time."
I looked at my parents, hoping they would back me up. But Mom just placed her hand on my arm. "We'll go home now. Call us if you need anything, Fleur. I'll check on you tomorrow," she said.
At home, we ate toast and canned soup. Mom lay down on the sofa. Neither of them went to work that day.
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18
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M om and I checked on Aunt Fleur everyday. She was so quiet, so different. We made her tea, and fed "the boys." She is a vegetarian. You would think that would make it easy to prepare her meals. But somehow this just complicated things. Her jaw was sore, so she couldn't chew crunchy food like carrots or celery. We gave her way too much canned Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup. She never complained.
Fleur had stopped working on her " Accessorines," and no new "witch balls" appeared in her kitchen window. The only thing she did was phone the friends, Trillian and Algonquin, who were with her that night, to check on how they were feeling.
She said very little about the attack to me or to anyone else. I asked her if she recognized the men who did this. Her answers were fuzzy.
"They wore bandanas tied across over their faces," she told me.
"Aunt Fleur, this is a small town . You might have seen them around. What about their voices? Or their height? There has to be some sort of clue."
"Don't worry, Truly, there is justice in the universe."
"Not if they aren't caught."
"Conscience and karma can be stronger than the laws of man."
The police interviewed her several times. Considering their track record with Coach Russell's murder, no one expected them to solve this crime easily.
As far as I could see, the local papers were about as sharp as the police force. The Commercial Dispatch, Columbus' daily paper , placed the story on a back page of Monday's paper, the day that is least read. The Columbus Packet , a weekly, managed to snap a few photos taken at the Huddle House. Their reporters listen to a police scanner at all times. That gives them one up on the other paper, arriving at crime scenes about the same time as police.
The Packet's story confused me. They reported that three men, dressed as women, had been attacked by a gang of anti-gay vigilantes.
"Mom," I said, holding The Packet out to her, "how could they get the story so very wrong? Aren't there laws against this sort of reporting? Women dressed as men? That doesn't make sense."
She gave me a look that was hard to read. Her shoulders drooped slightly, and she lowered her eyes. This was the same expression she wore when she tried to explain the birds and bees to me. That conversation was awkward, truly uncomfortable for us both. It was unnecessary, as well. The Phys. Ed. teachers made us watch videos that supposedly explained it all to us. I understood the process of sex. I just didn't completely get it. The whole ritual seemed embarrassing, not in any way as desirable as just making out.
"Gertrude, I thought you understood about Fleur. She is different in many ways." She looked at me as if waiting for the light to go on. It didn't.
"Fleur has a crazy way of dressing. Although she appears to be a woman, she is actually a man." Mom must have thought I already knew this. I didn't.
"Why would anyone want to do that?"
"I don't know, honey. She is just unusual ." Mom's shoulders lifted a bit. Although I was still confused, she probably felt that the worst part of the conversation was over.
"But, but...gangs?" I suddenly became a stutterer.
"They say every city has them. I guess the authorities know a lot more than we do."
"Gangs who hate men dressed as women? How can they even tell?" I may be terribly sheltered , but I was beginning to see that Mom might be just as clueless as I am.
"These are hard questions to answer."
"So, Mom, is that why Dad doesn't like her? Because she's a man?"
"I suppose that's true."
"But, why don't you have a problem with it?"
"Well, dear," she appeared to choose her words carefully, "when I
I looked at my parents, hoping they would back me up. But Mom just placed her hand on my arm. "We'll go home now. Call us if you need anything, Fleur. I'll check on you tomorrow," she said.
At home, we ate toast and canned soup. Mom lay down on the sofa. Neither of them went to work that day.
Â
Â
Â
Â
18
Â
Â
M om and I checked on Aunt Fleur everyday. She was so quiet, so different. We made her tea, and fed "the boys." She is a vegetarian. You would think that would make it easy to prepare her meals. But somehow this just complicated things. Her jaw was sore, so she couldn't chew crunchy food like carrots or celery. We gave her way too much canned Campbell's Vegetarian Vegetable soup. She never complained.
Fleur had stopped working on her " Accessorines," and no new "witch balls" appeared in her kitchen window. The only thing she did was phone the friends, Trillian and Algonquin, who were with her that night, to check on how they were feeling.
She said very little about the attack to me or to anyone else. I asked her if she recognized the men who did this. Her answers were fuzzy.
"They wore bandanas tied across over their faces," she told me.
"Aunt Fleur, this is a small town . You might have seen them around. What about their voices? Or their height? There has to be some sort of clue."
"Don't worry, Truly, there is justice in the universe."
"Not if they aren't caught."
"Conscience and karma can be stronger than the laws of man."
The police interviewed her several times. Considering their track record with Coach Russell's murder, no one expected them to solve this crime easily.
As far as I could see, the local papers were about as sharp as the police force. The Commercial Dispatch, Columbus' daily paper , placed the story on a back page of Monday's paper, the day that is least read. The Columbus Packet , a weekly, managed to snap a few photos taken at the Huddle House. Their reporters listen to a police scanner at all times. That gives them one up on the other paper, arriving at crime scenes about the same time as police.
The Packet's story confused me. They reported that three men, dressed as women, had been attacked by a gang of anti-gay vigilantes.
"Mom," I said, holding The Packet out to her, "how could they get the story so very wrong? Aren't there laws against this sort of reporting? Women dressed as men? That doesn't make sense."
She gave me a look that was hard to read. Her shoulders drooped slightly, and she lowered her eyes. This was the same expression she wore when she tried to explain the birds and bees to me. That conversation was awkward, truly uncomfortable for us both. It was unnecessary, as well. The Phys. Ed. teachers made us watch videos that supposedly explained it all to us. I understood the process of sex. I just didn't completely get it. The whole ritual seemed embarrassing, not in any way as desirable as just making out.
"Gertrude, I thought you understood about Fleur. She is different in many ways." She looked at me as if waiting for the light to go on. It didn't.
"Fleur has a crazy way of dressing. Although she appears to be a woman, she is actually a man." Mom must have thought I already knew this. I didn't.
"Why would anyone want to do that?"
"I don't know, honey. She is just unusual ." Mom's shoulders lifted a bit. Although I was still confused, she probably felt that the worst part of the conversation was over.
"But, but...gangs?" I suddenly became a stutterer.
"They say every city has them. I guess the authorities know a lot more than we do."
"Gangs who hate men dressed as women? How can they even tell?" I may be terribly sheltered , but I was beginning to see that Mom might be just as clueless as I am.
"These are hard questions to answer."
"So, Mom, is that why Dad doesn't like her? Because she's a man?"
"I suppose that's true."
"But, why don't you have a problem with it?"
"Well, dear," she appeared to choose her words carefully, "when I
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