“I was hoping you could tell me. I mean, is there anything I should know, besides your operation and all?”
“I can’t imagine what …” Mrs. Madrigal’s voice faltered. She fussed distractedly with the loose wisps of hair that framed her angular face. “Mona, if she doesn’t know that you and I are together, I don’t see how I could possibly know anything that would be pertinent to her remark.”
“But she does know. I mean, I think she knows. Oh, Christ—the moon is in ca-ca!”
Mrs. Madrigal managed a chuckle. “So what do we do, daughter?”
Mona smiled weakly. “Invite her to dinner?”
“Oh, sickroom, sickroom!”
Mona laughed. “Maybe I should talk to her first. If she doesn’t know about you, there’s no point in blowing our cover.”
“Splendid idea.”
But less and less splendid as the day wore on. That night, while Mona was visiting Michael at the hospital, Mrs. Madrigal broke one of her own rules of life by sitting in her room and agonizing over the future.
She knew that was silly. If a confrontation with Betty was inevitable, what point was there in fretting over it? The important thing now was to direct all her energy toward Mona’s happiness.
So she marched upstairs and had a little talk with Brian.
He told her more than she had expected to hear.
Burke Explodes
A LOW-HANGING SPRING FOG SLID UNDER THE bridge toward the city as Mary Ann filled her lungs with air and read the instructions for an isometric squat.
“Ick. This one is the pits.”
Burke grinned and placed his back firmly against an oak piling, easing himself down slowly. “This was your idea, remember.”
She stuck out her tongue at him. He was right, of course. For weeks she’d been promoting this trip to the Marina Green exercise course, spurred on by a semi-flabby tummy and a sexy Apartment Life article about couples who work out together.
Burke reveled in her agony. “It’s not too late to quit before you rupture something.”
“Ha! Who beat who at the hop kick and the log hop?” She chose the piling facing Burke and lowered herself defiantly into position.
Burke’s face was bright red as he held the squatting position. “That’s because you’re doing Intermediate stuff. I’m going for Championship.”
“And you’ll poop out at the end. Don’t you know anything about endurance?”
Burke completed his count of thirty, springing into an upright position again. “Healthy body, healthy mind!” he exclaimed.
Mary Ann couldn’t manage a snappy comeback. They were both thinking the same thing.
“Well,” shrugged Burke, “some of us can’t have both.”
When they had finished their run, they strolled back to a bench on the edge of the bay. Mary Ann smiled into the wind, feeling the blood tingle in her limbs. She slipped her arm through Burke’s and leaned her head on his shoulder.
“Do I smell as gross as you do?”
He kissed her damp temple. “Every bit.”
“Swell.”
“We won’t shower when we get back. I wanna screw on the living room floor.”
“Burke!”
“I like musky women.” He kissed her again and began to sing a chorus of “I Remember You.”
Mary Ann ignored the irony. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you sing. You have a gorgeous voice.”
“I do, don’t I?” He continued singing.
“Did you ever sing … like professionally?”
He turned and looked at her, hesitating. “Not professionally. Only in church, back in Nantucket. The Good Shepherd choir. What are you up to, anyway?”
Her tone was defensive. “Nothing. Can’t I be curious about you?”
“That’s what my mother said on the phone last night.”
“She called you?”
He nodded grimly.
“They’re freaking, aren’t they?”
“What do you expect? They hate this town. Their only child ended up in a bush in Golden Gate Park with amnesia. Now he’s back, chasing ghosts.”
“Do you remember that, Burke?”
“What?”
“Waking up under that bush in the park.”
“Not really. I remember being in a hospital for a while, then—”
“What hospital, Burke?”
“Presbyterian.” He smiled sympathetically.
“Well, then how do you know it happened? The stuff about the park and all.”
He stared at her uncomprehendingly. “What?”
“How do you know your parents are telling you the truth?”
“What in hell are you …?”
“They could’ve deprogrammed you, Burke.” Mary Ann drew back slightly, bracing herself for the repercussions. Burke blinked at her momentarily, then exploded with a derisive laugh.
“I may be loony, lady, but I’m not dumb! Christ, don’t you think I know when people are jacking me around? Don’t you think I have enough sense to … Christ!”
There was nothing to do but placate him. “Burke, don’t take it so personally. I’m sorry, O.K.?”
He brooded in silence, gazing out at the fog-blurred bay. “I’m no baby,” he said at last. “I was in the AP, Mary Ann.”
That night, at her suggestion, they slept apart for the first time since his arrival in San Francisco.
Mary Ann dreamed about roses.
She was walking along a catwalk with a dozen roses cradled in her arms. Behind her was the man with the transplant, leading an entourage of rose-bearers.
They were all there: the dwarf from Las Hadas, the rose vendor from the flower market, Millie the Flower Lady, and Arnold and Melba Littlefield, brandishing the processional cross from Beauchamp’s funeral.
Suddenly, Burke appeared at the end of the catwalk. He grabbed Mary Ann by the shoulders and shook her beseechingly. “I was in the AP, Mary Ann. I was in the AP.”
When she woke up, she knew what she had to do next.
The Freak Beat
THE ASSOCIATED PRESS, MARY ANN LEARNED, WAS located on the third floor of the Fox Plaza high-rise, a cold concrete tombstone of a building that marked the grave of the old Fox Theater.
The theater had been demolished about five years before Mary Ann’s arrival in San Francisco, but Michael had told her of its loveliness, its rococo majesty which conformed so gracefully to the needs of human beings.
She thought about that now as she stood in the fluorescent-lit office, waiting for a man named Jack to look up from his computer-screen typewriter long enough to acknowledge her presence.
“Uh … excuse me. The bureau chief said you might …”
His eyes didn’t stray from the symbols on the screen in front of him. “Fuck, shit, piss!”
“I’m sorry, if this is a bad time.”
“Not you.” He turned off the machine and spun around to face her, offering a tired smile. “How many goddamn words can you write about Patty Hearst, anyway?”
Mary Ann smiled back. “I’ve never tried.”
“Well, don’t. For sheer column-inches, that broad’s a bigger pain than Angela Davis. Charlie Manson and Zodiac put together!”
“It must be kind of exciting, though.”
The reporter snorted. “I put in for Buffalo. I begged ‘em for Buffalo. But oh, no! Those assholes in New York thought ol’ Jack Lederer would be fuckin’ perfect for San Francisco.” He fumbled for a More, lit it and tossed the match on the floor. “So what can I do for you?”
“The bureau chief said you used to work with—”
“Pull up a chair.”
She obeyed, wedging herself uncomfortably between his desk and a filing cabinet marked “Mass Murders, Etc.”
“The bureau chief said you used to work with a guy named Burke Andrew.”
He thought for a moment. “Yeah. Two—no—at least three years ago. But not for long. Four or five months at the most. He couldn’t hack it for shit.”
“They fired him?”
“Nah, he quit. He was slow, that’s all. Spent hours workin’ on a goddamn grabby lead when the world was fallin’ apart around him. He was nice enough, I guess. Friend of yours?”
“Yeah.”
“Disappear or something?”
“No, why?”
He shrugged. “This is the place, right? For droppin’ off the face of the earth?”
Mary Ann smiled, inwardly shuddering. She hadn’t thought of Norman Neal Williams in ages. “Burke has amnesia, Mr. Lederer. He can’t remember anything after the AP. I thought maybe you might—”
The reporter whistled. “It’s a friggin’ soap opera!”
“Tell me.”
“You want me to fill in the pieces, right?”
She nodded. “Did he tell you anything about where he was going after the AP? Did he talk about his plans?”
“Are you makin’ this up?”
“No! Why in the world should I? Look, the bureau chief says you and Burke worked together a lot.”
“Yeah. We worked nights together. But he never talked about personal stuff.”
“When he was here did he ever do stories about cults?”
Jack Lederer shook his head. “The freak beat is mine, sweetheart.” He grinned annoyingly. “You think the Moonies got him, huh?”
She ignored it. “Do you think there’s any possibility he might have—”
“When did this amnesia zap him, anyway?”
“About three months ago the police found him in Golden Gate Park. He was passed out or something.”
The reporter jerked open a desk drawer and removed a spiral notebook. “I think it must’ve been—no, earlier than that—right about …” He began to flip through the notebook. “I saw your boyfriend just briefly about five months ago at Lefty O’Doul’s one night. He told me he was free-lancing and that I could eat my heart out because he was onto something really bizarre.”
Mary Ann’s mind raced wildly. “You mean he was still a reporter?”
The AP man smirked. “A free-lancer. There’s a difference. They always talk crazy.” He looked down at the notebook again. “Yep. There it is. ‘Transubstantiation.’ ”
“What? I’m afraid I don’t …”
“Yeah. Well, neither did I. I asked your boyfriend if he had any substantiation for his so-called bizarre story and he laughed and said, ‘Transubstantiation is more like it.’ So I asked him what the hell that was supposed to mean, and he polished off his drink and told me to look it up.”
“And?”
“He walked out of the joint.”
“But what does it mean?”
Jack Lederer stubbed out his More, then pointed to a dictionary on top of the “Mass Murders, Etc.” filing cabinet. “Look it up, sweetheart.”
Homecoming
WITH MICHAEL IN HIS ARMS, JON TOOK A DEEP breath and confronted the precipitous wooden stairway leading up to Barbary Lane. “Are you ready?” he asked.
“Am I ready? You’re the one I’m worried about. What happened to our Sherpa guide, anyway?”
“He died of exposure at eight thousand feet.”
“Well, shit! You just can’t get good Sherpas anymore.”
Jon staggered under his weight. “Don’t make me laugh. I’ll drop you.”
“The hell you say. If I go, you’re going too.”
Jon took long, steady strides up the steps. “I think we’d better pack in provisions. Something tells me we won’t be going out too often.” He stopped, panting, on the landing at the entrance to the lane.
“For God’s sake,” Michael said melodramatically. “Whatever you do, don’t look down. Pretend you’re Karen Black in Airport.” He smiled bravely up at Jon, crossing his eyes.
“So help me, Michael, if you don’t …”
“Sorry.”
The doctor lumbered down the leafy walkway, cursing angrily when Boris, the resident cat, emerged from the shrubbery to rub his back ecstatically against Jon’s leg. “Aw,” said Michael. “A little pussy never hurt anyone.”
Mona was waiting for them in the courtyard. “Can I run get your wheelchair or something?”
Jon shook his head. “It’s easier to carry him.”
“Across the threshold, please note.” Michael winked at Mona.
“You could’ve at least thrown me the garter belt,” she said.
“Since when did you wanna get married?”
“A joke, Mouse.”
Mrs. Madrigal scurried into the courtyard and held the door for them. “Welcome home, dear. It just hasn’t been the same.”
Michael blew her a kiss. “This place never is, is it?”
Jon fixed pot roast for dinner. Afterward, he moved Michael’s wheelchair to the window and pulled up a chair next to him.
“I’ve missed that fish,” said Michael.
“What fish?”
“Down there. The neon one on the wharf. It’s always seemed kind of cheerful to me.”
Jon lit a joint and handed it to Michael. “The fish was an early Christian symbol for hope. They carved it on the walls of the catacombs when they were hiding out.”
“You don’t say?” Michael grinned and took a toke. “I could learn a lot from you.”
Jon kept his eyes fixed on the bay. “I can stay, then?”
Silence.
“Well … say something.”
“I love you, Jon—”
“That’s good for starters.”
“I don’t want it to be a doctor-patient thing, that’s all.”
Jon turned and stared at him. “Is that what you think?”
“You’re a doctor, Jon. It would only be natural for you to get off on nursing someone back—”
“I hate wiping your butt!”
“Look, I didn’t mean to … You do?”
“Goddamn right!”
Michael smiled. “You don’t know how much that means to me.”
They laughed until tears streamed down their faces. Michael lost control of the smoldering roach, letting it fall to the floor. Jon snuffed it with his foot, then leaned over to look directly into Michael’s eyes.
“I want you well, sport. I don’t care who does it.”
“I know.”
“On the other hand, I do get off on sex with paraplegics.”
They sat up in bed together, poring over back issues of Architectural Digest.
“Hey,” said Jon, “you wanna have Mona up for brunch tomorrow?”
“She may be in no mood. She’s seeing her mother tonight.”
“Her mother’s a bitch?”
“According to Mona, it’s ‘hair by L’Oreal, jewels by Cartier and heart by Frigidaire.’ But who knows?”
“Yeah.” Jon got lost in his magazine.
Michael stopped reading and savored for a moment this rare new form of inactivity. All his adult life he had searched for someone to do nothing with in bed. And now he had found him, this bright, generous person whose love was so strong that sex was in perspective again.
Jon held up his magazine. “Isn’t that magnificent?” It was an early photograph of the Pacific Union Club, the palatial stone edifice that still adorned the top of Nob Hill.
Michael shook his head in appreciation. “Imagine a club with that kind of money!”
“The club didn’t build it. The Floods did.”
“The Floods?”
“The Flood family. Big bucks in the old days.” Michael’s brow wrinkled. “You don’t suppose …?”
“What?”
“Christ!” yelped Michael. “That could be it, Jon. That could be it.”
The Mountain of the Flood
IT WAS LATE, BUT MICHAEL WAS TOO EXCITED TO WAIT until morning before calling Mary Ann.
“Ajax Detective Service here.”
“Mouse?”
“You thought you’d screw me up with that damn poem, didn’t you?”
“You’ve got something?”
“Mais naturellement!
Can you come down?”
“Can I!” She hung up without another word.
Jon laid his Architectural Digest on the nightstand. “Shall I get up?”
“Why?” asked Michael.
“Isn’t she coming down?”
Michael looked mildly miffed. “I think she knows we sleep together, Jon.”
“I know, but …” The doctor smiled at himself. “I’ll feel like Nora Charles or something.”
Michael tugged at the lapel of Jon’s pajamas. “It’s O.K. You’re wearing your peignoir.”
Seconds later, they heard Mary Ann in the hallway, rapping demurely on the door. “It’s open,” Michael shouted.
When Mary Ann peered cautiously into the bedroom, Michael made sure there would be no embarrassed silences. “It’s O.K.,” he grinned. “Just pretend we’re Starsky and Hutch.”
Mary Ann giggled. “You do sorta look like them.” She pulled up a chair next to the bed. “I hope you don’t mind this intrusion, Jon.”
Jon smiled. “I can’t wait to hear what this is about myself.”
“In fact,” added Michael, “he’s the one who gave me the clue.”
Mary Ann was practically bouncing in the chair. “Tell me, tell me!”
Michael smiled mysteriously, heightening the suspense. “I think Burke’s little dream poem is about the PU Club.”
“The what?”
“The PU Club, you poor cornfed thing! The Pacific Union Club, up on Nob Hill.”
“That big red brick thing?”
Michael nodded. “It was built by a man named Flood, which makes Nob Hill the Mountain of the Flood! And the PU Club is not only a cult, it’s our oldest cult. All those overstuffed old banker farts, sitting around in their overstuffed chairs!”
Mary Ann was slack-jawed. “Mouse, do you think they recite that poem in one of their rituals or something?”
“Doesn’t it make a lot of sense?”
Mary Ann thought for a moment. “Well, that part makes sense. But what about the rest of it? What about the Meeting of the Lines, for instance?”
Jon, who had been listening intently, couldn’t resist asking, “What’s the Meeting of the Lines?”
“It’s part of the poem,” Michael explained. “High upon the Sacred Rock/The Rose Incarnate shines,/Upon the Mountain of the Flood/At the Meeting of the Lines.’ ”