As the train thundered through the sooty tunnel, Michael asked: “Does your father know you’re gay?”
Wilfred nodded.
“How did he find out?”
The kid shrugged. “I was busied for cottaging, mate. I think that gave him a clue.”
“Cottaging?”
“You know … doin’ it in a cottage.”
Michael’s confusion was obvious.
“A cottage,” Wilfred repeated. “A public loo.”
A woman across from them grimaced fiercely.
“Oh,” said Michael, somewhat meekly.
“That’s how I got tossed out of school … not to mention sacked from my job. I used to work down here in Wimbledon.”
“We call that a tearoom,” Michael pointed out.
“What? Where I worked? It was a bleedin’ chippie!”
“No, a cottage. We call a cottage a tearoom.” It was beginning to sound like a gay variation on ‘Who’s on First?’ and the woman across the way was the last to be amused. “I think we’d better drop this, Wilfred.”
The kid shrugged. “Fine with me, mate.”
When they reached Wimbledon, Wilfred bought a Cadbury bar at the station, broke off a chunk and handed it to Michael. “We’ve got a bit of a walk now. Let’s hope ol’ Dingo’s still there.”
“You bet,” Michael replied, smirking a little. He had no intention of asking what that meant. It was amazing, really, how much Wilfred’s technique resembled Ned’s.
The kid made a beeline for a butcher shop, where he strode up to the counter and ordered half a pound of beef liver. When the order arrived, Wilfred handed the cardboard tub to Michael. “Take charge of this, will you? We’ll be needing it later.”
Michael gave him a dubious look. “Not breakfast?”
“Not ours,” grinned Wilfred, leading the way out of the shop.
They walked through Wimbledon for five or six blocks. Twentieth-century Tudor alternated with bleak redbrick high-rises against a carpet of lush lawns. Michael was reminded of Kansas City, oddly enough, or a 1920s suburb on the edge of any Midwestern town.
Wilfred slopped at a vacant lot covered with brick and concrete rubble—all that was left of a house that had apparently burned to the ground. “They’re building another one here next month. Dingo hasn’t much time left.” He stepped nimbly over the debris, approaching the end of the lot where the rubble was deepest. Then he snapped his fingers to get Michael’s attention.
“What?” asked Michael.
“The liver, mate.”
“Oh.” He handed him the cardboard tub. Wilfred dumped the contents on a flat rock that appeared to have already been used for that purpose. “You’re freaking me out,” whispered Michael.
“Shhh!” Wilfred’s forefinger shot to his lips. “Just hang on.”
They stood like statues amid the ruins.
“Here, Dingo,” crooned Wilfred. “C’mon, boy.”
Michael heard a scurrying sound beneath the rubble. Then a pair of flinty eyes appeared in an opening adjacent to the flat rock. After a few exploratory sniffs, the creature scuttled out into the light.
“God,” Michael murmured. “A fox, huh?”
“Very good.”
“What’s he doing here?”
Wilfred shrugged. “They’re all over London.”
“In the city limits, you mean?”
“Wherever they can make do. Right, Dingo?” Fifteen feet away, the fox looked up from his dinner for a moment, then continued to devour it noisily. “They’ll level this spot in another month, and Dingo will be in real trouble.”
“Why do you call him Dingo?”
Wilfred turned and looked al him. “It’s what they call the wild dogs in Australia.”
“Oh.”
“I found him when I was working down at the chippie. One day at lunch I tossed him a bit of me fish-and-chips and he was so grateful that I came back the next day. But they gave me the sack, so I come down here on the tube when I can. It’s been a while since the last time. You miss me, Dingo? Eh?”
They watched in silence while the fox ate. Then Michael said: “We have wild coyotes in California. I mean … they come into the city sometimes.”
“Yeah?”
Michael nodded. “They raid people’s garbage cans in L.A. People have seen them standing in the middle of Sunset Boulevard. They don’t belong in the wilds, and they don’t belong in the city either.”
Wilfred nodded. “They’re trapped in the mess we’ve made. They know it, too. Dingo knows it. All he can do is hide in that hole and wait for the end to come.”
“Couldn’t you … get him out of there?”
“And take him where, male? No one loves a fox.” He turned and looked at Michael with tears in his eyes. “I bought him something especially nice this time. I’m not coming back. Me nerves can’t take it.”
Michael himself was beginning to feel fragile. “He looks like he appreciates it.”
“Yeah. He does, doesn’t he?” He smiled faintly, wiping his eyes.
“How about you?” Michael asked. “Can I buy you breakfast?”
“Sure. Sure, mate.” He glanced in Dingo’s direction again; the fox was scampering away.
“Do you know a good place?” Michael asked. “Yeah,” the kid nodded.
It turned out to be a tiny Greek greasy spoon only two blocks from the fox’s lair. Wilfred ordered for both of them, insisting upon the specialty of the house: fried eggs and banger and a side order of stewed tomatoes. While they ate, the skies opened up again, varnishing the cast-iron blind child that was stationed outside the door.
Michael peered at the statuette through a rain-blurred window. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he remarked. “Do you drop money in his head?”
Wilfred nodded. “They have them for dogs and cats, too.”
Michael gave him a sympathetic smile. “But not foxes.”
“No.”
“Have you ever seen a real dingo?’’
“No. Me granddad told me about them once.”
“He was … Australian?”
“Abo,” replied Wilfred. “You can say it, mate.”
“What?” He didn’t recognize the word.
“Aborigines. You’ve heard of ’em.”
“Oh.”
The kid smiled impishly. “The ones the niggers get to pick on.”
Michael felt instantly uncomfortable. “I wouldn’t know about that.”
“Well, I would.” He sawed off a chunk of banger and popped it into his mouth. “Me grandmum was Dutch. Her and me granddad left Darwin during World War II … when you Yanks were all over the place and everyone thought the Japs were coming. Me dad was born in London.”
“And your mother?”
“She ran off when I was eight.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “Sick o’ me dad and his bleedin’ port. I don’t know. Maybe she didn’t fancy me.”
“I doubt that.”
“You don’t fancy me.” He was looking at his plate as he said it.
“That’s not true.”
“You don’t want to go to bed with me.”
“Wilfred …”
“Just tell me why, then. I won’t ask again.”
Michael hesitated. “I’m not sure it makes a lot of sense … even to me.”
“Try me.”
“Well … my lover and I didn’t split up. He died of AIDS.”
The kid blinked at him.
“Do you know what that is?”
Wilfred shook his head.
“It’s this thing that gay men are getting in the States. It’s a severe immune deficiency. They get it, and then they catch anything that flies in the window. Over a thousand people have died of it.” It felt strangely cold-blooded to start from scratch and reduce the horror to its bare essentials.
“Oh, yeah,” said Wilfred soberly. “I think I read about that.”
Michael nodded. “My lover weighed ninety p
ounds when he died. He was this big, lanky guy and he just … wasted away. I was sick myself about six years ago … paralyzed … and he used to carry me all over….” His tears tried to burn their way out. “And then he became this … ghost, this pitiful, pitiful thing….”
“Hey, mate …”
“He was blind the last two weeks of his life. On a respirator most of the time. The last time I saw him he didn’t see me at all. All he could do was press his fingers against my face, feel my tears. I just sat there holding his hand against my face, telling some stupid joke I’d read in the newspaper … making plans for a trip to Maui.” He snatched a napkin from a dispenser and dabbed at his eyes. “Sorry about that.”
“I don’t mind, mate.”
“So I just …”
Wilfred finished for him. “You miss him.”
“A lot … oh, a lot …” He began to sob now, in spite of himself. Wilfred came to his side of the booth and sat down, squeezing his shoulder. “So I’m just … treading water right now. I just don’t feel like being with anyone in that way.” He composed himself somewhat, taking another swipe at his eyes. “I’m not afraid of sex or anything. I just haven’t been horny for a long time.”
“Right,” said Wilfred gently, “but doesn’t your heart get horny?”
Michael gave him a bleary-eyed smile. “Sometimes.”
“Well … a friend might help. Eh?”
The offer was so serendipitous that he almost started crying again. “Kiddo, I’ve never said no to that kind of …”
“Is there a problem here?”
They both looked up to see an enormous swarthy man, arms folded above his gut, glowering down at them.
“Sorry,” said Michael. “If we’re making too much noise …”
Wilfred bristled. “We’re not makin’ too much noise. We’re makin’ too much love.” He stood the man down with his eyes, like a fox waiting for his next move. “Why don’t you mind your own bleedin’ business, eh?”
“Now, look,” said the man. “You blokes have got your own places.”
“Right you are. And this is one of ‘em. So sod off.”
The man glared at him a moment longer, then returned to his post behind the counter.
“Bleedin’ Greeks,” muttered Wilfred.
Michael was grinning uncontrollably. “How old are you, anyway?”
“Sixteen,” answered the kid, “and I know how to take care of meself.”
Her Little-Girl Things
MARY ANN’S MORNING MAIL BROUGHT A NUMBER OF oddities: a press release from Tylenol explaining their new “tamper-proof” packaging, a free sample of chewing gum sweetened with Aspartame, and a strange-looking plastic funnel called a Sani-Fem.
Dumping everything on her desk, she sat down and examined the Sani-Fem. Ideal for backpacking, the brochure trumpeted, or when public toilet seats prove to be unsanitary. The larger end of the funnel was contoured to fit snugly against the crotch.
She whooped at the wonder of it all.
Sally Rinaldi, the news director’s secretary, stopped outside the door and peered in. “A raise or what?”
“Look at this thing,” grinned Mary Ann.
“What is it?”
“It’s … a Sani-Fem. It lets you pee standing up.”
“C’mon.”
Mary Ann handed her the brochure. “Read this.” She picked up the Sani-Fem again. “I’m dying to try it out.”
Sally backed away. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”
Mary Ann laughed. “In the bathroom, Sally.”
“Go ahead.”
“Right. And have Bambi walk in on me.”
The secretary smiled. “Use the men’s room, then. William Buckley might see you.”
“Huh?”
“Larry’s giving him a station tour. As we speak.”
“William F. Buckley, Junior?”
“The very one.”
God, what a pipe dream! Buckley and Larry Kenan against the wall, separated safely by a vacant urinal, shaking the dew off their respective lizards, when the girl reporter saunters in—natty in gabardine slacks and dress-for-success floppy bow and blouse. Voilà! Out comes the Sani-Fem. “Morning, gentlemen. How’s it hangin’ today?”
“Go ahead,” coaxed Sally.
“You’re crazy,” said Mary Ann, dropping the funnel into the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet.
“You’re too careful,” winked Sally as she sailed out the door.
At the end of a do-nothing day, Mary Ann brought the Sani-Fem home with her. Finding Mrs. Madrigal in the courtyard, she showed the device to the landlady and gave a terse explanation of its function.
“Funny,” said Mrs. Madrigal, her smile showing only in her eyes. “I had to wait forty-two years for the privilege of sitting down.”
Mary Ann reddened. It was easy to forget that Mrs. Madrigal hadn’t become female until roughly the time that Mary Ann hit puberty.
“Just the same,” added the landlady, sparing them both the embarrassment, “I think it’s a marvelous idea, don’t you?”
“Mmm,” said Mary Ann, adopting a quirk of Simon’s. “I got a note from Mouse, by the way. He sends you his love.”
“How sweet.”
“He says Simon’s apartment is kind of grungy.”
The landlady smiled. “English aristocrats are proud of their squalor.”
“Yeah. I guess so.”
“It doesn’t seem to extend to his personal habits, at least. He takes good care of himself, that Simon.”
Mary Ann nodded. “You’ve spent some time with him?”
“Um. Some … Why?”
“No reason. I just wondered what your impressions were.”
Mrs. Madrigal pondered for a moment, patting a stray wisp of hair into place. “Bright … I’d say. Quick. A little inclined to be vague.” She smiled. “But that’s part of his Britishness, I think.”
“Yeah.”
“But quite magnificent in the looks department. Or is that what you meant?”
There was something almost coy about the question that made Mary Ann uneasy. “No … I just meant … generally.”
“Generally, I’d say he’s quite a catch. For somebody.”
Mary Ann nodded.
The landlady knelt and plucked a weed from the garden. “Sounds to me like you’re matchmaking. I thought that was my job around here.”
Mary Ann giggled. “If I find anybody good for him, I’ll make sure you approve first.”
“You do that,” said Mrs. Madrigal.
The glint in the landlady’s eye was more than a little disconcerting. Be careful, Mary Ann warned herself. A nice old woman who used to be a man could very well know what’s on everybody’s mind.
Heading upstairs, Mary Ann hesitated on the landing, then turned and rapped on Simon’s door. He opened it wearing Michael’s dark green corduroy bathrobe, loose enough to reveal an awe-inspiring wedge of thick brown chest hair. He was munching on a carrot stick.
“Well … hello there.”
“Hi,” she said. “I thought I’d just stop by on my way home. Is this a bad time?”
“Absolutely not. Here, let me pop into some trousers. I won’t be a …”
“No. This is just … spur of the moment. You’re decent. I’ve seen more of you in your jogging shorts.”
He gave himself a split-second once-over, then said: “You’re quite right. Well …” He welcomed her with a whimsical little flourish of the carrot stick. “Come in, won’t you?”
The room, of course, still spoke loudly of Mouse, with its shelves of tropic-hued Fiesta Ware, its vintage rubber duck collection from the forties, its chrome-framed “Thighs and Whispers” Bette Midler poster. The only signs of Simon were the latest issue of Rolling Stone and a bottle of brandy on the coffee table.
He sat down on the sofa. “I was just about to pour myself a little nip. Will you join me?”
“Sure.” She eased onto the other end of the sofa, leaving a cushion
between them as no-man’s-land. “Just a teeny one, though. Brandy gives me headaches.”
He looked faintly amused. “Brandy takes a certain commitment.” He poured some into a rose-colored Fiesta juice glass and handed it to her. “Bottoms up.”
She took a sip. “By the way, I was wondering … have you made plans for Faster yet?”
He grinned.
“What’s so funny?”
“Well, this is Lotusland, isn’t it? I haven’t given a moment’s thought to Christian holidays.” He chuckled. “Most of my celebrations have been pagan so far.”
“I’m sure that’s true,” she replied, “but I thought it might be … you know … a good time for us to plan something … since you’re leaving right after that.”
He nodded thoughtfully. What was he thinking?
“It’s just the weekend after next,” she added.
“Is it really?” He seemed amazed.
“Mmm.”
He shook his head. “Time flies when you’re pillaging a city.” He turned and looked at her. “What exactly did you have in mind?”
“Don’t laugh,” she replied.
“Very well.”
“It’s … a sunrise service.”
A moment’s hesitation. “Ah.”
“Was that a good ah or a bad ah?”
He smiled. “A tell-me-more ah.”
“That’s about it.” She shrugged. “I’m supposed to cover it for the station. It’s held at the highest point in the city, under this enormous cross. Everybody watches the sun come up over Oakland. It’s kind of … caring-sharing Californian, but it might be a hoot for you.”
“A hoot,” he repeated. His smile had inched perilously close to a smirk.
“You hate it, don’t you?”
“No … no. I wonder, though … how do we get up to this highest point?”
“Walk,” she answered, “but not too far.”
“Up Calvary, eh?”
She giggled. “Right.”
“Well …” He tapped his lips with his forefinger. “I’m a foul-tempered wretch that early in the morning.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Does Brian?”
“What?” He was making her nervous, but she hoped it didn’t show.
“Mind getting up that early.”
“Oh. Actually … he’s not. He’s going to a house party Theresa Cross is giving in Hillsborough. We were both invited, but … well, I got stuck with this assignment.”