Free Cross Dressing by Bill Fitzhugh

he said. “She’s not feeling well. I think she just wants to get some rest.” Ruth never looked up, never spoke. She felt like damaged goods being shuffled from one storage facility to another.
    “I understand,” Sister Peg said. “I’ve got her room ready.” She looked at her watch. “Let’s take her up and then I’ll give you the nickel tour if we’ve got time.”
    “Perfect.” Father Michael gently urged his mom toward the house.
    Sister Peg was encouraged by Father Michael’s sweet demeanor and tender smile. The way he walked by his mother’s side instead of walking ahead of her revealed the sort of patience and kindness and respect that most people didn’t bother with anymore. She was glad to have him here.
    Sister Peg showed Father Michael and Ruth to Mr. Smith’s old room. It was the smallest bedroom in the house and the only one with privacy. While Father Michael unpacked her small suitcase, Ruth sat on the edge of her new bed, looking out the window in silence. “Get some rest, Mom. I’ll check in on you later.” He gave her a kiss on the head.
    Outside, Father Michael told Sister Peg about the stolen-truck escapade but assured her that his mom was back on her medication. Sister Peg told him not to worry. “Your mom’s in good hands,” she said with a reassuring smile. She looked at her watch again. “I’ve got to be across the Valley in half an hour, so I’ll show you around real quick, then I’ve got to go.” She showed him the rest of the second floor. There were eight bedrooms off the hallway, most of which were occupied by elderly residents. There was a community bathroom at the end of the hall. Next to that was a small room outfitted with a card table and two old jigsaw puzzles.
    At the bottom of the stairs they paused at another bedroom. Inside was a young girl, about seven. Sister Peg tapped on the door. “Hi, Alissa. This is Father Michael.”
    Alissa looked up with wary green eyes. She had feathery blond bangs draped across her forehead. The bruises healing on her face were ghastly blue-gray patches. Her arms looked like evidence photos. She was sitting on the floor with her back to the wall. She had been playing with an old doll until these two adults showed up in the doorway. She put the doll in her lap and eyed them skeptically.
    Father Michael started into the room, but Sister Peg stopped him. Alissa tensed noticeably, her face suddenly conveyinga toughness that said she could take any abuse that came her way. “It’s okay,” Sister Peg said. “We’re not going to bother you.” Sister Peg led Father Michael down the hall. “Her father,” she said. Her tone was uncomplimentary and explained the bruises. “I’ve got custody until he gets out of County.”
    “Mother’s in jail too?”
    “Don’t even know who she is,” Sister Peg said. She looked at Father Michael and didn’t need to say anything else. She had seen this story a thousand times before, and he had seen much worse. They walked the rest of the way down the hall in silence. Father Michael, wondering if that sort of thing would ever end. Sister Peg, thinking of the Old Testament, the part about an eye for an eye.
    Sister Peg quickly showed Father Michael the kitchen, the dining room, her office, and, finally, the TV room where many of the Care Center’s older residents spent their days and nights living vicariously better lives through television. The only one there at the moment was Mr. Saltzman, a gnarled seventy-eight-year-old who looked like he had suffered more than most. He was sitting on the front edge of his chair, his thick arms folded tight against his chest. A few strands of white hair drifted over his liver-spotted scalp. He was watching
Eyewitness Action On-the-Spot News
, covering the latest high-speed chase on L.A. freeways. “Stupid bastards,” he muttered to no one.
    Sitting on the far side of the room, near a window, was a big Hispanic kid. He was a sixteen-year-old in an