Further Tales of the City

  Luke blinked at her. “Huh?”

  “You said something about dire needs.”

  “No, I didn’t.” His face was resolute.

  “Luke, I heard you. You said something, something … dire needs. And the pilot said it back. Just a minute ago.”

  He studied her for a moment, then smiled and shook his head. “You misunderstood me, darling. We were talking about geography.” He held up his hand like a Boy Scout. “Honest injun. You didn’t miss a thing.”

  Prue let it drop. For one thing, the other passengers had begun to take an interest in her vexation. For another, she wanted this moment to be special, free from earthbound anxieties. Luke did, too, it seemed. He gave her his undivided attention for the rest of the tour, turning away only long enough to make a brief notation on the inside of a matchbook.

  “What was that?” she smiled. “A reminder?”

  Luke looked up, distracted.

  “I do that myself,” she added, not wanting to appear nosey. “My mind’s like a sieve.”

  He smiled faintly and returned the matchbook to his breast pocket.

  “Let’s go dancing tonight,” he said.

  The First to Know

  BACK AT WORK AT GOD’S GREEN EARTH, MICHAEL UNLOADED his rodeo experiences on an ever-indulgent Ned. The saga suffered in the retelling. Michael’s brief interlude with the slow-dancing construction worker emerged somehow as a hackneyed masturbatory fantasy, no longer the rare and wonderful thing it had seemed at the time.

  That night, he tried invoking the spirit of the weekend by listening to country music on KSAN, but Willie Nelson took on an oddly hollow note in a room full of bamboo furniture and deco kitsch. Cowboys didn’t collect Fiesta Ware.

  So he wandered downstairs and smoked a roach on the bench in the courtyard. The dope and the silence and the tiny sliver of a moon hanging in the trees all conspired to make him more contemplative than usual.

  Contemplative, hell—he was simply depressed.

  Nothing grand, of course. This was a garden-variety depression, born of boredom and loneliness and a pervasive sense of the immense triviality of life. It would pass, he knew. He would make it pass.

  But what would he put in its place?

  The clock said 3:47 when the phone woke him.

  He stumbled out of bed and lunged for the receiver. “This better be good,” he told the caller.

  “It is,” came the reply. Mary Ann’s giggle was unmistakable. Michael settled himself in a chair. “What’s up, Babycakes?”

  “Brian and I are getting married!”

  “Now?”

  Another giggle. “Next month. You aren’t pissed, are you?”

  “Pissed?”

  “About waking you up. We wanted to make it official. Calling you was the only thing we could think of.”

  Michael was so touched he wanted to cry. What followed, though, was total silence.

  “Mouse? Are you there? You are pissed, aren’t you? Look, we’ll talk to you in the …”

  “Are you kidding? This is fabulous, Babycakes!”

  “Isn’t it, though?”

  “It’s about time,” said Michael. “Are you pregnant?”

  Mary Ann roared. “No! Can you believe it?”

  “Is Brian?”

  He heard her speak to Brian. They were obviously in bed. “He wants to know if you’re pregnant.”

  Brian came on the line. “The bitch knocked me up.”

  Michael laughed. “Somebody had to do it.”

  “Are you alone?” asked Brian.

  “Hell, no,” answered Michael. “Say hello to Raoul.”

  “Hey, that’s O.K….”

  “Calm down,” laughed Michael. “I made that up.”

  “You shithead.”

  “I know. Sorry.”

  “I was picturing some French Canadian with five o’clock shadow.”

  “That’s funny,” said Michael. “So was I. God, Brian … this is so damn wonderful.”

  “Yeah … well, we just wanted you to be the first to know.”

  “Goddamn right,” said Michael.

  “We love you, man. Here’s Mary Ann again. She’s got some more news for you.”

  “Mouse?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Have you got a TV set at work?”

  Michael thought for a moment. “Ned’s got a portable that he brings from home sometimes.”

  “Good. Get him to bring it on Tuesday. I want you to watch the show.”

  “Bargain Matinee?”

  “Is there any other? You don’t need to watch the movie … just my little halftime bit. I think you’ll be mildly amused.”

  “Don’t tell me. You’ve found a new use for empty Clorox bottles.”

  “Just watch the show, smartass.”

  “Roger.”

  “And get some sleep. We love you.”

  “I know that,” said Michael.

  But he slept much better knowing it.

  That Nice Man

  CLAIRE MCALLISTER’S HUSBAND WAS IN THE CASINO again, so the raven-haired ex-chorine sought out Frannie’s company on the Promenade Deck of the Sagafjord. Frannie was thrilled to see her.

  “Pull up a chair,” she smiled, laying down her Danielle Steel novel. “I haven’t talked to a grown-up in ages.”

  Claire mugged amiably. “Who you callin’ a grown-up?”

  “You’ll do,” said Frannie. “Believe me.”

  Claire lowered her formidable frame into an aluminum deck chair and sighed dramatically. “So where are the little darlings?”

  Frannie shushed her with a forefinger to the lips. “Don’t even mention it, Claire. It’s almost too good to be true.”

  “What?”

  Frannie made a sweeping gesture with her arm. “This. Solitude. Blessed relief. I adore the children, as you know, but …”

  “You’ve found a baby-sitter!”

  The matriarch nodded triumphantly. “It was his idea, poor man. I hope he hasn’t bitten off more than he can chew.”

  “Do I know him?” asked Claire, pulling a blanket across her lap.

  “I think so,” said Frannie. “Mr. Starr.”

  Claire drew a blank.

  “You know,” added Frannie. “That American stockbroker from London.”

  “That good-looking thing traveling with the hoity-toity blonde?”

  Frannie smiled demurely. “They aren’t exactly traveling together.”

  “Horseshit.”

  “They met on the ship,” the matriarch explained, her face burning from the profanity. “I know her … somewhat remotely. She’s a gossip columnist in San Francisco. I’m afraid she’s a little common.”

  Claire snorted. “You’d think she was the Queen of Sheba. She puts on airs something fierce. What the hell does that elegant man see in her?”

  Frannie shrugged. “She’s rather pretty, don’t you think? I understand she listens well, too. At any rate, I can’t complain; she introduced me to him. I think I’m relaxed for the first time since we left San Francisco.”

  “Did the children take to him?”

  “Like a house on fire! He’s full of wonderful stories and jokes.” Frannie thought for a moment. “You know, he’s rather moody around adults … not sullen or rude, really … just introspective. Around the children, though, he’s a bundle of energy! He never stops trying to impress them. He’s like a child competing for a grown-up’s attention, instead of the other way around.”

  “He sounds perfect,” said Claire.

  Frannie nodded. “I think it’s important for the children to have a masculine presence.” She didn’t elaborate on this thesis, but it gave her pleasure to articulate it to a woman as sensible and down-to-earth as Claire. The twins had never had a father, after all … only that woman who had kept DeDe company in Guyana and Cuba. It wasn’t natural, Frannie reminded herself. Thank God for Mr. Starr!

  “Say,” said Claire, after an interlude of silence, “Jimbo has a little business to
do when we dock this afternoon. Hows-about you and me exploring Sitka together? There’s a darling little Russian church and some marvelous scrimshaw shops. A couple of girls on the town … whatdya say?”

  Frannie hesitated. “Well … I …”

  “I know it’s a thrilling offer, honey, but try not to bust a gut!”

  Frannie smiled apologetically. “I was just thinking … well, the children.”

  “Can’t your Mr. Starr take them off your hands for a while?”

  Frannie’s brow wrinkled. “He did offer, as a matter of fact.”

  “Wonderful! Then, it’s settled!”

  “It seems such an imposition, though.”

  “Look, honey, if that man is cuckoo for kids, that’s his problem, not yours. You’ve gotta learn to recognize a gift from God when you see one!”

  Frannie conceded with a grin. “You’re right. This is supposed to be a vacation.”

  “Exactly,” said Claire.

  Half-an-hour later, when Frannie went to pick up the twins, she found them giggling under a “fort” that Mr. Starr had constructed from two deck chairs and a blanket. Edgar had done that often—for DeDe—long, long ago.

  Without announcing herself, Frannie stood outside the woolen shelter and reveled in the mirthful music of her grandchildren’s voices.

  Then Mr. Starr began to sing to them:

  “Bye baby bunting, Daddy’s gone a-hunting, gone to get a rabbit skin to wrap the baby bunting in …”

  The sheer familiarity of that ancient nursery rhyme was all the reassurance the matriarch needed.

  It was comforting to know that some things never changed.

  The Uncut Version

  MRS. MADRIGAL’S ANGULAR FACE SEEMED EVEN more radiant than usual as she reached for the heavy iron skillet that meant breakfast at 28 Barbary Lane.

  “I still can’t take it in,” she said. “Two eggs or three, dear?”

  “Three,” said Michael. “Neither can I. I’ve been promoting it for months, but I didn’t think either one of them could handle the commitment right now. Mary Ann more so than Brian, I guess.”

  Mrs. Madrigal cracked three eggs into the skillet, discarded the shells, and wiped her long fingers on her paisley apron. “I was the one who introduced them. Did you know that?”

  “No.”

  “I did,” beamed the landlady. “Just after Mary Ann moved in. I had a little dinner one night, and Mary Ann told me she was afraid there weren’t enough straight men in San Francisco.” Mrs. Madrigal smiled nostalgically. “That was before she knew about me, of course. If she had, I suppose we would’ve lost her to Cleveland for good.”

  Michael smiled. “So you introduced her to Brian?”

  “Not exactly. I told Brian she needed help moving the furniture. I let them take care of the rest. Wheat toast or rye, dear?”

  “Wheat, please.”

  “It was an unmitigated disaster, of course. Brian was a shameless womanizer, and Mary Ann was madly in love with Beauchamp Day at the time—God help her.” The landlady shook her head with rueful amusement. “Then she started dating the detective that Mona’s mother hired to check up on me.”

  Michael nodded soberly.

  “I was always rather glad he disappeared, weren’t you?” Her grin was as mischievous as it could get. “I do wonder what happened to him, though.”

  Michael felt himself squirming. He avoided this subject as much as possible. Mary Ann alone had witnessed the detective’s fall from a cliff at Lands End, and she had shared that secret with no one but Michael. There were some things that even Mrs. Madrigal should never be allowed to know.

  “Then came Burke Andrew,” said Michael, moving right along, “and those cannibals at Grace Cathedral.”

  Mrs. Madrigal’s Wedgwood eyes rolled extravagantly. “She knows how to pick ‘em, doesn’t she?”

  “Yep. But I think she’s finally got it right.”

  “So do I,” said the landlady. “I’m a little surprised, frankly.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, exactly. I just have this gut feeling she’s up to something. She seems so preoccupied lately. I would have guessed marriage to be the last thing on her mind.”

  “So,” asked the landlady as they sat down to eat, “what has our wandering boy been up to lately?”

  Michael pretended to be engrossed in the marmalade jar. “Oh … nothing much.” He knew she was inquiring into his love life, and he didn’t feel like talking about it. “I’m having a celibacy attack, I think. I stay home and watch TV a lot.”

  “How is that?”

  “How is what?”

  The landlady flicked a crumb off the corner of her mouth. “TV.”

  Michael laughed. “My favorite thing this week was a special report on circumcision.”

  “Indeed?” Mrs. Madrigal buttered another piece of toast.

  “It was a hoot,” said Michael. “They interviewed a circumcision expert named Don Wong.”

  “No!”

  Michael crossed his heart. “Swear to God.”

  “And what did he have to say?”

  Michael shrugged. “Just that there’s no valid reason anymore for mutilating little boys at birth. Jesus. How long does it take people to figure things out? My mother isn’t exactly a modern thinker, but she knew that thirty years ago.”

  Mrs. Madrigal smiled. “You should write her a thank you note.”

  “The funny thing is … I hated it when I was a kid. I was always the only kid in the shower room who wasn’t circumcised, and it bugged the hell out of me. Mama said: ‘You just keep yourself clean, Mikey, and you’ll thank me for this later. There’s not a thing wrong with what God gave you.’”

  “Smart lady,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

  Michael nodded enthusiastically. “I was invited to an orgy this week.”

  The landlady set her teacup down.

  “It was for uncut guys only.”

  She blinked at him twice.

  “It’s O.K.,” said Michael. “It was a benefit.”

  “Oh, really?”

  “For the chorus.”

  “Ah.” Mrs. Madrigal’s deadpan was ruthless. “A foreskin festival. Do they check you at the door or what?”

  Michael laughed. “I know. It’s pretty silly. Still … I’m glad that attitudes have changed. There’s no reason in the world to be snipping at your genitalia.”

  The landlady looked down at her teacup, suppressing a smile until Michael added hastily: “Unless, of course, you’re prepared to go all the way.”

  Mrs. Madrigal looked up again and winked.

  “More coffee, dear?”

  Daddy’s Gone

  AVIGOROUS FUR-TRADING MONOPOLY IN THE LAST century had given Sitka a distinctively Russian cast: a Russian blockhouse, Russian grave markers everywhere, Cossack dancers performing for tourists, even a pretty Russian Orthodox cathedral in the center of town.

  Prue adored every inch of it.

  “Isn’t it incredible, Luke? To think that this is America!”

  Luke, however, was occupied with the orphans. He was kneeling next to them on the street, adjusting the miniature fur-trimmed parkas he had bought for them half-an-hour earlier. With the hoods up, the children looked like little Eskimos, almost too adorable to be true.

  “Isn’t it a little warm for that?” asked Prue. “The weather’s practically like San Francisco.”

  He looked up distractedly. “Be with you in a second.”

  He hadn’t even heard her. Ordinarily, she might have been annoyed, or faintly jealous. Prue resented people—like Frannie Halcyon and her friend Claire, for instance—who demanded so much attention from Luke that they diminished her share of his love.

  But the children were different. Seeing them with Luke, Prue remembered what it was that had captivated her about the scruffy, ill-dressed phantom who had cared for her wolfhound in Golden Gate Park. Luke related to children the way he related to animals—as a peer who respected their feelings.
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  The little girl knew that already. “Mr. Starr,” she chirped, tugging on his arm. “Take us on a flying boat, please. Take us on a flying boat.”

  Prue smiled. “You told them about our float plane trip.”

  Luke didn’t look up. “They pick up on things fast.”

  “They speak English so well,” Prue observed. “For Vietnamese, I mean.”

  Luke zipped up the little boy’s parka. “They’re refugees. They may have been raised by Americans … I don’t know.” There was a slightly caustic edge to his voice, implying that Prue should mind her own business. Suddenly, she felt as if she had walked in on a private conversation.

  The little boy took up the cry. “Flying boat! Yeah! Take us on a flying boat!”

  Luke confronted him sternly. “Edgar … not now!”

  A tiny lower lip pushed out. “You promised.”

  “His name is Edgar?” asked Prue.

  Luke ignored her.

  “Edgar was Frannie’s husband’s name. Do you think she named him?”

  “Prue, would you shut up, please! I’m having enough trouble with these children!” The vehemence of the attack stunned her momentarily, until she realized that the children were genuinely upset. They were sniffling softly, not in a bratty way, but as if a trust had been violated.

  “Luke,” she said warily, “if you promised them a float plane trip, I wouldn’t mind doing it again. Really.”

  Luke stood up. He was rigid with anger. The big vein in his neck had begun to throb. “I didn’t promise them anything,” he muttered. “C’mon, we haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  Prue assumed a placatory tone of voice. “A little food would do us all some good.” She smiled down at the orphans. “I’ll bet they have yummy ice cream in Alaska. Shall we go see?”

  They peered up at her wet-eyed—sad, round faces encircled in fur—then reached out for her hands.

  Luke walked ahead of them, sulking.

  His mood had improved considerably by the time they reached the restaurant, a knotty-pine-and-Formica greasy spoon near the cathedral.

  “The meatloaf isn’t bad,” he said. “How’s your salad?” A feeble attempt at apologizing, but an effort nonetheless.