Posts Tagged ‘short stories’

I’m posting the Marvin stories (2) from the collection I finished a few years back. I’ll post the first story this week and the first part of the second story–it’s a long one–next week.

Skip directly to the story below, or, if you’re interested– 

The central incident of The Flowers Killings, a collection of linked stories, goes like this: One August night in Black Elk Basin, a man named Dean Flowers shoots and kills each member of his family as they sit around the dinner table—everyone but his nine-year-old son, Ian, who somehow escapes; Ian’s tracks lead as far as the highway before they disappear. The collection centers around what happened at the Flowers house, but it mostly isn’t about that night. It’s about Black Elk Basin in the months surrounding the killings, in which people are getting lost, going missing, running away, dreaming themselves away.

I began The Flowers Killings in 2010, when I wrote its core story, “The Reservoir” (published in the Summer 2015 issue of The Gettysburg Review), and finished the first Marvin story, “Double Gold,” a few months later (I also wrote “Three Tornadoes”–here, at Bodega–around this time). “Double Gold” is a simple, speedy, chatty story. It moves quickly, careening along. Look for Part 1 of its follow-up, “Dogs of an Unknown Origin,” next week.


Double Gold


Marvin lived in a double-wide trailer painted double-gold. That meant he’d painted it gold once, let it dry, and painted it gold a second time. His brush had dripped drops of gold in the dirt yard as he painted, and he liked the way the gold mixed with the dust in little balls. Some of it blew away and caught in the sagebrush that surrounded his house all the way to the highway on one side, the badlands on the other, the junkyard to the west, and miles of nearly uninterrupted prairie almost all the way to Seaton, an hour’s drive to the east. He decided to plant three rows of sunflowers all around his trailer every year, and during the fall, petals could be found everywhere in Black Elk Basin. Sometimes a single gust would lift hundreds into the air like a brilliant yellow arm flowing out from Marvin’s trailer before scattering at a point high above the small, far-apart houses.

But all anyone could see, when he stepped out of his gleaming gold trailer in the morning—to go to work, like everyone else—was his makeup (every day, deep indigo eyeshadow and black liner) and his clothing (today, a black, pinstriped ladies’ pantsuit). And his hair, which was his own, not a wig, and was long and black and wavy at the ends.

His sunflowers were already up to his windows in July, and no longer needed to be supported with little sticks to keep the wind from snapping them in half. Someone had tried planting trees years ago, when a different trailer—long since hauled away—had graced this property. Their stunted bodies were still out there, barely visible above the sagebrush. He’d stopped watering them after a few summers, but he’d still go out to talk to them sometimes. “Trees,” he said, looking at each of them, “You are a disgrace.” Then he’d remember how his mother had told him nothing would grow out in the prairie with all that wind, and he’d look at his sunflowers with pride, because she’d been wrong about them, at least. Sometimes, when he passed the two flanking his steps, he’d pat them on the head, and say, “Hey, Phil.” All his flowers were named Phil.

Sometimes they answered him in voices he made up—mellow, silly voices.

“Hey, Marvin,” said the Phil on the right.

“What’s happening?”

“Oh. Just hanging out.”

The left-most Phil was slightly more anxious than his companion, and said, “I hope the birds come today, for I am heavy with seeds.”

Monday through Friday and every other Saturday, Marvin drove the fifty miles to his job in Seaton. Marvin worked at a clothing store called Wishes, but he was only allowed to work in the back, take calls, and do things that didn’t require customers or even other employees to see him all that much. The ladies who worked there complimented his nails, his lipstick, his shoes—but Marvin noticed it wasn’t quite like way they complimented each other. It was more like, “That’s good for you, being a guy, and that being the best you can do, but of course, me, me being a woman, I would never choose that shade for me personally, but it suits your man-body okay, and also, I feel bad for you, that you have a man-body, and you’ll never look like me, a pretty woman, or like any woman, ever.” Sometimes, Marvin felt bad about himself, but mostly, he felt that he was doing pretty okay, considering. He had a job. When people told him he had a nice smile, he knew it was true, because that’s something they’d always said.

A few weeks ago, his manager Kimberly sat him down in her office to have a casual chat.

“Sweetie. I don’t know how to say this, but as a woman, it’s offensive when a man dresses in women’s clothes.”

“Oh,” said Marvin.

“All the women around here have voiced this opinion.”

It was true that the first week or so, they’d watched him like they expected him to steal panties or something—but things had settled down lately. They hardly looked at him anymore.

“It’d be kind of like me not shaving,” Kimberly said.

“I don’t care if you don’t shave,” said Marvin.

Marvin did not like the way this casual chat was going. It was time for his six-month review, and he thought he’d be getting a raise, or would maybe be sent out to the floor, where he’d have to interact with people, true, but his job would expand beyond carrying around a clipboard and opening boxes. Wishes wasn’t the first job where Marvin had been kept on a short leash. His last job: late-night checkout clerk, where his request for a transfer to produce was turned down despite his seniority over the other employees.

“No, but listen,” Kimberly said. “I get these hairs, like many women my age, around my upper lip. Yes, indeed, I’ve got quite a ‘stashe if I let it get out of control. Remember when I missed ten days last year with that belly virus? Well, at the end of that, my husband was calling me Timberly? Because I wasn’t plucking? And it was a joke, but it was hurtful. And I looked in the mirror and I did not like what I saw. I was ashamed. I was ashamed to look mannish, because I am proud to be a woman, you see? I like looking like one, because it is who I am in every way. Maybe you should spend some time, look in the mirror, ask some questions, like, ‘Do I, Marvin, like who I see?’ And consider it very carefully.”

Marvin was quiet for a long time. “So,” he said, “you want me to dress differently.”

“Oh honey! Honey! No! No. Of course I wouldn’t do that. I couldn’t, could I? It’d be discrimination—of some sort, certainly. I haven’t actually checked on that, but I imagine this falls in kind of the same category as gay, lesbian, bisexual, and all of that. In that region. Alternative sexualities. No. I am trying to help you on a personal level.”


“I am not going to fire you because you dress like a lady,” said Kimberly. “I just thought you should be aware of the effect it has on people. You know, as someone who I know cares about the quality of their work, and probably wants to do the best they can and get along with their coworkers to the best of their abilities.”

“I do.” He could fill out an application at the video rental store, but he doubted things would go very differently there. And anyway, he could buy clothes discreetly at Wishes, and at a discount.

Kimberly was smiling. “That’s why I thought you should know. Although, I’m sure I’m not telling you anything new.” She slid a candy bar across the table. That was his treat. “I do love that suit on you, by the way,” she said, and winked in a way that let him know she meant it, and also meant everything she’d said before.

Marvin worked hard all day, every day, not talking to anyone. Other than the clothes, which weren’t that great, what was he doing at Wishes? Was that the best he could do? He graduated at the top of his class in Tall Hat—a star athlete, bound for college. Which would have meant—what? Realistically, a semester or two. He’d spare himself the trouble. He got himself the hell out of Tall Hat, and somewhere even more remote, where no one would bother him and he could just go to work and come home. Not ideal, but it could be worse. And here he was, two years after high school, and he hadn’t had sex since coming out right after graduation. He hadn’t played basketball either. Every time he drove past the Tall Hat rec center on the way to visit his mom, he wanted nothing more than to shoot a few threes. Just to hear the sound of his high heels striking the floor.

Few people realized that Marvin was straight. Even he didn’t fully understand why he wanted to dress like a woman and be with women; it would be easier if he could just stay a man. Marvin had always felt the way he felt and analyzing it just made him more confused. Meanwhile, everyone else was busy trying to put him on teams. The boy team. The girl team. The gay team. Team Tranny. Pervert. No one had a clue.

Then something strange happened. Last Wednesday, Alicia, the youngest, prettiest clerk, asked him if he might want to go out to Neddie’s with her on Tuesday. It was now Monday. They’d exchanged little looks all week, with smiles that told each other they were looking forward to their date. When he got home that evening, Marvin went on a run down the fence-line that separated his property from the rangeland, cutting a wide circle around the junkyard and into the badlands. His hair whipped around in the wind until finally he had to tie it back in a ponytail. He liked running. He liked that his feet kept moving without him having to think about it.

The next morning, he arrived at work at 8 a.m. sharp, eager to reach the end of the day. Alicia was already helping a customer when he got there. She looked at him over the customer’s shoulder, and he smiled, and she gave a little nod.

An hour crawled by. Marvin was cutting open a box of clothes when Alicia approached him. He stood. Her head reached his collarbone, but with his heels off, and if he lowered his neck, his chin could probably rest on top of her head, which would be about perfect.

Marvin smiled.

She smiled back.

“I wanted to talk with you about tonight,” she said.

Marvin’s heart sank. His mom was always complaining about how he thought the worst of everything. “It holds you back,” she said. Maybe she was right. Marvin willed himself to believe that Alicia just wanted to confirm a few details, or would need an extra half hour to get ready because some unforeseen thing had come up with her cat, etc.

She continued smiling, but the smile stayed exactly the same for a beat too long. “I believe in being direct,” she said.

“Okay,” he said.

“I just wanted to see if—well, when I asked you out, I assumed that when we went out, you’d be wearing men’s clothes.”

Marvin nodded. She still might have sex with him. That would be something.

“I just don’t want to attract attention,” she said.

He said, “Of course.”

“I want to go out with you and just have a good time, you know?”

“Yeah. Of course. I have pants and stuff—men’s pants. I can just wash my face when I get home. No big deal.”

And it wasn’t a big deal, just this once. Women wore men’s clothes and went makeupless all the time.

“Oh good. Good ’cause I didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Marvin smiled because she was smiling.

“Oh, gosh,” she said. “I am so glad you’re okay with that. I was worried I’d offend you.”

“I’m not offended. Don’t worry.”

“Whew. Good. It’s just—I saw pictures of you, you know, when you played basketball, and I just want to see you like that tonight.”

His face was hot. “That was like two years ago.”

“Yeah. You were great. You were in the paper every other week.”

“Not really.”

“You should call me Liz tonight. That’s what my friends call me.”

When Marvin got home, there was a package on his steps. He’d been saving up for a nice pair of false breasts, and finally ordered them online at the county library in Seaton. A free bra came with them. He had a few bras, but they were lacy, embellished things—not his style at all. This bra was black and sleek, and the false breasts would be close to his skin tone. He desperately wanted to open the package. But instead, Marvin hurried to get dressed for Alicia and do some last minute cleaning. He made a sweep through each room, tucking away his makeup, securely shutting all his dresser drawers, gently sliding the package under his bed.

After washing the makeup from his face, Marvin stood before his mirror in jeans and a button-up. He tugged uncertainly at his shirt. His face looked round—he could use some bronzer to define his cheekbones, but he’d already put his makeup away. He put a sports jacket on and turned to make sure it fit right in the chest. He pulled his hair away from his face and held it back. Then he let it down and brushed most of the curl out of it.

On the drive back to Seaton, Marvin passed a field in which a single cow hung her head over the fence with her eyes half-shut. She was an odd color—gray, with a white face—and reminded him of a manatee, floating in warm, sun-drenched waters. It was a windy afternoon, and the way the cloud-shadows rolled over the hills gave the effect of sun-dappled seas, the tall grasses swaying as if pulled by tides. He occupied himself with thoughts of manatees roaming the plains until he arrived in Seaton. Weekday nights, Main Street was dead. Some highschoolers were walking past the bar, and as Marvin got out of his car, the kids looked him over once, without interest, and moved on.

Alicia was already inside. She’d pulled her hair back, revealing a slender neck that Marvin envied slightly, but her dress made her look boxy. Still, she was pretty, and she seemed to like him. There was a mirror behind the bar and Marvin looked at the two of them occasionally, drinking, laughing, Alicia touching his shoulder when she was about to say something funny.

Alicia was on her second martini when she said, “Are you gonna drink that beer? You’ve been sipping it for an hour.”

“I’m just having one.”

“God, it’s gotta be all warm and flat.”

“I like it.”

He didn’t, but he was driving. Also, he wanted to be alert during their date, in case—he didn’t know what.

They talked about work for a long time, and Marvin marveled at how well it was going, how nice it felt to be out on a date with a girl—a pretty, normal girl, who was looking at him the way girls used to. And how good it felt to be out. He’d spent his twenty-first birthday with his mom, who cooked a big pot of deer chili and spelled out his name on a cake with purple icing. It was a pretty good birthday. But he hadn’t had a reason to go out, or a person to go out with, in quite some time.

Alicia finished her drink and turned to Marvin. She studied him. He felt his face getting hot.

“Isn’t it nice when people stare at you for you?” she asked.


“Well, usually people are staring at you because of the cross-dressing thing. No offense. You’re not offended, right? I’m sure you know you’re obviously a guy in a dress.”

“I know.” He did know. Of course he did.

“I’m just saying, without all that makeup and stuff, people just see you. And you’re so handsome.”

It was still light when they decided to head back to his trailer. On the drive, Alicia talked about her family, how she’d grown up poor, her memories of tricking a girl into standing on a red ant hill when she was six and how the girl had to be hospitalized for a severe allergic reaction from fifty ant bites.

“You didn’t know that would happen,” Marvin said.

“No. I didn’t know she’d have a reaction,” Alicia said. “But I did want her to get bit.”

The sun was setting behind Marvin’s trailer as they pulled up to it.

“It’s dazzling,” said Alicia.

She marveled at his sunflowers. “How many are there?”

“A hundred and twenty.”

Alicia walked around the trailer looking at them, running her hand along their petals. A few petals fluttered to the ground. Marvin wanted to tell her to stop.

“Have you ever done this?” she shouted. “This feels amazing.”

Inside, she asked for a drink, and he made one for himself as well.

Marvin liked making drinks. A drink was something you could assemble and name. Here’s vodka and orange juice. A Screwdriver. Add sloe wine and Southern Comfort. A Slow Comfortable Screw.

It wasn’t long before Alicia was kissing him and then it wasn’t much longer before they were in his bedroom.

The box containing two brand new C-cups emanated the promise of love and beauty in their secret spot below the bed as Alicia moved on top of him.

Afterward, they fell asleep side by side, on top of the covers. It was very late when Alicia woke him up and told him she wanted him to drive her home. That was okay with him. His bed was really only big enough for one person, and she was all sticky and breathing on his face. Alicia lived on a house on the oil field between Black Elk Basin and Seaton. They didn’t talk much on the drive. When they reached her house, she gave Marvin a kiss before getting out. She’d left a light on to ward off intruders. The shape of a cat pressed against the curtains.

At Wishes the next day, Kimberly passed him in the hall, gesturing at his skirt and giving him a double-thumbs up. She of the ruffled sweaters.

He found Alicia in the storeroom, rifling through shoe boxes.


She looked back at him. “Just a sec.”

She rummaged around a few moments longer, then stood, holding a shoebox. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, as she approached him, he could see she was upset. He felt alarmed, and at the same time, not really surprised. He assumed she didn’t want to see him anymore. She perhaps regretted everything that happened and wanted him to swear not to tell anybody.

Instead, she asked, “Do you think I’m pretty?”

“Of course,” Marvin said. “You’re very pretty.”

He stepped toward her and moved to put his arms around her.

She pulled away. “We’re at work.”

“Fuck this place.” He was thinking that more and more.

“No, Marvin. I’ve got to go.”

She didn’t return to the storeroom.

At the end of the day, Marvin walked into the parking lot to find her standing by his car. Marvin had parked several yards from the building, in the shade beside a tree.

“Can we get inside?” she asked. “I want to talk to you.”

Inside the car, she had her purse in her lap and was running her hands back and forth along the zipper. They watched their coworkers leave the building—Ashley, with her oversized metallic bag, Clarice, her pompadour slightly askew. Finally, Kimberly came out and locked the door behind her. Alicia seemed to tense as each person exited, and when Kimberly looked their way Alicia slouched in her seat. Marvin was tired and getting hungry. He wanted Alicia to get it over with. But he didn’t want her to, either. Once Kimberly’s car pulled out of the lot, Alicia sat up in her seat, her hands running continuously—almost obscenely—along the zipper of her purse.

“Is everything okay?” asked Marvin finally.

Alicia seemed to have been waiting for him to ask, because she said immediately, “I like you? Marvin? Okay? I like you.”

She looked at him, and he felt he should nod. So he did.

“I really want you to know that I totally do like you, and last night was a lot of fun, but you’re just not really my type.” Her hands finally stopped moving. “I don’t want you to think it’s all about the lady-stuff, ’cause it’s not. But when I saw you today, in your skirt, I was just like, no.” She shook her head for emphasis. “It’s just not for me.” The more she spoke, the calmer she became. “And I don’t want to make you change. That wouldn’t be right.”

She looked at him again, and attempted a little smile. “Do you understand?” she asked.

He nodded. He’d been nodding.

“Good. Oh, good.”

“Thank you,” he said, “for telling me.”

“I’ve got to go.” She opened the door and hesitated. “But I hope we can still be friends.”
Marvin nodded. Then she was shutting the door behind her.

At home, Marvin made a gin and tonic and took out the package from underneath his bed. He closed all his shades. Then he opened the box on the kitchen table and took out the bra, and felt the cups, and checked the tag on the back. Next he took out the breasts, which were the standard twenty dollar chicken fillet variety, without nipples. He squeezed them alternately and flipped them into the air, where they turned lazily, wobbling like globs of dough. He finished his drink and made a second one.

Marvin took his new drink and the package back into his bedroom. When he ordered the breasts, he’d worried they’d be too big, but when he stood in front of his bedroom mirror, holding them to his flat pectorals, he could see they perfectly complimented the circumference of his chest. He put on the bra and tucked the falsies inside the cups. He stood in his underwear, turning before the mirror. He stuck out his chest, and tucked it in again. He did this for about a minute. His boobs looked good. With just the bra on, it was clear they weren’t real, but so what. Marvin put on a black dress and smoothed it over his body. He looked at himself in the mirror. The dress, which he’d bought with his employee discount from Wishes, had been carefully chosen to hide his shoulders. It clung to his waist and flared out a bit at the hips. Over the dress he put on a cropped bomber jacket that accentuated the hourglass shape created by the dress. Finally, he put on his favorite heels. Standing there, turning in front of the mirror, he finished his drink. Then he drove back to Seaton. He passed Alicia’s house on the oil field. The light in the kitchen was on. The cat moved against the curtains.

Marvin went to a bar by the college, which had a nice wood dance floor, though he didn’t dance, and a quiet bar, where people tended to ignore him. He sat at the bar, drank two beers and started feeling better.

A woman came up to the bar and ordered. He felt her looking at him and doing a double-take. He kept his eyes on his beer, hoping she’d go away.

Then she said his name.

It was Sheila Sinclair, the sister of one of the guys on his high school basketball team, Toby. He hadn’t seen most of the people he’d gone to high school with in years, but he seemed to run into Sheila everywhere. She made good money as a dental hygienist in Seaton, and had a pretty face, and was remarkably unfazed by his cross-dressing.

She hugged him, like she always did, and said, “I didn’t recognize you.” She sat on a stool beside him. “Last time I saw you, you were wearing curtains or something.”

For a few months after Marvin came out, he wore too-feminine things that didn’t suit him—flowery dresses, powder blue eyeshadow.

“You look fantastic,” said Sheila. “Are those breasts?”

“They’re falsies,” he said.


“They keep me warm.”

“Oh yeah?”

“They heat up to your body temperature.”

She laughed. “Technology.”

“What’s Toby doing?”

“He graduated in the spring,” she said. “Now I think he wants to move home, and we would love that, but, you know, I don’t know what he would do here. His degree would just go to waste.”

“Maybe not.”

“I can’t believe you’re still here, to be honest. I thought you would have shipped out a long time ago.”

“I thought about it.”

“You should move back to Tall Hat,” Sheila said. “It’s closer to your job.”

“I just needed to get away from everyone.”


“Maybe not everyone.”

“I’m meeting friends over there,” said Sheila, nodding toward the far end of the bar, where a group of Indians Marvin didn’t know and a few conspicuous white girls crowded around a small table. “You should stay and hang out with us.”

“Maybe next time.”

Marvin wasn’t in the mood to meet new people. He ought to be heading home.

They hugged goodbye. It had been good talking to Sheila—that she thought of him as someone who could just “ship out.”

Outside, Marvin passed a group of guys. At first, Marvin thought they were the highschoolers from earlier, but they were different kids, a few years older. Maybe one of them said something. Then another said, loudly, “Squaw.” As he turned, someone hit him in the face. He staggered forward, and they formed a circle around him, and another one swung. Eventually, he was on the ground. He could have laughed at how typical it was—these four small-town guys beating up a transvestite in a parking lot. He should have seen it coming. Before anyone could land a kick, the bouncer busted in, yelling.

Marvin tried to stand and wobbled, falling backward on his hands. His hair had fallen in his face and stuck to the blood on his nose.

“Get out of here.” It was the bouncer’s voice, talking to the men.

Marvin heard them shuffling away.

“I’m going to get someone,” said the bouncer.

“Call the cops.”


Marvin pushed the hair out of his face and repeated what he’d said.

“Suit yourself.” He didn’t move.

“Do you know those guys?” Marvin asked the bouncer, holding the bridge of his nose and forcing his voice out, like a trumpet-player.

“Put your head back,” said the bouncer. “Or lean it forward.”

“Do you know who those guys were?”

“Put your head back.”

“Just call the cops, please.”

The bouncer tossed a cigarette on the pavement and went inside. Marvin stood and fixed his dress. The parking lot was empty.

He moved to the alley so that no one—especially Sheila—would see him as they were leaving the bar.

A few minutes later, two officers arrived and swung their lights at him. After looking at his driver’s license and holding it up to his face, and asking him to repeat his name—to which he replied, “I’m a transvestite, alright? Isn’t it obvious?”—they asked him if he’d been drinking. Then they took him to the station, where he was left in a holding cell for several minutes. His nose had stopped bleeding, but blood was all over his hands; when he moved, he could feel it cracking on his face, neck, and chest. Finally, an officer unlatched the doors and told him he could go.

“Sorry,” said the officer. “We’d been told by witnesses that you started the fight.”

“Would I start a fight in fucking heels?”

“How you start fights is entirely up to you.”

“No, I’m saying I didn’t start it.”

“Yes. We know that now.”

“They attacked me.”

“Can you identify them? The attackers?”

“I’d never seen them before. They looked like college kids. Four younger guys. Maybe twenty?”

“What did they look like?”

“I don’t know. White. Or mostly white. One had highlights in his hair, like people did in the nineties? It was spiky. He hit me the second time, I think.”

The officer was writing in a notebook. “We’ll talk to the witnesses again.”

“I thought you said the witnesses said I started it.”

“They did.”

“I’d like to press charges.”

“You have to have people to press the charges against, though. Sir? Sir?”

Marvin was walking out of the station so the officer wouldn’t see his eyes watering up. They were angry tears. Tears of rage and exhaustion and defeat. Not tears for just any jackoff to see.

His car was still parked in front of the bar. It was a fifteen minute walk, and he was tempted to take off his shoes, which were beginning to pinch his toes, but he was determined to maintain as much dignity as he could. The bars had been closed for an hour; he passed only one car on the walk. Marvin waited for them to yell, eyeing a chunk of concrete that had broken free from the sidewalk and imagining it leaving his hand and impacting with a tail-light or perhaps the rear window as they drove by him. But the car slipped past him, quiet as a manatee gliding along the bottom of the sea. When he got to his car, he cleaned off his face as best he could with some wipes he kept in the glove box.

This time, when he passed Alicia’s house, he was too tired to look at it. He didn’t have to work that day, so he pulled over at the rest stop and slept in his car until dawn—or tried to. He lay there with his eyes open as if the slowly lightening sky was the most captivating thing in the goddamn world—like focusing on it could help him from losing his mind completely. Then he drove the final leg home. His trailer gleamed like a polished jewel in the first light of morning, the rows of Phils like one hundred and twenty suns shining on one hundred and twenty tiny worlds. He thought of crazy Alicia getting those ants to bite that girl. But he didn’t have the heart to tell his Phils about it like he normally would. He just wanted to lay under them as if they’d transport him to a world made up of yellow, blazing petals and nothing—no one—else.


Marvin didn’t return to Wishes. He started seeking odd jobs. Irrigator. Housekeeper. He wore t-shirts and baggy jeans, and kept his hair back in a ponytail. One day, he got a call from a woman outside of BEB, a widow with a big house. She lived on a parcel of land surrounded on all sides by the reservation, beside a sprawling lake fed by glacier water from the mountains. The woman introduced herself as Shareen. She was in her sixties, with short white hair spiked in a flaccid mohawk, and wearing an airy cotton dress.

Marvin started in the kitchen. Shareen followed him, watching him as he mopped the Spanish tiles and wiped down her ugly chrome fridge.

He thought she might be lonely, but she wasn’t talking. When she followed him into the bathroom, he asked if she was happy with his work.

“To tell you the truth, I’m a little disappointed,” Shareen said. She smiled, leaning against the door frame. “I thought you’d be wearing women’s clothes.”

Marvin wasn’t surprised. Even in this isolated shit-hole, people knew everything about him. “Oh, yeah,” said Marvin. “I do. Sometimes.”

“I’d like you to dress as a woman for me. While you clean. I have some clothes here for you.”

Marvin stopped mopping. “Can I just clean, lady?”

Shareen raised her eyebrows.

Marvin said, in a quiet voice, “I’ll be happy to finish cleaning for you, is all I meant.”

“If you won’t wear them, I’ll need you to leave,” Shareen said. “I’m hiring you to clean wearing the clothes. I thought you’d just show up in them.”

In the upstairs bedroom, Shareen had clothes laid out on the bed: a yellow sundress, a white apron, and yellow heels. There was also a bra and matching panties—yellow, both. The dress fit, but the heels were too small. Marvin forced his feet into them. Then he applied the makeup she had set out for him on the vanity. There was lipstick. He seldom wore lipstick, but he put it on. It was bright red, and made his mouth look like someone else’s. She was waiting for him in the hall with a vacuum cleaner.

Shareen followed him around the house with a glass of wine. In the last room, she sat on a fainting couch and watched him.

After a few minutes, she asked, “Do you like that painting?”

He glanced up from his work at a large painting of an antelope standing below a thunderhead.

“It’s well done.”

“Do you find western art dull?”

“I’m not really an art expert.”

“But you don’t like it.”

“Not particularly.”

“Me neither.”

“Then why’s it in your house?”

His feet ached. The bra was too tight on his ribcage. He wasn’t getting enough air.

Shareen said, “My friend’s an artist. She gave it to me. She comes over a lot. We’ve been talking, actually—”

She got up and stood beside him while he polished the bureau.

“We’d pay you.”

He stopped polishing.

“You like women, don’t you?”

There was a mirror above the bureau. He watched her move behind him and untie his apron.

“Aren’t you tired?”

The apron dropped to the floor.

She giggled. He found himself thinking it was the wrong noise for her. Or maybe she was just a bad giggler.

Marvin heard the front door open and close. A woman’s voice called up the stairs. “Shareen?”

In the mirror, he watched Shareen move to the hallway.

“Wait,” she said, and hurried back to him. She reached for his ponytail. He felt the band slip easily from his hair.


In Part 1 of the follow-up story–available next week–Marvin attempts to free-fall into obscurity, only to find himself caught up in sinister forces creeping in from beyond Black Elk Basin.





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