A Woman's Will

Willow watched Smalley and Cassandra dance awkwardly to the Vienna Waltz. "You give it a try," Smalley insisted and pulled Willow out of her chair.

Cassandra's hand felt warm in Willow's. They danced with more grace than Smalley displayed, and Smalley said Willow must be a natural.

"I've never danced a waltz before," she confessed.

Cassandra glowed when the song ended. She hugged Willow briefly as a "thank you" for the experience. Smalley looked at Willow with an urgent expression and mouthed the words, "Ask her."

Willow blushed and took Cassandra's hands in her own. Willow remained standing as Cassandra sat, and Willow said, "May I escort you to the Valentine's Day Cotillion?" Willow regretted giving in to the impulse before Cassandra completed a demure acceptance.

Smalley ordered Willow to attend the afternoon dance lesson with Cassandra as part of her required service to him. The pair enjoyed the undivided attention of a sinuous old instructor, and every muscle in Willow's body groaned after ninety minutes. Cassandra drove them to a coffee shop to chat.

"How do you like my brother?"

"I like him."

"He talks about you."

"That can't be good." Willow winced.

"Have you heard the rumors about him?"

"What rumors?" Willow hedged.

"That he's a transexual."

"He isn't, is he?"

"No."

The two women sat at a table for two like any other couple on a date. "Where did the rumors come from?" Willow tried to sound disinterested, but she wasn't entirely successful.

"He had cancer as a child. He's been smaller than the other boys since he was ten. The treatments stunted his growth and might have delayed puberty or something."

"I didn't know that was possible."

"It made him smaller and weaker even when he went into remission. He's overcompensating now."

"He doesn't look at all like a woman," Willow remarked.

Cassandra studied her date. "Well, anyway, he seems to like you."

Willow nodded and changed the subject. "So, what do we do at a cotillion besides dance?"

"There's a head table for the new debutantes. We're introduced to society, and you'll give me white roses. We'll eat. There will be some speeches. Then we dance."

It sounded simple enough. Willow silently thanked whatever god spared her from debutante balls and etiquette lessons when she was a teen. Some of her girlfriends had gone to school dances. An unattractive boy asked Willow to prom, but she had a built-in excuse to decline. She had attended a science fiction writer's convention across the country instead.

The best part of the convention was a session in the hotel bar. Her favorite authors spouted bullshit trying to one-up each other. She would have enjoyed it longer if the bartender hadn't kicked her out for being underage at the time.

Willow recounted the convention trip to Cassandra while struggling to mind her pronouns and keep the story gender neutral. Cassandra had read many of the same books Willow loved, and the conversation stretched well past dinnertime.

"Are you hungry?"

"Now that you mention it, I could eat a horse," Willow said.

"Let me take you to dinner. My treat," Cassandra offered.

"I better not. It doesn't seem right."

"Are you one of those men who can't let a woman pay?"

"Obviously not," Willow observed while gesturing to their table littered with cups and crumbs.

"Another time maybe?"

"I'd like it," Willow said with sincerity. She enjoyed Cassandra's company. "Could I trouble you for a ride home, though? The bus that stops here goes back downtown before I can circle back to my apartment."

"Can I see your apartment?"

"It's not a good idea. I have roommates. The place is a mess. It would make me uncomfortable."

"OK," Cassandra said, disappointed.

Willow assumed the next day would be bicycles since Smalley had already practiced the swimming and running legs of his triathlon. When he stepped out of the shower, Willow averted her eyes from the hypnotizing dance of his floppy bits. As he dressed, Smalley apologized for an unplanned diversion from routine. He needed to stop into work and resolve some dispute before he could resume training. Willow volunteered to meet him at the club in the afternoon, but he asked her to accompany him.

"It probably won't take long, and I want to hear all about your date with my sister."

Smalley parked in front of a nondescript one-story building not far from the club. He obtained a visitor's badge for "Will" and accepted a lanyard festooned with multiple badges and keys for himself. They walked down an aisle between humming machines with the sound of pneumatic drills and air puffing all around. Stark lighting glinted off the sparkling clean floor.

At the back of the shop, Smalley knocked on a door labeled General Manager and let himself in. To Willow's surprise, the General Manager turned out to be the dreaded Mrs. Woolport.

"Hello. You must be Will," she said without moving from behind her desk. Her eyes squinted, appraising.

Willow gave a brief head nod of acknowledgement, parroting a gesture she'd seen performed by men at the club.

"What's this about an injury?" Smalley seemed upset.

"As I said on the phone, I've already resolved the situation." Mrs. Woolport spoke respectfully but seemed to think the matter was closed.

"Call them both in here, and then check for a security video of the incident."

Mrs. Woolport followed directions, and within a few minutes, a middle-aged blind man and his twenty-something coworker sat in the visitor's chairs while Smalley and Willow stood against a wall. The blind man's guide dog gave Willow a brief sniff before settling on the floor at its master's feet.

"You reported an injury this morning?"

"Yes sir," the blind man confirmed. "I'm sorry."

"What happened?"

"I took the new dogs out of their pens one at a time to evaluate their temperaments. Kyle walked by with a Cell Dog, Bella, when the dog I was handling lunged."

Smalley looked angry. His expression caused Willow to shuffle further from him. She could almost feel the heat of rage boiling under his calm veneer.

"Is Bella OK?"

"Yes sir," Kyle said. "She has five stitches in her ear, but she'll keep it, no thanks to Malcolm."

"Your the one who reported the injury to the other dog?"

"Yes," Malcolm confirmed again.

Smalley turned to Kyle and asked, "Why didn't you report the injury?"

"I took Bella back to her kennel to evaluate the injury before calling a vet. I didn't know how serious it was because there wasn't much blood."

Smalley addressed Malcolm again. "Why didn't you control your dog, particularly an unfamiliar dog?"

"I'm sorry." He bordered on tears. "I didn't hear them approaching. I was giving the dog space to relax, and he just lunged. I had no warning."

"Do you understand how serious this is? Bella has nearly completed training. A fear of other dogs could reverse everything. We can't have aggression, fear, or even anxiety in a dog trusted with a person's wellbeing. You, more than anyone, should know that."

The blind man slumped with his head in his hands. His peaceful companion rested its muzzle on his lap. Kyle looked vindicated.

Mrs. Woolport returned with a video tape. She sat behind her desk to slide the tape into a VCR. Smalley walked behind her and watched over her shoulder. Willow crept close enough to see from an angle. The two dog handlers sat facing the desk awaiting judgement.

Video showed the events unfolding as described. The blind man sat cross legged on the floor outside a door marked "kennel." He gripped a long lead affixed to a medium-sized mutt. The dog twitched and snapped its head from side to side, appearing agitated. There was no audio, but the blind man was to singing or humming to calm the dog.

Kyle walked into the frame, holding Bella close on a short leash. As the pair approached the kennel door, the dog launched at Kyle. Bella was in the wrong place at the wrong time when the gray dog bit first her neck and then her ear.

"Has the vet checked Bella's neck, too?"

"Yes, sir," the workers said in unison.

"Why didn't you let Malcolm know you were about to pass?"

The younger worker shrugged. "I didn't think about it."

Smalley rubbed his forehead and sighed.

"I have another view," Mrs. Woolport interjected.

"Just a minute," Smalley seethed. "Mrs. Woolport," he turned his piercing eyes on her. "You said you resolved the situation. What action have you taken?"

"I added the new dog to the list of unsuitable candidates. I reprimanded Malcolm, and I told Kyle to spend the rest of the day looking after Bella."

"Alright. Show me the other video," Smalley snapped.

The second video displayed a dimly-lit corridor lined with wire cages. After several seconds, Kyle walked into frame using a hose to spray the concrete floor. He worked efficiently, spraying and then pushing water toward one of the cages only partly in view. Based on the water flow, Willow assumed there must be a drain under the cage. Kyle looked around and then directed the water into the cage. He spent several minutes using his thumb over the end of the hose to increase the pressure. A huge grin on Kyle's face could be interpreted as pride for a job well done.

"When was this video made?"

"Last night, sir," said Mrs. Woolport.

"Let me guess." Poison dripped from Smalley's words. "Wicked was in that cage."

"Yes sir. I checked before I returned." Her voice was flat.

Smalley rubbed his forehead some more. He paced in the small office, making everyone nervous. When he stopped, he stood with a straight back and said, "Kyle, you're fired. Don't bother getting your things. I'll have security bring them to you in the parking lot."

"That's not fair. You should fire him. I didn't do anything."

"You taunted and tortured a dog in my care. That hose puts out a lot of pressure, and the poor animal had no way to run or hide."

The look on Kyle's face confirmed his guilt.

"Out," Smalley shouted.

Mrs. Woolport picked up the phone and dialed security before Kyle backed out the door.

Willow sat outside Mrs. Woolport's office while she and Smalley attended to whatever matters remained. From her chair, Willow observed a dozen or more workers, almost all men, feeding material into enclosed machines. In the distance, several workers peered through microscopes at unidentifiable flat objects no bigger than playing cards.

"What do they make here?" she wondered, "and how are dogs involved?"

Smalley returned with Bella on a lead in one hand and the abused dog on a lead in the other. Both dogs trotted slightly behind the petite man. He stopped, and Bella sat. Wicked looked bewildered, but a sharp glare from Smalley resulted in a doggy ass planted on the floor with minute tail twitches, signaling an emotion Willow couldn't interpret.

"Will, meet Bella and Wicked. He's named after the 'Wicked Witch of the West' who also hates water."

Willow smiled. "Can I pet them?"

"Sure. Just approach Wicked slowly."

As the car pulled out of the lot, Bella curled in a ball on the floor, and Wicked rode on Willow's lap with his head out the window. The drive to Smalley's parents' house didn't take long, but Willow shivered from the early February wind through the window. Wicked's obvious joy made her discomfort worthwhile.

"What's a 'Cell Dog?'"

"Huh?"

Willow shouted over the wind noise. "You said 'Cell Dog' in the office."

"Oh. Bella's a Cell Dog. It's a program where puppies left at the pound are given to prisoners to raise and train. It's a reward for good behavior, and it helps the dogs."

"That's great," Willow smiled. "Why have two separate prisons, one for dogs and another for humans? Put them together and everyone benefits."

"Exactly," Smalley agreed. "The prisoners develop marketable skills in animal handling and training. The dogs learn basic obedience which makes them more adoptable. My company gets Cell Dogs with the right temperament for advanced training as guide dogs."

"What does your company do?"

"We make medical and assistive devices. Many of our employees are wounded veterans. Take that asshole, Kyle, for example. He lost part of his jaw in an explosion. You'd never know to look at him. We made his custom metal bone replacement and dental implants."

"You can do that with dogs around?"

"Sure. The shop mostly grinds metal in precision milling machines. The metal is sterilized and prepared for internal use at another facility."

Willow waited in silence as the car crunched gravel on the drive up to the house.

"The dogs were my idea," Smalley confided. "I started the program as a teenager. I got the whole thing certified before I finished high school."

"Is Wicked a Cell Dog, too?"

"No. He's a search-and-rescue dog. He's trained in wilderness tracking, natural disasters, mass casualty events, and locating missing people. He worked in Lebanon for several years, and I think he experienced the Beirut barracks bombing."

Willow and Cassandra played with the dogs while Smalley went for his bike ride. Willow expected to pace him in the car, but Smalley wanted her to watch the dogs. He said Bella needed to get comfortable with Wicked to avoid lasting timidity. Cassandra said, "Wicked just needs to have some fun."

When the dogs were exhausted from chasing toys and each other in the mansion's sprawling backyard, Cassandra revealed an extensive kennel behind some evergreen bushes. "We'll get you settled in nicely before din-din," she babbled in baby-talk.

Willow gushed about Smalley's company and the dogs to her roommates. One of them wondered if Willow was more in love with the dogs or Smalley. "I'm not in love," Willow protested. Her roommates humored her.

The next day was Saturday and involved swimming again. Willow showed up in the men's area already dressed in the wetsuit. It raised some eyebrows, but nobody commented until Smalley stepped out of the shower, bent over and laughed out loud. Willow blushed in part because she felt ridiculous, but also because of the way things bounced as he laughed. As Smalley dried his ankles, Willow watched his balls swing between his legs like clappers inside a bell. He tossed the damp towel at her, and she waddled to the hamper with a squeak-squeak sound of dry rubber on rubber.

"After the catastrophe last time, I thought I'd swim here at the club today," Smalley explained. "I'm sorry. I should have told you." He scanned up and down her skin-tight wetsuit and suggested, "Go change back into your uniform, or a bathing suit if you like. I'm going to need your help in the pool."

Willow marched through the maze of corridors to the employee break room where her uniform waited in a locker. She sensed something wrong before she turned the last corner to discover Stephanie pressed against the wall by the time clock. Denim had a hand inside her uniform shirt and his mouth nibbling her neck. Both of them emitted sounds of pleasure.

Willow envied her coworkers. She'd heard about "grope and hope" sessions in the backs of cars. Her roommates sometimes teased her with more graphic descriptions. Willow's fantasy man was prone to kissing a trail up her stomach before nuzzling her nipple. She wanted to feel it.

Stephanie made eye contact with Willow. Denim continued to grope as Willow frantically gestured with hands and mouthed the words, "I need to change."

Stephanie rolled her eyes and pushed Denim away. He staggered back a step and wailed, "Oh, baby, don't stop now."

"Go back to work," she chided. "We're both on the clock. I'll make it up to you later."

Denim noticed Willow and said, "Shit, dude. What's with the wetsuit? You are a freak." He smacked Willow with a flat hand on her back and muttered, "This place gets more fucked up every day."

As soon as Denim turned the corner, Willow begged, "Keep lookout for me. I need to change in a hurry. Please?"

"Alright, Will." Stephane exaggerated the name. "Sometime soon you need to explain this." She leaned against the corner where she could see down the hall as well as the break area.

Willow wasted no time grabbing her uniform from a locker. It took forever to wiggle out of the wetsuit, and Stephanie laughed more than once. Willow hopped on one foot trying to get her other leg free when Stephanie said, "I'm glad you really are a girl. I was starting to forget."

Willow paused. She stood naked with the cumbersome suit piled at her feet. Stephanie didn't look away, and Willow blushed. Willow's hand, outside of conscious control, brushed her exposed breasts before she noticed and withdrew it. Stephanie raised eyebrows again when Willow dressed in white men's briefs.

"Why Denim?" Willow wondered aloud.

"He's good-looking."

"Yeah, but he's dumb as a post."

"I'm not interested in his brains," Stephanie mumbled.

Willow pulled the uniform shirt over her head.

"You're very pretty," Stephanie confided. "You hide yourself under clothes that don't fit, I don't know why. If you were a few inches taller, you could be a model."

Willow blushed. "Thanks," she said, "for the compliment and for helping." Willow gave Stephanie a brief hug on the way out. The gesture surprised both of them.

The indoor pool ranged from three feet deep to ten at the far end. A nearby hot tub bubbled, and fog swirled over the heated water. Willow found Smalley engrossed in conversation with Mrs. Woolport at the shallow end.

"Hello, Will," Mrs. Woolport greeted him. "How's your sister?"

"She wishes she could be here."

Mrs. Woolport said, "I'll bet," and then asked Smalley, "Have you met Will's sister, Willow?"

"No. Not yet."

"I'll have to introduce you sometime. I think she'll make an impression."

Smalley looked sideways and seemed to wonder what inside joke he missed. He changed the subject. "Will, I plan to swim sixty laps today. That should be one-point-five kilometers. I need you to keep count for me." He kicked off the wall and used an efficient freestyle stroke to propel himself away.

"He's very fit," Mrs. Woolport observed.

"Yes."

"And good-looking."

"Oh, yes," Willow breathed and then remembered who she was talking to.

"I know you don't have a brother."

"Why haven't you said anything? I've been put through the ringer trying to play Will."

"Once I realized you really are a girl, back in the changing room when Shirley had the audacity to spout that bullshit, it amused me to see what would happen."

"It's been two weeks."

"You mean you haven't enjoyed your time with Mr. Hamilton?"

"Two," Willow shouted and Smalley performed a flip turn. It took her a moment to connect the dots and remember Smalley's real name, Gregory Hamilton.

"Are you going to tell him? Why haven't you called the police or gotten Shirley and me fired, or something?"

"Shirley is a tough pill to swallow, but I admire her in some ways," Mrs. Woolport confided. "I think the world of young Mr. Hamilton. He is the son of my boss after all. When he got involved with you, I didn't want to interfere or create a scandal."

"Four," Willow shouted. "I haven't been sleeping. It's been nerve-wracking."

"Really? I envy you. There's quite a few members I'd like to see in the shower."

"I'm getting numb to it." Willow realized the truth as she said it.

"You're in love with him, aren't you?"

"Yes, but--"

"But nothing. He needs to meet Willow. He deserves the truth."

"It's more complicated than that. Cassandra is involved now. Oh, God; I'm escorting her to the cotillion on Valentine's Day."

The two women watched Smalley complete lap sixteen. Willow longed to tell Smalley the truth but feared the consequences. She didn't want to humiliate Cassandra. She didn't want to see betrayal in Smalley's eyes.