Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 11

“It ain’t a choice, you prissy bitch. You think I’d have chosen this? You think I’d have chosen to be gay? A gay girl from Lubbock, Texas? Really? A gay country girl from one of the least tolerant states in the damn country?”

I let out a breath, slowly. I don’t smile, exactly, but I let my eyes show my contrition. “I’m sorry, George. It’s not a choice, and I know it. I merely misspoke.”

“You know what it was like, for me?” you ask. I shake my head. “No, course you don’t. You couldn’t. I never came out, not outright, you know? But they knew, even before I stopped playing dress-up for Dad. They knew, and they talked. I’d go to the parties and the get-togethers at the country club, and all that, and they’d hit on me. Like, what the fuck? Why? They knew I was gay, but still they hit on me? One of ’em, he cornered me in the ladies’ room after a party one night, and he—tried to force his self on me. He was gonna fuck me straight, he said. Well, he was a pussy, and I grew up roping steer and breaking horses. Let’s just say that it didn’t go so well for him.”

“You dissuaded him from his efforts to force you into heterosexuality, I take it?”

“I beat his ass into hamburger, is what I did. Knocked his teeth in, and I do mean that literally. I also stomped on his balls so hard I popped one of his nuts. And I also mean that literally.”

I cringe. “Rather effective, I suppose.”

You smirk. “Yeah, they gave me a real wide berth after that.” The smirk fades. “Dad and me had a talk, after that. Guess he had a feeling something was different about me, but was hoping I’d meet the right guy and forget about it. Like it was a phase or some shit. Still half-hoping that even now, I think. That I’ll suddenly go, ‘Whoops! Guess I don’t like pussy after all! Bring on the dick!’”

I can’t help another snicker. “George, be serious.”

“I am serious. That’s what he thinks, back of his head. Ain’t gonna happen, though. I told Dad, after I turned Rapey the Straightener into Toothless the One-Nut Wonder, I told him I wasn’t gonna play his games no more. I wasn’t a normal girl, and I was done pretending. He couldn’t handle me just coming right out and saying I was gay. He’d have had a heart attack. So I just . . . told him I wasn’t playing around no more, and he got it. Stopped wearing dresses, cut my hair, started going by George ’stead’a Georgia. But I was happier after that, and he could tell. I started showing an interest in his business, in the company. I’m all he’s got, you see, since Momma died years back. And he ain’t so young anymore. Wanted me to take over for him, and while I was playing at being good little straight girl, I wasn’t havin’ any of that. Now that I’m more or less out of the closet, I’m willing to help him with the business.”

“So why are you here, George?”

You shrug and shake your head. “Hell if I know. I for real thought it was like corporate sensitivity training, or something like that. Like, how to turn down the butch when I’m around the bigwigs.”

I let out a breath, stand up, pace away from you, past you to the window, stare out at the passers-by thirteen floors below. “I’ll be forthright with you, George. I don’t know what I can do for you. I suppose it depends on what you want. Normally, I don’t pay a single thought to what my subjects want. They aren’t really my clients, at the heart of it, you see. Their parents are. I am paid by the fathers of these—as you call them, cocky, arrogant little . . . pricks.” I never swear. Never. But something about you has me twisted into a shape I don’t recognize. “I am paid by the fathers to train the sons to present themselves in a more palatable package. I am not a miracle worker. I can’t force a tiger to change his stripes, meaning I can’t change the basic nature of my clients’ children. But I can help them learn to disguise it, I suppose. A dishonesty, but one I am paid very well to engage in.”

“But I’m not your average client.”

“You aren’t an . . . asshole.” The word tastes strange on my lips. But not unpleasant. I wonder if I’ll hear about my language later. I turn to face you. “And I’m not sure what I’m meant to teach you. Unlike the rest of my clientele, I would not have you hide your true nature.”

You seem stunned. “You—you wouldn’t? Why the hell not?”

I shrug. “There is a refreshing quality to your brand of brutal honesty, George. And you don’t seem . . . entitled.”

“’Cause I ain’t. Daddy and I came from nothin’. I grew up in a hundred-and-ten-year-old two-room shack on damn near five hundred acres. I grew up riding on saddles older than me, driving beat-up old trucks older than me, wearing clothes that didn’t fit, eating beans and rice and nearly turned meat. We had acreage and a lotta head of horses and cattle, but that don’t really translate into cash income all that well. I remember that life, X. I remember having just about nothing, and I know I didn’t do dick-all to earn what we got. Daddy got lucky, yeah, but he busted his ass to turn that little piece of luck into what it is today. So no. I ain’t entitled.”

“And that sets you apart, George. By quite a large margin.”

“I got a large margin for you, babe.” You smirk, and wink.

I suppose the conversation was turning a little too personal for you. “We return to the question at hand, then. What am I supposed to do with you?”

“Hell if I know. All’s I know is Daddy won’t be best pleased if I go back to Texas without having finished this. I promised him I would, so I’m going to. He lets me be who I am and don’t say nothin’ about it. He don’t ask any questions when I say I’ve got a date, as long as I keep my shit on the DL. And he don’t tolerate anybody in the office or who he does business with to talk shit about me either. He’s nixed deals because somebody got a case of loose lips about Mike Tompkins’s queer daughter. So I guess I owe him something in return.”

“I’m just not sure what—”

“Just pretend I’m a dude, X. Do what you do as if I’m just another client’s asshole kid.”

“But you’re not a straight male, or an asshole. And those are the kind at whom my methods are aimed.”

“Just . . . pretend, okay? Do what you do, the way you normally do it.”

I take a few steps toward you, pushing down my feelings, and drape my mantle of cold hostility over my features. “What I normally do is cut through falsity and pretense and attitude. If this is going to work, then you cannot question me.”

“Falsity? What the hell you talkin’ about, X?”

“First things first. Sit up straight. Quit slouching. And enough with the endearing Texas drawl. It’s too much.”

“What’s wrong with the way I talk?”

“It’s bourgeois, and makes you appear uneducated. If businessmen and -women are going to take you seriously, you must present yourself as competent, educated, and smooth. A bit of a drawl is acceptable, and perhaps even will give you a slight advantage, but the foul language and the nearly unintelligible manner in which you speak identifies you as nothing but a slouching, slovenly, foul-mouthed bumpkin from the backwoods.” I ignore the angry gleam in your eyes. You want to play this game? Very well, then. Let us play. “Appearing as more than merely blue collar is about enacting a host of changes to your essential nature, Georgia. It’s not about the clothes you wear or the car you drive, or the house you live in. Anyone can find a bag of money and buy nicer things. It’s about learning to comport yourself with dignity and sophistication.”

“You think I sound like a bumpkin?” You sound almost hurt, George.

“I do.” I endeavor to slur, to drawl, to draw out my syllables and twist them, and to drop the ends of my words. “Y’all sound like this.” It comes out: yaaaaawl sownd laahk thyiiiis.

“Got news for ya, missy.” You stand up, pushing off the couch with violence. “I ain’t never gonna sound all hoity-toity like you.”