(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.. . and 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—far too 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?)