Making a website for my new work in progress is intended primarily to inspire myself to make this effort a real, live, squalling, Street Stories novel, but also as a place to share the process with family, friends, and fans (should any actually exist).
“Haven’t seen you for awhile, Avril.” Lonny came around the office area and leaned against the counter. She was wearing a very cute pant suit and her red hair was styled in a fashionable chignon that let a few sexy strays escape to softly frame her face. This disarray was deliberate, Avril was sure, and effective. However, Lonny had transitioned late in life and all the hormones and surgical procedures in the world couldn’t disguise her masculine beginnings.
I needed another name for Avril’s friend–something unique enough to cause Avril to suspect Lily knows her friend when she names the baby that, but not something that might be confused with any other characters in the books.
Avril used one hand to bounce the curly tips of her ice blue synthetic hair. “Well, you know, a working girl only has so many hours in the day. Even us girls who work the night shift. I’m here about Zara,” she added abruptly.
“Zara? Zara Rose? I haven’t seen her for months. I thought you two were friends. Why come here looking for her?”
“What other Zara you think I’d be talking about, woman?” Avril dropped all attempts to be polite. “No one’s seen her for months. And if you cared at all about the people working here, you would know that, now wouldn’t you?”
Lonny straightened both her pose and the line of her mouth. “She asked for leave last September, I think it was. I don’t pry into personal business so I didn’t ask why. I’ll admit I was surprised when she didn’t come back a few days later—”
“So you did notice,” Avril cut in.
“—but she was only a volunteer, after all. She’s not required to give notice if she decides she doesn’t have time to—”
Zara is a common nickname for Zahara which is deeply rooted in the Arabic zahra that means “flower” or “blossom.” Zara has Algerian heritage on one side of her family which accounts for her beautiful creamy complexion and the name choice when she transitioned to female.
This time Avril was not going to allow her interruption to be interrupted. “Zara worked here for four years. Four years. Every day she came to be with the kids. This like her home. You know that, I know you do. You really think she’d just walk away one day and not let you know? Not let the kids who’d come to count on her know? What’s wrong with you? Did you skip the operation that’s supposed to give you a heart?”
That was the fourth person in two days to accuse her of being a heartless bitch. What the hell did they want from her?
In the last book, Box of Rain, Jo came to terms–in some small way–with her issues with her mother. This book she needs to take a hard look at herself.
Why should she have to prove anything to them? She was tough when she needed to be tough. The only way to get at the truth sometimes was to cut through the bullshit, and you couldn’t do that without causing a little blood to flow. That wasn’t who she was, but it was how to get the job done.
If no one wanted to look past the hard outer shell, to hell with them. That was why she’d grown the shell, to keep others out, keep them from having access to the vulnerable parts. It was lonely in her fortress, true, and oh—the tears gathered unexpectedly till she blinked them away—oh, how she wanted someone to come inside, to see her, to love her anyway, to live with her in her quiet, most intimate spaces. But she couldn’t do that, could she? Because if someone did, then changed their mind about her, she would know that her detractors were right. She’d know she was heartless and scum and worth their scorn.
I’m not sure where this bit will fit into the book, but sometimes the pieces come to me out of order. I’m sure I’ll find a place for it somewhere.
If anyone saw the real her and rejected her, how could she survive that? So screw them. Screw them all. She would find Avril’s friend—alive—and get Lily safe somewhere with her baby where they could live a good life. If that wasn’t enough—no, it had to be enough. This was about them. Drowning in self-pity wasn’t going to solve their problems, and that was all that mattered right now.
Avril kicked off her pumps and sighed with relief, bending down to rub first one instep then the other. Reaching behind her with one hand, she undid the bra clasp, catching her breasts with the other arm as they fell loose.
“All right, Bobby boy,” she said softly as she sat in front of her vanity mirror. “Time for nighty night.”
I think I’ve got a better handle on Avril now, thanks to a blog I found at https://transblog.grieve-smith.com/. Some interesting perspectives on what it means to be trans can be found there.
The ritual removal of makeup was soothing and allowed her to get a good look at that pimple she had popped the other day. She stared at it a moment, then shrugged, satisfied the blemish left behind would soon be gone.
The daily transformation from Avril to Bobby and back again was unremarkable to her after all these years. She’d had her conversations with social workers and doctors, working girls and drag queens, individuals ranging up and down the diverse spectrum that was the LGBTQ scale. More productive conversations than any she’d have been able to afford with an actual psychologist, for damn sure.
No one had the right answer, she’d decided long ago. Not for her personally, anyway. “Live your truth” was her motto and most days it worked well enough.
Today, though, had been hard. Seeing Granny again, pretending she didn’t notice the arthritic knuckles and slow step. The worry in those faded brown eyes. She loved the woman dearly—probably wouldn’t be alive if not for her—but any time she visited, the ghost of little Bobby Boyle haunted her even after she left.
Daddy had caught Bobby in a dress once—eight years old he’d been then. Beat the living shit out of that boy and locked him in his room for a week. Thankfully Big Daddy Boyle went on another bender soon after, and Granny had been there to unlock the door, dry Bobby’s tears, and take him shopping for a pretty pink ribbon for his hair.
As I progress with this writing, it’s going to be tricky to post excerpts without giving away too much of the plot. Hopefully this last paragraph is more of a tease than a spoiler.
That’s why Avril knew she’d done the right thing. For now at least, that baby was safe as it could be anywhere. What came after, well—Avril scratched the irritating stubble on her chin and grabbed a razor before heading to the shower—that was a worry for another day.
Mud, wet and stinking. Filthy hair clinging to her cheeks, to the tears and rain on her face. Roots drip from the earthen hole that surrounds her. She shudders, curled protectively around her belly, gasping for breath. Thunder. Lightening. Bolts from the sky stained with red and blue lights from the cop cars.
“I’m a bug,” she whispers. Just a doodle bug rolled into a small ball in the black dirt. Hard shell outward to ward off enemies. Soft underbelly sucked in close to her spine.
The creek rises outside of her hole in the earth, past the tree roots that curtain her refuge. Water reaches the opening, trickles in. If she stays, she will drown. If she leaves, she will die. If she dies, her baby dies.
“You have to,” Katja says. “You have to be brave for the baby. We’ll be fine. You’ll tell the police. They’ll get us out. Go, now, quickly. Go!”
Then gunshots echo in the basement, and red like a bloody mouth gaped beneath Katja’s breasts, and Lily was running, running, and no one would believe her. Not the police. Not Katja’s friend. No one. She’d tried. And it was all her fault. All of it. If she’d been a good girl, then …
“Be a good girl,” her father whispered, his voice reaching her through the pain. “Let Jesus into your heart again and he will cleanse you of this sin. He will forgive you. I will forgive you. But you must repent.”
Flashbacks. Always tricky. How much to reveal? Which tense to use? Yet I love them.
Pain tore through her, ripped from her spine through her abdomen, spasmed through her legs to her toes. Lily screamed and sat up. But she wasn’t in the hole by the creek, nor still in the prison of the basement. She was in a crumbling ruin of a room, with Franco kneeling over her, his face gaunt and worried.
“What do I do?” he asked. “MayBe? What do we do now? Should I get her? You said not to, but I don’t know what else to do.”
And she nodded. Avril wouldn’t want to help her if she knew. Would hate her. But to save her baby, Lily would have to pretend. To lie. She was good at that, wasn’t she?
Lily tried to catch her breath as the pain retreated again. She felt lightheaded, with pain, fear, hunger. Franco left her, but she barely noticed. She laid back. Her ears were ringing. God, she was going to die here, wasn’t she? Die alone in a dark room with a dead baby spilled out between her legs in pool of blood and—
She sucked in a breath as another pain shot through her. Above her silent scream of agony, she heard a crash, then a shriek from somewhere in the house.
“You call this a stairway, boy?” The high voice had husky undertones. “This here’s a death trap, that’s what it is. Worse than plastic pieces snapped together like that Mousetrap game. You know what game I’m talking about, boy? Of course you don’t. You just a baby, you.”
Then the speaker was standing in the doorway of Lily’s room, the form outlined by the flickering light that spilled in from the alley lamppost. Short skirt, long hair, seven inch heels, and broad muscular shoulders.
“Lily May Beckett,” the creature said. “You making me risk life and limb to get up here just cause you scared of some hospital? What’s wrong with you, girl?”
Avril. The thought of the woman brought a fear even greater than knowing she might die. What would Avril do if she knew? Then another contraction ripped through Lily and all thought fled.
“Lil? You okay, Lil?” Franco dropped to his knees and took her hand in both of his. She squeezed his fingers so hard he yelped. She didn’t care, though. It wasn’t him had a knife tearing its way out of her body with slash after slash.
“Avril, damnit,” Franco yelled. “Do something. Do something.”
“Darlin’, I don’t know what makes you think I can help matters. You forget I ain’t got the same equipment as her? I know I look all Xena Warrior Princess on the outside—” She tossed her hair over one shoulder and batted her eyelashes. “But you do remember there’s a surprise curled up under my skirt here, now don’t you, hon?”
Lily screamed as she pulled her knees up and gave in to a need to push, to shit this baby out of her no matter the cost, no matter what happened before or after. The only thing that mattered was push, breath, push, breath, push!
“You can do it, hon. Good girl.” Katja? Avril?
“Mom?” Lily sobbed. “Mom, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
You have to be brave for the baby. But she wasn’t brave. She was a liar, and a murderer. A sinner. The only person who’d ever tried to help her was dead because of her. Blood dripping from her fingers, surprise on her face.
“Katja,” Lily breathed as blessed darkness washed over her.
“So, she’s in the hospital, you’re saying?” Jo Sullivan was confused. She’d been interrupted right in the middle of this week’s column which was due in a half hour, then hurried to the front desk to meet a visitor who’d insisted she needed to speak to Jo urgently, only to be confronted by a six foot four transvestite with a five o’clock shadow and foundation makeup that desperately needed a refresh.
“It sounds like everything is taken care of,” Jo continued. “I really don’t understand what you want from me.”
Betty at the front desk and the two reporters that had walked through the lobby since their conversation started had managed to keep their mirth under wraps, but Ed Logan was due back from lunch any second, and Jo just knew he wouldn’t let an opportunity like this slip by. She had to get back to work soon.
“Woman,” Avril said, leaning over her and saying each word slowly. “You. Are. Not. Listening. She named the baby Katja. Don’t you get it? It’s plain as the Adams apple in my throat. Which, by the way, you can quit staring at any time now. Yes, I am a man. Yes, I am wearing makeup, a wig, and one damn expensive pair of Jimmy Choo’s. Now can we get back to this girl Lily May and what happened to my friend?”
Katja’s first name is just a placeholder for now. It’s too similar to Jo’s friend Keisha to keep long term. When I replace it, though, it will have to be something just as uncommon in order to trigger Avril’s concern.
“Yes, my friend Katja. Why else would she name the baby that? This Lily has to know where the woman is, but the nurses won’t let me near the girl, even though I’m the one who called the ambulance, not to mention delivered the baby my very own self in that disgusting hovel of a building those kids call home.”
When Jo first met a street artist nicknamed CRY, the brutal murder of a friend and his fear of being forced to turn tricks to survive on the streets had made the boy somewhat homophobic and yet it had been this Avril who he’d gone to when looking for a missing girl and it was Avril who he’d continued to correspond with by letter after he got into Job Corps.
So there had to be more to this woman—man?—woman than Jo understood.
“Okay, okay.” Jo held up both hands to stop what was obviously going to be another diatribe of what sounded like nonsense. “Let’s slow down here a minute, all right? If you could hold on for another ten minutes or so while I finish this article I’ve—”
“Hold on? Hold on? Well, Ms. Sullivan.” Avril’s words dripped with sarcasm. “I’ve got all the time in the world. So does Katja, I suppose. Apparently it is all the same to you if a missing girl shows up dead instead of alive. Is that why you got to Lexie Green too late, hmm? Had an important article to write, did you?”
Guilt and regret bloomed from Jo’s center like a stinking corpse flower. Lexie Green had been murdered by a psycho funeral home employee, a fact neither Jo nor Lexie’s friend CRY had known until way too late. It had been almost a year since that happened, and Jo had done all she could at the time, but nothing could erase the glimpse she remembered of the young girl’s tiny feet in their tubular tomb.
“So this is how you want to play it?” Jo asked bitterly. “You come to ask me for help and then insult me? Who’s not getting it now?”
She turned to leave but Avril’s firm grip on her arm stopped her. Jo looked down at the long fingers with their purple-glittered nails and dark hairs sprouting from the knuckles.
“I’m sorry,” Avril said, letting go. She really did sound sincere. “I’m just so upset I’m not thinking straight. Am I just imagining things? Katja’s been gone for two months and no word at all, not to no one. I know I might just be grasping at strays, girl, but don’t you think it’s too much of a coincidence? I mean, this girl approaching me out of nowhere and then naming her baby after my missing friend?”
Straws, Jo thought, suddenly tired. Grasping at straws. Avril’s very real worry about her friend Katja was something she could easily understand. If Jo’s best friend Keisha had been off the grid for two months Jo would also be turning over every stone, straw, and stray she could find.
She sighed. “No such thing as coincidence.” Okay, she gave up. “Here, let’s go somewhere we can sit down, at least. Betty, will you ask Nick if he can wait another half hour for my column while I deal with this?”
“Wait?” Betty raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. “You want me to ask Nick Simonoff to delay a deadline? All right,” she said quickly, holding up a hand when Jo started to speak. “I’ll ask. But it’s your head, understand, not mine that will roll if I have anything to say about it.”
The staff lounge was empty with so many out for lunch at this time of day, so they didn’t have to deal with any startled looks when they walked in and settled down at a table near the coffee pot.
“Coffee? Tea?” Jo asked.
“The biggest cup of joe you got, please, girl. I’ve been up all night. Well, usually am, truth be told, but not dealing with all this drama. Babies popping out at one a.m., paramedics asking me all kinds of questions I got no answers to. Good looking paramedics, mind, so it was a pleasure and all, really, but Lord, if it all don’t leave me with a need for caffeine. Thank you, hon.”
While Avril filled her cup with so much sugar and cream the cup overflowed, Jo tried to piece together the hodgepodge of data the man—woman?—had unloaded on Jo as soon as she’d walked into the lobby.
“You said Lily’s been hanging around Lakeview how long again? A week? Two?”
“All I know is that’s when she come up to me. At my spot by Dunkin Donuts, you know? Had no place to stay, she said. Hungry. So many of these kids ’round here is these days, right? When I asked why she thought I was Santy Claus, she started saying a friend told her, but then she shuts up, says never mind, and walks off.
“I thought nothing more of it, except, why me? I got my own business to mind to, don’t go snooping into any others. Chicago got homeless services up the wazoo if you know where to look. I saw her around a little after that, hanging with Franco’s crowd, so I figured she found a squat and her street fam would look out for her. They do that, you know, these kids. Family tight as any you could hope for.”
“Franco is the guy who came and got you last night.”
“Franco Stakoviak. Little kid, thinks the fifteen hairs on his chin means he’s growing a beard. He’s one of Riley King’s.”
Once again Avril had hit a nerve. Jo had run into Riley King more than once, the first time because he’d been the one that sent Lexie to her death.
“He’s turning tricks for King?”
“Probably. Or dealing. Or both. He’s a good boy, though. Lily was having a hard time, he said. Wouldn’t go to the hospital. Bleeding. Poor kid thought she was going to die. So I went. What else could I do? Just in time to catch the little worm wiggle its way into the world.” Avril held her huge hands up and looked at them like she was amazed that they’d held a newborn life.
“That’s what I’m saying.” Avril’s voice rose again. “And then… in the ambulance, when they took the baby from her saying they’d take good care of it she says, real soft so I could hardly hear her, she says, ‘Her name is Katja.’ Katja. Who I been worrying about for weeks now. Katja, who works for the LGTBQ center in Uptown. She must have told this girl she could trust me.”
“You said Katja is, um, a transvestite, too?”
“Katja is transgender. Why is it so hard for you people to understand the difference? Transgender is someone born with the standard equipment of one sex who feels they should have been assigned the other model. I, on the other hand, just happen to look damn good dressed as a woman, and not afraid to admit it, thank you very much. Katja had all the upgrades completed over a year ago, and that girl could turn heads, you know what I’m saying?”
“And you think Lily is connected to your friend because she’s a lesbian.”
“Well, she’ll deny it seven ways to Sunday, I’m sure, if you ask her. Claims Franco is her boyfriend, when everyone knows that boy is gay as Truman Capote. He’s her beard, she’s his, if you ask me. It’s plain as the nose on your face, if you don’t mind me using a cliche.”
“I do mind cli— Never mind. How’d Lily end up pregnant then, if she’s into women?”
“If you have to ask that, hon, then it’s time you go back to Junior High sex ed. That’s a question you need to put to her.”
“What makes you think she’ll answer me?”
“Look, I’m here because of Chris, like I told you. Crybaby. He wrong about you? Kid’s got nothing but good to say about you when he writes. So far, I’m getting none of that here, but you helped him and all I’m asking for is the same. If you’re willing.”
And here’s the rub. Jo feels socially awkward around the transvestite. Is this going to be a turn off to readers? Or will they stick with me long enough to see if her feelings change?
Jo closed her eyes. Why was she so resistant? Was it because Avril was trans? Was she really that small-minded? Or was it because finding Katja Larsson reminded her too much of trying to save Lexie, and failing?
“Jo?” Betty’s voice made Jo jerk around. The receptionist was leaning in the doorway, trying hard not to stare at Avril. “Nick says now or never. And Ed’s offering to do the job if you don’t so if you want to keep your byline on this column …”
“Okay, okay, I got it.” Jo turned to Avril. “Look, I’ll go with you. I promise. I’ll talk to her. But you’ve got to give me ten minutes here, or I’m going to be the one looking to make a few bucks on the corner, all right?”
Avril tossed her long hair over one shoulder. “You? Woman, you like to starve working the streets. Ain’t no man gonna pick up a prickly pear like you for enough to buy a cup of coffee.”
She sat back and seemed content to wait, though, and Jo took that as a sign she would, for a while at least.
Avril leaned back in the passenger seat and watched Jo from beneath long, lowered lashes. She wasn’t sure what to make of the woman. She knew from Chris’s letters that the reporter had helped the boy find his missing friend and get into Jobcorps. Standard goody-two-shoes material, she’d figured.
I’m having a harder time getting into Avril’s voice than I did Lily. I want to avoid making her a caricature. I want to show that despite her sometimes over-the-top responses she is a realist.
When Avril had been known as Bobby Boyle—she shuddered as she thought the name, that pale, hideous moniker—she’d made fun of people like Jo. Liberals who thought handing out bowls of soup at a shelter would make any damn difference to the big picture. That’s what she’d told her friend Katja once. Lord, hadn’t that turned into a late night debate.
But instead of the bleeding heart Avril expected to find, this Jo Sullivan acted hard and edgy. In fact, for someone who supposedly cared about homeless kids, she actually seemed pretty cold and callous to Avril.
And she drove like a maniac.
“The light! The light! Watch the light, woman!” Avril grabbed the dashboard and shut her eyes, then opened them again in time to see a startled pedestrian step back onto the curb then give them the finger.
The paving stones that led to the church were lined with the welcome of white and red impatiens bright in the summer sun, but the massive wooden doors remained shut as Jo approached. The sound of children’s laughter and the buzz of deeper voices lured her around the white clapboard building to discover what looked like the whole congregation spread out across the back lawn.
Today I worked from Jo’s point of view. Since I already know her pretty well from writing three books about her, the only trick was getting back into her irreverent frame of mind for this scene.
Awnings had been set out, and tables, like a picnic or potluck. Children were playing games off to the side, screaming with glee and encouragement to one another. Women gathered in clutches around the tables, fanning away the heat of the day with leaflets or church bulletins. The men all wore suits despite the heat. The females, regardless of age, all wore dresses, modest dresses with hemlines, at minimum, below the knee.
Two long tables were littered with the remains of a massive potluck, most dishes empty except for a few spoonfuls of casserole or salad or fruit cobbler at the bottom. A small woman with gray hair bound in a bun at the nape of her neck stood at one end of the banquet table, frowning at a few half-crumbled oatmeal cookies left on one plate.
She looked up as Jo paused next to her and asked, eyebrows drawn together, “Should I, do you think? Or should I save them for the children?”
“I think they sound like they’ve had enough sugar for one day, don’t you think?”
That made the woman laugh and she reached for a cookie, then a second one, and placed them on her plate. “Are you here as a guest? I don’t remember seeing you at services.”
“I’m new. To the neighborhood, I mean. Just checking out if I knew anyone here. Is this, um, is this where Lou Beckett goes to church?”
“Deacon Beckett? Why, of course. There he is talking to Pastor Oberhaus. I’m surprised you didn’t recognize him.”
Beckett had thin wavy hair that swept back from his forehead, graying now, but clearly the same mousy brown as his daughter’s. He appeared to be in deep discussion with the pastor, their voices low, both with serious expressions. Beckett’s eyes even darted side to side as Jo watched, as if he were making sure no one could overhear them.
Were they talking about Lily running away, Jo wondered? Maybe he was seeking counsel as to what he should do. Whatever it was, Jo decided not to interrupt the conversation but to watch for an opportunity to speak to him in private.
Keeping one eye on the two men, she wandered among the scene as if she were looking for someone. At one empty table, she picked up a brochure that had been abandoned next to a paper saucer of chocolate cake crumbs. Holy Trinity Revival Meeting, the cover read. Join Us For a Good Old Fashioned Call to Worship August 13 and 14.
She flipped it open to see several photos of worshippers sitting in folding chairs under a huge tent with arms raised. One photo showed the pastor, Martin Oberhaus, on stage behind the pulpit with one hand on a kneeling young woman’s head and his arm raised to heaven as he intoned something over her with open mouth.
It seems Christianity is either vilified and scorned, or elevated as a strict, unassailable path to follow in order to be acceptable in the eyes of the Creator. The belief of many Christians, regardless of denomination, usually lies somewhere between those two extremes, but their very moderation gets far less notice than the views on either end.
“Hoping to join us for the revival?” Lou Beckett’s voice made Jo jerk and she dropped the pamphlet as she turned, but Lily’s father only smiled at her. “Gertrude said you were looking for me? Do I know you?”
“No. I mean, I don’t know. About the revival. I’m just thinking of moving to the area.” How much had the old woman told him? “I’m church shopping. So … Maybe. I don’t know. You think I should?”
“Martin gives a rousing sermon anytime, but you should hear him when he’s under a tent. Just like Jesus himself must have sounded from the Sermon on the Mount. Yes, certainly. You must come and see for yourself. Have you accepted Jesus as your Lord and Savior?”
This last was asked in a tone that almost made it sound like a challenge. His eyes had darkened and he looked at her so intently she felt certain that if she had said no he would have condemned her for a sinner and begun preaching immediately. Just that quickly had he switched from a curious country churchman to a fire-breathing conservative Christian.
Lily’s heart hammered so hard when she stepped into the school that she was sure everyone could hear it. That everyone was looking at her. She’d been attending Westmont High for a week now and still her fear flared fierce each day. She still had not one single friend, or even a potential friend. She was afraid to look anyone in the eye and if someone spoke to her, especially any boy, her breath caught in her throat. If she made any response at all she sounded like a strangled cat. At least, that’s the way her father always described it.
Today I spent time looking at Lily’s past story and writing scenes that show me who she is. Who knows whether any of this will end up in the final book.
Lily jumped and turned around to find a pair of brilliant blue eyes looking at her. At her! The girl’s face was framed by golden curls and her nose turned up just a bit at the tip. Her beauty took Lily’s breath away.
“New girl,” the creature said. “I asked if you dropped this.” She held up Lily’s pink scarf that must have slipped out of her pocket, then waved it playfully. “’Cause, you know, if not, finders keepers.”
Then she grinned and Lily’s heart leapt into her mouth. The blood rushed so quickly to her face she thought she would faint.
Yes, I know there’s cliches in here.
It’s just backstory, people, come on.
She mumbled something like, “Yeah, thanks,” though she couldn’t remember exactly what she said when she relived the scene later in her memory. Her ears were ringing so loud she almost didn’t hear the girl say, “I’m Jean, by the way. See you around,” before hurrying off to class.
For the rest of the day, every time she thought of that smile, Lily blushed pink with pleasure.
That’s the way it was then, at least. Now, years later, thinking of the face of her first love only filled Lily with fear.