to a church dinner; she was to baby-sit. I was maybe ten at the time. Innocent as a kitten.”
Marcia gave him her beer to finish. She wasn’t certain whether Freddie could walk as far as the keg.
Freddie shook his head. “Well, I was just a simple little boy in a house full of girls. Middle of the 1950s. I think one of the sorority girls had smuggled in a bottle of vodka. They were very giggly, I remember.
“So they said they’d initiate me into their sorority. They had those great big lollipops that were the fad then, and I wanted one. But I had to join the sorority.
“So they got out some of my sisters’ clothes, and they stripped me down. Hadn’t been too long before that that my mother or sister would bathe me, so I hadn’t a clue. Well, they dressed me up in a trainer bra with tissue padding, pink panties, a pretty slip, lace petticoats, one of my fourteen-year-old sister’s party dresses, a little garter belt, hose, and heels. I got the whole works. I was big enough that between my two sisters they could fit me into anything.
I thought it was all good fun because they were all laughing—like when I asked why the panties didn’t have a Y-front.
“They made up my face and lips and tied a ribbon in my hair, gave me gloves, a handbag, and little hat. Now I knew why sissy girls took so long to get dressed. When Mom and Dad got home they presented me to them as little Frederika.”
“Did you get a whipping?” Marcia asked.
Freddie finished Marcia’s beer. “No. My folks thought it was funny as hell. My mom loved it. Dad couldn’t stop laughing and got out his camera. This was 1955. They even called the neighbors over for the show. My family never let me live it down.
“Pretty little Frederika! After that I demanded to get a crew cut once a week. So now I’m fat, ugly and bald.”
“Times were different then,” Marcia suggested.
“Hell, there’s nothing wrong with me! I was a Marine in Nam. I got a wife and three sons.” Freddie pointed to where his plump wife was dancing with an old flame. “It didn’t make me queer!”
“It only made you bald,” said Grant. “Overcompensation. Physical response to emotional trauma.”
“You should’ve been a shrink instead of a surgeon.” Freddie lurched off for more beers all around. He had either drunk or spilled half of them by the time he returned. He was too drunk to remember to be embarrassed but would hate his soul-baring in the morning.
Marcia picked up the thread of conversation. “Well, teasing from your siblings won’t cause hair loss.” She flounced her mass of chestnut curls. “If that were true, then I’d be bald, too.”
“Girls don’t have hair loss,” Freddie said, somewhat mopishly. “Thank you, but I’m a mature forty-three.” Marcia regretted the stiffness in her tone immediately. Freddie might be macho, but he was a balding, unhappy drunk who had once been her unrequited dream date right behind Grant. Forget it: Freddie was about as much in touch with feminists as she was with BMW fuel-injection systems.
Marcia Meadows had aged well, despite a terrible marriage, two maniac teenage sons, and a demanding career in fashion design.
She now had her own modest string of boutiques, had recently exhibited to considerable approval at several important shows, and was correctly confident that a few more years would establish her designs on the international scene. She had gained perhaps five pounds since high school and could still wear a miniskirt to flattering effect—as she did tonight with an ensemble of her own creation. She had a marvelous smile, pixie features, and lovely long legs, which she kept crossing, hoping to catch the eye of Grant McDade. This weekend’s return to Pine Hill was for her something of an adventure. She wondered what might lie beneath the ashes of old fantasies.
“I had—still have—” Marcia corrected herself, “two older brothers. They were brats. Always teasing me.” She sipped her fresh beer. “Still do. Should’ve been drowned at birth.”
Her hands fluttered at her hair in reflex. Marcia had an unruly tangle of tight chestnut-brown curls, totally unmanageable. In the late 1960s it had passed as a fashionable Afro. Marcia had long since given up hope of taming it. After all, miniskirts had come back. Maybe Afros?
“So what did they do?” Freddie prodded.
“Well, they knew I was scared of spiders. I mean, like I really am scared of