“Entertainment Tonight,” he said.
“Yes. She was just splendid. I’m sure she taped it. You can watch it when you get home.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Dear, are you all right?”
“Yeah. Fine.”
“No you’re not.”
“I’m just a little tired tonight.”
“Well, put your feet up. Have some chamomile.”
“O.K.”
“When are you coming home?” she asked.
“Tomorrow.”
“Good.” She paused. “We lost our appeal, by the way.”
“Oh … the steps, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“What does that mean exactly?”
“Well … they tear them down on Monday.”
“So soon?” said Brian. “How will we get up to the lane?”
The landlady sighed. “Apparently on some horrid temporary thing. Aluminum. Until the concrete sets.” She was quiet for a moment, then added: “It’s too awful to contemplate.”
He murmured in agreement.
“Am I being silly?”
“No. Not at all.”
“You know … I sit there with my tea in the morning. The wood gets warm in the sun. The very feel of it under my fingers …” She sounded like someone remembering a love affair.
He asked: “Couldn’t they build a new one in redwood or something?”
“That’s exactly what I proposed. They can’t be bothered. Maintenance, they said.”
“Those assholes,” said Brian.
“All of life is maintenance, for heaven’s sake. That’s the pleasant part. Taking care of things.”
He thought about that for a moment. “Have you spoken to Mary Ann?”
“Yes, but … you were right. It’s not really suited for her show.”
“Maybe so, but she could … I dunno … talk to the people in News, at least.”
“Well, I mentioned that to her, but she said they would need … a hook, I believe she called it.”
“A hook!” All of a sudden he was mad. “They’re tearing down the steps! There’s the hook!”
“I know, but … she’s the professional.”
“That’s for goddamn sure! What does she want you to do? Chain yourself to the steps?”
“Dear … calm down.”
“Well, she pisses me off sometimes.” Mrs. Madrigal paused. “Why are you so cross with her?”
“I’m not cross with her,” he said.
He was back on the sofa, buried in his book, when the phone rang.
“Yeah?”
“Brian?”
“Yeah.”
“It’s Wren Douglas.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“If you’re wondering about your roomies,” she said, “I made off with them.”
“Oh. That explains it.”
“They asked me to call you. They’ve gone on a little mission for me.”
“They’re not there, you mean?”
“No. I’m gonna meet ‘em down in Monte Rio in an hour or so. I’m just here, waiting for their call. I thought you might wanna join me.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he said: “Uh … sure. Great.”
“We can hang out … talk. Whatever.”
“Terrific.”
“You remember the way?”
“How could I forget?” he said.
Friends Are One Thing
THEIR STOMACHS AGLOW WITH FORBIDDEN FOOD, DEDE and Polly returned to the Halcyon-Wilson campsite, to find Anna reading comic books in her pup tent.
“Hey,” said DeDe, “did you cut your quilting class?”
Her daughter shook her head. “We got out early.”
“You’ve been here all alone?”
“Yeah.”
DeDe felt a twinge of guilt. “Have you been O.K.?”
“Mom.”
“Polly and I just … took a walk.” She wasn’t quite sure why she lied about this, why her trip to the greasy spoon had felt so much like going AWOL. Polly was just as puzzled, apparently, giving DeDe a funny sideways look.
“This lady was looking for you,” said Anna, turning back to the ThunderCats. “When?” asked DeDe. “Little while ago.”
“What sort of lady, Anna?”
The child shrugged, but didn’t look up. “A black lady.”
“Did she tell you her name?”
“No … yeah. Two letters.”
“Two letters?” DeDe gave her daughter the evil eye. “Put that down and look at me.”
Anna did so begrudgingly. “What?”
“What do you mean, two letters? Was it Teejay?”
“Yeah. Teejay.”
“Did she say what she wanted?”
Anna screwed up her face. “She said … meet her behind the Womb as soon as possible.” Polly snickered.
DeDe glared at her and turned back to her daughter. “Why, Anna? Did she say?”
“There’s gonna be a tri-something.”
“A tri-something?”
“A triathalon,” said Polly.
“Shut up,” DeDe muttered. “A tribunal, Anna?”
“Yeah. That’s it.”
“I’m supposed to meet her?”
“Yeah. Behind the Womb.”
“Dear God.”
“What is it?” asked Polly.
“Nothing,” said DeDe, her heart rising to her throat.
She left Anna’s tent and walked back to her own, Polly nipping at her heels. “C’mon, DeDe, what is it?”
“They’re gonna nail me,” she said. “They’re gonna burn me at the stake.”
“Who?”
“Rose Dvorak … and the rest of ‘em.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Teejay works for Rose.”
“Oh.” Polly wrinkled her nose. “So what are they gonna do?”
“I dunno. Whatever they do at tribunals.”
“C’mon. They’re gonna try you? What for? Letting those rednecks in? That was a mistake.”
“It isn’t just that,” said DeDe.
Polly looked at her, slack-mouthed. “What else have you done?”
“It wasn’t me. It was this woman named Mabel. I was with her when …” She ducked into her tent and collapsed on the sleeping bag.
Polly sat across from her. “When what?”
“It doesn’t matter,” said DeDe.
“Aren’t you gonna see her?”
“Who?”
“This Teejay person.”
“No. Hell, no. I’m gettin’ outa here first thing in the morning.”
“What about … you know … D’or?”
“What about her?” asked DeDe.
“What if she doesn’t wanna leave?”
DeDe shrugged. “She can stay. The kids and I are going.”
Polly looked at her wistfully. “What if I don’t want you to leave?”
“You’re sweet,” said DeDe. “You’re really nice.”
Polly slid closer on her denimed butt, then leaned down and gave DeDe a clumsy peck on the mouth. “D’orothea is nuts,” she said, her voice turning husky. “I’d be with you all the time.”
“Polly …”
“All the time.”
DeDe backed off a little. “It’s not that way when you’ve been together for a while. Not for anybody.”
“I dunno.”
“Well, I do.”
Polly gave her a crooked grin. “Whatever you say, Deirdre.”
This rattled her. “Where did you hear my real name?”
“Anna told me yesterday. When you were swimming.”
For some reason, this struck her as vaguely conspiratorial. “She just … volunteered that?”
“No. I asked her. I wanna know all there is to know about you.”
DeDe fidgeted with the zipper on the sleeping bag.
“I’m really gonna miss you,” said Polly.
“And I you.” She hated people who said that, bu
t it just tumbled out in her embarrassment.
“Will you come visit me at the nursery sometime?”
“Well … D’or does most of the gardening.”
“I can call you, can’t I?”
DeDe avoided her gaze.
“O.K., forget it.”
“Polly …” DeDe took her hand. “Friends are one thing. What you want—”
“You don’t know what I want.”
DeDe chose her words carefully. “Maybe not, but … c’mon, I’m a stuffy old married lady.”
“I don’t care,” said Polly.
DeDe drew back. “You’re supposed to say I’m not stuffy, I’m not old.”
“I like ‘em old,” said Polly.
DeDe groaned and lobbed a sneaker at her. Polly deflected it, grinning impishly. “O.K.,” she said. “I’m outa here.”
“No,” said DeDe. “Stay and play Pictionary.”
“We need three people for that.”
“Well … practice with me, then.”
“Your lover might come back,” said Polly.
“So what?” said DeDe. D’or could certainly use a dose of her own medicine. Besides, Rose was on the rampage, and DeDe hated the thought of being alone.
Divine Intervention
FATHER PADDY LED THEM INTO THE WILDERNESS, CHATTERING INCESSANTLY.
“By the way,” he said as he charged up a winding trail. “I’m aware the dress is a bit much.”
He meant his cassock, obviously, but Michael refrained from comment.
“I wore it for poor Jimmy’s memorial service, and I haven’t had a moment to change. Please don’t think me ostentatious.”
“No,” said Michael.
“Usually,” added the cleric, addressing Thack, “I’m content with a simple turtleneck and crucifix—especially at the Grove—but the deceased was a theatrical sort, so I felt a little pageantry was in order.”
Michael detected a puckish gleam in the priest’s eye. He was testing Thack, apparently, trying out his time-proven shtick on an unwitting neophyte.
“How did he die?” asked Thack.
“Oh, you know … the ticker. Happens fairly often here.”
“I can imagine,” said Thack, dryer than usual for Michael’s benefit.
Now well above the floor of the gorge, Father Paddy turned off the main trail and led them across an elevated boardwalk spanning a dry creekbed. At the end of it lay a tented pavilion, vibrant with lights and laughter. Three or four similar camps were visible beneath them, clinging to the side of the hill.
“Lost Angels,” said the priest, gesturing toward the pavilion. “Booter’s bound to be here.”
“Why do they call it that?” asked Thack.
“Well …” Father Paddy leaned closer and spoke from behind his palm, as if imparting a shameful secret. “Some of them are from Los Angeles.” He approached a fortyish man near the end of the boardwalk. “Evening, Ollie.”
“Evening, padre.”
“Haven’t seen Booter, have you?”
The man shook his head. “Not since the funeral.”
Scanning the revelers in the pavilion, the priest said: “I thought perhaps …”
“Look around,” said the man. “Help yourself to some chow while you’re at it.” He turned to Michael and Thack. “You fellows look like you could use a drink.”
Michael glanced at Thack.
“Go ahead,” urged Father Paddy. “Belly up. That’s what it’s there for.”
“I’ll get ‘em,” said Thack, addressing Michael. “What do you want?”
Michael pondered. “Uh … gin and tonic.”
Thack turned to the priest. “Father?”
“Oh, thanks, no. I only drink on duty.”
Thack grinned and headed for the bar. When he was gone, Father Paddy pulled Michael aside and said: “He is absolutely adorable.”
“I know,” said Michael.
“Are you two … together?”
“Not really.”
The priest looked stern. “Don’t be coy, my child.”
“Well,” said Michael, “it hasn’t been that long. He’s just visiting from South Carolina.”
“Oh.”
Uncomfortable, Michael glanced around and tried to change the subject. “Do you think maybe Booter …?”
“You look just perfect together.”
Michael shrugged.
“Just for the record, I have a marvelous little solemnization ceremony.”
“What?”
“It’s not a marriage, mind you. The Holy Father will have none of that. But it’s a blessing of sorts, and it’s very sweet.”
“Father.”
“All right. I’ll shut up. Forget I mentioned it.”
“It’s a deal,” said Michael.
“I’ve never done one, and I’ve always wanted to. But …” His hand made several wistful loops in the air.
“He’s going back to Charleston,” said Michael.
“Very well.”
“And we’re both very independent.”
“Mmm.”
“Plus, you forget … I’m not even Catholic.”
“Oh, really,” said Father Paddy. “Picky, picky!”
Later, when they’d retreated to a bench above Lost Angels, Thack asked: “What do we do now? He’s obviously not here.”
“It’s impossible to tell,” said Michael. “There are so many camps.”
“Yeah, but we could spend all night looking.”
“I guess we should call Wren.”
“You think something’s happened to him?” Thack asked. “I mean, like … foul play?”
“Not really.”
“I don’t, either.”
“I think Wren’s overreacting.”
“Yeah,” said Thack.
They were quiet for a moment, then Thack asked. “What were those eye signals all about?”
“What eye signals?”
“You know. Down there. Between you and Sister Bertrille.”
“Oh.” Michael rolled his eyes. “You’re not gonna believe this.”
“Try me.”
“He’s matchmaking.”
Thack gave him a blank look.
“He offered to marry us.” Michael widened his eyes to emphasize the frivolous nature of the idea.
“What?”
“To perform the ceremony,” said Michael. “Cute, huh?”
Thack frowned a little. “Where did he get that idea?”
“Beats me. He just liked the way we looked together.”
Silence.
“I told him we were buddies. That you didn’t even live here.”
“Here” wasn’t right somehow, considering their location. Softened by woodsmoke, the tiny tent villages beneath them seemed more dreamlike than ever. It was hard to imagine anyone living here.
“Fuck him,” said Thack. “Who needs the church for that?”
His vehemence was a little surprising. “Are you Catholic?” Michael asked.
“Ex. I belonged to Dignity for a while, but I quit.”
“Why?”
Thack shrugged. “Why should I keep kissing the Pope’s ass when he doesn’t even approve of mine? I don’t call that dignity. I call it masochism.” He smiled suddenly. “I’ve got a great idea.”
“What?”
“Wait here.” He shook Michael’s leg and ran off down the trail, darting into the undergrowth near the lights of Lost Angels. He returned five minutes later, dragging a twin-sized mattress behind him.
“Where did you get that?”
“One of the cabins,” said Thack.
Michael frowned.
“An empty one. We’ll return it.”
“Yeah, but what if …?”
“C’mon,” said Thack.
Michael followed him up a slope through a tangle of pesky undergrowth. When they reached a ledge about twenty feet above the path, Thack dropped the mattress.
“I wonder if we should be paranoid?” said Michae
l.
“That’s easy,” said Thack. “We shouldn’t.”
“Yeah, but we don’t really know how private …”
“Look, we can see the path from here. They’re too old and drunk to make it up this far.” He sat down on the mattress and dug into his shirt pocket, removing a joint and a matchbook.
“Where did you get that?” Michael asked, sitting next to him.
Thack lit the joint. “Wren. Our reward.” He toked a couple of times and offered it to Michael.
“No, thanks…. Oh, to hell with it.” He took the joint and filled his lungs with the stuff. He’d been careful all year. Tonight, his immune system could just go fuck itself.
“Listen,” said Thack. “ ‘The Trail of the Lonesome Pine.’ ”
“How wonderful.” Michael tilted his head to hear pianos and banjos rambling through the old tune.
“That was Gertrude Stein’s favorite song,” said Thack.
“It was?”
“I think so.”
Michael returned the joint. “Where’d you hear that?”
“I don’t remember, really.”
“It’s a great song,” said Michael.
Thack stretched out, arching his ivory neck. “Look at that fucking moon. Is that beautiful or what?”
It was full and fluorescent, a real troublemaker. Michael stretched out next to Thack, leaned back on his elbows. There was something supremely sexy about a man who planned ahead like this, who wore his options like a tool belt, ready for any emergency.
Thack took another toke, then stubbed out the joint. He rolled his head over lazily and gazed at Michael. “I thought this would never happen.”
Michael smiled at him.
“You’re a great guy,” said Thack.
“You too.” Michael turned on his side and flicked open the pearly snaps on Thack’s denim shirt.
His mouth went straight for the left nipple, pink and proud as a tiny cock.
Afterwards, they lay there motionless, listening to the music. A snail’s trail of semen still glimmered on Thack’s stomach. He kept his hand cupped gently around Michael’s cock, as if it were a wounded bird trying to escape.
Michael said: “Where’s a priest when you really need one?” Thack chuckled and nuzzled Michael’s shoulder. “Was that really Gertrude Stein’s favorite song? Did you make that up?”
“Why would I do that?” asked Thack.
“I dunno. To get me in the mood.”
“Gertrude Stein is a turn-on?”
“Well … it worked for Alice.”