The first part of her plan was direct and simple: “Get up and get back on the horse.” We made a list of the firms where I had contacts that might have a suitable opening. The number wasn’t as large as you might think, given that I was looking all over the Philadelphia area. Firms who are hiring want students fresh out of school, or at most with a couple years of experience. I was six years out of law school. They could find a younger lawyer, pay him less, and train him their way. I spent the evening putting together a resume and some cover letters; my wife reviewed it and drove to the all night copy store. First thing Friday morning I hand delivered the resumes to the dozen firms that seemed promising. By early afternoon I was home, making follow up calls to the managing partners.

Marilyn was working late Friday night, which was probably for the best. By the time she got home, I’d had a few hours to reflect on what had happened. And to get stinking drunk, drunker than I’d been for years. Looking back, that explains a lot.

I told her that I’d talked to every managing partner I could and that there wasn’t a firm in Philadelphia that would touch me. The calls said, thanks, but we’re not interested and don’t want to hear from you again. My old firm must have put the word out. I was toast. I said I’d talked to a buddy from law school at one of the firms. He said he didn’t know what I’d done and didn’t want to know, but if any of the word on the street was true, I couldn’t get a job fixing traffic tickets. His advice was to lie about what I’ve been doing for the last six years, ‘cause if they ever check up on me, the old firm will fuck me over, sure as God made little green apples.

I remember that she seemed calm, and that she said I was going to have a hangover in the morning because I wasn’t used to drinking anymore. When I didn’t say anything, she started to talk. I was so drunk that most of it went past me.

She said she was late getting home because she was reviewing our finances on the office computer. Without my income, we were in a bind. We had gone way out on a limb, putting the electrolysis, the drama coaching, the drugs and the medical care, on my card, on top of all our regular expenses. There was no way we could pay it. And we needed money for the parties she needed to throw.

She said something about me having three assets; my pension, my car, and my half interest in the house. She said I should transfer them all to her now, and then I would file bankruptcy and get rid of the credit card debt. We would lose a little on early withdrawal of the pension but we would have access to some cash now. I remember asking if there was any other way and she said no, I should sign the papers. She had them with her; the deed to the house, the car title, and the papers to withdraw my pension and transfer it to her. The way she made it sound, it seemed like the right way to go. I was so drunk I had trouble holding the pen; she helped me sign my name. Then she signed everything as the witness. The ones that needed notarizing, she said she’d take care of at her office. She said something about having to wait a couple of months before making the actual bankruptcy filing, something about the trustee avoiding preferences. I didn’t follow it, and just then, I didn’t care. All I knew was that the room was spinning around and the sooner we stopped talking and the papers got signed, the sooner I could go to bed.

The next morning I had a hell of a hangover. It was she who came in to wake me instead of our usual routine. “How are you feeling?” she asked. She looked concerned.

“Mmm. Like I drank a whole bottle of red on am empty stomach.”

“I brought you coffee.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It seems funny, you bringing me coffee.”

“We’ll be back to the old way tonight. With some adjustments.”

“Adjustments?”

“This is big. This opens lots of opportunities.”

“It’s hard to feel that way right now.”

“You need to see this as an opportunity.” There was excitement in her voice. “With you as a maid full time, we can definitely add some mid-week parties. And some Sunday brunches. We can entertain the heck out of our client base. I met with my supervisor and he gave me some ideas for guest lists.”

All I could think about was my headache. “You’re thinking this is an opportunity for you, not a disaster for me?”

“We have to make of it what we can. Think positive.”

“My career—“

“For right now, is over. Give it a rest for a year. And I don’t want to jinx it, but if I make partner you won’t need to work. Except as the maid, of course.”

“It’s not about having to work.”

“Now, don’t grumble. We can’t go back. Well, that’s not true.” She gave a suggestive smile. “When you’ve finished your coffee, there’s a place you have I’d like to get back to.”

“I’m not in the mood.”

She gave a long sigh. “I guess I have to make allowances for a thing like this.”

“That would be nice.”

She was determined to be cheerful despite my sour mood. “Ok, I was going to wait a couple of weeks but today will do. I have a present for you.”

“Where is it?”

“It’s not a thing; it something to do. I’m going to get your mind off your troubles. Put on some casual clothes and let’s go.”

I finished my coffee, threw on a sweatshirt and jeans over my bra and panties, and got in the car. She wouldn’t say where we were going and I didn’t ask. I mainly felt sorry for myself and tried to think about the future. It did not look good. Last night she’d said something about me going out individually on a bankruptcy on the credit card debt; I couldn’t remember the details and what I did recall, I wasn’t sure I heard right. But none of my memories of last night were good.

The first stop was the mall, she took me into a mid priced department store and led me to the women’s section. “You’re going to have some shopping therapy,” she explained. “You need a basic wardrobe so you can go outside. All you have is inside clothes. Pick out whatever you like.”

“Like, what?”

“Some dresses for the summer. Something loose, I think, not too form fitting; you still need to lose a little weight and your hips haven’t filled in. And maybe sleeves to hide the arms? Your arms are getting thinner, but maybe we should cover up for now. And a nice two piece bathing suit; you can wear that in the backyard on warm days when you’re gardening. Get some nice tan lines. And a purse and pantyhose . . . We’ll go to a shoe store for shoes. Oh—I’ll get you a set of B cup bra forms.” She giggled. “We don’t have time to wait for them to grow in.”

“We’re broke and we’re buying clothes?”

“No. You’re the one who’s broke. And we’re not buying anything expensive. Come on, I meant what I said about shopping therapy. It’s something women do. You’re most of the way there. Enjoy it.”

“You want me to dress as a woman . . . more?”

“And why not?”

It was a good question. The clothes were pretty and her mood was infectious; we toured the aisles, selecting this and rejecting that. The way the dresses were cut there was no need to try them on for fit; and anyway, the way my body was changing they would fit differently in a few months. And there was no need to think about anyone else. No one would been able to tell who the clothes were for.

It struck me that I was unemployed and we were going to run up quite a bill. “Who’s paying for this?’ I whispered. “Don’t worry; this one’s on me.” She giggled. “It’s going to have to be from now on.”

The next stop was the beauty shop we used. The beautician welcomed walk-ins and she wasn’t busy. My wife explained that we wanted to do a dress rehearsal for the Halloween party, just to see how I would look. The “full treatment,” were the words she used. She said she had errands to run and would be back for me later.

The kid running the shop was serious for a change. “Can I ask you a personal question?”

“I guess so.”

She hesitated. “You know, we’ve been doing the makeup and hair style now awhile . . . and this party of yours is months away. Is this about the party?” She stumbled over her words. “I’m not being nosy; it would help me to know. If somebody is doing a party I put on the makeup heavy, like they would be on stage. But if it’s not that, if it’s just . . . everyday, I would go lighter.”

“Everyday.” A word that women use, to describe clothes, and now she was asking it of me. Every day. Not a few minutes in the morning and after dinner. Not secret lingerie under my male clothes.

“That’s right,” I said. “Everyday.”

She nodded and went to work. She did what she could to put my hair in a feminine style, and put on makeup, mascara and eye shadow. There was a manicure and pedicure. She thought I should go with a bold red nail polish, to focus attention on the nails and not the size of my hands. I chickened out and went with clear, but I let her do my toes bright red.

By the time it was dry, Marilyn was back. She came back to the cubicle and admired how I looked. She handed me a box; inside was one of our purchases; a pretty floral sun dress with short sleeves, a modest scoop neck, and a belt. “Go ahead,” she said. “Try it on. And pass me your old clothes.”

I went into the bathroom and stripped down to my bra and panties. I shook out the dress and held it against me in front of the mirror. It felt so soft against my skin. I opened the zipper and slipped it over my head. It fit me great. It was the first real dress I’d been in, not counting the maid’s uniforms. I looked at myself in the mirror, barely recognizing myself.

I opened the door a crack and passed her my clothes. She looked me carefully up and down, and smiled. “Yes, it’s true. You can pass.”

I looked in the mirror and ran my hands over my face in disbelief. I looked like a woman. Flat chested and skinny in the hips, but definitely like a woman. I shivered as the air conditioning blew on my bare legs. “My God,” I whispered. “Things were happening so slowly, and now this.”

“You worked hard to get here, you deserve this.”

“A different person is looking back at me in the mirror” I said. “It’s like magic.”

“Nothing magical about it. Science and hard work.” She smiled. “But you’re right, the result is still magic. Now take a minute to comb your hair. It got mussed when you put your dress on.”

When I had my hair fixed I opened the bathroom door again. “Ready?” She handed me a purse with my wallet keys and comb inside.

I stuck my head out the door. “Where are my clothes?”

“The shop needed some rags, so I cut them up. Let’s go.”

I panicked. “I thought I was just trying something on . . . You mean, right now, like this? Go outside?”

She took my hand. “The first time is going to be scary, whether it’s now or in two months. The sooner you do it, the better.”

I gathered my courage and stepped out into the beauty shop. The stylist watched me with delight and pride in her work. “Cool,” she whispered as I walked by. She stopped me, dabbed a bit of her own perfume behind my ears and gave me a hug. “Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

I followed my wife out onto the street. My heart was pounding and I had to fight the urge to run back inside. If there was any other choice, I would have taken it, but I had no male clothes and I was in makeup. There was, literally, nothing to do but follow her and face whatever would happen.

The car was half a block away. As I walked I could feel my dress swishing against my pantyhose. I could feel the very slight bouncing of the breast forms in my bra cups. I was terribly conscious of every movement. Was I swinging my arms too much? Too long a stride? Walking from my shoulders and not my hips? And then I looked around, and realized that no one was looking at me. No one at all. No kids pointing at me, no cops coming over to see what I was doing, no sneers from passing men; I was just another woman on the street. I was passing.

From that moment, the day was the present she’d promised.; as she said, it took my mind off my troubles. She was with me all day and did all the talking, so I didn’t have to try out my feminine voice. I was so nervous I probably would have flubbed it. We took a walk, did some more shopping, and had lunch in a nice Center City restaurant. Just a small salad for me and water; as she explained, I was back on my diet. And before we left I used the women’s room without attracting a glance. It was all unsettling, even frightening, but it was comfortable in a way I couldn’t explain. I had never in my life been in public as a woman, but once I was over my reflexive fear of being spotted, I was at home. I liked it. I liked the feeling of my clothes and the breeze on my skin. I liked the idea of being a woman. And I realized I could only like it if I had wanted it for a long time.

After a long walk and some more shopping, we were back at the house. We carried my purchases inside. When I reached my room and opened my drawers, there was another surprise. My clothes—my male clothes—were gone; no briefs, T-shirts, socks, shirts, pants, sweaters. Not a stitch.

My wife was behind me. “I dropped off your suits at the dry cleaners; then they’re going into storage. Everything else went to Goodwill, or the trash.”

I stared at the empty drawers. “That was the errand while I was in the beauty shop.”

“You need to be able to pass as my maid in two months. The sooner you start living as a woman the better.”

“But how can I look for work?”

“Right now, with what your firm said about you, there is no looking for work. You did that already and got nowhere.” Her voice softened, “And besides, you have a job. If I make partner we’ll make more than we made before you lost your job.”

“But—I can’t go from being a lawyer to being your maid.”

“You liked today, didn’t you?”

“I loved it.”

“Remember what your friend said, that when you go to look for work you should lie about the last six years? Make something up, so the old firm can’t sabotage you?”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

“There is a way to do that. And it’s something I know you’d like.”

I sat down on my bed. It was all happening so fast. “You don’t mean what I think you mean . . .”

“Live as a woman, and look for your next law job that way.”

“But . . I—“

“Don’t even think about deciding now. There’s no need. I need you to live as a woman till January; then you can decide. Just something to think about . . . Now get changed into your uniform. The kitchen is a mess.”

There was a lot to think about.