Further Tales of the City

  Prue nodded. “I understand.”

  “And remember to call him Sean when other people are around.”

  “I will.”

  “And, for God’s sake, don’t fret over the fact that Frannie Halcyon is on board.”

  “What?”

  “I just spotted her on the pier. She may be seeing someone off, of course. At any rate, you have a perfect right to any romance that may happen to … come up, once you’re on board. Luke is certainly more than presentable at this point, and I doubt if Frannie …”

  “Where is she?” asked Prue. “God, that makes me nervous!”

  “Oh, Prue … lighten up. This is a vacation, remember?”

  Prue smiled gamely. “I’ll try to.”

  “God bless,” said Father Paddy.

  “Ta-ta,” said Prue.

  Down on the pier, three women clustered around two small children and made uneasy chatter.

  “Now promise me,” said DeDe, squatting to confront the twins, “you’ll do everything that Gangie says.”

  Little Anna attached herself to DeDe’s neck like a koala bear. “Why don’t you come, Mommy?”

  “I can’t, sweetheart. Mommy’s got some things to do. But I’ll be right here to meet you when you get back. I promise.”

  “Will D’orothea be here then?”

  “She might, sweetheart. Mommy doesn’t know yet.”

  Mary Ann knelt next to DeDe and addressed the children: “It’s going to be so much fun. They have movies on the ship, you know. And you’ll see wonderful animals up in Alaska.”

  “What kind?” asked little Edgar.

  Mary Ann’s face went blank. “What kind?” she murmured to DeDe.

  “Uh … moose, I guess. Mooses?”

  “Big animals,” explained Mary Ann. “With big horns.” Then she saw the look on the little girl’s face, and added hastily: “But they’re very sweet … like a big ol’ dog or something.”

  DeDe rose to her feet and embraced her mother. “Thank you for doing this. I love you dearly. I hope that much is clear, at least.”

  “It is,” said Frannie, beginning to weep. “It always was, darling.”

  DeDe found a Kleenex in her purse and blotted the matriarch’s eyes. “It’s better this way,” she said. “I know they’ll be safe with their Gangie.”

  “But what could be safer than home?”

  “Now, now … you know the publicity would …”

  “It isn’t just the publicity, is it?” Frannie fixed her daughter with a gaze that demanded the truth.

  DeDe turned away, discarding the Kleenex.

  “Is it?” Frannie persisted.

  A bone-rattling blast from the Sagafjord announced its impending departure.

  “There we go,” said DeDe, a trifle too cheerily.

  “DeDe, I want you to …”

  DeDe silenced her with another hug. “Everything will be fine, Mother … just fine.”

  Keeping Up with the Joneses

  LARRY KENAN DIDN’T LAUGH—HE BRAYED —WHEN MARY Ann made her request. “That’s rich, lady! That is really rich!”

  “Well, I’m sorry if it …”

  “Reserve air time?”

  “You don’t have to repeat it, Larry. I get the message.”

  “Air time is not something you reserve, like a room at the Hilton or something …”

  “Right. Gotcha.”

  “Air time is something you create … and we have to know what we’re creating, right?”

  “Right.” Mary Ann rose and headed for the door.

  The news director kept his face tilted heavenward towards Bo Derek. “Hold it,” he said.

  Mary Ann stopped at the door. “Yeah?”

  “If you’ve got a story, you should let us know about it. You have a responsibility to let us know about it. As a journalist.”

  “I’m not a journalist,” said Mary Ann crisply. “You just said so yourself.”

  “I said you were not a journalist yet. And, even if you were, I couldn’t sign you up for free air time without knowing what the fuck you’re gonna talk about!”

  “I already told you,” said Mary Ann calmly. “I can talk about it a week from today.”

  “Then why don’t you do that, huh?”

  “Fine.”

  “Only don’t expect to talk about it on the air.”

  “Larry …”

  “Do you read me, lady? We have professionals we pay for that. That’s not what we pay you for. I think we could work out a credit line on the crawl. Maybe. I don’t know what rabbit you’ve got treed, but don’t expect it to turn you into Bambi Kanetaka overnight.”

  She squelched a “God forbid” and walked out the door. So much for Plan A.

  Plan B, she expected, would be a lot more fun.

  DeDe seemed amenable to the idea. “I don’t care how we do it,” she said. “I’m more concerned about when.”

  “Would Tuesday be O.K.?” asked Mary Ann.

  “A week from today?”

  Mary Ann nodded. “That’ll give us a week to mop things up before your mother and the children get back. The trip was a good idea, really … if only for logistical purposes.”

  DeDe’s face clouded over. “But you think I’m a little paranoid, just the same.”

  “I think you’re being conscientious.”

  “Don’t mince words, Mary Ann.”

  “DeDe, I …”

  “Jim Jones is dead, right? He must be. You saw it on the goddamn news!”

  The outburst miffed Mary Ann. “All I care about,” she said firmly, “is that you get a fair chance to tell your story … in as safe a fashion as possible. This is a mind-boggling scoop, DeDe. Period. My opinion doesn’t make a good goddamn at this point. The point is … to raise the questions. The answers will sort themselves out later.”

  “You’re right,” said DeDe resignedly.

  “It won’t be easy. I know that. If you like, you can confine your remarks to a written statement, and I’ll handle the questions from the press. Then you and the twins can disappear, take another vacation, start life afresh.”

  DeDe’s smile was rueful. “It’ll be anything but that.”

  “I know it’ll be tough for a while, but …”

  “It’ll be tough until I know for sure. I saw that guy, Mary Ann. I’ve never been so sure about something.”

  Mary Ann appraised her for a moment. “All right, then … let’s say that you did.”

  DeDe waited.

  “Let’s say that he made it to Moscow, and his double died in his place. The whole world thinks he’s dead, but he’s really alive and well and living in Moscow. Why on earth, then, would he come back to San Francisco and be seen wandering around Steinhart Aquarium?”

  Silence.

  Mary Ann was gentle. “These are the things they’re going to ask you, DeDe. I want you to be ready.”

  “I’ll never be ready,” she said grimly.

  Mary Ann rose and moved to DeDe’s side, hugging her clumsily. “I’m so sorry. God, I … look, we can leave out the stuff about the double, if you want. We can just announce that you’re back and leave out the rest …”

  “No!” DeDe’s head shook adamantly. “I want to nail that asshole. I want this over once and for all. I don’t want to creep around the rest of my life, wondering if he’s waiting for me … wondering if … if the children …”

  “What if it was the double you saw?”

  Another decisive shake of DeDe’s head. “It wasn’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “I just am, that’s all.”

  “He hasn’t changed at all? Surely people would recognize him.”

  “Would you?” asked DeDe. “Who the hell expects to bump into him on the street?”

  “Yeah. I see your point.”

  “Besides … there was something different about him. His nose, maybe … I don’t know. They could’ve given him plastic surgery in Moscow. God, I wish you believed me! I remember
the past, Mary Ann. I won’t be condemned to repeat it!” DeDe flinched as if she’d been slapped. “Jesus!”

  “What’s the matter?” asked Mary Ann.

  “Nothing,” said DeDe. “I’m still spouting his jargon, that’s all.”

  “What jargon?”

  DeDe shrugged it off. “Just a stupid quotation he hung over his throne.”

  Taste Test

  SORRY I ‘M LATE,” SAID BILL RIVERA, JOINING MICHAEL AT a table in Welcome Home. “My ex-lover’s brother’s lover just left town.”

  “Hang on. Your …?”

  The policeman smiled. “Ex-lover’s brother’s lover. He came out about a week ago.”

  “Out here, or out of the closet?”

  “Both, more or less … and the sonofabitch picked my apartment to do it in. He showed up on my doorstep with fourteen different fantasy costumes.”

  “Like … leather?”

  “Leather, cowboy stuff, bandannas out the ass, tit clamps, three-piece suits … you name it.”

  Michael smiled. “And guess who’s supposed to show him around.”

  Bill shook his head. “I hardly saw the guy. He’d stop by long enough to crash or change costumes or swipe my poppers, and then he’d take off again. He trashed his way from Alta Plaza to Badlands to The Caldron and back again, while I stayed home and watched TV. This morning, when he left, he got real serious all of a sudden and said: ‘You know, Bill. This place is just too decadent. I could never live here.’ I felt like strangling the prick with his harness.”

  Michael laughed and handed Bill a menu. “The people from L.A. are the worst.”

  “This guy’s from Milwaukee. Even the faggots there think we’ve gone too far.”

  Michael smiled suddenly, remembering something. “Did you hear about the fire in the Castro Muni Metro station last week?”

  The policeman shook his head.

  “It wasn’t much of one,” Michael continued. “But a whole hook-and-ladder showed up, complete with half-a-dozen hot firemen. They parked across from the Castro Theatre, but couldn’t get into the Metro station without passing through a hoedown being held by The Foggy City Squares.”

  “Translate,” said Bill.

  “A gay square dance group. They were doing this big do-si-do number in front of the Bank of America. Clapping and yee-hawing and singing ‘The Trail of the Lonesome Pine.’ All men. It was great. What struck me about it, actually, was the look on the firemen’s faces: blasé as all get-out. They nodded to everybody kind of pleasantly and went right about their work … as if they always passed through a crowd of square dancing men before putting out a fire. That wouldn’t happen anywhere else on earth. That’s why I live here, I guess. That and the fact that some of the cops are a little funny.”

  Bill grinned. “More than a little.”

  “Just enough,” said Michael. “You’re not real big on country-western, are you?” He’d deduced as much from Bill’s reaction to his square dancing yarn.

  The cop made a noncommittal grunt.

  “I ask because … well, I was wondering if you’d like to go to the rodeo with me.”

  Bill looked up from the menu. “The gay one.”

  Michael nodded.

  Bill frowned. “More faggots pretending to be cowboys, huh?”

  “Not all of them,” Michael replied. “Some are pretending to be Tammy Wynette.”

  Mary Ann didn’t hide her surprise when Michael showed up on her doorstep just before midnight. “I thought you were seeing your Boy in Blue tonight.”

  “I was. I did.”

  “I see.”

  “He doesn’t like to sleep with people,” said Michael. “All night, that is.”

  Mary Ann made a face. “He sounds like a lot of fun.”

  Michael shrugged. “I think we’re both in it for the sex. It’s just as well. He has sleepsleepsleep sheets.”

  “He has what?”

  “You know … those sheets that say sleepsleepsleep. They go with the towels that say drydrydry. It’s awful, Babycakes. His taste is not to be believed.”

  “Wait a minute! I had some of those sheets.”

  “You did?”

  “Yes, I did! What’s wrong with those sheets?”

  “That isn’t the point,” said Michael. “The point is … we have very little in common.”

  “Except sex.”

  Michael nodded. “Except great sex. And that has a curious way of canceling out the tacky sheets. Not to mention a belt buckle that says BILL and a shower curtain with a naked man on it.”

  “I think you’re an awful snob,” frowned Mary Ann.

  “Maybe so,” said Michael, “but at least it keeps me from overreacting to the great sex. If he had any style at all, I’d probably be in love with him by now.”

  “And you don’t want that?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “It’s like this sweater. Have you seen this sweater, by the way?”

  “It’s nice,” said Mary Ann. “The color’s good on you. Is it cashmere?”

  Michael nodded. “Fifteen bucks at the Town School’s second hand shop.”

  “A steal!” She fingered a sleeve. “It’s almost new, Mouse.”

  “Not so fast.” Michael lifted his arm to reveal a dime-sized hole in the sweater’s elbow.

  “You could patch it,” Mary Ann suggested.

  “Not on your life. That’s what I’m talking about. I like that hole, Babycakes. It keeps me from worrying about my new cashmere sweater. I can have the style, the feel, the luxury of cashmere without any fussing and fretting. It’s already flawed, see, so I can relax and enjoy it. That’s exactly the way I feel about Bill.”

  “And how does he feel about you?”

  “He thinks of me as a fuck buddy. Period.”

  “How romantic.”

  “Exactly. So I take refuge in his atrocious taste and tell myself that it would never work out, anyway. Even if he wasn’t so crushingly unsentimental. Even if he didn’t keep Meat on top of his toilet tank.”

  “I don’t think I’ll ask about that,” said Mary Ann.

  “It’s a book,” said Michael.

  “Thank God. Tell me something sweet. What have you heard from Jon lately?”

  Michael managed a look of faint irritation. “You can squeeze him into any conversation, can’t you?”

  “I don’t care,” said Mary Ann. “He was my friend, too. He was generous and gorgeous and … he thought you were the greatest thing going. He was cashmere without the hole, Mouse. That wasn’t so terrible, was it?”

  Michael sighed wearily. “I don’t hear from Jon, O.K.?”

  “O.K. Sorry.”

  He didn’t bother to hide the wistfulness in his eyes. “You haven’t, have you?”

  North to Alaska

  PRUE GIROUX WAS WEARING HEELS, FRANNIE NOTED. Stiletto heels on which she tottered precariously as she made her way along the rain-slick Promenade Deck of the Sagafjord. Her gown, as usual, was totally inappropriate, flouncy and cream-colored and dreadful.

  Her escort, on the other hand, was as debonair as the Duke of Windsor in his elegant blue blazer, crisp white collar and gray silk tie. Good heavens, thought Frannie, how does she manage to do it?

  Prue seemed to waver for a moment when she caught sight of Frannie in the deck chair. Then she smiled a little too extravagantly and clamped a hand on her companion’s arm, as if he were a trophy she was about to present.

  “Isn’t this marvelous?” she cooed, meaning the scenery.

  “Mmm,” replied Frannie. “Magical.”

  “Wasn’t Alert Bay the most precious place? One’s reminded of those little ceramic villages one buys at Shreve’s at Christmastime!”

  And sometimes, thought Frannie, one is much too common to get away with using “one” all the time.

  “Have you met Mr. Starr?” asked the columnist.

  The matriarch smiled as regally as possible and extend
ed her hand, still recumbent and blanket-swathed. “How do you do?” she said.

  “Mr. Starr is a stockbroker from London,” beamed Prue.

  The woman is impossible, thought Frannie. Who else would volunteer her consort’s credentials so eagerly. “I adore London,” she said vaguely.

  The poor man seemed horribly uncomfortable. “I’m not a …”

  “He’s not British,” Prue interrupted, squeezing the man’s arm even tighter. “I mean … he’s not a native. He’s an American working in London.”

  “I see,” said Frannie.

  The man nodded to confirm Prue’s statement, clearly humiliated by her incorrigible pushiness. Well, thought Frannie, here’s one shipboard romance that won’t last the duration of the cruise.

  “Where are those precious little orphans?” asked Prue.

  Frannie did her best not to scowl. This “orphan” business, like melancholia and mild seasickness, was part of her vacation package. “They’re in the movie theatre,” she said casually, “watching Bugs Bunny.”

  The warmest smile imaginable stole across Mr. Starr’s aristocratic features. “They are beautiful children,” he said. “You must be very proud of them.”

  “Oh, yes,” exclaimed Frannie, adding quickly: “They aren’t really mine, of course … but I’m alone in the world, and they’re such splendid company, and … well, what else am I going to do with my time?”

  Mr. Starr’s response was almost intimate, as if he had known Frannie for years. “I think that’s extraordinarily generous of you,” he said.

  The matriarch flushed. “Well, I … thank you, but … well, I get a lot of satisfaction out of it …” Her voice trailed off ineffectually. Mr. Starr was all but caressing her with his eyes. Already, Frannie sensed a rapport with him that she was certain he didn’t share with Prue Giroux.

  “We should chat about that sometime,” said Prue.

  “Uh … what?” Frannie was still mesmerized by Mr. Starr’s extraordinary gaze.

  “The foster grandparent program,” said Prue. “I’m sure my readers would love to hear your comments on that.”

  “Oh, yes,” Frannie murmured absently. “That might be … very nice.”