The Wedding Ring Clerk

By Jacqueline White

Ann, the saleswoman at the jewelry store, held my hand in hers, palm up, like an empty, hopeful nest. "This should fit better now," she said, referring to my engagement ring, which she held in her other hand. The ring had been in the shop for a few weeks being resized. I'd missed it. My finger, so long unadorned, had already grown accustomed to its feel. Ann eased the band back down over my knuckle, then deftly placing her hands below and above mine, turned my hand over. She removed her top hand--and there was my ring, back shimmering on my finger as if through a magic trick.

"How's that feel?" she inquired from the other side of the glass-topped jewelry counter. The whole store glittered with refracted light, and Ann sat in the middle of it, mistress of the arcane science of ring fitting. I was submitting myself to the rituals of her care.

"I think it's good," I said, my inflection wavering upwards with uncertainty. My thumb toyed with the band. My engagement ring was the first valuable piece of jewelry I had ever worn. It had more than a personal meaning. If I lost it--and it had been way too loose before I brought it in--I wouldn't just be losing a sentimental object, but one that was worth something, enough to be insured. I wasn't used to being responsible for such nice things.

"I don't know. Maybe it's still a little loose," I said. "It's hard to tell."

"Well, your hand feels cold," Ann said, reaching for it again. The way she pressed my hand between hers, warming it, felt almost choreographed, designed to impart the sense that my hand itself had value, an appraisal I felt pleased to accept. "Remember," she said, "cold constricts."

I did remember that. When Ann sized my finger on my last visit--slipping on different size bands and gently tugging on them to see if they would slide over my knuckle--she'd explained how hands awaken large and warm from sleep and then shrink as the day progresses or the temperature drops. So, when I was late for this visit and couldn't find my gloves and it was December and cold in Minnesota, I had jammed my chilly hands like a guilty secret into my pockets as I hurried in from the parking ramp.

I was visiting the world of my ring, a world where I didn't feel I totally belonged. I'd parked at the only downtown ramp I knew, the Northstar ramp connected to the hotel where I'd waited tables when Marcus and I first met. And I hadn't gotten dressed up, even though I was going to an artisan jewelry store in an upscale downtown mall. Assembling some sort of outfit that would help me blend in had seemed, that morning, like too much effort for just one errand. Instead, I put on the Bonnie Raitt t-shirt Marcus had bought me after the State Fair concert at which he had proposed. My back arched a little with defiance. No one could look down at me for wearing that t-shirt with my diamond.

Ann tugged at my ring. "I think it's okay," she said. "I can't get it past your knuckle." I tried too and couldn't either. "Why don't you wear it for a few days and see how it feels?" she suggested.

"Okay," I said. I liked having the hedge of a few days.

"Wow, it's really sparkly," Ann said, rocking my hand in hers to let the diamond catch the light from different angles. I watched her. She was blond; her glasses just lenses floating on her face without frames. She did this all day long and yet still seemed sincere, genuinely taken with my particular stone. She'd also cooed about how sweetly nervous Marcus had been when he came in to buy the ring. How could the constant drama of other people's love lives continue to absorb her?

"Could I try it on?" she asked. "I'm actually the same size as you." I noticed she wasn't wearing an engagement ring or wedding band herself.

"Sure," I said. It felt like a fun "just us gals" kind of thing to do. I started to yank the ring off.

"Here," she said, "just ease it off like this." She pressed the band into the inside of my knuckle and then rotated the outside edge, back and forth, back and forth until it slipped off with ease.

"Oh, yeah," I muttered. She'd demonstrated that technique last time. I should have remembered.

Ann slid the ring gracefully onto her ring finger and then held her hand out to admire it. But her focus seemed to have shifted from the beauty of the sparkling object to its symbolic meaning.

"I go out with guys, and they're, what are they?" Ann searched for the answer. "Well, there's some aspect of their physical presentation that I object to...."

"Like what?" I asked. I hoped she wasn't one of those people who laid out strict height or weight or hair color requirements for their dates. I liked Ann and wanted to keep on liking her.

"Like they don't bathe that often."

"Oh, yuck," I said, scrunching my face in disgust.

"Or, you know, they're not completely over their last girlfriend."

"Yeah, well, that's no good." I shook my head.
"Or, I'm trying to rekindle something with an old boyfriend," she said, and it seemed her litany could go on and on. I had had my own version once, but the specifics of my lament had already begun to recede.

"I'm 47," Ann said, "and maybe what I'm supposed to do is help make other people happy." She peered at me through the clear crystal of her glasses, seeking agreement.

"Don't say that," I said, holding her gaze. "You're a prize." Light dallied in the irises of her eyes, as if within the facets of a diamond. I tried to think: Did I know any single guys I could set her up with? But now that Marcus's boss was finally dating someone no eligible man sprang to mind.

God, I was so glad not to be single. And wasn't my own happiness unlikely? Should I? I thought. Should I tell her my story? I wondered if Ann had had any suspicions. Did she think Marcus and I were just another straight couple getting engaged?

"You don't know how love will come into your life..." I began cautiously, with what could have been an annoying platitude. But I was warming up, bracing myself to open the door, preparing for a possible blast of cold air. "When I first met Marcus, he wasn't Marcus," I said. "He was Margery." There. I'd said it.

"What?" she said. She cocked her head.

"Marcus is transgender," I said, as if simply evoking the word "transgender" would explain everything. But I knew better. It rarely did. Ann kept her head cocked, so I explained: "Marcus started out as Margie, with a woman's body. But he transitioned. You know, with hormones and surgery."

I waited for a moment to let that sink in. Apparent men in suits and apparent women in heels scurried by in the mall corridor, balancing lunch-hour boxes of take-out.

"I never would have guessed," Ann said. "I had no clue."

I smiled a slight smile. So we'd successfully infiltrated. We'd made a foray deep into straight territory--we'd bought an engagement ring, for heaven's sakes--all, evidently, without arousing suspicion.

"Okay, so you started out dating Margery," Ann said. She was speaking slowly. I recognized this stage: she was puzzling out the logistics. "So, does that mean you're...are you a lesbian?"

"Actually, I'm bisexual," I said. I tensed slightly. "Bisexual" seemed to be another word that often needed further explication. I didn't wait this time, but hurried on to my definition: "What I mean is that I've dated men and I've dated women."

Ann brightened: "Well, that'd double your chances of meeting someone. Maybe I should try being bisexual."

My body went still. I got that a lot--this notion that bisexual singles revel in some sort of dating nirvana. I took a breath and reminded myself: It's an innocent mistake. How was it that straight people could so consistently not see the stigma sexual minorities face? Did Ann really not realize that her bisexual stand-in would be viewed as kinky and oversexed? Worthy of a fling maybe or a three-some, but most likely not with a guy who'd stick around the next morning.

"The truth is being bisexual probably halves your chances," I said. "Let's just say you have to factor out a lot of prejudiced people."

"Oh," Ann said.

If my life was any guide, the best mate for a bi person was someone conversant with all genders--say, someone trans--a very small pool indeed. I watched a potential customer peer into a glass case. It was a miracle, really. All most of us want to do is find just one special person, and I'd found mine. I was safe now, on the other side of single. I wanted my ring back. I held out my hand.

"Oh, here," Ann said. She eased my ring off her hand. She was back to being the friendly professional. "Wear it for a few days and see how it fits," she said.

"I will," I said, but as I slid the ring over my knuckle, I could feel the fit was already better. My hand had grown warm; my finger filled the ring.



jacquelinewhitebio.jpgJacqueline White has worked as an advocate for queer-friendly school policies, as an editor for The Utne Reader, and as a writing teacher at The Loft Literary Center in Minneapolis . In 2008, she received an Artist Initiative Grant from the Minnesota State Arts Board for work on her memoir, My Transgender Husband: A Love Story . Through the Twin Cities Host Home program, which matches homeless queer young adults with trained community volunteers (www.avenuesforyouth.org), Jacqueline first met Amy, whom she and Marcus, her spouse, have since legally adopted.