Babycakes (9 page)

“Sure will,” said Mona. “Have a nice day.”

She set the receiver down delicately, then yanked the phone jack out of the wall. If periodontists had any link with organized crime, she was in deep, deep trouble.

She made herself a cup of Red Zinger tea and withdrew to the bedroom, where she searched the mirror for even the tiniest clue to her identity. In an effort to be charitable, Serra had once told her that she looked “a lot like Tuesday Weld.” Mona had replied: “I look a lot like Tuesday Weld on a Friday.” Today, the wisecrack was all too applicable.

Her “character lines” made her begin to wonder if there was such a thing as too much character. What’s more, the frizzy red hair had slopped looking anarchistic years ago. (Even Streisand had finally abandoned the rusty-Brillo-pad look.) Was it time to relent, to throw in the towel and become a lipstick lesbian?

Some of the most political dykes in town had already converted, tossing out their Levi’s and Birkenstocks in favor of poodle skirts and heels. It was no longer a question of butch vs. femme, liberation vs. oppression. Clothes did not unmake the woman: clothes were just clothes.

The prospect of a total makeover was strangely thrilling, but she needed a second opinion. She went straight to the phone, plugged it back in, and dialed Mouse’s home number, suddenly delighted to have such an off-the-wall excuse to break the silence between them. But Mouse wasn’t at home.

Where was he, then? The nursery? Another call produced the same result. It was Saturday, for God’s sake! Why would the nursery be closed on a Saturday? What the hell was going on?

The door buzzer squawked at her from the other room. She got up and went to the ancient, paint-encrusted intercom. “Yeah?”

“Is this Mona Ramsey?”

A moment’s hesitation. “Who wants to know?”

“A friend of Serra Fox. She said I might find you here. I tried ringing you from …”

“Just a minute.” Mona dashed to the window and peeped down at an elegantly dressed brunette waiting in the entrance alcove. She certainly
looked
like a friend of Serra’s. The lipstick lesbians were everywhere.

Mona addressed the intercom again. “This isn’t about money, is it?”

The woman tittered discreetly. “Not in the way you might think. I shan’t take a great deal of your time, Miss Ramsey.” She spoke with an English accent.

Mona counted to ten and buzzed her up.

Private Collection

B
RIAN WAS SURPRISED TO FIND HIMSELF THINKING OF
Mona Ramsey when he and Mary Ann arrived at Theresa Cross’s auction in Hillsborough. During the course of their half-assed little affair in 1977, he and Mona had shared a passion for three things: the movies
Harold and Maude
and
King of Hearts,
and Bix Cross’s
Denim Gradations
album.

Mona’s favorite song from that album had been “Quick on My Feet.” Brian had found “Turn Away” more to his taste, and here, gleaming at his fingertips, was the platinum record heralding its success.

“Look at
this,
” whispered Mary Ann, as they moved along the trophy-laden tables in the late rock star’s screening room. “She’s even raided the liquor cabinet.” She lifted a half-empty bottle of Southern Comfort.

Brian read the tag on it. “Yeah, but he drank out of that with Janis Joplin.”

“Big deal,” murmured his wife. “Who cares?”

Was she spoiling for a fight? He cared a great deal, and she knew it. “It’s history,” he said at last. “For
some
people, anyway.”

She made a little grunting noise and kept moving. “How about this?” she asked, indicating a broken toaster. “Is this history?”

The playful look in her eyes kept him from getting angry. “You’d sure as hell think so if this were Karen Carpenter’s estate sale.”

Her eyes became hooded. “That was
low,
Brian.”

He chuckled, pleased with himself.

“And I wasn’t
that
big a fan.”

He shrugged. “You bought her albums.”

She groaned as she examined a box of plastic forks. “I bought
an
album, Brian. Stop being so hipper-than-thou.”

The debate was cut short by the arrival of their hostess. She swept into the room wearing a black angora sweater over black Spandex slacks. Mary Ann nudged Brian. “Mourning garb,” she whispered.

“Hi, people!” The rock widow strode toward them.

“Hi,” echoed Mary Ann, practically chirping. For all her private bad-mouthing, his wife was intimidated by Theresa Cross. Brian could always tell that by the tone of her voice, and it always brought him closer to her.

“Is your crew here yet?” asked Theresa.

“Any minute,” Mary Ann assured her. “They must have had a little trouble finding the …”

“Did you see the Harley?” Now the rock widow was talking to him, having dispensed with media matters.

“Sure did,” he replied.

“Isn’t it the
best?”

Mary Ann’s cameraman appeared in the doorway. “There he is,” she said.

“Fabulous,” exclaimed Theresa. “It won’t take long, I hope.
Twenty/Twenty
is coming at noon.”

“Half an hour,” Mary Ann replied. “At the very most. I just need to talk to him about the stuff I want.” She turned to Brian. “Will you be all right for a while?”

“I’ll take care of him,” said Theresa.

“Great,” said Mary Ann, backing off.

Theresa turned to him. “C’mon. I’ll give you the grand tour.”

She led him out of the screening room through padded gray flannel corridors trimmed in chrome. “Were you a big fan of my husband’s?”

“The biggest,” he answered.

She shot a wicked glance in his direction. “I hope that’s not false advertising.”

By the time he had figured out her meaning, she had brought him to a halt in front of double doors, also flannel-covered. “I’ll show you something you won’t see on
Twenty/Twenty.
” She flung open the doors to reveal an Olympic-size bedroom lined with lighted Lucite boxes. Showcased in the boxes were dozens of pickaninny dolls—“coon art” from the thirties and forties. Cookie jars shaped like black mammies, Uncle Tom ashtrays, Aunt Jemima posters.

“This is amazing,” he said.

The rock widow shrugged it off. “Bix was always just a little bit sorry he wasn’t born black. That’s not what I wanted to show you, though.” She moved to a huge chest of drawers near the bed.
“This
is.” With a flourish, she yanked open one of the drawers.

He was dumbfounded. “Uh … underwear?”

“Panties,
silly.”

He shifted uneasily. What the fuck was he supposed to say?

“From his
fans,
” explained Theresa, removing one of them from a labeled Baggie. “This one, for instance, is from the Avalon Ballroom, nineteen sixty-seven.”

His laughter was nervous and sounded that way. “You mean they threw these on stage?”

She winked at him. “You’re a quick one.”

“And he saved them?”

“Every goddamn one!” She ran a crimson nail across the panties, like a secretary explaining her filing system. “We’ve got your Be-In panties from Golden Gate Park. Remember that? George Harrison was there. An-n-nd … your basic Fillmore panties, nineteen sixty-six. That was a good year, wasn’t it?”

He laughed, liking her for the first time. At least, she had a sense of humor. “These ought to be in the auction,” he grinned.

“No way, José. These are
mine.”

“You mean …?”

“You better believe it! I wear every goddamn one of them!”

This time he roared.

“I look pretty fucking wonderful in them too!” He had already pictured as much.

“C’mon,” she said. “You’re starting to sweat. Let’s gel you back to the wife.”

The Return of Connie Bradshaw

T
WO DAYS LATER, MARY ANN FOUND HERSELF ON UNION
Square, shooting a promo for Save the Cable Cars. Since the cable cars were out of commission during their renovation, she was using the one that sat on blocks beside the Hyatt, a melancholy relic whose embarrassment she could almost sense, like the head of a moose on a barroom wall.

She delivered her spiel in a very tight shot, while dangling recklessly from the side of the stationary car. To add to her humiliation, a small crowd gathered to witness the ordeal, applauding her good takes and laughing at the fluffs.

When she was done, a pregnant woman stepped forward. Her condition, though easily discernible to the average idiot, was confirmed by a yellow maternity smock bearing the word
BABY
and an arrow indicating the direction the baby would have to go in order to get out.

“Mary Ann?”

“Connie?”

Connie Bradshaw squealed the way she had always squealed, the way she had squealed fifteen years before in Cleveland, when she had been head majorette at Central High and Mary Ann had been a mildly celebrated member of the National Forensic League. Some things never change, it seemed, including Connie’s inability to make it through life without things written on her clothes.

A clumsy embrace followed. Then Connie stood back and looked her former roommate up and down. “You are such a
star!”
she beamed.

“Not really,” said Mary Ann, meaning it more than she wanted to.

“I saw you with the Queen! If that’s not a star, what is?”

Mary Ann laughed feebly, then pointed to the arrow on Connie’s belly. “When did this happen?”

Connie pushed a tiny button, consulting her digital watch. “Uh … seven months and … twenty-four days ago. Give or take a few.” She giggled at the thought of it. “Her name is Shawna, by the way.”

“You already know it’s a girl?”

Connie giggled again. “You know me. I hate suspense. If there’s a chance to peek, I’ll do it.” She laid her hands lightly on the Shawna-to-be. “Pretty neat, huh?”

“Pretty neat.” Mary Ann nodded, wondering when she had last used the phrase. “God, it’s so easy to lose track of things. I didn’t even know you were married.”

“I’m not,” came the breezy reply.

“Oh.”

“See?” Connie held up ten ringless fingers. “Magic.”

For the first time in fifteen years, Mary Ann felt slightly more middle-class than Connie.

“I got tired of waiting around,” Connie explained. “I mean … hey, I’m almost thirty-three. What good is a bun in the oven, if the oven is broken? You know what I mean?”

“Mmm,” answered Mary Ann.

“I mean … Jees … I want a baby a lot more than I want a husband, so I said to hell with it and stopped taking the pill. You can have a husband any ol’ time. There’s a time limit on babies.” She paused and studied Mary Ann with a look of earnest concern. “Am I freaking you out, hon?”

Mary Ann laughed as jauntily as possible. “Are you kidding?”

“Good. Anyway, the father is either Phil, this software executive who took me to the Us Festival last year, or Darryl, this really super accountant from Fresno.” She shrugged, having made her point. “I mean … it’s not like they weren’t both great guys.”

In some ways, it made a lot of sense. Leave it to Connie to name the baby before she had named the father. “You look just great,” Mary Ann said. “It really becomes you.”

“Thanks.” Connie beamed. “You and Brian got married, didn’t you?”

The question came out of left field, but Mary Ann wasn’t really surprised. According to Brian, he and Connie had slept together once back in ’76. Later that year he had brought her to Mrs. Madrigal’s Christmas party. Nothing had ever come of it. To hear Brian tell it, the interlude had meant a lot more to Connie than it had to him.

Mary Ann nodded. “Two years ago this summer.”

“That’s great,” said Connie. “He’s a neat guy.”

“Thanks. I think so too.”

“But no babies, huh?”

Mary Ann shook her head. “Not yet.”

“Your career, huh?”

In a matter of seconds, Mary Ann weighed her options. It was time to talk about this to
someone,
and Connie suddenly struck her as a logical candidate. She was decent, practical and completely detached from the tight little family unit at 28 Barbary Lane.

“We need to catch up,” said Mary Ann. “Why don’t I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Super!”

So they walked across the square to Neiman-Marcus, where Connie elaborated on the joys of impending motherhood. “It’s like … it’s like this friend you’ve never met. I know it sounds dumb, but sometimes I just sit and talk to Shawna when I’m home alone. And you know … sometimes she even thumps back.”