“I need more than a bed bath and you know it. Sell him the idea that you can help me into and out of the tub and keep me from falling. If you have trouble with him, fetch him in and I’ll throw a tantrum. If he gives us grief, I’ll make him scrub my back.” Joan grinned. “So get lipstick on us; then go find him.”
(Joan Boss honey, see what I mean about the high neckline job? See what it does for us?) (I know that I feel somewhat more covered up. But only somewhat. Eunice, those breast panels are wicked.) (Oh, fuff, they’re not even transparent, just translucent. But that’s why this nightgown is so much sexier than the Cretan one. Men always mistake bare skin for sexiness. A typical male mistake.) (Maybe so, but I have never in my long life complained about bare skin.) (I won’t argue, Joan, but I’m going to pick out our clothes. Until you start thinking like a woman. But I had a specific reason for picking the gown which is—superficially—more modest. So that we will have it on when Jake comes in.)
(Eunice, Jake has probably gone home. He’s had a rough time.)
(So he has and what do you think I’m talking about? He’s still in the house; he would not leave without saying good-bye.)
(Oh, nonsense, Jake and I aren’t that formal.)
(Boss, Jake is a gentleman to his fingertips. He might feel free to duck out without formality in dealing with his old friend Johann Smith—but not with a lady. ‘Johann’ is one thing, ‘Joan Eunice’ is another matter.)
(But he knows I’m Johann.)
(So? Then why did he kiss our hand? Joan, I’m going to have to watch you every second; you don’t know anything about men.)
(I spent almost a century being one.)
(Irrelevant. Hush up; he may be here any time, I’ve got to tell this bang. Joan, the last few months before I was killed I was Jake’s mistress.)
(How was the old goat?)
(Is that all you have to say?)
(Eunice, you think I know nothing about men. Possibly true, in one sense. But I can teach you about men—from the inside—the way you can teach me about men from the outside. Jake is tough. Yet I saw him collapse twice in grief over you. Understandable that your death would upset him some. Understandable that it was a strain on him to help out in the masquerade of not letting me know that I had inherited your lovely body. Nevertheless you were just a girl he had known through business, one who helped him with my affairs. Not one he knew intimately. Yet this tough old lawyer collapsed twice. Over you. So he must have known you far better than anyone guessed. How? And where? Only one answer. In bed.)
(Not always in bed, you dirty old man with a girl’s name. In bed, certainly. But lots of other places, too. In his car. In your car. Several times in this house—)
(Be damned! Then all my servants know it, too.)
(I doubt if they suspect. We used your study to work—and did work—and Cunningham didn’t let us be disturbed any more than he would have disturbed you and me. You asked a rude question, you’ll get a blunt answer. The old goat was good. And quite daring in grabbing every chance. We hardly missed a day up to the time I was killed.)
(A couple of j.d.’s, you two. Well, ‘My hat’s off to the Duke.’)
(Jealous, Boss?)
(No, envious. I wouldn’t have been up to it the first day I laid eyes on you. Impossible. And now still more impossible. Just envious. The old goat.)
(Not impossible, Joan.)
(Eh?)
(I was shocked when I saw Jake. My death must have hurt him terribly. I know it did, he loved me. But we can pull him out of it, Joan, you and I—only this time we won’t use your study.)
(What? Why, that’s incest!)
(Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I was no relation to Jake and I don’t think you are, either.)
(I mean it would feel like incest. Jake? Jake? Eunice, when I admitted that I supposed that I would—eventually—be ‘actively female,’ I didn’t have Jake in mind.)
(I did.)
(Then get it out of your mind! Forget it. Dr. Hedrick if you want to—at least I’ll try to cooperate—after I get used to being female. Your former husband, Joe, I owe that to you—)
(Not Joe.)
(Why not? You spoke highly of him in that respect, and I always thought you thought well of him in other respects. Not urging you—hell, I can’t think about sex other than abstractly about any man; I’m not yet reoriented. But I had already decided to go along with your need for Joe.)
(Boss, I can’t. Not with Joe. Because he was my husband. To him, I’d be a zombie. A walking corpse. I doubt if he would touch us…and if he did, I’d be terribly tempted to tell him. Tell him I’m still here. Can’t. I know it.)
(And I can’t make it with Jake. It’s the same with Jake, too, you know. A walking corpse.)
(Not quite the same. Surely, he knows we’re a patchwork, your brain and my body. But he loved us both. He’s loved you much longer than he’s loved me. While Joe doesn’t even know you.)
(Jake loved me? Eunice, you’re out of your mind!)
(Impossible, dear; I don’t have one to be out of. Why do you think Jake put up with your bad temper? Not for money; he’s rich, even though he’s not as rich as you are. Why is he still around at all? For me? He would have avoided seeing me—this body—had it been possible; it hurts him. He stuck because you needed him. Look, dear—Joan, I mean—Joan, this is your big sister Eunice talking, you listen to her. Be nice to Jake. Be a sweet girl to Jake. Then let things run easy. I’m not asking you to do anything you don’t want to do—heavens, no! Jake would spot it if you forced yourself; he’s no fool about women. Just be sweet. Don’t be Johann, be Joan. Be little and feminine and let him take care of you.)
(Well—I’ll try. Jake is going to think I’m off my rocker.)
(He’s going to think you’re a darling girl. It’s possible he’d rather be your father than what he was to me. If so, we’ll be good and let him baby us.)
She sighed. (I’ll try, Eunice. But I don’t know. Jake!)
(That’s my good girl, Joan. Be helpless and female; Jake will do the rest.)
Dr. Garcia bustled in, came straight to the bed. “What’s this about a tub bath? I thought I made it plain that you weren’t to rush things.”
(Don’t let him argue, Joan!) (Watch me trip him!) “Oh Doctor, you startled me so!”
“Eh? How?”
“Bursting in on me without warning. Is that nice?”
Garcia looked baffled. “Miss Smith, I’ve been here more than a year and I’ve always entered this room without ceremony. Am I to understand that you find it offensive? After all this time?”
“That’s not the point, Doctor. When you first came here you were attending a helpless old man. Then you were helping Dr. Hedrick with a female patient who was paralyzed, and unconscious most of the time—and I do appreciate the care you gave that helpless patient, for I am she. But things change. I am now having to learn to be a woman and, if possible, a lady. It’s not easy. Won’t you help me by showing me the formal courtesies you show other ladies?”
Garcia reddened slightly. “A doctor doesn’t have time for formalities.”
(Slug him again, dearie! He’s still twitching.) (I shall!) “Doctor, if I were in danger, I would expect you to rush in without buzzing; I depend on you. But you came in to tell me I can’t have a bath—surely not an emergency. I’m not asking much—just asking you to think of this room, not as an old man’s sickroom, but as a lady’s boudoir. To help me. Please?”
Dr. Garcia said stiffly, “Very well, Miss Smith. I shall remember.”
“Thank you, sir. By the way, my name is ‘Joan Smith’ now; I can’t go on being ‘Johann.’ You might call me ‘Miss Joan’ to help me get used to it. Or simply ‘Joan,’ as I don’t want to be unnecessarily formal with my doctor, truly I don’t. Just that little touch of formality that I need as training in learning how to be my new self. Will you call me ‘Joan’?”
He grudged a smile. “All right—Joan.”
She gave him Eunice’s best
you-wonderful-man smile. “That sounds nice. And you are welcome any time, Doctor, either professionally or just to visit. Which I hope you will do. Just have the nurse make sure I’m ready to receive a gentleman. Things. You know.” She raised herself on an elbow and looked at him, acutely aware of her “modest” nightgown. “Such as lipstick.” She wet her lips. “Odd to have to wear it. Is it on properly? Does it look right?”
“You look lovely!”
(Cancel and erase—change ‘butch’ to ‘tart.’ You’re a natural-born tart, dearie. Where’s your beat?) (Stow it, sister tart; I haven’t finished hustling him.) “Why, thank you sir! Now tell me why I can’t have a hot, soapy, tub bath so that I will feel lovely, too. I’ll follow your orders, Doctor, but I would like to understand them. Can you tell me without using a lot of long medical words?”
“Well—Joan, my objection is to the tub itself. People are forever breaking legs or cracking skulls through slipping in bathtubs. And you haven’t even learned to stand up, much less walk.”
“True.” Joan threw the sheet back, dropped her feet over the edge of the bed, sat up—controlled a slight dizziness and smiled. “Let’s see if I can. Will you help me, Doctor? Arm around me perhaps?”
“Lie down!”
“Must I? I feel fine. Is there a stool? My feet don’t touch the floor.”
“Miss Sm—Joan, damn it, so help me I’m going to quit this business and buy a junkyard! Lie down while I call a nurse. Then we’ll get on each side of you and let you stand up. When you find out how weak and dizzy you are, I’ll expect you to go back to bed and stay there.”
“Yes, Doctor,” she said meekly, and lay down.
Winnie answered the summons. “You rang, Doctor?”
“We’re going to try a practice walk. Help me get the patient up. You take her left side.”
“Yes, sir.”
With too much help Joan got out of bed, stood up. The room wobbled a little but she steadied herself on Winnie while letting her arm be feather-light on the Doctor’s shoulder.
“How do you feel?”
“Fine. We should have music; I feel like dancing.”
“Feel like it if you wish, don’t try it. Slow march now and short steps.” They walked toward the door, while Joan relished the thick pile of the rug against her bare feet. Walking was fun; everything was fun! (Eunice my love, do you realize what a perfect body this is?) (It’s way out of shape. But two weeks’ hard work and we’ll have it tuned up.) (Oh, pooh, I never felt this good even as a child.) (You’ll see, Boss. Say a vertical split with our hair sweeping the floor, then hold it through ten controlled breaths—and come out of it with a slow walkover and melt on down into a full Lotus with never a hurried movement. Just wait.) (You think we’ll be able to do that? I was clumsy even as a boy.) (No huhu. The body remembers, dear.)
They stopped. “Now turn around slowly, and head for your bed.”
“Doctor? Now that I’m up, why not head me straight for that soap and water?”
“Aren’t you tired?”
“Not a bit. I didn’t lean on you, did I? I thought I had been promised a real bath as soon as I was able to walk. Must I stand on my hands as well? Back away and I’ll try.” She let go of his arm.
The Doctor promptly put his arm around her waist. “No nonsense! Nurse, that tub has grab rails; make her use them.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“If this patient falls, you had better head for Canada—you can find the shortest route by following me. If you’re fast enough.”
“Winnie won’t let me fall,” Joan said warmly while warmly leaning into his arm. “But if you’re worried, you can come in and help. Scrub my back.”
He snorted. “Ten minutes ago you bawled me out merely for walking into your bedroom unannounced.”
“And if you do it again, I shall again. That’s social; this is professional. Doctor, I’m well aware that you’ve seen my new body—professionally—many times. One more time won’t kill me.” She wiggled slightly in his arm.
“Scrubbing a patient’s back is not part of my professional duties. Lukewarm tub, Nurse, and don’t let her stay in too long.”
Once inside the bathroom. and the door shut Joan threw her arms around her nurse and giggled. “Honey, did you see his face?”
Winnie shook her head. “Joan, you don’t need me to coach you in how to be female. You already know.”
“Oh, but I do need you, dear. Because I don’t know. I simply used on dear Doctor things that used to fluster me when I was his age—and male.” She giggled again. “For a second I thought he was going to take my dare and scrub my back.” (And I thought you were going to lay him, right on the rug.) (Oh, be quiet, Eunice; I didn’t even pinch him.) Joan let go of Winnie., stepped back, and started to skin the gown over her head. “Now for a bath. Oh boy!”
“Joan! Please hold onto something. Doctor might show up any second.”
“Oh, pooh, he wouldn’t dare. Never again.” Joan turned and touched the latch switch. “Now he can’t, so quit fretting.”
“You mustn’t lock the door. Hospital baths are never locked.”
“This isn’t a hospital and I’ll lock my bathroom door whenever I like and if Dr. Garcia finds out I’ve locked it the only way he can—by trying to walk in—and dares to mention it, I’ll scream my head off to Jake Salomon and there’ll be a change in doctors. Winnie dear, I wasn’t a cranky old man more years than I care to think about without learning how to get my own way. I just have to use different weapons now. Want to peel off that uniform and hang it in the dressing room? I not only may splash you but this end is going to fill up with steam.”
“No, Joan—lukewarm tub. You heard him.”
“I heard him and it’s going to be the temperature I like and that’s another thing he’ll never know and you know that I’m lively as a frog and not the weak kitten he insists on thinking I am; a hot tub won’t hurt me. If you want to get your uniform clammy, that’s your business. Better yet, climb into the tub with me. It’s big, and short as I am now, I might slide under and drown, alone.”
“I shouldn’t,” Winnie said slowly.
“Isn’t that a horrid thought? Patient faints in tub and drowns before nurse can reach her. Not good enough for flash news but they might mention it on the late-late-late early news.”
“Joan! You’re teasing me.” (You sure are, Boss. Erase and correct again—Both tart and butch.) (Fiddlesticks, Eunice. That’s a big enough tub for all three of us.)
Winnie bit her lip and slowly unfastened her smock. Joan turned away and started filling the tub, adjusted the temperature, and avoided watching her.
11
An hour later Joan was seated in an easy chair, with her feet on a stool. To the nightgown had been added a filmy negligee and a pair of high-heeled boudoir pumps. Her hair had been arranged, her face had been most carefully made up, and she was lavishly scented with a cologne labeled “April Mist” but which deserved the title of “Criminal Assault.” Her toenails were trimmed, not to Eunice’s satisfaction but well enough for the time being. Best of all, she was enjoying the euphoria of a woman who is utterly clean, scented and powdered, and dressed attractively.
Beds had been switched, the room no longer held any flavor of sickroom, and Joan found that this greatly increased her feeling of well-being. Eunice’s stenodesk had been restored to its usual spot beyond Johann’s baby grand piano, Joan having learned that it was in her study where it had last been used, and had told Cunningham to have it brought in. It did not fit the room—but it fitted her notion of what the room should be; it was homey, it belonged.
She was alone, Winnie having gone to invite Mr. Salomon to dine with his hostess-ward. Joan sighed with satisfaction. (Feel better, hon? I do.) (Heavens, yes. But why did you lose your nerve?) (Oh, piffle, Eunice! I never intended to seduce her.) (Liar. Hypocrite. Dirty old man. You had her all set. Then you went chicken. I’ve met men like you before, dearie—talk a good game, then lose their nerve
in the clutch. Cowardly Casanovas. Pfui!)
(Nonsense! You don’t shoot ducks on water. If I ever make a real pass at her—I’m not saying I will but I admit she’s a cuddlesome little bundle—) (She is indeed!) (Oh, shut up! If I ever do, I’ll give her a sporting chance—not grab her when she dasn’t scream.) (‘Sporting chance’ my tired back. Listen to your big sister, Joan—sex isn’t a sport, it’s a way to be happy. There is nothing more exasperating to a woman than to be ready to give in—then have the matter dropped. You’ll find out. You’ll cry in your pillow and hate every man alive. Till the next time, that is.)
(Eunice? You’ve never had that sort of turn-down, have you? I don’t believe it.) (Happens to every woman, Joan. Men are sissies, if we women weren’t so willing, if we didn’t just plain lead ’em by the hand, the race would die out.)
(Uh—You know more about a woman than I do—) (Lots more!) (—so let’s talk about specifics. We’re clean now and I know we’re pretty; I checked us in the big glass and you agreed. But it isn’t the job you used to turn out. I don’t mean body paint, wouldn’t be appropriate now anyhow. But what does it take? Just that ‘tuning up’? Exercise?)
(More than that, Boss—although exercise is essential. You’re talking about a professional job?) (Yes. The works.) (Well, I used to do myself—but I had had lots of practice, plus expert help from Joe. But let’s say you want the best and don’t care what it costs—) (Certainly! What’s money? I can’t get rid of it.) (All right, say you retain Helena Rubinstein, Limited, or some other top glamour shop. Say you phone and tell them to send a full team. They would send an art director—male, but he may not be all that male and he’s seen more female bodies unmade-up than an undertaker—and he doesn’t touch you; he’s too high up. He creates. And bosses. Won’t look at you until several others get you ready. Mmm, bath girl, masseuse, manicurist, pedicurist, coiffeuse, depilatrix, parfumiste, face and skin team of at least four, costume designer, highlight and accent specialist, and assistants for all of these if you expect the job done in less than all day. If you put a time limit on it, the price goes up—and if you don’t, the price goes up.)