Tales of the City

  Back at Barbary Lane, Anna soaked in a hot tub. She was humming a very old tune when her buzzer rang.

  She dried off, slipped into her kimono, and buzzed in her visitor.

  “Who is it?” she shouted down the hallway.

  “A friend of Mary Ann Singleton’s,” came the reply. It was a young woman’s voice.

  “She’s out, dear. At the Crisis Switchboard.”

  “Would it be all right if I waited here? In the foyer, I mean? It’s kind of important.”

  Anna walked into the hallway. The young woman was blond and plump, with the face of a lost child. She was carrying a Gucci tote bag.

  “Have a seat, dear,” said the landlady. “Mary Ann should be home soon.”

  Back in the tub, Anna puzzled over the visitor. She looked familiar somehow. Something about the eyes and the line of the jaw.

  Then it hit her.

  She looked like Edgar.

  So Where Was Beauchamp?

  THE WOMAN’S FACE WAS IN THE SHADOWS. SHE HAD gained so much weight that Mary Ann didn’t recognize her immediately.

  “Mary Ann?”

  “Oh …”

  “Beauchamp’s wife. DeDe. Your landlady let me in.”

  “Yes. Mrs. Madrigal.”

  “She was very nice. I hope you don’t mind. I was afraid I’d miss you.”

  “No … that’s fine. Can you come up for a drink?”

  “You’re not expecting … company?”

  “No,” said Mary Ann, already denying the accusation.

  DeDe sat in a yellow vinyl director’s chair, folding her hands across the surface of her tote bag.

  “Would you like some crème de menthe?” asked Mary Ann.

  “Thank you. Do you have white?”

  “White what?”

  “Crème de menthe.”

  “Oh … no … just the other.”

  “Oh … I think I’ll pass.”

  “A Tab or a Fresca?”

  “Really. I’m fine.”

  Mary Ann sank to the edge of the sofa. “But not that fine.” She smiled feebly.

  DeDe looked down at her hands. “No. I guess not. Mary Ann … I’m not here to make a scene.”

  Mary Ann swallowed, feeling her face turn hot.

  “I wanted to bring you this.” DeDe fumbled in the tote bag and produced Mary Ann’s brown-and-white polka-dot scarf. “I found it in Beauchamp’s car.”

  Mary Ann stared at the scarf, dumfounded. “When?”

  “The Monday after you went to Mendocino with him.”

  “Oh.”

  “He told me about that.”

  “I see.”

  “It’s yours, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t care. I mean … I care, but I’ve stopped … exhausting myself over it. I’ve dealt with it. I think I even understand how he … got you involved.”

  “DeDe, I … Why are you here, then?”

  “Because … I’m hoping you’ll tell me the truth.”

  Mary Ann made an impotent gesture with her hands. “I thought I just had.”

  “Were you with him last weekend, Mary Ann?”

  “No! I was …”

  “What about Tuesday before last?”

  Mary Ann’s jaw dropped. “DeDe … I swear to God … I was with Beauchamp one time and one time only. He asked me to go to Mendocino with him because …” She cut herself off.

  “Because what?”

  “It sounds dumb. He … said he wanted someone to talk to. I felt sorry for him. I’ve barely talked to him since.”

  “You’re with him every day.”

  “In the same building. That’s about it.”

  “You did sleep together in Mendocino?”

  “I … yes.”

  DeDe stood up. “Well … I’m sorry to bother you. I think that’s enough of this soap opera for both of us.” She turned and headed for the door.

  “DeDe?”

  “Yes?”

  “Did Beauchamp tell you I was with him last weekend and … whatever that other time was?”

  “Not in so many words.”

  “He implied it?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wasn’t, DeDe. I want you to believe me.”

  DeDe smiled bitterly. “I do. Isn’t that the pits?”

  Back on Montgomery Street, DeDe tore ruthlessly into the mail she had ignored all day.

  There were new bills from Wilkes and Abercrombie’s, the latest issue of Architectural Digest, a plea for money from the Bennington Alumni Association, and a letter from Binky Gruen.

  She took Binky’s letter into the kitchen, where she fixed a bowl of Familia and milk. She opened the envelope with a butter knife.

  The letter was written on Golden Door stationery.

  DeDe Dear,

  Well, here’s old Bink, wallowing in luxurious misery at America’s most elegant fat farm. We get up at some godawful hour of the morning to jog through the boonies in very unflattering pink terry-cloth jumpsuits called “pinkies.” (Please, darling, no jokes about Binky in her Pinky.) I’ve lost six pounds already. Trumpet fanfare. Movie stars everywhere you turn. I feel déclassé if I don’t wear my Foster Grants in the steam room. Try it, you’ll hate it.

  Love and kisses.

  BINKY

  Beauchamp walked into the kitchen. “Where did you go tonight?”

  “Junior League.”

  He looked at the cereal bowl. “They didn’t feed you?”

  “I had a small bowl, Beauchamp!”

  “Suit yourself. It’s too late to get in shape for the opening of the opera, anyway.” He smiled maddeningly and walked out of the room.

  DeDe glowered at him until he was out of sight. Then she picked up Binky’s letter and read it again.

  What the Simple Folk Do

  THE BEAST IN THE DOORWAY MADE MARY ANN’S FLESH crawl.

  Its face was chalk white with lurid spots of rouge on the cheekbones. It was bare-chested and furry-thighed, and two gnarled goat horns rose hideously from its brow. It spoke to her.

  “How horny can ya get, huh?”

  “Michael!”

  “Wrong, O boring one. I am the Great God Pan.”

  “You scared me to death!”

  “But I am a gentle, playful creature … the spirit of forests and shepherds…. Screw it! How can anybody stay in character with you?”

  Mary Ann smiled. “A costume party?”

  “No. Actually, I’m meeting my Aunt Agnes at the Greyhound station.”

  “You’re going to the bus …? Why do I even talk to you?”

  “Aren’t you gonna invite me in?”

  She giggled. “My mother would love you.”

  “This may come as a rude shock to you, but I don’t particularly want your mother to love me. Look … if you don’t let me out of the hallway, that man on the roof is gonna have a heart attack.”

  “Come on in. What man on the roof?”

  Michael bounced into the room and sat down, adjusting the brown Afro wig that held his horns. “The new tenant. Somebody Williams. I saw him on the steps to the roof a little while ago. He nearly freaked.”

  “There’s an apartment on the roof?”

  “Sorta. I call it a pentshack. It doesn’t rent very often, but it has a gorgeous view. He moved in a couple of days ago. Hey, can I have something to drink?”

  “Sure … there’s some …”

  “Say crème de menthe and I’ll gore you!”

  She wiggled one of his horns. “White wine, Your Holiness.”

  “Sure … no, I take it back. I’ve gotta leave soon. I kinda hoped you’d go with me.”

  “As what? A nanny goat?”

  “A shepherdess. I’ve got a neat-looking peasant dress with a ribboned bodice and … Don’t look at me like that, woman. It’s Mona’s!”

  Mary Ann laughed. “I’d love to, Michael … but tonight’s my night at the Crisis Switchboard.”

  “This is a crisis! Lonely, horned
homophile with hairy legs seeks attractive but boring lady for freewheeling evening of …”

  “What about that guy I saw you with?”

  “Jon?”

  “Blond hair?”

  Michael nodded. “Tonight’s the opening night of the

  opera.”

  “Oh … you don’t like opera, huh?”

  “No … well, that’s true, as a matter of fact … but that isn’t it. Jon bought season tickets with a friend. But you’re right … I can’t really handle opera. I don’t think I would’ve … you know.”

  She kissed him cautiously on his rouged cheek. “How about a rain check?”

  He stood up, sighed and readjusted his horns. “That’s what they all say.”

  “Where’s the party?”

  “Not far. The Hyde and Green Plant Store. I’m gonna walk it.”

  “Dressed like that?”

  “Don’t be so … Cleveland. Half the people on Russian Hill look like this.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  “Of what?”

  “I don’t know…. Other people who look like that, I guess.”

  “Have fun with the suicides.”

  “Thanks.” She pushed him playfully out the door. “Go find yourself a nice billy goat.”

  Intermezzo

  MEANWHILE, AT THE OPERA HOUSE, THE GENTLEmen came and went in the shadows, preening their plumage amid the red leather and dark wood and gleaming fixtures of the men’s room at The Boxes. For the next two hours, it would be the most elegant toilet in town.

  “Guard the door,” ordered Peter Cipriani.

  “What?” said Beauchamp.

  “The last thing we need is one of those tight-assed old dinosaurs stumbling in here ripped to the tits!”

  From his pocket Peter took a Gump’s envelope embossed with the Cipriani crest. He dug into it with a tiny gold spoon and lifted the spoon to his left nostril.

  “Ah! Uncut! The way I like my coke and my men!”

  Beauchamp was nervous. “C’mon! Hurry up!”

  “Ladies first!”

  The spoon went down and up again, catering to Peter’s other nostril. Beauchamp followed suit, then inspected his tails for lint in front of the mirror.

  “God, this is dreary!”

  Peter grinned at him. “Are you going to L’Orangerie with the Halcyons afterwards?”

  “Check with DeDe. She and her mother are calling the shots tonight.”

  Peter extracted a Bill Blass bronzer from his breast pocket and began to touch up his cheekbones. “Why don’t you split with me at intermission and go to The Club?”

  “The club has something planned?”

  Peter groaned. “You poor naïve heiress! I’m talking about the one at Eighth and Howard.”

  “I think you’re on your own tonight, Peter.”

  “Chacun à son goût. Personally, I’m sick of these pseudo-patricians. I’m ready for a few pseudo-lumberjacks.”

  Ryan Hammond swept into the room. Ryan was an Englishman, or at least talked like one. He was renowned in the social columns as an escort of widows and a star of musical comedies on the Peninsula.

  “Well,” purred Peter, “haven’t the walkers crawled out of the woodwork tonight?”

  Beauchamp glared at his friend.

  Ryan ignored him, heading for the urinals.

  “Your date’s real cute, Ryan. How old is she? A hundred and eight?”

  “Peter!” snapped Beauchamp.

  Going about his business, Ryan fixed Peter with his best George Sanders evil eye. “Good evening, Mr. Cipriani. I didn’t know Massenet was your cup of tea.”

  “Well, not ordinarily … but opening night is such a spectacle, isn’t it? Hell, it’s the only night of the year that you wear less jewelry than your girlfriends.”

  The bathroom was empty again when Edgar entered with Booter Manigault.

  Booter was adorned with his European Campaign ribbons and the earplug of a transistor radio. He was listening to the Giants-Cincinnati game.

  The two men faced the wall. “Almost time for ducks again,” Edgar said expressionlessly.

  “What? … Sorry, Edgar.” He pulled out the earplug.

  “I said it’s almost time for ducks again. Seems like the Grove was just yesterday, and now it’s almost time for ducks again.”

  “Yeah … the old tempus really fugits, doesn’t it?” Booter chuckled to himself. “Who says we haven’t got seasons in California? Just about now the hookers are leaving their nests in Rio Nido and migrating to Marysville. I’d say that was a sure sign of fall, wouldn’t you?”

  Silence.

  “Edgar … are you all right?”

  “Yeah … I’m fine.”

  “You look a little white.”

  “Opera.” He forced a grin.

  Booter reinstated the earplug. “Goddamn right!”

  Vincent’s Old Lady

  MICHAEL UNCAPPED A TUBE OF DANCE ARTS CLOWN white and repaired his Pan face in the foyer of 28 Barbary Lane. He loved that old foyer, with its tarnished Deco ladies and gilt mirrors and pressed-tin ceiling full of thirties hieroglyphics.

  Somehow it made him feel debonair—gay in the archaic sense of the word—like Fred Astaire in Top Hat or Noel Coward off to meet Gertie Lawrence at the Savoy Grill.

  Thank heavens, he thought, for Mrs. Madrigal, a landlady of almost cosmic sensitivity who had never felt called upon to defile the building with polyethylene palm trees or Florentine stick-on mirror tiles from Goodman Lumber.

  He gave himself a thorough inspection and smiled in approval. He looked damned good.

  His horns were outrageously realistic. His mock-chinchilla Home Yardage goat haunches jutted out from his waist with comic eroticism. His belly was flat, and his pecs … well, his pecs were the pecs of a man who hardly ever cheated on a bench press at the Y.

  You’re hot, he told himself. Remember that.

  Remember that and hold your head up later when your parents call from Orlando and wonder if you’ve met any “nice girls” … when that cute trick from The Midnight Sun turns out to have a lover on the diving team at Berkeley … when someone at the tubs says, “I’m just resting right now” … when the beautiful and aloof Dr. Jon Fielding furrows his Byronesque brow and declines to step out of his white porcelain closet.

  Well, eat your heart out, Dr. Beautiful! Pan is on the rampage tonight!

  When Mary Ann arrived at the Bay Area Crisis Switchboard, Vincent seemed to be on a bummer.

  She checked his extremities for recent ravages.

  He was still wearing a bandage on his truncated little finger, but nothing else—other than his left ear—was missing. Mary Ann heaved a secret sigh of relief and sat down in front of her phone.

  “Bad day, huh?”

  Vincent smiled wistfully and held up a string of Greek worry beads. “I haven’t let go since breakfast.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “I don’t think …” He turned away from her, nervously twisting a Rolodex with his good hand. “I don’t like to lay heavy trips on people.” His sad eyes and scraggly red whiskers reminded Mary Ann of some pitiful zoo animal on the verge of extinction.

  “Go ahead,” she smiled. “It’s good practice for this.” She patted the telephone.

  Vincent stared at her. “You are really … a very far-out person.”

  “C’mon.”

  “No. I really mean it. When I first met you, I thought you were just another Hostess cupcake. I thought you were probably … like … slumming here, doing your bit for the Junior League or something … but you’re not like that at all. You’re really together.”

  Mary Ann reddened. “Thank you, Vincent.”

  Vincent smiled at her warmly, scratching his stub.

  His problem, it turned out, was his Old Lady.

  He had met his Old Lady when he was a house painter and she was a waitress in an organic pizzeria called The Karmic Anchovy. Together, they had fought for peace, forging their
love in the fires of zealotry. They had named their first child Ho and joined a commune in Olema.

  A union made in Nirvana.

  “What happened?” asked Mary Ann softly.

  Vincent shook his head. “I don’t know. The war, I guess.”

  “The war?”

  “Vietnam. She couldn’t take it when it was over. She fell all to pieces.”

  Mary Ann nodded sympathetically.

  “It was the biggest thing in her life, Mary Ann, and nothing after that quite fulfilled her. She tried Indians for a while, then oil spills and PG&E, but it wasn’t the same. It just wasn’t the same.”

  He looked down at the worry beads twined around his fingers. Mary Ann hoped he wouldn’t start crying.

  “We tried everything,” Vincent continued. “I even sold our food stamps to send her to an awareness retreat on the Russian River.”

  “A what?”

  “You know. A place to go to get centered. Feminist therapy, bioenergetics, herbology, transcendental volleyball … It didn’t work. Nothing has worked.”

  “I’m really sorry, Vincent.”

  “It isn’t fair, is it?” said Vincent, blinking back the tears. “There ought to be an American Legion for pacifists.”

  Now Mary Ann was certain that she was going to cry.

  “Vincent … it’ll work out.”

  Vincent just shook his head in desolation.

  “It will, Vincent. You love her, and she loves you. That’s all that matters.”

  “She left me.”

  “Oh … well, then run to her side. Tell her how much she means to you. Tell her …”

  “I can’t afford to go to Israel.”

  “She’s in Israel?”

  Vincent nodded. “She joined the Israeli Army.”

  Abruptly, he pushed back his chair and fled from the room, locking himself in the bathroom.

  Mary Ann listened at the door, white with fear.

  “Vincent?”

  Silence.

  “Vincent! Everything is going to work out. Do you hear me, Vincent?”

  She heard him rummaging in the bathroom cabinet.

  “Vincent, for God’s sake! Don’t cut anything off!”

  Then her phone rang.