Babycakes (11 page)

“Yeah, but … you jumped ship, didn’t you?”

“More or less.”

“Well, isn’t that a court-martial offense?”

“Sometimes,” answered the lieutenant. “It can vary, though, depending on the individual.”

Brian looked him squarely in the eye. “You mean you have friends in high places?”

The lieutenant seemed tremendously uncomfortable. He was about to say something, when Mary Ann bounded into the room, letting him off the hook. “Well,” she said, “I’m afraid she’s not home yet.” She glanced apologetically at their guest. “This is so disappointing. It’s such wonderful stuff. She named it after the Queen Mother and everything.”

The lieutenant looked puzzled.

Brian translated for him: “Our landlady names her pot plants after women she admires.”

“I see.”

Mary Ann turned to Brian. “I checked Michael’s too. He isn’t back from Death Valley yet. I could look for roaches in the ashtray in the car.”

“Too late,” he answered. “I did that last week. We’ll just have to face your chicken straight.”

She gave him an evil eye before addressing the lieutenant. “I can get you some wine.”

“Lovely,” he said.

Mary Ann disappeared into the kitchen. The lieutenant sidled to the window, turning his back to Brian. “That beacon must be Alcatraz,” he said. He obviously had no intention of picking up where they’d left off.

“That’s it,” said Brian.

“They don’t still keep prisoners, do they?”

“No. It’s empty. Has been for a long time.”

“I see. Lovely view from here.”

“Yeah,” said Brian. “It’s not bad.”

Mary Ann sailed into the room with the wine stuff on a tray. “Have you ever had Eye of the Swan?”

The lieutenant turned around. “No … I can’t say that I have.”

“It’s a white Pinot noir. Very dry.” She set the tray down on the coffee table, then knelt in front of it and began pouring.

“Glasses and everything,” murmured Brian.

She handed him a glass, ignoring the remark.

“So,” she chirped, giving the lieutenant a glass. “You’ve been having trouble finding a place to stay?”

“Not exactly,” he replied. “I took a room at the Holiday Inn on Fisherman’s Wharf.”

Brian and Mary Ann groaned in unison.

The lieutenant chuckled. “Yes, it is, rather. I was hoping for something with a little more character. I don’t fancy breaking that little paper seal every day.”

“What seal?” asked Mary Ann.

“You know … on the toilet.”

“Oh.” She laughed a little nervously, Brian thought. “How long do you plan on staying?”

“Oh … about a month, I plan on returning to London several days after Easter.”

Mary Ann frowned. “That makes renting a little difficult.”

“Actually,” said the lieutenant, “I was rather hoping for a swap.”

“A swap?”

“My place in London in exchange for someone’s place here. Could such a thing be arranged?”

Mary Ann was already deep in thought.

“It’s a tatty little flat,” added the lieutenant, “but it’s in a colorful neighborhood and … well, it might be an adventure for someone.”

Mary Ann looked at Brian with dancing eyes. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” she asked.

Settling Up

N
ED’S RED PICKUP AND ITS SEVEN WEARY PASSENGERS
had survived sandstorms in Furnace Creek, snowstorms in South Lake Tahoe. and a blowout near Drytown by the time their ten-hour trans-California odyssey had ended.

Michael climbed from the truckbed, hoisted his bedroll to his shoulder, and trudged up the stairway to Barbary Lane, stopping long enough on the landing to wave goodbye to his campmates.

Ned answered with a toot of the horn. “Go to bed,” he yelled. Like a master mechanic who could diagnose an engine problem simply by listening, he knew that Michael’s emotional resistance was down.

Michael gave him a thumbs-up sign and followed the eucalyptus trees into the dark city canyon of the lane. He whistled during this last leg of the journey, warding off demons he was still unable to name.

Back at the apartment, he dumped his gear on the bedroom floor and drew a hot bath. He soaked for half an hour, already feeling the loss of his brothers, the dissolution of that safe little enclave they had shared in the desert.

After the bath, he put on the blue flannel pajamas he had bought the week before in Chinatown, then sat down at his desk and began composing a letter to his parents.

The warming sound of Brian’s laughter drifted through the window as a new moon peeked from behind the clouds. Then came another man’s laughter, less hearty than Brian’s but just as sincere. Michael set his pen down and listened to enough dialogue to determine that the visitor was British, then returned to the task at hand.

Boris, the neighborhood cat, slunk along the window-ledge, cruising for attention. When he spotted Michael, he stopped in his tracks, shimmied under the sill, and announced his arrival with a noise that sounded like a rusty hinge. Michael swung his chair away from the desk and prepared his lap for the inevitable. Boris kept his distance, though, rattling his tail like a saber as he loped about the room.

“O.K.,” said Michael. “Be that way.”

Boris creaked back at him.

“How old are you, anyway?” Another creak.

“A hundred and forty-two? Not bad.”

The tabby circled the room twice, then gazed up expectantly at the only human he could find.

“He’s not here,” said Michael. “There’s nobody to spoil you rotten now.”

Boris voiced his confusion.

“I know,” said Michael, “but I’m fresh out of Tender Vittles. That wasn’t my job, kiddo.”

There were footsteps outside the door. Boris jerked his head, then shot out the window.

“Mouse?” It was Mary Ann.

“It’s open,” he said.

She slipped into the room, closing the door behind her. “I heard talking. I hope I didn’t …”

“It was just Boris.”

“Oh.”

“I mean … I was talking to Boris.” She smiled. “Right.’’

“Sit down,” he said.

She perched on the edge of the sofa. “We have this really delightful Englishman upstairs.”

He nodded. “So I hear.”

“Oh … we haven’t been too …?”

“No,” he assured her. “It sounds nice.”

“He’s from the
Britannia.
He used to be a radio officer for the Queen.”

“Used to be?”

“Well … it’s a long story. The thing is … he needs a furnished apartment for a month, and he wants to swap with somebody from here. He’s got a cute flat in Nottingham Gate … or something like that. Anyway, it’s just sitting there waiting for somebody to come live in it.”

“And?”

“Well … doesn’t that sound perfect?”

“For me, you mean?”

“Sure! I’m sure Ned wouldn’t mind if …”

“We’re closed for a month,” he said.

“So there you go! It
is
perfect. It’s a ready-made vacation.” He said nothing, letting the idea sink in.

“Think of it, Mouse! England! God, I can hardly stand it.”

“Yeah, but … it still lakes money.”

“For what? You can live as cheaply there as you can here.”

“You’re forgetting about air fare,” he said. Her shoulders drooped suddenly. “I thought you’d be
excited.”

She looked so crestfallen that he got up and went to the sofa, kissing the top of her head. “I appreciate the thought. I really do.”

She looked up with a wan smile. “Can you join us for a glass of wine?”

“Thanks,” he answered, tugging at the lapels of his pajamas. “I was just about to crash and burn.”

She rose and headed for the door. “Was Death Valley fun?”

“It was … peaceful,” he said.

“Good. I’m glad.”

“Night-night,” he said.

He made himself some hot milk, then went to bed, sleeping soundly until noon the next day. After finishing his letter to his parents, he drove to the Castro and ate a late breakfast at the communal table at Welcome Home. When the rain began to let up a little, he wandered through the neighborhood, feeling strangely like a tourist on Mars.

Across the street, a man emerged from the Hibernia Bank.

His heart caught in his throat.

The man seemed to hesitate, turning left and right, revealing enough of his profile to banish the flimsy illusion.

Blond hair and chinos and a blue button-down shirt. How long would he live before those things stopped meaning Jon?

He crossed the intersection and walked along Eighteenth Street. In the days before the epidemic, the house next door to the Jaguar Store had been called the Check ’n Cruise. People had gone there to check their less-than-butch outer garments (not to mention their Gump’s and Wilkes Bashford bags) prior to prowling the streets of the ghetto.

The Check ’n Cruise was gone now, and in its place had blossomed the Castro Country Club, a reading room and juice bar for men who wanted company without the alcohol and attitude of the bars. He sometimes repaired there after his stint at the AIDS switchboard.

Today, as he entered, an animated game of Scrabble was in progress. At the bar, two men in business suits were arguing about Joan Sutherland, while another couple rehashed the Forty-Niners’ victory at the Super Bowl.

He found a seat away from the conversation and immersed himself in the latest issue of the
Advocate.
An ad for a jewelry company caught his eye:

I’M SAFE—ARE U?

Dating is growing more and more complicated every day. Herpes, AIDS … If you are socially active it can be awkward and embarrassing to ask. How do you let someone you’re interested in know that
YOU ARE SAFE? NOW
you tan let others know simply by wearing your “
I’M SAFE
” ring or pendant. The jewelry does the “talking” for you. These handsome 14 Karat Klad gold plated rings and pendants are a great conversation starter for breaking the ice. So don’t get tagged out trying to slide into home. Let ’em know you’re safe, with your “
I’M SAFE
” ring and pendant.

It was too much. He growled and threw the magazine on the floor, attracting the attention of the Forty-Niners fans. He gave them a sheepish grin and left without further explanation, heading straight for his car.

When he got back to Barbary Lane, sunlight was streaming into the courtyard for the first time in weeks. Wisps of steam, like so many friendly ghosts, hovered above the courtyard as he passed through the lych-gate. He stopped long enough to savor the sweet, wet, ferny smell tingling in his nostrils.

A figure rose from behind a low hedge, startling him.

“Oh … Mrs. Madrigal.”

The landlady wiped her hands on her paisley smock. “Isn’t it a grand day?”

“It’s about time,” said Michael.

“Now, now,” she scolded. “We knew it was coming. It was just a question of when.” She looked about her on the ground. “Have you seen my trowel, dear?”

He scanned the area, then shook his head. “What are you planling?”

“Baby tears,” she answered. “Why aren’t you going to London?”

“Hey.” She had pounced without warning.

“Never mind, I guess I’m being selfish. Still … it would have given me
such
vicarious thrills.” She fussed delicately with a strand of hair at her temple. “Oh, well. Can’t be helped.”

These days, Mrs. Madrigal almost never tried to pull off her helpless-old-lady routine. Michael couldn’t help smiling at the effort. “I hope Mary Ann also told you it was a question of finances?”

“She did.”

“So?”

“I’m not as gullible as she is.” The landlady found her trowel and slipped it into the pocket of her smock. Then she removed a pale yellow parchment envelope and handed it to Michael. “So I’m hereby eliminating it as an excuse. You’ll just have to come up with another one.”

He opened the envelope and removed a check for a thousand dollars. “Mrs. Madrigal … this is awfully sweet, but …”

“It isn’t a bit sweet. It’s a cold-blooded investment. I’m commissioning you to go to London and come back with some happy stories for us.” She paused, but her great blue eyes remained fixed on him. “We need that from you, Michael.”