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The night Wendy's Oma died, she had sex dreams. Only sometimes did she have sex dreams—usually Wendy had nightmares and usually she was being chased or hurt. But this morning in her dreams when her Oma died, a girl was fucking her over an old television in an abandoned gym. She woke up with her phone dinging. Her dad. Call me when you get up it's important. Wendy put her face back in the pillow with her hair piled around her like a hill. She trailed a long arm down the side of the bed and skittered her phone across the floor. Her bladder was pulsing; sunlight through a crack in the curtain was hurting her eyes. She was still drunk and every part of her hurt. Wendy lay there curled into herself in the half-light, her head softly beating, not sleeping. She lay there like that for a full hour. Her pee swelled and the light grew brighter. When the phone rang, she made her body get up and scrabbled on her haunches for where her phone had gone behind a bookcase. It was her father. "Jesus shitstick Dad, what," Wendy said. Her voice was deep and raspy, a smoker’s voice though she rarely smoked anymore. Her words felt chunky in her mouth as a potato. She was still drunk. She was going to feel fuzz behind her eyes for the whole day. Her dad was crying. "Ben?" said Wendy, putting a hand to her mottled face, ruddy-cheeked and pale. "Ben? Dad?" It was chilly and the first snows were sticking. She tied up the curtain and shut the window to let light and warmth in her room. Her legs were shivering.

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The funeral was quiet and simple, at the EMC Church out in the country. Wendy wore a simple black dress. She cried exactly once, during a hymn, silently and horribly, like a little girl told to shut up. But for the rest of the day she felt warm and blessed. She felt a lot of love for her grandmother. She felt grateful she'd had so much time with her Oma. She felt grateful Oma’d been given a long life. In that way, Wendy had a beautiful, strange synergy with all the old Mennonites in the room, the ones who ignored Wendy or spoke to her in microseconds and hushes. The ones who truly believed the old woman was in heaven. They and Wendy both, they were all sad she was gone. But they were happy to think about her too. That's the difference, Wendy thought, between now and everybody else she'd known who died. When she saw someone she didn't want recognizing her, she leaned forward so her hair made curtains around her face. It was stupid. It would be hard to mistake her around here—her hair was black and went down to her waist and she was tall for anyone's standard. And what, what was the point in fighting? Sacrifice wasn't meaningless. It'd been eight years since she said to them I'm a girl and some things you couldn't fight that long. She was angry about it, but she didn’t start anymore. She did not appear in the obituary or funeral program and her dad had warned her about it ("It's out of my hands, I'm sorry") and it pissed her off but she didn't say a word. Her family had gotten kinder over the years. It wasn't that hard.

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Back at her Oma's house, neighbors brought hot dishes and a Superstore bag of buns then they left. Her aunts began preparing the table. Wendy came in the room with a beer, looming over them like a tree. "Can I help with anything?" "Oh well thank you Wendy, but we're very set here! You just go ahead and enjoy yourself. You go visit." Wendy sat and drank her beer as her uncles and cousins in the living room played on their phones. She listened to her aunts gossip, about their kids, about their sports teams. One of them left to fetch her daughter to run to the van. When they ate, nobody cried. It was like a normal family gathering and no one was crying and did Wendy care that she flinched every time she heard the word "guy" did it matter? It didn’t matter. Her grandma was dead.

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Long after everyone else went to bed, Wendy was on the back porch staying up with the men. "You remember how Mum would pack us homemade tomato juice?" yelled her dad. "Oh! Nai jo." "Hahahahaha." He was blitzed. "Complete with fuckin' tomaaaaato chunks! You'd be trying to look all fuckin' cool for some girl swiggin' in your lunch and your whole mind's on how you're ever gonna get your hand up her shirt SPLOOSH,” and Wendy and her uncles all laughed. They laughed and drank and laughed. There were cigars. Wendy smoked one. She enjoyed the rich ugliness of cigars. Someone took a picture that she later loved and put on her wall: Her sitting dazed and drunk on the bench next to her dad, cigar in her mouth, her hair streaming down her sides like onyx waterfalls and light snow coming down, vertically, American postcard-style snow. Ben was leaning back with his mouth tilted against the sky, grey hair flowing under him, like a mane.

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"There's probably tomato juice still in there." "Is anybody else frightened to look in the fridge." "Need the morgue more for the fridge than we did for her." "Nai jo." "Jesus Christ," Ben said. "So when Wendy's mum—God rest her soul—when she first ever came to the house. She’s this big city girl from university, right. Here at our fuckin' backwater-ass—" "—and you're still trying to get your hand up her shirt." "Probably on this bench.” Wendy laughed and hacked something up. "You ok, girl?" said Ben. Wendy coughed. "I'm fuckin' grand." "So here she is," he continued. "This smart and sophisticated city girl, she thinks she's coming to the farm for some hearty country meal, right? And we're all sitting there—" "We know brother, we were there." "Yeah, well, Wendy wasn't." ("Yeah shut up, I wasn't!" Wendy said. She loved this story.) "So we're all sitting there, and Mom comes in with a big ol' bowl of soup, slams it down—and there's a fuck-ing chick-en leg sticking right out of it!" "Chicken's probably still there too." "Your mother said grace on that one, God bless her." Wendy hadn't brought her winter coat. She was so sleepy, and almost went in to bed, but instead got a blanket and wrapped it over herself and sipped her dad's vodka and listened. Wendy liked being quiet around her family. And being quiet wasn't usual for her. It was nice. She didn't remember going inside.

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Two mornings later in her dreams Wendy was being chased down a long hallway with carpet. And white wallpaper with the patterns of cherries and locked wooden doors. Her hair was short in this dream. She was running fast but they were faster. When she woke it was morning but not daylight. She put on her slippers, and her long muscles creaked and uncreased as she stood up from the living room fold-out in her nightgown, lacy and shimmering and moon-blue. She went to start the coffee and stood by the kitchen window and saw slivers of purple breaking through the dark. The coffee burbled and rays of orange and magenta and violet spread out over the snow. Everyone else was gone and Wendy and Ben were going back today. It was always sad leaving here. And how many more times would she be coming back now. Realistically.

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"Dad." "Yeah." "When are we leaving?" "I thought we'd head out at noon." “You’re kidding me! That’s so early.” "I know I got this guy to meet." "Whatever. It’s fine.” “Good.” “Who do you—“ "Ssssh sssh ssssh this part's important!" They were watching cartoons. Wendy rolled her eyes and got up for more cereal; her grandparents’ old house the kind of space it was hard not to eat in. Then in the kitchen, the phone on the wall rang. "Hello?" Wendy said into the receiver. "Hello!" The voice was unfamiliar and female and old. "Is this Aganetha? No, you don’t sound like Aganetha." the woman said. "Aganetha?” said Wendy, confused at first. No, there's no Aga—" Wendy put her hand on her forehead. "I'm sorry," she said. "We called her Nettie. I'm so sorry. She's dead." Silence. "A week ago. It was sudden," she added. More silence then the woman said, "My word. Oh. My word. I'm sorry. My condolences." Wendy thought she might be crying, then she said: "She's with the Lord now then." The woman's words were coming out slowly, like they had extra syllables. "Yes," Wendy said. "Nobody told me." "I'm sorry," Wendy said genuinely. “I—I am. Someone should have." "So am I speaking to family then?" said the woman. "Yes." "And who am I speaking to?" Wendy’s reflexes kicked in. "Well I'm more like a close friend. Friend of the family.” Her voice became higher, more melodious. “Not really here nor there. Would you like to speak to Ben? He's just over in the living room. I'll go get him." "No!" said the woman. "No. No, I don't think Ben would approve of this. It concerns his—well, bless me. I should watch what I say. Might another family member be at home?" "No." "Oh. Hm." "May I ask who you are?" She scratched her hand. Most people calling on Nettie liked speaking to Wendy's dad. They got a bang out of him. "My name is Catherine Klassen," she said. "From Morweena. Morweena, Manitoba." Wendy waited for her to say more. "That's north of Arborg," Catherine continued. "The Interlake." "There are Mennonites up there?" Wendy said before she could stop herself. "I didn't know that." "Oh, yes, many!" said Catherine. "It doesn't surprise me that some certain people may not know that. But Aganetha and I. We went to school together." The accent in Catherine's voice was coming out clearly now, the kind that turned Pepsi into Pahpsi. She said: "I was—oh goodness, I was really hoping to tell Aganetha about this but I guess that's just not a possibility. Obviously. And. Oh dear. Well. So you're a friend of the family. What's your name?" "Wendy." "Don't know of a Wendy," said Catherine. "You're obviously not young!" she said brightly. "I'm not?" "You marry in? Or are you seeing Ben?" "Bless me!" Wendy said acidly. "You know, perhaps I would rather not have this conversation over the phone!" "Oh dear yes yes, please forgive me, I am sorry. Well. I'll just tell you. I wanted to tell Aganetha something that concerns her husband as well as her grandson. Ben's son. You know Ben's son." Wendy was silent. "I know you do," clipped Catherine. "Everyone does. Goes by Tulip now or some—such name. To my understanding." Tulip was Wendy's first name. For about a year. A long time ago. She didn't count the boy one. "I know about Tulip," said Wendy. More silence then: "Catherine, why are you calling?" "Is there really no one besides Ben at home? Maybe someone is coming later in the day!" "No!" Wendy said. Suddenly she was done with this conversation. "Look," she said, summoning up old codes, what’d pass with this woman for angry, "I do not mean to be rude, however, we are sorting out quite a lot right now. Our grandmother is dead and there is a house and there are—cats, and: There is so much to do! So. If you would like to tell me your business, I would be happy to assist you, but if not perhaps you could simply send condolences, I am sure you know our address." "You said you were a friend," Catherine said quietly. "I'm a—" she said loudly and cut herself off but a surge of anger that’d stayed down in Wendy for days suddenly raged through her blood, like she’d breathed it in with the air. She clenched her fist and bit down on her knuckles— "Who are you talking to?" Ben yelled. Gently, she calmed herself and put her body back down on the ground. She was about to excuse herself and say goodbye and hang up when Catherine said: "Well. Perhaps you remember William. Aganetha's husband." "Yes." Her Opa had died when Wendy was nine. He had been a quiet, internal, stable and gentle man. The opposite of her dad. Wendy had loved him deeply and been very close with her Opa. For a short time in Wendy's adolescence, his memory provided her with the kind of man she'd hoped she might be. "Yes," Wendy said. "I remember William very well." "Well he was like Ben's son. So there you go." "WHAT?!" "So there you go," repeated Catherine. "And there are some letters and things I thought she'd want to see. I sat on them for a while because I thought, well, she doesn't need to feel even worse about that whole situation. But then I remembered things she would say about William many years ago—and I thought well who am I to say she's got the right to know or not. Selfish of me. And who knows, maybe it even occurred to her. Who knows! And he's gone, so I thought what's the harm, who am I to keep anything from her. So I decided that this morning and now I called and got you." Wendy opened her mouth and it was dry as plaster. She touched her fingers to her hair. "But now she’s gone. And you won't even tell me who you are," Catherine said rapidly. "Perhaps I better go—no, I'll ask you to do me a favour. I’ll ask you to tell one of Aganetha’s sisters. You obviously know them. I assume they are still alive.” "Yes." "Would you tell one of them what I told you? I'm going to trust in the Lord now that if you say yes, then you will. Might you consider doing this for me?" “Perhaps I can, absolutely,” Wendy said dumbly. "Good," said Catherine. "You tell them what I told you, and then you tell them to phone me. My number's the same as it's ever been. They can look me up in the phone book if they don't have it. My address is right there too, they can visit anytime they’re able. Just ask to call first. And not Saturday because that's when grandchildren visit. And of course, you are welcome as well to come visit, though it makes me uneasy that you won't tell me exactly who you are. Please excuse me! I don't think I'm very capable of talking anymore! Are we perhaps clear?" "Yes." "Well. Good day to you, and my condolences about Aganetha. I thought about her often, you know. She is finally with the Lord. Hallelujah." "Hallelujah."

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Most Mennonites these days were rich. The humble old desperate towns of Rudy Wiebe and Sandra Birdsell books were gone, or at least shrunk, or fast on their way to existing only in traces, photos, myth and books and the bedrooms of old people. In their stead were McMansions and Liquor Marts and gourmet coffee shops. The Liquor Marts closed at ten and the coffee shops at midnight. There were big boxes and subdivisions and construction for new high schools and stores that sold fireplaces. The high schools had raffle prizes that gave trips to Vegas. They were the fastest growing towns in the province. Most RMs were bleeding people but Hanover and Stanley and Rhineland and La Broquerie were growing in double-digits—it had been a long time since Wendy had talked, really talked, to someone like Catherine at all. And in the city. The ones in the city. Wendy worked at a gift store close to Polo and every other wallet with five credit cards had Friesen or Penner on them. They could spend seventy dollars on a scarf and ask if there was a charge for a plastic bag. They would buy books on mindfulness and Taoism. She would see Hutterites driving Hummers.

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Wendy stood in her nightgown and ratty skids of hair holding the phone receiver, until there came the alarm-drone noise of it off the hook. Ben came into the kitchen and re-filled his cereal. He took the receiver from Wendy's hand and hung it up. "You miss that sound?"

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"No!" she said, high-pitched and startled. "What's going on? Who was that?" "I—" "Tell me," said Ben. "Someone called about Opa," she said, the first thing that came to her mind. "No way." "Yeah," she said, returning to her normal rasp. Then: "They were behind the times." "Who was it?" "I forget," she said. The best lies always come to you as you're saying them, she'd been reflecting lately. It was planned untruths that didn't end well. "Something Hildebrand," she added. "It wasn't important. The guy was an asshole—oh, and he kept asking me if I was a man or a woman. Wouldn't let it go." "What a dickwad," said her dad. "Whatever,” she mumbled. “Is there more coffee?" "No. Make more,” Ben suggested. He poured his milk and went back into the living room. Wendy's head was imploding. She made another pot and then went into her room and poured raspberry vodka in her coffee mug. She rarely drank in the mornings—but. Well.

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Downstairs in her grandmother’s sewing room there was a bookcase of photo albums labeled by year. Wendy put her hand on the earliest, 1961. Pictures of her dad as a baby. A lot with her dad and her Opa, wearing a grey shirt and huge owl glasses. Cute. Wendy'd always remembered her grandfather with bifocals. An adorable picture of her dad on a stool, filling a cup with water. Her grandpa in a field, wearing the same grey shirt. She sat on the floor, sipping coffee and flipping through more pages. He was always wearing a variation of the same big grey men’s shirt—that fits though, she thought. Wear the same outfit day after day, your brain gets numb to how it looks or feels— Wendy shut the album. No. She hated going down that road. She hated analyzing the whys of trans girls. She had always hated it and she hated how easy it had become; the bottomless hole of egg mode life. It made her burn with anger thinking of all that lost energy. You could do it forever, and she'd played that fuckin' game years ago when she'd needed to but she knew where that led and she was done with that game. She’d had a boy life. It was shitty and murky. So her grandfather probably had too and just never got out. So her Opa'd been a woman. Fine. Closed. She would keep the memory of her two grandmothers in her heart and that’d be that. Whatever. She drank the rest of her coffee in a slug and put the photo album back in the bookcase. Good enough.

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"Hey, we gotta go back early," said her dad. "Get your stuff." He re-filled her coffee without asking. "I—sure, why?" "I gotta meet somebody," he said, tapping on his phone. "Who?" "This guy," he said without looking up. She put an ice cube in her mug and opened the fridge and her dad closed it and said "Go go go we gotta move!" “Jesus, relax!” “We have to go!” Wendy closed and opened her fists, letting anger flow out of her. She packed her things and added more vodka to her coffee. She lifted her moon-blue nightgown over her head and put on a white T-shirt with black jeans and a pink belt. She took off her crusted day-old eyeliner, put it back on and added wings. She shouldered her purse and bag. Her dad was still packing. Wendy looked out on the yard again, sunny and bright and clear. It hit her—this might be one of the last times she'd stay in this house. Ben yelled to warm up the car. She went out and started the engine and put her shit in the back. It really was nice out—no wind, serene, sheltered by the poplars on the side of the driveway that her Opa had planted decades ago. Aw hell. She grabbed her bag, took off her boots, and ran inside. Her dad yelled something again. “I’m coming, Christ!” She padded downstairs and put the album from 1961 in her bag. She hesitated, then picked another from the year her Opa had died and another from the early eighties.

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They drove into town where an old pasty woman with a kerchief sold perogies and gravy out of her mini-van beside the Wal-Mart. "Twelve cottage cheese, frozen,” said Ben.” "I'll have three, fresh,” said Wendy. The woman turned to pack their containers. "I want a cigarette," Ben mumbled. They drove back into the city. Her dad didn't speak. Wendy hadn't registered any emotion from him, honestly, that Ben’s mother had died. They had been on good terms—but he didn't seem any different. Wendy'd wanted to learn to make those perogies herself some day, but her dad had forgotten. She'd meant to ask her grandma, but, she was dead.

2

Back home, the snow was mush and dirt. Wendy dropped her bags on her bed. She idly tapped her phone. She found herself typing on Facebook “So my grandfather might be trans? Uh fucking what?” then deleted it. She didn't want to look at the photo albums. Her clothes were all dirty.

Crossing Portage and hip-checking the laundromat door open, she saw a new boy manning the desk. Tall with stubble and a grey V-necked shirt. Indian like the owners, young and big unlike them. He smiled at her. Wendy went to the washers and took off her coat and wondered how she looked to him. Her hair was in a long ponytail that rose up and curved down her back. She thought about her hair bobbing up and down and the pink belt around her pants as she bent over the machine. Sometimes Wendy tried to remember what she looked for in girls before transition. She could never summon anything clear. She could remember how boys talked about girls, when they thought girls weren’t around. She could call up memories of making out with girls, she could replay those handfuls of penis-in-vagina sex. But never any inner thoughts or feelings. When she tried to zoom in on the emotions of those moments they became diffracted and lost, in a way other memories didn't. Wendy remembered a lot about being a boy. But she couldn't remember that. She thought again about her body from the back. She always felt like more of a girl, imagining herself from the back.   ===================================================================

When she got quarters from the boy she said: "How's your afternoon?" "Fine. I'm drunk." She blinked. "Really?" "I am just kidding. But who can tell?" he said. She laughed at that. Wendy had a deep, guttural, and unmistakably feminine laugh; it was something she actually loved about herself. She disliked her voice—low and unsexily raspy, passing like a female Tom Waits—but she liked her laugh. And it always showed. He smiled. "Can I help you?" he said. Wendy gave him a five. "Did you just start working here?" she asked. "Yes. My dad runs the place," he said. "But I go to school," he added quickly. "Mmm. Well I guess I should use these quarters." "Give me a shout if you have trouble."

=================================================================== After loading the dryer, she came back. "I am not really drunk," he said. "I know. What's your name?" "Taj." "I'm Wendy." "Nice name." "I like it." "Did your mom or your dad pick that?" he said. "My dad," she said instantly, though she'd never been asked that question before. She said: "He had a teacher named Wendy? Who he liked? I think, anyway. It's funny, I don't actually know the whole story behind it." A clear thing Wendy did remember from boy life: She'd been a terrible liar. Maybe there is something to us being deceivers, she thought. She pulled a finger through her ponytail and sat back down. She watched Taj at his station, tapping his phone, washing rags, fixing a jammed machine. He didn't see Wendy watch him and she knew it. He had that obliviousness of men that she envied, even missed. The permission of it, anyway. Before folding her clothes she went back to him. "Still not drunk?" she said. "It is a pretty hard job here." "Would you like to be drunk?" she said. "I live right around the corner. I have vodka." She didn't know why she said things like this. "Seriously?" he said. "Sure. It'll be great." "I'm—" he startledly turned to the clock. "I am off in half an hour."  

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Wendy poured the two of them drinks and sat on her bed. She said: "So what did you do before you began your career in laundromancy." "I was a poker player.” "Really." "Online poker. For like five years." "You can make money doing that?" "I did." Eventually he kissed her. That was nice. He kissed her hard and he drew her close and his big body felt like an electric sheet. He smelled like lotion and soap. When he took his shirt off, she ran hands through his chest hair, dark thick curls that were beautifully soft. She could tell he was trying to be gentle as he handled her cheeks and the sides of her torso. They were on their knees on the bed with their pants pressing into each other and she kissed him deeply into his mouth. He took off her shirt and put his mouth on her tits and he kind-of sucked and licked them and she whispered Bite for fuck's sake. He did and she felt lightning. She dug her hands into his hair and pressed him hard into her chest and he bit harder and wrapped his legs and arms around her and they fell over in the bed. They kissed ferociously and totally and furiously. She didn't see herself do any of this, like she had in the laundromat—she saw his shoulder blades and felt his skin; her body mapped the dip of his chest and the suppleness of his arms. And his smell. The smell of his soft hairy soapy lotioned body. She didn't see herself, at all. He kissed her for a long, beautiful time. Eventually she ducked her head and her hands went to his belt buckle. He shifted his torso to let her—then he seized. Wendy looked up. His eyes widened and narrowed all at once. "Wait," he said. She looked at him placidly, her heart drowning. "Oh my God," he said. "Are you a man?" "I am not a man,” she said quietly. "Like," he trailed off. "But you were. You were born a girl, right?" "I’m not—“ she cut herself off, about to yell. "No?" he said quietly. "No," she said, resigned. Then he was standing and his shirt was back on. “Oh come on!” "Sorry," he said. "Sorry! I just. I don't know how I feel about—I can't do that—Jesus Christ. I have to go."

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He left and started down the stairs. Then he came back. "Give a man some warning next time!" he said. "You don't know what could happen! That's not smart! Jesus Christ!"   ===================================================================

Wendy listened to him pull on his boots and coat and leave the house. Then she drank the rest of his vodka. Was it bad that she wasn't scared during any of this, she wondered. There was a time in her life she would've been. She felt sad. And pissed off. But she also felt nice to think about pressing him into her chest. And the way he'd kissed and wrapped himself around her. Wendy lay on her bed with her face to the window, watching the room rotate, fixing that feeling of his body in her memory. The clouds outside were swirling grey, like crystal balls. Everything was absolutely still and quiet. She lay there for a long time putting off her laundry.

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She heard the mailman thunk envelopes into their mailbox and crunch away in the snow. Catherine, she thought.

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Her roommate Raina came home from work and Wendy didn't tell her about the guy from the laundromat. She did tell her about her grandfather. "Well my. That is an incredible discovery," Raina said when she was done. "You must be somewhat shaken up." "I am and I'm not." "No?" Wendy ticced her head to the left and back. “I guess I’m a little curious. But what's the point? He was probably trans. It must have been terrible for him. What more is there to it?" Raina nodded. "I see." "And I can't tell my fuckin' dad,” she added. “I don’t think he’d be able to handle it.” "Of course not." Raina opened cabinet doors and took glasses. "The letters and photos though," she said. "Does that really not intrigue you slightly?" "It does," said Wendy. "But that feels different. I don't know how I feel about it. That feels—" "Like disrespecting the dead?" Raina's voice was calm when she said this, her voice went up like she was in a sitcom. "Maybe," Wendy said idly. "Have you eaten?" "Yes. But I have not had a beer. Would you like a beer?" "I would like a beer, thank you. And thanks for texting me at the funeral, I appreciated that.” “Of course,” said Raina. “And your family situation was—ok?" “Ah,” Wendy flicked the beers open and gave one to Raina. “It was all fine. They all believe my Oma went to heaven and she was old and didn’t suffer. My family was same to me as they always are. It’s fine. Nothing’s gonna change but it’s fine.” Raina nodded. “I understand.” Wendy picked at her hands and steadily emptied her bottle. They both gave silence, flecks of foam dripping down Raina’s tan brown chin. Then: "Are you going to call this woman?" "I should," muttered Wendy. "Do I want to? Probably not. I don't know. I don't think I want to talk about it anymore. How are you. How was work." Raina blinked at her. "Hard. I had to go to hospital and advocate for one of the women." "Boyfriend?" "Father." "Motherfucker." "Yes."  

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"I was going to watch some TV," said Raina. "I'll join you." They went up to the living room on the third floor and Raina put on some British TV that she loved. Wendy sank into a square of cushion on the couch and let the accents wash over her, blue light flickering on and off both their faces. Wendy finished her beer and ran to the corner store for Fresca to pour into her vodka. Back upstairs, she heard someone frantically knocking on the back door of the downstairs unit of the house. Eventually Wendy looked through the window, but she only saw other buildings and the back lane, fresh with the first caked-on layer of ice and snow. Their other two cis roommates came home, said hello, and went into their rooms. As usually was everyone's routine. Wendy settled back into the couch and drifted in and out, fogs and words sailing by her, until eventually Raina had a small, gentle hand on her shoulder and said Wendy, Wendy, I'm heading off to sleep, you should probably get to bed. Wendy opened her eyes and sleepily thought how Raina’s eleven o’clock shadow only showed on her chin, like a bird’s-eye of a bottle brush. Back down in her bedroom and falling onto her blankets, she reached for the light when she saw on her chair—the bag for the hormones she'd picked up the week before. Lying open with the info pamphlet sticking out, the one she usually threw right away. At the top in bold font said: READ IF YOU HAVE NEVER TAKEN HORMONE REPLACEMENT THERAPY BEFORE. Some deceiver.

3

"Can I see the pictures?" said Sophie.

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Sophie paged through the first album on Wendy’s bed. "He was pretty," Sophie said. "I liked his hair," said Wendy. Her Opa's hair had been soft, wavy, and black. Wendy lay down on her bed and swished her fingers back and forth over the sheets. The sun was almost down and dark pink was streaming into the room. "My aunt and uncle's place was like this," Sophie said. "In Kleefeld. I liked it there." "Mmmm," Wendy said, her eyes closed. “Your whole family’s Menno too, right?” “A hundred percent, all the way to Molotchna. Isn’t your dad’s family EMC? “All the way back. But they’re from Landmark.” “What a trek,” Sophie said dryly. “Dude, you know, God knows how many ways we’re related.” “Six,” Wendy said, not opening her eyes. “I’ll guess six ways.” “Har har.”

Sophie flipped through more of the album, her blond hair falling into her face.

"Will you call her?” "I don't fuckin' know, man!” Wendy said. “Probably. Where do you even find a phone book anymore? The library?" "Wouldn't it be online?" They checked. Canada411 didn't know where Morweena was. They searched for all Catherine Klassens in the province but there were too many. Wendy lay back on the bed. "Oh well." "Somebody in your family probably knows.” "Maybe." Then a knock on the door. "May I come in?" came Raina’s voice. "We're having butt sex!" Sophie hollered. Wendy rolled her eyes. Raina opened the door, wearing a chiffon blouse and a shiny purple skirt. A smooth foundationed unshadow on her chin. "Your butt sex is very tantric," she said. "I—I'm going on a date—do I look ok?" "You look beautiful," said Sophie. Wendy squinted. "Not one of your work outfits, is it?" "No," said Raina. "I would never wear this skirt to work. Does it look ok?" "Shut up, you always look classy," said Wendy. "You and your—big city America powers." "That's very kind," said Raina. “But yes, this lady and I have been messaging on OkCupid for some days now. I think I'm quite fond of her. We were both raised Catholic which is a first for me. It will be unusual however as it’s, well. It’s been some time since I dated a cis lady." Raina was the only one of Wendy’s friends from out-of-province, had grown up in a Puerto Rican family in the States. She had gone to York and married a Toronto girl young. Then she transitioned and one day came home to find the Toronto girl had neatly packed all of Raina’s things into boxes. Then Raina came here. "That's because you've dated every trans dyke in the province, honey,” said Wendy. "And a lengthy list that was." Raina said dryly. Sophie laughed. Raina smiled mischievously. "Hm, I never would've thought of myself that way." "Have fun, sweets," said Wendy. "Text us if you need rescuing." “Doubtful,” said Raina. “But I appreciate it all the same.” “Tell us what the cis are like!” said Sophie. “What do they want?” Raina gave a short bark and went out the door.

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After Raina left, Wendy changed into pajama pants and took her bra off through her shirt, her boobs poking through her camisole like flaccid balloons. Sophie shut the album and a side of her hair flicked up in a poof. "So why don't you want to call her?"

"Is there a point?” Wendy said. “Look, you know. He was probably a girl, it probably sucked. I'll bet a million fuckin' Mennonites were trans. They probably all killed themselves. Or they lived stoically and added it to their triumphant burdens to bear for God. Maybe it wasn't even that hard for them in that light, who knows." She lifted her drink to her lips and the ice clinked. "Catherine probably thinks he went to hell anyway. You know. I mean like what’s the point." "But Wendy! What about the lost history of the Blumenort drag circuit." "You're a fuckin' scream.” Sophie looked hurt at that. Then Wendy said: "Whatever! I don't know. I don't know. You know what? Here's how I feel. I don't think tracking down dirt about my Opa is going to result in anyone feeling better about their lives. Or his, for that matter." "Catherine might," Sophie said quietly. "Not that you—necessarily need to care about her well-being, I suppose." "No,” said Wendy. “I don't." Sophie lay down next to Wendy on the bed, her skirt against Wendy’s pajamas. Their heads touched and Sophie curved her hand around Wendy's fingers. The sun was almost set now. "Doing anything tomorrow night?" Sophie said. "No." "Would you want to come to this costume party tomorrow at Frame? There's a guy I want you to meet." "Is there." "Yeah, I think you'd like each other. He's hot. He's smart. He's a social worker. I mean, you certainly don't have to, I don't want to pressure you." "You're not," said Wendy. "Is he weird about shit?" "I fucked him," said Sophie. "And you have a vagina." "What's the cover?" said Wendy. "Five." "I'm off work at eight.” “We should bring Lila.” “We totally should.” Sophie reached over and turned on a lamp, her skirt making a rasp against Wendy’s clothes. For a second, Wendy felt an overwhelming sense of peace, like the two of them were suddenly younger—much, much younger. Sophie tucked her head under Wendy's chin. She stroked Sophie's hair, which looked and felt and sounded like straw. "I've thought a lot about old Mennonites being trans before," Sophie mumbled into Wendy’s neck. "Mmm." "Especially when I think about my mom." "WHAT?" "No!" Sophie giggled, in her soft, high-pitched girly way. "Not that way. At least I'm pretty sure my mom's not a guy." "Explain,” rasped Wendy. "Well, lapsed Mennonites, like her, they had to learn to negotiate a larger world. I don't mean the simpler stuff, like learning how to take a bus. I mean socially—but maybe not even that. You can learn to look normal really quickly. Think about how fast people adopt certain kinds of language after a few months on the Internet. You can go from being clueless to yelling at someone almost right away. It’s so fast. It takes longer to register a car. ‘But you can't learn to talk about real wants, hates, desires. You can't figure out when to care that your actions might hurt a person and when to figure that person can go fuck themselves. Their culture never built any of those skills. They never really needed them in the first place. It must be hard for anybody who escaped that. They live in this world now where it's expected you have all these individual things about you. And people like your Opa. Like my mom. They grew up where everybody, everybody is supposed to feel the same about everything." Wendy was silent. "My dad's not like that." "That's because your dad’s fucking crazy," Sophie replied. Wendy blew a raspberry on her head.

"You said: ‘they didn’t need those skills in the first place," Wendy said. "What do you mean." "So I guess," Sophie said, "I used to think the old days must have been the worst possible thing because no one ever said what they thought. Among other things. When I thought about what my mom went through, how much she suffocated, it just made me so incredibly sad and angry for her. But maybe you didn't need to say what you thought. You didn't need to express, for example, that you were disappointed in your kids. Because whatever they'd done—get wasted or borrow a record player, whatever, it was obvious how disappointed you were supposed to be. And it was ordained how you would react and how they would be punished. It was just all understood. So who needed to talk about what you felt. Ever been called a faggot when you’re with another trans woman?" "Yes," Wendy said instantly. "Did you need to talk about it?" "Nope." "I know it's not the same thing," said Sophie. "I just get what it's like when something needles you, but talking isn't necessary. Maybe living through it isn't the only hard part. Maybe being in the world afterward is also the hard part. You know what I mean?" "Where does my possibly-trans grandfather come into this." "Just that I see what you're saying—I think I see what you're saying. I don't want to put words in your mouth,” Sophie said hastily. “I just wonder if he thought of it as another earthly burden to bear. A hard thing to sacrifice and live through and keep silent, and as long as he didn't act on it, it'd just be open and shut, nothing more to it, no sin. And God would be proud of him for resisting. It would just be a hard thing your Opa beat and it would be awful but doable to repress. And when he died and went to heaven it'd be over with. Done."

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Wendy had a very deep memory of her Opa taking her hand and praying for guidance of how to be of service. In that same day he’d said: I wish people would pray for more than just asking God for something: Protect my wife, protect me, or, what ever! Everyone prays for that but you should ask God what you can do for Him. I don’t think enough people pray in hopes of learning what they might give. They were by the gravel pits his brother owned and he was throwing fish food into the water and it made the sound of rain. Her Opa was the least opinionated of people. But he said this frustrated him.

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"I hope that's how he thought of it," Wendy said bitterly. "What do you mean." "He was always really sweet. He was so gentle and kind. If he never had a hope of being a girl—and he didn't—I hate to think of him believing with all his soul that he was going to hell for it too." Sophie rubbed her eyes. "That'd be rough."

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I used to sing to you, Ben said that night, when he called her, drunk out of his mind, before Wendy was drifting off around one in the morning. I used to sing to you every night —I remember that, replied Wendy, snugged in her blankets layered three-deep, warm as fur. You were always such a good kid, Ben continued, you never got in anyone's way, you would tuck yourself in and turn out the light and then I would come into your bedroom, he said, and turn off your light. She heard car horns and police sirens through the phone. He was walking somewhere. Dad, where are you? Corydon. I'm going back to my place. I went to the King's Head! Oh. You've been walking a while. Don't worry about me, kid. They hung up. A key skittered in the lock downstairs, then the sounds of laughing. Raina. And her date. Wendy heard a body get shoved against a wall and gasping and wet kisses. That’s nice, Wendy thought. She'd left the curtain open to wake up early and streetlight was making a triangle on the outline of her legs. The sound of the wind was soft.