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Deedle, deedle dumpling, my son John,
Went to sleep with his britches on.
One shoe off and one shoe on,
Deedle, deedle dumpling, my son John.
"Not another word," said the policeman.
"But I did do it—"

He frowned at me. "Hush, girl," he hissed. His constable snickered from over by my vanity table, where he was going through the drawers one by one. I stopped my tongue, biting on the urge to get it all out, to spit the words out. Get this play started.

Officer Stewart sighed and shifted a little on his feet. He was a tall, thickening white man who carried himself in his uniform with the loose ease of a man who knows he can trust his muscles. "You don't tell us a thing more until you have a lawyer. Do you understand me?"

"But I want you to know—"

His face reddened. "Christ on a crutch!" He had tattle-tale skin. "Don't you hear me telling you to hold your tongue?"

He would have jowls in another few years, and more of a belly. But if he remained well, he'd always be strong. "Yes, sir. I hear you." I sat myself down on one arm of the sofa, but remembered I was dressed womanish today. I turned and perched proper on the sofa seat instead.

"Don't you know," said Officer Stewart, "that murder's a hanging crime in Toronto?"

"Did you ever play hockey?" I asked him. "Or box in the ring, maybe? You have the stance of an athlete."

Officer Stewart and his constable exchanged a look.

"No, I'm not insane," I told them. "And I know what I'm facing. Shall I come with you, then?"

"Yes," said the officer. "I'm afraid you must."

"I must do a lot of things," I replied. "Sometimes they're not pleasant." I held my wrists out to him. "Will you handcuff me?"

He gave me a confused look and motioned the constable over to shackle me. The iron bit cold on my left side. I gritted my teeth against it, and stood. "I'm ready." I wasn't. I never was.

"She's enjoying this!" said the constable with a sneer.

I smiled at the constable. "I bet your profession makes your heart beat quick sometimes," I said. As does mine, I didn't say.

He scowled. I measured him with my eyes, like guessing the yardage in a bolt of cheap calico. "I'd wager you crave those times," I told him. He was only a little taller than I, with neither grace nor power in his movements. True though, it was exciting. All these years trying, badly, to make myself unremarkable, and now finally I would be visible for all to see.

"Come, Clara," said Officer Stewart.

"I'm coming. One thing, though."

"Yes?"

"You're not a little boy, that's plain. And I'm not a girl."

The constable tittered at that. Officer Stewart's colour went high again. "That is true," he replied, probably calmer than he felt. "I'll mind my manners."

The constable said, "Not a girl." His shoulders shook from laughing. Last month I gave a solid punch to the jaw to a young white man like him who had been taunting me on the streetcar, egging his friends on to do the same. Calling me pervert for wearing men's clothing. I followed them off the car and clouted him a good one. This body might be female, but it had some mass behind it. They all left me alone after that, though they had to pull away the loudmouth, who was holding his jaw and screaming, "Nigger bitch!" at me. Nigger bitch. Woman of Niger. Niger woman. I let that one bide [slide?]. I didn't fault someone for telling the truth, or as much of the truth as they could see. But disdain, that always set my blood running high.

Officer Stewart guided me through my bedroom door almost as he would a lady. He really did mean to mind his manners with me from now on. That surprised me.

My...