Babycakes (41 page)

She was reading a
Cosmopolitan
in the courtyard when Mrs. Madrigal appeared and sat down next to her in the toasty sunshine.

“Lovely day,” said the landlady.

“Mmm.”

“Did you have a nice Easter?”

She hesitated. “It was O.K.”

Mrs. Madrigal smiled tenderly. “I miss him already, don’t you?”

For a moment, Mary Ann thought she meant Brian. “Oh … sure … he was a nice guy.”

The landlady nodded but said nothing. Mary Ann looked down at her magazine again.

“And Brian’s gone too, isn’t he?”

Mary Ann met her eyes. “How did you know?”

“Oh … just a feeling.”

Mary Ann felt her anxiety rise. If Mrs. Madrigal was having premonitions, maybe that dream really meant something. “Do you want to talk about it, dear?”

In five minutes, she had told the landlady everything: Brian’s sterility, her pregnancy scheme, how Simon’s feelings were hurt and how she had tried to apologize, Brian’s ill-timed return and angry departure. Mrs. Madrigal took it all in stride, but drew a deep breath when Mary Ann had finished.

“Well, I must say … you’ve outdone yourself this time.”

Mary Ann ducked her eyes. “Do you think I was wrong?”

“You know better than that.”

“What?”

“I don’t do absolutions, dear.” She reached for Mary Ann’s hand and squeezed it. “But I’m glad you told me.”

“He wanted a baby so badly.”

“I know. He told me.”

“He did? When?”

“Oh … back when you were covering the Queen.”

“What did he say?”

“Oh … just that he wanted one … and you were somewhat cool to the idea.”

“I would have one for
him,”
she replied.

“I can see that,” said the landlady.

“I’m just so afraid it’s too late. It isn’t like him to stay away this long.”

Mrs. Madrigal smiled faintly. “Let him concoct a little mystery, dear. It may be his only defense.”

“Against what?”

“Against your layers and layers of mystery.”

“Wait a minute,” said Mary Ann. “I’m not so hard to figure out.”

The landlady patted her knee. “You and I know that, child … but he doesn’t.”

“Then …?”

“Don’t ask him where he’s been, dear. Let him have that for his own.” Mrs. Madrigal rose suddenly. “It’s time for me to tidy up the basement.”

Her abrupt departure puzzled Mary Ann until she looked across the courtyard and saw her husband coming through the lych-gate. His gait was leaden, and his face seemed devoid of all emotion as he turned and headed in her direction.

“Hi,” he said.

“Hi,” she replied.

He sat down on the bench, but kept his distance. “Shouldn’t you be at work today?”

“I called in sick.”

He nodded, hands dangling between his knees. “Is Simon still …?”

“He’s back in England. He left yesterday.”

He sat there in silence for a long time. When he finally spoke, he addressed his remarks to the ground. “I wasn’t doing a number on you. I needed time to think.”

“I know.”

“I couldn’t do it here. There was too much to …”

“I understand completely.”

“Stop doing that,” he said edgily.

“What?”

“Just let me talk. I’m not looking for explanations. I’ve worked this out.” She nodded. “O.K.”

“I think I should go,” he said. “Go?”

“Live somewhere else for a while. Find another job, maybe. I’ve got no function here.”

“Brian, please don’t …”

“Listen to me, Mary Ann! I’m almost forty and I haven’t left a mark on anything. I can’t even give my wife everything she wants. I can’t even do that.”

“But you
do!”

“I
don’t.
What the fuck was that little scene about, huh?”

“It wasn’t about that, Brian. It was …”

“It doesn’t matter. I know how I feel, Mary Ann. It’ll only get worse if I stay here.”

“Do you know how
I
feel, Brian? What would happen to me if you left?”

“You’d handle it,” he said, smiling faintly. “That’s one of the things I like about you. You’re strong.”

“I’m not strong.”

“You’re stronger than I am,” he said. “I’m a soft male.”

“A
what?”

“Chip Hardesty’s got a vacant studio in his new place. He says I can stay there until …”

“Brian, for God’s sake!” The tears had begun to stream down her face. “We’re in love with each other, aren’t we?”

He wouldn’t look at her. “There has to be more than that, sweetheart.”

“Like what?”

“I dunno. A reason. A purpose.”

“We’ll find you a job, then.”

He shook his head. “
I
’
ll
find me a job.”

“Well, sure … but you can do that here.”

“Uh … excuse me.” It was a third voice, awkwardly interceding. They both looked toward the lych-gate, where a tall, heavily freckled man was standing. “Mary Ann?”

She rose, wiping her eyes. “Yeah … that’s me.”

The man came forward. He was in his early twenties, but his corn-fed demeanor and prominent ears and the canvas sack slung from his neck instantly suggested the clumsy kid who had been her paperboy fifteen years ago in Cleveland.

Only this time he wasn’t delivering the paper.

This time he was delivering a baby.

Familiar Mysteries

T
HE FIRST THING MICHAEL NOTICED WERE THE HYACINTHS
in the garden, half a dozen pale pink erections smiling in the face of death. He smiled back at them, rejoicing in his family, savoring his return to the family seat.

Mrs. Madrigal spotted him from her kitchen window and hooted a greeting. He set down his suitcase and motioned for her to come outside. She emerged seconds later, almost running, rubbing her hands on her apron. “Dear boy,” she crooned, hugging him heartily. “You’ve been sorely missed.”

“Thanks for the hyacinths,” he said.

“What? Oh … you’re welcome. You look
wonderful,
dear. You’ve put on some weight.”

“Don’t say that.”

“Well … oh, don’t be such a man. Your beauty is still intact. C’mon. Let’s get that bag inside. Mary Ann and Brian will want to see you.” She grabbed his suitcase and led the way, charging toward the house.

“Good,” said Michael. “He’s back, then.”

She looked at him as she shouldered her way through the front door. “You knew about that?”

He nodded. “We talked on the phone. She was freaked.”

“Well … she’s fine now.”

He reached for the suitcase. “Let me carry …”

“No. You’ve had a long flight. We’ll leave this in the foyer for the time being.” She dropped the suitcase and flung open the door of her apartment. “And you’ll stop in for a very small sherry.”

“Great,” he replied. “Wait a minute, let me get something.” He stooped to open his suitcase, then dug around in a side pocket until he found the envelope. “This is from Mona,” he explained, handing it to her.

“Where on earth …?”

“In England.” He smiled.

“You can’t mean it!”

He nodded. “She’s in good shape. She’s happy, and she wants you to come visit her.”

“In England?”

“Just read the note.”

Mrs. Madrigal looked dubious as she set the envelope on her telephone stand. Mona was right, he decided. The landlady did act an awful lot like a father when the subject was Mona.

She beckoned him into the apartment, pointing to the sofa. “All right, now … sherry.” She bustled off to the kitchen, leaving him to absorb the familiar mysteries of this faded velvet cavern where silk tassels hung like stalactites. God, it was good to be back.

When she returned, she handed him a rose-colored wineglass full of sherry. “She’s actually living there?”

“No pumping.”

“Well, tell me what she’s doing, at least.” He sipped his sherry and smiled at her. “Following in her father’s footsteps.”

“Now, dear, if …”

“That’s all you get.”

The landlady fussed with a wisp of wayward hair. “Well, drink your sherry, then.”

He kept smiling as he sipped. Unable to restrain herself, she rose and went to the phone stand. She picked up the envelope, then set it down again and picked up the phone and dialed a number.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“Alerting the troops.” She spoke into the receiver. “Our wandering boy is home. Yes … that’s right … that’s right. Fine … I’ll tell him.” She hung up and turned back to Michael. “Your presence is requested in the Hawkins residence in exactly three minutes.” She headed toward the kitchen.

“What am I waiting …?”

“Just sit there and finish your sherry, young man.”

He chuckled at her revenge. The sherry went down like sun-warmed honey. He sat there in the musty embrace of Mrs. Madrigal’s sofa and counted his blessings while she puttered about in the kitchen.

Finally, he rose. “Do you want to come with me?” he yelled.

“No, thanks,” came the reply. “I’m involved with a lamb stew at the moment.” Her head poked into view, her angular features ruddy from the stove. “We’re having dinner here tonight. I hope that’s all right.”

“Perfect,” he said, on his way out the door.

He picked up his suitcase and climbed the stairs, leaving it on the landing before heading up to the third floor. Mary Ann met him outside her door. “Look at you,” she squealed. “Chubbette.”

“Fuck you very much.”

They hugged for a long time before she led him into the apartment.

He looked around. “I thought Brian was here.”

“Sit down,” she said.

Something was the matter.
He felt his sherried security begin to ebb. This was why he usually hated homecomings, this queasy preparation for the news they didn’t want to spoil your vacation with. His first thought was:
Who else has died?

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing. This just takes some … easing into. Sit down.”

He sat down.

She perched on a footstool. “Remember my old friend Connie Bradshaw?”

He shook his head. “Sorry.”

“You know … who I stayed with … when I moved out from Cleveland.”

“Oh, yeah. With the oil paintings on velvet.”

She nodded.

“The tacky stew.”

She winced. “She wasn’t tacky. Mouse.”

“But you always said …”

“Never mind that. She was very good to me, and I shouldn’t have said that.”

“O.K.”

“She died, Mouse.”

“Oh.” He was relieved in spite of his better instincts. Thank God, it was no one he knew.

“She died in childbirth. Well … not during, but a day or so after. It was something called eclampsia. Her blood didn’t clot. She had a stroke.”

He frowned. “I’m sorry. That’s awful.”

She nodded, then gazed at him soulfully. “She left me her baby, Mouse.”

“Huh?”

“She wasn’t married, and her parents are dead, and her brother’s a bachelor in med school and … she left me this note before she died and asked me to … raise it.” She finished with a sheepish little shrug and waited for his reaction.

“You mean … is it …?”

She nodded. “In the bedroom. With Brian.”

“My God … then it’s going to be …”

“She,” she put in. “She’s going to be our little girl.”

He was flabbergasted. “This is
amazing,
Mary Ann.”

“I know.”

“Well … uh … how do you feel about it?” She hesitated. “Pretty good, I guess.”

“Guess?”

“Well … I’m still adjusting to it.”

“What about Brian?”

She smiled at him. “Come see for yourself.”

Rising, she took his arm and led him into the bedroom. Brian was seated in the armchair by the bed, cradling the baby in his arms. A gooseneck lamp on the dresser formed a sort of ersatz halo behind his head. Michael couldn’t help wondering if there was a masculine equivalent of
madonna.