PART TWO
* * *
What am I going to do? It's all so clear now; it makes such sense. His obsession with long hair, my missing undies, what Sarah said. And as I think back now, I wonder how many times he was in my room, in my underwear drawer, touching things. I know he's always loved to snoop.
I'm running everything in there through the wash.
With a lot of bleach.
Twice.
I do this. Mom comes in.
"Doing some laundry?" she asks.
I nod. Do I tell her?
I remember her before the hormones and I shudder.
No. She would kill him.
"Just a few things," I say to her.
She adds some of the twins' clothes, steps back out.
Maybe I can go to Dad. He's a Minister. He won't be judgmental.
Somehow I know better than this.
#
Matt comes in later. He looks at me, his eyes dark, and I turn my gaze away. We have dinner, and Sarah sits beside him; I know that under the table she is touching his thigh. Dad talks about something going on at the church, and Simon and Morris punch each other playfully on the shoulder until Mom tells them to stop.
Matt doesn't eat much.
"Come on," Mom says. "It's your favorite. Sarah made it."
He shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."
I see Sarah look down. Does she know what I know? Who really wore the corset on their wedding night?
Finally the meal ends. I go back out into the garage to get my books off the floor. As I turn to go back to the house he is there.
"You didn't see anything," he says.
"What?"
"This afternoon. You didn't see anything. Do you understand?"
"Matt, you need help --"
"Leave me alone. In a few months Sarah and I will be gone. You can keep quiet. I'll pay you, Luce."
"Does Sarah know?" I ask.
He says nothing, only turns and walks away. His shoulders are slumped, like there is some big weight on them now.
As I watch him I think. I remember. He was always the perfect older brother. He was always the one who looked out for me, who worried more about me than he did about himself. Yes, he was nosy, and rude, and things didn't always work the way he thought they should.. But he was always there. I suppose that in the end this was what mattered most; he was going to help me, whether I wanted him to or not.
And I realize it then. I have to help him.
#
There's a crisis center at Crawford College. I shouldn't go there; chances are that someone will see me there and tell Dad, and then Dad will want to know what is going on. I think about this as I approach the door.
All right. If it gets out, I'll just tell Dad and then Mom that I have an eating disorder. That's better than the truth. Anything's better than this truth in my family.
"I need help," I tell the receptionist. He's a younger man, but he isn't cute. I wonder suddenly why that always seems so important to me.
After a while they show me to a small room, with a desk and two chairs in it. I sit, quietly, until the counselor comes in. She's older; she sits down and laces her fingers together as she looks at me.
"Lucy Camden, yes?"
I nod.
"What's troubling you, Lucy?"
I watch her nervously. Who will she tell? Someone always tells someone; that's the way it is. Usually this results in hijinks.
Will there be hijinks when Mom and Dad find out that Matt has been wearing my underwear?
"It isn't about me. But you have to promise not to tell."
I can tell she doesn't believe me.
"Everything you say here remains confidential, Lucy."
I nod.
"It's my brother."
I tell her the story, and she watches me, nodding from time to time. When I have finished she puts her elbows on the desk and leans a bit towards me.
"From what you have told me, Lucy, I'd say your brother is a transvestite."
I hear myself groan.
"Oh, God, that's sick. You mean he's gay? Can you cure him? Maybe we can have an intervention."
She smiles. It's a nice smile.
"Lucy, he's probably not gay; most transvestites are heterosexuals. It sounds like he has a fetish, which means that he has a strong erotic pull towards an object. Women's undergarments are common fetish items."
I cringe. Matt, she is saying, is a pervert. But no Camden is that way; we are all straight and moral and good. Mom and Dad raised us right.
"But you can fix it, right? You can give him some counseling and some therapy and he'll want to be a man again."
"He's a man right now," she says. "He doesn't sound like a transsexual, or a homosexual. He has a fetish for women's underwear. Unless he or your sister-in-law feel a need to address it, therapy would be useless."
I hear my voice, weak.
"Useless?"
"Lucy, listen to me. You have every right to be angry with your brother. He violated your trust and stole from you. But a fetish is a powerful thing. You can't expect to make him what you want him to be. And transvestitism is in and of itself quite harmless. My best advice to you is to accept your brother for who he is. Tell him you love him and that this doesn't matter. Make it clear that he is to respect your things. But if you stigmatize him, it will only hurt him. If he wants help in dealing with these feelings, encourage him to get it. But in the end, that's all you can do."
#
All you can do.
But that isn't enough, you see.
Because I saw his pain, there in the garage. I saw it in the apartment, when he was kneeling in my panties, just in that first instant, burning with arousal. Through the shock and betrayal I felt it was still there. He knows what I know. He is a Camden, and people always expect impossible things from a Camden. He has to be perfect for Mom and Dad, for the Colonel and Ruth, for Grandpa. He cannot be himself, my brother. He cannot have feelings of his own because he is a Camden. I do not understand his need, do not understand why something that to me is functional and everyday could have such power over him. But I do understand his pain. I too am a Camden.
As the day passes, I know that he will carry this with him always. So will I, now.
I return home.
He is there. In time I get him so we are by ourselves.
"Matt," I say to him.
"Leave me alone," he says.
"We have to talk."
"No."
"Matt, I won't tell. I promise."
His face softens. He seems smaller now than he used to be.
"You think I'm sick," he accuses. "You think I'm going to go to hell."
I shake my head. I wonder if the motion looks sincere.
"You want me to tell Dad," he then adds. "But I know him, how he is. He wouldn't understand. None of you understand."
"Does Sarah?" I ask.
He looks down, shrugs. "I haven't told her, Luce. I think she thinks I'm weird already. And I am."
"Are you going to tell her?"
He shrugs again.
"Matt, you have to. Someday she is going to figure it all out. Someday she is going to walk in on you like I did."
"No. I'll be more careful."
I watch him. I think, I hope, that he knows better than to believe that. He turns to go.
"There's one more thing, Matt," I say.
He looks at me. "What?"
"I want my underwear back. And I want you to swear to God that you will never take my underwear again, and swear that you will never take Mom's or Mary's or Ruthie's. I mean it."
He nods. "I'm so sorry, Luce. I just .... I'm afraid ...."
"Swear it."
A pause. He sighs. I can hear the pain in his sigh.
"I swear, Luce."
A moment later Mom and Dad and Sarah return. Tonight we will have dinner at the Glass's. I hurry upstairs to shower and change.
#
I find that my three pairs of missing panties have been discretely slipped into the next load of laundry. I can't wear them again; instead I take them and deposit them at the Goodwill office near our church. As I do I cannot help but think of Matt, of my brother, and of myself.
I am different now. This is more than Matt. It is me, what I think, what I feel. All my life I have been taught that right and wrong are simple things, easily discerned. All my life I have knelt before God and prayed for answers, and the answers have come simply, in black and white.
But no more. Matt has changed this. With his fetish, with his pain, with his shame and his fear, he has made me see that not all the answers are simple, that the Bible is only a guide, not a rulebook. Answers are a kaleidoscope of colors and grays, and they do not always come easily.
I think about the Ministry. What Matt does, what he feels, some call a sin. I know that Dad would call it such, as would the Colonel. I know that in Deuteronomy 22:5 it is called an abomination.
But I cannot accept this.
I will not. I will not accept a God or a father who tell me that I am to hate my brother for something as innocent as this. I will not accept that there is only one way to be a man, or a woman.
I will not sit idly by.
#
Matt keeps his promise; I have been arranging my underwear drawer so I always know what is where; I will know if it is disturbed. I am aware that this is unnecessary; however foolish Matt may be, he is a man of his word. But I know as well what his promise costs him.
It is in his eyes, in how he passes by the hamper, by the clean wash as Mom innocently lays it out to be collected. I know he sees these things and that he wants them, that he needs them, that it is only his word that keeps him from touching, from feeling, from surrendering to the desire he cannot control.
I ask him, from time to time, how he is. Things are busy now; he and Sarah are preparing to leave for school. His answers are always short and I can sense the agony behind them.
"I'm fine."
I have sat in the back carrels of the library and read what I can about men who wear women's clothes. I have seen Matt in these books, in these pained accounts of men who in fact love women perhaps too much, who we are all told to point at with shame, who in fact do no harm. And as I read I see, more and more, what I must do.
#
We meet in the unfinished garage apartment. He is nervous here and looks down at me as I lock the door. Back in the house he and Sarah have been packing a few last things to be shipped; tomorrow they will board a plane and fly off to medical school.
"I have something for you," I tell him. "Because you kept your word to me."
He watches me. I present him with a box in a brown paper bag.
"Open it," I tell him.
He does. The brown paper rattles in the quiet of the unfinished room.
It is a small box; white and unremarkable. I watch him as he pulls back the lid.
They are the same style as the ones he took from me; feminine, satin, with lace and bows. Three pairs. New. They will fit him; I took his waist size from a pair of his briefs in the hamper. His voice breaks as he speaks.
"Luce --"
I watch him as he trembles, as he reaches with a tentative finger and touches the soft satin.
"I can't completely understand this," I tell him. "I don't suppose I ever will. But I don't think that matters. I still love you."
The panties are soft and nearly sheer in his hand. They're not heavy.
He's my brother.
THE END
* * *
What am I going to do? It's all so clear now; it makes such sense. His obsession with long hair, my missing undies, what Sarah said. And as I think back now, I wonder how many times he was in my room, in my underwear drawer, touching things. I know he's always loved to snoop.
I'm running everything in there through the wash.
With a lot of bleach.
Twice.
I do this. Mom comes in.
"Doing some laundry?" she asks.
I nod. Do I tell her?
I remember her before the hormones and I shudder.
No. She would kill him.
"Just a few things," I say to her.
She adds some of the twins' clothes, steps back out.
Maybe I can go to Dad. He's a Minister. He won't be judgmental.
Somehow I know better than this.
#
Matt comes in later. He looks at me, his eyes dark, and I turn my gaze away. We have dinner, and Sarah sits beside him; I know that under the table she is touching his thigh. Dad talks about something going on at the church, and Simon and Morris punch each other playfully on the shoulder until Mom tells them to stop.
Matt doesn't eat much.
"Come on," Mom says. "It's your favorite. Sarah made it."
He shakes his head. "I'm not hungry."
I see Sarah look down. Does she know what I know? Who really wore the corset on their wedding night?
Finally the meal ends. I go back out into the garage to get my books off the floor. As I turn to go back to the house he is there.
"You didn't see anything," he says.
"What?"
"This afternoon. You didn't see anything. Do you understand?"
"Matt, you need help --"
"Leave me alone. In a few months Sarah and I will be gone. You can keep quiet. I'll pay you, Luce."
"Does Sarah know?" I ask.
He says nothing, only turns and walks away. His shoulders are slumped, like there is some big weight on them now.
As I watch him I think. I remember. He was always the perfect older brother. He was always the one who looked out for me, who worried more about me than he did about himself. Yes, he was nosy, and rude, and things didn't always work the way he thought they should.. But he was always there. I suppose that in the end this was what mattered most; he was going to help me, whether I wanted him to or not.
And I realize it then. I have to help him.
#
There's a crisis center at Crawford College. I shouldn't go there; chances are that someone will see me there and tell Dad, and then Dad will want to know what is going on. I think about this as I approach the door.
All right. If it gets out, I'll just tell Dad and then Mom that I have an eating disorder. That's better than the truth. Anything's better than this truth in my family.
"I need help," I tell the receptionist. He's a younger man, but he isn't cute. I wonder suddenly why that always seems so important to me.
After a while they show me to a small room, with a desk and two chairs in it. I sit, quietly, until the counselor comes in. She's older; she sits down and laces her fingers together as she looks at me.
"Lucy Camden, yes?"
I nod.
"What's troubling you, Lucy?"
I watch her nervously. Who will she tell? Someone always tells someone; that's the way it is. Usually this results in hijinks.
Will there be hijinks when Mom and Dad find out that Matt has been wearing my underwear?
"It isn't about me. But you have to promise not to tell."
I can tell she doesn't believe me.
"Everything you say here remains confidential, Lucy."
I nod.
"It's my brother."
I tell her the story, and she watches me, nodding from time to time. When I have finished she puts her elbows on the desk and leans a bit towards me.
"From what you have told me, Lucy, I'd say your brother is a transvestite."
I hear myself groan.
"Oh, God, that's sick. You mean he's gay? Can you cure him? Maybe we can have an intervention."
She smiles. It's a nice smile.
"Lucy, he's probably not gay; most transvestites are heterosexuals. It sounds like he has a fetish, which means that he has a strong erotic pull towards an object. Women's undergarments are common fetish items."
I cringe. Matt, she is saying, is a pervert. But no Camden is that way; we are all straight and moral and good. Mom and Dad raised us right.
"But you can fix it, right? You can give him some counseling and some therapy and he'll want to be a man again."
"He's a man right now," she says. "He doesn't sound like a transsexual, or a homosexual. He has a fetish for women's underwear. Unless he or your sister-in-law feel a need to address it, therapy would be useless."
I hear my voice, weak.
"Useless?"
"Lucy, listen to me. You have every right to be angry with your brother. He violated your trust and stole from you. But a fetish is a powerful thing. You can't expect to make him what you want him to be. And transvestitism is in and of itself quite harmless. My best advice to you is to accept your brother for who he is. Tell him you love him and that this doesn't matter. Make it clear that he is to respect your things. But if you stigmatize him, it will only hurt him. If he wants help in dealing with these feelings, encourage him to get it. But in the end, that's all you can do."
#
All you can do.
But that isn't enough, you see.
Because I saw his pain, there in the garage. I saw it in the apartment, when he was kneeling in my panties, just in that first instant, burning with arousal. Through the shock and betrayal I felt it was still there. He knows what I know. He is a Camden, and people always expect impossible things from a Camden. He has to be perfect for Mom and Dad, for the Colonel and Ruth, for Grandpa. He cannot be himself, my brother. He cannot have feelings of his own because he is a Camden. I do not understand his need, do not understand why something that to me is functional and everyday could have such power over him. But I do understand his pain. I too am a Camden.
As the day passes, I know that he will carry this with him always. So will I, now.
I return home.
He is there. In time I get him so we are by ourselves.
"Matt," I say to him.
"Leave me alone," he says.
"We have to talk."
"No."
"Matt, I won't tell. I promise."
His face softens. He seems smaller now than he used to be.
"You think I'm sick," he accuses. "You think I'm going to go to hell."
I shake my head. I wonder if the motion looks sincere.
"You want me to tell Dad," he then adds. "But I know him, how he is. He wouldn't understand. None of you understand."
"Does Sarah?" I ask.
He looks down, shrugs. "I haven't told her, Luce. I think she thinks I'm weird already. And I am."
"Are you going to tell her?"
He shrugs again.
"Matt, you have to. Someday she is going to figure it all out. Someday she is going to walk in on you like I did."
"No. I'll be more careful."
I watch him. I think, I hope, that he knows better than to believe that. He turns to go.
"There's one more thing, Matt," I say.
He looks at me. "What?"
"I want my underwear back. And I want you to swear to God that you will never take my underwear again, and swear that you will never take Mom's or Mary's or Ruthie's. I mean it."
He nods. "I'm so sorry, Luce. I just .... I'm afraid ...."
"Swear it."
A pause. He sighs. I can hear the pain in his sigh.
"I swear, Luce."
A moment later Mom and Dad and Sarah return. Tonight we will have dinner at the Glass's. I hurry upstairs to shower and change.
#
I find that my three pairs of missing panties have been discretely slipped into the next load of laundry. I can't wear them again; instead I take them and deposit them at the Goodwill office near our church. As I do I cannot help but think of Matt, of my brother, and of myself.
I am different now. This is more than Matt. It is me, what I think, what I feel. All my life I have been taught that right and wrong are simple things, easily discerned. All my life I have knelt before God and prayed for answers, and the answers have come simply, in black and white.
But no more. Matt has changed this. With his fetish, with his pain, with his shame and his fear, he has made me see that not all the answers are simple, that the Bible is only a guide, not a rulebook. Answers are a kaleidoscope of colors and grays, and they do not always come easily.
I think about the Ministry. What Matt does, what he feels, some call a sin. I know that Dad would call it such, as would the Colonel. I know that in Deuteronomy 22:5 it is called an abomination.
But I cannot accept this.
I will not. I will not accept a God or a father who tell me that I am to hate my brother for something as innocent as this. I will not accept that there is only one way to be a man, or a woman.
I will not sit idly by.
#
Matt keeps his promise; I have been arranging my underwear drawer so I always know what is where; I will know if it is disturbed. I am aware that this is unnecessary; however foolish Matt may be, he is a man of his word. But I know as well what his promise costs him.
It is in his eyes, in how he passes by the hamper, by the clean wash as Mom innocently lays it out to be collected. I know he sees these things and that he wants them, that he needs them, that it is only his word that keeps him from touching, from feeling, from surrendering to the desire he cannot control.
I ask him, from time to time, how he is. Things are busy now; he and Sarah are preparing to leave for school. His answers are always short and I can sense the agony behind them.
"I'm fine."
I have sat in the back carrels of the library and read what I can about men who wear women's clothes. I have seen Matt in these books, in these pained accounts of men who in fact love women perhaps too much, who we are all told to point at with shame, who in fact do no harm. And as I read I see, more and more, what I must do.
#
We meet in the unfinished garage apartment. He is nervous here and looks down at me as I lock the door. Back in the house he and Sarah have been packing a few last things to be shipped; tomorrow they will board a plane and fly off to medical school.
"I have something for you," I tell him. "Because you kept your word to me."
He watches me. I present him with a box in a brown paper bag.
"Open it," I tell him.
He does. The brown paper rattles in the quiet of the unfinished room.
It is a small box; white and unremarkable. I watch him as he pulls back the lid.
They are the same style as the ones he took from me; feminine, satin, with lace and bows. Three pairs. New. They will fit him; I took his waist size from a pair of his briefs in the hamper. His voice breaks as he speaks.
"Luce --"
I watch him as he trembles, as he reaches with a tentative finger and touches the soft satin.
"I can't completely understand this," I tell him. "I don't suppose I ever will. But I don't think that matters. I still love you."
The panties are soft and nearly sheer in his hand. They're not heavy.
He's my brother.
THE END