The Breck Girl in the Silver Frame

“OK. You know my secret. I wear your underwear.” This November 1983 L.A. Weekly personal ad said it all.

Clarice spun her Rolls Royce out of the circular driveway into the Bel Air neighborhood. She waved to her husband, hoping he would return his attention to gardening. His muddied knees were littered with the remains of his hobby, their rose bushes.

"I'm making a crab vol au vent for dinner! When are you coming back?” His whine annoyed her. She sped down the long driveway to the distance needed for an appropriately garbled response.

"I don't know, but to be safe, don't wait." Disappointment overshadowed him. "Seven or eight. Don't keep dinner!" She had better things to do than to mollify his need for companionship at dinner, night after night.

Clarice followed a white 1968 Chevrolet Impala which held several other drivers at bay on the hillside street. The Chevy forced the fifth Jaguar, or Ferrari or Clarice’s Rolls, into conformity, all the way south to Sunset Boulevard.

Clarice ignored the chugging obstacle, humming to the radio. At 11 miles south and west, the scribbled note described intricate lefts and rights. She tucked into the rear alley of the beachfront buildings, then froze at the thought of being followed. She studied the rear view. No one. It gave her small relief. A space had a brightly stencilled brick wall, "NO PARKING UNLESS YOU MEAN TO DIE." It became her haven. “I’m only going to be 15 minutes,” she sighed, studying the rear view mirror.

Back on the street, a white Impala drove slowly past. Clarice stiffened, suspicious. She had seen it in the last half hour, but where, she could not think. Sliding down to get a view of the license plates, she observed the tail end of the Impala as it maneuvered its gas-eating carcass around the corner. She lowered the window, could hear its engine rumbling, the transmission howling in reverse, and then silence. The building's rear door suddenly opened. An aging man in a Grateful Dead t-shirt exited. Rolling up the window, she jumped at the opportunity.

"Oh, oh! Could you hold it open for me, please?" She quickly gathered her purse and the crinkly note, locking her car. Gazelle-like, she leapt across the alley. Once inside she confronted Merle, psychiatrist, and owner of said building.

"Who'r'ya lookin' for?" He questioned her gruffly. No woman in a Rolls is jumping so easily into his building. She referred to her note.

"Gerald. Gerald Foster, room number 406. Which way is it?"

He motioned her toward the stairs. "Up all the flights and to the right, almost to the end." It dawned on him as he watched her suede high heels that the advertisement he had written with his new tenant did bring in a big fish. A big rich fish. All that for wearing hers. Just what the 28-year old Texas boy wanted. He stepped into the light of the alley, letting the door slam behind him.

In the bright sun a clean-cut university student waited by the Rolls. Merle put on his wire-rim shades and checked him suspiciously.

"This your car, young man?" he demanded, pointing. He really wanted to question whether he was following the woman, but that was already evident.

The young sleuth, caught by surprise exclaimed, "Oh, no. I could never afford one of these."

"That is my space. I am mad as hell. The tow truck will be here in ten minutes. If you find the driver of this fancy claptrap, tell them that this sign here means business. Same goes for the neighborhood. Where are you parked?” Intimidated, the grad peered over his shoulder to read the menacing warning. Merle chuckled to himself, watching as the kid hurried to the end of the alley and then disappeared. Within a minute the Chevy rolled toward Main Street.

Upstairs, Clarice adjusted her sweater at the hallway entrance of her appointment. "Four-o-six. Here it is." She knocked. Four flights had made her breathe hard. Her Jane Fonda Yoga training got her re-centered.

"Who's there?" She recognized the breathless, masculine voice from their conversation.

"It's Mrs. Goldberg. I mean, Clarice. We spoke on the phone."

Before she could finish, a tall blonde man answered, a lanky silhouette in the bright apartment. It had been a while since she had felt shy with a stranger.

"Hello," he said. Gerald too, felt awkward. He pointed to the chair. "Please," he mustered. "Make yourself comfortable." He took in her rich and trim composure. She estimated her size might be snug for him.

Clarice faced the meager studio: A blue dresser, a bed, and a stuffed chair. The bathroom doubled as a kitchen where a cutting board supported a pair of wine glasses and a bottle, all poised on the sink.

She liked the certain air of tragedy about him, the allure of the young-man-lost. Torn jeans and a faded t-shirt: simple enough. But how could he be a woman? She wondered.

He served a 1981 Napa Valley Merlot. An ice cube in each, the two fine crystal glasses stood formally apart. Their out-of-place, high quality also stood out. A little bubble of the fresh pour floated serenely in her glass as he handed it to her.

“It’s got to be the right temperature,” he explained. “Ice won’t hurt the essence or the flavor.”

Clarice smiled, accepting it. She sniffed, then sipped.

"So, you are a cross-dresser. Right? You want only to look like a woman?" He nodded, affirming. Clarice tried to soften the inquisitorial tone of her voice, the nagging curiosity. “But you want sex with a woman?” Her reticence to ask the question lingered. Why? She could not bring herself to ask. In the exchanges of glances and gentle clinking of her ice, she pondered. Why? And the moment grew heavy, even embarrassing. She could not bring herself to utter it.

"People usually want to know why, Mrs. Goldberg. Don't you want to know why?"

She nearly spit her wine. "Well, of course I do, but," accepting a paper napkin from Gerald, "Do you mind me asking that kind of a question?"

"Not at all. It is a fact of my life. I only wish it didn't strike the terror that it does." He sighed, and took in her nervousness with patience.

"If more people would only ask, Mrs. Goldberg, If more would just parlez-vous. I dress this way because it makes me feel magical, desired." His face reddened as he lowered his eyes. His voice quivered, and he hoped she would understand. “That’s why I came to California. To live free, as a woman.”

Clarice was attracted to the bureau, where stood a hand-tinted portrait in a silver frame. As she stared, Gerald disappeared behind the bathroom door, closing it softly.

"Who's this blonde?" she wondered out loud, turning and finding no one. She approached her reflection in the closed door. The busy-work of glass items hitting the porcelain reminded her of her own maid industriously at work.

"Are you going to be long?"

"Just a few minutes."

"Oh." Clarice stared at her shoes.

Gerald continued from behind the door. "Which one are you looking at?" Clarice put her purse down on the bed.

"This Breck Girl shot. Could it be your mother? Maybe you have a sister? The five by seven in a silver frame?" He took his time. Then, the door swung open. Clarice's image flashed by. A blonde goddess in Chinese silk-embroidery emerged. She did not hide her Adam’s apple.

"Which photo?" Gerald drew satisfaction from her reaction. She carried the portrait to the stuffed chair and plopped down clumsily, exasperated.

"It's you," She acknowledged softly. Gerald's demeanor had changed. He smiled. His made-up eyes were seductive.Through the self-assured allure he resisted engaging her eyes. She noticed some stubble on his chin, and her pulse rose.

"You know what I would like from you Mrs. Goldberg?" he asked, finally looking at her, and holding out a hairbrush. She accepted it from his hand. "Would you?" and he motioned with a shake of his head causing his blonde hair to rearrange itself, "For just a little while?"

Frozen with indecision, she held the brush away from his head behind him, so vulnerable. She leaned to the edge. Mechanically she brushed his hair, first by pulling the sides timidly, down to his back. She wanted this job finished. Over. Yet she continued. When Gerald spoke, she absorbed the movement of his lips in the hanging mirror, loudly colored and fascinating to watch. He drifted into the moment, lulled by her brushing rhythm. His mascara-laden lids closed.

"The ladies of the south have their hair brushed all the time," he whispered, slowing his diction under the power of her touch. Clarice listened distractedly, thinking again of the white Impala. Were they following me already? She wished she could see from this vantage point. Unfortunately, the exclusive window, a skylight, cast the foglit clouds from directly above.

"It's a beauty routine to them, but do you know what it is to me?" Clarice shuddered to think. She handed the brush back, gathered her purse and felt sticky. Her cashmere sweater had become oppressive. She clutched her keys. Clarice wanted a polite way to break up the date. At stake: a $500 million estate, expected soon, through her husband’s dying mother. She could not afford a mistake. Not again.

"Look, I want to see you, and I think we should talk some more, but I can't stay, I have to get out of that parking space. I wish I could chat longer, but..." His head relaxed on his neck, resting backward on his shoulders. She could not budge him. He finally lifted his moist eyes to hers. He peeled open her hand and cupped it to his face. At 300 yards one could barely hear the pounding surf of the Pacific Ocean.

"Mrs. Goldberg,” he spoke into her palm to melt it with his breath. He gazed into her eyes. “You are so perfect. It's only been an hour. You are beautiful, don't you see?” The “Moonbeams” Soft Eyeshadow by Maybelline gave him a luster both innocent and knowing. “I want you."

She absorbed the thought, feeling the kisses in her palm. Their creamy sensuousness conveyed his hunger. He moaned softly. The vibration traveled from bone to bone.

He handed her the brush. She put down her purse.

Gerald felt the sweep of her fingernails brush gently against his skin. He allowed his head to be jerked momentarily by a recalcitrant knot somewhere in the lengths. He could hear the tiny, tingling chime of her heavy Fred Joalliers gold bracelet. Her lovely fragrance wavered in strength as she passed the brush from the ends of his locks and returned to the top where he trained his breath to inhale with each stroke. Her breathing had slowed and now her back felt tacky.

"Please, don't stop now Clarice." He had quit using her formal name. “Just a little bit more, please?” The surf breathed too.

He put his hand over hers and gently pulled it to his face. She put down the brush, and stepped around the bedside, turning to face him.

"Thank you," he whispered. He turned his face upward and gently pulled her head toward his. The temperature that rose in her belly flowed south. He loosened the pearl buttons of her silk blouse.

Clarice felt happy. A significant opportunity had appeared. He could be the perfect woman to accompany her on an innocent, little cruise. Just a completely sin-free trip to Mexico with a girlfriend who loves scarves. Neither husband, mother-in-law, nor her detectives could ever find fault with that.

Her thumbs pressed both sides of his mouth. She smeared his lipstick. Her size seven panties fell to the floor.

Estimating size 10 for him, Clarice made a mental note.