Babycakes (22 page)

“Try me.”

“Well … my lover and I didn’t split up. He died of AIDS.”

The kid blinked at him.

“Do you know what that is?”

Wilfred shook his head.

“It’s this thing that gay men are getting in the States. It’s a severe immune deficiency. They get it, and then they catch anything that flies in the window. Over a thousand people have died of it.” It felt strangely cold-blooded to start from scratch and reduce the horror to its bare essentials.

“Oh, yeah,” said Wilfred soberly. “I think I read about that.”

Michael nodded. “My lover weighed ninety pounds when he died. He was this big, lanky guy and he just … wasted away. I was sick myself about six years ago … paralyzed … and he used to carry me all over….” His tears tried to burn their way out. “And then he became this … ghost, this pitiful, pitiful thing….”

“Hey, mate …”

“He was blind the last two weeks of his life. On a respirator most of the time. The last time I saw him he didn’t see me at all. All he could do was press his fingers against my face, feel my tears. I just sat there holding his hand against my face, telling some stupid joke I’d read in the newspaper … making plans for a trip to Maui.” He snatched a napkin from a dispenser and dabbed at his eyes. “Sorry about that.”

“I don’t mind, mate.”

“So I just …”

Wilfred finished for him. “You miss him.”

“A lot … oh, a lot …” He began to sob now, in spite of himself. Wilfred came to his side of the booth and sat down, squeezing his shoulder. “So I’m just … treading water right now. I just don’t feel like being with anyone in that way.” He composed himself somewhat, taking another swipe at his eyes. “I’m not afraid of sex or anything. I just haven’t been horny for a long time.”

“Right,” said Wilfred gently, “but doesn’t your heart get horny?”

Michael gave him a bleary-eyed smile. “Sometimes.”

“Well … a friend might help. Eh?”

The offer was so serendipitous that he almost started crying again. “Kiddo, I’ve never said no to that kind of …”

“Is there a problem here?”

They both looked up to see an enormous swarthy man, arms folded above his gut, glowering down at them.

“Sorry,” said Michael. “If we’re making too much noise …”

Wilfred bristled. “We’re not makin’ too much noise. We’re makin’ too much love.” He stood the man down with his eyes, like a fox waiting for his next move. “Why don’t you mind your own bleedin’ business, eh?”

“Now, look,” said the man. “You blokes have got your own places.”

“Right you are. And this is one of ‘em. So sod off.”

The man glared at him a moment longer, then returned to his post behind the counter.

“Bleedin’ Greeks,” muttered Wilfred.

Michael was grinning uncontrollably. “How old are you, anyway?”

“Sixteen,” answered the kid, “and I know how to take care of meself.”

Her Little-Girl Things

M
ARY ANN’S MORNING MAIL BROUGHT A NUMBER OF
oddities: a press release from Tylenol explaining their new “tamper-proof” packaging, a free sample of chewing gum sweetened with Aspartame, and a strange-looking plastic funnel called a Sani-Fem.

Dumping everything on her desk, she sat down and examined the Sani-Fem.
Ideal for backpacking,
the brochure trumpeted,
or when public toilet seats prove to be unsanitary.
The larger end of the funnel was contoured to fit snugly against the crotch.

She whooped at the wonder of it all.

Sally Rinaldi, the news director’s secretary, stopped outside the door and peered in. “A raise or what?”

“Look at this thing,” grinned Mary Ann.

“What is it?”

“It’s … a Sani-Fem. It lets you pee standing up.”

“C’mon.”

Mary Ann handed her the brochure. “Read this.” She picked up the Sani-Fem again. “I’m dying to try it out.”

Sally backed away. “Well, don’t let me stop you.”

Mary Ann laughed. “In the bathroom, Sally.”

“Go ahead.”

“Right. And have Bambi walk in on me.”

The secretary smiled. “Use the men’s room, then. William Buckley might see you.”

“Huh?”

“Larry’s giving him a station tour. As we speak.”

“William F. Buckley, Junior?”

“The very one.”

God, what a pipe dream! Buckley and Larry Kenan against the wall, separated safely by a vacant urinal, shaking the dew off their respective lizards, when the girl reporter saunters in—natty in gabardine slacks and dress-for-success floppy bow and blouse.
Voilà!
Out comes the Sani-Fem.
“Morning, gentlemen. How’s it hangin’ today?”

“Go ahead,” coaxed Sally.

“You’re crazy,” said Mary Ann, dropping the funnel into the bottom drawer of her filing cabinet.

“You’re too careful,” winked Sally as she sailed out the door.

At the end of a do-nothing day, Mary Ann brought the Sani-Fem home with her. Finding Mrs. Madrigal in the courtyard, she showed the device to the landlady and gave a terse explanation of its function.

“Funny,” said Mrs. Madrigal, her smile showing only in her eyes. “I had to wait forty-two years for the privilege of sitting down.”

Mary Ann reddened. It was easy to forget that Mrs. Madrigal hadn’t become female until roughly the time that Mary Ann hit puberty.

“Just the same,” added the landlady, sparing them both the embarrassment, “I think it’s a marvelous idea, don’t you?”

“Mmm,” said Mary Ann, adopting a quirk of Simon’s. “I got a note from Mouse, by the way. He sends you his love.”

“How sweet.”

“He says Simon’s apartment is kind of grungy.”

The landlady smiled. “English aristocrats are proud of their squalor.”

“Yeah. I guess so.”

“It doesn’t seem to extend to his personal habits, at least. He takes good care of himself, that Simon.”

Mary Ann nodded. “You’ve spent some time with him?”

“Um. Some … Why?”

“No reason. I just wondered what your impressions were.”

Mrs. Madrigal pondered for a moment, patting a stray wisp of hair into place. “Bright … I’d say. Quick. A little inclined to be vague.” She smiled. “But that’s part of his Britishness, I think.”

“Yeah.”

“But quite magnificent in the looks department. Or is that what you meant?”

There was something almost coy about the question that made Mary Ann uneasy. “No … I just meant … generally.”

“Generally, I’d say he’s quite a catch. For somebody.”

Mary Ann nodded.

The landlady knelt and plucked a weed from the garden. “Sounds to me like you’re matchmaking. I thought that was my job around here.”

Mary Ann giggled. “If I find anybody good for him, I’ll make sure you approve first.”

“You do that,” said Mrs. Madrigal.

The glint in the landlady’s eye was more than a little disconcerting.
Be careful,
Mary Ann warned herself.
A nice old woman who used to be a man could very well know what’s on everybody’s mind.

Heading upstairs, Mary Ann hesitated on the landing, then turned and rapped on Simon’s door. He opened it wearing Michael’s dark green corduroy bathrobe, loose enough to reveal an awe-inspiring wedge of thick brown chest hair. He was munching on a carrot stick.

“Well … hello there.”

“Hi,” she said. “I thought I’d just stop by on my way home. Is this a bad time?”

“Absolutely not. Here, let me pop into some trousers. I won’t be a …”

“No. This is just … spur of the moment. You’re decent. I’ve seen more of you in your jogging shorts.”

He gave himself a split-second once-over, then said: “You’re quite right. Well …” He welcomed her with a whimsical little flourish of the carrot stick. “Come in, won’t you?”

The room, of course, still spoke loudly of Mouse, with its shelves of tropic-hued Fiesta Ware, its vintage rubber duck collection from the forties, its chrome-framed “Thighs and Whispers” Bette Midler poster. The only signs of Simon were the latest issue of
Rolling Stone
and a bottle of brandy on the coffee table.

He sat down on the sofa. “I was just about to pour myself a little nip. Will you join me?”

“Sure.” She eased onto the other end of the sofa, leaving a cushion between them as no-man’s-land. “Just a teeny one, though. Brandy gives me headaches.”

He looked faintly amused. “Brandy takes a certain commitment.” He poured some into a rose-colored Fiesta juice glass and handed it to her. “Bottoms up.”

She took a sip. “By the way, I was wondering … have you made plans for Faster yet?”

He grinned.

“What’s so funny?”

“Well, this is Lotusland, isn’t it? I haven’t given a moment’s thought to Christian holidays.” He chuckled. “Most of my celebrations have been pagan so far.”

“I’m sure that’s true,” she replied, “but I thought it might be … you know … a good time for us to plan something … since you’re leaving right after that.”

He nodded thoughtfully. What was he thinking?

“It’s just the weekend after next,” she added.

“Is it really?” He seemed amazed.

“Mmm.”

He shook his head. “Time flies when you’re pillaging a city.” He turned and looked at her. “What exactly did you have in mind?”

“Don’t laugh,” she replied.

“Very well.”

“It’s … a sunrise service.”

A moment’s hesitation. “Ah.”

“Was that a good ah or a bad ah?”

He smiled. “A tell-me-more ah.”

“That’s about it.” She shrugged. “I’m supposed to cover it for the station. It’s held at the highest point in the city, under this enormous cross. Everybody watches the sun come up over Oakland. It’s kind of … caring-sharing Californian, but it might be a hoot for you.”

“A hoot,” he repeated. His smile had inched perilously close to a smirk.

“You hate it, don’t you?”

“No … no. I wonder, though … how do we get up to this highest point?”

“Walk,” she answered, “but not too far.”

“Up Calvary, eh?”

She giggled. “Right.”

“Well …” He tapped his lips with his forefinger. “I’m a foul-tempered wretch that early in the morning.”

“I don’t mind.”

“Does Brian?”

“What?” He was making her nervous, but she hoped it didn’t show.

“Mind getting up that early.”

“Oh. Actually … he’s not. He’s going to a house party Theresa Cross is giving in Hillsborough. We were both invited, but … well, I got stuck with this assignment.”

“I see.”

“My motives are a little shaky, I guess.” She gave him her best winsome smile. “I just wanted a little pleasant company during the ordeal.”

“As Jesus said to Mary Magdalene.” His eyes were full of mischief.

“Maybe it’s not such a good …”

“I’d love to go,” he said.

“You’re sure, now?”

“Absolutely. It’s settled. There.” He punctuated the decision by clamping his hands to his knees.

She rose. “Great. I also thought we might have dinner together the night before. If you haven’t got plans, I mean.”

He gazed at her for a moment, then said: “Lovely.”

As she left, she could feel his eyes following her. The sensation made her almost dizzy, so she went up to the roof to collect her thoughts before facing Brian. The night was clear and rain-washed. Beneath the new streetlight on Barbary Lane, the young eucalyptus leaves seemed pale as ghosts, the gentle gray-green of weathered copper. She counted four lighted vessels gliding soundlessly across the obsidian surface of the bay. The big neon fish at Fisherman’s Wharf glowed pink above the water like a talisman from the Christians in the catacombs.

She sought out the North Star and made the only wish that came to mind.

“Let me guess.”

She flinched, startled by her husband’s voice. He stood in the doorway, smiling at her.

“God,” she said. “You scared the hell out of me.”

“Hey. Sorry.” He came up behind her and kissed her neck. “You were making a wish, weren’t you?”