“What do you mean?”
“You know. Whether to laugh or not.”
Charlie shrugged. “It’s a celebration. That’s what they called it.”
“I know, but some of these people feel awful right now.”
“You’d better laugh at mine,” said Charlie.
“Right.”
“I’ve fixed it so you will, actually. I drew up the plans while you were gone. I won’t spoil it for you, but it involves several hundred yards of mock leopardskin and an Ann-Margret impersonator.”
Michael licked the sweetness off his fingers. “Why not just plain Ann-Margret?”
“Well, she’s optional, of course. Use your discretion.”
“Who’s optional?” It was Teddy Roughton, funereally attired in black jeans, white shirt, and black leather bow tie. He slipped his arm around Michael’s waist and surveyed the raspberry tarts.
“It’s a long story,” said Michael. “Teddy, this is Charlie. Charlie, Teddy.”
“We’ve met,” said Teddy, extending his hand. “At the Ringold Alley AIDS do.”
“Oh, yes … of course.” Charlie’s tone became ingratiating, Michael noticed, as soon as he remembered that Teddy was three parts Vanity Fair to one part Drummer. Charlie was impressed by titles.
“Meanwhile,” said Teddy, rolling his eyes as he drew out the word, “our laddie here has broken the heart of another unsuspecting tourist.”
“What laddie?” asked Charlie, confused.
“This one,” said Teddy, giving Michael a shake.
“Me?” said Michael. “What did he say?”
Charlie frowned. “What did who say?”
“He was bereft,” said Teddy, oblivious of Charlie’s question. “Said he was mad for you, but you weren’t mad for him.”
“Come off it,” said Michael, convinced of a hoax.
“Is this Thack?” asked Charlie.
“Teddy drove him to the airport,” Michael explained.
“Poor boy,” purred Teddy. He was playing it for all it was worth.
“You see?” said Charlie, looking Michael in the eye. “You see?”
“What did he say?” Michael asked Teddy.
“I told you. That he fancied you. And it wasn’t mutual.”
Michael felt a sudden urge to whoop, right there in the middle of the wake. “Wasn’t mutual?”
“Well, those are my words, of course….”
“He was the one who was standoffish,” said Michael. “He left early, he … Is this the truth, Teddy?”
Teddy leaned over the table, examining the tarts at closer range. “Oh, yes,” he said vaguely.
“Try the pecan pie,” said Charlie, exuding graciousness. “It’s extraordinary.” Then he turned and scolded Michael. “Didn’t I tell you?”
After the wake, Michael was too distracted to work, so he asked Charlie to drive him home. When they reached the Barbary steps, Charlie said: “Don’t look now, but your landlady has finally flipped her beanie.”
Michael turned, to find Mrs. Madrigal chained to the landing of the steps. Her bonds were of the modest hardware-store variety, faintly ridiculous in this context. She was wearing her semiformal getup, a loose skirt and a tweed jacket over a high-necked white blouse. She was obviously giving it all she had. “It’s a protest,” Michael told him.
“Oh, right.” Charlie rolled his eyes. “You Russian Hill people are so weird.”
Michael smiled and pecked him on the cheek. “I’ll call you tonight.”
“Not until you’ve called Thack.”
“All right.”
“I mean it, Michael. Don’t fuck this up.”
Michael laughed and bounded across the street. Charlie beeped twice and drove away down Leavenworth. Mrs. Madrigal offered him a cheery wave from the steps, then called down to Michael: “I hope I didn’t scare him away.”
“No,” said Michael. “Not at all.” He climbed the steps to the landing, where the landlady sat in dignified splendor, fussing idly with the neck of her blouse, the drape of her chain.
“I’m waiting for Mary Ann,” she said, “in case you’re wondering.”
“She’s gonna tape this?” He hardly knew what to say.
She nodded demurely. “I’m afraid she’s a bit late.”
“What time was she supposed to be here?”
“I’m sure she’ll get here soon,” said the landlady. The look in her eyes told him not to be so indignant on her behalf. She knew what she was doing, it said.
He asked: “Are there … uh … demolition people coming?”
“We don’t know,” she said grimly.
“Doesn’t Mary Ann know?”
“No,” said the landlady. “She says she doesn’t. She needs this for human interest.” She threw up her hands and gave him a crooked little smile. “If this is what it takes, then this is what it takes.”
He wondered for a moment if Mary Ann’s absence was a function of Brian’s homecoming. If he had told her, and she had freaked out …
“When did you last talk to her?” he asked.
“Oh … late yesterday afternoon. She told me I should be … uh … chained up from noon on. She couldn’t be here when I did it, or it would look like we’re in cahoots.”
“You haven’t talked to her this morning?”
“No.” Her brow furrowed. “Is something the matter?”
“No,” he replied calmly. “I just wondered. Look, I’ll call the station for you.”
“That would be very kind.” She saw his expression. “Don’t be cross with her, dear.”
He continued up the steps, then stopped. “Oh,” he said, “what did you think of Thack?”
“He seems very sweet,” she said. “Just right for you.”
“He does, doesn’t he?”
“Has he gone yet?” she asked.
“Last night.”
“Oh, dear.”
“It doesn’t matter,” he said. “I mean, not yet. Right now I’m just enjoying the feeling. You know what I mean?”
“I know what you mean,” she said.
He smiled at her.
“Bring me a caramel, dear, when you come back. They’re in that crystal dish on my piano.”
He climbed the remaining steps in seven-league boots, basking in the glow of her benediction.
When he phoned the station, a peevish associate producer told him Mary Ann had left immediately after the morning taping, and he personally knew nothing about a crew being sent to the Barbary steps.
He tried The Summit. Brian answered with a lackluster hello.
“It’s Michael,” he said. “Is Mary Ann there, by any chance?”
“Well … yeah. She’s not really taking any calls right now.”
So, thought Michael, he did tell her. “I know it’s a bad time,” he said. “It’s just that Mrs. Madrigal is down here chained to the steps.”
“What?”
“Tell Mary Ann. She’ll know what it means.”
Brian left the phone. Twenty seconds later, Mary Ann came on. “God, Mouse.”
He tried to be gentle about it. “It’s not too late.”
“I’ll call the station,” she said. “I’ll get a crew.”
“Good.”
“I completely forgot, Mouse! I’m so sorry. Please tell her I didn’t mean …”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “What time do the wreckers come?”
“Uh … three o’clock.”
“Good,” he said. “If you hurry, you can … Are you two all right?”
“Mouse …”
“Just yes or no.”
“More or less,” she replied.
“I love you,” he said.
She was silent for a moment, then said, “You guys,” with weary resignation, as if she meant every man on earth.
Michael said: “Ask Brian to bring that big butch chain of his.”
“What?”
“That chrome job he uses on the Jeep. It’ll beat what
we’ve got now, believe me. If I’m gonna be filmed in bondage, I want it to look real.”
“Mouse, we don’t need two.”
“C’mon,” he said. “Let’s make this fun.”
She groaned.
“We’ll make those steps look like a fucking charm bracelet.”
“All right,” she said. “Whatever. We’ll see you down there. And listen, Mouse …”
“Yeah?”
“If she’s smoking grass when the crew shows up …”
“Don’t worry. I’ll tell her. Bye-bye.” He hung up, flew to the bedroom, flung off his clothes and showered like a madman. Four minutes later, when he shut off his blow-dryer, he discovered that the phone had been ringing.
He lunged for it. “Yes … hello.”
“Bad time?” asked Thack.
“Well … there’s a camera crew coming. We’re saving the steps.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot.”
“So did we. Almost.”
“I miss you,” said Thack.
“Do you really?”
“Damn right.”
Michael laughed. “That is so great. I miss you too.”
“What are we gonna do about it?”
“Well,” said Michael, “for starters, I’m gonna write you a long, gooey letter, embarrassing the hell out of myself.”
“Mine’s finished,” said Thack. “In the mail.”
“Hey,” said Michael, laughing again.
“You’re in a hurry. I won’t keep you.”
Keep me, thought Michael. “I’ll call you tonight. O.K.?”
“Great. I’ll be here.”
Michael hung up and rushed to the closet, where he agonized momentarily over the proper attire for a televised chain-in. He settled finally on a sort of architectonic look: corduroy trousers, plaid shirt, knit tie, Top-siders.
Halfway into the courtyard, he remembered Mrs. Madrigal’s caramels and doubled back, scooping up a generous handful from the dish on the piano.
They would need enough for the duration.
Five Days Later
NOW THIS, THOUGHT WREN, IS MORE LIKE IT. It was almost midnight, and she and Rolando were sprawled across her bed, basking in the blush of her 1939 (all-tango) Empress jukebox.
She had paid for the Empress with Booter’s check—Booter’s new check: ten thousand dollars exactly. That pleased her somehow, knowing her memories of Monte Rio would always be embodied in this tango-lover’s wet dream.
He had been so sweet to send the money, and she had accepted it readily, knowing how much it meant to him. He wasn’t such a bad old shithead, when you got right down to it. At least, he was a gentleman in bed.
The Chicago night was deliciously balmy. A lake-sent breeze meandered through the loft, tickling the lace on the big industrial windows. She moaned contentedly and nestled into Rolando’s warm, bay-rummy flesh.
The phone rang.
“Oh, hell,” said Rolando.
“I’ll get it,” she said.
“Leave it.”
“No,” she said, sensing something. “I’ll be right back.” She slid out of bed and made her way naked to the phone in her work cubicle.
“Hello.”
“Wren, it’s Brian.”
“Oh, yeah. How are you, sweetie?” For once, she realized, that question really meant something.
“I’m fine,” he said.
“Really?”
“Yeah. It came back negative.”
“Thank God,” she said, sinking into a chair.
“Really,” he replied.
She heard a woman’s voice, then the unmistakable sound of Michael’s laughter. “Are you having a party to celebrate?”
He laughed. “Well, yeah … but not that. We just won a battle with the city.”
“Are you at home?” she asked.
“My landlady’s house.”
This made no sense to her. That high-rise condo had a landlady?
“Is your wife there?”
“Yeah. Not in the room, but …”
“Is she O.K.?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Pretty much.”
“Good.”
“Does she know about us?”
“No.”
The laughter swelled again. “Is Michael loaded?” she asked.
Brian chuckled. “Just in love, I think.”
“Anybody we know?”
“I believe so. They’re getting mushy by mail.”
“Oh, God.”
“I’m gonna be his partner at the nursery. Isn’t that great?”
“That is,” she said.
He paused before asking: “How’s Rolando doing?”
He had remembered; how sweet. “He’s fine, actually. As usual.”
“He’s a lucky man.”
“Thanks.”
“Well, I just wanted to—Puppy, wait a minute…. All right…. Daddy’s talking.”
“Your offspring?” asked Wren.
“Yeah. They want me back at the party…. It’s kind of hectic. I’m sorry.”
“Well, thanks for calling. This Rock Hudson thing had me so worried….”
“Rock Hudson? What about him? Puppy, let Daddy talk.”
“Turn on your TV set,” she said. The little girl began to yell. “Look, I’ll let you go.”
“Guess I’d better,” he said.
“Have a wonderful life, sweetie.”
“Same to you,” he said. “And thanks.”
“Anytime,” she replied.
She hung up and returned to the bed, where Rolando lay sprawled on his stomach, snoring. In the light of the Empress, his magnificent rump looked like two scoops of tangerine sherbet. The effect was too perfect to spoil, so she slipped under the sheets without a word and sat there remembering, waiting for the tango to end.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Armistead Maupin’s most recent novel is Mary Ann in Autumn. He is also the author of Tales of the City, More Tales of the City, Further Tales of the City, Babycakes, Sure of You, Michael Tolliver Lives, Maybe the Moon, and The Night Listener. Three television miniseries starring Olympia Dukakis and Laura Linney were made from the first three novels in the Tales series. The Night Listener became a feature film starring Robin Williams and Toni Collette. Maupin lives in San Francisco with his husband, Christopher Turner.
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Praise
“Its good-natured knack for making you laugh out loud would be reason enough to recommend Significant Others; but aside from that, it is wise, compassionate, irreverent and painfully of the moment.”
The Independent (London)
“A portrait of the devastating effects of the AIDS epidemic that achieves an intimacy that could scarcely be duplicated in any other format. While this hardly sounds like material for romantic comedy—miraculously, it is.”
Publishers Weekly
“Maupin’s ear for dialogue is as acute as his feeling for characterization, and the net result is as engaging a read as you are likely to encounter in many moons.”
The Times (London)
“Like those of Dickens and Wilkie Collins, Armistead Maupin’s novels have all appeared originally as serials. It is the strength of this approach, with its fantastic adventures and astonishingly contrived coincidences, that makes these novels charming and compelling. Everything is explained and everything tied up and nothing is lost by reading them individually. There is no need even to read them chronologically.”
Literary Review
NOTE TO THE READER
The Bohemian Grove is a real place whose rituals I have compressed, though not substantially altered, to suit the time frame of this tale.
Wimminwood is a fictitious entity based on the actual practices of women’s music festivals in Michigan, California, Georgia and elsewhere.
I am indebted to my friends in both camps.
A.M.
NOVELS BY ARMISTEAD MAUPIN
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Tales of the City
More Tales of the City
Further Tales of the City
Babycakes
Significant Others
Sure of You
Copyright
This work was published in somewhat different form in the San Francisco Examiner.
SIGNIFICANT OTHERS. Copyright © 1987 by Armistead Maupin.
Illustrations copyright © 1987 by Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © FEBRUARY 2012 ISBN: 978-0-062-03088-7
ISBN: 9780060964085
First PERENNIAL LIBRARY edition published 1987. Reissued 1989.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Library of Congress data available upon request.
ISBN 0-06-096408-1
90 91 92 93 CC/RRD 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2
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