RUBY MILLER’S HOUSE WAS ON ORTEGA STREET IN THE Sunset district, a green stucco bungalow with a manicured lawn and a bowl of plastic roses in the picture window. A Rambler parked in the driveway bore a bumper sticker that said: HONK IF YOU LOVE JESUS.
Edgar parked the Mercedes across the street. He was locking the doors when he saw Mrs. Miller waving from the window.
He returned the wave. Christ! He felt like a shoe salesman coming home to the wife.
Mrs. Miller turned on the porch light, took off her apron and fussed with a strand of gray hair. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, you are! I’m a mess…. I didn’t plan …”
“I’m sorry. I hope it’s not too much trouble.”
“Don’t be silly. I’m tickled to death.” She gave his hand a pat and led him into the house. “Ernie … look who’s here!”
Her husband was seated in front of the television set in a Danish Modern chair. His arms were the shape and color of provolone cheese.
“Hiya, Mr. Halcyon.” He didn’t get up. He was engrossed in the box before him.
“How’s everything, Ernie?”
“Bob Barker just reunited a Marine with his loved one.”
“I’m sorry …?”
“Truth or Consequences. They brought this Marine back from Okinawa and reunited him with his fiancée. She was dressed up like a frog. They made him kiss her … blindfolded.”
Mrs. Miller took Edgar’s arm. “Isn’t that sweet? You don’t watch much TV, I guess.”
“No. I’m afraid not.”
“Well, enough chitchat. Let’s get to work. Something to eat first? Hi-C, maybe? Fritos?”
“I’m fine, thank you.” At the last minute, out of nervousness, he had gorged himself on chicken livers at the club. “I’m ready whenever you are.”
“Then let’s you and me go out to the garage. Ernie, don’t you play the TV too loud, hear?” Her husband grunted his reply.
Mrs. Miller led Edgar through the kitchen. “That Ernie and his TV! I guess it relaxes him … and it’s much more Christian than the movies these days, what with … you know … all that nasty stuff.”
“Mmm,” he said vaguely, trying to sound polite but disinterested. Mrs. Miller could slip into a monologue with all the precision of a New York cabby or an Italian barber. Edgar didn’t want to spend this session hearing about Smut in the Cinema.
In the semidarkness of the garage, she went about her business. She cleared muddy garden tools off the ping-pong table and removed a couple of candle stubs from an old MJB can. Humming softly to herself, she donned the familiar purple velveteen robe.
“Have you noticed any changes?”
“In the garage?”
Mrs. Miller chuckled. “In you. This is your fifth visit. You should be feeling … changes.”
“I’m not sure. I may …”
“Don’t force it. It will come.”
“I wish I shared your confidence.”
“Faith, Mr. Halcyon.”
“Yes.”
“Faith is different than confidence.”
She was beginning to irritate him. “Mrs. Miller … my wife is expecting me home shortly. Could we …?”
“Of course.” She was all business now. She brushed some imaginary lint off the front of her robe and kneaded her fingers for a moment. “Assume the posture, please.”
Edgar loosened his tie and climbed onto the ping-pong table. He lay down on his back. Mrs. Miller lit a candle and placed it on the table near Edgar’s head.
“Mr. Halcyon?”
“Yes?”
“Forgive me, but … well, I was wondering if … You mentioned Mrs. Halcyon. I was wondering if you told her.”
“No.”
“I know you don’t like to talk about it … but sometimes it helps if a loved one joins in and …”
“My family is Catholic, Mrs. Miller.”
She was visibly jarred. “Oh … I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.” He waved it away.
“I didn’t mean I was sorry you’re Catholic. I meant …”
“I know, Mrs. Miller.”
“Jesus loves Catholics too.”
“Yes.”
She pressed her fingertips against Edgar’s temples and made small circular strokes. “Jesus will help heal you, Mr. Halcyon, but you must believe in Him. You must become a little child again and seek refuge in His bosom.”
A motorcycle roared down Ortega Street, spluttering blasphemously, as Ruby Miller began the incantation that Edgar Halcyon now knew by heart:
“Heal him, Jesus! Heal thy servant Edgar. Heal his failing kidneys and make him whole again. Heal him, Jesus! Heal thy servant….”
The Boy Next Door
MARY ANN LEFT MRS. MADRIGAL’S JUST AFTER TEN o’clock. Back at her own apartment, she put her feet up, sipped a Tab and checked her mail.
There was a short, gloomy note from her mother, a Contemporary Card from Connie implying desertion, and a box containing her Scenic San Francisco checks from Hibernia Bank.
The personalized message on her checks was “Have a Nice Day.”
Despite her pathetic income, the choice of a bank had somehow seemed crucial to the establishment of her identity in the city.
In the beginning, she had wavered between the Chartered Bank of London and Wells Fargo. The former had a wonderfully classy name and a fireplace in the lobby, but only one branch in the entire city. The latter had a nice Western ring to it and lots of branches.
But she had never considered Dale Robertson all that cute.
In the end, she had gone with Hibernia.
Their jingle promised they would remember your name.
Someone rapped on her door.
It was Brian Hawkins, who lived across the hall. He was a waiter at Perry’s and they had chatted briefly only once or twice before. His hours were extremely irregular.
“Hi,” he said. “Mrs. Madrigal just called.”
“Yeah?”
“What is it? Furniture?”
“I’m sorry, Brian. I don’t …”
“She said you needed help with something.”
“I can’t imagine what …” The light dawned. Mary Ann laughed, shaking her head, taking stock once more of Brian’s chestnut curls and green eyes. Mrs. Madrigal was pushy, but her taste wasn’t bad.
Brian looked vaguely irked. “You wanna let me in on it.”
“I think Mrs. Madrigal is matchmaking.”
“You don’t need furniture moved?”
“It’s kind of embarrassing. I … well, I just finished telling her there weren’t enough straight men in San Francisco.”
He brightened. “Yeah. Ain’t it great?”
“Oh, Brian … I’m sorry. I thought you …”
“Relax, will ya? I’m straight as they come. I just don’t like competition.”
He invited her over for a nightcap. His tiny kitchen was decorated with empty Chianti bottles and Sierra Club posters. The carcass of a neglected piggyback plant hung grimly from a pot on the window sill.
“I love your stove,” said Mary Ann.
“Funky, huh? Anywhere else it’s called squalor. Here we pass it off as Old World charm.”
“Did it come with the apartment?”
“Are you kidding? The stereo and the incline board are mine. The rest belongs to Dragon Lady.”
“Mrs. Madrigal?”
He nodded, looking her over. “She’s trying to fix us up, huh?” His smile was approaching a leer.
Mary Ann chose not to deal with it. “She’s a little strange, but I think she means well.”
“Sure.”
“Has she always had this place?”
He shook his head. “I think she used to run a bookstore in North Beach.”
“Is she from here?”
“Nobody’s from here.” He refilled her glass with Almadén Pinot Noir. “You’re from Cleveland, aren’t you?”
“Yeah. How did you know?”
“Mona to
ld me.” The green eyes were burning into her.
She looked down at her glass. “Well, no secrets at all.”
“Don’t count on it.”
“What?”
“We’ve all got secrets in this town. You just have to dig a little deeper for them.”
He’s being mysterious, she thought, because he thinks it’s sexy. She decided it was time to leave.
“Well,” she said, rising. “Work tomorrow. Thanks for the wine … and the tour.”
“Anytime.”
She was sure he meant exactly that.
The Matriarch
WHEN EDGAR GOT HOME AT ELEVEN-FIFTEEN, IT was clear that Frannie had been drinking.
“Well, how was the club, darling? You make like a little hooty owl?”
She was perched on the sofa on the sun porch. Her legs were curled up under her Thai silk muumuu. Her wig was askew. She smelled of rum and Trader Vic’s Mai Tai Mix.
“Hello, Frannie.”
“Awful long committee meeting.”
“We were planning for the Grove Play.” He tried to sound nonchalant about it, though Frannie was too far gone to appreciate the effort.
“Lotta work, huh?”
“We had a few drinks afterward. You know how those things go.”
Frannie nodded, stifling a hiccup. She certainly knew how those things went.
He changed the subject. “How about you? You have a fun day?” His tone was that of a kindly father to a small child.
What had happened to the debutante who once looked like Veronica Lake?
“I had lunch with Helen and Gladys at that darling place on Polk Street … The Pavilion. Then I bought a ceramic duck. Precious. Maybe it’s a goose. I think it’s supposed to be for soup, but I thought it would look darling in the den with some ivy or something.’’
“Good.”
“Annnd … I went to my Opera Guild meeting this afternoon and made the most marvelous discovery. What do you think it is?”
“I don’t know.” Christ, how he hated this game!
“C’mon. One eensy-weensy guess.”
“Frannie, I’ve had a long day….”
“Don’t you wuv me?”
“For Christ’s sake!”
“Oh, all right! If you’re going to be a grouch about it … Guess who’s in town?”
“Who?”
Frannie sustained the suspense as long as possible, shifting her torso on the sofa and adjusting her wig. She needs attention, thought Edgar. You haven’t been giving it to her.
“The Huxtables,” Frannie said at last.
“The who?”
“Really, Edgar. Nigel Huxtable. The conductor. His wife is Nora Cunningham.”
“It’s coming back to me.”
“You slept through their Aida.”
“Yes. Marvelous evening.”
“They’re here to do a benefit for Kurt Adler. Practically nobody knows they’re staying at the Mark … and we’re going to give a party for them!”
“We are?”
“Aren’t you excited?”
“We threw a party last month, Frannie.”
“This is a coup, Edgar! The Farnsworths will just díe. Viola’s been gloating for two months over that absurd little barbecue she gave for Baryshnikov.”
“I don’t even remember it.”
“Yes you do. She hired those seedy Russian waiters from some place on Clement Street, and they served Russian dressing and Russian tea, and the organist played ‘Lara’s Theme’ when Baryshnikov made his entrance. It was too ghastly for words!”
“You just did fairly well.”
“Edgar … the Huxtables make Baryshnikov look like … Barney Google. I know I can get them, darling.”
“Frannie, I just don’t think …”
“Please … I didn’t complain when you wouldn’t let me have Truman Capote or Giancarlo Giannini.”
Edgar turned away. He couldn’t face that Emmett Kelly expression. “All right. Try and keep the cost down, will you?”
Emma warmed up some leftover quiche for him. He ate it in his study, while he scanned the new book he had ordered: Death as a Fact of Life.
“Whatcha reading, darling?” Frannie was propped against the doorway.
He closed the book. “Consumer research. Boring.”
“You coming to bed?”
“In a minute, Frannie.”
She was out cold and snoring when he got there.
Stranger in the Park
EDGAR SPOKE TO MARY ANN ON THE INTERCOM, “I NEED the Adorable script as soon as possible. I think Beauchamp has a copy.”
“He’s out right now, Mr. Halcyon.”
“Check with Mona, then.”
“I don’t think she …”
“Ask her, goddammit! Somebody’s got one!” As soon as Mary Ann was gone, Edgar dialed Jack Kincaid’s number.
“Dr. Kincaid’s office.”
“Is he in?”
“May I tell him who’s calling?”
“No, you may not!”
“One moment, please, Mr. Halcyon.”
Kincaid’s tone was much too jovial. “Hello, Edgar. How’s the pantyhose game?”
“When can you see me?”
“What about?”
“The tests. I want new ones.”
“Edgar, that won’t make a damn bit of …”
“I’ll pay for them, goddammit!”
“Edgar …”
“You were wrong about Addison Branch. You told me so yourself.”
“That was different. His symptoms weren’t so pronounced.”
“Symptoms can change. It’s been three months.”
“Edgar … look … I’m telling you as a friend. Stop fighting this thing. You’re beating your head against a wall. You’re not being fair to yourself or the people who love you.”
“What the hell has fairness got to do with it?”
“Face it, Edgar. You’ve got to. Tell your family. Buy yourself a yacht and take Frannie on a cruise around the world. Hell … rent a castle in Spain or run off with a whore or keep right on raising hell in Jackson Square … but face it! For God’s sake … no, for yours … make these next six months count.”
When Mary Ann returned, he was waiting at her desk. “I’m going out. If anyone wants me, I’m at lunch with a client.”
“Doro’s?”
“Never mind where. Just say I’m out.” He strode out of the building, furious that a contract he had never signed was being carried out anyway.
Tell Frannie? Christ! What kind of mileage could she get out of that one in the social columns?
Frances Halcyon, Hillsborough hostess par excellence, scored another triumph Friday night with an intimate little dinner for operatic greats Nora Cunningham and Nigel Huxtable. Frannie, who just saw A Chorus Line in New York (“Adored it!”), delighted some very well-bred palates with beef roulades and potato puffs. Hubby Edgar (he’s the advertising giant) surprised the assembled guests with the announcement of his impending death….
He headed away from Jackson Square, up Columbus into the frantic heart of North Beach. Carol Doda’s electric nipples winked at him cruelly, flaunting a revolution in which he had never even been an insurgent.
In front of The Garden of Eden, a walleyed derelict bellowed: “It’s all over. It’s time to make peace with the Lord. It’s time to get right with Jesus!”
He needed a place to clear his head.
And time to do it. Precious time.
He sat down on a bench in Washington Square. Next to him was a woman who was roughly his age. She was wearing wool slacks and a paisley smock. She was reading the Bhagavad Gita.
She smiled.
“Is that the answer?” asked Edgar, nodding at the book.
“What’s the question?” asked the woman.
Edgar grinned. “Gertrude Stein.”
“I don’t think she said it, do you? No one’s that clever on a deathbed.”
There it was again.
r /> He felt a surge of recklessness. “What would you say?”
“About what?”
“The end. Your last words. If you could choose.”
The woman studied his face for a moment. Then she said: “How about … ‘Oh, shit!’”
His laughter was cathartic, an animal yelp that brought tears to his eyes. The woman watched him benignly, detached yet somehow gentle.
It was almost as if she knew.
“Would you like a sandwich?” she asked when he stopped laughing. “It’s made from focaccia bread.”
Edgar said yes, delighting in her charity. It was nice to have someone taking care of him for once. “I’m Edgar Halcyon,” he said.
“That’s nice,” she said. “I’m Anna Madrigal.”
Relating at Lunch
BACK AT THE AGENCY, MARY ANN WAS GLOSSING HER lips when Beauchamp approached on little cat feet.
“Has the Blue Meanie gone to lunch yet?”
“Oh … Beauchamp …” She dropped the lip gloss into the wicker pocketbook she had decoupaged with frogs and mushrooms. “He’s … he left over an hour ago. I think he was upset about something.”
“News.”
“This was different.”
“Maybe they asked him to be a wood nymph in the Grove Play.”
“What?”
“Nothing. We’ve got a lunch date, remember?”
“Oh … that’s right.”
She had thought of nothing else all morning.
At MacArthur Park, they both ordered salads. Mary Ann nibbled hers half-heartedly, put off slightly by the restaurant’s caged birds and Urban Organic aloofness. Beauchamp sensed her discomfort.
“You’re freaked, aren’t you?”
“I … how do you mean?”
“You know. This. Us.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Uh uh. You have to answer first.”
She killed time by hunting for a chunk of avocado. “It’s … new, I guess.”
“Lunch with a married man?”
She nodded, avoiding his French Racing Blue eyes. “Could I have some ice water, Beauchamp?”
He signaled for a waiter without shifting his gaze from her. “You shouldn’t be nervous, you know. You’re the one who’s free. There’s a lot to be said for that.”