Chapter Glitterbox
Glitterbox
Dane had, it couldn’t be denied, the mother of all bathrooms. It was once the adjoining bedroom’s walk-in closet. The corner bathtub was immense and could easily fit three people. It had a separate glassed-in shower stall, and a long vanity with two sinks.
“What’s the secret to open marriage?” the Hasens and their Great Dane were often asked.
“Separate bedrooms,” Dane said.
“Separate sinks,” Nomi said.
“Communal socks,” Ethan said.
The bathroom walls were marigold yellow, the fixtures creamy white. Ethan painted the ceiling in trompe l’oeil as a cloudy blue sky. And, luxurious oddities of oddities, one short wall was floor to ceiling bookshelves. Because reading was the second greatest thing you could do in the bathtub.
Nomi had always kept a small vase of fresh flowers on the vanity and Dane tried not to be remiss in keeping it filled.
Today he’d cut the tips from a few wisteria blossoms, along with some tiny ferns.
Next to the vase was his favorite picture of Nomi, taken at Saskia’s graduation.
Not by the talented son of a bitch, but by Dane himself.
He caught Nomi standing alone, staring proudly at her daughter, who was off camera.
Nomi in her fabulous white pantsuit, wide trousers and a double-breasted jacket.
To those not in the know, it looked as if the suit were worn over a purple lacy top of some kind.
To those in the know, Nomi wasn’t wearing a damn thing under the jacket.
She’d kept her promise to Dane: that she would find a doctor who would do what she wanted and do it right.
The search started frustrating and became enraging.
No plastic surgeon seemed sympathetic to a woman who didn’t want merely smaller breasts, but no breasts.
She pleaded her case with surgeons, psychologists and social workers.
She brought her journals, detailing the years of teasing, bullying, body dysmorphia, suicidal and self-harm ideations, unwanted advances from one end of the violence spectrum to the other, ending with assault in her own foster homes.
“I don’t want breasts,” she said. “I don’t need them to feel like a woman. They never made me feel like a woman. Or beautiful. Or feminine. They are the bane of my existence and I’ll be happy to see them go.”
“But if you have children…”
This horror at not being able to nourish her hypothetical future children seemed at the root of every doctor’s reluctance to help Nomi go electively flat.
Consultation after consultation went nowhere, until even the Universe got annoyed with the pokey pace.
Ever abundant and generous, but often really stupid, the divine power thought giving Nomi stage III breast cancer would be super helpful in achieving the desired goal.
“Okay,” Nomi said slowly, as she processed the diagnosis. The cancer was already in her lymph nodes and given her utter lack of family history, the recommended treatment was aggressive. Radical mastectomy and reconstruction, followed by chemo and radiation.
“Okay,” Nomi said again. “This is not what I meant. But… I guess it’s a teachable moment for everyone? When you petition the Universe for something, be specific.”
It was a teachable moment for all three hares, who grew up in a hurry during the year of Nomi’s ordeal.
Cancer forged friendship into forever, love into loyalty, three into one.
Nomi was alternately amused and disgusted that she had to be deathly ill to get plastic surgeons to finally listen to her, but in the end, after two surgeries, chemo, and disciplined time in the gym, Nomi Hasen had a clean bill of health and the body of her dreams. Her physique was lithe, muscular and flat, with a magnificent profusion of wisteria blossoms tattooed across her entire chest. It was these flowers that made Nomi look like she was wearing some fabulous lingerie beneath her white pantsuit.
Dane put the picture down and stared through his reflection, absently drawing fingertips on his chest. He’d had his reconstruction a year after Nomi, with the same plastic surgeon.
He wisely scheduled the procedure at the end of the growing season, so he could heal over the winter.
Even then it took another year before he could really pull his weight on the farm.
The journey sucked, but holy hell, the destination… Dane found himself loitering in front of the bathroom mirror, often moved to tears by the sight of his own body. After all the years of pain and confusion and shame, he finally looked at his shirtless reflection and liked what he saw.
And the people he loved seemed to like it, too.
Damn, Diane said, peeking over his left shoulder.
“Damn, lover,” Nomi said, dragging him upstairs.
“Damn, woman,” Dane said, unable to keep his hands off her.
“Dammit, you two,” Ethan mumbled on the other side of the bedroom door, his muse impatient, his hands itching to paint his two mates.
But every now and again, he’d sidle up to Dane, suffused with a different impatience, his elusive desire now honed on a target.
Looking for love. Looking to get Dane in bed and afterward, run hands all over Dane’s heart and whisper, “Damn…”
Dane’s phone pinged. Liko had texted: I got it. The anagram of Dusk Tiara is Kadi Sutra. It’s the updated version of the Kama Sutra.
Dane smiled over the keyboard. Did you pack your own Scrabble tiles?
No, I’m cheating with an app. How about Kasai Turd. It’s the specialized manure from Japan that gives Schoenfeld crops their unique deliciousness.
Points for creativity, but no.
Isaak Turd? Usaak Dirt?
No.
Kaia Turds and that’s my final offer.
Goodnight.
Liko replied with the poop emoji.
Dane tapped his fingers on the side of the phone, then put it down on the vanity.
He went out to the dresser and opened one of its top drawers.
Most of Nomi’s clothes had been donated or thrifted.
Things Saskia couldn’t bear to part with were stored in the attic.
But Dane kept something for himself: a camisole top in bronzy-green charmeuse.
No lace or frills, just a simple silhouette that used to cling to Nomi’s hard curves and slide like liquid over Dane’s palms. He loved when she wore it and got on top of him, especially when one strap fell down around her bicep, and one nipple fell over the edge.
He stripped off his hoodie and T-shirt and put the camisole on, then took the Dusk Tiara into the bathroom. He shook and brushed all his hair over to the left side of his face and settled the leafy crown in place. He swiveled his head so only his blue eye was showing, leaned palms on the vanity.
And stared.
I miss her so much, Diane said softly.
Dane turned his brown eye toward the mirror and whispered, “I do, too.”
Will you make me up?
“You bet.”
Dane took off the tiara and lit a couple candles.
Dimmed the overhead lights and put some music on his phone.
He got his makeup bag out of a bottom drawer and hitched a thigh onto the vanity, humming under his breath.
He was a little out of practice but his grip on the brush soon stopped trembling.
The pencils drew with more precision. He got his small scissors and trimmed one false eyelash into sections, the way he’d been taught…
1990
“Now take one of these and trim the length down a little,” Charmaine says.
“Good, now you glue it to the middle of the lash line. That’s right, hold it by the tips and settle it right…
No, closer. There, that’s right. Now the longer section goes on the outside.
It’s easier to work with lashes if you cut them up this way. ”
She and Dane huddle around her dressing room mirror, bordered with tiny lightbulbs and layered with photos and notes and dried flowers. The table shimmers and sparkles with cosmetics. Bouquets of brushes stand up in jars or are laid out like a surgeon’s tools.
Dane meets Charmaine DuJour at one of Maisie’s art shows.
Or rather, he meets Charles Durant, handsome and flamboyant in a well-cut suit and big glasses, then finds out Charles is one of New York’s top drag queens.
Dane feels instantly comfortable in Charles’ loving, joyful presence.
He shares a bit of his story, asks a few shy questions.
Turns his head this way and that to show Charles the blue eye, then the brown eye. Charles passes him a business card.
“Why don’t you come to the Glitterbox tomorrow around three? We’ll have some fun.”
Dane goes, and Charmaine is waiting for him, gliding through the club in a scarlet kimono.
Her wig cap taped in place but her face not yet made up.
She gives Dane a backstage tour, making blithe introductions to her fellow queens and the crew.
She sits Dane at her dressing table and pulls a second chair up close.
She studies his reflection. Asks her own questions.
She teaches him some basics, and queens coming in and out offer advice, make recommendations.
Every one of them leans over Dane’s shoulder or looks in his face, and calls him beautiful.
Gorgeous. Stunning. A few lean further into his personal space and Charmaine whacks them away.
“He’s my pupil, not trade. Hands off, ladies.”
Charmaine puts him in full drag, wig to heels, and watches as Dane turns in front of a three-way mirror.
“How do you look?” she asks.
“Pretty,” he says.
“How do you feel?”
Invoking truth or silence, Dane contemplates his reflection a long time.
“I like feeling this way,” he finally says.
He puts fingertips on the mirror and turns his blue eye toward the glass.
“I like the way I feel and I want to learn to feel this way on the inside, while looking like Dane on the outside.” He looks back at Charmaine.
“I’m not a performer. I don’t want to be one.
This is something I just like to do for myself.
” He sets the edge of his hand vertically on the tip of his nose.
“And only for one side. If that makes sense.”
Charmaine gives an appreciative hum and opens a jar of cold cream.
She gestures for Dane to sit again, and she meticulously cleans off the right side of his face.
The wig is removed, and Charmaine fusses with Dane’s natural hair, pulling and teasing it to the left.
She spins Dane toward the mirror and together they study the new look.
“Like that?” Charmaine asks.
Dane turns his brown-eyed side toward the glass. “That’s Boy-me,” he says softly, secretly. Then he turns the other way and whispers, “And that’s Girl-me.”
He puts arms around Charmaine, burying his face in her stomach.
She holds him tight, murmuring, “You’re beautiful.
You’re perfect. You are beautiful and perfect and you can be anything, look like anything, feel like anything, whether it’s made up on the outside or just something you imagine on the inside. ”
Dane insists he’s no performer, but when Glitterbox hosts an Amateur Night, he decides to make sure.
He invites nobody, tells no one of his plan.
With Charmaine’s help, he devises a costume to go with his half-man, half-woman look.
Ten minutes before his set, he slams two shots of tequila.
He tells the emcee to introduce him simply as Two-Faced.
Terrified and buzzing, Dane lip syncs to “Can’t We Try”—the duet by Dan Hill and Vonda Shepard.
And the house goes apeshit.
People are screaming as Dane turns from side to side with each lyric. Man, then woman. Dan, then Vonda. Dane, then Diane. At the end, he faces dead forward and bows his head for the standing ovation. At a front table, Charmaine is on her feet, yelling her head off, tears streaming down her face.
Whoa, Diane says. This is a lot.
Holy shit, Dane agrees, the adrenaline dumping out both sides of his body and the tequila shots clobbering his thoughts.
I’m glad we did this, Diane says. But it’s a lot.
It’s enough, Dane assures her. This is one night only. I’ve learned what I need to know.
Dane leaned back from the mirror and scrutinized his efforts. He smiled, pushed his hair around a little more, then settled the Dusk Tiara on his head.
Diane smiled back at him. Beautiful, and she knew it.
“You are a lot,” Dane said.
She winked.
Dane took a couple selfies and his teeth closed on a corner of his bottom lip as he contemplated sending one to Liko.
Do it, Diane said.
“Not yet,” he said. “It’s a paint-by-number kit. And I still don’t know him all that well.”
He looked at Diane again, shimmering gold-green, jeweled leaves in her hair.
Thanks, she said.
“Anytime, girl.”
He put the camisole and tiara away and washed his face. He searched the bookshelves and took down his worn copy of The Subtle Knife, second in Philip Pullman’s His Dark Materials trilogy. He snapped a picture of the text he wanted, then texted Liko: You awake?
Unfortunately, Liko replied.
No, seriously. Did I wake you up?
No, seriously. I was awake. Watching videos of ingrown toenail repair. Thanks, Fred.
Dane sent the text from The Subtle Knife:
...she had killed the tigers herself in order to punish the Tartar tribe who worshipped them, because the tribesmen had failed to do her honour when she had visited their territory.
Without their tiger-gods the tribe declined into fear and melancholy, and begged her to allow them to worship her instead, only to be rejected with contempt; for what good would their worship do her, she asked?
It had done nothing for the tigers. Such was Ruta Skadi: beautiful, proud and pitiless.
Liko’s reply bubbled, went away. Stayed away a minute. Bubbled again. Then he answered: Dusk Tiara = Ruta Skadi??
Dane sent the plate emoji.