Further Tales of the City (18 page)

T
HESE DAYS, MARY ANN DID HER BANKING AT THE CO
lumbus Avenue branch of the Bank of America. She frequented this graceful old North Beach landmark because (a) it had starred in a Woody Allen movie
(Take the Money and Run)
and (b) its tellers were cheerful, Italian and gossipy.

Today’s was no exception.

“My husband and I have never fit in,” announced a particularly aggressive teller in her late thirties. She delivered this information so earnestly that it almost seemed as if Mary Ann had requested it.

“Really?” said Mary Ann.

“Never.
Never.
Years ago when nice girls didn’t live with nice boys without benefit of matrimony, Joe and I were shacked up big as life. Then suddenly
everybody
was shacking up. What do we do? We get married. O.K., so along comes ZPG, and
nobody’s
having babies, right? Wrong. Joe and I had babies like crazy. Now suddenly it’s terribly fashionable to have babies again, so a lot of people my age are experiencing motherhood and mid-life crisis at the same time. Joe and me, our children are teenagers now, fairly independent. We’ve
got the leisure to
plan
our mid-life crisis. He’s decided to buy a Porsche and have an affair with a nineteen-year-old. My plans are roughly the same. I tell you … you can’t help but gloat a little.”

This charming chronology (and the check from Frannie Halcyon she had just deposited) kept Mary Ann smiling all the way home from the bank.

Then she stopped to consider her own options:

Of course, she would have children. She had always planned on that. But when? She was thirty now.
When?
After her career had taken hold? When would that be? Did babies mean marriage? She wasn’t
that
modern, was she? What about Brian? Would marriage merely heighten his insecurities about her upward career mobility? Did he even
want
to get married at this point? Was it fair to ask him to wait? Would he wait?

Who should be the first to ask?

They slept at her place that night, teaspoon nestled in tablespoon. Just before dawn, she felt him slip away from her. She rolled over, slept some more, and awoke half-an-hour later to find him sitting naked in the wingback chair facing the bed.

“Let’s do it,” he said quietly.

She rubbed her eyes. “What?”

“Get married.”

She blinked several times, then smiled sleepily. “Telepathy,” she said.

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about it all day. I figured it was just Taurus meets Venus. What’s your excuse?”

He shrugged. “I thought I’d better make an offer
before
you’re on the cover of
People.”

She grinned. “Take your time.”

“No. I’m proud of you. I want you to know that. Great things are about to happen to you, Mary Ann, and you deserve every bit of it. I think you’re an amazing person.”

She looked at him lovingly for a long time, then patted the empty spot next to her. “Why aren’t you in bed?”

“Don’t change the subject. I can adore you just as well from over here.”

“As you wish, sire.” It was true, anyway; she could almost feel it.

“When is the press conference?” he asked.

“Tuesday.”

Brian whistled. “Close.”

“It’s not actually a press conference. The station won’t give me air time without knowing what I want it for, and I’m not about to tell them at this point.”

“Then how will you do it?”

“I’ve got my own show, remember?”

When the light dawned, Brian shook his head in wonderment. “Jesus, that’s brilliant!”

Mary Ann accepted the compliment with a gracious nod. “How many escapees from Jonestown get to resurface on the afternoon movie show? I figure we can drop the bomb, then wait for somebody
else
to organize the press conference.”

“What sort of bomb is it?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean … give us a preview.”

“Well …” Mary Ann pondered the request for a moment. She didn’t want to talk about DeDe’s double theory yet. It was still too shaky in her own mind. “For one thing, she escaped down the river in a tin drum that was intended for tropical fish. And Jones raped her one time when she was bedridden.”

“Jesus,” murmured Brian. “I guess that oughta hold ‘em.”

“It’s a story, all right.”

“Do you think you can tell it all in five minutes?”

Mary Ann shook her head. “We won’t even try. We’ll sketch out the basics and give the rest to the highest bidder. I like doing things on my own terms. Speaking of which, come to bed.”

“You still haven’t answered my question.”

“I know.”

“You don’t have to answer it, actually. I just wanted to ask you before the commotion began. I wanted you to know.”

“I’m glad to know.” She smiled at him tenderly. “You’ll never know how glad.”

W
HERE, GANGIE,
WHERE?”

Little Edgar was leaping ecstatically, trying to spot the whales that had been sighted off the starboard side of the
Sagafjord.
His sister, Anna, stood calmly at his side, somewhat less impressed.

Frannie knelt beside the four-year-olds and pointed. “See? Over there … that big spout of water. That’s the whale. He’s blowing all that water through a hole in his back.”

Edgar frowned. “Did somebody shoot him?”

“No, darling … why would …? Oh, the hole. Well, you see … all whales have a hole like that, so they can … so they can blow water through it.” Frannie moaned softly and cast an imploring glance at Claire McAllister. “Get me out of this.”

Claire chuckled throatily. “Why does a whale have a hole? That’s a dangerous question to ask
me,
honey!”

Frannie giggled. Claire was an ex-chorine of indeterminate age, with a chronic weakness for
double entendres
and racy jokes. Her very-red lips and very-black hair were oddly suggestive of Ann Miller, though Claire had long ago bid farewell
to show business. She was currently married to the third richest man in Oklahoma.

“All right,” smiled Frannie. “Forget I asked.”

Claire smiled expansively at the twins. “They’re just cute as a button, Frannie. What’s that name they call you?”

Frannie reddened. “Uh … Gangie. It’s just a pet name. Frannie’s a little too personal … and Mrs. Halcyon seemed too … formal.”

“Gangie,” repeated Claire, her dark eyes twinkling with a hint of playfulness. “Sounds an awful lot like Grannie to me.”

Frannie fidgeted with a wisp of hair over her ear. “Well … I … uh … wouldn’t mind that one bit. They
seem
like my own grandchildren.”

“Uh-huh,” said Claire. The twinkle remained.

“Well,”
exclaimed Frannie, turning to confront the twins again, “we’ve seen the whales, so it’s about time for a little nappie, don’t you think?”

The children groaned in protest.

As Frannie took their hands and led them away, Claire winked at her conspiratorially. “Meet you in The Garden, honey.”

“The Garden” was the Garden Lounge, an elegant bar on the Veranda Deck that featured chamber music by a group called the San José Trio. Frannie and Claire retreated there daily to bask in lovely, old-fashioned renditions of tunes like “Over the Rainbow” and “Londonderry Air.”

“Where’s Jimbo?” asked Frannie, as soon as the Mai Tais arrived. Claire’s husband was almost always with them. His loving attentiveness to Claire made Frannie quite lonesome sometimes.

Claire’s eyelids fluttered histrionically. “In the goddamn casino, wouldn’t ya know it? I figured the bug would bite him sooner or later. I told him to go right ahead and gamble to his heart’s content … I’d just find myself a nice gigolo.”

Frannie smiled. “They don’t actually have …?”

“Of course they do, honey! They don’t call them that, of course, but those boys on the cruise staff are all … shall we
say
expected
to dance with the old ladies … and the last time I checked I
qualified,
goddamnit!”

Frannie laughed. “But that’s where it stops, isn’t it?”

“You want more?” roared Claire. “Forget it, honey. Most of ’em are gay. The boy that does the exercise class is shacked up with the tap dancer, and that magician only has eyes for the cute wine steward. And that’s just the staff! Don’t get me started on the passengers, honey. That Mrs. Clinton, for instance … the one with diabetes who has to travel with a companion to make sure she doesn’t eat too much sugar? Hah! Companion, my ass. Oh, I tell you, it is
rich.
The gossip on this tub is almost better than the food. I love it! I’m addicted to cruise ships. It’s not like it used to be in the old days, though. Some of the glamor is gone. The truly rich don’t ride these babies anymore. But there’s nothing like being at sea, honey … nothing! Lord, look at the mist on that mountain!”

Frannie, in fact, was already looking. Edgar would have loved this, she thought. He was always such a grump on tropical vacations—and such a lovable creature when the air was brisk and the sky was gray.

Frannie set her Mai Tai down and smiled apologetically. “I’m sorry, Claire. As usual, my timing is dreadful.”

“Honey, is something the …?”

The matriarch laid her hand delicately on her waist. “Just a little … queasiness.”

“Lord, you
do
look a little green. And me running off my goddamn mouth like that.” Claire checked her watch. “You’re in luck. The doctor’s still in. You should stock up on Dramamine. honey. He’s down on B-Deck near the elevator.”

Frannie rose and thanked her. “Do you know his name?”

“Fielding,” replied Claire. “You can’t miss him. He’s one gorgeous hunk of man.”

I
F RENO WAS ANY INDICATION, THE NUMBER 6 HAD FINALLY
become synonymous with cheap motel. Besides the original Motel 6 (which actually
had
charged six dollars a night, long ago), Michael and Bill could choose from the Western 6 Motel (attached to a Denny’s) and the 6 Gun Motel (near the Nevada State Fairgrounds).

They settled on the 6 Gun, because Michael felt that the weekend’s cowboy motif should be carried out to the fullest. He wasn’t disappointed. The motel’s nightstands featured an upturned pistol surmounted by a lampshade. There was also an enormous foam rubber ten-gallon hat on the wall in the lobby.

“Ah, the West!” exclaimed Michael, as he flung open the curtains to let in the sunshine.

Bill continued unpacking. “You live in the West.”

“Yeah,” said Michael, “but sometimes you have to go east to be Western.”

“How’s the view?”

“Awe inspiring. The Exxon station and the hills beyond.”

Bill chuckled. “Great.”

“There are also seven—count ‘em—seven homosexuals
sunning on the ten square feet of grass between us and the Exxon station. God, is this town ready?”

Bill shrugged. “Slot machines can’t tell the difference between queer money and the other kind.”

“I don’t know,” said Michael. “According to the papers, the lieutenant-governor didn’t seem any too thrilled. Besides, after that
Examiner
headline, they must be a little nervous about fags coming to Nevada.”

“What
Examiner
headline?”

“You know … the MGM Grand story:
GAY SEX ACT SPARKS HOTEL FIRE
.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Think of it,” said Michael. “The whole damn town could go up in flames tonight.”

A back-lighted plastic sign proclaimed the event to passersby on the highway:
RENO NATIONAL GAY RODEO
. As Bill swung his Trans Am into the dusty parking lot, Michael began to speculate out loud.

“Now, how many of these dudes do you think are real cowboys?” He related to this issue personally. His week-old Danner boots felt leaden on his feet; his teal-and-cream cowboy shirt seemed as fraudulent as a sport shirt worn by a sailor on leave.

“For starters,” said Bill, “that one isn’t.” He pointed to a wiry brunette wearing a T-shirt that said:
MUSTACHE RIDES—5¢
.

There were similar signs of clone encroachment, Michael noted. Too many sherbet-colored tank tops. Too many straw hats that looked suspiciously like the ones at All-American Boy. Too many Nautilus-shaped bodies poured into too many T-shirts brazenly announcing:
IF YOU CAN ROPE ME, YOU CAN RIDE ME.

One obvious city slicker, in deference to the occasion, had traded his nipple ring for a tiny silver spur, but Michael found the gesture unconvincing.

“God almighty!” he gasped, catching sight of the heroic pectorals on display at the entrance to the rodeo arena.
“Where do they all come from?”

“It ain’t the ranch,” said Bill. “Real cowboys have big bellies.”

“Don’t be so jaded. One of them’s got to be real.”

“Sure,” replied Bill, “there’s a real waiter from The Neon Chicken.”

Bill’s defective imaginative powers were beginning to get on Michael’s nerves. Inside the arena, he concentrated on the event itself—a raucous display of calf-roping, bull-riding and “wild cow-milking.” The latter competition involved a cooperative effort between a lesbian, a drag queen and a “macho man”—an impressive achievement in itself.

By mid-afternoon, most of the shirts had come off, turning the stands to a rich shade of mahogany. The beer flowed so freely that almost no one could resist the urge to clap along with The Texas Mustangs, billed as “the only gay country-western band in the Lone Star State.”

“I like this,” Michael told Bill. “Everybody’s off guard. It’s harder to give attitude.”

“Yeah,” said Bill, “but wait till tonight.”

“The dance, you mean?”

Bill nodded a little too smugly. “As soon as this dust gets washed off, all the little disco bunnies will emerge. Just watch.”

Michael didn’t want to agree with him.

F
RANNIE
’
S UTTER DISBELIEF WAS REFLECTED IN THE
face of the handsome, blond doctor who awaited her in his office on the
Sagafjord’s
B-Deck.

“Mrs. Halcyon! My God!”

Frannie smiled and extended her hand. “Dr. Fielding.”

“How wonderful to see you,” said the doctor. “I had no idea you were on board. I didn’t check the passenger manifest this time, and … well, it’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

Frannie nodded, already sensing the extreme awkwardness of the situation. This, after all, was the man who had brought the twins into the world. Would she be forced to lie to
him
about the “orphans” in her care? And would he believe her?

“I feel so silly about this,” said Frannie feebly.

The doctor’s smile was as white and crisp as his uniform. “About what?” he asked.

Frannie touched her mid-section. “Tummy problems. Mature women aren’t supposed to get seasick, are they?”

The doctor shrugged. “I’m afraid it strikes indiscriminately. I’m not exactly immune myself, and I’ve been sailing for a year now. How far topside are you?”

“Excuse me?”

“Your stateroom. Are you in one of the suites?”

Frannie nodded. “On the Terrace Sun Deck.”

“I thought so,” grinned the doctor.

“Why?”

“Well … the motion’s more noticeable up there. Usually it doesn’t matter, but when the sea gets a little choppy, the luxury suites are the first to feel it.” He winked at her winningly. “We peasants down here in the bilges have it a little easier.”

Frannie felt greener by the minute. “There’s not much I can do, I suppose?”

The doctor opened a white metal cabinet. “We’ll get you prone with a little Dramamine.” He handed Frannie a pill and a paper cup full of water. “Can you keep me company for a while? It’s a slow day. We’ll have the place to ourselves, probably.”

Frannie accepted readily. No wonder DeDe had adored this man.

He sat in a chair near the bed, while she stretched out. After days at sea with the twins, it was nice to have someone fussing over
her.

They shared a long moment of silence, and then he said: “I’m sorry about DeDe and the children, Mrs. Halcyon. I didn’t hear about it until … somewhat after the fact.”

She thought her heart would break. She longed to share her good news with this gentle, compassionate man. Instead, she replied: “Thank you, Dr. Fielding. DeDe was terribly fond of you.”

After another pause, he said: “I was working in Santa Fe when I read about it.”

“Oh, yes?” She jumped at the chance to talk about something else.

“I had a gynecological practice there for a while, before I went back to general practice and landed this job. My life got a little … confusing … and this was as close as I could get to joining the merchant marines.”

“You must’ve seen the world by now,” said Frannie. “I envy you that.”

“It’s … not bad,” replied the doctor. There was something bittersweet in his tone that puzzled Frannie.

“Alaska’s extraordinary,” she offered. “There’s so
much
of it … and those fjords! They’re like something out of Wagner … so grand, so heartbreaking. I’m just sorry …” She cut herself off.

“Sorry about what?”

Frannie smiled dimly, staring at the overhead. “I forgot you never knew him.”

“Who?”

“My husband, Edgar. I miss having him with me. When you’re a widow, doctor, the main thing that hurts is that you’ve lost your playmate. You’ve lost someone who can look at a mountain with you and know what you’re thinking … someone to share the silences with. It takes a long time to build that … and it’s hard to give it up.”

“I know,” he replied.

“You aren’t married, are you?”

“No.”

“Have you ever had anybody who …?”

“Once,” he answered. “Once I had that.”

“Then you know.”

“Yes.”

Frannie hesitated, suddenly wary of becoming too personal. Then she asked: “How did you … lose her?”

Silence.

“I’m sorry,” said the matriarch. “I didn’t mean to …”

“It’s O.K.,” said the doctor. “I know exactly what you mean about those mountains. They don’t look the same anymore.”