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A Fair Start
part 2
by Feech
Ginger made it a point not to show any
"unusual" affection for me in public, but still it
surprised me that no one seemed to know. I
suppose I just counted on others, students,
faculty and so on, to be able to scent when
someone was attached just as I could. I did know
not to say anything about it, though. I had the
strangest sense that most of my acquaintances did
not _want_ to know, and I began to understand what
Ginger had meant when she said she did not want to
be responsible for doing this to me socially.
She could not have been better for me. I
told her that, and she refused to admit to
believing me, but still her pleasedness glowed
about her chestnut self when I pointed out that I
was paying better attention in classes, that I was
not so claustrophobic since becoming used to
having her touch me.
"Hard to keep from touching you, you're just
so-- beige," she teased.
"You ought to be proud to know me-- I am the
only Tasmanian wolf in 'captivity'," I teased
back, swiveling my rounded ears for emphasis and
sliding my stiff tail once in a wag of sorts.
"I am proud to know you."
I wrinkle-smiled up at her and she blew a
little warm breath over my forehead. "Well, Anne,
Darlin', I hope you're captive, I wouldn't want to
let you go."
I laughed my rather coarse laugh and leaned
into her, as had already become a habit. "I don't
know about you," I said.
"Yes you do, that's why you like me."
"Mmm... You're right."
The next week we were in Boston, and I knew I
had to go to the church. It was weighing on my
mind, distracting me, and although Ginger did not
fully understand she agreed to see me to the door.
"I'm not going in-- you know how I feel about
these places."
"Where will you be, and when do I expect you
back?"
"I'm getting a cocoa at that shop we saw back
there. Back in twenty minutes."
"Okay."
"Gimme kiss."
I did, a quick one on the bridge of her
muzzle, and then I entered the cool silence of the
church. As I looked back, I could see Ginger
peering up at the Christ on the building wall and
grimacing. She was not angry, seemed instead more
curious. Seeing me looking at her, she tilted her
head at me once more and then walked off in her
boots and loose slacks to the coffee shop. She
manages a grace I have not achieved, despite
half-hoof feet and what should be a top-heavy
form. In her full mare form she could not be
denied as impressive by even the most skeptical of
the possibility of SCABS beauty. Even in this,
her half-horse shape, as I had first seen her, she
made it fit. Ginger makes things fit, even
something, someone, like myself, who should be
permanently lost.
Lost. We shall see.
The church was as I remembered it from my
last few visits, although I was disappointed to
see that the rose was not there. I had never
spoken to the rose, but I had had the idea that I
might, that day. I needed _someone_ to tell me
that they had the answers, and would share them
with me. The one thing Ginger is truly hesitant
to discuss with me is religion, mostly because she
feels I am _more_ knowledgeable than she is about
it, and she does not want to take any spiritual
help I may have away from me.
Who do I talk to, then? I don't know how to
talk to the priests-- I don't go to church on
Sundays without Mattie, and there are so many
people around her church's preacher, or whatever
he specifically is called... I forget... at the
end of the services that I need to get out, away
from the crowd.
Mattie says that any clergyperson is
available to talk to a newcomer at any time. But
I am not ready, yet, to try to seek out some one
person in a church directory and call him or her
my one resource on this mystery. I know that all
humans have different feelings and laws on these
things. I have seen that, and heard it.
It was the same with the question of me.
Only two people were right, Angelo and myself.
Now, almost everyone knows we were right all
along. But they tried for a long time to tell me
that I had been human, and that I had forgotten.
They tried to make me forget what did not fit
their assumption... That only humans get SCABS. I
needed to find someone in the church who smelled
right, who at that moment would be willing to talk
to me. We don't always get what we want... I
decided to stay the twenty minutes until Ginger
returned and think for myself, hoping that perhaps
the rose might arrive.
I genuflected, recalling the procedure I had
seen performed before, and made certain as I did
so to face the gold-lined box where Jesus's body
is kept.
"This is my body," Christ had said, and I had
thought about that, when I read a translation of
the Bible to myself, in my dorm room. I had
looked back through the stories and found other
quotations from Jesus. I recalled our studies on
grammar. So, when I discovered that the Catholics
eat the body of Christ, it was easy for me to
understand.
Perhaps that is why I feel most at home in
this church... if it will have me, being as I am.
Of course, the door _was_ open, and the candle
burning, just as ever. Christ never said "This is
like my body." He said, "This is my body." Over
and over, in the stories, Jesus would tell the
people, "The Kingdom of Heaven is like..." and
fill in what it was like. But He never used a
simile about the bread.
So I genuflected, because that much I do
understand. This is, after all, _my_ body, and if
this is possible, then so is such a transformation
as man to bread and wine. They say the priest has
the power to do that with the bread kept in the
box, but I believe God must give him the power. I
don't know for sure, though.
I stepped into the main area of the building
and felt almost as though someone _was_ there,
when the tiled figure of Jesus on the far wall
gazed at me with simulated eyes, golden hands
outstretched and circle of light tiles surrounding
His head. I nodded to the depiction, and slunk to
a seat. I wanted to call out to see if anybody
was there, but did not feel comfortable disturbing
the air that was so silent except for the
slightest of movements with the circulation
system. I slid into the seat and felt over the
varnished maple with one hand.
The yellow-painted brick walls made me feel
soothed, the decoration made me feel welcome.
Still the light burned in its thick red glass
lamp, and I looked down at myself and wondered,
"Will it stop burning... If I am the only one here
and I say I _want_ to be with Ginger? Will it
flicker up again when I leave and someone else,
someone holy, comes in, or will it shine for me,
if I say I will stay away from-- but I cannot stay
away."
I said aloud, and my voice was so soft it did
not even echo-- "I can't stay away. If she is one
of those-- tests-- Mattie and her friends talk
about, then what kind of test? To what end? I
would like to thank You for her, if You're there.
And if you didn't mean it that way, then... I'm
sorry. But I made up my mind."
That resolve in my head, I thought I felt
stronger, as strong as Ginger was, ready to let
her reach me. I looked at the church and thanked
Him, silently, again, for inspiring such a nice
place.
It had been almost twenty minutes when I
pulled open the double doors to the sidewalk
again.
That was the first, and only, moment that I
had any kind of warning. I sniffed the air
reflexively, getting a feel for the street, and I
thought I caught a whiff of some men, their skins
smelling as if they were hunting something.
I looked around, idly, as I stepped onto the
cement sidewalk, automatically scanning for
whatever it was that the hunters were hunting.
"_Bitch!_" Said a harsh, spitting male voice,
and I turned to see an unknown man right at my
shoulder.
I didn't get a breath in and out to speak
before--
This is hard to explain. I had never felt
anything like it. The force of sickness, as when
the Flu took me, is puzzling, and it hurts, but it
is nothing on the _crack_ of a human being's body
part against your own-- I could smell the sweat in
his curled-up _palm_, stronger and more pungent
than any human scent that had passed through my
nostrils, and I knew the hand was in a fist and
attached to a man I didn't know and who was, as
far as I could figure out, randomly angry,
possibly mad.
It took me as long to... register the pain as
it did to realize what the ravening men were
saying, all three of them, one young, two older,
as they closed me in. I couldn't run and I
couldn't get back into the church. Biting would
have been foolhardy. I coughed a threat, but they
laughed it off. I knew anyhow that it was
useless.
"Think you're gonna take our women to the
Devil _with_ you, eh, Bitch?"
They had to be mad. No one hunted human
beings in broad daylight in the middle of Boston,
I thought. Surely... It came to me that I was not
any more human than I was wolf. These men weren't
afraid. They had the _right_ to beat me up-- to
kill me-- I had ID in my pocket that didn't
matter. It didn't matter. They could do whatever
they liked with a Thylacine they found wandering
the grasslands by herself, just parted from her
mother and siblings and constituting competition
on their ground.
I felt they were too much for me and I did
the only thing I could do-- hunched in a
submissive posture with my chin up, I'm just a
baby, leave me alone...
My ears flattened in an automatic defense
against ripping and tearing, but these men fought
unnaturally.
"Die, Bitch," one of them instructed me, and
two of the hunters, one on either side of me,
threw punches at the same time.
With nowhere to go, no way to bend with the
force, the sides of my cheeks crunched in and I
think I tasted blood from the right man's knuckles
before it blended with my own. I did not
differentiate the blood and the cracking noises
and the pain, they were all one and the same, and
I hunched lower under the strange limpness of my
jaws and forced my eyes to look aside in
submission, but always in every direction was one
of the three men.
I heard a scream that seemed almost too sharp
and high and angry even for my own ears, and
suddenly the man blocking my path to the street
was bowled into me with such force that I impacted
the church doors and felt a knock against my
shoulder and the back of my head that distracted
me from my mouth-- then I saw Ginger. One of the
men grabbed her kicking leg and gave it a yank and
a twist, but the other two were picking themselves
up and running, just like that.
I grabbed the man who was fighting Ginger,
and as he lost balance she managed to reach back
and sink a bite into the side of his neck. He
rolled away and stumbled into a run, disappearing
between two high buildings.
Ginger, favoring her left rear leg, lowered
her face to mine. I began to separate out and
feel the pain, and tears forced their way in an
unending stream into the fur under my eyes and
down into my bloodied gape. I tried to inhale and
get Ginger's scent, but my nose seemed clotted and
useless and I could get nothing. I really began
to cry then, and put my arms around Ginger's neck.
Ginger lifted me to my feet as I clung to
her, but I remember that she could not get me to
let go so she could get her clothes, so she stayed
in the form of a mare until I would listen and
calm down, then she tried to find someone to call
a hospital so she could stay with me. In the end,
there was no one near, and Ginger had to go
herself.
She limped away, assuring me that she would
be back very, very soon, but I don't think I
believed her. I couldn't smell my environment, my
ears were ringing, my mouth useless and Ginger
walked away. It didn't even occur to me to go
back into the church-- I just slumped on the
cement in front of the doors and felt the Crucifix
over me-- I wondered if it might fall and kill me.
It seemed almost to be hanging there impossibly, a
dark bronze on the brick, hovering, watching,
never mechanically attached.
When the sirens rounded a corner onto the
block where I sat I almost thought it was another
attack of some kind-- the streets had been so
_quiet_ until then. I pleaded to the statue of
Jesus to save me. The white ambulance stopped,
flashing and winding down, in front of me, and two
men hopped out. They were agitated, but they were
there to help-- I gave in to everything easily.
One of the men clucked his tongue in distaste at
what had been done to my face, and told me
everything would be all right, and I began to come
back to myself and to start to believe him.
Ginger came back. She moved slowly, and the
men put her in the ambulance, too. I tried to
talk, but realized that it was impossible. I
willed Ginger to look at me, so naturally she did,
and that was enough.
Jesus watched the ambulance-loading and the
immediate procedures.
It amazed me, in my state of mind at the
time, that even on the cross, exhausted and
suffocating, with a broken leg, He was watching.
Maybe it was a feverish, silly thought to have
about a statue, but I have still not gotten it out
of my mind.
The sirens started up again and we pulled
away.
Ginger pointed out later that no police cars
had shown up on the scene. I hadn't noticed.
Mattie and Brina came to see me in the
hospital, but I think that in the shorter time she
was there no one visited Ginger. And when she
came to see me, after she was released, I did not
speak to her.
It wasn't because I couldn't either. I even
looked away. But I had had time to think, and in
my mind it seemed to follow-- respond to Ginger,
we both get harmed.
When I got out Ginger was there to bring me
flowers, but even with her head outstretched to
me, bringing them horse-style in her mouth rather
than her hands, typical Ginger, I felt cold at
leaving the hospital. It reminded me of the
research centers I had stayed at in Australia,
when, compared to my life since coming to know
Ginger, things had been relatively simple.
I didn't want to leave, and I didn't want the
flowers. I reported in at the University as still
recovering, and I have not gone to class nor left
my room. Ginger and Mattie have both come looking
for me, separately, but I kept my door locked and
did not answer.
I know she's out there, sweet-smelling and
worried and sorrel.
Angelo, please call. You were there. You
answered. Please call.
The light outside is just now beginning to
seem that of afternoon... He said he would call
this afternoon. I know he will, but I can't help
worrying. For some reason I find myself missing
the rancher who took me to Australia. Or maybe I
just miss everything about not knowing. Maybe I
miss looking in his mirror and not recognizing
myself, being just mildly curious... Maybe I miss
telling the doctors that I couldn't remember my
name.
I balk when I begin to get past that first
halting bit of human communication... It was fine
until I began to know too much. But it is not
enough to protect me. I had _no_ _warning_. I
thought... I mean, Ginger told me, but neither of
us had any idea it could be so treacherous. If
she had known, she never would have left me. The
only course I can see to take now is to stay
away... Not invade their churches, not--
But it is _His_ church, isn't it? And since
when does Ginger belong to anybody?
Oh, please, Angelo, call...
I half-roll off the bed and pad over to my CD
player. I don't feel like hunting or Thylacine
calls... I can't think of anything else to put in,
so I just tap on the plastic for awhile.
My jaw aches and I look at the time,
automatically noting that the pain medication time
is almost up-- I duly swallow another two of those
poisonous pills and spend five minutes irritatedly
licking my chops and wincing, as usual.
I didn't expect to be _attacked_...
What is it they say about love? Or maybe it
was Jesus himself that said it. I forget-- is it
good to sacrifice for a friend or just plain
stupid? Sometimes the Thylacine and the human
minds cross and these things make no sense to me.
I am nearly startled out of my skin when the
phone rings. I leap to grab it and bump my wrist,
slip, grab the receiver firmly and gasp, "Hello?"
"Hello, Anne, this is Angelo."
Oh, God, thank You. "I don't... I don't know
if you can help me..."
"Would you still like to talk?"
"Yes, please."
"Anne, you not only sound upset, you sound
different. Really--"
"I had surgery on my jaw."
He waits.
"Angelo, I think I'm a lesbian."
"Tell me."
I can hear him sit down on a creaky couch and
flip on the TV quietly in the background. As if
he has all the time in the world, very casual, but
I know he's deeply concerned. The TV isn't loud
enough for him to be watching.
I tell him. I tell him of all the
individuals I have met and the difference in my
reaction to Ginger, and that she warned me of the
dangers of being her partner, and of how classes
had been going before the attack and of how much
difference he had made to me, listening, before,
as he listens now.
"So," he says, when I pause and he realizes
that I need encouragement to get to the hard part,
"Why did you have to get surgery on your jaw?"
I tell him.
I have never experienced being on the phone
with someone so silent and so angry at the same
time. I can hear the catch in Angelo's chest as
he fights off some inappropriate exclamation. The
television snaps off.
"Anne, Honey, if anything like that ever
happens to you, or to Ginger, again, I want to be
informed _immediately_. I will get somebody at
your university to take _action_. They should
have stood up for you. There should be no
question of whether to press charges or where the
police resources are being used. Do you
understand? You have rights."
I nod, then remember to speak and say humbly,
"Yes."
"Okay. Okay."
"Angelo?"
"Mmhm."
"I still think I'm a lesbian."
"Okay."
"Is that okay?"
He thinks for a moment. "Anne, I need you to
tell me-- what is it that's wrong with it? I
understand that you're afraid right now. But if
you really want my opinion, then I will give it to
you, and I want to know where to begin."
"Ummm... Begin with-- with-- well, tell me.
You know who I am. I want to know what you think.
I want to know if this could be true, and whether
I can still be-- Angelo, do you believe it's evil?
With God, I mean?"
"No."
I wait through the pause after the initial
answer, and as I relax, knowing Angelo does not
think ill of me, he begins to speak again, slowly.
"First of all, not only humans may be
homosexual or practice homosexuality. Other
species can, too, so it may have been, probably
was, a part of you before the SCABS changed you.
Are you with me?"
"Mm, yes."
"And as for God, I don't believe we can
randomly say He disapproves of any of these
practices. There are bad and good relationships
of all kinds. I have to deal with the fact that I
am beginning to be attracted to women, due to the
nature of my particular case of SCABS. Does that
make me evil?"
"No! But it's your disease's fault."
"Anne, attraction and desire, as long as they
do not harm another, are no one's _fault_. Here's
a question for your animal brain, okay? Tell me
this-- is pleasure good or bad?"
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because-- it means you're full, or with
someone you like, not hurting, all is well."
"Is sexual pleasure good?"
"If it's heterosexual, yes, then people won't
stop you, and--"
"Oh, but they will. They will. I know a man
who frequents the bar that I also frequent, and he
is a heterosexual man-- the same as I am,
actually, becoming. He met a woman who had
changed into a male of a different species. They
live together, and he has come in for flack from
it, being called homosexual, bestial, what have
you, when in fact--"
"It is a heterosexual relationship."
"If you count the soul as the person, then
yes. And I, for one, must count the soul as the
person, or all the memories I have from before
SCABS must be discounted as delusions, for my
brain, my body, everything has changed."
I mull that over for awhile. The light is
turning metallic outside with afternoon, the color
of strips of sun on Ginger's chestnut coat when
she stands out on the beach and watches me poke
around for horseshoe crabs.
"We could have been killed."
"Anne. I don't know what to say-- that was
_awful_, I know you hurt just thinking about it,
but you can't rot in your room. Please don't.
You didn't let a few silly mistakes about your
origins stop you before. There are always risks.
Don't hide-- I've done it, and I almost died of
loneliness."
"But--"
I cut off and pause. Angelo waits, then
prompts softly, "Yes?"
"But that's not really a bad relationship--
it wasn't their fault, she had a disease. I am
this way. Ginger is this way. This is...
Different. Bad, maybe. Right?"
"No. You asked for my opinion and this is
it, and you will make up your _own_ mind what is
best for you-- the key being _what is best for
you_. Anne, do you _want_ to go back to your
friend?"
"_Yes_."
"Tell me, then, what reasons you might have
not to do so. Has she shown you any disrespect?"
"Ginger? _No_!"
"Beaten you?"
"Angelo..."
"All right. You get my point. Why not go
back?"
"I don't know if God approves."
"Of love for a friend."
"Right..." I say, helplessly.
"Are you going back to church, if you rot in
your room? Who took you last time?"
He knows perfectly well. "Ginger."
"This is your decision to make, Anne. Not
some 'expert's' somewhere. Remember how wrong
they were last time." I can hear the smile in his
voice. "I believe you are a lesbian. You can
suppress it, but you've been _there_ before.
Whose approval is most important to you?"
"Well... Yours, and-- and hers, but also
God's."
"A religious group, or God?"
"God."
Saying that, I sigh. Something comes through
me that feels like a wash of wind or water that
brushes my fur lightly and leaves me so clean I
can almost feel the contrast of my stripes on my
clean tan coat. I breathe in and out, another
sigh, and Angelo hears me and asks, "You with me,
Anne?"
"Yes. I feel... I think I feel better."
"I'm giving you my home phone number. Call
anytime."
"Thank you, thank you Angelo."
"I... You called me, but there are others,
and Ginger may know some. You said she attended
MacLeod... There are some support groups of many
kinds there. I'm afraid I'm a poor substitute..."
"No, I wanted to hear _you_."
"I know you're scared. Good luck and God
bless, Anne. I can't stop you from being scared,
but whatever I _can_ do, you know, don't
hesitate."
"Oh, I won't, Angelo, thank you."
"No problem. Honestly. I hope things go
well for you."
"Thank you."
I hang up.
Instantly a means of support and a line of
confidence are lost-- I almost feel myself
physically weaken.
Now is the time, before I lose my nerve
again. I straighten my blouse in some show of
bravery to myself, as if by keeping a front of
physical strength I can fool the world into
thinking I'm not _terrified_.
Mattie meets me in the hall.
"Anne!"
I nod to her. I feel a test coming on. I
feel it, I know it, I brace myself. Or maybe I'm
just being paranoid...
"Anne, I... want to ask you something."
"Yes?" I stand as tall as I can.
"I-- I had heard, and I didn't want to assume
anything. I mean, the-- attack... I thought, we
all thought, it was because of your SCABS. But
I... Well, someone said, and I was wondering... is
it true that you..."
I watch her. Her smell is regular Mattie who
takes me to church, nothing outwardly threatening,
but she is obviously apprehensive. She usually
has complete confidence in her speech.
"Anne, is it true that you and Ginger have
been considering-- a-- _homosexual_ relationship?"
I peg the scent. One of concern. For me. I
nod, hesitantly. I almost whisper: "I am a
lesbian."
All of her confidence comes back. "Anne, I
can help you. I know people who support the
recovery of men and women with your problem. I
don't know Ginger all that well, but I am sure
that if you speak with her..."
I have a sudden, blinding vision of the
therapists in Australia, and then here in New
England, telling me I would get better... I had
just forgotten being human... Must suppress those
dreams of Thylacines and things I could not speak
of...
"Mattie," I say, hoping I appear as
confident as she does, "Thank you for your
concern, but I do not need curing."
"Anne, I'm your friend, I want to help you.
You know the Lord wants to help you."
I _almost_ laugh. I have never heard
anything quite like this from anyone calling
herself my friend. In my overwrought state it
sounds so ludicrous as to be almost comical. I
wonder if God is watching... My guess? He is.
I whip up a quick prayer in my head for guidance
in facing the mistaken, the "lovingly concerned".
"I wouldn't want anything awful like that--
like what happened in Boston to happen to you
again. I can connect you with people who can help
you."
"Help me what?" I hear myself say. "Deny
myself?"
I didn't mean to sound angry. Mattie looks
taken aback, then replies, "Anne-- you _are_
diseased. This is part of your SCABS disorder,
perhaps. I know you are a pure and loving person.
Let people solid in Christ release you from what
the virus has done."
"Mattie..."
She just waits, hopefully. Learn one thing
about yourself...
"Mattie, I was a lesbian before. SCABS made
me human. Are you saying that is a bad thing?"
She lets her breath out quickly and presses
her lips together. "Anne, sometimes
oppression..."
"Excuse me."
I have to leave. She's not listening to me--
or I'm not listening to her-- or something.
"Anne, I really think we should talk about
this-- don't you think so?"
I thought I _was_ talking about it. "Maybe,"
I say, to get her to back off. "Please, excuse
me."
She doesn't want to, but replies, "All
right."