By early afternoon, Margaret Mary had found the television. An incongruous delight suffused her face — an expression that seemed at war with the features of a man in his sixties. She had an open bag of Lay’s potato chips next to her and a can of Diet Coke in her hand.

Having Len padding around the house made her nervous. Each time she saw her old body — the big, scared eyes and the lifeless hair and the hunger-sharpened features — she felt uneasy. It was like being stalked by her own shadow, or feeling someone walk across her grave. He’d left her alone after breakfast and worked to stay out of her way. On the one hand, she worried about what he might be doing; on the other . . . there was something to ‘out of sight, out of mind.’

She had a kitchen, not twenty steps away, with food in it that was all hers. Bachelor food, mostly, but she’d never had the luxury of being a picky eater, even before running away from home. There were cans of soup in the pantry where she’d found the chips. If she wanted a sandwich there were cold cuts and condiments in the fridge, and soft white bread bagged on the counter.

But she had another thought, suddenly, and it brought a fresh smile to her face, wholly independent of Days of Our Lives.

~o~O~o~

Len was in the garage, cleaning up the mess he’d made of the drivers’ seat and putting a conditioning product on the abused leather. He had no idea how Margaret Mary might react to any sign that he’d ruined “her” things.

The chemical odor of ArmorAll was a bit overpowering in an enclosed space, but it did kind of restore that new-car smell. He wiped the last of it off, checked his work, and closed the door softly.

It had been painfully clear that Margaret Mary had needed some space, so he’d gotten out of her way. But he’d tidied up the laundry room and put Margaret Mary’s old clothes in the utility sink to soak. He’d found the air mattress and now he’d cleaned the car.

Now what?

The back stoop was private enough that he’d be safe there, but it was too cold to sit outside for long. He slipped back inside and returned to the laundry room.

Len was worried. His position was precarious, and he had only a week to get himself on a firmer footing, while at the same time providing Margaret Mary with the help she would need to navigate her new circumstances. And, hopefully, make just a bit more money before pulling the plug on her career.

He was tempted to ensure that he could get back into both the house and garage in the event that she suddenly decided to break their agreement. He worried that he’d be out on the street without a plan, with no more options than she’d had. Every time his mind went down those paths, however, he gritted his teeth and forcibly steered it back into a different direction.

She’s young, he told himself, and she’s been neglected, abused, and mistreated. Of COURSE she’s got trust issues. I’m going to have to prove my good faith, and the only way to do that is to respect her decisions.

He washed his hands, removing the oily residue and most of the smell. He was annoyed that he couldn’t get at the dirt under his fingernails. It would be easy – easy-ish, anyway – if he could just take a shower and wash his hair. The shower was just steps away, but access was no longer his by right. It would require a negotiation. Asking permission. Face time, above all, and the accord that he’d forged with Margaret Mary was fragile. He didn’t want to push it just yet.

With a sigh, he dried his hands, put his bony shoulder blades against the wall and slid down until he was sitting on the floor, legs to his chest. Funny how I used to think this dress was too tight! The sound of the TV came from down the hall, and he wondered idly what Margaret Mary was watching.

He started to doze off, but startled awake again when he heard his old voice call out. “Hey, uh . . . .”

Footsteps followed, then Margaret Mary was in the door to the laundry room, looking down at him. “What should I call you, anyway? Seems weird to call you ‘Len.’”

From his place down on the floor, she looked enormous . . . and, of course, very male. “Not as weird as calling you ‘Margaret Mary.’”

“Stupid name anyway. I never liked it.”

Searching Margaret Mary’s memories, Len nodded. “Hard to connect with a name your Irish-American mom gave you when you can’t even remember her.”

“’Specially when you look like a boat person straight from Manilla,” she agreed. “Anyway – what should I call you?”

It shouldn’t have affected him, but somehow it did. He looked away, not wanting her to see his hurt.

But something in his hunched, defensive posture, or the expression she just managed to catch before he turned his oversized eyes away, struck a familiar chord — one that managed to reach her own experiences. For the first time Margaret Mary saw through the self-assured manager who’d out-negotiated her, catching a glimpse of the person who had only existed behind closed doors and drawn shades.

She knew she’d missed something important, and when she took the time to think about it, she knew what it was. She wasn’t hit by a memory so much as a host of them. A flood.

A man’s face. A male body. Again and again and again. Growing up. Filling out. Growing older . . . then, finally, just growing old.

Clothes that weren’t designed for it. An array of styles and fabrics and fashions, none of which ever looked right. Shoes that were never big enough. Cosmetics that couldn’t hide a strong jaw or a sharp nose. A wig that tried to do too much, but never succeeded in doing enough.

A name.

A name that he had never told another soul. Never uttered where anyone else might overhear. One which no one, in six decades, had ever called him.

“Hey . . . umm. Sorry?” The words came out tentative and awkward. “That was stupid. It’s Angie, right?”

A moment’s hesitation, and the doll-like head nodded, almost imperceptibly.

“You want me to call you Angie, then?”

She glanced up again – Margaret Mary suddenly had no trouble thinking of Angie as a ‘she’ – looking like a starving child with her nose pressed to the glass of a bakery window.

“Yes,” Angie whispered. “Please.”

“Okay. Uhh. Angie, then. I want a burger, so I’ve gotta go get the car. But . . . uhhh . . . .”

‘Angie’ bit her lip. “The car’s in the garage. I never could have made it, walking.”

Margaret Mary’s eyes bugged. “How . . . .”

“Spare key, by the wheel well. And the house key was in the Folgers can with the nuts and bolts, right by the back door.” A delicate shoulder lifted a fraction. “Sorry.”

Light dawned, slow and spectacular. “Jeez, what’s wrong with me? I shoulda remembered that!”

“Don’t be too hard on yourself; we’re both new to this. Anyway . . . if you want to go out, the car’s right there. And the keys were in my suit when we switched.” Angie had herself back under control and she paused, hoping for the ask.

Margaret Mary fidgeted, clearly embarrassed and uncomfortable.

A child, still. Angie suppressed a sigh. For her plan to work, Margaret Mary would need to be able to pass for an adult in a high-stress environment, at least for a little while. Her behavior seemed more typical of a teenager. “You aren’t sure about driving.”

“Well . . . not really,” she mumbled.

Oddly, the mumble made Angie smile. Yeah, she sounds like a teenager. But she also just sounds like a GUY, which . . . totally works. “Do you want a ride, or a driving lesson?”

“I’m kinda hungry, so . . . .”

“A ride it is, then.” Angie got to her feet, surprised at how easy it was. “Would you like me to call you ‘Len?’”

Mary Margaret looked uncomfortable, then shook her head. “That just feels weird. Don’t some people at work call you ‘Dutch?’”

“Yeah. Wasn’t a bad nickname, and since I couldn’t use Angie I didn’t much care what they called me.”

“Okay . . . . I guess maybe we could do that.”

I guess maybe? Thinking that the girl in her old body was going to need a lot of handholding and emotional support, Angie gave it a try. “It’s good to meet you, Dutch.” It sounded like a question. Probably, it was.

“Yeah . . . okay.” Margaret Mary nodded, looking uncertain. “It may take me a while.”

“Noted. So we’d better work on it before Monday. You’ll need to be primed to answer to it. Just remember, most of the people there will call you ‘Len’.” Angie had her ‘manager’ voice back online.

“Don’t remind me,” Margaret Mary moaned. “C’mon, let’s get a burger.”

As soon as they got in the car, Margaret Mary’s nose wrinkled. The scent immediately triggered a memory — even though the memory belonged to Len. “You ArmorAll’ed the car?”

“While you were watching TV. I made kind of a mess last night, when I got in.” Angie opened the garage door, pulled out smoothly, and turned right on the street. At the next corner, she turned left.

“Where’re you going?”

“Sandy’s is just a couple blocks from here.”

Margaret Mary shook her head, suddenly stubborn. “I want to go to McDonald’s.”

Angie shot her a surprised look. “Why? You were sick, last time.”

“Yeah, but you said that was ’cuz I was too hungry or something.”

“Which is true, but McDonald’s also sucks. Sandy’s has real burgers.” It also had food she could probably eat, but she didn’t want to say so.

“No. I want McDonald’s.”

Angie pulled the car to the side of the road and rolled it to a slow stop so she could face her passenger. The stubbornly crossed arms and the frowning face gave an incongruous impression of masculinity, and Angie decided it would be best to think of her – to think of him – in those terms. “Dutch,” she said softly. “What’s this really about?”

“I just like it,” ‘he’ said woodenly.

“This isn’t about the food, is it?”

“Why wouldn’t it be about the food?” he exploded. “Jesus! All I asked was that we go to McDonalds. I thought you said you were going to help me!”

“Okay,” she said, her voice carefully neutral. “We’ll go to McDonalds.”

“Thank you!” His tone said he’d won the argument.

She drove in silence, not looking his way, keeping strictly to the speed limit and coming to a full and complete stop at every stop sign. When she turned left at Beechcroft, Dutch spoke up again. “No, not the McDonald’s by Wal-Mart. I want to go to the one in town.”

“Yes, sir.” Her voice was cool, but deferential, and she made a smooth U-Turn to head back towards the center of town.

Dutch was seething. The rebuke in Angie’s tone wasn’t subtle, even if there was nothing in it that could really draw an objection. I just wanted to go to McDonalds. Why is that so hard?

Twenty minutes later, the steeple of the Methodist Church came into view and Dutch felt a stab of panic. “We’re not going to cross here, are we?”

She glanced his way briefly. “I can take the Charleston Road Bridge, but it’ll take us another ten minutes.”

Dutch had broken into a sweat. What if it was the PLACE? What if we switch back, when we’re on the bridge? Then he wondered whether that was Angie’s plan. One way to find out! “Yeah, fine – let’s go the long way.”

She nodded, made a turn, and said nothing. It was another fifteen minutes before they arrived at their destination.

Dutch grinned. “Let’s go!”

“You go ahead.”

“Oh, come on. Sorry I got mad, but do you need to make such a big deal about everything?”

“Dutch.” She waited until she had his full attention. “Remember – I’m not allowed in there anymore. Not looking like this. They’ll call the cops.”

Both the annoyance and the anticipation drained out of Dutch’s face, and he looked like he’d been kicked. “Oh . . . fuck.” Then he closed his eyes and lowered his head.

This time, Angie decided not to probe. The silence felt different than it had before. Less angry. More thoughtful.

“You were right. It wasn’t about the food.” Dutch hadn’t opened his eyes, and his voice was flat. “That asshat manager who ran after me, screaming about how he’d call the cops if he ever saw me again? I just wanted to walk into his crappy excuse for a fast-food joint, and watch him have to call me “sir” and say “have a nice day.”

Angie nodded. “I get it.”

“But I wasn’t even thinking that I brought ‘me’ along, so he’d be calling the cops anyhow.”

“They might not.” Angie shrugged. “Not If I’m with you. But I can’t take that chance.”

“Yeah.”

Angie studied his features, and for once she couldn’t read his thoughts. “Go ahead. I’ll stay here, and I’ll be fine. Honest.”

He didn’t say anything.

“Dutch?”

“I want to, you know?” His voice was soft, barely above a whisper. “I want to go in there and piss all over him. Then I want to find every one of those fuckers who put me down, kicked me out. Roughed me up. Every. Single. One. I want to find them, and grind their noses in it. Make sure they all know who’s the real boss.”

Angie thought back to Margaret Mary’s life. “Especially your father?”

“Oh, yeah. Big time.” He finally opened his eyes and looked at her. “Stupid, isn’t it?”

“I understand why you’d want to.” She fought to keep any judgment from her voice.

“It wouldn’t mean anything. Wouldn’t prove I’m better or anything – just that you are. The mucky-muck senior engineer. They’d still spit on Margaret Mary Aquino. On you, now.”

The silence stretched.

“Dutch . . . it’s up to you. All of it. It’s your life now.”

His lips twitched, hearing the word she hadn’t said. “But?”

“But if you want that new life, you’re going to have to let your old life go. Even the grudges.”

“Yeah.” He turned to look out the windshield again. “I know.”

After a moment, Angie said, “You still hungry?”

“Yeah.”

“Subway’s ’round the corner. Let’s get something to take home.”

He thought about it. “Okay, Angie. Let’s do that.”

“Yes, sir.”

~o~O~o~

Dutch got the food and they headed back. The smells coming from the bag, though, were too much for him to ignore. Three blocks from Subway, he had his pastrami sandwich unwrapped and he did not hesitate to take a healthy bite.

Angie had ordered a smaller, simpler sandwich with chicken, lettuce, and tomato, and she felt her own stomach rumbling.

“Sorry,” Dutch said sheepishly. “Do you want me to unwrap yours and hand it to you?”

She smiled. “No, thanks. I can’t afford to get pulled over.”

“Weird.” He shook his head. “I’ve got the license, but only you can actually drive.”

“Ready to try to fix that?”

“What, now?” He took another bite.

“We’ll be driving right by the Sterling Life campus. It’s got a huge parking lot that’d be deserted today. Great place for some behind-the-wheel lessons.”

Dutch didn’t want to get back behind the wheel of Len’s quiet, but powerful, car. He’d been terrified the night before, and that reaction was still very much with him. But Angie would only be around for a little bit. Might as well make use of her. “Okay,” he sighed.

He’d finished his sandwich by the time the big sign with the insurance company’s iconic silver coffee pot came into view. Angie turned into the driveway, then headed deep into the parking lot, away from both the street and the entrance to the building.

She parked, killed the engine, and palmed the key. “Let’s switch up.”

“You gonna give me the key?” he asked, practically.

“Not just yet. I’ve got an idea. Work with me.” She popped the door and stepped out.

Eager to try her experiment, she failed to focus on the fact that she was wearing an oversized dress and flip flops she’d purloined from the garage rather than attempt to salvage the sodden disaster of Margaret Mary’s sneakers. She tangled, twisted, and went down like a duck pin in a bowling alley.

Dutch didn’t see her fall; he’d been getting out of the car himself. But he did hear her cursing, so he hustled around to the driver’s side to find her on the still-wet pavement, glaring at a tear near the knees of her dress. “You okay?” he asked awkwardly.

She stopped herself from barking at him, but it was close. “Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

Dutch had spent the last two years barely able to stay alive, and helping other people had never been a go-to move. So he stood there, staring, trying to decide what it was he should do.

Angie, meanwhile, was contemplating whether she could get from the sitting position to the standing position without kneeling. She felt a lot stronger than she had been the previous night after climbing up from under the bridge, but she wasn’t sure how to manage the long dress. It would be easy if Dutch would just give her an arm she could pull up on, but he didn’t seem inclined to do it and she wasn’t going to ask.

She tried bringing her feet in tight, leaning forward, and rising. It had been years since Len had been able to manage a maneuver like that. But her new body was light, so even though she lacked muscle mass she was able to stand.

Unfortunately, her feet were on the hem of her dress, so she started to fall again. Dammit!

Strong hands caught her by the upper arms, holding her upright without any apparent effort. She looked up . . . and up . . . to see Dutch looking down at her, vaguely surprised.

He said, “Father used to call me ‘Grace’ ’cuz I was always knocking things over.”

“Your father was an asshole.” She glowered as he opened his mouth to respond. “Don’t say it. Don’t even think about it.”

“Yeah, no.” He looked almost offended. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“If I let go of you, will you fall over again?”

She was about to snap at him, but realized that she was still, somehow, standing on the hem of her dress. With as much dignity as she could muster, she unbent her knees and kicked her feet clear. “I make no promises.”

He grinned. “I can walk you over to the other side of the car, if you aren’t sure.”

“I can also pitch the keys in the storm drain,” she growled.

“Nah.” Laughing, he bent down, scooped the keyring off the pavement, and waved it in front of her. “You dropped ’em!”

Angie decided that a graceful retreat was her best option, so she smiled, then headed ’round to the passenger’s door and hopped in.

Dutch tried to get in the driver’s seat and barked his shins on the steering wheel. “Fuck! How do you even get in this thing!”

“Sit sideways for a second,” Angie instructed, laughing. When he’d managed that, she directed him to put the key in the ignition, then hit the button that returned the seat to the setting Len had programmed into it when he bought the car.

Still rubbing his bruised knee, he swung his legs into the car, closed the door, and looked at Angie expectantly.

She nodded. “Okay, here’s what I want to do. I’m going to ask you to point to various controls. Show me where they are. I’ll start slow, but then I’ll speed up, okay? You know all this, you just need to get it all in active memory.”

“Okay.” He looked intrigued.

“Where’s the speedometer?” she asked.

He hesitated, then pointed.

“Fuel gauge.”

The hesitation was a bit longer, but he got it.

“Windshield wipers . . . radio volume . . . climate control . . . emergency brake . . . rear-view mirror . . . “ She barked out the names. After the first half-dozen, his responses started to come faster, and she started to speed up. She repeated some. Went back again, faster. Faster still. Then she started asking driving questions. “Can you turn right on red – yes or no?” Or, “When do you make a left turn at a stop light?”

Dutch had struggled to begin with, but very quickly it was all coming back. Coming like he’d done it before, not once or twice, but hundred and thousands of times.

“Check your mirrors,” she commanded.

He glanced at the rear-view mirror and changed the angle, then at the two side mirrors. Because Angie had fussed with them, he hit the panel on the driver’s door and changed them back.

“Start the engine.”

He hit the brake pedal and turned the key, and the Benz purred back to life.

“Drive us over to that line of trees.” She pointed to the far end of the lot.

Without being asked, he disengaged the parking brake, put the car in gear, and drove. When he got to the trees, he came to a gentle, almost thoughtful stop, then slowly turned to face the passenger who was watching him with quiet concentration. “How did you do that?”

“It was just a guess, really. I seem to have access to your memories. The more I tap into them, the more they feel like mine. So I thought, if I spent some time activating your associations with driving, especially driving this car, all of those memories might kind of be more present for you. More natural.”

He sat for a moment, digesting that. Finally, he said, “So, I’m good to drive, now?”

“Why don’t you try driving around the parking lot some, before you brave traffic.” She smiled. “I’d kind of like to live a little longer!”

“I guess I do, too.” His voice was soft. Surprised. Before she could respond, he took his foot off the brake and started driving around the lot.

He drove in silence for a few minutes, trying different turns, different speeds. His driving, like Len’s, was cautious but relaxed, and his grip on the wheel was light. But his expression didn’t match his driving; instead, he looked troubled.

When he stopped, Angie said, “That was excellent. As your driving instructor, I’m officially clearing your for the road.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t move, or look at her.

“Dutch?”

After a moment, he broke his preoccupation enough to murmur, “Hmmm?”

“What’s troubling you?”

His head dropped and he seemed to be looking down to where his right hand rested lightly on the bottom of the steering wheel. After what seemed like a very long time, he took a deep breath and faced Angie. “Will I still be me, when I take all your memories? I mean, really take them, make them mine? Won’t I just be you, then?”

Angie felt a surge of pity as she looked into a face that seemed at once familiar and alien, animated by the frightened, nearly broken spirit of a young girl who had been at the end of her rope less than a day earlier. Was this chance for a new life just another trap? A different, stranger way for Mary Margaret’s life force to be extinguished?

“Oh, honey,” she said. “I wish I knew.”

“I thought I wanted to die,” he whispered. A tear slid down a rough cheek that had been a desert for decades. “I want to live!”

At the sight of his distress, Angie started to tear up herself. She wanted to apologize, to beg forgiveness for everything she had taken from that young girl under the bridge. The raw emotion was unlike anything she’d ever felt.

But none of that would help Margaret Mary. Dutch. The person in the driver’s seat, who was still, despite appearances, a frightened person just beginning to emerge from a hard adolescence. Angie fought to control her emotions and re-engage her brain. Dammit, Ang! You need to be the adult here!

She was too choked up to speak. One swallow. Two. She cleared her throat and tried again. “When you were driving, did you feel alien? Like you weren’t yourself?”

Dutch took so long to answer she wasn’t sure he was still with her. “No? Maybe? I mean, it felt real natural, driving. An’ I know I’ve never done that, so . . . yeah. But, I was still here, you know? In my head, like I always am. Screaming, most of the time.”

“I do that, too,” Angie said quietly. “I’m always in my head. Not screaming, so much, though. Did that voice in your head still sound like you?”

“Yeah?”

“You don’t sound sure.”

He thought about it some more. Then the tension in his shoulders seemed to ease, and the fear in his eyes faded. “It was me. Still me.”

She reached over, tentatively, and rested her pale hand against his tanned forearm. “Hey. We’ll get through this, somehow.”

He shook his head, completely confused by his own reaction. Not an hour before, he’d been worried that she was scheming to find a way to switch back. Now he was panicked that he might fade away, replaced by a consciousness that was older, stronger, and way more experienced. “You know what I wish?” he asked softly. “I wish I could make it through a day – just one day – without being afraid of everything.”

She kept her hand where it was. “I’ll help you with that, if you let me.”

He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, then looked back at her with a rueful smile. “That’d be great, if I wasn’t scared of you.”

“I know,” she sighed. She put her hands in her lap. “You good to drive?”

He gave her a long look before nodding. “Yeah, I’m good.”

“Take us home, Dutch.”

– To be continued.

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