I Will Fear No Evil

10

(Well, Eunice?) (So you want to hear about my little bastard? Boss, you're a dirty old man.) (Sweetheart, I don't want to hear anything you don't want to tell. You could have quintuplets by a Barbary ape and it wouldn't affect how I feel about you.) (Mealymouthed old hypocrite. You're dying of curiosity.) (I am like hell ‘dying of curiosity.' It's your business and yours alone.) (Oh, don't be so mean, Boss. My business is your business. How else? Seeing the close relationship we have...and which I like, if there is any doubt in your dirty old mind. You brought me back to life... when I was as dead as folk songs. And now I'm happy. So coax me a little, I'll give.) (All right, dearest—how in the world did you manage to have a baby? When did you find time? Your snoop sheet traced you clear back through high school.)

(Boss, did that security report mention the high school semester I lost from rheumatic fever?) (Let me think. Yes, it did.) (Misspelling. Spell it ‘romantic' fever. I was fifteen and a cheerleader. Our basketball team won the regional conference... and I felt so good, I got knocked up.) (Eunice, ‘knocked up' is not an expression a lady uses.) (Oh, Boss, sometimes you make me sick. By your rules I'm not a lady and never was—and I've got as much right to be inside this skull as you have and maybe more—so you haven't any business trying to force me to talk the way your mother did. Not when I no longer have Joe to turn to when I get tired of your prissy ways.)

(I'm sorry, Eunice.)

(‘Sail right, Boss. I love you. But you and I are cuddle up pretty close; we ought to relax and enjoy it. I can teach you a lot about how to be female, if you'll let me. But right now you listen. Don't interrupt.) The ghost voice started reciting a string of monosyllables, all of them taboo in the faraway days of Johann's youth.

(Eunice! Please, darling, it doesn't become you.)

(Pipe down, Boss. I'm going to finish this even if you blow every fuse.) The recitation went on— (That does it, I guess—those are the words I had tagged in my mind never to use in your presence. Now tell, me—was there even one you didn't understand?)

(That's not the point. A person should not use language-which offends others.)

(I never did, Boss. In public. But I'm home now thought I was. Do you want me to go away again?)

(No, no, no! Uh, you were away?) (I certainly was, Boss. Dead, I suppose. But I'm here now and I want to stay. If you'll let me. If I can relax and be happy and not have to be on guard all the time for fear of offending you. I can't see why a Latin polysyllable makes me more a lady than a monosyllable with the same meaning. You and I think with the same brain—yours—eat with the same mouth—mine, or used to be—and pee through the same hole. So why shouldn't we share the same vocabulary? Speaking peeing—oh, pardon me, sir, I meant to say ‘micturition'—).

(None of your sarcasm, girl!)

(Just who are you calling a ‘girl,' girlie? Feel yourself, go ahead and feel. Some knockers, eh, Boss?—and how you used to stare at them, you horny old goat. Made me tingle. But I was saying, speaking of micturition, that we are going to have to ring for a bedpan fairly soon, now that we no longer are rigged with plumbing... and there is no way for me to leave the room while you pee. I don't dare leave; it's dark out there and I might not find my way back. So it's either get used to such things—or send me away forever—or bust your nice new bladder.)

(Okay, Eunice, you've made your point.)

(Have I offended you again, Boss?)

(Eunice, you have never offended me. Sometimes you have startled me, sometimes you have surprised me and often delighted me. But you have never offended me. Not even with that list of blunt words.)

(Well...as I saw it, if you already knew them, you couldn't really be offended; if you didn't understand them, then you couldn't possibly be offended.)

(All right, dear. I'll quit trying to correct your speech. But for the record—I used all those words long before your mother was born. Possibly before your grandmother was born.) (Grandma is sixty-eight). (Learned ‘em all and used them with relish long before your grandmother was born—with relish because they were sinful, then. I take it they aren't, to you kids now.)

(No, they're just words. Short-talk.)

(Not short-talk, as they were used before video corrupted the language. Except—What was that one word? ‘Frimp'?)

(Oh. Shouldn't have included that one, Boss; it's not a classic word. Current slang, swing talk. It's a general verb, one which includes every possible way to copulate—) (Pfui! You youngsters. When I was a kid, we had at least two dozen words meaning ‘frimp,' some new, some old besides the standard taboo words for it) (You didn't let me finish, Boss—every possible way to hook up two or more bodies—any number—of any sex, or combinations of all six sexes, and including far-out variations that would shock you right out of this bed. But swing is a today scene, so it's not surprising you hadn't heard the word ‘frimp' before.)

(Oh, I'd heard it. I have news for you, infant.)

(Yes, sir? I mean ‘Yes, Miss Smith,' dearie. ‘Miss' Smith—what a giggle I got when I first heard it. But it's nice, since it means both of us. Say, Rosy is all right, isn't he? Puts more into handkissing than some studs do into a romp on the pad.) (Sweetheart, you not only have a dirty mind—but it veers.) (How can I help having a dirty mind when it's actually yours, Boss-I'm hip deep in the stuff.) (Shut up, Eunice; it's my turn. The swing scene is nothing new. The Greeks had a word for it. So did the Romans. And so on through history. The orgy was relished in Victorian England. It was far from unknown in my youth in the heart of the Bible Belt, even though it was dangerous in those days. Eunice, as long as we are trying to get easy with each other, let me say this: Anything you've ever seen, or tried, or heard of, I did, or had done to me, before your grandmother was born—and if I liked it, I did it again and again and again. No matter how risky.)

The second voice was silent a moment. (Maybe we simply start younger today. Less risk and fewer rules.)

(Beg to doubt.)

(Oh, I'm sure we do. I told you how young I was when I got caught. Fifteen. And I started a year younger.)

(Eunice my love, the main difference between the young and the old, the cause of the so-called Generation Gap—a gap in understanding that has existed throughout all time—is that the young simply cannot believe that the old ever really were young... whereas to an old person his youth is something that happened just last week, and it annoys the hell out of him when someone in effect denies that this old duffer ever owned a youth.)

(Boss?) The thought was gentle and soft.

(Yes, dearest?)

(Boss, I always knew you were young underneath, behind all those horrid liver spots—knew it when I was alive, I mean...and wished dreadfully that you weren't old and sick in your body. It hurt me so, to see you hurt. Sometimes I went home and cried. Especially when it made you cross and you would say something you didn't mean and then be sorry. I wanted you to get well....nd knew you couldn't. I was one of the first to sign up-Joe and I both—as soon as word reached us through the Rare Blood Club. Couldn't do it sooner or you might have found out—and forbidden me to.)

(Eunice, Eunice!)

(Don't you believe me?)

(Yes, darling, yes... but you're making us cry.)

(So blow your nose, Boss, and stop it. Because everything turned out all right. Look, you wanted to hear about my little bastard—will that take your mind off troubles we no longer have?)

(Uh... only if you want to, Eunice. My love. My only love.)

(I made it plain that I wanted to tell you, didn't I? I'll tell all—and that'll take a long time—if you want to hear. If you won't be shocked. Say ‘Please,' Boss—because the details of my sex life ought to help you in handling your own sex life. Our sex life, that is. Or did you mean that stuff you were shoveling at Dr. Garcia about not being ‘actively female'?)

(Uh... I don't know, Eunice, I haven't been a woman long enough to know what I want. Shucks, darling, instead of thinking like a girl I'm still ogling girls. That little redheaded nurse, for example.)

(So I noticed.)

(Was that sarcasm? Or jealousy?)

(What? I do not intend to be sarcastic, Boss dear; I don't want us ever to be nasty with each other. And jealousy is just a word in the dictionary to me. I simply meant that, when Winnie was making up our face and you were sneaking a peek down the neck of her smock every time she leaned over, I was staring as hard as you were. No bra. Cute ones, aren't they? Winnie is female and knows it. If you were male in your body as well as in your head, I wouldn't trust her as far as I could throw a bed.)

(I thought you said you weren't jealous?)

(I'm not. I merely meant that Winnie would trip you and beat you to the floor. But I was not criticizing her. I've nothing against girls. A girl can be quite a blast.)

Johann was slow in answering. (Eunice, uh, were you implying that you have—used to have—relations with other, uh—)

(Oh, Boss, don't be so early-twentieth-century; we've turned the corner on the twenty-first. Tell it bang. Do you mean ‘Am I a Lez?' Homosexual?)

(No, not at all! Well, perhaps I did mean that in a way. At least I wanted you to clear up what you meant. As it didn't seem possible. You were married and—or was your marriage just a cover-up? I suppose—)

(Quit supposing, dear. Bang. I was not homosexual and neither is Joe. Joe is a tomcat always ready to yowl, and wonderful at it. Except when he's painting; then he forgets everything else. But ‘homosexual' isn't a word that bothers anyone my age, either the word or the fact. And why not, with the Government practically subsidizing it with propaganda about too many babies that starts in kindergarten? If I had taken the Bilitis pledge, I would never have had that phony ‘rheumatic fever.' But, while girls are cuddly and I've never had any inhibitions about them, I was—always—fartoo interested in boys to live on Gay Street But which team are you on, Boss? One minute you're telling me how you drool over Winnie, the next minute you seem upset that I drooled, too. So what are you going to do with us, dear?' Left-handed? Right-handed? Both hands? Or no hands at all? I guess I could stand anything but the last. Do I have a vote?)

(Why, of course you do.)

(I wonder, Boss. You sputtered when I suggested that you could thank Doc Hedrick in bed... and sparked some more at the notion of going to bed with a girl. Sure you're not planning on sewing it up?)

(Oh, Eunice, don't talk silly! Beloved, happy as I am that we are together, that ‘Generation Gap' is still there. My fault this time, as I have a lifelong habit of being careful in what I say to a woman, even one I am in bed with—)

(You're certainly in bed with me!)

(I certainly am. And I'm finding it ever harder to be flatly truthful with you—'tell it bang' as you say—than it is to adjust to being female. But before Dr. Hedrick brought up the matter I saw the implications—and complica­tions—and consequences—of being female... and young and rich.)

(‘Rich.' I hadn't thought about that one.)

(Eunice beloved, we're going to have to think about it. Of course we're going to be ‘actively female'—)

(Hooray!)

(Quiet, dear. If we were poor, the simplest thing would be to ask your Joe to take us back. If he would have us. But we aren't poor; we're embarrassingly rich—and a fortune is harder to get rid of than it is to accumulate. Believe me. When I was about seventy-five, I tried to unload my wealth while I was still living so that it would not go to my granddaughters. But to give away money without wasting most of it in. the process is as difficult as getting the genie back into the bottle. So I gave up and simply arranged my will to keep most of it out of the hands of my alleged descendants.)

(‘Alleged'?)

(Alleged. Eunice, my first wife was a sweet girl, much like yourself, I think. But the poor dear died in childbirth—bearing my one son, also dead for many years now. Agnes had made me promise to marry again and I did, almost at once. One daughter from that marriage and her mother divorced me before the child was a year old. I married a third time—again one daughter, again a divorce.

I never knew my daughters well and outlived both of them and their mothers. But—Eunice, you're a rare—blood yourself; do you know how blood types are inherited?)

(Not really.)

(Thought you might. Being mathematically inclined, the first time I laid eyes on an inheritance chart for blood types I understood it as well as I understand the multiplication tables. Having lost my first wife to childbirth, with both my second and third wives I made certain that donors were at hand before they went into delivery rooms. Second wife was type A, third was type B—years later I learned that both my putative daughters were type 0.)

(I think I missed something, Boss.)

(Eunice, it is impossible for a type-AB father to sire type-O children. Now wait—I did not hold it against my daughters; it was none of their doing. I would have loved Evelyn and Roberta—tried to, wanted to—but their mothers kept me away from them and turned them against me. Neither girl had any use for me... until it turned out that I was going to dispose of a lot of money someday—and then the switch from honest dislike to phony ‘affection' was nauseating. I feel no obligation to my granddaughters since in fact they are not my granddaughters. Well? What do you think?)

(Uh—Boss, I don't see any need to comment.)

(So? Who was it not five minutes ago was saying that we ought to be absolutely frank with each other?)

(Well…I don't disagree with your conclusion, Boss, just with how you reached it. I don't see that heredity should enter into it. Seems to me you are resenting something that happened a long time ago—and that's not good. Not good for you, Boss.)

(Child, you don't know what you're talking about)

(Maybe not)

(No ‘maybes' about it. A baby is a baby. Babies are to love and take care of and that's what this whole bloody mess is about, else none of it makes sense. Eunice, I told you that my first wife was something like you. Agnes was my Annabel Lee and we loved with a love that was more than a love and I had her for only a year—then she died giving me my son. Then I loved him just as much. When he was killed something died inside me... and I made a foolish fourth marriage hoping to bring it alive again by having another son. But I was lucky that time—no children and it merely cost me a chunk of money to get shut of it.)

(I'm sorry, Boss.)

(Nothing to be sorry about now. But I was telling you something else—Eunice, when we're up and around, remind me to dig into my jewelry case and show you my son's ‘dog tag'—all that I have left of him.)

(If you want to. But isn't that morbid, dear? Look forward, not back.)

(Depends on how you look back. I don't grieve over him; I'm proud of him. He died honorably, fighting for his country. But that military dog tag shows his blood type. Type O.)

(Oh.)

(Yes, I said ‘O'. So my son was no more my physical descendant than were my daughters. Didn't keep me from loving him.)

(Yes, but—you learned it from his identification tag? After he was dead?)

(Like hell l did. I knew it the day he was bom; I had suspected that he might not be mine from the time Agnes turned out to be pregnant—and I accepted it. Eunice, I wore horns with dignity and always kept suspicions to myself. Just as well—as all my wives contributed to my

cornute state. Horns? Branching antlers! The husband who expects. anything else is riding for a fall. But I never had illusions about it, so it never took me by surprise. No reason why it should, as I got the best parts of my own training from married women, starting clear back in my early teens. I think that happens in every generation. But horns make a man's head ache only when he's stupid enough to believe that his wife is different—when all the evidence he has accumulated should cause him to assume the exact opposite.)

(Boss, you think all women are like that?)

(Oh, no! In my youth I knew many married couples in which both bride and groom—to the best of my knowledge and belief—went to the altar virgin and stayed faithful a lifetime. There may be couples like that among you kids today.)

(Some, I think. But you couldn't prove it by me.)

(Nor by me. Nor by all the kinseys who ever collected statistics. Eunice, sex is the one subject everybody lies about. But what I was saying is this: A man who takes his fun where he finds it, then marries and expects his wife to be different, is a fool. I wasn't that sort of fool. Let me tell you about Agnes.)

(Agnes was an angel—with round heels. That's obsolete slang which means what it sounds like. I don't think Agnes ever hated anyone in her short life and she loved as easily as she breathed. She—Eunice, you said you had started young?)

(Fourteen, Boss. Precocious slut, huh?)

(Precocious possibly, a slut never. Nor was my angel Agnes ever a slut and she happily gave away her virginity—so she told me—at twelve. I—)

(‘Twelve!')

(Surprised, dear? That Generation Gap again; your generation thinks it invented sex. Agnes was precocious; sixteen was fairly young in those days, from what a male could guess about it—not much!—and seventeen or eighteen was more common. I think. Actually encountering female virginity and, being certan of it—well, I'm no expert. But Agnes wasn't hanging up a record even for those days; I recall a girl in my grammar school who was ‘putting out,' as kids called it then, at eleven—and getting away with it cold, teacher's pet and butter wouldn't melt in her mouth and winning pins for Sunday School attendance.

(My darling Agnes was like that except that Agnes's goodness wasn't pretense; she was good all the way through. She simply didn't see anything sinful about sex.)

(Boss, sex is not sinful.)

(Did I ever say it was? However, in those days I felt guilty about it, until Agnes cured me of such nonsense. She was sixteen and I was twenty and her father was a prof at the cow college I went to and I was invited to their house for dinner one Sunday night—and our first time happened on their living room sofa so fast it startled me, scared me some.)

(What frightened you, dear? Her parents?)

(Well, yes. Just upstairs and probably not asleep. Agnes being so young herself—age of consent was eighteen then and while I don't recall ever letting it stop me, boys were jumpy about it. And that night I wasn't prepared, not having expected it.)

(Prepared how, Boss?)

(Contraception. I had a year to go to get my degree, and no money and no job lined up, and having to get married wasn't something I relished.)

(But contraception is a girl's responsibility, Boss. That's why I felt so silly when I got caught. I wouldn't have dreamed of asking a boy to marry me on that account—even if I had been certain which boy. Once I knew I was caught I gutted my teeth and told my parents and took my scolding—Daddy was going to have to pay my fine; I was not yet licensed. Grim—but no talk of getting married. I wasn't asked who did it and never volunteered an opinion.)

(Didn't you have an opinion, Eunice?)

(Well... just an opinion. Let me tell it bang. Our basketball team and us three girl cheerleaders were all in the same hotel, with the coach and the girls' phys-ed teacher riding herd on us. Only they didn't; they went out on the town. So we gathered to celebrate in the suite the boys were in. Somebody had lettuce. Marijuana. I took two puffs and didn't like it—and went back to gin and ginger ale which tasted better and was almost as new to me.

Didn't have any intention of swinging; it wasn't the smart scene at our school and I had a steady I was faithful to—well, usually—who wasn't on the trip. But when the head cheerleader took her clothes off—well, there it was. So I counted days in my mind and decided I was safe by two days and peeled down, last of the three to do so. Nobody made me do it, Boss, no slightest flavor of rape. So how could I blame the boys?

(Only it turned out I didn't have two days leeway and by the middle of January I was fairly certain. Then I was certain. Then my parents were certain—and I was sent south to stay with an aunt while I recovered from rheumatic fever I never had. And recovered two hundred sixty-nine days after that championship game, barely in time to enter school in the fall. And graduated with my class.)

(But your baby, Eunice? Boy? Girl? How old now? Twelve? And where is the child?)

(Boss, I don't know. I signed an adoption waiver so that Daddy would get his money back if somebody with a baby license came along. Boss, is that fair? Five thousand dollars was a lot of money to my father—yet anyone on Welfare gets off free, or can even demand a free abortion. I can't see it.)

(You changed the subject, dear. Your baby?)

(Oh. They told me it was born dead: But I hear they usually say that if a girl signs the papers and somebody is waiting for it.)

(We can find out. If your baby didn't live, then the fine was never levied. Didn't your father tell you?)

(I never asked. It was a touchy subject, Boss. It was ‘rheumatic fever,' never an unlicensed baby. Just as well, I guess, as when I turned eighteen, I was licensed for three with no questions raised.)

(Eunice, no matter what cover-up was used, if your baby is living, we can find it!)

The second voice did not answer. Johann persisted.

(Well, Eunice?)

(Boss...it's better to let the dead past bury its dead.)

(You don't want children, Eunice?)

(That wasn't what I said. You said it didn't matter that your son wasn't really yours. I think you were right. But doesn't it cut both ways? If there is a child somewhere, almost thirteen now—we're strangers. I'm not the mother who loved it and brought it up; I'm nobody. Really nobody—you forget that I was killed.)

(Eunice! Oh, darling!)

(You see? If we found that boy, or girl, we couldn't admit that I'm still alive—alive again, I mean—inside your head. That's the thing we don't dare admit... or back they come with those horrid straps and we'll never be free.) She sighed. (But I wish I could have had your baby. You were telling me about Agnes, dearest. Tell me more. Am I really somewhat like her?)

(Very much like her, Eunice. Oh, I don't mean she looked like you. But if I believed in reincarnation—I don't—I would be tempted to think that you were Agnes, come back to me.)

(Maybe I am. Why don't you believe in it, Boss?)

(Uh... do you?)

(No. I mean I didn't believe in it, even though most of our friends did. I couldn't see any reason to believe either way, so I kept —my mouth shut. But, Boss, it gives one a different viewpoint to have been killed...and then turn out not to stay dead. Dearest Boss—you think I'm a figment of your imagination, don't you?)

Johann did not answer. The voice went on: (Don't be afraid to admit it, Boss; you won't offend me. I know I'm me. I don't need proof. But you do. You need to know. Admit it, darling. Be open with me.)

She sighed again. (Eunice, I do need to know. But—if I'm crazy—if you are just my own mind talking back to me—I'd rather not know it. Darling, forgive me... but I was relieved when you told me that you didn't want us to try to find your baby.)

(I knew you were relieved... and I knew why. Boss, don't be so right-now. We have all the time in the world, so relax and be happy. Proof will turn up—something I know and that you couldn't possibly know except through me. And that will be that, and you will be as certain as I am.)

She nodded to herself. (That makes sense, Eunice—and it sounds like the scoldings you used to give me when I got fretful. You used to mother me.)

(I'm going to go right on mothering you, and scolding you when you need it—and loving you all the time, Boss. But there is one thing there is some hurry about.)

(What?)

(That bedpan. Unless you want us to have a childish accident.)

(Oh, damn!)

(Relax, Boss. Get used to it.)

(Damnation, I do not want to be placed on a bedpan by a nurse like a baby being put on a potty. You know what'll happen? Nothing! I'll clamp down and not be able to do it. Eunice, there's my bathroom through that door—can't we ask to be helped into there...and left in private?)

(Boss, you know what would happen. You ring for the nurse and tell her. She'll try to argue you out of it. Then she'll go find Dr. Garcia. He'll show up and argue, too. If you're stubborn, he'll get Jake. By the time Jake shows up, we've wet the bed.)

(Eunice, you're infuriating. All right, let's ring for that goddam pan.)

(Hold it, Boss. Can we get this side rail down?)

(Huh?)

(If we can, what's stopping us from going to the bathroom without asking?)

(But, Eunice-—I haven't walked in more than a year!)

(That was before you got this secondhand, good-as-new, factory-reconditioned, female body, Boss.)

(You think we can walk?)

(Let's find out. If standing up makes us dizzy, we can hang onto the bed and ease down to the floor. I'm certain we can crawl, Boss.)

(Let's do it!)

(Let's see how this side rail works.)

Johann found the guard rails baffling. There seemed to be no way for a person in the bed to let them down. Not surprising, she told herself; if these bars were meant to protect a befuddled patient, then proper design called for it to be impossible for a patient to remove them. (Eunice, we're going to have to ring for the nurse. Damn!) (Don't give up, Boss. Maybe it's a button on the console. If we scrooch around till our head is at the foot, I think we can reach the console.)

So Johann pulled up her knees and twisted and switched ends—and was surprised and delighted at how limber her new body was. Then she stretched her right arm through the bars at the foot of the bed, could not quite reach the console—~-and cussed, and then discovered how the side rails locked—two simple catches, one for each side, at the foot of the bed below the springs, out of reach (no doubt the designer thought) of any patient ill enough to need the side rails.

She thumbed open the leftside catch; the rail, counterweighted, pushed down easily. She giggled. (How're we doing, partner?) (Fine so far, Boss. Hang onto the end of the bed while we get our feet down. Keel over and they'll put us in a wet pack—so hang on!)

Johann got her feet to the floor, stood trembling while she clung to the bed. (Dizzy.) (Of course. It will go away. Steady down, dear. Boss, I think we could walk... but let's play safe and crawl. If we get dizzy again and take a dive on the rug, Winnie will be in here like a shot—and from then on they'll feed us through the bars. What do you think?) (I think we had better reach that pot pronto before we have to blame it on the cat. We crawl.)

Getting to the floor was no problem; crawling was another matter, she caught her knees on the hospital gown. So she sat up-Johann discovered that her new body folded easily and naturally into a contortion young Johann had found difficult at twelve.

She did not stop to wonder. The bed jacket was no trouble; it fastened in front with a magnostrip, she shrugged it off and laid it aside. But the hospital gown fastened in back. (Stickstrip?) (Just a tie-tie. Feels like a bow knot. Careful, Boss, don't snarl it.)

The gown joined the jacket. Unencumbered now, Johann resumed crawling. The bath-dressing room door snapped out of her way and she reached her objective. Presently she sighed in relief. (I feel better.) (That makes two of us. Want to try walking back? As far as we have something to grab onto? Or clear to the bed if we whistle a chair and have it roll in front of us.) (I'm game.)

Johann found that she was not unsteady on her feet—walking was easier than it had been for twenty years.

Nevertheless she stayed close to the walls, the bathroom having been equipped years ago with grab rails for a frail old man grimly afraid of falling. It took her close to a tall three-way mirror in the dressing room end. She stopped.

Then she stepped into the central spot and looked at herself. (My God, Eunice, but you're beautiful!)

(My God, but we're a sloppy bitch! BOSS, look at those toenails! Claws. Talons. And, oh dear, my breasts sag! And my belly is positively flabby.)

(Beautiful. Utterly gorgeous. Eunice beloved, I always wanted to see you stark naked. And now I do.)

(So you do. I wish I had had time to get looking nice before you saw me. Hair a mess. And—yes, I thought so. We stink.) (Hey!) (Sorry, hit the panic button by mistake. Boss, we're going to have a hot, soapy bath before we get back into that bed. That's straight from Washington. We can't do much about flab in one day—hut we can get clean.) She turned and inspected her buttocks. (Oh, dear! A broad should be broad—but not that broad.) (Eunice, that's the prettiest fanny in the state. In the whole country.) (Used to be, maybe. And it's going to be again and that's a promise, Boss. Tomorrow morning we start systematic exercise. Tighten up everything.) (Okay, if you say so—though I still say you're the most gorgeously beautiful thing I ever saw in my life. Uh, Eunice? That mermaid getup you wore once—You were wearing a trick bra with it weren't you?)

She giggled. (Heavens, no. Just me, Boss. And paint. But my breasts were firm as rocks then; Joe had something to work with. I guess that's the nakedest you've ever seen me.)

(What do you think I'm staring at now, Beautiful?)

(Oh, I meant back before I was killed. When I was your ‘nice' girl who didn't dare let you see me as naked as I knew you would like, you dirty old man. Although you could have seen me naked—and much more beau­tiful—any time you had gotten up the nerve to ask.)

(I'm going to spend hours every day standing right here and staring.)

(No reason why you shouldn't, dear; it's your body now. But let's put an exercise mat on the floor and get in that toning up at the same time. Most exercises can be done better with the aid of a full-length mirror. I think we—)

The door snapped open. "Miss Smith!"

Johann started with surprise, then answered savagely, "Miss Gersten, what the devil do you mean by bursting into my bath without knocking?"

The nurse ignored the outburst, hurried to her patient, put an arm around her. "Lean on my shoulder, let's get you back into bed. Oh, dear, I don't know what Dr. Garcia will say! He'll kill me—are you all right?" Johann saw that the little nurse was about to cry.

"Of course I'm all right." Johann tried to shrug off the arm, found that the girl was stronger than she looked. "You didn't answer."

The nurse did cry then. "Oh, please, dear, don't argue with me! Let's get you into bed before you hurt yourself. Maybe Dr. Garcia won't be quite so angry."

Seeing that the younger woman was most unpro­fessionally disturbed, Johann let herself be urged out into the bedroom and to the bed. The little redhead caught her breath. "There! Now if you'll hold tight around my neck, I can get your legs up-you bad, bad girl! To worry me so!"

Johann did not cooperate. "Winnie."

"Yes, dear? Oh, do let me get you into bed! Doctor will be terribly angry."

"Not so fast. If you're planning on telling teacher, go do it. I can hang onto the bed, I won't fall."

The nurse looked desperate. "Are you trying to get me fired, Miss? Maybe blacklisted? What have I ever done to you?"

"Winnie dear."

"Yes?"

"You aren't going to say a word to Dr. Garcia." Johann slid an arm around the redhead's waist. "Are you?"

The nurse looked flustered but did not pull away. "Well, I should. I'm supposed to report everything."

"But you aren't going to. And I'm not going to tell him, either. Tight secret, just you and me. And no huhu for anyone."

"Well... I won't if you won't."

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Johann kissed her. Winnie did not dodge but seemed startled and somewhat timid. Then she caught her breath and her lips opened and the kiss progressed rapidly.

The nurse pulled her mouth free and said huskily, "I could get fired almost as quickly for this." She did not say what "this" was. She ignored the fact that Johann's free hand was cupping one of her breasts,

"So we'll stop and I'll get into bed—no, don't help me; I don't need it."

Johann proved it by doing it. The nurse pulled the sheet over her,, at once resumed her professional persona. "Now let's put our clothes back on, shall we?" She stooped to retrieve them. "What a naughty girl, throwing her clothes on the floor. And giving me such a fright."

"Stuff ‘em in the hamper. I'm not going to wear them."

"Now, now, dear. You needn't wear the jacket. Just the gown. Or do you want a fresh one?"

"Winnie, I'm not going to wear those silly angel robes ever again, so chuck it. You can hang up the jacket. But I won't wear a hospital gown. I'll stay raw."

"Dr. Garcia—"

"Quit threatening me with Dr. Garcia. We're past that. Aren't we?"

The nurse bit her lip. "Well... yes."

"It's none of his business if I sleep raw. And I shall, until something more appropriate can be bought for me. Or—Do you sleep in the house? Maybe you could lend me a nightie. A girl-type nightgown."

"Well, yes, I sleep here. But I can't lend you a gown because, well—I sleep raw myself."

"Sensible."

"But there are nightgowns and negligees and things right here. In your dressing room."

"Be damned. Who ordered them?"

"I don't know, Miss Smith. They were brought in and —stored there when, well, when it became clear that you were going to need them."

"Good planning. Uh, do you know if they're my size? Whatever that, size is, I don't know myself."

"Oh, yes! I helped measure you."

"More good planning. Find me the most feminine -nightgown in there—I might as well practice."

"Glad to." The nurse left the bedroom.

(Butch.) (Oh, nonsense, Eunice. Sure, she's a cute little trick...but I simply suddenly realized what treatment she would respond to. Had to dig back into my memory; I'm out of practice.) (‘Butch' I said. You enjoyed it.) (Didn't you enjoy it?) (Sure I did. She kisses like don't-stop. But I'm not a hypocrite about it. Who was shocked when I said girls could be a blast? You, you dirty old hypocrite. And butch.)

(Eunice, you are out of your frimping mind. I've had most of a century to appreciate girls; do you expect me to change overnight? The time I'll feel like a queer is the first time some man kisses us. I'll probably faint.) (Poor Boss. Doesn't know whether he's A.C. or D.C. Never mind, dear, Eunice will coach you—as I do know how to kiss a man.)

(I imagine you do.) (Was there salt in that one? Never mind, I know how. He faints. Boss, you claimed you had done everything. Everything?) (See here, little snoopy, I am not going to give you any excuse to call me both ‘butch' and ‘pansy' in the same sentence. You can have my memoirs later. But, Eunice, speaking of butch, is that what Winnie is? She certainly responded.) (More ‘sweetheart' than ‘butch' is my guess, though she may stroll both sides of Gay Street. But if you were asking ‘Is she a Lez?' then I would bet anything she's not. Ambi, sure, but much more interested in men. Haven't you watched her? Sparks.)

Winnie returned with a nightgown in each hand. "I think these two are the prettiest, Miss Smith. I thought—"

"Winnie."

"Yes, Miss Smith?"

"No ‘Miss Smith.' I mean you are not to call me ‘Miss Smith.' Not after kissing me. Or did I get the message wrong?" (Butch.) (Shut up, Eunice. She's going to help us.)

The nurse said nothing, blushed.

Johann said gently, "That's answer enough, dear. So call me—no, damn it, I don't want you to call me ‘Johann.' I need a new name. Winnie dear, what girl's name is closest to ‘Johann'?"

"Uh, ‘Johanna.'

"Mmmm, yes. But there is already a ‘Johanna' in my family. Got another?"

"Well... if you called yourself ‘Joan' and gave it the two-syllable pronounciation, it would be almost like ‘Johann' except for the ‘J' instead of the ‘Y' sound."

"Perfect! You've named me. I think that makes you my godmother. Do you mind being godmother to an old, old man who has just been reborn as a woman?"

Winnie smiled. "I'm flattered."

"So call mc ‘Joan,' not ‘Miss Smith.' Uh, I need a middle name. ‘Eunice.' " (Why, Boss, now I'm flattered.)—(Yes, beloved. Now shut up.) " ‘Joan Eunice Smith.' Winnie, do you know why that's my middle name?"

The nurse said slowly, "I'm not supposed to know."

"Then you do know. It's for the sweet and gracious lady who gave me this wonderful body—and I hope she can hear rue wherever she is." (I can, Boss!) "Put down those gowns and come here and name me with my new name.

Name me formally, for it's all the christening I will ever have. Then seal it."

Almost timidly the little redhead came close to the bed, bent over her patient. She said softly, "I name thee ‘Joan Eunice' "—and kissed her.

Perhaps Winnie intended to make it a formal peck; Joan Eunice did not let it be. Both women were leaking tears before it was over.

Joan patted the nurse's cheek and let her straighten up. "Thank you, dear. I'm Joan now. Joan Eunice. Hand me a tissue and you need one, too." (How was that one, Eunice?) (Butch, your technique is improving. I felt that one clear down in our toes.) (Who the hell are you calling ‘Butch,' Butch? My name is Joan Eunice.) (No, you're Joan and I am Eunice and collectively we're Joan Eunice and I've never had a nicer present, Boss. Joan. And I know you're not a butch but you had better cool it with our godmother. Unless you mean business.)

"Which gown do you like... Joan?"

"Winnie, I don't know first verse about women's clothes. What do you think?"

"Well...this Cretan design is rather extreme. But you have the figure to justify it." (No, Boss! Take the one with. the high neckline.) (Eunice, I thought you were proud of our bumps? They don't really sag.) (It's not that at all. Trust me, Joan; I know what I'm doing.)

"You may be right, Winnie. But it may not be the right gown for doctors and lawyers. I had better start easy, with the high neckline. Help me, please."

While they were getting Joan into a nightgown she asked, "Winnie? How did you happen to burst in on me?"

"What? Why, the displays of course. Both your heart rate and respiration were way up. Exercise. So I rushed in to check—and sure enough, my bad girl had managed to get out of bed. Oh, how you frightened me, dear!"

"Winnie, there's a hole in that story I could throw a dog through."

The nurse stiffened. "What do you mean—Joan?"

"My heart rate and respiration must have climbed a good ten minutes before you came in."

"Oh, dear! You won't tell on me? You promised."

"I did and so did you. Winnie with the sweet mouth, from now on neither of us is ever going to tell Dr. Garcia a durn thing unless we think he needs to know it. You and I, dear. Solid. Now tell me what happened."

"Uh... oh, this is silly. Whoever is on watch at the remotes isn't supposed to take his eyes off the displays even a moment. But you were doing so nicely... and Mrs. Sloan was taking a nap—which she needed, poor dear—and Dr. Garcia had gone to check on Mr. Salomon and he takes a grim view of being sent for unless the patient needs him... and the washroom is just down the hall from the displays—"

"I get it. We had the same urge at the same time. Right?"

Winnie blushed again. "I deserve to be fired. I know better than to take any chance with a patient. Patients do the damnedest things."

"You aren't ever going to be fired, you're going to be here long after Dr. Garcia leaves. If you'll stay. How do I look?"

"Simply lovely. I wouldn't have guessed it but I do think this gown does more for you than that Cretan number." (What did I tell you, Boss?) "But I'm going to put more lipstick on you. It's all gone."

"Now how in the world did that happen?"

Winnie giggled. "Don't ask me. But guess maybe I'll put on some myself before Doctor sees us. Joan? Is it all right for me to call you ‘Miss Joan' when Dr. Garcia is around? He's terribly strict."

"Tell him to go soak his head. Sho', sho', honey, if it makes you feel easier. But I'm ‘Joan' when he's not around. You're my coach. You're going to make a lady out of me." (That's my job, Boss. And a tough one, I can see.) (So you need help with it. Don't joggle my elbow; Winnie is our secret weapon.) (Okay. But this weapon night explode.) (Look, infant, I learned to cope with women long before your grandmother was born.)

"I'll be glad to help, any way I can... Joan dear."

"Then you can start by convincing dear Doctor that I'm well enough for a tub bath. I stink. Ladies ought not to stink."

"Why, you had a bed bath' not two hours ago!"

"I need more than a bed bath and you know it. Sell him the idea that you can help me into and- out of the tub and keep me from falling. If you have trouble with him, fetch him in and I'll throw a tantrum. If he gives us grief, I'll make him scrub my back." Joan grinned. "So get lipstick on us; then go find him."

(Joan Boss honey, see what I mean about the high neckline job? See what it does for us?) (I know that I feel somewhat more covered up. But only somewhat. Eunice, those breast panels are wicked.) (Oh, full, they're not even transparent, just translucent. But that's why this nightgown is so much sexier than the Cretan one. Men always mistake bare skin for sexiness. A typical male mistake~) (Maybe so, but I have never in my long life complained about bare skin.) (I won't argue, Joan, but I'm going to pick out our clothes. Until you start thinking like a woman. But I had a specific reason for picking the gown which is—superficially—more modest. So that we will have it on when Jake comes in.)

(Eunice, Jake has probably gone home. He's had a rough time.)

(So he has and what do you think I'm talking about? He's still in the house; he would not leave without saying good­bye.)

(Oh, nonsense, Jake and I aren't that formal.)

(Boss, Jake is a gentleman to his fingertips. He might feel free to duck out without formality in dealing with his old friend Johann Smith—but not with a lady. ‘Johann' is one thing, ‘Joan Eunice' is another matter.)

(But he knows I'm Johann.)

(So? Then why did he kiss our hand? Joan, I'm going to have to watch you every second; you don't know anything about men.)

(I spent almost a century being one.)

(Irrelevant. Hush up; he maybe here any time, I've got to tell this bang. Joan, the last few months before I was killed I was Jake's mistress.)

(How was the old goat?)

(Is that all you have to say?)

(Eunice, you think I know nothing about men. Possibly true, in one sense. But I can teach you about men—from the inside—the way you can teach me about men from the outside. Jake is tough. Yet I saw him collapse twice in grief over you. Understandable that your death would upset him some. Understandable that it was a strain on him to help out in the masquerade of not letting me know that I had inherited your lovely body. Nevertheless you were just a girl he had known through business, one who helped him with my affairs. Not one he knew intimately. Yet this tough old lawyer collapsed twice. Over you. So he must have known you far better than anyone guessed. How? And where? Only one answer. In bed.)

(Not always in bed, you dirty old man with a girl's name. In bed, certainly. But lots of other places, too. In his car. Is your car. Several times in this house—)

(Be damned! Then all my servants know it, too.)

(I doubt if they suspect. We used your study to work—and did work—and Cunningham didn't let us be disturbed any more than he would have disturbed you and me. You asked a rude question, you'll get a blunt answer. The old goat was good. And quite daring in grabbing every chance. We hardly missed a day up to the time I was killed.)

(A couple of j.d.'s, you two. Well, ‘My hat's off to the Duke.')

(Jealous, Boss?)

(No, envious. I wouldn't have been up to it the first day] laid eyes on you. Impossible. And now still more impossible. Just envious. The old goat.)

(Not impossible, Joan.)

(Eh?)

(I was shocked when I saw Jake. My death must have hurt him terribly. I know it did, he loved me. But we can pull him out of it, Joan, you and I—only this time we won't use your study.)

(What? Why, that's incest!)

(Don't be ridiculous, dear. I was no relation to Jake and I don't think you are, either.)

(I mean it would feel like incest. Jake? Jake? Eunice, when I admitted that J supposed that I would— eventually—be ‘actively female,' I didn't have Jake in mind.)

(I did.)

(Then get it out of your mind! Forget it. Dr. Hedrick if you want to—at least I'll try to cooperate—after I get used to being female. Your former husband, Joe, I owe that to yo-u—)

(Not Joe.)

(Why not? You spoke highly of him in that respect, and I always thought you thought well of him in other respects. Not urging you—hell, I can't think about sex other than abstractly about any man; rm not yet reoriented. But I had already decided to go along with your need for Joe.)

(Boss, I can't. Not with Joe. Because he was my husband. To him, I'd be a zombie. A walking corpse. I doubt if he would touch us... and if he did, I'd be terribly tempted to tell him. Tell him I'm still here. Can't. I know it.)

(And 1 can't make it with Jake. It's the same with Jake, too, you know. A walking corpse.)

(Not quite the same. Surely, he knows we're a patchwork, your brain Sand my body. But he loved us both. He's loved you much longer than he's loved me. While Joe doesn't even know you.)

(Jake loved me? Eunice, you're out of your mind!)

(Impossible, dear; I don't have one to be out of. Why do you think Jake put up with your bad temper? Not for money; he's rich, even though he's not as rich as you are. Why is he still around at all? For me? He would have avoided seeing me—this body—had it been possible; it hurts him. He stuck because you needed him. Look, dear—Joan, I mean—Joan, this is your big sister Eunice talking, you listen to her. Be nice to Jake. Be a sweet girl to Jake. Then let things run easy. I'm not asking you to do anything you don't want to do—heavens, no! Jake would spot it if you forced yourself; he's no fool about women. Just be sweet. Don't be Johann, be Joan. Be little and feminine and let him take care of you.)

(Well—I'll try. Jake is going to think I'm off my rocker.) (He's going to think you're a darling girl. It's possible he'd rather be your father than what he was to me. If so, we'll be good and let him baby us.)

She sighed. (I'll try, Eunice. But I don't know. Jake!)

(That's my good girl, Joan. Be helpless and female; Jake will do the rest.)

Dr. Garcia bustled in, came straight to the bed. "What's this about a tub bath? I thought I made it plain that you weren't to rush things."

(Don't let him argue, Joan!) (Watch me trip him!) "Oh Doctor, you startled me so!"

"Eh? How?"

"Bursting in on me without warning. Is that nice?"

Garcia looked baffled. "Miss Smith, I've been here more than a year and I've always entered this room without ceremony. Am I to understand that you find it offensive? After all this time?"

"That's not the point, Doctor. When you first came here you were attending a helpless old man. Then you were helping Dr. Hedrick with a female patient who was paralyzed, and unconscious most of the time—and I do appreciate the care you gave that helpless patient, for I am she. But things change. I am now having to learn to be a woman and, if possible, a lady. It's not easy. Won't you help me by showing me the formal courtesies you show other ladies?"

Garcia reddened slightly. "A doctor doesn't have time for formalities."

(Slug him again, dearie! He's still twitching.) (I shall!) "Doctor, if I were in danger, I would expect you to rush in without buzzing; I depend on you. But you came in to tell me I can't have a bath—surely not an emergency. I'm not asking much—just asking you to think of this room, not as an old man's sickroom, but as a lady's boudoir. To help me. Please?"

Dr. Garcia said stiffly, "Very well, Miss Smith. I shall remember."

"Thank you, sir. By the way, my name is ‘Joan Smith' now; I can't go on being ‘Johann.' You might call me ‘Miss Joan' to help me get used to it. Or simply ‘Joan,' as I don't want to be unnecessarily formal with my doctor, truly I don't. Just that little touch of formality that I need as training in learning how to be my new self. Will you call me ‘Joan'?"

He grudged a smile. "All right—Joan."

She gave him Eunice's best you-wonderful-man smile.

"That sounds nice. And you are welcome any time, Doctor, either professionally or just to visit. Which I hope you will do. Just have the nurse make sure I'm ready to receive a gentleman. Things. You know." She raised herself on an elbow and looked at him, acutely aware of her "modest" nightgown. "Such as lipstick." She wet her lips. "Odd to have to wear it. Is it on properly? Does it look right?"

"You look lovely!"

(Cancel and erase—change ‘butch' to ‘tart.' You're a natural-born tart, dearie. Where's your beat?) (Stow it, sister tart; I haven't finished hustling him.) "Why, thank you sir! Now tell me why I can't have a hot, soapy, tub bath so that I will feel lovely, too. I'll follow your orders, Doctor, but I would like to understand them. Can you tell me without using a lot of long medical words?"

"Well— Joan, my objection is to the tub itself. People are forever breaking legs or cracking skulls through slipping in bathtubs. And you haven't even learned to stand up, much less walk."

"True." Joan threw the sheet back, dropped her feet over the edge of the bed, sat up—controlled a slight dizziness and smiled. "Let's see if I can. Will you help me, Doctor? Arm around me perhaps?"

"Lie down!"

"Must I? I feel fine. Is there a stool? My feet don't touch the floor."

"Miss Sm— Joan, damn it, so hell me I'm going to quit this business and buy a junkyard! Lie down while I call a nurse. Then we'll get on each side of you and let you stand up. When you find out how weak and dizzy you are, I'll expect you to go back to bed and stay there."

"Yes, Doctor," she said meekly, and lay down.

Winnie answered the summons. "You rang, Doctor?"

"We're going to try a practice walk. Help me get the patient up. You take her left side."

"Yes, sir."

With too much help Joan got out of bed, stood up. The room wobbled a little but she steadied herself on Winnie while letting her arm be feather-light on the Doctor's shoulder.

"How do you feel?"

"Fine. We should have music; I feel like dancing."

"Feel like it if you wish, don't try it. Slow march now and short steps." They walked toward the door, while Joan relished the thick pile of the rug against her bare feet. Walking was fun; everything was fun! (Eunice my love, do you realize what a perfect body this is?) (It's way out of shape. But two weeks' hard work and we'll have it tuned up.) (Oh, pooh, I never felt this good even as a child.) (You'll see, Boss. Say a vertical split with our hair sweeping the floor, then hold it through ten controlled breaths—and come out of it with a slow walkover and melt on down into a full Lotus with never a hurried movement. Just wait.) (You think we'll be able to do that? I was c1umsy even as a boy.) (No huhu. The body remembers, dear.)

They stopped. "Now turn around slowly, and bead for your bed."

"Doctor? Now that I'm up, why not head me straight for that soap and water?"

"Aren't you tired?"

"Not a bit. I didn't lean on you, did I? I thought I had been promised a real bath as soon as I was able to walk.

Must I stand on my hands as well? Back away and I'll try." She let go of his arm.

The Doctor promptly put his arm around her waist "No nonsense! Nurse, that tub has grab rails; make her use them."

"Yes, Doctor."

"If this patient falls, you had better head for Canada—you can find the shortest route by following me. If you're fast enough."

"Winnie won't let me fall," Joan said warmly while warmly leaning into his arm. "But if you're worried, you can come in and help. Scrub my back."

He snorted. "Ten minutes ago you bawled me out merely for walking into your bedroom unannounced."

"And if you do it again, I shall again. That's social; this is professional. Doctor, I'm well aware that you've seen my new body—professionally—many times. One more time won't kill me." She wiggled slightly in his arm.

"Scrubbing a patient's back is not part of my professional duties. Lukewarm tub, Nurse, and don't let her stay in too long."

Once inside the bathroom and the door shut Joan threw her arms around her nurse and giggled. "Honey, did you see his face?"

Winnie shook her head. "Joan, you don't need me to coach you in how to be female. You already know."

"Oh, but I do need you, dear. Because I don't know. I simply used on dear Doctor things that used to fluster me when I was his age—and male." She giggled again. "For a second I thought he was going to take my dare and scrub my back." (And I thought you were going to lay him, right on the rug.) (Oh, be quiet, Eunice; I didn't even pinch him.) Joan let go of Winnie, stepped back, and started to skin the gown over her head. "Now for a bath. Oh boy!"

"Joan! Please hold onto something. Doctor might show up any second."

"Oh, pooh, he wouldn't dare. Never again." Joan turned and touched the latch switch. "Now he can't, so quit fretting."

"You mustn't lock the door. Hospital baths are never locked."

"This isn't a hospital and I'll lock my bathroom door whenever I like and if Dr. Garcia finds out I've locked it the only way he can—by trying to walk in—and dares to mention it, I'll scream my head off to Jake Salomon and there'll be a change in doctors. Winnie dear, I wasn't a cranky old man more years than I care to think about without learning how to get my own way. I just have to use different weapons now. Want to peel off that uniform and hang it in the dressing room? I not only may splash you but this end is going to fill up with steam."

"No, Joan—lukewarm tub. You heard him."

"I heard him and it's going to be the temperature 1 like and that's another thing he'll never know and you know that I'm lively as a frog and not the weak kitten he insists on thinking I am; a hot tub won't hurt me. If you want to get your uniform clammy, that's your business. Better yet, climb into the tub with me. It's big, and short as I am now, I might slide under and drown, alone."

"I shouldn't," Winnie said slowly.

"Isn't that a horrid thought? Patient faints in tub and drowns before nurse can reach her. Not good enough for flash news but they might mention it on the late-late-late early news."

"Joan! You're teasing me." (You sure are, Boss. Erase and correct again—Both tart and butch.) (Fiddlesticks, Eunice. That's a big enough tub for all three of us.)

Winnie bit her lip and slowly unfastened her smock. Joan turned away and started filling the tub, adjusted the temperature, and avoided watching her.