Sure of You (17 page)

Brian didn’t buy this at all. “You’re not gonna tell me Madonna…”

“Why not? Get real.” She was scraping out plastic pots, stacking them in the corner. “Just because you can’t stand the thought of it…”

He chuckled.

“What?”

“I like the thought of it.”

“Yeah. Well, O.K. That figures, doesn’t it?”

He looked at her sideways. “Which am I supposed to do? Like it or not like it?”

“Hand me that pot, please.”

He complied, grinning.

“The real question is: What the fuck does Madonna see in Sandra Bernhard? If I were Madonna, I’d be going for the serious stuff. Jamie Lee Curtis, at the very least.” She stood up and dusted off her hands. “Shouldn’t Michael be back by now?”

“Seems like it, doesn’t it?”

“How long does it take to bail somebody out?”

“He didn’t need bail,” Brian said.

“Oh, yeah.”

“I guess he could’ve had trouble finding the Shanti volunteer.”

“Was that Mary Ann in the paper this morning?”

The change of subject threw him. “What do you mean? Where?”

“In Herb Caen’s column.”

“She was there? What did it say?”

“It might not have been her,” said Polly. “It was a…you know. What do they call it when they don’t use the name?”

“A blind item,” said Brian, feeling queasy already. What the hell were they saying about her now? “Is there a paper in the office?”

“Yeah,” she said, and followed him out of the greenhouse.

Five minutes later, when Polly had left the office, he collected himself and called Mary Ann at the station.

“Was that you?” he asked without announcing himself.

No answer.

“Was it?”

“Brian.” Her voice assumed its most businesslike armor. “This is as much a surprise to me…”

“I didn’t figure there could be
that
many perky morning girls being wooed by New York producers.”

“It wasn’t even supposed to be there.”

“Oh. Well, then.”

“I want to talk to you about this,” she said, “but I don’t want to do it on the phone.”

“Shall I plant an item somewhere?”

She sighed. “Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?.”

“All wounded and alienated. I was going to tell you about it.”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Wrong. We’re talking now. Right this minute.”

“No,” she said quietly. “Not on the phone.”

“Then meet me somewhere.”

“I can’t.”

“Why? Do you have to be wooed some more?”

She made him pay for this with a long silence. Finally, she asked: “Where do you want to meet?”

“You name it.”

“O.K., then. Home.”

He gathered from this that she was afraid of risking a public scene.

When he arrived, she was standing by the window, dressed in her traditional garb of apology—jeans and the pink-and-blue flannel shirt he liked so much. It was an obvious gesture, but it soothed him just the same. He was already beginning to feel as if he’d overreacted.

“I sent Nguyet home,” she said:

“Good.” He sat on the sofa.

“I’m really sorry about this, Brian. I don’t know how it got into Herb Caen.”

He didn’t look at her. “Is it for real?”

“Yes.”

“Do you wanna do it?”

“Very much.”

“How long have you known about it?”

“A while.”

“Since that lunch, right?”

She nodded.

“And what did you think? That I would be so jealous of some old burned-out boyfriend…?”

“No. Never. You know there’s nothing there.”

“Well, O.K. Then what?”

“What do you mean, what?”

“Why wouldn’t you tell me? This is what you’ve been working toward. Didn’t you think I’d be happy for you?”

“Brian…”

“Am I that much of a self-centered bastard?”

“Of course not.”

“Did you think I’d be so attached to the nursery that I’d try to stand in your way?”

“Well…”

“You did, didn’t you? That’s exactly what you thought.”

“I know how much you love it,” she replied somewhat feebly.

“I love
you
, sweetheart. Your victories are my victories. That’s always been enough for me. What do I have to do to convince you of that?”

She left the window and sat down on the chair across from him, tucking her legs neatly under her butt. “I don’t think bad things of you, Brian. I really don’t. I know how much you have to put up with.”

She said this with such tenderness that he felt the last vestiges of his anger melt away. He gave her a chipper smile to let her know. “So what’s he offering?”

“Just a show.”

“Just? Syndicated, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Out of New York?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t seem very excited,” he said.

“I am. There’s just…a lot to think about.”

“What have you told him?”

She shrugged. “That I’d have to talk to you.”

This was suddenly making sense to him. “Is that why you brought him here for dinner? So I could see how unthreatening he was before you told me about it?”

She made a sheepish face.

“I don’t have a problem with it. Really.” He saw that doubts still lingered. “Your ship has come in, sweetheart. We should be celebrating.” He gazed at her for a while, then patted the sofa cushion next to him. She left her chair and joined him, leaning her head against his shoulder.

“Call Burke,” he said. “Tell him we’ll do it.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s in L.A. I don’t know how to reach him. He’s gonna call me.”

“Oh.” He thought for a moment. “Did you tell Michael about this?”

“No. Of course not.”

“Should I tell him?”

“No,” she replied, almost fiercely. “Just leave it alone for a while.”

“He’s gonna ask. He must’ve seen the item.”

“Oh, yeah.” She frowned, deep in thought, obviously concerned about hurting her old friend.

“He’ll understand,” he told her, squeezing her shoulder. “It’s not like he didn’t run the place on his own before I came along.”

When he got back to the nursery, Michael sauntered toward him in the slanting afternoon light.

“How did it go?” asked Brian, remembering the call from the cop.

“O.K. They didn’t book him or anything.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing. Waved a dildo at some Jehovah’s Witnesses.”

Brian laughed. “You sure he’s sick?”

Michael’s smile was forced. He seemed unusually subdued.

“I’m sorry,” said Brian. “It’s not funny, I know.”

“No. It is. You’re right.”

“Are you O.K., man?”

“Yeah. Fine.”

“We were worried when we didn’t hear from you.”

“Oh, well…”

“I guess it took a while with the cops.”

“Not really,” said Michael. “I drove out to the beach. I needed some air.”

“Don’t blame you a bit.”

“I should’ve called, I guess.”

“No. Not at all.” Poor guy, thought Brian. It must’ve really gotten to him.

“Polly said you had to leave. I hope it didn’t make things tight.”

“Nah.” He wondered if Michael was hinting around about the blind item. At any rate, there was no point in avoiding the subject. “Did you see Herb Caen’s column this morning.”

Michael nodded. “Polly showed me.”

“It’s Mary Ann.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“She’s gonna do it, I think.”

Michael seemed to avoid his gaze. “Well, it’s…definitely an opportunity.”

“Yeah, it is.” He hesitated a moment “We may have to work something out, Michael.”

“What do you mean?”

“About the partnership.”

Michael blinked at him, uncomprehending.

“If I leave,” he explained.

“Oh.”

He hoped a smile would soften the blow a little. “If it helps any, this is pretty much of a surprise to me too.”

“Well…that’s O.K.”

“I’ll work it out so you aren’t strapped for help. I promise you that. If you want me to remain an absentee owner, fine…or whatever you want.”

Michael nodded, looking faintly distracted.

“I know this is sudden. I’m really sorry.”

“Hey.”

“It’s not like I love New York, you know.”

“No.”

“But I’d be a real shit to oppose her on this. It’s really a great…”

“Maybe we should talk about this later, huh?”

It was obvious that Michael was hurt. “Well…O.K.”

“It seems a little premature at the moment.”

“O.K…Sure. I just didn’t wanna hide anything. I wanted you to be in on it.”

“I appreciate that,” said Michael as he headed off toward the office.

Mary Ann was already in bed when Brian got out of the shower that night. As he came into the bedroom she was hanging up the phone.

“Who was that.” he asked, sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Michael.”

“What did he want?”

“He says to bring the lap-top with you when you come in tomorrow.”

“Oh…O.K.” He turned and looked at his wife. “Did he say anything about New York?”

She shrugged. “He congratulated me. Not much else.”

“I think he’s kind of freaked out about it.”

“Why?”

“You know. Busting up the partnership.”

“Oh.”

“To tell you the truth,” he said, “I was too.”

“Was what?”

“Freaked out.”

“Oh.”

“I’m over it.” He reached across and stroked her thigh beneath the bedcovers. “We’ve got a real adventure ahead of us. It was all I could do to keep from telling Shawna.”

She seemed to stiffen. “You didn’t, did you?”

“No. But I don’t see what harm…”

“It’s completely premature, Brian.”

“Why?”

“Well…it’s not a deal yet. She’ll blab it all over school.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I’m having a hard enough time as it is. Kenan called me into his office today over that fucking item.”

“Oh, Christ.” He pictured the indignation of the station manager, his piggish panic at losing this lone jewel in his crown. “Is he onto you?”

“Oh, yeah.”

“You denied it, though?”

“Of course.”

“Attagirl.” He turned off the light and climbed into bed, snuggling up to her.

“He’s such an asshole,” she said.

“Absolutely.”

“I can’t wait to watch him twisting in the wind.”

For a moment, for the hell of it, he imagined them lying like this in another city, another season. There was fresh snow on the windowsill, and a streetlight outside, and Shawna was asleep in a wallpapered bedroom down the hall. “You know what?” he said.

“What?” she answered drowsily.

“If we got a place on the ground this time…with a garden, I mean…”

“Go to sleep,” she said sweetly.

She beat him to it several seconds later, purring rhythmically against his back. She was dreaming of the future, no doubt, a land of riches and proper recognition and assholes twisting in the wind.

The Third Whale

T
HEIR VILLA
,
LIKE MOST OF THE HOUSES AROUND IT
, was a two-story stone building with a red-tile roof and big pine shutters that could be battened against the noonday sun. There was a kitchen (which they never used), a terrace dripping with dusty wisteria, and a pair of huge, high-ceilinged bedrooms overlooking the Aegean. When Mona awoke in hers, it usually took her a while to determine whether it was morning or late afternoon, since she hardly ever missed a siesta.

At the moment, it was morning. She knew because she could hear roosters and the tinny radio in the taverna on the hillside below. (There were entirely different sounds in the afternoon—church bells and asthmatic donkeys and the piratical shouts of children as they clattered down the streets to freedom.)

A frisky zephyr had found its way through the crack in her shutters and was teasing the long, filmy curtains. Out on the landing between the bedrooms she heard her parent’s graceful footfall and the unmistakable piglet squeal of the refrigerator door.

The double doors creaked open, and Anna stood there in her caftan, backlit by the morning, holding a bottle of mineral water.

“Are you awake, dear?”

Errant beams bounced off the shimmering blue plastic like rays from a holy scepter. Our Lady of the Liter, Mona thought, rubbing her eyes. “Yeah, I guess so. What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock. I thought you might like an early start, so you don’t have to travel in the heat of the day.”

Oh, yes. Her long-awaited pilgrimage to Sappho’s birth-place. That was today, wasn’t it?

“I bought some lovely raisin buns at the bakery. Shall I bring you one with some tea?”

Mona swung her legs off the bed. “No, thanks. I’ll come down.”

“Stratos says he can find a driver for you, if you like.”

“That’s O.K. I’ll just get one on the esplanade.”

“Oh…” Anna reached into the pocket of her caftan. “I thought perhaps you could do with these.” She dropped a handful of joints on Mona’s dresser and smiled beatifically. “I’d hate for you to miss anything.”

Mona smiled back at her. “Thanks.”

“Its name is Sigourney.”

The grass, which Mona had already sampled, was from the garden at Barbary Lane. Anna—who named all her dope after her favorite people—had mailed it to herself before leaving home. Despite the buffer of several boxes and four or five layers of shrink wrap, the package had reeked to high heaven when they picked it up in the tiny post office next to the Molivos police station.

No one had said a word, however. Anna could get away with anything.

An hour later Anna and Stratos left for the Dukakis natal site in a beat-up Impala convertible that, to hear Stratos tell it, was all but legendary in Lesbos. Trim and tanned, gold tooth glinting in the sun, the old guy looked almost rakish behind the wheel. Arranging herself next to him, Anna set about doing picturesque things with scarves. “If you can,” she told Mona as the car bumped away down the cobblestones, “find something Sapphic for Michael.”

“O.K.” She trotted alongside the car. “If you don’t like Pelopi,” she said, “feel free to come back and use the house.”