Frank and Michelle

“Come in, Frank. Make yourself comfortable,” Mike... No, Michelle said, dropping my bag on a chair in the living room. “Loo’s that door over there, and here’s the kitchen,” she continued, walking through a door. I followed her, glancing around the room, and I entered the small kitchen just as she was pouring hot water into two mugs.

“Sorry about this, didn’t know you were coming,” she said, handing one of them to me, “so I haven’t had time to prepare a proper pot of tea.”

I took the mug, wrapped my hands around it; it was March, but it was still a bit chilly outside. I looked at her as she took a sip, and then she smiled and said “What’s the matter? Cat got your tongue? You’re real quiet.”

“I’m… Thinking,” I replied.

“Oh? ‘Bout what?”

“Well... This,” I said, gesturing vaguely to her with my free hand. “I’m sorry, but... What the hell? I mean, seriously what?”

That didn’t come out quite right. More negative than I meant it to be. My brain gets stupid sometimes. But I was committed now. “I know we haven’t seen each other in what, two years? More than that. But I never would have thought...”

“What, don’t you like it?” she teased, striking a pose. No matter how I looked at her, there was no hint of masculinity in her.

“No, I do like it, just--” I realised what I’d just said when she smirked. I set my untouched mug down on the counter and placed my right hand on my forehead, gripping my temples, and closed my eyes in frustration. “Listen,” I said after a couple seconds. “I don’t mind it, really. I’m not a... A bigot, or a transphobe, or anything, just... I need a while.” I sighed. “Fact is, I’m having trouble reconciling you with, well... You. I mean, the you I knew from jail with the you that’s standing here in front of me right now.”

“Don’t blame you, friend,” she said, with a slight smile. “’s a big change, innit?”

“You can say that again. Really, even the voice is different. How do you do that?”

“Very carefully,” she replied. “It took lessons, and practice, and more practice, lots of it. But I had to do it, for myself mostly, and also because I can’t really go around looking like I do and sounding like this, can I?”

I jumped as her voice dropped a full octave, and her timbre shifted. She sounded... Well, she sounded like she did before. Like Mike.

“Don’t... Please don’t do that again,” I said, my voice quivering.

“Why?” Thankfully, her voice was back to normal. The new normal.

“I’m already having a bit of trouble here, I don’t need you playing tricks on me.”

“Fair ‘nuff,” she replied, shrugging, then she glanced at her watch and said, “So, d’you wanna get settled in your room while I make supper? It’s upstairs, second door to the right.”

I blinked. “My room?”

“’Course. Well technically it’s the guest room, but you did say you had nowhere to go after doing your time didn’t you. So now it’s your room, until you decide to move out.”

“Oh,” I said, stunned. “Thanks?”

“Don’t mention it. Run along now, I’ll fix up something scrumptious to celebrate your release. Oh, and if you need PJs they’re in the first drawer from the bottom, they were mine. You can have them, I don’t use them any more.”

She winked at me. “Don’t worry, I washed them.”

As I walked out of the kitchen, picked up the bag from the chair where she’d left it, and walked towards the stairs, I had just one thought.

This felt weird. And it was probably only going to get weirder.

Bag in hand, I crossed the living room, passed through a small arch, and reached the stairs. I started to walk upstairs, and then I paused.

A black cat was standing at the top of the stairs, looking down at me with an inquisitive stare.

“Hello,” I said. The cat meowed in response, then scampered away as I started climbing the stairs again.

The first floor was nearly as large as the ground floor; a corridor was running parallel to the stairs, with a door at one end, near the top of the staircase, through which I could see a bathroom. Along the corridors there were three doors. The first one was open, and the cat I’d seen before was peeking out of it at me.

I moved along the corridor, and I paused for a second to look inside the first door, into which the cat had retreated as I approached. The room was spacious and tidy, the king-sized bed made and a nightgown folded neatly on the pillow; that must have been Michelle’s room, I realised. Not wanting to intrude further, I kept going along the corridor until I reached the second door.

The room behind it wasn’t as big as Michelle’s, but it was much larger than the small cell I’d slept in only the previous night; a prince-sized bed was set under a window, and one wall had a sliding door with a mirror in it, no doubt a closet. I walked into the room, dropped my bag in a corner on the floor, and sat on the bed, deep in thought. Here I was, a free man, about to head into the world again. I didn’t know what I would have to face, but I was deeply grateful to Michelle for giving me a place to stay, at least until I got back up on my feet.

And speaking of Michelle, I didn’t know what to make of her. She was completely different from my old friend Mike, both in looks and personality; it was difficult to find a trace of my cellmate in her, and believe me, I had been trying real hard. I wondered what she had to go through, both in prison (and before that, after all she had to do something to end up in jail hadn’t she) and afterwards. I didn’t know much about transition, but from the little I’d heard I knew it wasn’t a walk in the park.

Remembering something I stood up, slid open the closet door, and pulled out the bottom drawer. As expected, some pajamas were in there; I pulled one out, unfolded it, and held it up against myself. Yep, I would need to buy new ones. The “tiny Mike” nickname didn’t come from nowhere.

I heard a soft meowing, and turned around: the cat was standing on the bed, looking at me. I slowly extended my hand, trying not to scare the critter, and approached it; it gave my open palm a sniff, and then rubbed its head a bit against it. I smiled.

“Frank! Dinner’s ready!” I heard Michelle call from downstairs.

“Yes! I’m coming!” I called back. I dropped the pajama on the bed and returned to the living room, where she was just setting the last plates on the table.

“Right then! Shall we eat?” she asked, untying her apron and placing it on the back of a chair. “Oh, I see you’ve met Conroy,” she said, looking past me.

“Conroy?” I asked, turning around. The black cat was sitting at the foot of the staircase, looking at us, the tip of his tail waving lazily back and forth.

“He’s a sweetheart, isn’t he?” Michelle said, smiling. “He warms up to people very quickly, even folks he hasn’t met before. But do be careful,” she warned, “The little bugger will absolutely try to steal food from your plate if you don’t guard it. Feel free to smack his bum.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I replied with a smile, and took my seat at the table.

Michelle had cooked up enough food for an army; or a small regiment, at least. A large platter almost overflowing with pasta was sitting in the middle of the table, and a huge bowl of salad was set beside it. I hadn’t seen this much food since Christmas dinner with my family, back when I was a kid. I gave a whistle of appreciation. “Help yourself,” said Michelle with a smile. “Oh, do you want some wine? I’ll just go grab a bottle.”

In short order she was back and sat down at the table, placing a bottle next to the salad bowl; meanwhile I had filled up my plate, and took a bite of pasta. It just barely needed some salt, but it was delicious. A far cry from prison food.

“This is really good,” I said. “It’s the best stuff I’ve tasted in years.”

“Oh, stahp it,” she said, waving her hand in a dismissive gesture. “You’re only saying that to flatter me.”

“No, I’m serious,” I replied. “It’s delicious. What is it?” I asked, taking a sip of wine. A tangy red, not too strong, a good fit for the dish; so apparently she was also talented in matching food with wine. Or maybe that was just the wine she happened to have on hand and I was overthinking it.

“Oh, it’s Bolognese. Sorta. Not the real Italian Bolognese, it’s a family recipe we call Bolognese. My aunt taught me.”

“Your aunt?” She had never mentioned her family, even back when we were cellmates.

She hesitated, and her pretty face darkened slightly. “Let’s… Not talk about her. Or the rest of my family.”

I realised I was treading on dangerous ground there. “Alright,” I said.

“So,” she said, changing the subject and lifting her glass. “Cheers! To your first day as a free man!”

I smiled. “Cheers,” I replied, and we clinked glasses.

“Tell me, what’re you gonna do now?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Find a job, I guess. Save up enough to get my own place. Keep going from there. Oh, and I just realised I haven’t said it yet, but I’m really grateful for you giving me somewhere to stay until I can get back on my feet.”

“’s not a big deal,” she shrugged back. “Had the room, and I can’t well leave a friend high and dry now, can I?” She smiled, and I smiled with gratitude in return. “Oh, by the way, I guess we need to set some ground rules, don’t we.”

She was right, I hadn’t thought about it. In prison we had to do like we were told, but here we could decide on our own. I nodded. “Yeah, sure, what did you have in mind?”

“I actually-- Lemme--” she said, rummaging through her skirt’s pocket, “Aha! Here we go!”

She pulled out a sheet of paper, which she unfolded. She straightened in her chair, cleared her throat. “I, Michelle, first of my name, by the right of God do hereby declare...”

I chuckled, and she smiled at my reaction. “No, seriously, here’s what I have. No hard drugs, and no smoking of any kind inside the house. You can use the garden for that,” she said, motioning to a door set into the back wall. I nodded. “You’re responsible for keeping your room tidy, and you have to help with housework when you can. And when you get a job you have to pay your share of the bills. Oh, and when a door’s closed, knock before entering.”

I nodded again. “Seems reasonable,” I said. “It’s a pleasure being here, Michelle.”

“A pleasure having you. Now, can you give me a hand with these plates? We’ll put the leftovers in the fridge, everything else we scrape down and then into the dishwasher it goes.”

As we got up from the table, Conroy meowed from the couch. “Guess we can avoid scraping,” Michelle said, laughing. “Just leave the plates there next to Conroy’s bowl, he’ll have them licked clean in no time.”

After chatting a bit more, we headed to bed; I was absolutely knackered by the day's event. That night I slept more soundly than I had in years. I had little trouble getting used to the bed, the mattress was much softer than I expected but I didn’t mind it at all; and even though I slept in the nude (as I thought Michelle’s old PJs were way too small for me), the blankets and duvets my host had provided were enough to keep me plenty warm. At one point I thought I heard a distant buzzing, like an alarm clock, which shook me from my sleep, but I just turned over and started snoring again.