Shame

were thought of as backward people. You might wonder why a culture would have a prized place for people who did everything differently. A heyoka might go naked in winter and dress warmly in the summer. A heyoka might walk everywhere backward, and dry himself before bathing, and laugh at the tragic, and cry at the hilarious. By acting in such a way, the heyoka brought a sense of the absurd to the tribe. The heyoka made the Lakota think and see things differently. In our lives, we have also been the bringers of reality change.”
    Caleb stifled the urge to say
bullshit.
“You make it sound as if we’re on some kind of a holy mission,” he said. “You wear women’s clothing, and I’m the son of a serial murderer. There’s nothing holy about either one of those things.”
    “Are you sure? Your presence reminds anyone who knows your history that life is short and fragile and something that shouldn’t be taken for granted.”
    “My presence reminds people that there are sick and twisted individuals in this world. My presence reminds people to lock their windows and doors. I never wanted to be someone else’s reality check. And I don’t want to walk backward.”
    “Then why do you?”
    “At least I don’t do it in a dress.”
    A long moment passed, then Caleb said, “I’m sorry.”
    “I didn’t take offense.”
    “I know you’re trying to help. I’m sort of numb from everything that’s happened. I still can’t think clearly. I just feel like screaming, ‘This is so goddamn unfair.’”
    “I know the words to that scream if you need a chorus.”
    “If it was only me, that would be one thing, but it’s not. My family’s going to have to go through hell.”
    “You have children?”
    A nod; a brief smile for a good memory. “A boy and a girl. Janet’s ten, and James is eight.”
    “Do you have pictures?”
    “Not on me.”
    The only pictures he was carrying were of a dead woman. Remembering that made him feel all the more helpless. Caleb started touring the room again, his way of avoiding personal questions. He paused in front of another painting. Center stage was a woman singing. She wore a translucent gossamer gown with a long train. Behind her was an elaborate stage with nymphs lolling by a stream and fauns playing harps.
    “Another man dressed as a woman?” Caleb asked.
    “In a manner of speaking,” Lola said. “He’s a castrato.”
    Caleb didn’t ask the question, but Lola answered anyway. “Becoming a transsexual has never been a goal or desire of mine.”
    “Why the painting?”
    “It’s pretty. And it’s a reminder of the long history of gender-bender entertainment that even the Western world has accepted.”
    Caleb moved on to the last painting. It was centered over the fireplace, the focal point of the room. He examined the work closely. Two warring tribes were fighting. Caleb could see nothing in the hand-to-hand combat that suggested a man in woman’s clothing. Pictured were braves, many of them fighting to the death. One brave in particular was leading the charge. Several enemies had fallen around him.
    “His name is Osh-Tisch,” said Lola, “which in Crow means ‘Finds Them and Kills Them.’ The scene is drawn from the Battle of the Rosebud in 1876.”
    “Is there some significance that I’m missing?”
    “Osh-Tisch was a Crow Two-Spirit. On the day of the battle he took off his feminine garments and put on men’s clothing. His bravery during the fight became renowned.”
    “Why do you think he changed clothes?” Caleb asked.
    “Anthropologists would probably tell you that the berdache fulfilled a sacred role and that by changing his clothes he was able to step out of that role.”
    “Is that what you think?”
    “Yes. But I also think he didn’t want to ruin a perfectly good outfit. Finding just the right women’s clothing is such a chore.”

15

    “L AST NIGHT YOU said you talked with the suspect at a doughnut shop, is that correct, Ms. Line?” Detective Holt was being the hard-nosed cop. He had directed her to the Parkers’ dining room table and had chosen to sit at its head, as if assuming the role of the patriarch. Detective Alvarez was interviewing Anna Parker in the living room. The murmurs of their conversation could just be heard.
    “That’s right,” Elizabeth said.
    “And what doughnut shop was that?”
    “You know which doughnut shop. Why the question?”
    “Do you remember anything unusual about last night?”
    Elizabeth tried to