Further Tales of the City

  “I can tell you love them,” Mr. Starr said to Frannie, all but ignoring Prue’s presence. “It shows in your face. And where there is love … there is a bond, regardless of blood.”

  Prue grimaced. “Blood?”

  Frannie smiled indulgently. What an idiot. “I think Mr. Starr is referring to kinship, Prue.” She turned back to her new admirer. “I love them as if they were my own, Mr. Starr.”

  He winked almost imperceptibly. “I know,” he said. What a sweet thing to say, thought Frannie, trying to discern what it was that seemed so familiar about this stranger’s face.

  “Do you, by any chance, know a Father Paddy Starr in San Francisco?” asked Frannie.

  “I asked him that already,” blurted Prue. “I wondered the same thing myself.”

  Frannie smiled. “The name is the same. I just thought … there might be …”

  “No,” said Mr. Starr. “There are lots of us, I guess.”

  “Mmm,” said Frannie.

  “By the way,” added Mr. Starr, “if you ever need help with the babysitting, I’d be glad to oblige.”

  “How kind,” beamed Frannie. “I think I can manage, though.”

  “I’m good with children,” he said.

  Frannie nodded. She was sure he was.

  Aurora Borealis

  THAT EVENING, WHILE MOST OF THE PASSENGERS CONGREGATED in the ballroom for the rhumba contest, Prue and Luke snuggled under wooly Norwegian blankets on the Lido Deck and watched the miracle of the northern lights.

  “My Daddy was right,” said Prue, her eyes riveted on the baby blue ribbon that trimmed the black velvet sky along the horizon. “Now I know exactly what he meant.”

  “About what?” asked Luke.

  “Oh … beauty, I guess. He told me never to get bored with life, because there are some types of beauty you won’t even understand until you see them for yourself. I’ve heard about the northern lights all my life, but I never really … believed in them … until now.”

  Luke answered by tightening his grip on her shoulder.

  “I guess,” Prue added, “I never really believed in us until now. I wanted to, God knows, but I never allowed myself to surrender completely. It seemed too unreal, too much of a pipe dream somehow.”

  Luke cupped her face in his hands. “It’s real, Prue. Every bit of it.” His smile flashed like whitecaps against a dark sea. “Except maybe these damn clothes.”

  “You look magnificent,” Prue gushed. “I’m so proud of you, Luke. Have you seen the way those old biddies look at you when we walk into the dining room? They’re eating you alive! I’d get a little nervous, if I didn’t know better.”

  Luke almost snapped at her. “Can’t you forget about appearances for once?”

  Prue was hurt. “Luke … I’m telling you what’s in my heart.”

  “I know, I know.” His tone was placating.

  “I’m happy, Luke. That’s a little miracle in itself. I didn’t even know what the word meant until I met you. Now … I feel like singing at the top of my lungs.” She smiled at her own impetuousness. “I’ve always gone to a lot of trouble to make people think of me as madcap. For the first time in my life, Luke, I feel madcap. I want this to go on forever.”

  He turned and looked at the lights again. “Two weeks isn’t forever.”

  Prue’s brow furrowed. “Luke …”

  “Don’t plan things, Prue. Or you’ll lose the moment.”

  “What if I want more than the moment?”

  “You can’t. We can’t.”

  “Why? There’s no reason in the world why this can’t keep going when we get back to San …”

  “There are lots of reasons.”

  “What? Why can’t we just …?”

  “Hush, darling … hush.” He drew her closer, stroking her hair as if she were a child. “You want so much, my love … so much.”

  She pulled away from him, suddenly disoriented, flailing for absolutes. “Is it too much to want to build on what we have? My God, Luke … have I been reading this wrong? Haven’t I seen love in your eyes?”

  “Yes,” he nodded, “yes, you have.”

  “Then what is it?”

  He regarded her for a moment, then shook his head slowly. “Who are we kidding, Prue? Your friends will never buy this act.”

  “Luke … you would charm my friends.”

  “Like that old bat with the Vietnamese orphans? No, thank you. I’m not interested in charming the bourgeoisie … and they’d see that in about ten minutes.”

  Prue didn’t hide her pique. “If it really matters to you, that old bat—as you call her—lost a daughter and two grandchildren in Guyana. Those orphans are obviously her means of compensating for the loss of …”

  “What’s her name?”

  The ferocity of his query startled her. “Frannie Halcyon. I introduced you, didn’t I?”

  “No. The daughter’s name.”

  “Oh. DeDe Day. DeDe Halcyon Day. The papers made a big fuss about it at the time. You must’ve read … Luke, is something the matter?”

  He was standing there, ramrod-straight, his hands clamped on the railing. A vein was throbbing in his neck, and his breathing seemed curiously erratic.

  Prue struggled to undo the damage. “Luke, I know you’re not insensitive. I didn’t mean to accuse you of …”

  He wheeled around to face her. “It’s all right … it’s all right. I’m sorry I yelled at you. Forgive me, will you? Will you do that?”

  “Oh, Luke!” She scooped him into her arms and wept against his shoulder. “I love you, darling. I’d forgive you for anything.”

  “I pray you don’t have to,” he said.

  Telepathy

  THESE DAYS, MARY ANN DID HER BANKING AT THE COlumbus Avenue branch of the Bank of America. She frequented this graceful old North Beach landmark because (a) it had starred in a Woody Allen movie (Take the Money and Run) and (b) its tellers were cheerful, Italian and gossipy.

  Today’s was no exception.

  “My husband and I have never fit in,” announced a particularly aggressive teller in her late thirties. She delivered this information so earnestly that it almost seemed as if Mary Ann had requested it.

  “Really?” said Mary Ann.

  “Never. Never. Years ago when nice girls didn’t live with nice boys without benefit of matrimony, Joe and I were shacked up big as life. Then suddenly everybody was shacking up. What do we do? We get married. O.K., so along comes ZPG, and nobody’s having babies, right? Wrong. Joe and I had babies like crazy. Now suddenly it’s terribly fashionable to have babies again, so a lot of people my age are experiencing motherhood and mid-life crisis at the same time. Joe and me, our children are teenagers now, fairly independent. We’ve got the leisure to plan our mid-life crisis. He’s decided to buy a Porsche and have an affair with a nineteen-year-old. My plans are roughly the same. I tell you … you can’t help but gloat a little.”

  This charming chronology (and the check from Frannie Halcyon she had just deposited) kept Mary Ann smiling all the way home from the bank.

  Then she stopped to consider her own options:

  Of course, she would have children. She had always planned on that. But when? She was thirty now. When? After her career had taken hold? When would that be? Did babies mean marriage? She wasn’t that modern, was she? What about Brian? Would marriage merely heighten his insecurities about her upward career mobility? Did he even want to get married at this point? Was it fair to ask him to wait? Would he wait?

  Who should be the first to ask?

  They slept at her place that night, teaspoon nestled in tablespoon. Just before dawn, she felt him slip away from her. She rolled over, slept some more, and awoke half-an-hour later to find him sitting naked in the wingback chair facing the bed.

  “Let’s do it,” he said quietly.

  She rubbed her eyes. “What?”

  “Get married.”

  She blinked several times, then smiled sleepily. “Telepath
y,” she said.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it all day. I figured it was just Taurus meets Venus. What’s your excuse?”

  He shrugged. “I thought I’d better make an offer before you’re on the cover of People.”

  She grinned. “Take your time.”

  “No. I’m proud of you. I want you to know that. Great things are about to happen to you, Mary Ann, and you deserve every bit of it. I think you’re an amazing person.”

  She looked at him lovingly for a long time, then patted the empty spot next to her. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

  “Don’t change the subject. I can adore you just as well from over here.”

  “As you wish, sire.” It was true, anyway; she could almost feel it.

  “When is the press conference?” he asked.

  “Tuesday.”

  Brian whistled. “Close.”

  “It’s not actually a press conference. The station won’t give me air time without knowing what I want it for, and I’m not about to tell them at this point.”

  “Then how will you do it?”

  “I’ve got my own show, remember?”

  When the light dawned, Brian shook his head in wonderment. “Jesus, that’s brilliant!”

  Mary Ann accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. “How many escapees from Jonestown get to resurface on the afternoon movie show? I figure we can drop the bomb, then wait for somebody else to organize the press conference.”

  “What sort of bomb is it?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … give us a preview.”

  “Well …” Mary Ann pondered the request for a moment. She didn’t want to talk about DeDe’s double theory yet. It was still too shaky in her own mind. “For one thing, she escaped down the river in a tin drum that was intended for tropical fish. And Jones raped her one time when she was bedridden.”

  “Jesus,” murmured Brian. “I guess that oughta hold ‘em.”

  “It’s a story, all right.”

  “Do you think you can tell it all in five minutes?”

  Mary Ann shook her head. “We won’t even try. We’ll sketch out the basics and give the rest to the highest bidder. I like doing things on my own terms. Speaking of which, come to bed.”

  “You still haven’t answered my question.”

  “I know.”

  “You don’t have to answer it, actually. I just wanted to ask you before the commotion began. I wanted you to know.”

  “I’m glad to know.” She smiled at him tenderly. “You’ll never know how glad.”

  Claire

  WHERE, GANGIE, WHERE?”

  Little Edgar was leaping ecstatically, trying to spot the whales that had been sighted off the starboard side of the Sagafjord. His sister, Anna, stood calmly at his side, somewhat less impressed.

  Frannie knelt beside the four-year-olds and pointed. “See? Over there … that big spout of water. That’s the whale. He’s blowing all that water through a hole in his back.”

  Edgar frowned. “Did somebody shoot him?”

  “No, darling … why would …? Oh, the hole. Well, you see … all whales have a hole like that, so they can … so they can blow water through it.” Frannie moaned softly and cast an imploring glance at Claire McAllister. “Get me out of this.”

  Claire chuckled throatily. “Why does a whale have a hole? That’s a dangerous question to ask me, honey!”

  Frannie giggled. Claire was an ex-chorine of indeterminate age, with a chronic weakness for double entendres and racy jokes. Her very-red lips and very-black hair were oddly suggestive of Ann Miller, though Claire had long ago bid farewell to show business. She was currently married to the third richest man in Oklahoma.

  “All right,” smiled Frannie. “Forget I asked.”

  Claire smiled expansively at the twins. “They’re just cute as a button, Frannie. What’s that name they call you?”

  Frannie reddened. “Uh … Gangie. It’s just a pet name. Frannie’s a little too personal … and Mrs. Halcyon seemed too … formal.”

  “Gangie,” repeated Claire, her dark eyes twinkling with a hint of playfulness. “Sounds an awful lot like Grannie to me.”

  Frannie fidgeted with a wisp of hair over her ear. “Well … I … uh … wouldn’t mind that one bit. They seem like my own grandchildren.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Claire. The twinkle remained.

  “Well,” exclaimed Frannie, turning to confront the twins again, “we’ve seen the whales, so it’s about time for a little nappie, don’t you think?”

  The children groaned in protest.

  As Frannie took their hands and led them away, Claire winked at her conspiratorially. “Meet you in The Garden, honey.”

  “The Garden” was the Garden Lounge, an elegant bar on the Veranda Deck that featured chamber music by a group called the San José Trio. Frannie and Claire retreated there daily to bask in lovely, old-fashioned renditions of tunes like “Over the Rainbow” and “Londonderry Air.”

  “Where’s Jimbo?” asked Frannie, as soon as the Mai Tais arrived. Claire’s husband was almost always with them. His loving attentiveness to Claire made Frannie quite lonesome sometimes.

  Claire’s eyelids fluttered histrionically. “In the goddamn casino, wouldn’t ya know it? I figured the bug would bite him sooner or later. I told him to go right ahead and gamble to his heart’s content … I’d just find myself a nice gigolo.”

  Frannie smiled. “They don’t actually have …?”

  “Of course they do, honey! They don’t call them that, of course, but those boys on the cruise staff are all … shall we say expected to dance with the old ladies … and the last time I checked I qualified, goddamnit!”

  Frannie laughed. “But that’s where it stops, isn’t it?”

  “You want more?” roared Claire. “Forget it, honey. Most of ’em are gay. The boy that does the exercise class is shacked up with the tap dancer, and that magician only has eyes for the cute wine steward. And that’s just the staff! Don’t get me started on the passengers, honey. That Mrs. Clinton, for instance … the one with diabetes who has to travel with a companion to make sure she doesn’t eat too much sugar? Hah! Companion, my ass. Oh, I tell you, it is rich. The gossip on this tub is almost better than the food. I love it! I’m addicted to cruise ships. It’s not like it used to be in the old days, though. Some of the glamor is gone. The truly rich don’t ride these babies anymore. But there’s nothing like being at sea, honey … nothing! Lord, look at the mist on that mountain!”

  Frannie, in fact, was already looking. Edgar would have loved this, she thought. He was always such a grump on tropical vacations—and such a lovable creature when the air was brisk and the sky was gray.

  Frannie set her Mai Tai down and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Claire. As usual, my timing is dreadful.”

  “Honey, is something the …?”

  The matriarch laid her hand delicately on her waist. “Just a little … queasiness.”

  “Lord, you do look a little green. And me running off my goddamn mouth like that.” Claire checked her watch. “You’re in luck. The doctor’s still in. You should stock up on Dramamine. honey. He’s down on B-Deck near the elevator.”

  Frannie rose and thanked her. “Do you know his name?”

  “Fielding,” replied Claire. “You can’t miss him. He’s one gorgeous hunk of man.”

  I See by Your Outfit …

  IF RENO WAS ANY INDICATION, THE NUMBER 6 HAD FINALLY become synonymous with cheap motel. Besides the original Motel 6 (which actually had charged six dollars a night, long ago), Michael and Bill could choose from the Western 6 Motel (attached to a Denny’s) and the 6 Gun Motel (near the Nevada State Fairgrounds).

  They settled on the 6 Gun, because Michael felt that the weekend’s cowboy motif should be carried out to the fullest. He wasn’t disappointed. The motel’s nightstands featured an upturned pistol surmounted by a lampshade. There was also an enormous foam
rubber ten-gallon hat on the wall in the lobby.

  “Ah, the West!” exclaimed Michael, as he flung open the curtains to let in the sunshine.

  Bill continued unpacking. “You live in the West.”

  “Yeah,” said Michael, “but sometimes you have to go east to be Western.”

  “How’s the view?”

  “Awe inspiring. The Exxon station and the hills beyond.”

  Bill chuckled. “Great.”

  “There are also seven—count ‘em—seven homosexuals sunning on the ten square feet of grass between us and the Exxon station. God, is this town ready?”

  Bill shrugged. “Slot machines can’t tell the difference between queer money and the other kind.”

  “I don’t know,” said Michael. “According to the papers, the lieutenant-governor didn’t seem any too thrilled. Besides, after that Examiner headline, they must be a little nervous about fags coming to Nevada.”

  “What Examiner headline?”

  “You know … the MGM Grand story: GAY SEX ACT SPARKS HOTEL FIRE.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Think of it,” said Michael. “The whole damn town could go up in flames tonight.”

  A back-lighted plastic sign proclaimed the event to passersby on the highway: RENO NATIONAL GAY RODEO. As Bill swung his Trans Am into the dusty parking lot, Michael began to speculate out loud.

  “Now, how many of these dudes do you think are real cowboys?” He related to this issue personally. His week-old Danner boots felt leaden on his feet; his teal-and-cream cowboy shirt seemed as fraudulent as a sport shirt worn by a sailor on leave.

  “For starters,” said Bill, “that one isn’t.” He pointed to a wiry brunette wearing a T-shirt that said: MUSTACHE RIDES—5¢.

  There were similar signs of clone encroachment, Michael noted. Too many sherbet-colored tank tops. Too many straw hats that looked suspiciously like the ones at All-American Boy. Too many Nautilus-shaped bodies poured into too many T-shirts brazenly announcing: IF YOU CAN ROPE ME, YOU CAN RIDE ME.

  One obvious city slicker, in deference to the occasion, had traded his nipple ring for a tiny silver spur, but Michael found the gesture unconvincing.