In One Person

born—and, in all likelihood, still was—a
man
. Naturally, no one had told
me
that Miss Frost was a man; after all, a lack of candor was endemic in my family.
    It occurred to me, as I stood looking at my frightened face in that mirror in the dimly lit foyer of the town library, where Tom Atkins had so recently startled himself, that almost anyone of a certain age in First Sister, Vermont, would have known that Miss Frost was a man; this surely included everyone over the age of forty who had seen Miss Frost onstage as an Ibsen woman in those amateur productions of the First Sister Players.
    I had subsequently found Miss Frost in the wrestling-team photos in the ’33 and ’34 yearbooks, where A. Frost was not quite so big and broad-shouldered; in fact, she’d stood so unsure of herself in the back row of those team photos that I had overlooked her.
    I’d overlooked her, too, in the Drama Club photographs. A. Frost was always cast as a woman; she’d been onstage in a variety of female roles, but wearing such absurd wigs, and with breasts so unsuitably big, that I had failed to recognize her. What a lark that must have been for the boys—to see their wrestling-team captain, Big Al, flouncing around onstage, pretending to be a
girl
! Yet, when Richard had asked Miss Frost if she’d ever been
onstage
—if she’d ever
acted
—she’d answered, “Only in my mind.”
    What a lot of lies! I was thinking, as I saw myself shaking in the mirror.
    “Is someone here?” I heard Miss Frost call. “Is that
you
, William?” she called, loudly enough that I knew we were alone in the library.
    “Yes, it’s me, Big Al,” I answered.
    “Oh, dear,” I heard Miss Frost say, with an exaggerated sigh. “I told you we didn’t have much time.”
    “There’s quite a lot you
didn’t
tell me!” I called to her.
    I saw that, in anticipation of my arrival, Miss Frost had already killed the lights in the main library. The light that glowed upward, from the bottom of the basement stairs—the basement door was open—bathed Miss Frost in a soft, flattering light. She sat at the checkout desk with her big hands folded in her lap. (I say the light was “flattering” because it made her look younger; of course that also might have been the influence of my seeing her in those old yearbooks.)
    “Come kiss me, William,” Miss Frost said. “There’s no reason for you
not
to kiss me, is there?”
    “You’re a
man
, aren’t you?” I asked her.
    “Goodness me, what makes a man?” she asked. “Isn’t Kittredge a man? You want to kiss
him
. Don’t you still want to kiss me, William?”
    I
did
want to kiss her; I wanted to do
everything
with her, but I was angry and upset, and I knew by the way I was shaking that I was very close to crying, which I didn’t want to do.
    “You’re a
transsexual
!” I told her.
    “My dear boy,” Miss Frost said sharply. “My dear boy, please don’t put a
label
on me—don’t make me a
category
before you get to know me!”
    When she stood up from her desk, she seemed to tower over me; when she opened her arms to me, I didn’t hesitate—I ran to her strong embrace, and kissed her. Miss Frost kissed me back, very hard. I couldn’t cry, because she took my breath away.
    “My, my—what a busy boy you’ve been, William,” she said, leading me to the basement stairs. “You’ve read
Giovanni’s Room
, haven’t you?”
    “Twice!” I managed to say.
    “
Twice
, already!
And
you’ve found the time to read those old yearbooks, haven’t you, William? I knew it wouldn’t take you long to get from 1931 to 1935. Was it that wrestling-team photo in ’35—was that the one that caught your eye, William?”
    “Yes!” I scarcely managed to tell her. Miss Frost was lighting the cinnamon-scented candle in her bedroom; then she turned off the reading lamp that was fastened to the headboard of her brass bed, where the covers were already turned down.
    “I couldn’t very well have kept you from seeing those old yearbooks—could I, William?” she went on saying. “I’m not welcome in the academy library. And if you hadn’t seen that picture of me in my wrestling days, surely somebody would have told you about me—eventually. I’m frankly astonished that someone
didn’t
tell you,” Miss Frost said.
    “My family doesn’t tell me much,” I told her. I was undressing as quickly as I could, and Miss Frost had already unbuttoned her blouse and taken off her skirt. This time, when