“Have you got this in a larger size?”
“What size would you like?”
“How do the sizes work?”
“Well an eight is about my size.”
“I need it for someone bigger.”
“Are they big-boned or are they tall?”
“Tall.” Wayne was guessing now. He suspected the salesgirl did not want to say the word fat. He was not fat.
“You can bring it back if it doesn’t suit. You have to return it within fourteen days, unworn and with the tags attached. Would you like to try a twelve or a fourteen?”
“Fourteen.”
Wayne wondered how the salesgirl would know if a garment had been worn. He wondered how long you had to wear something before the fact of your having worn it would show. He paid for the sweater and went into a shoe store. Women’s shoes were small. But it was not just that they were small. They had insubstantial soles. He picked up a black pump. It was light as a piece of toast. He couldn’t imagine standing in it without the whole thing crumbling. He was five feet nine and weighed 150 pounds, and he knew there were women of that height and weight who were considered normal women. But these shoes did not seem to him to be able to support his weight. Were male pounds denser than female pounds?
A clerk saw him standing with the shoe in his hand. He saw a woman’s lace-up walking shoe on a bottom shelf. It looked more promising, but still, the toe was tapered.
“Do you have this shoe,” he asked, “in a size ten?” Wayne remembered that when they were children, Wally Michelin’s feet had been the same size as his own, but the sizes on their shoes had been different.
“We have up to forty-one in European sizes. That’s about a ten. It depends on the make.”
“Can I see it?”
She brought the shoe and with it a green shoe Wayne liked. It was the colour of birch leaves, and he bought the pair. In Suzy Shier there were plain skirts with a back slit that came just past the knee, but he could not bring himself to buy a skirt. Behind the skirts were pants made of the same materiaclass="underline" women’s slacks. What made them women’s? He held a pair and regarded its seams. They were flatter than men’s seams. Women’s slacks were held together much more lightly. He paid twenty-nine dollars and hoped they would not fall apart. A sign proclaimed a three-for-ten-dollar special on ladies’ trouser socks. It said they were a staple in any woman’s wardrobe, and Wayne bought some.
He wanted to change in the washroom but knew he couldn’t go in the men’s toilets to do this. There was a washroom whose door had a blue wheelchair painted on it, and when he opened the door he saw this was just one room, with a toilet, sink and mirror, and he went in. He put the sweater on, and the slacks and the green shoes. He put his old shirt and jeans and work boots in the Fairweather bag and the shoe store bag. He stayed in there for a long time and checked that the door was locked. He looked at himself in the mirror. He was shaven and wearing the slacks and the shoes, but it was still impossible for him to tell whether he looked anything like a woman. He suspected he did not. The only way he could see how the shoes looked on him was if he raised his knee very high and rested one foot on the platform in front of the mirror. There was a small heel on the shoe, half an inch, and it did look like a convincing slope, his foot sloping into the green leather the way women’s feet sloped. He kept his eye on the door handle, and when the handle moved, he tried to put his foot back on the floor and he lost his balance and wrenched his leg. He took the slacks off and put his jeans back on, with the new socks still on under them. But then he changed his mind again. He put the slacks back on, and the shoes. The shoes were tight. He wished they had had the next size up. He wished he could see himself from the back. If he saw himself from the back he might get a fresh perspective. He might know whether or not his body had anything like a feminine air. The mall was a place with hundreds of people in it, maybe a thousand people, and none of them knew him. He could walk through it once and see how it felt. He decided to go to the drugstore and buy himself a hand mirror so he could look at the back of his body in the mirror. He could not remember the last time he had seen the back of his body, or if he had ever seen it.
It was hard to find something as small as a hand mirror among the multitudes of products in the drugstore. As he searched he came across the hosiery rack, and decided to buy a pair of extra-sheer stockings for a five-foot-nine person weighing between 145 and 160 pounds. The shoes might feel more comfortable with stockings instead of the socks. As he carried the stockings past an island stacked with pots of makeup, a man spoke. The man was bigger than Wayne, with hair that came to his shoulders. He had a kind face. He held a brush with a gold handle.
“Would you like to have a consultation?”
“What?”
“I am here for Lancôme. If you would like, I can show you how to apply colours that are best for your face. You have no obligation to buy anything. If you do not have time I understand completely.”
The man had the kind face of Robin Williams. He looked like the kind of man who would be riding on a motorcycle through the hills with a little boy, his son, in a movie. The movie would be all about how he tried to take care of his son through heartbreaking circumstances. He was looking at Wayne now and offering him a makeup consultation with no trace of irony. There was nothing quizzical in his face. Either he believed Wayne was a woman or he had chosen to treat him with dignity. Wayne could not tell which. There was a stool under a lamp and Wayne sat on it.
“Women’s beauty goes beyond appearances,” said the man who looked like Robin Williams. “It is an emotion on the very surface of your skin.”
“I’ve never worn makeup.”
“We believe every woman is beautiful. I am not going to do anything to your face that will be harsh or look unnatural.”
“I wouldn’t know the first place to start.”
“We start with a coat of foundation.” The makeup artist dabbed a dot on Wayne’s face. It was hard for Wayne not to laugh at the idea of foundation coated on his face. The procedure reminded him of painting walls. But the makeup artist had such a sympathetic face, and was so careful with his touch, Wayne did not want to hurt him.
“I am going to blend the foundation on one half of your face and show you.” Wayne closed his eyes and let the makeup artist brush the paint on his cheek and eyelid, his forehead and chin. He wondered what the artist’s real name was. He was afraid he might accidentally call him Robin. There was something incredibly relaxing about sitting in the stool under the white light and having your face brushed so gently. Wayne wondered if the makeup artist had any idea how it felt to receive his work.
“If you go out,” the artist said, “and it rains, even if you swim, it will be all right. It will not run or smear. Even if you cry. Life is life after all, and maybe you will cry.”