More Tales of the City

  It hadn’t worked out.

  For one thing, Mona never quite forgave D’orothea for not being black. (Her skin color, Mona learned eventually, had been artificially induced by pigment-altering pills and ultraviolet treatments, a ruse that had rescued the model from professional obscurity.) For another, she had come to grips, however grumpily, with the fact that she missed the company of men.

  “I’m a shitty heterosexual,” she had told Michael when she returned to the nest at Barbary Lane, “but I’m a shittier dyke.”

  Michael had understood. “I could have told you that, Babycakes!”

  Her last Quaalude had begun to take effect as Mona climbed the rickety wooden stairway leading up to the lane. She had spent all evening at the Cosmic Light Fellowship, but her mood was blacker than ever. She simply wasn’t centered anymore.

  What had happened to her? Why was she losing her grip? When did she first peer up from the dark, wretched pit of her life and see that the walls were unscalable?

  And why hadn’t she bought more Quaaludes?

  She moved groggily through the leafy canyon of the lane, then crossed the courtyard of number 28 and entered the brown-shingled building. She rang Mrs. Madrigal’s buzzer, hoping that a glass of sherry and a few mellow words from the landlady might somehow banish her bummer.

  Mrs. Madrigal, she realized, was a special ally. And Mona was not just one of the landlady’s “children.” Mona was the only person in the apartment house whom Mrs. Madrigal had actively recruited as a tenant.

  And she was—she believed—the only one who knew Mrs. Madrigal’s secret.

  That knowledge, moreover, formed a mystical bond between the two women, an unspoken sisterhood that fed Mona’s soul on the bleakest of days.

  But Mrs. Madrigal wasn’t at home, so Mona trudged upstairs to her second-floor apartment.

  Michael, as she had dreaded, was also gone. Upstairs, no doubt, planning his trip with Mary Ann. He spent a lot of time with Mary Ann these days.

  The phone rang just as she flipped on the light. It was her mother, calling from Minneapolis. Mona slumped into a chair and made a major effort to sound together.

  “Hi, Betty,” she said evenly. She had always called her mother Betty. Betty had insisted on it. Betty actually resented the fact that she was older than her daughter.

  “Is this your … permanent number again?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I called the place in Pacific Heights. D’orothea said you’d moved back. I can’t believe you’d leave that charming home in a nice neighborhood for that shabby—”

  “You’ve never even seen it!” She’s always in character, thought Mona. For Betty was a realtor, a hard-assed career woman whose husband had left her when Mona was still a baby. She didn’t care much for buildings without security guards and saunas.

  “Yes I have,” snapped Betty. “You sent me a picture last summer. Does that … woman still run it?”

  “If you mean Mrs. Madrigal, yes.”

  “She gives me the absolute creeps.”

  “Remind me not to send you any more pictures, will you?”

  “What was wrong with D’orothea’s place, anyway?” Betty, of course, didn’t know about the shattered relationship. She seldom thought about relationships at all.

  Mona hedged. “I couldn’t handle the rent.”

  “Oh, well, if that’s the problem, I can tide you over until you’re able to—”

  “No. I don’t want your money.”

  “Just until you’re able to find a job, Mona.”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  “She’s lured you in there, Mona!”

  “Who?”

  “That woman.”

  Mona blew up. “Mrs. Madrigal offered me an apartment after we became good friends! And that was over three years ago! Why are you suddenly so goddamned concerned about my welfare?”

  Betty hesitated. “I … I didn’t know what she looked like until you sent me—”

  “Oh, come off it!”

  “She’s just so … extreme.”

  If she only knew, thought Mona. If she only knew.

  Down on the Roof

  BRIAN HAWKINS WAS THIRTY-THREE.

  And that, he realized with a shudder as he shed his denim-and-corduroy Perry’s uniform and flopped on the bed with an Oly, was as old as Jesus on Calvary.

  Or the idiot in The Sound and the Fury.

  He was treading water now. Nothing more. He was working to survive, to continue, to pay for his pork chops and his beer and his goddamn Ivory Liquid. And no amount of laid-back, mellowed-out, half-assed California philosophizing could compensate for the emptiness he felt.

  He was getting old. Alone.

  Most of his mail still said “Occupant.”

  Once upon a time, of course, he had been a fiery young radical lawyer. Before that fire subsided (and relocated in his groin), he had fought the good fight for the cause of draft resisters in Toronto, blacks in Chicago, Indians in Arizona, and Mexican-Americans in Los Angeles.

  Now he was waiting tables for WASPS in San Francisco.

  And he loved “chasing pussy” almost as much as he had once loved hating Nixon.

  He pursued this tarnished grail through fern bars and coed bathhouses, laundromats and supermarkets and all-night junk-food restaurants, where the pickings were slim but the gratification was almost instant. There was little time to waste, he told himself. Menopause was just around the corner.

  If he needed something lasting—and sometimes he felt that he did—he never stayed with anyone long enough to let that need be visible. His logic was circular but invincible: The kind of woman he wanted could not possibly be interested in the kind of man he’d become.

  His libido had taken charge of everything.

  It had even governed the selection of this latest apartment, this drafty, cramped little house on the roof of 28 Barbary Lane. Women, he had reasoned, would get off on its panoramic view and nursery-tale dimensions. It would work for him as an architectural aphrodisiac.

  “Are you sure you want it?” Mrs. Madrigal had asked when he requested a change of apartments. (At the time, he was living on the third floor, just across the hall from the foxy but hopelessly uptight Mary Ann Singleton.)

  He had told her yes without hesitation.

  The landlady’s spookiness, he presumed, had to do with the apartment’s former occupant, a fortyish vitamin salesman named Norman Neal Williams.

  But all he knew about Williams was that he had disappeared without a trace in December.

  A stiff wind shook the little house, giving Brian a morbid sense of déjà vu.

  Five on the Richter, he thought.

  He knew what that meant now, for he’d felt his first earthquake only the week before. A deep, demonic growling had awakened him at 2 A.M., rattling his windows and reducing him instantly to a frightened, primeval creature.

  But this was only the wind, and the crunch of the Big One would be just as horrendous on the third floor as it would be on the roof. Or so he had told himself as soon as the little house became his.

  His door buzzer startled him. Pulling on a sweat shirt, he opened the door in his boxer shorts. It was Mary Ann Singleton.

  “Brian, I … I’m really sorry to bother you this late.” The shorts had obviously flustered her.

  “That’s OK.”

  “You’re not dressed. I’ll get somebody else.”

  “No problem. I can throw on some pants.”

  “Really, Brian, I don’t need—”

  “Look! I said I’d help, didn’t I?”

  His tone jarred her. She managed a faint smile. “Michael and I are going to Mexico. There’s a suitcase that I can’t quite—”

  “Hang on a second.”

  He pulled on a pair of Levi’s and led the way down the stairs to her apartment. He dislodged the suitcase she needed from the top shelf of her closet. “Thanks,” she smiled. “I can make it from here.”

  His eyes locked o
n her. “Can you?”

  “Yes, Brian.” Her inflection was firm and faintly school teacherish. She knew what he had meant, and she was saying no. Again.

  Back on the roof, he shucked the Levi’s and picked up the binoculars he kept on the shelf by the bed. Facing the cottage’s south window, he cursed the impenetrable Miss Singleton as he scanned the midnight cityscape.

  First the green-black enigma of Lafayette Park, then the Maytag agitator of the ultramodern St. Mary’s Cathedral, then the Mark’s obscenely oversized American flag, flailing against the inky sky like a Bircher’s acid trip.

  All of which was foreplay.

  His real quarry was something he called the Superman Building.

  Father of the Year

  FOR THE FIRST TIME IN WEEKS, DEDE ROSE BEFORE Beauchamp.

  She greeted her husband with a kiss and a croissant when he stumbled into the kitchen at seven forty-five. She was chirpy for that time of morning—excessively chirpy—so Beauchamp instinctively grew wary.

  He leaned against the butcher-block countertop, rubbing his eyes. “League meeting or something?”

  “Can’t I fix breakfast for my husband?”

  “You can,” he said dryly, nibbling tentatively at the croissant, “but you don’t.”

  DeDe thrust two shallots into the Cuisinart. “We’re having omelets. And some of those marvelous French sausages from Marcel & Henri.” She smiled faintly. “I … worry about things too much, Beauchamp, and today I … well, I heard those silly parrots in the eucalyptus tree outside the window, and I just thought … well, we’re a lot luckier than most people.”

  He massaged his temples, still trying to wake up. “I hate those fucking parrots.”

  DeDe simply stared at him.

  He turned away and began to fiddle with the Mr. Coffee machine. Her face was positively suffused with that idiotic, imploring look she used to make him feel guilty. He refused to deal with it this early in the morning.

  “Beauchamp?”

  He kept his back to her. “This goddamn thing hasn’t been cleaned in at least—”

  “Beauchamp! Look at me!”

  He turned very slowly, keeping a thin smile plastered on his face. “Yes, my sweet?”

  “Will you at least tell me … you’re happy?”

  “About what?”

  She laid her hands on her swollen belly. “About this, dammit!”

  Silence.

  She stood firm. “Well?”

  “I’m delirious.”

  She moaned melodramatically and turned away from him.

  “DeDe … there are grave responsibilities attached to parenthood.” He kept his voice calm. “I’ve accepted the responsibility of raising one child, but with great reluctance. Forgive me, won’t you, if I’m not exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of—”

  “Oh, shut up!”

  “There you go. Being witty again.”

  “I don’t need your goddamn thesis on parenthood. I need your support. I can’t do this alone, Beauchamp. I just can’t!”

  He smirked and motioned toward her belly. “You sure as hell didn’t do that alone.”

  “No,” she replied instantly, “but I sure as hell didn’t do it with you!”

  They stood there over the Cuisinart, eyes locked and fangs bared. Beauchamp broke the silence with a short sardonic laugh, then slammed the counter with the flat of his hand and sank down into a Marcel Breuer chair.

  “That wasn’t bad, actually. For you.”

  “Beauchamp …”

  “There are better ways to get my attention, but all in all it wasn’t half bad.”

  “It’s true, Beauchamp! You’re not the father!”

  Silence.

  “Dammit, Beauchamp! Can’t you even add? Look …” Her voice began to waiver. She pulled a chair up next to him and sat down. “I wanted to tell you a long time ago. I really did. I even considered—”

  “Who?” he said coldly.

  “I don’t think we should—”

  “Splinter Riley, maybe? Or how about the charming but terminally greasy Jorge Montoya-Corona?”

  “You don’t know him, Beauchamp.”

  “How interesting. Do you?”

  She burst into tears and ran from the kitchen. He knew she would lock herself in the bedroom and sulk until he had left the building. Then she would fill her quivering palm with dozens of multicolored tablets and down them in a single gulp.

  In a time of crisis, she could never resist her M & M’s.

  When Beauchamp arrived at Jackson Square, Mary Ann Singleton handed him his messages.

  “Also, D’orothea Wilson called about five minutes ago.”

  That was all. Not Mr. Day. Not even Beauchamp. He didn’t have a goddamn name since this fluffball had become his secretary.

  Beauchamp grunted. “I don’t suppose she bothered to tell you why she didn’t show for that Adorable shooting at The Icehouse? She’s canceled three shootings this month alone.”

  “She says she doesn’t … look right anymore.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  The secretary shrugged. “Maybe she gained weight over the holidays or—”

  “Or maybe she just doesn’t give a good goddamn about Halcyon Communications! Maybe she wants to go to Mexico!” The barb stung his secretary exactly the way he hoped it would.

  Her fingers began mangling a paper clip. “Beauchamp … it was Mr. Halcyon who wanted me to—”

  “I don’t need to hear this again.” He stormed into his office and slammed the door.

  Then he raged in silence against the Halcyon family.

  Letter from Mama

  DEAR MIKEY,

  Your Papa and I were so glad to hear about your trip to Mexico with Mary Ann. I know it will be a lot of fun for both of you. Please send us a postcard when you get a chance, and remember not to drink too much tequila. Ha ha.

  Orlando has been real cold this winter, but I expect you heard all about that on Walter Cronkite. The grove down by the Bledsoes’ new split-level was hurt the worst. Some of the oranges were frozen clear through. Papa says that’s OK, though, because we can sell them for juice. I’m doing my best to help Papa, but you know how he is around harvest time. Just kidding.

  Papa says for you not to worry because we’re getting about $3.50 a box, and anyway overall production is up, even with the freeze and all. The only problem now is with the homosexuals.

  I guess you don’t know about that. It all started when the Dade County Commission passed a law in favor of homosexuals. It said you can’t refuse to hire homosexuals or rent to them, and Anita Bryant spoke out against this, being a Christian mother of four and Miss America runner-up and all, and all the normal, God-fearing people in Miami backed her up 100 percent.

  We didn’t think too much about it, of course, because we don’t have near as many homosexuals up here as they do in Miami. Papa says they like the ocean. Anyway, pretty soon this organized group of homosexuals tried to force the Citrus Commission to take Anita Bryant’s commercials off TV. Can you imagine? Anita said go right ahead, if that was what she had to do to make it safe for her children to walk the streets of Miami. God bless her.

  I wouldn’t know so much about this, except that Etta Norris (Bubba’s mother) stopped by Tuesday to watch Oral Roberts on our new color set, and she said she was signing up folks in Orlando to support Anita Bryant’s group, Save Our Children, Inc. I signed right away, but Papa said he wouldn’t sign because you were a grown man and no son of his needed saving from any homosexuals. I said it was the principle, and what if the homosexuals stopped drinking orange juice? He said most homosexuals didn’t drink orange juice, but he signed anyway.

  We had our first meeting last night in the VFW room at Fruitland Bowl-a-Rama. Etta said the important thing was to show Anita Bryant that we support her. She also said we should put in something about how we aren’t prejudiced but we believe that homosexuals aren’t good examples for children in school. Lolly N
ewton said she thought the teacher part was important too, because if the teacher is standing up there being sissy all day, the pupils are bound to turn out sissy too. Ralph Taggard seconded the motion.

  Your father kept telling me to hush up and don’t be a damn fool, but you know me, I had to put in my two cents worth. I stood up and said I thought we should all get down on our knees and thank the Lord that someone as famous as Anita Bryant had stepped forward to battle the forces of Sodom and Gomorrah. Etta said we should put that in the resolution, so I felt real proud.

  Reverend Harker said maybe we shouldn’t say anything about the rental part, because Lucy McNeil rents the room over her garage to that sissy man who sells carpets at Dixie Dell Mall. Lolly said that was O.K. because Lucy had done it of her own free will, and besides, it was easier when you could tell they were homosexual. That way you could warn your children.

  I guess I sound like a real crusader, don’t I? I hope you don’t think your old Mama’s being a foolish idealist. I just believe the Lord made us all to carry out His Holy Word.

  I saw Bubba at Etta’s this morning. He’s such a nice young man. Goodness! I can hardly believe it’s been over eight years since you and him used to go camping at Cedar Creek. He asked after you. He’s teaching history at the high school now and still isn’t married yet, but I guess it’s mighty hard to find the right girl these days.

  Blackie didn’t like the freeze much and just lays around the house looking tired. I’m afraid we might have to put him to sleep. He’s awful old.

  Take care of yourself, Mikey. We love you very much.

  MAMA

  P.S. If you need reading for your trip, I recommend Anita Bryant’s autobiography. It’s called “Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory.”

  The Getaway

  ON THE EVE OF THEIR MEXICAN CRUISE, MARY ANN and Michael huddled conspiratorially over their suitcases. “Maybe,” grinned Michael, “if we rolled it up in some Kleenex and stuffed it in your bra …”