Further Tales of the City (17 page)

S
ORRY 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?”

P
RUE 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 extended 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.”

“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.

T
HAT 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.