The Impossible Childhood of My Desires

Chapter 2

Chapter 21977

“Who are you?” Carl’s mom asked him. She stood in the doorway of her and daddy’s bedroom, hands on hips, a dishtowel in one of those hands. Downstairs, the local radio station was playing Chicago’s “If You Leave Me Now.”

Seven-year-old Carl experienced what he imagined as a bolt of lightning course through him.

Mom was always busy downstairs, cooking or cleaning, when he played dress-up. He always relied on that one creaky step at the top of the staircase to alert him to the fact that she was coming up the steps. He could then dash into the bathroom, where he’d stashed his regular clothes, and clean up—quickly. But today, he hadn’t been paying attention and her ascending the stairs had gone unnoticed.

Mom didn’t look mad. She even wore a little grin. At first, Carl thought she was laughing at him, standing next to his parents’ bed with its Chenille bedspread, wearing Mom’s yellow and white striped sundress. On him, it was a gown—a magical gown fit for a princess. He’d applied some of her red lipstick, a little blush and some of that blue eyeshadow she’d bought at the Five and Ten, but never wore. He was certain his cheeks were even redder, with the heat of embarrassment and shame rising to his skin.

“Who are you?” She repeated, moving a little more into the bedroom, which was dappled with golden July light. “Let me guess. Sophia Loren? Raquel Welch?” She snapped her fingers and laughed. “I got it! Ms. Adrienne Barbeau!”

Carl collapsed against the bed, sinking down on the side. He began to weep, his face hidden behind his knees.

Mom hurried to comfort him, getting down on the shag carpeting with him and enfolding him in her arms. “Oh, honey. Don’t cry.”

“You’re makin’ fun of me.”

She brushed some tears off his cheeks. “No. No, I’m not. I was just having fun, you know, in the moment. But I wasn’t making fun of you. Never. Not my boy.” She pressed him into her bosom and he smelled her perfume and the talcum she wore. “You’re too precious to me.”

They sat on the floor for a long while, not saying anything.

Carl found it hard to stop trembling.

His dressing up was his biggest secret. No one would ever find out. He took great care to ensure he put everything back as it was in Mom’s closet and chest of drawers. He noted exactly what position the makeup and perfume was in on her vanity and returned them to the exact same spot. He was so careful.

And now he was exposed, like a bug under a rock.

He wanted to die.

But Mom stroking his dark curly hair, so like hers, made him feel a tiny bit better. Why wasn’t she appalled? Why didn’t she shove him away? Storm out of the room? Tell him to get dressed and stop being such a little freak.

He knew the answer—because she loved him.

Carl didn’t realize, until this very moment, just how much.

She asked, “How long have you been doing this, honey?”

He was tempted to tell her this was the first time, that he’d never even thought of it before. But that was stupid. Of course, this wasn’t the first time. She’d see that. Look at how carefully he’d applied his makeup, how the dress was fitted to him using some clothes pins in the back to make it more form-fitting. No, this was the result of years of practice.

He couldn’t lie. Not to her. Not when it was clear she loved him even though he was a freak.

“A while.” His voice was barely above a whisper and the words quaked as they came out of him. He feared he’d burst into sobs.

“Okay. It’s okay.”

“Is it, Mommy?” he wondered, reverting to what he used to call her when he was a baby.

“Yes. I mean, I love you no matter what you wear.” She let go of him to lean back a little and to take him in again. “You look gorgeous. Better than I do in that dress!” She laughed and Carl was surprised he chuckled along with her. His laughter, though, could easily turn right back into weeping.

This whole situation was so, so fragile.

Besides, Mom actually looked much better in the dress. With her beautiful figure, dark curly hair, olive complexion and green eyes, she never failed to turn heads wherever they went, even though she was ancient, turning thirty-eight in January.

A cloud moved over the sun, whether it was real or imaginary didn’t matter, as she went on. “But this needs to be our secret, baby. All right? Nobody, especially your daddy, needs to know about this. Other folks won’t understand like I do. You know?”

Her next words were a knife to his heart. “If your father knew about this, it would kill him.”

He swallowed, even though there was little saliva in his mouth. He had the power to kill his own father? Just by putting on a dress? That was some kind of powerful black magic, wasn’t it?

“Oh Lord, Mommy. I don’t want to hurt him.” He had to admit—he wasn’t sure he loved his dad, wasn’t sure he even liked him, but he would never want to hurt him, and certainly wouldn’t want to kill him. His rages, his silences, and his perfectionism distanced him from Carl, but he was still Daddy, even though Carl felt better when he was out of the house, either working or drinking beer and shooting pool at the American Legion up the street. In Daddy’s absence, the air was lighter and everything seemed more peaceful. When he was home, he and Mom tiptoed around on egg shells. At least that was what she’d once said.

Carl was forever watching out for egg shells on the floor. Just like he was careful to look for and avoid cracks in the sidewalk, for fear of breaking Mommy’s back.

She stroked his hair a little more, squeezed him more tightly for a moment, and then pulled away. She stood and smiled down at him. “Now, I want you to hang that dress back up where it belongs. And then, you need to get into the bathroom and wash your face, okay?”

He nodded, feeling heat rise to his cheeks.

She was smiling, but her words cut deep. “And then I think it’s probably a good idea that you don’t play this game anymore. There’s nothing wrong with you, but folks just wouldn’t understand.” She moved to the bedroom doorway and then turned back. “Little boys grow up to be men. And little girls become ladies.” Her face looked sad as she said, “Carl, honey, you’re a little boy. My beautiful little boy.”

And then she was gone. The stairs creaked as she descended. The radio continued to play in the kitchen: ”Your Love is Lifting Me Higher.” He liked that song and had seen a lady on television singing it only last week. How he loved her long, dark hair. Now, the only thing he wondered about how being lifted higher worked, because he’d never felt lower.

He got up from the floor and took off the dress. He hung it back up in his mother’s closet. There was a numbness in his head, his heart, and even his fingertips as he put jeans and T-shirt back on and slid into the black Converse sneakers. He left his parents’ room and went into his own, where he lay down on his twin bed and stared up at the ceiling.

His tummy ached.