The Impossible Childhood of My Desires

Chapter 1

Chapter 1“Here’s looking at you, kid,” Carl Young lifted the glass of champagne to his reflection in the mirror atop the dresser and winked. He took a sip, noted the red lipstick stain he left behind on the glass, and set it down.

“Delicious,” he whispered, uncertain if he was referring to the Veuve Cliquot he had splurged on or his appearance. Both brought a small, but precious, frisson of joy.

Time alone in his home was rare.

Carl’s need to transform himself—to become herself, a woman he called Cara, for a little while—had grown overwhelming these past few weeks. Who knew why?

There were moments when Carl believed he could no longer bear simply being himself. Wasn’t that odd? Wasn’t that, to coin a word, queer? He’d been himself all of his life, why should he yearn for escape from something as basic as self?

Maybe one day, he could undergo psychoanalysis and discover the answer. Or maybe there was no answer. Sometimes things just were what they were, defying logic, reason, and explanation. Things could be powerful and real without explanation. Carl saw examples every day. Not everything was dictated by logic or rational thought.

Most people were driven to do things because they wanted to—or needed to. Simple as that.

And as complicated as that.

Roberto, his husband, had been working from home most every day for the last year, ever since the financial management company he worked for in downtown Chicago had given the option to its most trusted employees. But this morning, the third of December, Roberto boarded the Metra train at the Main Street stop and headed downtown. There was an all-staff meeting and an early holiday luncheon.

Roberto wouldn’t be home from work for hours and hours—the time stretched before Cara, a luxury. Roberto’s absence meant freedom. The thought made Carl feel guilty, but he couldn’t deny its truth.

The fact, much as he loved Roberto, caused Carl to breathe a deep sigh of relief, feeling as though he were a bird let out of its cage.

As much as Carl loved Roberto’s company—and he did—this time alone was a balm for his soul, a release, an opportunity to give in to the desires he’d kept secret for all of his fifty-two years.

His memory flashed on Mom’s vanity table, with its forbidden potions. He’d grown up eyeing them in their small house in eastern Ohio. The Ambush perfume, the crimson lipsticks, the mascara, the Cover Girl foundation. How he longed to touch them, to smell them, to wonder how they would feel on his young skin, transforming. Some kids were transfixed by magic tricks. But for little Carl, his magic had always been found in the transformative power of makeup.

Now, the morning light coming in through the plantation shutters threw slats across the dark gray comforter and the ensemble Carl had taken from the cache of clothes he kept in a garment bag at the back of his closet.

Once again, he was grateful Roberto never snooped.

Spread across the bed was a gorgeous floral print dress he’d discovered on a recent trip to Nordstrom Rack on State Street downtown. It was a very pale cream with a pattern of irises and daffodils, which looked as though they’d been painted on in watercolors. It was fitted through the bodice and the pleated skirt flared out, falling just below Carl’s knees. It was a promise of warm days with bees buzzing and butterflies born up on golden illumination, even though outside, Chicago was battening down the hatches for winter.

Even at the Rack, the dress was pricey, but it was also a Ferragamo, and he’d snagged it for half price. But still it was close to eight hundred dollars. Thank God Carl took care of paying the bills, despite—or maybe because—Roberto worked in finance.

Carl ran his fingers lovingly along the pleats and the scoop neckline. He swore he could detect the first breath of spring in those bursts of yellow and purple, chilly but with an undercurrent of warmth, a promise of warm breezes in the future. He wandered to the window, to peer through its slats at his suburban Evanston street. Even though the sun shone, the trees lining Lee Street were now bereft of all their leaves, the grass at the sidewalk’s edge was a lot less green than it had been in summer, brown and a sickly yellow ruled the day. Soon, snow would lay a blanket across the sidewalk’s verdant border.

There was something indefinable but sure—a promise winter would arrive soon, burying them all in too much darkness, snow, and temperatures so cold they froze the skin and the breath. So the dress, with its breath of May in December, was magic.

He picked it up and held it against his chest for a moment. He met his own green eyes in the mirror and imagined for a moment how it would look on him.

But before he donned it, there were other things to do.

Foundation—a sports bra, lace panties, and a slip were drawn on, lovingly. He pulled up the satin stockings, raising each leg in the air and pointing his toes as he did so.

Carl moved to the dresser, where he’d opened the leather shaving bag he kept under his sink in the bathroom, and removed foundation, lipstick, blush, eyeliner, mascara, shadow, and a small bottle of Santal 33. Watching himself in the mirror, he took his time with the makeup application. He spritzed some of the cologne and walked into the aromatic cloud.

These things were both ritual and prayer.

When he was finished, he opened one of the dresser drawers so he could dig deep beneath his pairs of boxer briefs and socks to pull out the prize of this whole operation—his wig. He held it aloft, shaking it out. The hair was glossy, copper colored and, when on, brushed Carl’s shoulders. The bangs curled above his eyebrows.

He moved to the bed and with grace and a kind of religious exaltation, lifted the dress and pulled it over his head, smoothing it down in front and struggling just a tiny bit to grasp the zipper in the back and pull it up.

And then, fully made-up, stockings in place, shod in a pair of wildly impractical yellow spike heels, he fitted the wig into place over his buzzed salt and pepper hair, yanking and tightening it into position on his scalp.

For a moment, he didn’t dare to look at himself. No, he preferred to instead imagine this woman he now was, her elegance, her delicacy, despite her broad shoulders and six-foot height.

What would she drink? Champagne, of course, but also she’d love a martini, perhaps, very cold, very dirty, with two blue-cheese stuffed olives.

What music would she listen to? She was partial to Ella, Sarah, Etta and even a little Patsy. These women knew what went on in a feminine soul, knew love tempered by heartache and inner strength.

Carl swirled, taking careful steps—he’d done this dance before—to the full-length mirror mounted on the back of his closet door.

And there she was—Cara.

He was, at last, she.

Hello there, dear.

* * * *

Roberto Garcia hoped he’d make it home before the contents of lunch came up. His guts gurgled, his face was hot, and dizziness was his new normal. The slight rocking of the Metra train as it made its way north from downtown Chicago to Evanston and his stop at Main Street was enough to increase the nausea that had begun right after lunch.

Was it the chicken?

The spinach salad?

Something else?

Flu?

All he knew was that he’d gone, in a heartbeat, from feeling perfectly fine, to sick as a dog. And where he wondered, did that phrase come from anyway? Any dogs he and Carl had owned over the years were actually seldom ill, probably because he and Carl were helicopter pet parents and greeted by name at their vet’s.

No matter. He was sick as could be, his stomach threatening to do its worst as the conductor came through the cars to check tickets.

Once he got off the train and taken the stairs down to Main, he prayed he’d make it home without anything untoward happening—from either end.

The sky mirrored his nausea. In the morning, it had been bright sunshine, almost summer-like if one wasn’t outside. Now, the clouds, bruised, heavy, and gray, blotted out the golden illumination and seemed the embodiment of the cold wind off Lake Michigan. The chill made him shiver and that led him to wonder if he had a fever, if this was more than a simple case of food poisoning. The temperature had dropped fifteen degrees or so and Roberto smelled snow in the air.

There it was. The red brick courtyard building he shared with his husband Carl for the last twenty-some years. Home.

It was a beautiful place with a kind of Georgian feel, the red brick offset by green shutters at the windows and cream trim. The courtyard had red leaf maples and a fountain in the center. They were very lucky, he thought, even sick as he felt, even though they’d been here more than two decades, that they got to live here, in this building with its nice neighbors, vintage charm, and its two-block proximity to a wide sandy beach.

He opened the vestibule door and managed to get himself up the stairs to the third floor. He couldn’t be bothered with checking the mail. He simply wanted to get inside, strip out of his suit, lie down and maybe ask Carl if he’d be kind enough to make him a cup of Earl Grey.

The front door was locked, which wasn’t usual. And yet it annoyed Roberto more than it should have, but he needed—desperately—to get inside, if for no other reason than to get off his feet. The walk home had been work.

Maybe Carl’s gone out.

Roberto put his key in the deadbolt lock, turned it, and swung the door open. Times when he felt better, he might have called out, “Honey, I’m home,” but he wasn’t in the mood for whimsy. His fantasy right now wasn’t Jamie Dornan on their bed, but sheets and quilt turned back, the humidifier on and blowing steam, and blessed quiet.

Carl was home, but nowhere in sight. He knew this because there was soft music coming from the back of the apartment. He smiled, despite feeling queasy. Doris Day crooned ‘Que Sera, Sera.’

Only much, much later would it occur to him how prophetic and meaningful this musical selection was.

He took off his top coat and suit jacket and slung them over the back of the sofa. As he progressed down the long hallway, off of which were three good-sized bedrooms, the music grew louder. Louder still as he came to the end of the hall, where a shut door barred his entrance to the master bedroom.

Odd. We rarely close doors around here. Wouldn’t it be hilarious if Carl was in bed with someone, that hunky maintenance man the home owners’ association had just hired for example?

Roberto would catch them in the act, like some bad movie cliché.

He shook his head. Never happen. Carl was about as faithful of a partner as any man in all the long-term gay relationships he knew of. Most of their friends had “agreements” or “arrangements.” Their relationships were often open, whether both partners were aware of it or not. But he and Carl had just never reached that point, as far as Roberto knew. They were content with each other. Roberto had always prided himself on the fact that they were a rarity—a truly monogamous couple, even if they rarely had s*x anymore.

Enough musing. Carl could be napping, an afternoon indulgence of his and a break from his work as a copy editor for one of the big publishing houses in New York. He’d worked on manuscripts for years and told Roberto he was good at it because he had no desire to write himself, only to lose himself in the magic of fictional worlds.

Roberto swung the door open and paused.

His breath vanished.

He swore his heart stopped for an instant. He clutched his chest.

Carl turned away from the mirror and stared, mouth open, as if Roberto were some ghostly apparition. He didn’t appear to know who Roberto was. The shock and confusion on his face reflected that. He’d gone a sickly shade of white. Even the foundation he’d painted on couldn’t conceal his pallor.

It wasn’t the look on Carl’s face that caused Roberto to breathe faster and to question his grip on reality. It was the makeup. The dress. The high heels. The red wig.

“Who are you?” Roberto mumbled.

And Carl, looking panicked, searched the room, apparently for an easy escape route—or help. His gaze took several seconds to come back to Roberto’s bewildered face.

And he answered, “Cara. That’s who I am. Cara.” He reached out his hands, beseeching.

Roberto turned and hurried from the room. For the life of him, he didn’t know what to say.