life. There’d had to be a way to blend the two sides of me. If I dressed in her presence and she made it known, I could lose her. Some kid’s stuffy parents would take exception and start a campaign to free the child from the pervert’s hold. The do-gooders of the world always took it upon themselves to find ways to instruct others about life. I imagined myself in the presence of the honorable Judge Gertrude Willis explaining that cross-dressing had no material effect on the mental health of my child.

I downed one more shot of “Jack” and called it a night.

***

Amanda became enamored by the goings-on at church. I’d been delinquent in introducing her to organized religion. We became churchgoers and she joined the choir. I became a backbencher preferring to stand or sit near the door in fear of the ceiling collapsing. I endured a sermon on alternative lifestyles and felt quite the hypocrite for not dressing down the preacher man about his views on gay, lesbian, and trans-whatever -- again -- for the good of the kid.

~Amanda, the guy who’s your guardian and the person who legally adopted you had in the past enjoyed a lifestyle that the preacher man called deviant behavior. ~ I reconciled the preacher’s words with those of a former customer. “Don’t confuse the messenger with the message.”

Another crisis occurred when Amanda asked me if Ms. Griffith could come to live with us.

“Ms. Griffith and I don’t like each other that way, Amanda,” I said, trying to figure out a way to describe love, marriage, and other forms of cohabitation.

“What way is that?” the puzzled ten-year old asked.

“Ms. Griffith and I like each other, but we don’t like each other enough to fall in love, and then live together.”

“What’s love?”

~You’re killing me kid. ~

“Love is…a special kind of like. It’s more than like…it’s….” Boy, am I making an ass out of myself. “You and I love each other so we live together.”

“I love Ms. Griffith so she can live with me.” Her logic was solid.

After I dropped her off at school, I called Ms. Griffith and told her about my conversation with Amanda. The giggle became laughter, and then a belly laugh.

“Do you want me to have a conversation with her?” she asked.

“Please.”

Ms. Griffith and Amanda had a big girl lunch a week after school shut down for the summer and talk of her coming to live with us ended. I wondered if Amanda had been wounded by the experience. It didn’t seem like it, but I had my doubts.

***

When school started she tried out and became a cheerleader. She’d grown an additional inch and one half in height and had graduated to a size medium training bra. The doctor said she was healthy and, “…everything was proceeding as it should.” Whatever that meant?

The soccer coach protested her leaving the team, but I turned a deaf ear. She had my blessing to participate in any activity she so desired. My curiosity did get the better of me as to why she chose not to run around chasing or kicking a ball.

“No sports this year, Amanda?”

She fell back into the sometimes-dormant shoulder shrug.

When she was ready we’d talk about it. If she never told me, I could go on living.

After dinner each night we practiced the cheers.

I waited and waited, but she never did the cheer I remembered from my childhood. “Lean to the left, lean to the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight.” She said they’d written better cheers during the last century.

I knew there were better ones. I preferred the one from the Keanu Reeves’ movie “The Replacements” “Slash ‘em, smash ‘em, cut ‘em down, -- smear their blood all over town.”

The cheerleading team qualified for the state championship and came away with a third place trophy. I was taken aback when she turned in her uniform after the competition. I sensed a pattern. Team sports, participating with others, interacting with others didn’t seem to sit well with her.

I made an appointment with her doctor to see if he could shed any light on this new development. All we got from that wizard was it was a phase and she’d outgrow it.

~When in doubt, call the lawyer. ~ After doing a bit of groveling before explaining the situation, I told her about my conversation with Amanda and the conversation with her doctor. Neither one of us could come up with anything. She offered a big girl lunch and I accepted the invitation on Amanda’s behalf.

The lunch revealed that Amanda preferred to read and also wanted to learn about fashion and fashion design. She’d primarily participated in the sports and cheerleading to appease her friends, Emily and Heather.

I envied Ms. Griffith and her ability to get Amanda to open up. “It’s a girl thing,” our attorney told me. ~Maybe if I started to dress around our home Amanda would open up to me. Nope, not a good idea. ~

***

We both made it to the first of her teen years having survived the purchase of a first bra with a cup size. I envied her in part because she was actually being measured for a bra, versus when I’d purchased my first one. My acquisition was a shot in the dark based on measurements used to size my long departed racing leathers.

Her first period was a different story, but I’d prepared myself the best that I could. I’d mentioned it to Ms. Griffith during one of our monthly telephone conversations. According to the information that I’d found in a medical book from the library, it could happen any day now . . . based on her growth. She’d developed to almost a “B” cup and she complained about new body hair. Once again the friendly barrister agreed to have a big girls’ talk with her. I pouted because I wanted to be part of it.

When the first “P” day arrived, I wasn’t informed and the realization that it occurred happened while we shopped. We’d been pushing the cart down the aisle and she tossed in a box of feminine napkins and a box of Tampax. It was another thing that she had to endure on her own or with the help of her attorney.

I mentioned her purchases while we ate dinner and found that she knew more than I did about the “facts of life.” Between the conversations with her attorney, her friends, and sex education she knew what occurred and the responsibility that came with it.

I was relieved not to have the responsibility of the “talk” but realized her change had been one more thing that couldn’t be a shared experience.

I wouldn’t be there for her to talk to about cramps, medication, and various other things that came along with a period. Her doctor and lawyer had to act as intermediaries -- and I hated it.

***

I’d picked her up from school one early spring afternoon using the bike as transportation. It would be her first ride of the new season, and as in the past, she looked forward to it. She often told me that the boys in her class thought that it was cool that she rode on the bike while some of the more pompous girls in her class thought it to be tomboyish.

After dinner she handed me a note from one of her teachers. I feared the worst thinking that she’d been reprimanded for some blow against the empire and that I’d been summoned to a conference. Instead, it was a permission slip to attend a class trip to the museum and the planetarium and an invitation for volunteers to act as chaperones.

“Tell your teacher that I’ll help out if she gets desperate,” I said, while signing the permission slip. “If you don’t want me to tag along, I’ll understand.”

The fear that my being there would embarrass her loomed over me as memories of my childhood seeped to the surface. In my day, kids would pick on a classmate if his or her parents served as chaperones. I wondered if things like that still occurred.

“You can come if you want.”

My paranoia got the better of me as I struggled to interpret her answer. ~Did she or didn’t she want me to attend? Could she be embarrassed by my age? ~ We’d been together for nearly seven years and at sixty-four I could be the parent of her friends’ parents.

Two weeks later I boarded a bus as one of six chaperones for thirty-six teenagers. I deemed the six to one ratio manageable and looked forward to touring the museum and checking out the stars and planets.

After surviving three hours of screaming, yelling, and whatever kind of music blared out of someone’s amplified I-pod thing, the sanctity of the planetarium was a welcomed respite.

“Amanda, you don’t have to be one of my six kids,” I said after counting to six and thirty-six for the tenth time in two hours.

“I want to be with you because I want to show you something.”

She had that excited look in her eyes - the one she had when I gave her the bicycle, when she received Barbie and TY, and when she took her first motorcycle ride of the season.

We entered the exhibition room titled “Fashion Through Time.” What a great kid – she’d given me a cover story to wander the room imagining myself dressed in the gowns, hats, head pieces, and shoes of European and American woman of nobility and wealth.

Thirteen females and I studied the exhibits.

Fully immersed in thoughts of wearing every bit of Elizabethan, Victorian, and Edwardian finery I missed all bits of conversation that swirled around me. Reality had been replaced by imagination as I viewed myself walking in gardens, grand ballrooms, riding in horse drawn coaches, and sitting at sumptuous banquet tables.

“This must be horribly boring for you,” my co-chaperone, Emily’s mom, said.

“I’m okay,” I said tearing myself away from my imaginary reality with great reluctance. “Amanda wants to be a fashion designer, so I’ll probably have to get used to coming to exhibits like this.”

“My husband has no tolerance for museums. If he does go to a museum, all he’ll look at is the antique gun display. He prefers sporting events and insists on taking Emily to every stadium and arena within one hundred miles to attend games.”

“I don’t try to push Amanda in any direction. She played sports, but prefers things like this. If Emily likes sports, then that’s her thing. If they’re happy -- that’s enough.”

“I suppose that you’re right, but sometimes I like to see Emily as a young woman instead of a second baseman.”

“I don’t think that there’s a difference. Emily is Emily regardless of what she’s wearing or doing.”

~Now leave me alone and let me pretend that I’m wearing these magnificent dresses, ~ I thought, as she left to perform a quick head count to assure there hadn’t been any strays.

“Do you think one day I’ll be able to design clothes this beautiful?” Amanda asked.

I gently pressed her nose and said, “I believe in you.”

We hugged, and then continued to view the exhibits.

***

She turned sixteen the fall of her junior year of high school. I didn’t have to endure the agony of a sweet sixteen blowout party, but I did have to deal with the angst of having to take her to her driver’s license test. Teaching her to drive hadn’t been a big deal as she’d been driving the tractors and the farm trucks for years. It became a matter of teaching lane position, parallel parking, and making turns while remaining in the proper lane. Getting her a car hadn’t been an issue as she was content to drive a late 1970’s two-door Chevrolet Nova and not pine over the latest and greatest from Europe, Japan, Korea, or Detroit.

The license and the car enabled her to find a job and earn some extra money for herself. It didn’t seem to affect her that we didn’t have money on demand; nor did it seem to bother her that she didn’t have the latest in teen-aged fashion. She knew what the latest fashions were, but didn’t have the absolute need to wear them. There’d been times that I’d felt badly about not finding other better paying work to ease the burden on both of us, but she kept telling me that it didn’t bother her that she didn’t have all her classmates had.

She kept her own earnings from her job at the convenience store. I deemed it to be a learning process that she manage her own money, and manage it she did. When it came to buying a dress and shoes for the homecoming dance she’d saved enough to buy a gown that I’d have loved to have worn. I couldn’t even cheat and try it on because her dress size was four sizes below mine. It further compounded matters that she wore petite versus my “tall girl” sizes.

***

When school started in the fall, I missed taking her. The morning and afternoon bike rides had enabled me to deal with the depression that had come from raising her and not having the freedom to dress at my leisure and pleasure. I feared dressing during the day in part because I might be summoned to school because she’d gotten hurt or her earlier than expected arrival home. “I got kids.” continued to rattle around in my brain and the more it did the more I felt guilty about cursing or envying her.

Despite the loss of not taking her to school, the extra two hours per day enabled me to service ATVs, tractors, and the occasional car. The local kids, some of who were her classmates, had come around to have their stuff repaired as well as to sniff around Amanda. I found myself creating the farm kids’ version of a tuner car or preparing a tractor for a pulling contest.

On occasion some of the kids would hang around and watch as I repaired or modified their vehicles. They’d talk about their dreams of having a farm of their own or leaving the farms or family businesses to make their mark in the world. There’d always seemed to be a sadness to the conversations. At times they lamented their current state and felt “let down” by their school, teachers, parents, friends, and community. Other times they’d be excited by un-rewarded successes at athletics, tractor competitions, and car shows.

I tried to recall my feelings when I’d been their age. My discovery of motorcycles offered a certain focus to things, yet there’d always been the ache of being the outsider caused by need and desire to cross-dress. Did these kids have a similar ache? Did country, small town, and farm life, cause them to feel “short changed” and ill-equipped to deal with life’s events? Did they mourn the loss of not having dreams? I had no answers to the questions they wore on their faces or what I heard in their voices. My hope was Amanda didn’t suffer from the same malady.

She arrived home after school and her job one late September day shedding tears. She went to her room and slammed the door . . .  something she’d never done before. I braced myself for a return to shrug, nod, and shake and elected not to pursue the problem until we sat for dinner.

“What’s going on, Sweetie,” I asked while she poked at her food. “Barbie and Bear are worried.”

A glimmer of a smile shot across her face; through sniffles she answered, “Some senior girls and boys started to make fun of me; they call me ‘junkyard girl’ and ‘rag bag.’”

“So, they called you names. They’re jealous because you drive a cool antique car and wear funky clothes.”

“The names didn’t bother me as much as the way Emily and Heather acted. They joined in with the laughing and the name-calling. I thought they were my friends and they would stick up for me.”

“Why do you think they joined in?”

I got a shrug.

“Have Emily and Heather ever done that before?”

The answer was a headshake.

“Did you ask them why they joined with the others to laugh at you?”

Another headshake.

“The only way that you’re going to know is to ask them,” I paused. “Amanda, understand something - friendships over time can change . . . and we have to change with them. If they’re true friends, you’ll be able to talk to them and they’ll tell you why they did what they did. If they start to avoid you, then they’re probably feeling guilty about the whole thing. I can’t speak for them, but it was probably easier to laugh along than to stand by you.”

“I guess.”

After she’d gone to bed, I stumbled through a guilt trip. I cursed Van Dyke for dying, the lawyers for allowing a will to be set up in such a way, the judicial system, and myself. ~How could a broken down cross-dressing fool raise a kid? ~

I didn’t ask her about the friendship problem despite wondering about the outcome; however it did cause me to think about my past friendships. There hadn’t been that many over the years. Sure there’d been acquaintances, but no one to actually rely upon through thick and thin. No one to offer a helping hand through the angst. No one to offer acceptance of my preference for satin, velvet, and chiffon skirts and dresses to leather or denim jeans, bras instead of t-shirts and perfume instead of aftershave.

I’d dealt with the loneliness of it all, but feared that Amanda would have to deal with it as well. She didn’t have the peer possessions of her classmates and without them she’d be viewed as different and consequently not be allowed into the various groups. Loneliness, parenting, and being a kid sure did suck.

One afternoon I returned to the house to find Amanda, Emily, and Heather jabbering away drinking lemonade in the gazebo. As I neared them I heard a conversation pertaining to the homecoming queen contest, dresses, hairstyles, escorts, decorations, and chaperones. I learned that they’d been conspiring to recruit me to be a chaperone. Their plan had been to gang up on me. It wouldn’t be a one-on-one attack; rather they were going to come at me from three ways. Amanda would make the frontal assault, while Emily and Heather would attack from the flanks. They also planned that I couldn’t beat a hasty retreat, as the battle would be waged in the confines of the gazebo. It would be a first for me to attend a homecoming dance – city schools didn’t have such things – they had sock hops and fights.

I played along and let them have their fun, but during the battle I fantasized about scratching some additional cash together and steeling off to the one of the city thrift shops to buy a gown. In my dreams I would crash the homecoming queen contest.

After dinner I approached Amanda and asked about the now past tense friendship problems.

“I see that you, Emily, and Heather are the Three Musketeers again.”

“Almost.”

“What does ‘almost’ mean?”

“We’re friends and all that, but I’m not going to attend the parties that the softball team and the cheerleaders do -- and they’re not going to come to the fashion club stuff.”

“You okay with that?”

“We all agreed that it would be better to branch out and meet more people.”

After she called it a day, I tucked her in for the night - I continued to do so because it had been my selfish thing - fooling myself into thinking that it drew us closer. I then sat at the table thinking about being a square peg in a round hole while chaperoning the dance. Additional thoughts came of how the kids had been able to strike a compromise and maintain a friendship. She had powers and insights that I lacked and despite the allusions of compassion, I’d maintained an “all-or-nothing streak”.

***

Amanda forced me to wear a tie with my boots, jeans, oxford cloth blue shirt, and leather jacket while she wore a winter green velvet and chiffon gown with matching shoes and clutch bag. She’d meet her testosterone-charged, sperm-filled date - with traces of acne - at the dance. I’d met him once before and vowed to dismember him should he come within five feet of her.

Emily and Heather’s fathers wore tuxedos while their moms looked as though they’d searched their closets for their once worn homecoming gowns. The few teachers that had been roped into chaperoning dressed about the same, leaving me to be the envy of the car-crazed kids who had been forced to temporarily leave their coveralls at home.

I chuckled from time to time while I watched some of the girls who worked their parent’s farms, who were more accustomed to jeans and work boots, wrestle with their chosen gowns. I recalled a time when I too had struggled to come to terms with a gown – stepping on the hem when rising from a chair, forgetting to lift the skirt when walking and nearly tripping, and no doubt struggling with sitting on the porcelain altar. The boys, kept running their fingers about their neck in the vein attempt to loosen a tight collar without removing their ties and un-buttoning the top button of their rented shirts. I wanted to do the same.

Emily’s mom had been thrilled to see her daughter dressed in something other than a softball uniform, while Heather’s mom, filled with memories of her queen days, made a novena or some such prayer that her daughter would carry on the family tradition. Their fathers groused on about politics, business, and their new cars as I listened and tried to look interested. My main focus had been on the location of Amanda’s date’s hands.

No known musical rhythms emanated from the DJ’s sound system, but the kids and some parents and teachers seemed to make sense of it and made movements that passed for dance steps. I, on the other hand, longed to hear something Motown, do-op, or hard rock.

To my surprise the DJ played The Flamingo’s “I Only Have Eyes for You” More to my surprise – Amanda asked me to dance. She placed her head on my chest and hummed along with the song. Emily and Heather picked up on it and danced with their fathers as well.

“I didn’t know you could dance so good,” she offered.

“The bands of my day used to bang on trees, animal skulls, rocks, and shrunken animal skins pulled over hollowed out logs and our dance steps were patterned after stepping on bugs, but we managed.”

The DJ segued to a Four Tops tune. I tried to run to the safety of my chair, but Amanda kept me on the dance floor. We danced to “Reach Out, I’ll Be There.” She laughed at my moves and I laughed at hers. Another Motown song was played and I found myself dancing with Heather, and then Emily, and then some girl that I found out later was named Brenda. I suddenly felt like Clifton Webb when he too attended his daughter’s dance in the movie “Cheaper by the Dozen.” I guessed that they thought it fashionable to dance with the old guy. Little did they know that I would’ve been much happier dancing a waltz, or better yet, a tango dressed in a dreamy gown while clenching a rose in my teeth.

The kids who brought their cars and tractors to me for repairs left their dates to support the gym walls. They came by my table to discuss the latest device to either make their sound system louder or add more pulling power. The conversations were pleasant diversions and saved me from their boring parents and teachers.

Torn between dismembering her date and holding back tears, I watched as he and Amanda exchanged kisses. The eight-year old peanut had become a striking sixteen-year old young woman. ~What new challenges would befall this tired old cross-dresser? ~

***

Over the years, I’d carried many things on the back of Bertha. The portable sewing machine marked a first. It would be a surprise for Amanda and a much-needed addition to her growing love of fashion. Her clever designs had been noticed by her high school teacher, who indicated Amanda had a special talent.

On occasion, it did bother me that she didn’t have all that many friends. Many times I feared that she’d become a loner like me, but her teachers, doctor, and attorney assured me that she was “well-adjusted.” I didn’t know what that meant and it didn’t really relax me.

After dinner one evening she’d been sketching something and grown frustrated.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“I just can’t get this,” she answered with her jaw tight. “I’m trying to design an evening gown, but nothing seems to work.”

I looked at her sketch, and then turned it upside down and sideways. I turned to a new page in her sketchpad, and then drew two triangles – one upside down and the other right side up.

“Try that and see what happens.”

She always seemed to bite her lip when she worked on things that required concentration. It caused her to contort her face. A warning my mother had issued, “Don’t do that because your face will freeze that way” came to mind and caused me to chuckle.

After some feverish sketching, shading, and then coloring, she turned the sketchpad toward me and asked, “What do you think?”

She’d converted the two triangles into a dress that resembled something not quite fifties and not quite seventies, but modern enough to look trendy.

“Looks okay to me,” I said.

“I have to make a pattern, and then sew a dress,” she sighed. “It’s for my final exam.”

“Well, I guess that you better get moving on it.”

I thought back to my childhood days in the ghetto. There’d been a dressmaker that everyone called “Aunt Mary” and she made wedding gowns for the neighborhood girls. All of the weddings had been scheduled around her ability to crank out a dress for the occasion. I chuckled as memory of Aunt Mary came to mind – short, plump, knitting needles stuck in her hair bun, drooping stockings and eyeglasses that resembled glass blocks. I hoped that Amanda’s growing talent -- and not her appearance -- would rival Aunt Mary’s.

The sketch began to take life when she began to develop a pattern.

“Could you help me?” she asked. “Could I pin this to you to see what it looks like.”

She began to pin various pieces of pattern paper to my t-shirt and jeans. My designer’s eye had been in metal, while hers was in paper and fabric. I couldn’t visualize a dress from the bits of paper that swirled around me. Cut, pin, and then cut and pin again and again - it seemed to make sense to her while I remained clueless.

As we made our way home from school one day, we stopped at the flea market’s fabric store. We left frustrated, as she couldn’t find the material that her mind’s eye envisioned. A trip to the ever-reliable Target and a stop at a fabric store in a distant mall yielded the material that she deemed suitable for her project.

One evening after she’d gone to bed and while I lay on the couch, she got out of bed and came to me. As she usually did when she’d been troubled by something, she placed her head upon my chest.

“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Trouble at school? Problems with your project?”

“No nothing like that.”

“Then what is it? Should I call Ms. Griffith tomorrow?”

She did the headshake thing. “Who’s the lady who used to live here before I came?”

“What do you mean?”

“The dresses under my bed … who’d they belonged to? Was she pretty?”

She’d never asked about them before, despite occasionally using them to play dress up. I thought about making up someone, but at the same time I’d have to lie to her. Lying wouldn’t be an option.

I remained silent and hoped that she wouldn’t pursue it.

She wanted an answer and continued. “Did she leave because of me?”

“It’s a long story.”

“Tell me. Please.”

“Amanda, what I have to say to you will be difficult and I’m very reluctant to tell you.”

“Why?”

“They may take you away from me if you tell any one about what I’m about to say. If they don’t, then you’ll be teased by your classmates.”

“Well then, it’ll be our secret.”

Her blue eyes sparkled with affection for me and I hoped that it wouldn’t leave when I finished with what I had to say.

“The dresses are mine. I’m a cross-dresser. Do you know what that means?”

“It means that you dress like a girl. Do you want to be a girl?”

“No.” I paused. ~How could she be so matter-of-fact? ~ “I like being a man and an old one at that. It’s just that I like to wear the clothes, sometimes.”

“Do you want to wear them now?”

“It’s late, Sweetie. Go to bed. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”

It was difficult, but I managed to carry her off to bed as I’d done so many times in the past. After tucking her in, I bent down to kiss the tip of her nose. She reached up to put her arms around my neck to pull me closer to her. When my face was next to hers she whispered, “I love you, Mister.”

“What have I done?” I mumbled as I searched the moonlit night from the bench that I’d positioned outside the gazebo. I’d just told my adopted daughter that I’m a cross-dresser. If she mentioned it in passing to her school friends she’d become the laughingstock of the school. If a “moralistic” parent got word of it they might take action against me and take her away. For that matter, if Sondra Griffith found out, she would start an action. My selfishness had kept me from chucking the clothes after she and her friends found them those many birthdays ago. That same selfishness caused me to at times to become envious of her color sense, style, manner of dress, and many of her dresses. At times I cursed her when she would come away from her bath smelling of scented lotions and powders. I would wish those aromas could emanate from my skin.

~Would our relationship change as a result of my confession? Would she look at me and choose to adopt the shrug, nod, and shake mode of her past? Would she go to her attorney and ask out of the arrangement and seek the guidance of the Sisters who cared for her for that brief time? ~ The answers would be known in time.

Her car had broken down, so I had to take her to school until I repaired it. In the pre – “I’ll drive myself” days her manner of dress determined the mode of transportation that I’d use to take her to school. If she came out of her room wearing jeans, boots, and a sweater, that meant that she wanted a ride on the bike. In the past, when she hadn’t been certain of things she ask to go for a ride. It was the one thing that we seemed to have in common – when we needed a good think, we rode the bike.

The ride to school that morning on Bertha seemed longer than the usual forty-five minutes. Speed and distance hadn’t been a factor, but the ride seemed to go on and on. I had been tempted to have her skip school and spend the day riding and thinking.

I watched her hair fall out from the helmet as she lifted it off. Her eyes hadn’t lost their sparkle when she hugged me before heading to the school’s door. I delayed my departure until after she’d entered the building, and then waited an additional ten minutes in fear that she’d burst through the door in tears. My thoughts bent around the reality and came out that the entire school population had eavesdropped on our conversation and had begun to taunt her. I shook off that daytime nightmare.

I started the bike and forced myself to take a long ride and think through the consequences of my actions.

The long ride did nothing to help organize any logical explanation for telling Amanda about my cross-dressing, not tossing out the clothes when they’d been discovered, or the jealousy that I’d at times felt toward her. All it did was fill the time between bringing her to and picking her up from school.

She hugged me when she greeted me. Perhaps she believed nothing had changed between us and it would be normal to have a cross-dresser as a guardian. Maybe I’d underestimated her ability to understand – maybe I really didn’t know her at all.

Dinner conversation was one-sided. She entertained me with tales of school intrigue, mysteries, trysts, sports, and the goings on in her dressmaking class. I half listened while picking at my food.

After she cleared the table and washed the dinner dishes she asked, “Are you ready?”

“Ready for what?” I mumbled.

“Ready to show me how you look wearing women’s clothing.”

“I don’t think so.”

I suddenly loathed the idea of cross-dressing. The shame and guilt of the early days of sneaking around and thinking that the entire world knew that I’d snuck into Aunt Mary’s dress store to try on a half made dress or had been looking over my shoulder the first time that I’d entered a thrift shop to buy an outfit for my first “Feminine Society” formal.

Amanda’s voice snapped me out of my stupor.

“Here – put these on. I want to see if you look good dressed in these.”

In one arm she held the blue sequins gown, bra, slip, waist cincher, and pantyhose . . . and in her hand, my heeled sandals.

“Do you have a wig?” she asked in matter-of-fact tones.

“In the bin,” I said, motioning to a storage bin.

Upon removing it she said, “It’s out of style.”

She handed me the clothes and hurried me off to the bath to change. The one time pleasant sensation of working panty hose up my unshaven legs felt as though razor blades had been cutting through my skin – the goose bumps that appeared when I snapped the bra closed rivaled poison ivy and the warm chill of the dress falling down around my body reminded me of the jail cell door clanking behind me when I’d been held in contempt of court. The wig and sandals felt as though they’d been stapled to my head and feet.

“You’ll look and feel much better when we add some make-up. It always makes me feel special,” she said while taking my hand and leading me to the center of the room. She didn’t laugh, giggle, throw insults, or cry. Instead she sat me on one of the kitchen chairs, took out her make-up kit and fixed my face, brushed my wig, and smoothed the skirt of the dress. After completing her work, she stepped back and said, “You look great. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know.”

“You should feel special. All girls feel special when they’re dressed as beautifully as you. Let’s go outside and sit in the gazebo – I want to tell you something.”

I minced while she walked to the gazebo.

“I guess you liked dressing up like Cinderella for that Halloween party?” she asked.

“Not really,” I said, still feeling uncomfortable while dressed in her company. “I did it for you because you had no one and I didn’t want you to miss out on something that you wanted to do.”

“If I asked you to model my dress for the fashion show, would you do it?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Amanda,” I said, while turning to hug her. “The fashion show is about you and your design and not about the fetish of an old man. If you made the dress to fit me and I wore it, everyone would look and laugh at me. They wouldn’t focus their attention on you and your creation.”

“Come on – it’ll be fun.”

“I’d do anything and everything for you . . . except that. You’ve lost out on so much living with me these years; and I’ll not take the chance of you losing something that you’ve dedicated yourself to all these weeks.”

She hugged me back with more intensity than ever before.

“My guidance counselor and home economics teacher are pressuring me toward early admission to the Fashion Institute.”

“Do you want to go there?”

“Yes, but it’ll mean having to go away and leave you.”

“That’s not a good enough excuse. You have a talent, young lady, and you should follow through with it. I fear that if you feel obligated to stay here with me and not follow it, you’ll regret it, grow old and incomplete, and then blame me for interfering.

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“I won’t give you the chance. You have the grades, the scores -- and if your design, pattern and dress do half way decent -- you’ll be granted acceptance. It won’t be a money issue because your parents took care of that and Ms. Griffith and I made sure that your trust accumulated more money over the years. It will be your choice and you have my support.”

“If the Stevens sell the farm, you’ll have no place to go.”

~I could’ve guessed she shared my worries about that. ~

“Amanda, stop making excuses. You have the summer and your senior year to decide. This is about you and not about me. I’ll be fine.”

We sat in silence wrapped in each other’s arms for what seemed like an eternity. Neither one of us wanted to let go. I wouldn’t tell her that a part of me would die when she went off to college.

“Please don’t hide your dressing up any more,” she whispered into my chest. “Okay?”

“Okay.”

***

I stared at the massive John Deere Model “G” tractor that stood before me that Mr. Stevens had purchased. He developed a line of replacement parts and copies of original out of production parts for vintage and antique tractors and wanted a working antique to display his wares. My job would be to restore the tractor with as many of the parts in his line as possible.

Much of the original paint had either rusted away or had been covered with grease and grime and the engine didn’t turn over – having seized when some fool didn’t add oil when needed. It would be a test of my mechanical skills to resurrect the tired old beast.

I started work on it by removing the two spark plugs and filling the bores with rust penetrate with the hope of dissolving whatever rust or sludge lived within the cylinder.

While they soaked, I replaced the ignition wires and magneto cap. The magneto needed attention, but not as much as I’d thought. Its true test would be if it would throw enough spark to ignite the fuel charge provided by the new carburetor.

“Oliver what in the world is that?” the familiar voice of Ms. Griffith asked.

“It’s an old John Deere tractor that Mr. Stevens wants restored. He’s expanding his business and wants a working advertisement. What brings you out here?”

“Business,” she said as her voice trailed off. “I had to attend a sheriff’s sale – one of the farmers on the other side of the valley went bankrupt; and I had to attend the sale on behalf of a client.”

“I imagine you didn’t represent the poor farmer.” ~No farmer could afford her. ~

“Unfortunately no – I didn’t. Do you mind if I watch a bit – I don’t feel like going back to the office today.”

I never saw Ms. Griffith in such a state. She appeared to be moved or touched by the plight of the family that she’d just put out of house, home, and business. Family farms are very personal businesses.

“Sure, but stand clear, you may get dusty – I’m about to start sanding off the rust in anticipation of applying primer, and then paint.”

As I started to paint the panel fenders, Ms. Griffith prepared to leave.

“Do you mind if I came back on Saturday to watch you work on it?”

“I don’t mind – you can help, if you want.”

“Just watching will be sufficient.”

***

She arrived on Saturday morning wearing an outfit more suited to mall cruising than standing in a barn observing a restoration project.

“I’m about ready to start it, so stand clear.”

I shoved my thirty-inch breaker bar into one of the slots cast into the flywheel and nudged it back and fort in anticipation of breaking free the pistons. At first they didn’t budge but with a series of hammer blows and more nudging, the pistons started to move. I didn’t want to force them for fear of snapping a piston ring.

One more hammer blow and a tug on the bar broke the pistons free. Along with the success of freeing the pistons from their rusted confines, the penetration oil gushed out of the spark plug holes and sprayed onto Ms. Griffith.

“I’m so sorry,” I said trying to hide my laughter.

Also laughing she said, “That’s quite alright – maybe I deserved that for what I had to do to that poor farm family.”

“Go into the house and change into the coveralls hanging on the back of the door – there all I have that’s clean,” I said.

Amanda walked Ms. Griffith to the barn after she’d changed. I wondered why they both seemed to be joking and laughing.

“Stand back you two – I’m about to try to start this thing and I have no idea what will happen.”

With those two as an audience, I opened one of the pit-cocks used to release compression to ease in the starting, stuck the breaker bar into one of the slots in the center of the flywheel, and then gave it a good tug. Nothing. I removed the two spark plugs, sprayed them with starter fluid, installed them, and then tried again. The engine fired, blasting a tin can forty feet into the air. I’d placed it on top of the exhaust stack to stop rain from going down into the engine. A plume of soot and smoke rose from the “G”. I hurried to close the compression valve, and then the engine settled into an idle accented by a pop, followed by a whirring sound and then another pop.

With the bulk of the mechanical work completed, what remained was cosmetic. Fresh paint, new tires, and a new seat . . . and it would be ready to earn its keep on the show circuit.

***

One day while I sanded away at the engine cover oblivious to the sounds around me, Amanda tapped me on the shoulder.

“Look at this, Mister.”

“Look at what?”

“It’s a picture of a deer.”

“It is a John Deere tractor – what would expect them to put on it – a cow? Their slogan is ‘Nothing runs like a Deere’”

“No, really – look at it - looks like the one on the medical insurance form.”

“Quick call Ms. Griffith – maybe she can have John Deere and The Hartford sue each other and make a fortune for her firm.”

“Look at the antlers – they spell a word.”

“Amanda clean your glasses – you’re seeing things.”

“No look – they spell STUD. See the “S” – here’s the “T” – the “U” is in the middle and look - here’s the “D.”

“You better not tell anyone one – the “Politically Correct” police may complain. No wait – call Ms. Griffith maybe she can start a lawsuit claiming that the logo is pornography.”

***

The day of fashion show arrived. She didn’t win top prize, but her creation did attract attention. Emily modeled the dress -- much to the delight of her mother. She still held out hope that her daughter would outgrow the sports thing - I hoped that she wouldn’t because she excelled at it.

Amanda’s design had been a take-off on the little black dress in that it served as the foundation. She added white satin bell shaped sleeves that attached to the sides making them look like delta wings when Emily raised her arms. She then added what could have been considered a hood that attached to the neckline. It fell to the top of Emily’s bottom. Lastly, she added the satin, reinforced with crinoline, to flair out the lower part of the skirt that extended from below the knee to the floor.

Emily’s athletic body and graceful movements accented and enhanced the design. Her mother cried while her father groused. My tears, although well hidden, had resulted from not ruining Amanda’s day by not agreeing to the modeling assignment.

She had become like Aunt Mary, as both Emily and Heather had her design, and then sew them dresses for the senior homecoming dance. Two other girls also had asked that Amanda make them dresses. The additional monies earned from all of the cutting, pinning, and sewing afforded her the luxury of a computer.

I’d been given a reprieve from chaperoning the dance and it allowed me to dress and spend some much needed quiet time bathed in the moonlit gazebo. Despite her urgings, I didn’t dress in her presence. One excuse or another managed to deflect the subject long enough to move the conversations in other directions.

Later, the slam of a car door woke me and caused me to poke my head out the window to see Amanda leaving Brian Whitfield’s car. When she entered the house I noticed that she’d been crying. She didn’t say anything, but hugged me tighter than normal.

“Do you want to tell me about it?” I asked while holding the back of her head to my chest.

“Could we talk about it in the morning?”

“Get changed for bed – we’ll talk in the morning.”

As she headed toward her room, I noticed a tear in her dress. My thoughts shifted to Brian and the possibility that he attempted something that displeased her. The more I thought about what could have happened the tighter my fists clenched. I wanted to hunt the boy down and beat him senseless, even though I knew it would be an over reaction to something that might not have occurred.

I paced the room, and then the gazebo, and then the room. She awoke the next morning and greeted me in the gazebo. She’d made coffee. I sensed that we’d talk in the open confines of the gazebo. As much as I wanted to initiate the conversation I fought the urge -- choosing to allow her to start.

“After the dance Emily, Heather, and their dates, and Brian and I went to the lake. Brian started to drink some rum, and he kept asking us if he could add some to our cokes. We said no, but he kept insisting. He ended up drinking most of it himself. The more he drank, the more he tried to kiss me. When I refused, he tried to force me. I pulled away, but he grabbed me and tore my dress as I tried to push him away. Everyone jumped on top of him to keep him away from me. He passed out and Emily drove me home in his car, and then drove him home.”

I put my arm around her, and while hugging her I asked, “Do you want me to kill him?”

“No. You don’t have to do that . . . but everything was perfect up until then. We danced, talked, kissed a little, and then he started to drink and it ruined everything.”

“I guess you feel that he let you down.”

She began to cry and answered, “Yeah.”

We hugged for a bit, and then made our way back to the house.

***

During her senior year of high school, she gained admittance to the Fashion Institute and was awarded a small grant. Her program was a work-study so she’d be interning at either a fashion house or in retail. The summer before she left for college would be our last for a time.

The realization she would be leaving began to seep in when we sat in Ms. Griffith’s conference room to make arrangements for Amanda’s college expenses to be paid from the trust. Over the last ten years monies kept in the trust had grown to exceed three hundred thousand dollars. We all agreed that the amount would be more than sufficient to cover all of the expenses.

While we discussed the mechanics of payment, Ms. Griffith, who had become a partner in the law firm, instructed her intern, W. Holland Coffey, III, to make arrangements for a working lunch.

Shortly after he left the room, Amanda excused herself.

“What’s the bet?” I asked Ms. Griffith.

“Bet? What bet?” she asked in return.

“Amanda and your intern end up getting married.”

“Don’t be silly. They just met. How could you say such a thing?”

“She’s never looked at a boy like that; and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. I’ll bet that he memorized every movement she made. Watch what happens when the two of them come back in.”

Within the spirit of the trust, tuition, books, and room and board -- net of the grant monies would be paid directly to the college. Amanda would also receive a monthly allowance. While we set up the accounts, we ate lunch. I chuckled as the two kids exchanged glances, stares, and occasional conversation.

“I think you’re right – there’s a connection,” Ms. Griffith said, when we were alone again.

“Is there anything in the trust about paying for a wedding?”

“No,” she chuckled. “They’ll have to pay for it themselves, if they marry before she turns twenty-five.”

“I guess I’ll have to sell the bike to pay for it. I’ve sold almost everything else.”

***

The week before she left for school, Emily, who’d received a softball scholarship to play at the state university and Heather, who received cheerleading scholarship at the same school, and Amanda, had a going away party. In total, fifty kids wandered around the farm - the Stevens had been nice enough to host the party. I spent most of the evening hoping that none of the kids would get drunk and wrap themselves around trees, as visions of court appearances defending charges of serving minors alcoholic beverages danced in my head.

As the guests took their leave, I witnessed extended hugs, kisses, and tears. Over the years the kids, despite moments of anger, had bonded. They’d no doubt miss each other as they prepared themselves to make new friends and experience new adventures. I found myself envying them as thoughts of the conversation that Amanda and I shared a few years back about friends swirled in my brain. ~The importance and trivialness of friendship – in five years time would they even remember each other’s name? ~

The old Nova managed to pull a utility trailer filled with the necessities of college life: computer, sewing machine, microwave, small refrigerator, stereo, and clothing - the five hundred mile trip. For the first time in the ten years that we’d been together, we’d be apart. I’d be free to dress at my leisure and pleasure, but at age sixty-seven, my mind’s eye saw an old man attempting to dress as a young woman. At the same time my thoughts had been to live at least another few years to finish the job that Van Dyke thrust upon me. I wanted to see her married and for her not to be alone in the world when it happened.

Despite our daily telephone conversations, I missed her and the trials and tribulations. Cutting the meadows proved to be difficult as memories banged around my mind of the Peanut perched upon my knee steering the tractor. There’d been times when they wouldn’t get cut because of my emotional state.

My fears of Amanda being alone were unfounded, as she quickly adapted to college life and often amused me with tales of fellow classmates, teachers, and the fashion club life. Based on the conversations, she excelled at both the design and business ends of the fashion industry. The word flexibility rattled around in my brain. It’s always good to have a fallback position – she’d have one, while I hoped for the best.

***

Her visits to the farm had been all too brief and limited to Thanksgiving, Christmas, a few days at spring break, and a week during the summer. At each meeting, I’d have to hold back tears as I missed her so. In the blink of a decade I’d gone from loathing the thought of raising a child -- to pining the loss of not having her under foot.

The blessing of each visit would be the joy each of us shared when we’d go for a motorcycle ride. We managed to be together when the bike turned forty-seven and I turned seventy. We packed a lunch and just rode. I no longer had the physical stamina for extended rides, but by keeping to the secondary roads our time together on the seat compensated for the abbreviated distance.

After our lunch, we sat and stared at the creek that flowed through the state park.

“Mister,” she asked softly, “you never treated me the way Emily and Heather’s parents treated them. Why was that?”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Whenever we’d talk you always treated me like an adult and not like a little girl. Emily and Heather wished that you were their father because you always seemed to listen and not end conversation with “I’m your father, that’s why.”

“You remember when I told you that I had a motorcycle business?”

“Yeah, but I don’t follow.”

“Amanda,” I said, as I placed my arm around her shoulder to draw her closer to me. “Maybe I was wrong in the way I raised you - I treated you like a customer and not a kid. I felt that the only way that I’d know what was wrong or what you were experiencing was to listen. If it was cold and clinical – then I’m sorry. I knew nothing about raising kids – all I knew was how to deal with customers, so I treated you like one.”

“I guess the difference is that you listened -- and their fathers didn’t.”

***

Midway through her final internship, which was with a major big box retailer, she called me in a panic and through the tears I managed to piece together that she’d worked on a project only to have a fellow intern push her aside and take full credit for it.

“That’s part of life, Amanda,” I said. “Someone will always be around who will be more than willing to live life off the efforts of others. The key is to learn from it and to try not to have it happen again.”

“It hurts.”

“I know it does and it will always hurt, but the idea is to not have it happen again. Think about all of the events that led up to this person taking credit, recognize it when it happens again, and then take steps to stop it early on. Nothing can change what happened, but keep this in mind. This person took your work, not your ideas or plans. Should anyone ask that person a question about it, they won’t be able to answer and that will be your chance to make things right.”

“Do you think so?”

“If your supervisors are smart enough, they’ll know the difference.”

***

A week before graduation, I turned seventy-two. I made an appointment to see Ms. Griffith. Over the fifteen years that I’d known her she’d never married and I couldn’t understand why such a beautiful woman managed to stay single.

“Mr. Jamerson, what can I do for you today?”

“Would you put together some kind of document that will put me in the county old folks home, so when I become feebler than I am, I won’t be a burden to Amanda?”

“You’re not old and feeble.”

“I’m serious – put something together. I don’t have money for assisted living, so the only place for me is the county home.”

“I’ll get Holland to work on it.”

“That Coffey kid - the one that’s been sniffing around Amanda – is he qualified?”

“Do you really think that I won’t watch over him as someone watched over me years ago?”

“Okay, I’ll trust you. Listen to me -- trust a lawyer.”

“Let’s have lunch. I’ll have Holland start on it later today.”

Since she was a partner, we enjoyed lunch in the firm’s private dining room where we’d lunched so many years ago on the day I met Amanda. My request for a turkey club sandwich seemed out of place in such a fine setting.

“Can I ask you a personal question?” I asked.

“You can ask, but it doesn’t mean that I’ll answer.”

“You’re an attractive woman – why haven’t you ever married.”

While blushing she answered, “I did – I married the law and my profession. There never seemed to be sufficient time for dating and marriage.”

“Does it bother you?”

“Does it bother you that you’ve never married?”

“That’s different.”

“I think not. You and I are very much alike – we’re single-minded and when we latch onto something we like we stay with it and everything else be damned. In a way, you’ve been lucky – you’ve had three things. You have motorcycling, Amanda, and cross-dressing.”

I dropped my fork.

“You knew about that?”

“Our investigator discovered it when we conducted our search all those years ago.”

“And you never said anything?”

“Amanda’s welfare was more important than something as trivial as that.”

***

After graduation Amanda gained employment as an assistant buyer for a high line big box chain. Although it was an entry-level position, she dedicated herself to it and managed to advance. She continued to create her own designs, made patterns and dresses and then sold them to local boutiques as one-of-a-kind items.

W. Holland Coffey, III continued to sniff around and an engagement ring appeared on her hand after he’d visited the farm to discuss the matter. I’d given him warning that I’d come back from the grave to haunt him throughout his life, if he caused her any harm.

Sentimental fool that she’d become, she wanted to get married at the farm. Her side of the family consisted of me, Ms. Griffith, the aging Stevens, Emily, and Heather and their parents while the Coffey kid had what seemed like thousands in his entourage. She, and her soon to be husband, managed to pay for their own wedding.

The evening before the service I sat alone in the gazebo that had been decorated to resemble a chapel, hoping that when I escorted her down the aisle it wouldn’t be a repeat of the dream sequence portrayed by Spencer Tracey in the movie “Father of the Bride.” Maybe I could pin my tuxedo pants to my shirt as well as wear a belt and suspenders.

Amanda, Emily, Heather, Ms. Griffith, and Mrs. Stevens were hunkered down in the farmhouse making last minute adjustments to their dresses. All of the women in our hodgepodge of a family would wear “Amanda Originals.” I took a degree of pride in knowing that as simple as the surroundings would be, they’d have the sophistication of beautiful women dressed in one-of-a-kind handmade gowns.

Mr. Stevens busied himself with barking instructions to anyone within shouting distance. It offered him importance as he’d retired and turned his business over to his sons. I dithered about the loss of Amanda coming to me when she had a problem.

One by one the rooms of the house grew dark leaving me an unmarred view of the stars on the moonless night. I didn’t know if I should cry, get drunk, cut the meadow, or change the oil in the tractor.

“Mister.” Amanda’s voice broke the silence of the night and my chain of thought.

“What’s wrong,” I almost shouted at the sound of her voice as I struggled to my feet.

“Nothing. . . . I’m fine, everything is ready, and in a few hours I’ll be Mrs. W. Holland Coffey, III,” she exclaimed with an indisputable joy in her voice. “I have a present for you.”

“A present?” I asked with surprise. “I’m supposed to be giving you a present.”

She presented me with a box and said, “Open it.” I removed the wrapping paper and opened the box to find the first dress that she designed and asked me to model. “You always liked it so I remade it to fit you – now you can wear it whenever you like.”

“Amanda,” I said as I fondled the dress. I can’t believe that you did this - I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything – just wear it occasionally when you come to live with Holland and me, when we return from our honeymoon.

“We’ve already discussed this. I’m not coming to live with you.”

“You have no place to go and I want to care for you, as you cared for me,” she said as tears formed in her eyes.

“I have a place to go – it’s all worked out. Ms. Griffith and I made all of the arrangements.”

“But I want you to come and stay with me.”

“Listen to me. Remember when you learned to ride your bike? You started out a little shaky, but once you picked up some momentum things smoothed out and you were on your way.”

She smiled as she remembered her early bicycle days and said, “What does that have to do with living with us.”

“Bicycles and motorcycles are very stable once they get going. Your marriage to Holland will be the same – a little shaky at the start, but once you get going it’ll become stable and strong. Three-wheeled vehicles seem stable at first, but become not so stable at speed and don’t always turn good. I don’t want to be the third wheel, so forget about me coming to stay with you. Now go and get some sleep – you have a big day ahead of you.”

She kissed me goodnight and headed back to the house while I once again fondled the dress.

***

My wish had been granted, as I escorted her down the aisle and into the gazebo to exchange vows and become Mrs. W. Holland Coffey, III. I’d managed to live long enough to see her get married.

During the reception, Mrs. Stevens, as she did all those years ago, escorted Amanda amongst the guests regaling them with tales of her bastardized childhood. My little bride became quite embarrassed when Mrs. Stevens told the story of how they first met and made her curtsey in her wedding gown as she did when she wore her jeans.

I paid off the band so they wouldn’t play “Daddy’s Little Girl” or “Thank Heaven for Little Girls” for the “father-daughter” dance. Instead, they played “I Can’t Find the Time” by an obscure group called Orpheus. I cherished the moment and hoped that it wouldn’t be the last time that I’d dance with her.

Ms. Griffith and I danced to “Wonderful Tonight.” It surprised me that we danced so close; she held me so tight, and then kissed me when the music stopped. Odd that a beautiful woman like her hadn’t found the right man.

Everyone involved in the festivities forbade me from participating in any of the clean up. Despite the protest, I disassembled the platform that served as a dance floor. It all seemed so ordinary until I came to the hammer marks that Amanda had made in one of the boards when we’d first put it together. Their wish for me to “sit down, Oliver” came to fruition, as I could no longer proceed with the task.

***

I sipped “Jack” while staring at the sunset from the gazebo’s recliner. I felt comfortable and safe wearing the dress that Amanda had made for me. Wearing it drew me close to her. I no longer feared anyone knowing about my cross-dressing.

“Oliver. Is that you?” Ms. Griffith said as she approached.

I slowly rose to my feet and said, “It’s me.”

She looked at me, smiled and said “Amanda was right - you should have modeled that dress for her.”

“What brings you out this way at this hour?”

“I have news.”

“Amanda. Is she okay?”

“She’s fine – stop worrying about her – she’s a married woman with a good husband and a good job.”

“So what’s your news?”

“The Stevens sold the farm.”

“Oh,” I said, while turning away from her in an attempt to hide my tears. “How soon do I have to leave . . . and is everything ready for me to go to the county home?”

“Actually, everything is ready for you to move into the farm house.”

“What do you mean? I thought you said the Stevens sold the farm?”

“They did sell the farm -- they sold it to me. I’m leaving the firm to set up my own practice with Holland so I can work with the farmers and local businessmen. I’ve explored the situation and discovered a need. The farmhouse will serve as my office and home.”

“So you want me to live with you in your home office?” Nothing made sense.

“You’ll have your own living area separate and apart from the office and my living area.”

“Well what if I say no and go off to the home?”

“You don’t qualify for residence in the home – you have too much money in the bank.”

“What do you mean - I have too much money?”

She handed me a bank statement that listed a balance of just over two hundred twenty-five thousand dollars.

“That represents fifty percent of the profits plus interest from the sale of the parts you’ve sold for Mr. Stevens – he set up a retirement fund for you.”

“If all of this is true, then why can’t I just stay in the carriage house?”

“Because it will be my dress design studio, Mister,” Amanda said, coming up from where she had obviously been standing behind me. “By the way, that dress really looks good on you- I knew it would when I designed it. I’ve quit my job and am going to run a high-end dress design shop. I’ve met so many retailers through my job that have promised me space in their stores that I can’t go wrong.”

Amanda and Ms. Griffith stood next to each other and were all smiles.

“You two cooked this whole thing up, didn’t you?” I asked.

“We’ve been planning this for the last eighteen months.” Ms. Griffith said. “I took an option to purchase the farm from the Stevens in the event they had an interest in selling the place. When they agreed to sell, I exercised it. At the same time I entered into land leases with the farmers on either side of this one and the rentals will be used to fund Amanda’s business. You see Oliver, Amanda and I are partners – we own this place together.”

“I don’t know what to say,” I said, while doing a bad job of hiding my tears.

“Come,” Ms. Griffith said. “Let’s take a look at your room.”

“I have to get going – Holland is waiting for me to pick him up – he’s doing some lawyer nonsense at the Board of Education meeting,” Amanda said as she departed. “He can’t wait to start the life of a small town attorney.”

Ms. Griffith and I entered the house, climbed the stairs to the second floor, and then headed toward the master bedroom.

“Open the closet.”

“I can’t do that – this is still the Stevens’ property.”

“Wrong again, sir – it’s been mine for the last three months – all of the Stevens’ personal items have been removed- so go and open the closet.”

I opened the closet to find it filled with dresses, gowns, suits, skirts, and blouses. I turned and faced Ms. Griffith and asked, “What’s all of this?”

“It’s all yours Oliver – it’s a gift from Amanda and me – it’s our way of saying thank you.”

“Thank you?”

“When I first met you I was fast on my way toward total cynicism. I had used and abused the law to gain what my clients wanted. Your personal integrity showed me a higher path. I managed to find a way to practice law that was satisfying and, at least in my opinion, admirable.”

“I had an impact on you?”

“Oh Oliver. I can’t imagine anyone knowing you who didn’t come away a better person.”

“Oh.” ~Ms. Griffith had finally lost her mind. ~

“I have one more item that I’d like to share with you,” she said.

“And what would that be?” I would humor her, the least I could do under the circumstances.

She put her arms around my neck and kissed me as I’d never been kissed before, and then said, “Call me Sondra.”

Done Deal.

Special, special thanks to Angela Rasch for her insight, patience, and direction to various websites that were very helpful in the writing of this story. Without it, this story wouldn’t have happened.