The mood was not quite as serene at another of the girls’ houses. This residence was also a mix of women who were born women, and women who were born men and were in varying (and, for me, confusing) stages of making the transition. Living together, about six to a house, the relief of freedom from incarceration generally seemed to overcome any tension that could have been created by the unusual gender mix. At least that was usually the case. Not this time.

I had gone to see Sunny but I heard her first, as I pulled up in front of the neat, gray house with its well-coifed laurel bushes. You have to understand that these houses are trim, almost prim, suburban houses in polite rows in the smooth-lawned West-Valley suburb of Reseda. Probably most weekends are a scene of hedge-clipping and car-washing for most of the neighbors. But on this crisp, bright Friday afternoon in January the placid air was shattered by the shouts coming from the house, Sunny and her room-mates really going at it. A full-dress bitch fight was in progress.

I wondered if I should drive discreetly away and come back at a more opportune time, but I had come a long way and wanted my week to be over. So, a deep breath, and I walked up the path. Before I reached the front door I heard (at full volume). “Sunny, you’re a fucking bitch!”  Well, at least Sunny was home, though that was not one of the facts about her I was required to gather. I knocked.

The door was flung open by a hard-faced black woman who was shaking with rage. I have often considered the phrase ‘with blazing eyes’ a bit over-the-top in most contexts but here it was absolutely factual.

“Yes!!??”

“Er, I’m Robert from Angel Food. Is Sunny home?” I asked, superfluously.

A face appeared behind her. It was a blotchy face, though I couldn’t tell whether that was from virus symptoms, a botched make-up attempt or the passion and heat of the moment. Probably the latter, I thought vaguely.

“Come in”, Sunny said, trying to control her heaving breath.

There were several women now but they stood aside and I went in.  Inside, the atmosphere was as heavy as a thunderous afternoon before the rain. Actually it would be more accurate to say that we were in the eye of the hurricane, a sudden, lowering calm caused by my entrance. It was clear to anyone within a hundred yards the ferocity that had just abated, and equally clear that it was about to resume. My entrance had caused an uneasy hiatus that simply allowed all the participants to catch their breath.

Sunny led me quickly over to the dining table, a point as far from the eye of the storm as we could get. But not far enough. The other women moved slightly into the bedroom area but the problem was not distance but decibels. The battle resumed full volume.

“Not a good time?” I suggested lamely.

“Not really” Sunny heaved, glancing over her shoulder toward the bedrooms.

“But then again, maybe I was just in time to take you out of harm’s way.” Another lame attempt at forced levity that cut no ice.

“This has been building up for weeks.”

“You’re a damned liar, Mercedes. You knew she’d been drinking, you said so in group!”

“So what? You just keep your fat nose out of it.”

“Well, this is just a few questions and forms. Won’t take long.”  (Not if I can help it.) “Now let’s see here….”

“I could see it coming. I knew she was gonna blow.”

“Your weight seems to be pretty good. And your numbers are fine. Any problems with the food we’ve been sending?”

“What? Oh no, nothing.”

Sunny had probably never been pretty and now, just freed from several years in prison and disheveled from the current upheaval, she could only be described as scrawny, her hair kind of irregular, both in style and color. Sunny she was not. Her clothes did nothing to brighten the picture – tight faded jeans and a nondescript T-shirt whose tightness served to accentuate not so much her meager figure as the bones of her skinny frame.

I managed to drag her attention to the questions in hand, although she constantly had one wary eye on what was coming from the bedroom. She seemed concerned that the invective being hurled in our direction was likely to become something more solid. I must say that thought had also crossed my mind. She signed the forms without paying them any attention at all – they could have been her death warrant for all she cared. After all, any danger to her person was likely to come less from my forms than from behind the bedroom door.

“You know damned well Sunny’s been a bitch from the day she waltzed in here.”

“Why don’t you lay off her? You’re the one who lied all though group yesterday.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah.”

I gathered my papers. “Well, that just about does it for me. If you need to get a hold of us…..”

But the attention was gone completely. She was distracted again by the noise – and by a hand being waved hesitantly in our direction. Sitting quietly on a couch, separated from the battle, by space, ideology and inclination, was a bulky figure who looked, on balance, more man than woman, although the transition was clearly in progress.

“Oh yes,” Sunny managed, “Kenneth wants to get food too.”

“Excuse me?” The noise had drowned her out. “Kenneth did you say?”

But she’d gone, sucked back into the vortex, adding her own volume as she went.

“OK, so just say to my face what you just said, you bitch. Say it right here.”

“Oh, I’ll say it to the whole fucking neighborhood.”

Actually, she already was. I beckoned for Kenneth to come over to the dining area and he rather shyly sat opposite me. He still had masculine body language and features but the hair was swept into an attempted chignon, the nails were polished and he wore a simple sweater and skirt. There was an odd gentleness about him.

“So, you’d like to become a client too. Have you just moved in here?”

“About ten days ago.”

“I don’t fucking believe you. After what we said in group you’re lying through your damned teeth.”

His smile was apologetic. “Er, this has been building up for days.”

“That’s what Sunny said. I guess whenever you get a bunch of women living together, there’s bound to be tension whatever ever the circumstances.” Another lame contribution.

“Yeah, I guess. It’s just been building a head of steam. It had to blow. Probably just as well.”

“Anyway, you’ll have to call the office to register, but I can do the paperwork now. Saves me another journey. Now what was your name again?”

“Margo.”

“But I thought Sunny said….”

“Well, that’s what I go by but my real name is Kenneth Graham.”

He had to raise his voice for me to hear. So did I.

“Really. Did you know he was a famous English writer? Children’s stories.”

“Oh,” he smiled. “I didn’t know.”

“OK, OK, let’s just go tell Jean. She’ll damned well throw your fat ass out o’ here.”

“Yeah? Yeah?  We’ll see who gets thrown the fuck out.”

“Yes. ‘Wind in the Willows’. English children are raised on that.”

“I never heard of it.” Kenneth seemed pleased, somehow.

“You had beer on your damned breath now and you had then. You’ve been drinking ever since you came here.”

“Mole, Ratty, and Mr. Toad.”

“Really?” Kenneth’s childlike smile widened.

“Yes. It’s all about animals of the river. Set in the English countryside.”

“Just keep your ugly face out of my business.”

“Oh, we’re talking ugly now…”

“You ever been on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride at Disneyland?”

“Yeah, when I was a kid. Is that…..?”

“That’s where it comes from. Written by Kenneth Graham.”

Somehow, in the middle of this maelstrom, we had managed to create an island of almost innocent calm over the dining table. In the middle of Mr. Toad and Ratty I managed to squeeze in a few health questions and get my forms signed. But Kenneth – Margo – seemed fascinated by the same-name coincidence – as if names in this house were not already interesting enough.

“Well, it’s Margo now. Just call this number and tell them I’ve already done the paperwork. They’ll start the meals right away.”

“Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

“You really are a piece of work, you know that?”

“Why don’t you just cram it?”

“Well, I’m off. It was a pleasure talking to you.”

“Yeah. You too.”

I hugged Margo and we walked together toward the door. The howling gale seemed to be abating somewhat. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

“Look, Sunny’s not the damn problem here, you fucking are.”

I looked toward the bedroom.

“Bye, Sunny,” I shouted.

From somewhere inside, “Yeah, sure. Yeah, thanks.”

“You know something?  You’re really gonna get it. I can’t wait for the next fucking group.”

Neither could I. Margo opened the door, grinned at me and shrugged.

Back in the car I was relieved by the semi silence – the sound of battle still raged from inside. I put the final touches to my report, adding under the name Kenneth Graham
“a.k.a. Margo”.

I looked up. The house looked solid, stoic even, in contrast to the shrillness from inside. Margo’s face was at the window. She waved, and the noise receded behind me as I drove away through the quite suburb.