Page 26 - WTP Vol. IX #9

Trappers (continued from preceding page) “how long’s it been?”
“A very long time,” Tanya says, the sound of her voice unnatural and tinny in her own ear.
Clayborn jovially recalls the drink they last had at an upstate bar outside Rochester. On that occasion, Tanya had looked him up when she and Audrey
were visiting town for Audrey’s college reunion. At the time, Tanya knew Dave had undertaken a small farm operation in the area and had called to see if he could meet for a drink. She had always liked Dave, and the kickoff reception the first night of Audrey’s reunion left her all but gasping for air. It turned out Dave owned a dairy goat farm and made goat’s milk cheese. Imagine that, Tanya thought then, the guy had become the dairy goat farmer he had dreamed about in college. At the bar, Dave drank beer from the bottle and laughed like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Dave, how did you even find me?” Tanya asks in the foyer. “Why are you here?”
“I spoke to Audrey.”
“Audrey? What did she tell you?”
Tanya sees Clayborn’s gaze shift a moment to his suit- case like it might contain the answer. She cannot help from noting Clayborn is still as handsome as ever. Square chin, creased eyes, wavy brown hair, the same wind-blown quality he has always had. Looking up, his face still so collegiate, Clayborn says, “Your ex-wife’s an awfully nice lady. She said I oughta look you up.”
If Tanya did not hear the verve in Clayborn’s voice— the unrelenting verve which was always Dave in a nutshell—her distress might be seeping through her pores. His tone is nothing if not reassuring, almost affirming, and she tells him to leave his suitcase at the door and invites him in. They sit at the counter that separates the small kitchen from the living room. She offers him a drink, apologizing that she does not
have any beer if that’s what he wants. “That’s okay,” Clayborn says. “I’ll have some bourbon, too, but make mine with a splash of water. I’m not much of a bour- bon drinker. Just to be social, bud.”
This begins a conversation that grows more relaxed, if not yet cheerful, the two of them on their barstools leaning on their elbows. Tanya puts out a bowl of tortilla chips with some salsa to go with the drinks. She would not be so willing if Dave did not seem so content to forgo any explanations. When Tanya tells him that she has just come home from a party, “What kind of party?” is all Clayborn asks.
“My friend made jambalaya. She’s from New Orleans, but I wasn’t all that hungry,” Tanya answers, though that’s all she is going to say about it, picturing herself sitting there so glumly unable to get into the mood. How many times had Sally told her the only way forward was not looking back? In the beginning after she decided to transition openly, although not always easy, this advice had not been so hard to follow—the first year when she began hormone therapy and counseling, wearing makeup daily, painting her nails, in the summer wearing open-toe shoes at work. The shocks this brought were liberating. She had been buried so long, so fuck anyone’s snide remarks. After all, the law protected her, and art directors loved her. The worst pain was behind her, that of losing Audrey and, in a sense, the entire earlier part of her life.
But it was the second year after transitioning, in fact, well after her bottom surgery when the liberation had begun to fade and she first began to feel trapped, though no longer trapped by the incongruence between her sex and her gender, but, rather, now trapped in suspension between herself and her past, the feeling that her past was still studying her, ques- tioning her with both love and vengeance, now that she had come to know gender is only the smaller part of it and not the essence of who she is, this cruel and thrilling awakening that might be setting her free but was becoming a daily ache that would not let go.
“Sophomore jinx,” according to Sally. But what did that mean? That it was like when she played varsity tennis as a freshman in college and, as a sophomore, she had been cut from the team because it seemed she had lost her ability to serve? It was Dave, she now recalls, who said, “Don’t take it too seriously. You weren’t going to be a professional. It’s just a game.” Dave, never a smart ass, but whether flip or sincere she could never tell.
She looks at him, still with so many questions unfurl- ing in her head like sails in a breeze strong enough to whip the hair across his forehead. “So, how’s farm
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