Free A Kind of Justice by Renee James

squats low, arms outstretched to welcome the toddler and shower her with grandmotherly love and affection.It’s a socially acceptable way to avoid any further contact with me and to exert her superiority as a genetic woman.
    Robbie begins an enthusiastic toddler run toward us, arms up-stretched, face smiling. Five feet away it’s clear she is ignoring her grandmother and making a beeline to me. “Aunt Bobbi!” she squeals.
    As her grandmother teeters in a painful squat, the child wraps her arms around my leg and hugs me. Ordinarily, I would have caught her as she ran to me and lifted her in my arms for a big hug and kiss, but I didn’t want to upstage her grandparents. She only sees her grandparents every couple of months, and I’m sure the time together is formal and cold. These people have the human warmth of a plastic Jesus.
    Robbie and I hug. Betsy’s mom struggles to her feet and walks off. Betsy’s dad follows. Betsy and I make eye contact. I mouth the words, “I’m sorry.” She shakes her head as if to say, forget it.
    When Robbie and I finish our love ritual, I encourage her to give her grandparents a hug. I can’t stand the assholes, but they are Robbie’s family.
    Robbie looks at them hesitantly. They’re standing ten feet away from us, side by side in silence, two sourpusses having a bad day.
    â€œYou could make them very happy if you give them a hug and a kiss,” I say.
    Robbie looks at me, looks at them, looks at me. She smiles, eyes dancing. The fact that I’m watching seems to help. She toddles to them and lights up their lives with innocent affection.
    I pay my condolences to Don’s parents, who I know from dinners at Betsy and Don’s place. I also meet several of Don’s friends. They react like a lot of people do when they meet me. They are pleasant but uncertain what to say. I tell them that I was a friend of Don’s and Betsy’s and that Don was a consultant on my business venture. “We all lost something when that fine man was taken,” I tell them.
    They smile sadly. We establish eye contact. I offer a dainty handshake to each person in the group. Don’s father and friends return it.His mother and I exchange hugs. “He admired you, Bobbi,” she says. “I don’t know if you knew that, but he did. And he and Betsy used to worry about you when you were transitioning.”
    This is news to me. I knew Betsy was concerned, but I always figured Don’s involvement was just supporting his wife’s feelings.
    I hang around for another hour, making sure Betsy is okay. I kneel in front of the open casket without looking at Don. This open casket stuff creeps me out. But this is for Betsy. She knows it’s an act of love, as is the silent prayer I issue. An atheist’s prayer wishing for Betsy and Robbie to have rich and full lives, and an atheist’s promise to Don that I will do all in my power to make that happen and to make sure Robbie grows up knowing that her dad was a good man who loved her. I linger another few seconds as I wonder if Don’s concern for me might have motivated him to follow me the night Strand was killed. I dismiss the thought as fast as it comes to mind. Don wouldn’t have known anything about me and Strand. And besides, he was not a person who could kill someone, not unless they were a threat to his family.
    I engage in a few conversations. It turns out that North Shore people are a lot like people everywhere else, just richer. Some let the trans thing throw them, but a lot don’t.
    A half hour before closing time, I make my farewells. This is a night Betsy will spend with her parents. Tomorrow, I will attend the funeral but stay in the background and leave when it is over. It will be easier for Betsy that way, and a lot easier for her parents.
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    S UNDAY , A UGUST 17
    It’s Sunday and Cecelia has pulled her Cadillac